After the rough treatment he had received, the Mahdi, as we may well believe, did not feel more amiably2 disposed towards his prisoners.
Of course he had no reason for blaming Miles for what had occurred, nevertheless he vented3 his wrath5 against white men in general on him, by keeping him constantly on the move, and enforcing prolonged and unusual speed while running, besides subjecting him publicly to many insults.
It was a strange school in which to learn self-restraint and humility6. But our hero profited by the schooling7. Necessity is a stern teacher, and she was the head-mistress of that school. Among other things she taught Miles to reason extensively—not very profoundly, perhaps, nor always correctly, but at all events in a way that he never reasoned before. The best way to convey to the reader the state of his mind will be to let him speak for himself. As he had a habit of thinking aloud—for sociability8, as it were—in the dark cell to which he had been relegated9, we have only to bend down our ear and listen.
One night, about a week after the overthrow10 of his tyrant11 master, Miles was seated on the hard floor of his cell, leaning against the wall, with his knees drawn12 up and his face in his hands—his usual attitude when engaged in meditation13 after a hard day’s work.
“I wouldn’t mind so much,” he murmured, “if I only saw the faintest prospect14 of its coming to an end, but to go on thus from day to day, perhaps year to year, is terrible. No, that cannot be; if we cannot escape it won’t be long till the end comes. (A pause.) The end!—the end of a rope with a noose15 on it is likely to be my end, unless I burst up and run a-muck. No, no, Miles Milton, don’t you think of that! What good would it do to kill half-a-dozen Arabs to accompany you into the next world? The poor wretches16 are only defending their country after all. (Another pause.) Besides, you deserve what you’ve got for so meanly forsaking17 your poor mother; think o’ that, Miles, when you feel tempted18 to stick your lance into the Mahdi’s gizzard, as Molloy would have said. Ah! poor Molloy! I fear that I shall never see you again in this life. After giving the Mahdi and his steed such a tremendous heave they would be sure to kill you; perhaps they tortured you to—”
“I hope not,” he resumed, after another pause. “I hope we may yet meet and devise some means of escape. God grant it! True, the desert is vast and scorching20 and almost waterless—I may as well say foodless too! And it swarms21 with foes22, but what then? Have not most of the great deeds of earth been accomplished23 in the face of what seemed insurmountable difficulties? Besides—”
He paused again here, and for a longer time, because there came suddenly into his mind words that had been spoken to him long ago by his mother: “With God all things are possible.”
“Yes, Miles,” he continued, “you must make up your mind to restrain your anger and indignation, because it is useless to give vent4 to them. That’s but a low motive25 after all. Is it worthy26 of an intelligent man? I get a slap in the face, and bear it patiently, because I can’t help myself. I get the same slap in the face in circumstances where I can help myself, and I resent it fiercely. Humble27 when I must be so; fierce when I’ve got the power. Is not this unmanly—childish—humbug? There is no principle here. Principle! I do believe I never had any principle in me worthy of the name. I have been drifting, up to this time, before the winds of caprice and selfish inclination28. (A long pause here.) Well, it just comes to this, that whatever happens I must submit with a good grace—at least, as good grace as I can—and hope that an opportunity to escape may occur before long. I have made up my mind to do it—and when I once make up my mind, I—”
He paused once more at this point, and the pause was so long that he turned it into a full stop by laying his head on the block of wood which formed his pillow and going to sleep.
It will be seen from the above candid29 remarks that our hero was not quite as confident of his power of will as he used to be,—also, that he was learning a few useful facts in the school of adversity.
One evening, after a harder day than usual, Miles was conducted to the prison in which he and his companions had been confined on the day of their arrival.
Looking round the cell, he observed, on becoming accustomed to the dim light, that only one other prisoner was there. He was lying on the bare ground in a corner, coiled up like a dog, and with his face to the wall. Relieved to find that he was not to be altogether alone, Miles sat down with his back against the opposite wall, and awaited the waking of his companion with some interest, for although his face was not visible, and his body was clothed in a sort of sacking, his neck and lower limbs showed that he was a white man. But the sleeper30 did not seem inclined to waken just then. On the contrary, he began, ere long, to snore heavily.
Miles gradually fell into a train of thought that seemed to bring back reminiscences of a vague, indefinable sort. Then he suddenly became aware that the snore of the snorer was not unfamiliar31. He was on the point of rising to investigate this when the sleeper awoke with a start, sat bolt upright with a look of owlish gravity, and presented the features of Jack33 Molloy.
“Miles, my lad!” cried Jack, springing up to greet his friend warmly, “I thought you was dead.”
“And, Jack, my dear friend,” returned Miles, “I thought—at least I feared—that you must have been tortured to death.”
“An’ you wasn’t far wrong, my boy. Stand close to me, and look me straight in the eyes. D’ee think I’m any taller?”
“Not much—at least, not to my perception. Why?”
“I wonder at that, now,” said Molloy, “for I’ve bin34 hanged three times, an’ should have bin pulled out a bit by this time, considering my weight.”
His friend smiled incredulously.
“You may laugh, lad, but it’s no laughin’ matter,” said Molloy, feeling his neck tenderly. “The last time, I really thought it was all up wi’ me, for the knot somehow got agin my windpipe an’ I was all but choked. If they had kep’ me up half a minute longer it would have bin all over: I a’most wished they had, for though I never was much troubled wi’ the narves, I’m beginnin’ now to have a little fellow-feelin’ for the sufferin’s o’ the narvish.”
“Do you really mean, my dear fellow, that the monsters have been torturing you in this way?” asked Miles, with looks of sympathy.
“Ay, John Miles, that’s just what I does mean,” returned the seaman35, with an anxious and startled look at the door, on the other side of which a slight noise was heard at the moment. “They’ve half-hanged me three times already. The last time was only yesterday, an’ at any moment they may come to give me another turn. It’s the uncertainty36 o’ the thing that tries my narves. I used to boast that I hadn’t got none once, but the Arabs know how to take the boastin’ out of a fellow. If they’d only take me out to be hanged right off an’ done with it, I wouldn’t mind it so much, but it’s the constant tenter-hooks of uncertainty that floors me. Hows’ever, I ain’t quite floored yet. But let’s hear about yourself, Miles. Come, sit down. I gets tired sooner than I used to do since they took to hangin’ me. How have they bin sarvin’ you out since I last saw ye?”
“Not near so badly as they have been serving you, old boy,” said Miles, as he sat down and began to detail his own experiences.
“But tell me,” he added, “have you heard anything of our unfortunate comrades since we parted?”
“Nothing—at least nothing that I can trust to. I did hear that poor Moses Pyne is dead; that they had treated him the same as me, and that his narves couldn’t stand it; that he broke down under the strain an’ died. But I don’t believe it. Not that these Arabs wouldn’t kill him that way, but the interpreter who told me has got falsehood so plainly writ37 in his ugly face that I would fain hope our kind-hearted friend is yet alive.”
“God grant it may be so!” said Miles fervently38. “And I scarcely think that even the cruellest of men would persevere39 in torturing such a gentle fellow as Moses.”
“May-hap you’re right,” returned Molloy; “anyhow, we’ll take what comfort we can out o’ the hope. Talkin’ o’ comfort, what d’ee think has bin comfortin’ me in a most wonderful way? You’ll never guess.”
“What is it, then?”
“One o’ them little books as Miss Robinson writes, and gives to soldiers and sailors—‘The Victory’ it’s called, havin’ a good deal in it about Nelson’s flagship and Nelson himself; but there’s a deal more than that in it—words that has gone straight to my heart, and made me see God’s love in Christ as I never saw it before. Our comrade Stevenson gave it to me before we was nabbed by the Arabs, an’ I’ve kep’ it in the linin’ o’ my straw hat ever since. You see it’s a thin little thing—though there’s oceans o’ truth in it—an’ it’s easy stowed away.
“I forgot all about it till I was left alone in this place, and then I got it out, an’ God in his marcy made it like a light in the dark to me.
“Stevenson came by it in a strange way. He told me he was goin’ over a battle-field after a scrimmage near Suakim, lookin’ out for the wounded, when he noticed somethin’ clasped in a dead man’s hand. The hand gripped it tight, as if unwillin’ to part with it, an’ when Stevenson got it he found that it was this little book, ‘The Victory.’ Here it is. I wouldn’t change it for a golden sov, to every page.”
As he spoke24, footsteps were heard approaching the door. With a startled air Molloy thrust the book into its place and sprang up.
“See there, now!” he said remonstratively, “who’d ever ha’ thowt that I’d come to jerk about like that?”
Before the door opened, however, the momentary40 weakness had passed away, and our seaman stood upright, with stern brow and compressed lips, presenting to those who entered as firm and self-possessed a man of courage as one could wish to see.
“I knowed it!” he said in a quiet voice to his friend, as two strong armed men advanced and seized him, while two with drawn swords stood behind him. At the same time, two others stood guard over Miles. “They’re goin’ to give me another turn. God grant that it may be the last!”
“If you hadn’t said it, I would have had some hope that the end was come!” said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.
“Good-bye, Miles,” he added, looking over his shoulder; “if I never come back, an’ you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss Robinson—God bless her!”
Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.
It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled42 with anxiety and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom43 were almost unbearable44. “Oh!” he thought, “if I were only once more free, for one moment, with a weapon in my hand, I’d—”
He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point. Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee. From the inflamed45 red mark which encircled the seaman’s powerful neck, it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.
“Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall,” he said, in a low voice.
As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell from his eyes on the sailor’s cheek.
“You’re a good fellow,” said Molloy, looking up. “I thank the Lord for sendin’ you to comfort me, and I do need comfort a bit just now, d’ee know. There—I’m better a’ready, an’ I’ll be upside wi’ them next time, for I feels, somehow, that I couldn’t stand another turn. Poor Moses! I do hope that the interpreter is the liar32 he looks, and that they haven’t treated the poor fellow to this sort o’ thing.”
Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men entered.
“Ay, here you are,” cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to draw himself up and show a bold front. “Come away an’ welcome. I’m ready for ’ee.”
But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal46 as his friend.
“Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord,” said the sailor, in an encouraging tone as they led our hero away.
The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth the courage that for a moment had forsaken47 him. As he emerged into the bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house, he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had sought so earnestly to lead him to God in his boyhood.
One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his impending48 fate, but the man’s look was so forbidding that he forbore to speak.
Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave, and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered. The court into which they were ushered49 was open to the sky, and contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs50 around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning on a curved sword.
Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved, and who had come so opportunely51 to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance which he bestowed52 on him was one of calm, stern indifference53.
“Ask him,” he said at once to the interpreter, “where are the Christian54 dogs who were captured with him?”
“Tell him,” replied Miles, when this was translated, “that I know nothing about the fate of any of them except one.”
“Which one is that?”
“The sailor,” answered Miles.
“Where is he?”
“In the prison I have just left.”
“And you know nothing about the others?”
“Nothing whatever.”
The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic55 inclination of the head, he dismissed them.
Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.
“Who is that?” he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.
“That is Mohammed, the Mahdi’s cousin,” answered the interpreter.
Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne—not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing56 in a shallow recess57 or niche58 in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!
“What you see?” demanded the interpreter.
“I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?” asked Miles, eagerly.
“You may,” answered the interpreter.
The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the shoulder and saluted59 him by name is not easily described.
“I am so glad to see you, old fellow!” he said, with sparkling eyes. “I thought you must be dead, for I’ve tried so often to find out what had become of you. Have some beans and oil?”
He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to administer a dose on the spot.
“No, thank you, Moses, I’m a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick. They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to death.”
“They told you lies, then. I’ve been very well treated, but what troubles me is I can’t find out where any of our comrades have gone to.”
“I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he’s well. Of the others I’m as ignorant as yourself. But I’ve seen a friend who—”
At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on, which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of the hand.
Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were left alone together.
“D’you feel better now, my poor fellow?” asked Miles, when the door was shut.
“Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They’ve given me a rare blow-out of beans an’ oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I feels so strong that the next turn off won’t finish me! I could never have eaten ’em, thinkin’ of you, but, d’ee know, I was quite sure, from the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn’t to be hangin’ wi’ you this time. An’ when they putt me into this here room, an’ produced the beans an’ oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about you. It was the man that brought your marchin’ orders that told ’em to putt me here. D’ee know, lad, I can’t help feelin’ that a friend o’ some sort must have bin raised up to us.”
“You’re right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved and who saved yours! It’s very strange, too, that beans and oil should have been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street, not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!”
“You don’t mean that?”
“Indeed I do. I’ve spoken to him.”
Sitting down on a stool—for they were promoted to a furnished apartment—Miles entered into an elaborate account of all that had befallen him since the hour that he had been taken out, as they both thought, to be hanged!
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1
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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overthrow
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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prospect
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noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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tempted
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shudder
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scorching
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swarms
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplished
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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motive
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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inclination
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candid
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sleeper
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unfamiliar
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liar
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jack
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bin
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seaman
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uncertainty
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writ
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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54
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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