It may be imagined that the return home of Prince Bladud was the cause of much rejoicing in the whole district as well as in his father’s house. At first the king, being, as we have said, a very stern man, felt disposed to stand upon his dignity, and severely rebuke the son who had run away from home and remained away so long. But an undercurrent of tenderness, and pride in the youth’s grand appearance, and great prowess, induced him to give in with a good grace and extend to him unreserved forgiveness.
As for the queen, she made no attempt to conceal her joy and pride, and the same may be said of the princess.
There was instituted a series of fêtes and games in honour of the return of the prodigal, at which he was made—not unwillingly—to show the skill which he had acquired from practising with the competitors at the Olympic games, about which the islanders had heard from Phoenician traders from time to time, and great was the interest thus created, especially when he showed them, among other arts, how to use their fists in boxing, and their swords in guarding so as to enable them to dispense with a shield. But these festivities did not prevent him from taking an interest in the search that his father and the hunters were still making for Branwen.
When many days had passed, however, and no word of her whereabouts was forthcoming, it was at last arranged that a message regarding her disappearance should be sent to her father’s tribe by a party of warriors who were to be led by the prince himself.
“I will go gladly,” he said to his sister, a day or two before the party was to set out. “For your sake, Hafrydda, I will do my best to clear up the mystery; and I think it highly probable that I shall find the runaway safely lodged in her father’s house.”
“I fear not,” returned Hafrydda, with a sad look. “It seems impossible that she could have made her way so far alone through the wild forests.”
“But she may not have been alone. Friends may have helped her.”
“She had no friends in the town, having been here but a short time,” objected the princess. “But do your best to find her, Bladud, for I feel quite sure that you will fall in love with her when you see her.”
The youth laughed.
“No fear of that,” he said, “many a pretty girl have I seen in the East; nevertheless I have, as you see, left them all without a thought of ever returning again.”
“But I did not say you would fall in love with Branwen because she is pretty. I feel sure that you will, because she is sweet, and merry, and good—yet thoughtful—wonderfully thoughtful!”
“Ay, and you may add,” said the queen, who came into the room just then, “that she is sometimes thoughtless and wonderfully full of mischief.”
“Nay, mother, you are not just,” returned the princess. “Her mischief is only on the surface, her thoughtfulness lies deep down.”
“Well, well, whatever may be the truth regarding her, I shall not trouble my head about her; for I have never yet felt what men call love, and I feel sure I never shall.”
“I like to hear you say that, brother,” rejoined Hafrydda; “for I have noticed, young though I am, that when men say they will never fall in love or marry, they are always pretty near the point of doing one or both.”
But poor Bladud was destined to do neither at that time, for an event was hanging over him, though he knew it not, which was to affect very seriously the whole of his after life.
For several days previous to the above conversation, he had felt a sensation that was almost new to him—namely, that of being slightly ill. Whether it was the unwonted exertions consequent on his efforts at the games, or the excitement of the return home, we cannot say, but headache, accompanied by a slight degree of fever, had troubled him. Like most strong men in the circumstances, he adopted the Samsonian and useless method of “shaking it off”! He went down into the arena and performed feats of strength and agility that surprised even himself; but the fever which enabled him to do so, asserted itself at last, and finally compelled him to do what he should have done at first—pocket his pride and give in.
Of course we do not suggest that giving in to little sensations of ailment is either wise or manly. There are duties which call on men to fight even in sickness—ay, in spite of sickness—but “showing off” in the arena was not one of these.
Be this as it may, Bladud came at last to the condition of feeling weak—an incomprehensible state of feeling to him. He thereupon went straight home, and, flinging himself half petulantly on a couch, exclaimed—“Mother, I am ill!”
“My son, I have seen that for many days past, and have waited with some anxiety till you should come to the point of admitting it.”
“And now that I have admitted it,” returned the youth with a languid smile, “what is to be done?”
The answer to that question was not the simple one of modern days, “Send for the doctor,” because no doctors worthy of the name existed. There was, indeed, a solemn-visaged, long-headed, elderly man among King Hudibras’ followers who was known as the medicine-man to the royal household, but his services were not often in request, because people were seldom ill, save when they were going to die, and when that time came it was generally thought best to let them die in peace. This medicine-man, though a quack in regard to physic, was, however, a true man, as far as his knowledge went in surgery—that is to say, he was expert at the setting of broken bones, when the fractures were not too compound; he could bandage ordinary wounds; he had even ventured into the realm of experimental surgery so far as to knock out a decayed back tooth with a bronze chisel and a big stone. But his knowledge of drugs was naturally slight, and his power of diagnosis feeble. Still, unworthy though he may be of the title, we will for convenience style him the doctor.
“My poor boy,” said the queen, in answer to his question, and laying her hand on his hot brow, “I am so sorry that we cannot have the services of our doctor, for he is away hunting just now—you know he is very fond of the bow and line. Perhaps he may—”
“Oh, never mind the doctor, mother,” said Bladud impatiently, with that slighting reference to the faculty which is but too characteristic of youth; “what do you think ought to be done? You were always doctor enough for me when I was little; you’ll do equally well now that I am big.”
“Be not hasty, my son. You were always hot-headed and—”
“I’m hot-headed now, at all events, and argument won’t tend to cool it. Do what you will with it, for I can stand this no longer. Cut it off if you like, mother, only use a sharp knife and be quick about it.”
In those days, far more than in this our homeopathic era, it was the habit of the mothers of families to keep in store certain herbs and roots, etcetera, which, doubtless, contained the essences now held in modern globules. With these they contrived decoctions that were unquestionably more or less beneficial to patients when wisely applied. To the compounding of something of this sort the queen now addressed herself. After swallowing it, the prince fell asleep.
This was so far well; but in the morning he was still so far from well, that the visit to Branwen’s father had to be postponed. Several days elapsed before the doctor returned from his hunting expedition. By that time the fever had left the prince. He began to get somewhat better, and to go about, but still felt very unlike his old self. During this what we may style semi-convalescent period, Captain Arkal and little Maikar proved of great use and comfort to him, for they not only brought him information about the games—which were still kept up—but cheered him with gossipy news of the town in general, and with interesting reminiscences of their late voyage and the Eastern lands they had so recently left.
One day these faithful friends, as well as the queen and princess, were sitting by Bladud’s couch—to which unaccountable fits of laziness confined him a good deal—when the medicine-man was announced.
He proceeded at once to examine the patient, while the others stood aside and looked on with that profound respect which ignorance sometimes, though not always, assumes in the presence of knowledge.
The doctor laid his hand on Bladud’s brow, and looked earnestly into his eyes. Then he tapped his back and chest, as if to induce some one in his interior to open a door and let him in—very much as doctors do now-a-days. Then he made him remove his upper garments, and examined his broad and brawny shoulders. A mark, or spot, of a whitish appearance between the left shoulder and the elbow, at once riveted his attention, and caused an almost startled expression on his grave countenance. But the expression was momentary. It passed away and left the visage grave and thoughtful—if possible, more thoughtful than before.
“That will do,” he said, turning to the queen. “Your treatment was the best that could have been applied. I must now see his father, the king.”
“Alone?” asked the queen.
“Alone,” replied the doctor.
“Well, what think ye of Bladud?” asked the king, when his physician entered his chamber, and carefully shut the door.
“He is smitten with a fatal disease,” said the doctor in a low, earnest voice.
“Not absolutely fatal?” cried the king, with sudden anxiety.
“As far as I know it is so. There is no cure that I ever heard of. Bladud is smitten with leprosy. It may be years before it kills him, but it will surely do so at last.”
“Impossible—impossible!” cried the king, becoming fierce and unbelieving in his horror. “You are too confident, my medicine-man. You may, you must, be mistaken. There is a cure for everything!”
“Not for leprosy,” returned the doctor, with sad but firm emphasis. “At least I never heard of a cure being effected, except by some of the Eastern wise men.”
“Then, by all the gods that protect our race and family, my son shall return to the East and one of these wise men shall cure him—else—else— Have ye told the queen?”
“Not yet.”
“That is well. I will myself tell her. Go!” This summary dismissal was nothing new to the doctor, who understood the king well, and sympathised with his obvious distress. Pausing at the door, however, he said—
“I have often talked with Phoenician captains about this disease, and they tell me that it is terribly infectious, insomuch that those who are smitten with it are compelled to live apart and keep away from men. If Bladud remains here the disease will surely spread through the house, and thence through the town.”
Poor Hudibras fell into a chair, and covered his face with both hands, while the doctor quietly retired.
It is impossible to describe the consternation that ensued when the terrible fact was made known. Of course the news spread into the town, and the alarm became general, for at various times the Phoenician mariners had entertained the islanders with graphic descriptions of the horrors connected with this loathsome disease, and it soon became evident, that even if the king and his family were willing to run the risk of infection by keeping Bladud near them, his people and warriors would insist on the banishment of the smitten man.
To Bladud himself the blow was almost overwhelming—almost, but not quite, for the youth was possessed of that unselfish, self-sacrificing spirit which, in all ages of the world’s history, has bid defiance to misfortune, by bowing the head in humble submission to the will of God. He knew well the nature of the dread disease by which he had been attacked, and he shuddered at the thought that, however long he might be spared to live, it would sap his strength, disfigure his person, and ultimately render his face hideous to look upon, while a life of absolute solitude must from that day forward be his portion. No wonder that in the first rush of his dismay, he entertained a wild thought of putting an end to his own existence. There was only one gleam of comfort to him, and that was, the recollection that he had caught the disease in a good cause—in the rescue of a poor old woman from destruction. The comfort of the thought was not indeed great, still it was something in the awful desolation that overwhelmed him at the time.
While travelling in the East, a short time previous to setting sail for home, he had come across an old woman who was being chased by a wild bull. Her flight would have been short-lived in any case, for there chanced to be a steep precipice not far from her, towards which she ran in her terror and scrambled hastily down until she reached a spot where she could go no further without losing her foothold. To the rock she clung and screamed in her despair.
It was her screams that first attracted Bladud’s attention. Rushing forward, he was just in time to see the bull—which could not check its mad career—plunge over the cliff, at the bottom of which it was killed by the fall.
Bladud at once began to descend to the help of the poor woman. As he did so, the words “unclean! unclean!” met his ear. The woman was a leper, and, even in her dire extremity, the force of habit caused her to give the usual warning which the Eastern law requires. A shudder passed through the prince’s frame, for he knew well the meaning of the cry—but as he looked down and saw the disfigured face and the appealing eyes turned towards him, a gush of intense pity, and of that disregard of self which is more or less characteristic of all noble natures, induced him to continue his descent until he reached the poor creature. Grasping her tightly round the waist, he assisted her up the perilous ascent, and finally placed her in safety at the top of the cliff.
For a time Bladud felt some anxiety as to the result of the risk he had run, but did not mention his adventure to any one. Gradually the fear wore off, and at length that feeling of invulnerability which is so strong in youth, induced him to dismiss the subject from his thoughts altogether. He had quite forgotten it until the doctor’s statement fell upon him with the stunning violence of a thunder-clap.
It is usually when deep sorrows and great difficulties are sent to them, that men and women find out the quality of their natures. Despair, followed by listless apathy, might well have seized on one who, a few days before, possessed all the advantages of great physical strength and manly beauty, with what appeared to be sound health and a bright life before him. But, instead of giving way, he silently braced himself for a lifelong conflict. He did not turn, in his extremity, to the gods of his fathers—whatever these might be—for he did not believe in them, but he did believe in one good supreme Being. To Him he raised his heart, offered an unspoken prayer, and felt comforted as well as strengthened in the act.
Then, being a man of prompt action, he thoughtfully but quickly formed his plans, having previously made fast his door—for well he knew that although his strong-minded father might keep him at arm’s-length, his loving mother and sister would not only come to talk with him, but would, despite all risks, insist on embracing him.
That he was not far wrong was proved the same evening, for when the king revealed the terrible news to his wife and daughter, they went straight to Bladud’s door and knocked for admission.
“Who goes there?” demanded the prince.
“Your mother. Let me in, Bladud.”
“I may not do so just now, dear mother. Tomorrow you shall know all. Rest content. I feel better.”
In the dead of night Bladud went out softly and sought the hut where Captain Arkal and Maikar slept. He found them conversing in great sorrow about the terrible calamity that had overtaken their friend when he entered. They started up in surprise to receive him.
“Keep off,” he said, shrinking back. “Touch me not! I know not whether the disease may not be catching even at its present stage. Sit down. I will stand here and tell you what I want you to tell my mother in the morning.”
The two men silently obeyed, and the prince continued.
“I am on the point of leaving home—it may be for ever. The Disposer of all things knows that. The disease, as you know, is thought to be incurable. If so, I shall die where no one shall find me. If health returns I shall come back. It will be of no use to search for me; but I think that will not be attempted. Indeed, I know that my father would be compelled to banish me if I wished to remain at home. It is partly to spare him the pain of doing so that I banish myself of my own accord; and partly to avoid leaving infection behind me that I go without farewell. Let my dear mother and sister understand this clearly—and—comfort them if you can.”
“But where will you go to and what will you do?” asked the captain anxiously.
“That I do not yet know. The forests are wide. There is plenty of room for man and beast. This only will I reveal to you. To-night I shall call at the hut of Beniah the Hebrew. He is a wise man and will advise me. If I send news of myself it shall be through him. But tell not this to any one. It would only bring trouble on the old man. Farewell, my comrades. I will remember you as brothers—always. May the All-powerful One watch over us.”
Unable to restrain himself, little Maikar sprang up with the obvious intention of rushing at his friend and seizing his hand, but the prince stepped back, shut the door against him, and, in another moment, was gone.
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