We know now who Count Corti is, and the objects of his coming to Constantinople--that he is a secret agent of Mahommed--that, summed up in the fewest words, his business is to keep the city in observation, and furnish reports which will be useful to his master in the preparation the latter is making for its conquest. We also know he is charged with very peculiar1 duties respecting the Princess Irene.
The most casual consideration of these revelations will make it apparent, in the next place, that hereafter the Emir must be designated by his Italian appellative in full or abbreviated2. Before forsaking3 the old name, there is lively need of information, whether as he now stands on the deck of his galley4, waiting the permissions prayed by him of the Emperor Constantine, he is, aside from title, the same Mirza lately so honored by Mahommed.
From the time the ship hove in sight of the city, he had kept his place on the cabin. The sailors, looking up to him occasionally, supposed him bound by the view, so motionless he stood, so steadfastly5 he gazed. Yet in fact his countenance6 was not expressive7 of admiration8 or rapture9. A man with sound vision may have a mountain just before him and not see it; he may be in the vortex of a battle deaf to its voices; a thought or a feeling can occupy him in the crisis of his life to the exclusion10 of every sense. If perchance it be so with the Emir now, he must have undergone a change which only a powerful cause could have brought about. He had been so content with his condition, so proud of his fame already won, so happy in keeping prepared for the opportunities plainly in his sight, so satisfied with his place in his master's confidence, so delighted when that master laid a hand upon his shoulder and called him familiarly, now his Saladin, and now his falcon11.
Faithfully, as bidden, Mirza sallied from the White Castle the night of his appointment to the agency in Constantinople. He spoke12 to no one of his intention, for he well knew secrecy13 was the soul of the enterprise. For the same reason, he bought of a dervish travelling with the Lord Mahommed's suite14 a complete outfit15, including the man's donkey and donkey furniture. At break of day he was beyond the hills of the Bosphorus, resolved to skirt the eastern shore of the Marmora and Hellespont, from which the Greek population had been almost entirely16 driven by the Turks, and at the Dardanelles take ship for Italy direct as possible--a long route and trying--yet there was in it the total disappearance17 from the eyes of acquaintances needful to success in his venture. His disguise insured him from interruption on the road, dervishes being sacred characters in the estimation of the Faithful, and generally too poor to excite cupidity18. A gray-frocked man, hooded19, coarsely sandalled, and with a blackened gourd20 at his girdle for the alms he might receive from the devout21, no Islamite meeting him would ever suspect a large treasure in the ragged22 bundle on the back of the patient animal plodding23 behind him like a tired dog.
The Dardanelles was a great stopping-place for merchants and tradesmen, Greek, Venetian, Genoese. There Mirza provided himself with an Italian suit, adopted the Italian tongue, and became Italian. He borrowed a chart of the coast of Italy from a sailor, to determine the port at which it would be advisable for him to land.
While settling this point, the conversation had with the Prince of India in the latter's tent at Zaribah arose to mind, and he recalled with particularity all that singular person said with reference to the accent observable in his speech. He also went over the description he himself had given the Prince of the house or castle from which he had been taken in childhood. A woman had borne him outdoors, under a blue sky, along a margin24 of white sand, an orchard25 on one hand, the sea on the other. He remembered the report of the waves breaking on the shore, the olive-green color of the trees in the orchard, and the battlemented gate of the castle; whereupon the Prince said the description reminded him of the eastern shore of Italy in the region of Brindisi.
It was a vague remark certainly; but now it made a deeper impression on the Emir than at the moment of its utterance26 and pointed27 his attention to Brindisi. The going to Italy, he argued, was really to get a warrant for the character he was to assume in Constantinople; that is, to obtain some knowledge of the country, its geography, political divisions, cities, rulers, and present conditions generally, without which the slightest cross-examination by any of the well-informed personages about the Emperor would shatter his pretensions28 in an instant. Then it was he fell into a most unusual mood.
Since the hour the turbaned rovers captured him he had not been assailed29 by a desire to see or seek his country and family. Who was his father? Was his mother living? Probably nothing could better define the profundity30 of the system underlying31 the organization of the Janissaries than that he had never asked those questions with a genuine care to have them solved. What a suppression of the most ordinary instincts of nature! How could it have been accomplished32 so completely? As a circumstance, its tendency is to confirm the theory that men are creatures of education and association.... Was his mother living? Did she remember him? Had she wept for him? What sort of being was she? If living, how old would she be? And he actually attempted a calculation. Calling himself twenty-six she might not be over forty-five. That was not enough to dim her eyes or more than slightly silver her hair; and as respects her heart, are not the affections of a mother flowers for culling33 by Death alone?
Such reflections never fail effect. A tenderness of spirit is the first token of their presence; then memory and imagination begin striving; the latter to bring the beloved object back, and the former to surround it with sweetest circumstances. They wrought34 with Mirza as with everybody else. The yearning35 they excited in him was a surprise; presently he determined36 to act on the Prince of India's suggestion, and betake himself to the eastern coast of Italy.
The story of the sack of a castle was of a kind to have wide circulation; at the same time this one was recent enough to be still in the memory of persons living. Finding the place of its occurrence was the difficulty. If in the vicinity of Brindisi--well, he would go and ask. The yearning spoken of did not come alone; it had for companion, Conscience, as yet in the background.
There were vessels37 bound for Venice. One was taking in water, after which it would sail for Otranto. It seemed a fleet craft, with a fair crew, and a complement39 of stout40 rowers. Otranto was south of Brindisi a little way, and the castle he wanted to hear of might have been situated41 between those cities. Who could tell? Besides, as an Italian nobleman, to answer inquiry42 in Constantinople, he would have to locate himself somewhere, and possibly the coast in question might accommodate him with both a location and a title. The result was he took passage to Otranto.
While there he kept his role of traveller, but was studious, and picked up a great fund of information bearing upon the part awaiting him. He lived and dressed well, and affected43 religious circles. It was the day when Italy was given over to the nobles--the day of robbers, fighting, intrigues44 and usurpations--of free lances and bold banditti--of government by the strong hand, of right determinable by might, of ensanguined Guelphs and Ghibellines. Of these the Emir kept clear.
By chance he fell in with an old man of secondary rank in the city much given to learning, an habitue of a library belonging to one of the monasteries45. It came out ere long that the venerable person was familiar with the coast from Otranto to Brindisi, and beyond far as Polignano.
"It was in my sturdier days," the veteran said, with a dismal46 glance at his shrunken hands. "The people along the shore were much harried47 by Moslem48 pirates. Landing from their galleys49, the depredators burned habitations, slew50 the men, and carried off such women as they thought would fetch a price. They even assaulted castles. At last we were driven to the employment of a defensive51 guard cooperative on land and water. I was a captain. Our fights with the rovers were frequent and fierce. Neither side showed quarter."
The reminiscence stimulated52 Mirza to inquiry. He asked the old man if he could mention a castle thus attacked.
"Yes, there was one belonging to Count Corti, a few leagues beyond Brindisi. The Count defended himself, but was slain53."
"Had he a family?"
"A wife and a boy child."
"What became of them?"
"By good chance the Countess was in Brindisi attending a fete; she escaped, of course. The boy, two or three years of age, was made prisoner, and never heard of afterwards."
A premonition seized Mirza.
"Is the Countess living?"
"Yes. She never entirely recovered from the shock, but built a house near the site of the castle, and clearing a room in the ruins, turned it into a chapel54. Every morning and evening she goes there, and prays for the soul of her husband, and the return of her lost boy."
"How long is it since the poor lady was so bereft55?"
The narrator reflected, and replied: "Twenty-two or three years."
"May the castle be found?"
"Yes."
"Have you been to it?"
"Many times."
"How was it named?"
"After the Count--Il Castillo di Corti."
"Tell me something of its site."
"It is down close by the sea. A stone wall separates its front enclosure from the beach. Sometimes the foam56 of the waves is dashed upon the wall. Through a covered gate one looks out, and all is water. Standing57 on the tower, all landward is orchard and orchard--olive and almond trees intermixed. A great estate it was and is. The Countess, it is understood, has a will executed; if the boy does not return before her death, the Church is to be her legatee."
There was more of the conversation, covering a history of the Corti family, honorable as it was old--the men famous warriors58, the women famous beauties.
Mirza dreamed through the night of the Countess, and awoke with a vague consciousness that the wife of the Pacha, the grace of whose care had been about him in childhood--a good woman, gentle and tender--was after all but a representative of the mother who had given him birth, just as on her part every mother is mercifully representative of God. Under strong feeling he took boat for Brindisi.
There he had no trouble in confirming the statements of his Otranto acquaintance. The Countess was still living, and the coast road northwardly59 would bring him to the ruins of her castle. The journey did not exceed five leagues.
What he might find at the castle, how long he would stay, what do, were so uncertain--indeed everything in the connection was so dependent upon conditions impossible of foresight60, that he resolved to set out on foot. To this course he was the more inclined by the mildness of the weather, and the reputation of the region for freshness and beauty.
About noon he was fairly on the road. Persons whom he met--and they were not all of the peasant class--seeing a traveller jaunty61 in plumed62 cap, light blue camail, pointed buskins, and close-fitting hose the color of the camail, sword at his side, and javelin63 in hand, stayed to observe him long as he was in sight, never dreaming they were permitted to behold64 a favorite of one of the bloody65 Mahounds of the East.
Over hill and down shallow vales: through stone-fenced lanes; now in the shade of old trees; now along a seashore partially66 overflowed67 by languid waves, he went, lighter68 in step than heart, for he was in the mood by no means uncommon69, when the spirit is prophesying70 evil unto itself. He was sensible of the feeling, and for shame would catch the javelin in the middle and whirl it about him defensively until it sung like a spinning-wheel; at times he stopped and, with his fingers in his mouth, whistled to a small bird as if it were a hunting hawk71 high in air.
Once, seeing a herd72 of goats around a house thatched and half-hidden in vines, he asked for milk. A woman brought it to him, with a slice of brown bread; and while he ate and drank, she stared at him in respectful admiration; and when he paid her in gold, she said, courtesying low: "A glad life to my Lord! I will pray the Madonna to make the wish good." Poor creature! She had no idea she was blessing73 one in whose faith the Prophet was nearer God than God's own Son.
At length the road made an abrupt74 turn to the right, bringing him to a long stretch of sandy beach. Nearly as he could judge, it was time for the castle to appear, and he was anxious to make it before sundown. Yet in the angle of the wood he saw a wayside box of stone sheltering an image of the Virgin75, with the Holy Child in its arms. Besides being sculptured better than usual, the figures were covered with flowers in wreath and bouquet76. A dressed slab77 in front of the structure, evidently for the accommodation of worshippers, invited him to rest, and he took the seat, and looking up at the mother, she appeared to be looking at him. He continued his gaze, and presently the face lost its stony78 appearance--stranger still, it smiled. It was illusion, of course, but he arose startled, and moved on with quickened step. The impression went with him. Why the smile? He did not believe in images: much less did he believe in the Virgin, except as she was the subject of a goodly story. And absorbed in the thought, he plodded79 on, leaving the sun to go down unnoticed.
Thereupon the shadows thickened in the woods at his left hand, while the sound of the incoming waves at his right increased as silence laid its velvet80 finger with a stronger compress on all other pulsations. Here and there a star peeped timidly through the purpling sky--now it was dusk--a little later, it would be night--and yet no castle!
He pushed on more vigorously; not that he was afraid--fear and the falcon of Mahommed had never made acquaintance--but he began to think of a bed in the woods, and worse yet, he wanted the fast-going daylight to help him decide if the castle when he came to it were indeed the castle of his fathers. He had believed all along, if he could see the pile once, his memory would revive and help him to recognition.
At last night fell, and there was darkness trebled on the land, and on the sea darkness, except where ghostly lines of light stretched themselves along the restless water. Should he go on?...
Then he heard a bell--one soft tone near by and silvery clear. He halted. Was it of the earth? A hush81 deeper of the sound--and he was wondering if another illusion were not upon him, when again the bell!
"Oh!" he muttered, "a trick of the monks82 in Otranto! Some soul is passing."
He pressed forward, guided by the tolling83. Suddenly the trees fell away, and the road brought him to a stone wall heavily coped. On further, a blackened mass arose in dim relief against the sky, with heavy merlons on its top.
"It is the embattled gate!" he exclaimed, to himself--"the embattled gate!--and here the beach!--and, O Allah! the waves there are making the reports they used to!"
The bell now tolled84 with awful distinctness, filling him with unwonted chills--tolled, as if to discourage his memory in its struggle to lift itself out of a lapse85 apparently86 intended to be final as the grave-- tolled solemnly, as if his were the soul being rung into the next life. A rush of forebodings threatened him with paralysis87 of will, and it was only by a strong exertion88 he overcame it, and brought himself back to the situation, and the question, What next?
Now Mirza was not a man to forego a purpose lightly. Emotional, but not superstitious89, he tried the sword, if it were loose in the scabbard, and then, advancing the point of his javelin, entered the darkened gallery of the gate. Just as he emerged from it on the inner side, the bell tolled.
"A Moslem doth not well," he thought, silently repeating a saying of the jadis, "to accept a Christian90 call to prayer; but," he answered in self-excuse, "I am not going to prayer--I am seeking"--he stopped, for very oddly, the face of the Virgin in the stone box back in the angle of the road presented itself to him, and still more oddly, he felt firmer of purpose seeing again the smile on the face. Then he finished the sentence aloud--"my mother who is a Christian."
There was a jar in the conclusion, and he went back to find it, and having found it, he was surprised. Up to that moment, he had not thought of his mother a Christian. How came the words in his mouth now? Who prompted them? And while he was hastily pondering the effect upon her of the discovery that he himself was an Islamite, the image in the box reoccurred to him, this time with the child in its arms; and thereupon the mystery seemed to clear itself at once. "Mother and mother!" he said. "What if my coming were the answer of one of them to the other's prayer?"
The idea affected him; his spirit softened91; the heat of tears sprang to his eyelids92; and the effort he made to rise above the unmanliness engaged him so he failed to see the other severer and more lasting93 struggle inevitable94 if the Countess were indeed the being to whom he owed the highest earthly obligations--the struggle between natural affection and honor, as the latter lay coiled up in the ties binding95 him to Mahommed.
The condition, be it remarked, is ours; for from that last appearance of the image by the wayside--from that instant, marking a new era in his life--often as the night and its incidents recurred96 to him, he had never a doubt of his relationship to the Countess. Indeed, not only was she thenceforward his mother, but all the ground within the gate was his by natal97 right, and the castle was the very castle from which he had been carried away, over the body of his heroic father--he was the Count Corti!
These observations will bring the reader to see more distinctly the Emir's state after passing the gate. Of the surroundings, he beheld98 nothing but shadows more or less dense99 and voluminous; the mournful murmuring of the wind told him they belonged to trees and shrubbery in clumps100. The road he was on, although blurred101, was serviceable as a guide, and he pursued it until brought to a building so masked by night the details were invisible. Following its upper line, relieved against the gray sky, he made out a broken front and one tower massively battlemented. A pavement split the road in two; crossing it, he came to an opening, choked with timbers and bars of iron; surmisably the front portal at present in disuse. He needed no explanation of its condition. Fire and battle were familiars of his.
The bell tolled on. The sound, so passing sweet elsewhere, seemed to issue from the yawning portal, leaving him to fancy the interior a lumber102 of floors, galleries, and roofs in charred103 tumble down.
Mirza turned away presently, and took the left branch of the road; since he could not get into the castle, he would go around it; and in doing so, he borrowed from the distance traversed a conception of its immensity, as well as of the importance the countship must have enjoyed in its palmy days.
At length he gained the rear of the great pile. The wood there was more open, and he was pleased with the sight of lights apparently gleaming through windows, from which he inferred a hamlet pitched on a broken site. Then he heard singing; and listening, never had human voices seemed to him so impressively solemn. Were they coming or going?
Ere long a number of candles, very tall, and screened from the wind by small lanterns of transparent104 paper, appeared on the summit of an ascent105; next moment the bearers of the candles were in view--boys bareheaded and white frocked. As they began to descend106 the height, a bevy107 of friars succeeded them, their round faces and tonsured108 crowns glistening109 in ruddy contrast with their black habits. A choir110 of four singers, three men and one woman, followed the monks. Then a linkman in half armor strode across the summit, lighting111 the way for a figure, also in black, which at once claimed Mirza's gaze.
As he stared at the figure, the account given him by the old captain in Otranto flashed upon his memory. The widow of the murdered count had cleared a room in the castle, and fitted it up as a chapel, and every morning and evening she went thither112 to pray for the soul of her husband and the return of her lost boy.
The words were alive with suggestions; but suggestions imply uncertainty113; wherefore they are not a reason for the absolute conviction with which the Emir now said to himself:
"It is she--the Countess--my mother!"
There must be in every heart a store of prevision of which we are not aware--occasions bring it out with such sudden and bewildering effect.
Everything--hymn, tolling bell, lights, boys, friars, procession--was accessory to that veiled, slow-marching figure. And in habiliment, movement, air, with what telling force it impersonated sorrow! On the other hand, how deep and consuming the sorrow itself must be!
She--he beheld only her--descended the height without looking up or around--a little stooped, yet tall and of dignified114 carriage--not old nor yet young--a noble woman worthy115 reverence116.
While he was making these comments, the procession reached the foot of the ascent; then the boys and friars came between, and hid her from his view.
"O Allah! and thou his Prophet!" he exclaimed. "Am I not to see her face? Is she not to know me?"
Curiously117 the question had not presented itself before; neither when he resolved to come, nor while on the way. To say truth, he had been all the while intent on the one partial object--to see her. He had not anticipated the awakening118 the sight might have upon his feelings.
"Am I not to discover myself to her? Is she never to know me?" he repeated.
The lights in the hands of the boys were beginning to gleam along a beaten road a short distance in front of the agitated119 Emir conducting to the castle. He divined at once that the Countess was coming to the chapel for the usual evening service, and that, by advancing to the side of the road, he could get a near view of her as she passed. He started forward impulsively120, but after a few steps stopped, trembling like a child imagining a ghost.
Now our conception of the man forbids us thinking him overcome by a trifle, whether of the air or in the flesh. A change so extreme must have been the work of a revelation of quick and powerful consequence--and it was, although the first mention may excite a smile. In the gleam of mental lightning--we venture on the term for want of another more descriptive--he had been reminded of the business which brought him to Italy.
Let us pause here, and see what the reminder121 means; if only because the debonair122 Mirza, with whom we have been well pleased, is now to become another person in name and character, commanding our sympathies as before, but for a very different reason.
This was what the lightning gave him to see, and not darkly: If he discovered himself to the Countess, he must expose his history from the night the rovers carried him away. True, the tale might be given generally, leaving its romance to thrill the motherly heart, and exalt123 him the more; for to whom are heroes always the greatest heroes? Unhappily steps in confession124 are like links in a chain, one leads to another.... Could he, a Christian born, tell her he was an apostate125? Or if he told her, would it not be one more grief to the many she was already breaking under--one, the most unendurable? And as to himself, how could he more certainly provoke a forfeiture126 of her love?... She would ask--if but to thank God for mercies--to what joyful127 accident his return was owing? And then? Alas128! with her kiss on his brow, could he stand silent? More grievous yet, could he deceive her? If nothing is so murderous of self-respect as falsehood, a new life begun with a lie needs no prophet to predict its end. No, he must answer the truth. This conviction was the ghost which set him trembling. An admission that he was a Moslem would wound her, yet the hope of his conversion129 would remain--nay, the labor130 in making the hope good might even renew her interest in life; but to tell her he was in Italy to assist in the overthrow131 of a Christian Emperor for the exaltation of an infidel--God help him! Was ever such a monster as he would then become in her eyes?... The consequences of that disclosure, moreover, were not to the Countess and himself merely. With a sweep of wing one's fancy is alone capable of, he was borne back to the White Castle, and beheld Mahommed. When before did a Prince, contemplating132 an achievement which was to ring the world, give trust with such absoluteness of faith? Poor Mirza! The sea rolled indefinitely wide between the White Castle and this one of his fathers; across it, nevertheless, he again heard the words: "As thou art to be my other self, be it royally. Kings never account to themselves." If they made betrayal horrible in thought, what would the fact be?...
Finally, last but not least of the reflections the lightning laid bare, the Emir had been bred a soldier, and he loved war for itself and for the glory it offered unlike every other glory. Was he to bid them both a long farewell?
Poor Mirza! A few paragraphs back allusion133 was made to a struggle before him between natural affection on one hand and honor on the other. Perhaps it was obscurely stated; if so, here it is amended134, and stripped of conditions. He has found his mother. She is coming down the road--there, behind the dancing lights, behind the friars, she is coming to pray for him. Should he fly her recognition or betray his confiding135 master? Room there may be to say the alternatives were a judgment136 upon him, but who will deny him pity? ... There is often a suffering, sometimes an agony, in indecision more wearing than disease, deadlier than sword-cuts.
The mournful pageant137 was now where its lights brought out parts of the face of the smoke-stained building. With a loud clang a door was thrown open, and a friar, in the black vestments usual in masses for the dead, came out to receive the Countess. The interior behind him was dully illuminated138. A few minutes more, and the opportunity to see her face would be lost. Still the Emir stood irresolute139. Judge the fierceness of the conflict in his breast!
At last he moved forward. The acolytes140, with their great candles of yellow wax, were going by as he gained the edge of the road. They looked at him wonderingly. The friars, in Dominican cassocks, stared at him also. Then the choir took its turn. The linkman at sight of him stopped an instant, then marched on. The Emir really beheld none of them; his eyes and thoughts were in waiting; and now--how his heart beat!--how wistfully he gazed!--the Countess was before him, not three yards away.
Her garments, as said, were all black. A thick veil enveloped141 her head; upon her breast her crossed hands shone ivory white. Two or three times the right hand, in signing the cross, uncovered a ring upon the left--the wedding ring probably. Her bearing was of a person not so old as persecuted142 by an engrossing143 anguish144. She did not once raise her face.
The Emir's heart was full of prayer.
"O Allah! It is my mother! If I may not speak to her, or kiss her feet-- if I may not call her mother--if I may not say, mother, mother, behold, I am thy son come back--still, as thou art the Most Merciful! let me see her face, and suffer her to see mine--once, O Allah! once, if nevermore!"
But the face remained covered--and so she passed, but in passing she prayed. Though the voice was low, lie heard these words: "Oh, sweet Mother! By the Blessed Son of thy love and passion, remember mine, I beseech145 thee. Be with him, and bring him to me quickly. Miserable146 woman that I am!"
The world, and she with it, swam in the tears he no longer tried to stay. Stretching his arms toward her, he fell upon his knees, then upon his face; and that the face was in the dust, he never minded. When he looked up, she was gone on, the last of the procession. And he knew she had not seen him.
He followed after. Everybody stood aside to let her enter the door first. The friar received her; she went in, and directly the linkman stood alone outside.
"Stay!" said the linkman, peremptorily147. "Who art thou?"
Thus rudely challenged, the Emir awoke from his daze--awoke with all his faculties148 clear.
"A gentleman of Otranto," he replied.
"What is thy pleasure?"
"Admit me to the chapel."
"Thou art a stranger, and the service is private. Or hast thou been invited?"
"No."
"Thou canst not enter."
Again the world dropped into darkness before Mirza; but this time it was from anger. The linkman never suspected his peril149. Fortunately for him, the voice of the female chorister issued from the doorway150 in tremulous melody. Mirza listened, and became tranquillized. The voice sank next into a sweet unearthly pleading, and completely subdued151, he began arguing with himself.... She had not seen him while he was in the dust at her side, and now this repulse152 at the door--how were they to be taken except as expressions of the will of Heaven?... There was plenty of time--better go away, and return--perhaps to-morrow. He was not prepared to prove his identity, if it were questioned.... There would be a scene, and he shrank from it.... Yes, better retire now.... And he turned to go. Not six steps away, the Countess reappeared to his excited mind, exactly as she had passed praying for him--reappeared--
... "like the painting of a sorrow."
A revulsion of feeling seized him--he halted. Oh, the years she had mourned for him! Her love was deep as the sea! Tears again--and without thought of what he did--all aimlessly--he returned to the door.
"This castle was sacked and burned by pirates, was it not?" he asked the linkman.
"Yes."
"They slew the Count Corti?"
"Yes."
"And carried off his son?"
"Yes."
"Had he other children?"
"No."
"What was the name of the boy?"
"Ugo."
"Well--in thy ear now--thou didst not well in shutting me out--I am that Ugo."
Thereupon the Emir walked resolutely153 away.
A cry, shrill154 and broken, overtook him, issuing apparently from the door of the chapel--a second time he heard it, more a moan than a shriek--and thinking the linkman had given the alarm, he quickened his pace to a run, and was soon out on the beach.
The breath of the sea was pleasant and assuring, and falling into a walk, he turned his face toward Brindisi. But the cry pursued him. He imagined the scene in the chapel--the distress155 of the Countess--the breaking up of the service--the hurry of question--a consultation156, and possibly search for him. Every person in the procession but the Countess had seen him; so the only open point in the affair was the one of directest interest to her: Was it her son?
Undoubtedly157 the suffering lady would not rest until investigation158 was exhausted159. Failing to find the stranger about the castle, horsemen might be sent out on the road. There is terrible energy in mother-love. These reflections stimulated the Emir to haste. Sometimes he even ran; only at the shrine160 of the Virgin and Child in the angle of the road did he halt. There he cast himself upon the friendly slab to recover breath.
All this of course indicated a preference for Mahommed. And now he came to a decision. He would proceed with the duty assigned him by the young master; then, at the end, he would come back, and assert himself in his native land.
He sat on the slab an hour or more. At intervals161 the outcry, which he doubted not was his mother's, rang in his ears, and every time he heard it, conscience attacked him with its whip of countless162 stings. Why subject her to more misery163? For what other outcome could there be to the ceaseless contention164 of fears and hopes now hers? Oh, if she had only seen him when he was so near her in the road! That she did not, was the will of Allah, and the fatalistic Mohammedan teaching brought him a measure of comfort. In further sooth, he had found a location and a title. Thenceforward, and not fictitiously165, he was the Count Corti; and so entitling himself, he determined to make Brindisi, and take ship for Genoa or Venice in the morning before a messenger could arrive from the castle.
As he arose from the slab, a bird in housel for the night flew out of the box. Its small cheep reminded him of the smile he had fancied on the face of the Madonna, and how, a little later, the smile had, with such timely suggestion of approval, woven itself into his thought of the Countess. He looked up at the face again; but the night was over it like a veil, and he went nearer, and laid his hand softly on the Child. That which followed was not a miracle; only a consequence of the wisdom which permits the enshrinement of a saintly woman and Holy Child as witnesses of the Divine Goodness to humanity. He raised himself higher in the box, and pushing aside a heap of faded floral offerings, kissed the foot of the taller image, saying: "Thus would I have done to my mother." And when he had climbed down, and was in the road, it seemed some one answered him: "Go thy way! God and Allah are the same." We may now urge the narrative166. From Brindisi the Emir sailed to Venice. Two weeks in "the glorious city in the sea" informed him of it thoroughly167. While there, he found, on the "ways" of an Adriatic builder, the galley in which we have seen him at anchor in the Golden Horn. Leaving an order for the employment of a sailing-master and crew when the vessel38 was complete, he departed next for Rome. At Padua he procured168 the harness of a man-at-arms of the period, and recruited a company of condottieri-- mercenary soldiers of every nationality. With all his sacerdotal authority, Nicholas V., the Holy Father, was sorely tried in keeping his States. The freebooters who unctuously169 kissed his hand to-day, did not scruple170, if opportunity favored, to plunder171 one of his towns tomorrow. It befell that Count Corti--so the Emir styled himself--found a Papal castle beleaguered172 by marauders, whom he dispersed173, slaying174 their chief with his own hand. Nicholas, in public audience, asked him to name the reward he preferred.
"Knighthood at thy hands, first of all things," was the reply.
The Holy Father took a sword from one of his officers, and gave him the accolade176.
"What next, my son?"
"I am tired fighting men who ought to be Christians177. Give me, I pray, thy commission to make war upon the Barbary pirates who infest178 the seas."
This was granted him.
"What next?"
"Nothing, Holy Father, but thy blessing, and a certificate in good form, and under seal, of these favors thou hast done me."
The certificate and the blessing were also granted.
The Count then dismissed his lances, and, hastening to Naples, embarked179 for Venice. There he supplied himself with suits of the finest Milanese armor he could obtain, and a wardrobe consisting of costumes such as were in vogue180 with the gay gallants along the Grand Canal. Crossing to Tripoli, he boarded a Moorish181 merchantman, and made prisoners of the crew and rowers. The prize he gave to his Christian sailors, and sent them home. Summoning his prisoners on deck, he addressed them in Arabic, offering them high pay if they would serve him, and they gratefully accepted his terms.
The Count then directed his prow182 to what is now Aleppo, with the purpose of procuring183 Arab horses; and having purchased five of the purest blood, he made sail for Constantinople.
We shall now, for a time, permit the title Emir to lapse. The knight175 we have seen on the deck of the new arrival in the Golden Horn viewing with melancholy184 interest the cities on either side of the fairest harbor on earth, is in easy English speech, Count Corti, the Italian.
Thus far the Count had been successful in his extraordinary mission, yet he was not happy. He had made three discoveries during his journey--his mother, his country, his religion. Ordinarily these relations--if we may so call them--furnish men their greatest sum of contentment; sadly for him, however, he had made a fourth finding, of itself sufficient to dash all the others--in briefest term, he was not in condition to acknowledge either of them. Unable to still the cry heard while retiring from his father's ruined castle, he surrendered himself more and more to the wisdom brought away from the box of the Madonna and Child in the angle of the road to Brindisi--God and Allah are the same. Conscience and a growing sense of misappropriated life were making Count Corti a very different person from the light-hearted Emir of Mahommed.
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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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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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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30
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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31
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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32
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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33
culling
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| n.选择，大批物品中剔出劣质货v.挑选，剔除( cull的现在分词 ) | |
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34
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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35
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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36
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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38
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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39
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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41
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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44
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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45
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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46
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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47
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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50
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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51
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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52
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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53
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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54
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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55
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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56
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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57
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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58
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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59
northwardly
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| 向北方的，来自北方的 | |
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60
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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61
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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63
javelin
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| n.标枪，投枪 | |
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64
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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65
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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66
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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67
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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68
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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69
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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70
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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71
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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72
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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73
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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77
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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80
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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81
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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83
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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85
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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101
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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102
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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103
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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104
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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105
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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107
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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108
tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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110
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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111
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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112
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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113
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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114
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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116
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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117
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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118
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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119
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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120
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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121
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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122
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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123
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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124
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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125
apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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126
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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127
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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128
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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129
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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130
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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131
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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132
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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133
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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134
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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136
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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137
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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138
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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139
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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140
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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141
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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143
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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144
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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145
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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146
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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147
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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148
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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149
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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150
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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151
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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152
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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153
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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154
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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155
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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156
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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157
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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158
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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159
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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160
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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161
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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162
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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163
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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164
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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165
fictitiously
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| adv.虚构地；假地 | |
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166
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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167
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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168
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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169
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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170
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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171
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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172
beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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173
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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174
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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175
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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176
accolade
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| n.推崇备至，赞扬 | |
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177
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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178
infest
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| v.大批出没于；侵扰；寄生于 | |
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179
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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180
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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181
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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182
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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183
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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184
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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