The Last Man
return by to-morrow noon.”
Methought this was but a poor expedient; but I assured him of my
obedience and zeal. I quitted him to take a few hours rest. With the
breaking of morning I was accoutred for my ride. I lingered awhile,
desirous of taking leave of Perdita, and from my window observed the
approach of the sun. The golden splendour arose, and weary nature awoke
to suffer yet another day of heat and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted
up their dew-laden cups to meet the dawn; the dry grass had withered on
the plains; the burning fields of air were vacant of birds; the cicale
alone, children of the sun, began their shrill and deafening song among
the cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond’s coal-black charger brought to
the palace gate; a small company of officers arrived soon after; care
and fear was painted on each cheek, and in each eye, unrefreshed by
sleep. I found Raymond and Perdita together. He was watching the rising
sun, while with one arm he encircled his beloved’s waist; she looked on
him, the sun of her life, with earnest gaze of mingled anxiety and
tenderness. Raymond started angrily when he saw me. “Here still?” he
cried. “Is this your promised zeal?”
“Pardon me,” I said, “but even as you speak, I am gone.”
“Nay, pardon me,” he replied; “I have no right to command or reproach;
but my life hangs on your departure and speedy return. Farewell!”
His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark cloud still hung on
his features. I would have delayed; I wished to recommend watchfulness
to Perdita, but his presence restrained me. I had no pretence for my
hesitation; and on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his
outstretched hand; it was cold and clammy. “Take care of yourself, my
dear Lord,” I said.
“Nay,” said Perdita, “that task shall be mine. Return speedily,
Lionel.” With an air of absence he was playing with her auburn locks,
while she leaned on him; twice I turned back, only to look again on
this matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy steps, I had paced
out of the hall, and sprung upon my horse. At that moment Clara flew
towards me; clasping my knee she cried, “Make haste back, uncle! Dear
uncle, I have such fearful dreams; I dare not tell my mother. Do not be
long away!” I assured her of my impatience to return, and then, with a
small escort rode along the plain towards the tower of Marmora.
I fulfilled my commission; I saw Karazza. He was somewhat surprised; he
would see, he said, what could be done; but it required time; and
Raymond had ordered me to return by noon. It was impossible to effect
any thing in so short a time. I must stay till the next day; or come
back, after having reported the present state of things to the general.
My choice was easily made. A restlessness, a fear of what was about to
betide, a doubt as to Raymond’s purposes, urged me to return without
delay to his quarters. Quitting the Seven Towers, I rode eastward
towards the Sweet Waters. I took a circuitous path, principally for the
sake of going to the top of the mount before mentioned, which commanded
a view of the city. I had my glass with me. The city basked under the
noon-day sun, and the venerable walls formed its picturesque boundary.
Immediately before me was the Top Kapou, the gate near which Mahomet
had made the breach by which he entered the city. Trees gigantic and
aged grew near; before the gate I discerned a crowd of moving human
figures—with intense curiosity I lifted my glass to my eye. I saw Lord
Raymond on his charger; a small company of officers had gathered about
him; and behind was a promiscuous concourse of soldiers and subalterns,
their discipline lost, their arms thrown aside; no music sounded, no
banners streamed. The only flag among them was one which Raymond
carried; he pointed with it to the gate of the city. The circle round
him fell back. With angry gestures he leapt from his horse, and seizing
a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went with the apparent
intention of battering down the opposing gate. A few men came to aid
him; their numbers increased; under their united blows the obstacle was
vanquished, gate, portcullis, and fence were demolished; and the wide
sun-lit way, leading to the heart of the city, now lay open before
them. The men shrank back; they seemed afraid of what they had already
done, and stood as if they expected some Mighty Phantom to stalk in
offended majesty from the opening. Raymond sprung lightly on his horse,
grasped the standard, and with words which I could not hear (but his
gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were marked by passionate
energy,) he seemed to adjure their assistance and companionship; even
as he spoke, the crowd receded from him. Indignation now transported
him; his words I guessed were fraught with disdain—then turning from
his coward followers, he addressed himself to enter the city alone. His
very horse seemed to back from the fatal entrance; his dog, his
faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in his path—in a moment
more, he had plunged the rowels into the sides of the stung animal, who
bounded forward, and he, the gateway passed, was galloping up the broad
and desart street.
Until this moment my soul had been in my eyes only. I had gazed with
wonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling now
predominated. I forgot the distance between us: “I will go with thee,
Raymond!” I cried; but, my eye removed from the glass, I could scarce
discern the pigmy forms of the crowd, which about a mile from me
surrounded the gate; the form of Raymond was lost. Stung with
impatience, I urged my horse with force of spur and loosened reins down
the acclivity, that, before danger could arrive, I might be at the side
of my noble, godlike friend. A number of buildings and trees
intervened, when I had reached the plain, hiding the city from my view.
But at that moment a crash was heard. Thunderlike it reverberated
through the sky, while the air was darkened. A moment more and the old
walls again met my sight, while over them hovered a murky cloud;
fragments of buildings whirled above, half seen in smoke, while flames
burst out beneath, and continued explosions filled the air with
terrific thunders. Flying from the mass of falling ruin which leapt
over the high walls, and shook the ivy towers, a crowd of soldiers made
for the road by which I came; I was surrounded, hemmed in by them,
unable to get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost; I stretched
out my hands to the men; I conjured them to turn back and save their
General, the conqueror of Stamboul, the liberator of Greece; tears, aye
tears, in warm flow gushed from my eyes—I would not believe in his
destruction; yet every mass that darkened the air seemed to bear with
it a portion of the martyred Raymond. Horrible sights were shaped to me
in the turbid cloud that hovered over the city; and my only relief was
derived from the struggles I made to approach the gate. Yet when I
effected my purpose, all I could discern within the precincts of the
massive walls was a city of fire: the open way through which Raymond
had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame. After an interval the
explosions ceased, but the flames still shot up from various quarters;
the dome of St. Sophia had disappeared. Strange to say (the result
perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the blowing up of the
city) huge, white thunder clouds lifted themselves up from the southern
horizon, and gathered over-head; they were the first blots on the blue
expanse that I had seen for months, and amidst this havoc and despair
they inspired pleasure. The vault above became obscured, lightning
flashed from the heavy masses, followed instantaneously by crashing
thunder; then the big rain fell. The flames of the city bent beneath
it; and the smoke and dust arising from the ruins was dissipated.
I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than, hurried on by an
irresistible impulse, I endeavoured to penetrate the town. I could only
do this on foot, as the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I
had never entered the city before, and its ways were unknown to me. The
streets were blocked up, the ruins smoking; I climbed up one heap, only
to view others in succession; and nothing told me where the centre of
the town might be, or towards what point Raymond might have directed
his course. The rain ceased; the clouds sunk behind the horizon; it was
now evening, and the sun descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled
on, until I came to a street, whose wooden houses, half-burnt, had been
cooled by the rain, and were fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up
this I hurried—until now I had not seen a vestige of man. Yet none of
the defaced human forms which I distinguished, could be Raymond; so I
turned my eyes away, while my heart sickened within me. I came to an
open space—a mountain of ruin in the midst, announced that some large
mosque had occupied the space—and here, scattered about, I saw various
articles of luxury and wealth, singed, destroyed—but shewing what they
had been in their ruin—jewels, strings of pearls, embroidered robes,
rich furs, glittering tapestries, and oriental ornaments, seemed to
have been collected here in a pile destined for destruction; but the
rain had stopped the havoc midway.
Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond.
Insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed themselves; the still burning
fires scorched me. The sun set; the atmosphere grew dim—and the evening
star no longer shone companionless. The glare of flames attested the
progress of destruction, while, during mingled light and obscurity, the
piles around me took gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a
moment I could yield to the creative power of the imagination, and for
a moment was soothed by the sublime fictions it presented to me. The
beatings of my human heart drew me back to blank reality. Where, in
this wilderness of death, art thou, O Raymond—ornament of England,
deliverer of Greece, “hero of unwritten story,” where in this burning
chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I called aloud for him—through the
darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of fallen Constantinople,
his name was heard; no voice replied—echo even was mute.
I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my spirits. The
sultry air impregnated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning
palaces, palsied my limbs. Hunger suddenly came acutely upon me. The
excitement which had hitherto sustained me was lost; as a building,
whose props are loosened, and whose foundations rock, totters and
falls, so when enthusiasm and hope deserted me, did my strength fail. I
sat on the sole remaining step of an edifice, which even in its
downfall, was huge and magnificent; a few broken walls, not dislodged
by gunpowder, stood in fantastic groupes, and a flame glimmered at
intervals on the summit of the pile. For a time hunger and sleep
contended, till the constellations reeled before my eyes and then were
lost. I strove to rise, but my heavy lids closed, my limbs
over-wearied, claimed repose—I rested my head on the stone, I yielded
to the grateful sensation of utter forgetfulness; and in that scene of
desolation, on that night of despair—I slept.
[3] Calderon de la Barca.
CHAPTER III.
The stars still shone brightly when I awoke, and Taurus high in the
southern heaven shewed that it was midnight. I awoke from disturbed
dreams. Methought I had been invited to Timon’s last feast; I came with
keen appetite, the covers were removed, the hot water sent up its
unsatisfying steams, while I fled before the anger of the host, who
assumed the form of Raymond; while to my diseased fancy, the vessels
hurled by him after me, were surcharged with fetid vapour, and my