Chapter II: Weeks passed (1)

_Kli-r-r! Kli-rr-rr--_ This time the chains were clanging through the village of A----. Between rows of glittering bayonets appeared from time to time, a white face. The prisoners were being led to the place of execution. Even in daylight this clanging of chains was terrifying. Doors were quickly shut, windows closed. This sound was the terror of the land. It filled the streets, and made the hearts of the brave tremble. A crowd had accumulated about the square. There were judges, lawyers, court accountants. The superintendent was there too, and his helper.

“I did not do it. I am not to be blamed,” the superintendent kept whispering to himself. The judge turned to the prisoner.

“You are A---- from the village of A----?”

“No; I am not from A----.”

“K---- is your friend?”

“I do not know him.”

“Did you kill G----?”

“Yes; he was my enemy.”

“You procured weapons and took them to S----?”

“No; I did not procure the weapons.”

The helper of the superintendent, who until then had listened indifferently, went up to the judge and whispered to him. Then, upon a signal from the judge he walked up to the prisoner and stood directly in front of him, and quite near.

The place of execution became silent. Every one expected something unusual and all eyes were turned toward the two men who stood face to face. It was not two faces that confronted each other, but four eyes ... four flames. The spectators shivered as if from fear. Something was going to happen, something out of the ordinary. Still they stared at each other, eye against eye. Their eyes did not wink. Their lips did not move. Their eyebrows did not twitch. No sound escaped their lips. No word was spoken. They only looked and looked, and one was in chains, but inspirited with righteous wrath. The other wore the uniform of a Turkish official, and yet he trembled and seemed afraid.

The prisoner stepped back. The chains rattled. He turned away with a gesture of scorn that made the other feel shivers pass down his spine, and he stuttered.

“I--I--_know you_. You are A----”

“Yes,” replied the other. “_You were my friend._”

Friend! What a word to use here! The word took on form and towered like a giant in front of the helper. He saw himself in all his baseness. He was in terror at his own likeness. Ah!--how much blood he had shed for these shining buttons on his uniform. Involuntarily he touched one of the buttons. It was cold like ice. He drew his hand back quickly. How many years had he feigned to be a friend to this hero who fought for freedom, and how many just like him he had tricked and brought to ruin. He touched his sword, then drew his hand back, and glanced at the heavy chains of his old friend and former companion in the strife for liberty. Which was better, the sword of the Turkish official or those rusty chains of the martyr for freedom? This question which he thought he had decided long ago, came up again.

* * * * *

It is night--a gloomy night. A restless wind roamed under the black sky. The helper started for the prison. The superintendent had called him. His walk did not have its usual animation. The darkness was not pleasant, nor the wind either. He kept thinking of things he did not wish to think of. How hard he had tried to hide himself that morning when A---- climbed to the gallows. He did not succeed. The prisoner seemed to search for him. He found him. He looked at him again just as he had looked at him on the place of execution. Before he died he wished to burn that look of scorn and contempt into his brain. There--before him in the dark--were two burning points--_eyes_. He could not go on. He stopped. They were the eyes of his friend. They were just like them--just so large. Should he go on? He meditated a moment and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the two eyes were still looking at him again--only they were larger and there was a different expression within them. He started to run. The eyes disappeared. It was a cat which leaped ahead of him. He laughed at his fear, but he walked faster than usual.

At length he reached the prison yard. He looked timidly toward the place of execution of the morning. He thought the man was buried and all was over. But he saw the body gleaming through the darkness. And when the wind touched it, the gallows moaned and moaned. And the wind carried the sound on and on. The helper ran without looking up, but as he neared the gallows his steps were heavier and heavier. The old shuddering swept over his body. At last, trembling, he entered the room of the overseer. It was light there. At least there was a human being there. The superintendent did not look up; he was thoughtful and both were silent.

“Now you can sleep,” remarked the helper in order to break the oppressive silence. “Now the chains do not rattle.”

“Hark! Don’t you hear that?” Outside, above the sound of the wind, came plainly the creaking of the gallows. It was a sad, monotonous sound, a gigantic slumber song over the body of the heroic dead.

“Why is he not buried?”

“That is what I have called you for. To-morrow morning you are to take him down and bury him--because you were his friend.”

The helper was silent. What an ironic play of wit was this. Anyway he will not make any noise, thought the helper.

The superintendent dropped his head; his eyes were in the shadow. Slowly the helper got upon his feet, took up the lamp and held it in front of the trembling face of the overseer. The overseer threw back his head in anger, grabbed the lamp from the hand of the helper, threw it upon the floor and smashed it into pieces.

“_You cowardly betrayer--he was your friend!_”

The room was in darkness. In every corner shone a dozen gleaming eyes that kept growing larger and larger. It was frightful; he wished to get away. But he could not find the door. He circled vainly around and around. At last he stumbled upon it. Carefully he opened it and stuck his head out. It was no less terrifying outside; blackness and wind, and the creaking gallows. Ah!--what a sound was that! It penetrated the marrow of his bones and made him suffer. Up there the dead man was shaking in the wind. Where should he go? He made up his mind to run as fast as he could, but he had only taken a few steps when something forced him to look up. There in front of him, in the darkness, were two gleaming, swollen eyes, streaked with blood. His knees gave way. Trembling he turned back toward the door of the overseer.

“Cowardly betrayer!” murmured the overseer again. The helper turned and ran again. But this time the wind blocked his way and he found himself beneath the gallows. This time the dead man did not seem to be angry. The eyes looked down at him sympathetically and the lips said: “Friend, Friend.”

He twisted and crawled along like a snake. Then with feverish haste he put up the ladder, climbed it, and untied the rope. The corpse fell. Quickly he twisted the same noose about his own neck and swung himself up into the air. With the angry voice of the wind there mingled the peculiar choking sound of a human voice--and then the sound came no more. The two dead men looked at each other, one upon the ground, and the other swinging high in the darkness and the wind.

THE ELOPEMENT

By ALEXANDER PETÖFI

PETÖFI

Alexander Petöfi, the great lyric poet of the Magyar race, was born the first day of January, 1823. His was a true poet’s life--brief and stormy. Only twenty-six years were his in which to live and purchase fame. Despite the fact that he took an active part in the wars which were numerous during his brief day, and was active as an editor and politician, he found time to write some of the finest lyric verse of his race, and tales in prose, and to leave a considerable correspondance with the distinguished men of the period.

His best prose work is the novelette, _The Hangman’s Knot_.

THE ELOPEMENT

“But where shall we go?”

“To Buda Pesth.”

“To Pesth?”

“Of course!”

“Why there?”

“It’s the safest place.”

“Very well.”

“Early--”

“I’ll be ready--early.”

“Use every precaution.”

“Do not worry.”

“On no account be late.”

“No; of course not!”

“Good by, Anna dear--!”

Poor Andrew von Csornay! And at this moment in the club he is saying “Checkmate,” with an air of triumph to his opponent, just as if he himself had not just been checkmated in life, for Anna is his wife, and Carl his nephew.

A few days later they talked of nothing in the little village where this happened, but the elopement of Madame Andrew with her nephew, Carl von Csornay.

“It served the old fool right! Why did he marry such a young and beautiful girl?”

“That’s too much for me! I can’t solve the problem. Probably because they were so much in love with each other.”

“True--I suppose.”

“But I’m sorry for the old man. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the grief killed him.”

“Poor fellow!”

“And the unfortunate scandal--”

During the time conversation like this was common in the little village, Carl and his beautiful young aunt, had met in Pesth. While their carriage was on the way to the hotel, another carriage started from there.

“Oh!” screamed Madame Anna, in terror.

“I hope he’ll lose his eyesight,” thought Carl von Csornay to himself, throwing a hasty glance in the direction of the other carriage. They both wrapped themselves up in their cloaks as well as they could. The man who saw them was a merchant from their home town.

“He did not recognize us,” declared Carl reassuringly, when they entered their room in the hotel. “If he had, he would have spoken to us.”

“Thank heaven for that!”

“Now you belong to me, Anna,--wholly--wholly! To me belong the beautiful brown hair, the red, sweet lips, the glowing, black eyes, the proud, swan-like neck--”

“Yes--yes--I belong to you Carl!”

And they were happy--for a little while. But the love of the senses is an intoxication from which one awakens and when they awoke and came to their senses, they both exclaimed:

“In the name of goodness what are we going to live upon? We have no money! We have nothing to eat.”

They had not finished speaking, when some one knocked at the door and a stranger entered.

“Have I the honor to address M. Carl von Csornay?”

Carl listened confused and frightened, because he felt that they had been discovered.

“You do not answer,” continued the stranger, “but your surprise proves that you are the one I seek. I beg you to sign this little piece of paper. Exactly one year from to-day I will come to see you again. Do not forget--in just one year. Good by.”

The mysterious stranger went away. It was difficult to say which was greater, the surprise or the joy of the lovers. The paper which the stranger gave him, was draft for a sum of money sufficiently large to enable them to live in luxury for a year. According to the written demand of the stranger, the money was paid to them promptly.

“It is incomprehensible,” declared Madame Anna, looking at the money.

“I should say it is incomprehensible,” agreed Carl. “Gold falls upon us just like manna from Heaven.”

Now they could live happily. They had no material cares to worry about. And they thought now of course that the merchant did not recognize them. If he had, would he not have told M. Andrew von Csornay?

“And at the end of the year,” explained Carl, “the stranger will come again, and we shall have more money. Is not that what he said?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Six months after the departure of Madame Anna with her nephew, a young man appeared suddenly in the home of old M. Andrew von Csornay. His face expressed suffering and a decision reached in a mood of despair.

Old M. Andrew had just returned from his club, in a rather melancholy frame of mind. He was either sad over the disappearance of his young wife, or because the priest had beaten him again at chess.

When the young man entered, the old man, white and trembling, sank back in his chair. The young man seized his hand and implored:

“Uncle--Dear Uncle--what shall I do to be forgiven? I am ready to do anything!”

“Where is she--the woman?”

“She--_she_----is not here.”

The old man drew a deep breath of relief.

“I am going to tell you the whole story,” declared Carl. “You will see then that you ought to pity me, and not take revenge upon me. I can’t tell you how I have suffered. My happiness did not last long. I lived in a veritable hell. Your wife has the face of an angel--but all the devils there are, dwell in her heart. She is the worst tempered woman I have ever known in my life. I could not stand it a day longer--I had to run away and leave her--”

“My poor nephew--I do pity you from the bottom of my heart. But you ought to pity me; she only remained with you six months, while she remained an entire year with me.”

“You, too, Dear Uncle?”

“You are surprised, I suppose, are you not? Every one thought we were happy. But you should have seen us when we were alone! Then--you would have learned a thing or two. When I think of her it makes me shudder. When I found you had eloped with her, I blessed you. No one could have done me a greater kindness. In order to reward you--as soon as the merchant told me where you were--I sent you a yearly allowance,--so you would have no inclination to come back, and no hinderance where money was concerned--”

SAIDJAH

By MULTATULI

MULTATULI

Multatuli, whose real name was Edward D. Dekker, was born in Amsterdam in 1820. His father was a merchant. When he was eighteen years old his father sent him to the Dutch East Indies to enter the service of the colonial government. He was rapidly advanced to the highest government position in the colonies. And in this position he was tireless in his endeavor to improve the condition of the native population.

Because of this desire he gave up at length his position, with all its advantages of money and honor, and went back to Holland to tell the people the true condition of the native population over whom they ruled. He was dismissed from service without a pension, and for years after this he lived in poverty. It was during this period of deprivation that he wrote the novel, _Havelaar_. He tells us that he was obliged to borrow money to buy the ink with which to write it.

Other books followed this in quick succession, among them the drama, _A School for Princes_, which is still popular in Holland.

In 1870 he went to live in Wiesbaden; from Wiesbaden he moved to a village on the Rhine where he died in February, 1887.

SAIDJAH

Saidjah was about fifteen years old when his father ran away to Buitenzorg. He did not accompany him because he had plans of his own to carry out. He had heard that in Batavia there were rich gentlemen who would employ slender youths like him, if they were nimble footed, to sit on the rear seat of the two wheeled carriages. He had been told that he could earn money in this way. In two years he could earn enough money to buy two water buffaloes. This prospect pleased him. He walked along proudly like a person who carries something important in his head. He was on his way to see Adinda to tell her his plan.

“When I come back,” he explained, “we shall be old enough to marry--and then we shall have two buffaloes to do the plowing.”

“Good, Saidjah, I will be your wife when you come back. I will spin. I will weave and embroider _sarongs_.”

“I believe you, Adinda. And when I come back, I will call you a long way off--”

“Who could hear if we happened to be pounding rice in the village?”

“That is true. Then wait for me by the Djati Forest, under the _ketapan_ tree, where you gave me the _melatti_ flower.”

“But, Saidjah, when can I know when you are coming? When shall I go to the tree?”

Saidjah thought a moment and replied.

“Count the moons. During three times twelve moons I will remain away. But this moon now does not count. See, Adinda,--cut a notch in the rice-block for each moon. When you have cut three times twelve notches, I will return. On that day wait for me under the _ketapan_ tree.”

“I will be there by the Djati Forest, waiting for you under the _ketapan_ tree.”

Saidjah tore a piece of cloth from his blue head-dress, and gave it to Adinda. Then he said good by to her and to Badur. He went through Rangas-Betung, which was not yet a place of importance, and on to Warong-Gunang, where the assistant governor lived. The next day he saw Pandeglang, the village that looks as if it lay in a garden. A day later he reached Serang, and stood astonished at the splendor and the number of the houses. He remained here one day because he was tired, but when the sun set, he went on again and at length reached Tangerang. Here he took a bath in the river and rested in the house of a friend of his father.

As soon as it was dark he took out the _melatti_ flower which Adinda gave him and looked at it. Then he was sad because he had not seen her for so long. The farther he traveled from Badur, the more he began to think that the thirty six moons represented a very long time. It was not so easy for him to go ahead. He felt weary and without ambition.

Saidjah arrived in Batavia. He sought a rich gentleman who hired him at once, when he found he could not understand what he said. In Batavia they prefer servants who do not understand Malay, and are not spoiled by contact with Europeans. Saidjah soon learned Malay, but he kept it to himself, because he thought only of Adinda and the two buffaloes. He grew tall and strong because he had something to eat every day, which did not happen in Badur. His master promoted him to the position of a house servant and increased his pay. But at the end of three years they said he was ungrateful, because he gave up his position. But he did not care what they said, his heart was glad because he was getting ready to go back. He counted over and over the treasures which he was going to carry home. In a hollow, bamboo stick he had his passport and the testimonial of his master. In a case swung over his shoulder by a piece of leather, was something heavy that beat against his back. Within this case were thirty Spanish dollars, with which he intended to buy three buffaloes. What would Adinda say to that! And that was not all. In his girdle shone a Malay _kris_ with a sheathe of silver. The handle was of carved wood which he had wrapped carefully in silk. In the folds of his outer garment was a leathern girdle with silver links, and a clasp of gold. This was for Adinda. Around his neck in a little silk purse, he carried the dried _melatti_ flower.

He did not pause to visit any of the cities along his route. It seemed to him that he could hear the voice of Adinda calling him. This music made him deaf to everything else.

At length, in the distance, he saw a great black spot. That must be the Djati Forest, which was near the tree where Adinda was going to wait for him. He groped in the darkness and felt the trunks of many trees. Soon he stumbled upon a piece of level ground that seemed familiar--the south side of a tree. He put his fingers in a gash in the side of the tree which he remembered had been cut to drive away an evil spirit that had hidden there and given some people of the village toothache.

This was the _ketapan_ tree which he was seeking. He sat down in front of the tree and looked up at the stars. And when he saw a falling star he understood it as a greeting to him on his return to Badur. Then he wondered if Adinda were sleeping now, and if she had counted the moons correctly on the old rice-block. Would it not be a pity if she had cut one too many, or one too few? Thirty-six moons there should be! He wondered if she had woven beautiful _sarongs_. And he wondered too who was living in the old home of his father. Then he recalled his youth, and his mother, and the buffalo that had saved him from being torn to pieces by the tiger.

Very carefully he watched the setting of the stars in the west, as they disappeared along the horizon line, and estimated the time before light would begin to come from the East, and how much time would elapse before he met Adinda. She, of course, would come with the very first ray of light. Why in the world could she not have come the day before? He was sad that she had not got ahead of this beautiful hour, which had fed his soul with delight for three long years.

His complaints were foolish. The sun had not yet risen. Not yet had the sun sent its long rays across the levels. To be sure, over his head, the stars were now growing paler, one by one, as if ashamed that their domination must end so soon. Strange, wild colors fluttered over the lonely mountain tops, which seemed blacker afterward. Something that shone, floated now and then, across the clouds banked in the east; arrows of gold--flame--but they fell back again into the darkness that hid the day from the eyes of Saidjah.

Gradually it became lighter. He could see the landscape. He could hear sound of the leaves from the Klappa forest behind Badur.

And yet how could she sleep? Did she not know that Saidjah was waiting for her? Probably the village watchman had just knocked at her door, and asked her why the night lamp was burning. Or perhaps she sat all night in the darkness on her rice-block, counting with her fingers the thirty six marks for the moons. Perhaps like him she was waiting for the rising of the sun.

He did not wish to go to Badur. He seated himself at the foot of the _ketapan_ tree, and looked out over the levels. Nature smiled back at him and welcomed him. But his eyes kept turning toward the narrow path that led from Badur to the _ketapan_ tree, along which Adinda would come. But there was no one to be seen upon the path. He waited a long time, and looked and looked, and still there was no one upon the path. She probably watched all night and then fell asleep at dawn, he thought to console himself. Should he get up and go to Badur? She might be ill--or dead.

He got up and ran along the path to the village. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. Yet voices called and called--“Saidjah! Saidjah!” The women of Badur came out of their houses and looked at him. Their faces were sad. They recognized Saidjah and knew he had come to see Adinda, and that she was not there. The head of the district of Parang-Kudjang had taken away the buffaloes of Adinda’s father. Her mother died of grief. Adinda’s father feared punishment because he could not pay the land-rent, and he had fled. He took Adinda with him. But because Saidjah’s father had been whipped in Buitenzorg for running away, he did not dare go there, but to the district of Lebak, which borders the sea. There they had taken ship. But Saidjah was so grieved he did not understand what they said to him.

He left Badur and went to Tjilang Kahan where he bought a boat. After a few days sail he reached the Campong coast, where there was an uprising against the rule of the Dutch. He joined a troop of soldiers less to fight than to search for Adinda. One day when there was a general massacre of natives who had been subdued by the army of the Netherlands, he wandered through a little village that had been set on fire. As he was walking around some houses that had not been yet completely burned, he came upon the dead body of Adinda’s father. There was a bayonet wound in his breast. A short distance away lay Adinda, naked and dead. A little rag of blue cloth was pressed in the bayonet wound in her breast. Saidjah met a soldier who was using his bayonet to drive the few surviving insurgents into the burning houses. With all his strength he rushed forward, and drove the soldier back, while the point of the bayonet pierced his lungs.

In Batavia there was rejoicing over the victory that had brought fresh laurels to Dutch arms in the East Indies. The Governor wrote to the home country that there was peace again in Campong. The soldiers were rewarded with crosses of heroes. In the churches prayers of thanksgiving were said because the Lord of Hosts had again fought upon the side of the Dutch.

ABISAG

By JAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ

VRCHLICKÝ

Jaroslav Vrchlický, whose real name is Emil Frida, is a significant personality in modern Bohemian literature.

He was born in 1853. He studied at various secondary schools and later attended the University of Prague. Here he devoted himself almost exclusively to theology and philosophy, and then--thanks to the generosity of Count Montecuccoli-Laderchi--traveled for a time in Italy.

In 1893 he was made Professor of Modern Literature in the University of Prague, of which he became one of the most distinguished figures.

His fertility as a writer is so unusual that it can not be passed over in silence. He has published many books of lyric verse, dramatic verse, stories in prose, and translations from many languages, including the work of English and American writers. He has given his countrymen versions of Schiller, Dante, Ariosto, Victor Hugo, Leopardi, and Provençal and Spanish poets.

The story _Abisag_, which we give, is from the collection of prose tales entitled _Bits of Colored Glass_. Vrchlický died in 1912.

ABISAG

King David lay upon a royal couch of cypress wood. From the ceiling swung huge receptacles carved of bronze, from which the smoke of burning perfumes rose, and whose dim, wavering light, showed carven cedarn walls and a ceiling starred with plaques of gold.

The night was warm and windless. From the city from time to time one could hear the measured tread of watchmen, and the clang of swords; from the vineyards that swept about Jerusalem like a girdle of green, came the voices of men who guarded the wine. The moon, resembling a warrior’s shield of gold, reflected itself in the mirror of the flat roofs and flung fleeting, ghostly shadows about the twelve great gates of the city. The light fell upon the city wall, the purification pool, gardens filled with bee hives, long alleys of sycamore trees, of palm and fig trees. It fell upon tethered camels becoming restless at approach of day. It saw its golden surface in deep cisterns. It shone upon graves in which the bones of ancestors rested under the curse or the blessing of the sons of Israel. Night swept across the world of space like a prodigious face across the mind of the dreaming prophet.

The king lay like one dead upon his bed. Motionless, four men sat opposite him, their misshapen knotty hands rested upon the carven lions’ heads that formed the arms of their chairs. Their faces were so still it was as if they were made of stone and only the trembling flames in the bronze receptacles swept over them the unreal motion of shadows.

The first wore the dress of a priest of Israel. His beard was parted and combed and reached to his waist. His name was Sadok. The second wore the insignia of the head of the army. His name was Banahash. The other two were courtiers, Semej and Rej. Their richly oiled hair smelled of sandal wood and hyacinth. They had torn the costly garments that covered their breasts. Grief dwelled in their hearts and lessened the quick pulsing of blood in their veins. Their attitude was expectant. It was evident that they were waiting for something important. Their eyes rested upon the bed where David lay wrapped in the lion’s skin. His face was like a mask. It was the face of the dead. The body of the king was beginning to grow cold.

“Nathan does not come,” remarked Sadok.

No one answered.

Banahash drew his brows together ominously. Semej and Rej sighed.

Again there was silence, heavy and prophetic.

“Does Bethsheba know what Nathan said?” inquired Semej in a whisper.

“Yes, she knows,” replied Sadok.

“And has she agreed to it?” asked Rej.

“She had to agree. Does not God speak through the mouth of Nathan? It is her fault that she does not perform the last service for David the King.”

“She is old. She is burdened with years and illness,” objected Semej.

“Hush! The King moves,” whispered Banahash.

“No--it was just a rustling noise in the outer hall. Slaves are bringing the warming pans, and the coals.”

Seven negroes in short, red tunics entered. They bore bronze pans filled with glowing coals, which shone like the sweet star, Sahil, when it first pierces the mist of evening and looks down upon a sleeping world. They placed two pans at the foot of the king, two at the head, and one on either side. They sprinkled myrrh and powdered incense upon the coals, and disappeared as softly as phantoms. The seven glowing pans lighted the dim room and sent up a blueish smoke that filled the air with fragrance. The pale face of the king looked paler. The four men who sat and watched him sank lower their heads upon their breasts.

To the warmth of the summer night was added the heat of the steaming pans. Beads of sweat stood out upon the brows of the watching men, and dotted like pearls their long, black beards.

* * * * *

The door opened. A man of giant body stood upon the threshold. His hair and beard were unkempt. They knew neither oil nor comb. His caftan was girdled with a rope. His knotty, muscular feet were covered with dust. His naked breast was weather stained and looked like the trunk of a gnarled fig tree. White, bushy brows shaded his eyes which glowed like the coals in the warming pans.

“Nathan!” cried the watchmen by the bed. They arose and greeted him with gestures of submission. The expressions upon their faces changed. The face of Sadok showed curiosity held in check by fear; the face of Banahash, the calm of expectation, and satisfied desire; the faces of Semej and Rej, mistrust coupled with fear of the prophet.

Nathan looked about the room, and came nearer.

“How is the Anointed of the Lord?” he asked quickly.

“As he was when you left so is he now. Did you bring the Sunnamite maiden?”

“She is here; her father, too,” replied Nathan, beckoning toward the anteroom.

A man entered. His head was bowed. He had little twinkling eyes, a red beard, and dirty hands. It was Lamek of the tribe of Issaher. A slender maiden enveloped in a veil followed him. Even her face was covered, only the shadow of her eyes could be seen.

Lamek bowed low as to his knees. At this moment he was so small he resembled a dwarf. This impression was strengthened by the saffron yellow caftan and red hair. The maiden towered like a young palm beside him.

“Banahash,” directed Sadok, “take the maiden to the bath of the king that she may be fit for the bed of the king.”

Banahash opened a little door that shone like gold, which was entrance to the place of the bath. The room was walled with jasper. In the center was the bath, hewn round from a single block of black marble. From the center of the ceiling two sea serpents, in which huge rubies shone for eyes, spouted rose water.

Banahash took the hand of the maiden and led her to the door, where he gave her over to the care of four slave women. Two held jars of precious ointment, two mirrors of ebony, and coverings made of purple wool.

Sadok returned to Lamek who had not yet lifted his head. But his sharp, sly eyes kept circling the room, so that not the slightest motion of the faces of those present escaped him. Nathan, the prophet, stood by the bed of David the King. He held his hands extended as one who implores a blessing. His lips trembled with prophetic words.

“Is this your daughter, Lamek?” asked Sadok.

“Yes; but she is handsomer than I--or her dead mother.”

“Are you willing to do what Nathan, the man of God, has told you?”

“If it is the will of God--and the people of Israel may be saved.”

“Did she agree?”

“She does not know. But my daughter is obedient. My will is hers.”

“Is there one who loves her?”

“Yes--and no! My daughter is beautiful. And yet she really has no lover, because he does not know how beautiful she is. My eyes watch her as if she were a nugget of gold, or a drop of water in the desert.”

“Who is her lover?”

“A youth--an insignificant youth. He owns nor field nor vineyard. He owns no camels, nor is he the chief of a caravan. He owns nothing--_nothing_--It is my wish to obtain money enough to buy a vineyard near Sunnam--to leave to my children--that I may not die childless.”

“Does--this lover--know what is to happen?”

“Yes--He is calm. He only said to my daughter, ‘I will stand by the outer door of the palace until the end. I will await you there, to lead you back to the vineyard which your father will buy for us. If you remain as you are now, you will come without my calling you. If you do not come until the sun has set, I shall go away and I shall never look upon your face again’.”

Sadok did not answer. He went into a room in the rear of the sleeping room, where a massive chest stood. He beckoned to Lamek to come nearer. The Hebrew’s eyes greedily took in the contents of the chest. He saw bars upon bars of red gold, cups of beaten silver, rings, armlets, pearls the size of pigeon’s eggs. He saw gems as varied in color as the flowers of the fields in spring. Sadok buried his hands in the chest, drew out bar after glittering bar, and piled one upon another upon the floor. He piled up rings covered with gems. Lamek filled his arms, while his eyes shone fiercer than the metal.

Sadok wished to close the cover. But the Hebrew stood there and would not let him. He kept saying: “_For so little I will not sell my daughter!_” Sadok bent down and gave Lamek another cup, this time of silver and starred with rubies, and two armlets. On each armlet was the head of Anubis carved of a single onyx. Lamek was satisfied now and drew back.

The door of the bath opened and two slave women came in leading Abisag. She was robed in white, transparent muslin. About wrists and ankles were jewels. Gold dust sparkled upon her long, black hair, like stars in a dark night.

Sadok signalled the slaves to leave. The Sunnamite maiden stood alone and trembling in the midst of the grey, old men. Her eyes were fastened upon the marble floor. Her arms were folded upon her breast, which rose and fell with the agitation that swayed her.

Sadok drew his brows together sharply. Banahash understood the sign, approached the bed of the king and drew back the lions’ skins that covered it. Sadok lifted the muslin robe from the shoulders of the maiden.

Her hair, in which the gold dust sparkled, covered her like a cloak. Her cheeks were the color of the pomegranate. Nathan took her by the hand and led her to the bed of the king, while Banahash, the son of Johad, lifted up the lions’ skins.

The maiden embraced the cold body of the king as a daughter would embrace a dying father. Sadok spread upon them a woolen coverlet and motioned to the others. They left the room. Nathan, alone, remained, kneeling by the bed of David, the King, uplifting his hands in prayer.

The old men did not know that when they led Abisag to the bed of the king, a young man wearing a white robe appeared in the doorway. He went away again as quickly as he came. But he had seen the beauty of the Sunnamite maiden. This young man was Solomon.

* * * * *

From that moment peace vanished from the heart of Solomon. He was even indifferent that Adonias, the son of Hagith, whom friends had chosen king, was reveling day and night in the streets of Jerusalem, with his followers. He did not know that his mother, Bethsheba, stood white and trembling, her heart filled with bitterness and envy, behind a door of King David’s chamber, to watch the influence of Abisag upon the life of the King. He paid no heed to the opinions of the unstable courtiers and royal sycophants, nor to what the cunning Sadok and secretive Nathan had in mind. Weary in body and dispirited, he betook himself to his pleasure palace in Baalhamon. Here he shut himself in, and throughout the night wandered along its garden ways, where century old sycamores looked down upon him, listening the while to the cicadas of the nights of summer, sing and sing.

Once when he was about to lie down upon his couch to rest, a slave announced the unexpected arrival of Banahash.

Solomon did not care to see him.

The son of Johad did not await permission, he rushed into the room declaring breathlessly:

“Good news! The king lives. The king spoke.”

Solomon arose from his couch as if he expected some more definite communication.

“You must go back with me to the palace. It is a question of the anointing of a king.”

Solomon fell back weakly against the heaped up rugs upon his bed.

“I go not there again.”

“But it is the will of the king, and Bethsheba, your mother. Nathan awaits us by the river. In his hand is the holy oil for anointing. Adonias fled to the mountains.”

“I go not,” repeated Solomon.

“The nation awaits you. The judges are on your side. The warriors are calling your name through the streets of Jerusalem. And all this you owe to the Sunnamite maiden.”

“Abisag,” repeated Solomon slowly. “Am I pledged to give thanks to Abisag?”

“For everything,” answered Banahash. “She awoke the king. Otherwise he would never again have spoken.”

“Very well. On--on! I go,” said Solomon.

* * * * *

Seldom has a king at his anointing shown such indifference as Solomon. They did with him as they wished. They led him hither and thither. After being proclaimed king, he would gladly have gone back to Baalhamon. But David again lay as one dead, wordless, motionless, between the pans of glowing coals, wrapped in the yellow lion’s skin. Nathan, the prophet, thought the end was near. Abisag still visited the king, but her efforts were useless.

When Solomon entered the room of his father, David, the King, it was evening. Banahash, alone, was with him. Solomon sat down beside him and seemed like one in a dream. He wished to see Abisag when she came to the king. Hours passed. Banahash bent over the king and arranged the coverings. A shudder seized him. David’s heart did not beat. He thought he must be mistaken. He took a mirror of bronze and held it to the mouth of the king. The shimmering surface remained smooth and bright. David was dead!

Banahash tore his garments, ran to Solomon, fell down in front of him, and touched his forehead to the floor.

“What is it, Banahash?” questioned Solomon, still in his dream.

“You are king! David is no more. I hasten to announce to the priests.”

“Wait!” commanded Solomon. “I forbid you to take a step.”

Then his voice changed and became gentle and pleading.

“Do you love me, Banahash?”

“I would give my life to you,” replied the courtier.

“It is your duty to watch by the King’s bed until morning. Very easily you can delay the announcement of the death of the King.”

Solomon bent and whispered in the ear of Banahash.

“Will you do it, Banahash?”

“I will, my King, if you will tell me what it was your father demanded against Joab, and Semej, whom they call the magician.”

“I will tell you--later.”

“No: now I must know it!” insisted Banahash.

“Later I will tell you. I swear it by the body of David, the King!”

“I go--to announce to Bethsheba, and the priests--”

“Listen, then, and hear!”

Again he bent to the ear of the still kneeling Banahash and whispered the last will of David, the King.

“You know what Joab did to me. You will proceed against him as is just. Semej, too, you hold in your power, who cursed me with a grievous curse. In my wrath I swore against him: I will not slay you with the sword! But you--pardon him not. You can make him descend early into the grave.”

“I will warn my companions,” Banahash thought quickly.

“I will do whatever seems good to me,” thought Solomon.

Just as upon the evenings before, the Sunnamite, Abisag, ascended the couch of David, the King. She did not notice that the light was dimmed in the hanging receptacles of bronze, and that the great room grew dark and darker. She did not notice that the pans of coals had been carried away, nor that a great mass of lion’s skins and purple coverings had been heaped upon the couch of David. She lay down and fell asleep.

At first her dream was monotonous like the desert. But this desert was not one of heat. Cold winds blew over it. The desert stretched to the horizon; it was dark and deep, like a great room at night. No bird swept across it. Abisag dreamed that she stood alone upon this monotonous grey-yellow expanse, lost in a sea of twilight, and that invisible hands placed weights upon her feet. Across the desert blew cold winds such as are known in the East, and Abisag thought that the stones were such as mark the way of tombs. She was afraid. She wished to cry for help. Then the waste trembled, and the twilight began to lighten. Strips of azure streaked the sky. Grass sprang up upon the sand. Cranes flew overhead. Abisag had closed her eyes, but her eyelids were made of mother of pearl and she saw through them. Where the desert horizon joined the sky something roared and swayed. It was a forest of cedar trees a century old. The sunlight lay upon their fabulously lovely summits, and the wind wafted their fragrance abroad. As by magic the forest drew nearer and nearer. She heard fountains leap beneath it. Narcissus blossoms rose to greet her, and their circle of leaves was like human eyes. Flowering vines embraced her body. In the crown of the great cedar above her head, a bird of gold nested, and when it spread its wings scarlet blossoms fell about her. And the song of the bird was a song of power and mystery. “_Set me like a seal upon thine heart. Strong as death is love, and desire is implacable as the grave--._”

Day touched her eyelids. She awoke. Beside her lay not the dead, grey King, but a man of youth and beauty, robed in white. He slept. Terrified, Abisag leaped from the couch, and stole away from the room. Outside, upon the streets of Jerusalem, where a great crowd swayed, and waving palm leaves were carried on high, voices called:

“_Long live Solomon, King of Israel!_”

Banahash and Nathan had announced the death of David, the King, because the sun had risen and day had come.

* * * * *

The Sunnamite maiden did not leave the royal palace. Some days later when she stepped from her bath, her slave women told her that Adonias, the son of Hagith, had been slain by Banahash at command of Solomon, and that his dead body lay before the palace door.

Abisag went down the palace steps and out upon the terrace. She saw the dead body. She wept. She fell upon it and covered it with kisses. While Abisag wept beside the body of Adonias, Solomon, amid the clang of trumpets, music of zithers and bells, was welcoming the Queen of Sheba. She came with a great retinue of camels, elephants, negroes and jesters, to learn of the wisdom and splendor of Solomon.

That same day were Joab, and Semej the magician, put to death, just as Solomon had promised David, the King.

THE KING’S CLOTHES

By KOLOMAN MIKSZÁTH

MIKSZÁTH

A volume of short stories by Koloman Mikszáth--one of the most original and talented writers of modern Hungary--was published a few years ago in English. The story we give in translation--“The King’s Clothes,” was printed some fifteen years ago, and we think it was this Hungarian story teller’s first appearance in print in the United States.

This story illustrates well his peculiar talent and his ironical, witty, satirical manner. Two novels by him--most unusual in both subject and treatment, are _The Magic Cloak_ and _The Village That Had No Men_ (Szelistye).

THE KING’S CLOTHES[5]

Chroniclers are sometimes mistaken. They tell us the story of King Morus but they forget to state over what land he ruled. Yet this does not have anything to do with the subject, because who believes believes. I will relate it truthfully.

One afternoon King Morus escaped from the duties of kingship, which means that he signed some seventy documents, which the Minister read to him in a sing-song voice. His Majesty closed his eyes and was kind enough to listen to the unavoidable documents from end to end. There were some appointments to make, a few death sentences, and other similar trifles. He yawned only occasionally at the reading. “We have finished,” declared at length the Minister, putting the huge book of papers under his arm and sticking the seal of the realm in his pocket.

“Wait a moment, Narciz,” commanded the King. “Give me that little piece of iron from your pocket, and stamp it upon one of these empty death sentences, then hand it over and I will sign it.”

“An empty death sentence, Your Majesty?” questioned the Minister astonished.

“I’d like to know if you have anything against it? Perhaps it may occur to you that you are my constitutional Minister and it is your business to know what the seal is to be put upon. Narciz you are becoming childish.”

“O Your Majesty!--Your Majesty--what can you be thinking of? I am the humble servant of the best of kings.”

King Morus graciously patted old Narciz on the shoulders, then took the paper and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat of gold.

“Now, Old Man, I have the genuine, constitutional feeling within me. By Heaven, I have it, and I don’t mind telling you--_in confidence_--what I am about to do with this death sentence.”

“Most glorious King!” murmured Narciz.

“I am trying to win the favor of a very beautiful lady--and she asked me for this trifle. You see of course I couldn’t refuse her a little thing like this.”

“Your Majesty is too gracious!”

“I am wise, Narciz! The pity is the poor woman has no power, but she has a husband. I give her the power and she gets rid of the husband. _Sh--sh--Narciz_--Not a word to any one--”

“It is sweeter to kiss than to kill,” flattered Narciz.

“Right you are, Old Man! I am going to carry this little piece of paper to her now, because the favor of the King is a fruitful seed. Write that sentence down in the Golden Book of the realm. Have you already written down what I said yesterday about the reckoning of the ground-rent?”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Let me hear how it sounds.”

The Minister opened the Golden Book and read the last lines: “A good king is like a gardener who trims the trees often.”

“Very well said,” opined the king, putting on his fez. He walked to the private garden by the shore of the sacred Nile, the garden which no one was permitted to enter.

The servants and courtiers whom he met on the way bowed to the ground as he passed. “We greet you, great King Morus.”

His glowing, golden garments dazzled all eyes, and beneath his proud step the earth trembled. The nightingale in the garden sang of love, as if it divined the King’s thoughts. The white lilies bowed their heads. The roses strewed fragrant leaves across his path, and the azaleas whispered a name--not the name of the king--but instead the name Florilla, the enchanting woman who was step-daughter of Narciz. Within the palace all were wondering where the King was going. The Minister whispered to his son: “He is carrying someone’s head in his pocket.”

Rogus, frightened, felt for his own head. He found it just where it always was, upon his neck, between his two shoulders.

He spoke at once to the watchman who stood by the garden gate:

“Here is a purse of gold. Exchange clothes with me, and let me into the garden.”

The watchman refused. “I can not. The King would cut my head off when he returns.”

“You are an ass,” replied Rogus. “The King can not kill you until he comes back. I will kill you upon the instant if you do not obey me. So you can see you can win both time and money.”

The watchman agreed. Rogus, who had long suspected something, put on the watchman’s clothes and followed the King. Before him, too, the lilies bent their heads. The roses strewed fragrant leaves, and the azaleas whispered the name, Florilla. But Rogus stepped upon them and crushed them. A secret gate, to which King Morus had the key, led from the garden to the shore of the Nile, along which were pleasure palaces. Among these palaces stood the villa of Rogus, which the King had built just the summer before and presented to his faithful servant. Likewise, just a year before, the Minister had written in the Golden Book, that the favor of the King was a fruitful seed.

Rogus kept following the King, an easy thing now, because the King had forgotten to lock the garden gate.

Profound quiet reigned by the river, even the voice of the ripples was subdued. The twilight was beginning to color the Nile steel blue so that it resembled the curving blade of an executioner’s giant sword.

When the King reached the dwelling of Rogus, he blew three times on a silver whistle. At this sign a young woman appeared upon the balcony. I only say this about her, that the artists of that day could not find a finer head to preserve for posterity.

“Florilla,” whispered the King.

Rogus hid behind some shrubbery and listened. To be sure he knew all about it, because he had suspected it long.

“Yes, my King,” replied Florilla.

“May I be permitted to enter the Kingdom of Heaven?”

“Why ask? A King commands.”

“I have left your husband busy at court, so he can not surprise us. Perhaps, too, the end has come for him. Here is the death sentence.”

“With the seal of the Minister?”

“Of course.”

“A shabby trick in my father,” thought Rogus.

“Bring it up to me in an hour,” whispered Florilla. “Within the hour I will put all my serving women to sleep.”