The Last Man
that from the tumuli you saw the waving line of mountains on the
wide-stretched horizon; yet the intervening space was unvaried by the
least irregularity, save such undulations as resembled the waves of the
sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had been so long a scene of
contest, that it had remained uncultivated, and presented a dreary,
barren appearance. The order I had received, was to make an observation
of the direction which a detachment of the enemy might have taken, from
a northern tumulus; the whole Turkish army, followed by the Greek, had
poured eastward; none but the dead remained in the direction of my
side. From the top of the mound, I looked far round—all was silent and
deserted.
The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from behind the far
summit of Mount Athos; the sea of Marmora still glittered beneath its
rays, while the Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in a haze of low
cloud. Many a casque, and bayonet, and sword, fallen from unnerved
arms, reflected the departing ray; they lay scattered far and near.
From the east, a band of ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish
cemeteries, came sailing along towards their harvest; the sun
disappeared. This hour, melancholy yet sweet, has always seemed to me
the time when we are most naturally led to commune with higher powers;
our mortal sternness departs, and gentle complacency invests the soul.
But now, in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could a thought of
heaven or a sensation of tranquillity possess one of the murderers?
During the busy day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the
state of things presented to it by its fellow-beings; historical
association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm had held
dominion over me. Now, I looked on the evening star, as softly and
calmly it hung pendulous in the orange hues of sunset. I turned to the
corse-strewn earth; and felt ashamed of my species. So perhaps were the
placid skies; for they quickly veiled themselves in mist, and in this
change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south;
heavy masses of cloud floated up from the south east, and red and
turbid lightning shot from their dark edges; the rushing wind disturbed
the garments of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy
forms. Darkness gathered round; the objects about me became indistinct,
I descended from my station, and with difficulty guided my horse, so as
to avoid the slain.
Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek; a form seemed to rise from the
earth; it flew swiftly towards me, sinking to the ground again as it
drew near. All this passed so suddenly, that I with difficulty reined
in my horse, so that it should not trample on the prostrate being. The
dress of this person was that of a soldier, but the bared neck and
arms, and the continued shrieks discovered a female thus disguised. I
dismounted to her aid, while she, with heavy groans, and her hand
placed on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the hurry of
the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and in my native accents
endeavoured to soothe the sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations
did the lost, dying Evadne (for it was she) recognize the language of
her lover; pain and fever from her wound had deranged her intellects,
while her piteous cries and feeble efforts to escape, penetrated me
with compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the name of Raymond;
she exclaimed that I was keeping him from her, while the Turks with
fearful instruments of torture were about to take his life. Then again
she sadly lamented her hard fate; that a woman, with a woman’s heart
and sensibility, should be driven by hopeless love and vacant hopes to
take up the trade of arms, and suffer beyond the endurance of man
privation, labour, and pain—the while her dry, hot hand pressed mine,
and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire.
As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the ground; her emaciated
form hung over my arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast; in a
sepulchral voice she murmured:—“This is the end of love!—Yet not the
end!”— and frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up to heaven:
“there is the end! there we meet again. Many living deaths have I borne
for thee, O Raymond, and now I expire, thy victim!—By my death I
purchase thee— lo! the instruments of war, fire, the plague are my
servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now! I have sold myself
to death, with the sole condition that thou shouldst follow me—Fire,
and war, and plague, unite for thy destruction—O my Raymond, there is
no safety for thee!”
With an heavy heart I listened to the changes of her delirium; I made
her a bed of cloaks; her violence decreased and a clammy dew stood on
her brow as the paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever, I
placed her on the cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy meeting
with her beloved in the grave, of his death nigh at hand; sometimes she
solemnly declared that he was summoned; sometimes she bewailed his hard
destiny. Her voice grew feebler, her speech interrupted; a few
convulsive movements, and her muscles relaxed, the limbs fell, no more
to be sustained, one deep sigh, and life was gone.
I bore her from the near neighbourhood of the dead; wrapt in cloaks, I
placed her beneath a tree. Once more I looked on her altered face; the
last time I saw her she was eighteen; beautiful as poet’s vision,
splendid as a Sultana of the East—Twelve years had past; twelve years
of change, sorrow and hardship; her brilliant complexion had become
worn and dark, her limbs had lost the roundness of youth and womanhood;
her eyes had sunk deep,
Crushed and o’erworn,
The hours had drained her blood, and filled her brow
With lines and wrinkles.
With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human passion and
human misery; I heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutrements I
could find, to guard her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could
bestow on her a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my course
from among the heaps of slain, and, guided by the twinkling lights of
the town, at length reached Rodosto.
[1] Lord Byron’s Fourth Canto of Childe Harolde.
[2] Shakspeare’s Sonnets.
CHAPTER II.
On my arrival, I found that an order had already gone forth for the
army to proceed immediately towards Constantinople; and the troops
which had suffered least in the battle were already on their way. The
town was full of tumult. The wound, and consequent inability of
Argyropylo, caused Raymond to be the first in command. He rode through
the town, visiting the wounded, and giving such orders as were
necessary for the siege he meditated. Early in the morning the whole
army was in motion. In the hurry I could hardly find an opportunity to
bestow the last offices on Evadne. Attended only by my servant, I dug a
deep grave for her at the foot of the tree, and without disturbing her
warrior shroud, I placed her in it, heaping stones upon the grave. The
dazzling sun and glare of daylight, deprived the scene of solemnity;
from Evadne’s low tomb, I joined Raymond and his staff, now on their
way to the Golden City.
Constantinople was invested, trenches dug, and advances made. The whole
Greek fleet blockaded it by sea; on land from the river Kyat Kbanah,
near the Sweet Waters, to the Tower of Marmora, on the shores of the
Propontis, along the whole line of the ancient walls, the trenches of
the siege were drawn. We already possessed Pera; the Golden Horn
itself, the city, bastioned by the sea, and the ivy-mantled walls of
the Greek emperors was all of Europe that the Mahometans could call
theirs. Our army looked on her as certain prey. They counted the
garrison; it was impossible that it should be relieved; each sally was
a victory; for, even when the Turks were triumphant, the loss of men
they sustained was an irreparable injury. I rode one morning with
Raymond to the lofty mound, not far from the Top Kapou, (Cannon-gate),
on which Mahmoud planted his standard, and first saw the city. Still
the same lofty domes and minarets towered above the verdurous walls,
where Constantine had died, and the Turk had entered the city. The
plain around was interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and
Armenian, with their growth of cypress trees; and other woods of more
cheerful aspect, diversified the scene. Among them the Greek army was
encamped, and their squadrons moved to and fro—now in regular march,
now in swift career.
Raymond’s eyes were fixed on the city. “I have counted the hours of her
life,” said he; “one month, and she falls. Remain with me till then;
wait till you see the cross on St. Sophia; and then return to your
peaceful glades.”
“You then,” I asked, “still remain in Greece?”
“Assuredly,” replied Raymond. “Yet Lionel, when I say this, believe me
I look back with regret to our tranquil life at Windsor. I am but half
a soldier; I love the renown, but not the trade of war. Before the
battle of Rodosto I was full of hope and spirit; to conquer there, and
afterwards to take Constantinople, was the hope, the bourne, the
fulfilment of my ambition. This enthusiasm is now spent, I know not
why; I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulph; the ardent
spirit of the army is irksome to me, the rapture of triumph null.”
He paused, and was lost in thought. His serious mien recalled, by some
association, the half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized this
opportunity to make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I
asked him, if he had ever seen among the troops any one resembling her;
if since he had returned to Greece he had heard of her?
He started at her name,—he looked uneasily on me. “Even so,” he cried,
“I knew you would speak of her. Long, long I had forgotten her. Since
our encampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am
addressed, her name is the sound I expect: in every communication, I
imagine that she will form a part. At length you have broken the spell;
tell me what you know of her.”
I related my meeting with her; the story of her death was told and
re-told. With painful earnestness he questioned me concerning her
prophecies with regard to him. I treated them as the ravings of a
maniac. “No, no,” he said, “do not deceive yourself,—me you cannot. She
has said nothing but what I knew before—though this is confirmation.
Fire, the sword, and plague! They may all be found in yonder city; on
my head alone may they fall!”
From this day Raymond’s melancholy increased. He secluded himself as
much as the duties of his station permitted. When in company, sadness
would in spite of every effort steal over his features, and he sat
absent and mute among the busy crowd that thronged about him. Perdita
rejoined him, and before her he forced himself to appear cheerful, for
she, even as a mirror, changed as he changed, and if he were silent and
anxious, she solicitously inquired concerning, and endeavoured to
remove the cause of his seriousness. She resided at the palace of Sweet
Waters, a summer seraglio of the Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding
scenery, undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made this
spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief, received no pleasure
from any show of heaven or earth. He often left Perdita, to wander in
the grounds alone; or in a light shallop he floated idly on the pure
waters, musing deeply. Sometimes I joined him; at such times his
countenance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He seemed relieved
on seeing me, and would talk with some degree of interest on the
affairs of the day. There was evidently something behind all this; yet,
when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest his heart, he
would abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour to deliver the