Opens with Leave-Taking.
Nearly two thousand seven hundred years ago—or somewhere about eight hundred years B.C.—there dwelt a Phoenician sea-captain in one of the eastern sea-ports of Greece—known at that period, or soon after, as Hellas.
This captain was solid, square, bronzed, bluff, and resolute, as all sea-captains are—or ought to be—whether ancient or modern. He owned, as well as commanded, one of those curious vessels with one mast and a mighty square-sail, fifty oars or so, double-banked, a dragon’s tail in the stern and a horse’s head at the prow, in which the Phoenicians of old and other mariners were wont to drive an extensive and lucrative trade in the Mediterranean; sometimes pushing their adventurous keels beyond the Pillars of Hercules, visiting the distant Cassiterides or Tin Isles, and Albion, and even penetrating northward into the Baltic, in search of tin, amber, gold, and what not.
One morning this captain, whose name was Arkal, sauntered up from the harbour to his hut, which stood on a conspicuous eminence overlooking the bay. His hands were not thrust into his pockets, because he had no pockets to put them into—the simple tunic of the period being destitute of such appendages. Indeed, the coarse linen tunic referred to constituted the chief part of his costume, the only other portions being a pair of rude shoes on his feet, a red fez or tarbouche on his bushy brown locks, and yards of something wound round his lower limbs to protect them from thorns on shore, as well as from the rasping of cordage and cargo at sea.
At the door of his hut stood his pretty little Greek wife, with a solid, square, bluff, and resolute, but not yet bronzed, baby in her arms.
“Well, Penelope, I’m off,” said the captain. At least he used words to that effect, as he enveloped wife and baby in a huge embrace.
Of course he spoke in a dialect of ancient Greek, of which we render a free translation.
The leave-taking was of the briefest, for just then a loud halloo from his mate, or second in command, apprised the captain that all was ready to set sail. But neither Penelope nor her husband were anxious souls or addicted to the melting mood. The square baby was rather more given to such conditions. In emulation of the mate it set up a sudden howl which sent its father away laughing to the harbour.
“No sign of the young men,” remarked the mate, as his superior came within hail.
“It is ever the way with these half-fledged boys who think themselves men while their faces are yet hairless,” growled the captain, casting a glance at his unfailing chronometer, the rising sun. “They have no more regard for the movements of that ball of fire than if it was set in the sky merely to shine and keep them warm, and had no reference whatever to time. If this youth from Albion does not appear soon, I shall set sail without him, prince though he be, and leave him to try his hand at swimming to the Cassiterides. His comrade and friend, Dromas, assured me they would not keep us waiting; but he is no better than the rest of them—a shouting, singing, smooth-faced, six-foot set they are, who think they inherit the combined wisdom of all their grandfathers but none of their weaknesses; reckless fear-nothings, fit only for war and the Olympic games!”
“Nevertheless, we could not do well without them,” returned the mate, glancing significantly at the ship’s crew, a large proportion of which was composed of these same stalwart fear-nothings of whom his leader spoke so contemptuously; “at least they would make a fine show at these games, and our ventures at sea would not prosper so well if we had not such to help us.”
“True, true, and I would not speak slightingly of them, but they do try one’s patience; here is the wind failing, and we all ready to hoist sail,” returned the captain with another growl, a glance at the sky, and a frown at his vessel, everything about which betokened readiness for instant departure. The crew—partly composed of slaves—were seated at the oars; the fighting men and seamen were all on board arranging their shields round the vessel’s sides, and the great sail was cast loose ready to hoist as soon as the mouth of the harbour should be cleared.
Just then a band of young men issued from the town, and the captain’s good humour was restored as they hurried towards him. They seemed to be much excited, and talked in loud tones as they advanced, their manners and costumes indicating that they belonged to the upper ranks of society.
One of the band, a fair youth, towered, like Saul, head and shoulders above his fellows. Another, of dark complexion, handsome features, and elegant, active frame, hurried forward to salute the captain.
“I fear we have kept you waiting,” he said with a pleasant expression that disarmed reproof.
“I will not deny that, Dromas,” answered the captain, “but you have not detained me long. Nevertheless, I was on the point of sailing without your friend, for the winds and waves respect no one.”
“But you are neither a wind nor a wave,” remarked the youth.
“True, but I am the humble friend of both,” retorted the captain, “and am bound to accommodate myself to them. I suppose this is the prince you spoke of,” he added, turning to the towering youth already referred to, with the air of a man who had as little—or as much—regard for a prince as a peasant.
“Yes, Captain Arkal, this is Prince Bladud. Let me present him to you.”
As the prince and the seaman joined hands the latter looked up from an altitude of five feet six and squared his broad shoulders with the air of a man ready to defy all creation, and anxious rather than otherwise to do so. The prince, on the other hand, looked down from an eminence of six feet seven, and bent his head with a modest grace and a genial smile that indicated a desire to be on good terms, if possible, with the world at large.
Although almost equal as to physical strength, the inequality of the two men in height rendered their experience in those rude warlike times very dissimilar, for, whereas the sailor was often compelled to give proof of his strength to tall unbelievers, the prince very seldom had occasion to do so. Hence, partly, their difference in manner, the one being somewhat pugnacious and the other conciliatory, while both were in reality good-natured, peace-loving men.
No two men, however, could have been more unlike in outward aspect. The prince was, if we may say so, built on the Gothic model—fair, blue-eyed, bulky of limb, huge, muscular, massive, with a soft beard and moustache—for he had not yet seen twenty-four summers—and hair that fell like rippling gold on his shoulders. Captain Arkal, on the contrary, was dark, with a thick reddish beard, luxuriant brown hair, piercing black eyes, and limbs that were hardened as well as darkened by thirty years of constant exposure to elemental and other warfare.
“I hope that I may be of some use to you,” said the prince, “though I profess not to know more of seamanship than I acquired during my voyage hither, and as that voyage occurred six years ago, it may be that I have lost the little I had learned. But if pirates should assail us, perhaps I may do you some service.”
“Little fear I have of that,” returned the captain with an approving nod. “Now, bid your comrades farewell and get on board, for the wind is failing fast, and it behoves us to get well forward on our voyage before night.”
It was evident that the leave-taking which ensued was not merely formal, for the youths from whom Bladud was parting had been his companions in study for six years, as well as his competitors in all the manly games of the period, and as he excelled them all in most things—especially in athletics—some looked up to the young prince from Albion as a sort of demi-god, while others to whom he had been helpful in many ways regarded him with the warmest affection.
“Come here aside with me; I must have a few last words with you alone,” said Bladud, taking young Dromas by the arm and leading him aside.
The prince’s other friends made no objection to this evidence of preference, for Dromas had shared the same apartment with him while in Athens, and engaged in similar studies with Bladud for several years; had travelled with him in the East, and sailed over the sea in his company, even as far as Egypt, besides having been second to him in most of the games practised by the young men. Indeed, at the high jump he equalled, and at the short race had even excelled him.
“Dromas,” said the prince impressively— “Come, now, my old friend and comrade,” interrupted the Greek youth lightly, “don’t put on such a long face. I foresee that you are about to give me a lecture, and I don’t want the tone of remonstrance to be the last that I shall hear. I know that I’m a wild, good-for-nothing fellow, and can guess all you would say to me. Let us rather talk of your speedy return to Hellas, for, to tell you the truth, I feel as if the loss of you would leave me like a poor man who has been crippled in the wars. I shall be a mere shadow till you return.”
There was a slight tremor in the voice, which showed that much of the gaiety of the young man was forced.
“Nay, I have no mind to give you a lecture,” returned Bladud, “I only ask you to grant me two requests.”
“Granted, before mentioned, for you have ever been a reasonable creature, Bladud, and I trust you to retain your character on the present occasion.”
“Well, then, my first request is that you will often remember the many talks that you and I have had about the gods, and the future life, and the perplexing conditions in which we now live.”
“Remember them,” exclaimed Dromas with animation, “my difficulty would be to forget them! The questions which you have propounded and attempted to answer—for I do not admit that you have been quite successful in the attempt—have started up and rung in my ears at all kinds of unseasonable times. They haunt me often in my dreams—though, to say truth, I dream but little, save when good fellowship has led me to run supper into breakfast—they worry me during my studies, which, you know, are frequent though not prolonged; they come between me and the worthy rhapsodist when he is in the middle of the most interesting—or least wearisome—passage of the poem, and they even intrude on me at the games. The very last race I ran was lost, only by a few inches, because our recent talk on the future of cats caused a touch of internal laughter which checked my pace at the most critical moment. You may rest assured that I cannot avoid granting your first request. What is your second?”
“That you promise to visit me in my home in Albion. You know that it will be impossible for me ever again to re-visit these shores, where I have been so happy. My father, if he forgives my running away from him, will expect me to help him in the management of his affairs. But you have nothing particular to detain you here—”
“You forget—the old woman,” interrupted Dromas gravely.
“What old woman?” asked Bladud in surprise.
“My mother!” returned his friend.
The prince looked a little confused and hastened to apologise. Dromas’ mother was one of those unfortunate people who existed in the olden time as well as in modern days, though perhaps not so numerously. She was a confirmed invalid, who rarely quitted her house, and was seldom seen by any one save her most intimate friends, so that she was apt to be forgotten—out of sight out of mind, then as now.
“Forgive me, Dromas—,” began Bladud, but his friend interrupted him.
“I cannot forgive when I have nothing to forgive! Say no more about that. But, now I come to consider of it, I grant your second request conditionally. If my mother agrees to accompany me to Albion, you may expect to see me some day or other—perhaps a year or two hence. You see, since my father and brother were slain in the last fight with our neighbours, I am the only one left to comfort her, so I cannot forsake her.”
“Then this will be our final parting,” returned Bladud, sadly, “for your mother will never consent to leave home.”
“I don’t know that,” returned Dromas with a laugh. “The dear old soul is intensely adventurous, like myself, and I do believe would venture on a voyage to the Cassiterides, if the fancy were strong upon her. You have no idea how powerfully I can work upon her feelings. I won’t say that I can make much impression on her intellect. Indeed, I have reason to know that she does not believe in intellect except as an unavoidable doorway leading into the feelings. The fact is, I tried her the other day with the future of cats, and do you know, instead of treating that subject with the gravity it merits, she laughed in my face and called me names—not exactly bad names, such as the gods might object to—but names that were not creditable to the intelligence of her first-born. Now,” continued Dromas with increasing gravity, “when I paint to her the beauty of your native land; the splendour of your father’s court; the kindliness of your mother, and the exceeding beauty of your sister—fair like yourself, blue-eyed, tall—you said she was tall, I think?”
“Yes—rather tall.”
“Of course not quite so tall as yourself, say six feet or so, with a slight, feminine beard—no? you shake your head; well, smooth-faced and rosy, immense breadth of shoulders—ah! I have often pictured to myself that sister of yours—”
“Hilloa!” shouted Captain Arkal in a nautical tone that might almost have been styled modern British in its character.
It was an opportune interruption, for Dromas had been running on with his jesting remarks for the sole purpose of crushing down the feelings that almost unmanned him.
With few but fervently uttered words the final farewells were at last spoken. The oars were dipped; the vessel shot from the land, swept out upon the blue waves of the Aegean, the sail was hoisted, and thus began the long voyage to the almost unknown islands of the far North-West.
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