CHAPTER XII.

The merchant proceeded to relate the story which he had promised, and which we shall call

THE RIVAL MESSENGERS.

In the days of the famous Genghis Khan, there was one of his princes who ruled over a province at a great distance from the seat of government; and he had, at a certain time, occasion to send a messenger to the king, who was then there. The purpose of the message was to communicate some gratifying intelligence, in relation to the conquest of a province of Persia; and the prince knew that whoever should be the bearer of the pleasant tidings, was sure to receive some distinguished mark of royal favor.

In order to provide against the chance of miscarriage, it seemed necessary to despatch two messengers, and by different routes--one of them leading through a pleasant and peaceful country, the other passing over mountainous regions, inhabited by hostile and warlike tribes.

It was a desirable, though a dangerous mission, and many of the young men of the court and the army, hoped the choice might fall on them. It was, at last, decided that the only son of the prince should be one of the messengers, and that he should take the safer and easier route; and that a young officer, the son of a peasant, should be the other, and proceed by way of the mountains. They were soon ready and departed upon their expedition, each being provided with a swift courser, and attended by four well-mounted men, skilled in all the arts of war and horsemanship.

Phalax, the son of the prince, had taken leave of his friends with a haughty confidence of reaching the seat of government before his rival. He not only had an easier and safer route, but he was, in fact, better mounted; his horse was of the famous hollow-backed breed, of King Solomon, and far-famed for his fleetness and endurance. His companions, too, were of the proudest chivalry of Mongolia, all of noble blood, and were in the full flush of youthful manhood. Nothing could exceed the splendor of their equipages, the impatience of their chargers, and the gallant bearing of their riders.

Abdael, the other messenger, was well mounted upon a horse of a celebrated Tartar stock--but the animal was of a humbler line, and of less imposing qualities than the horse of Phalax. His attendants, too, were common soldiers, though of tried valor and long experience.

As the two parties set forth from the palace of the prince, there was a shout among the populace--some calling out, “Phalax! Phalax!” and others, though very few, “Abdael! Abdael!” The superior beauty and splendor of the prince’s party dazzled and pleased the eyes of the unthinking rabble, who are apt to look only at the outside of things; beside, they had been taught to look upon those of noble blood with respect; and, more than all, mankind are apt to be on the side which seems to be that of power, and likely to obtain success. It was for these reasons that the greatest portion of the spectators, cheered Phalax, while only a few, who reflected more justly, encouraged Abdael, the more humble and modest of the rival messengers.

As Phalax was about to depart, his princely father beckoned him to his side, and whispered in his ear a single word--“Success and glory, my son! may the Father of light bless thee!”--It was almost at the same moment, that an old man stood at the side of Abdael. He was evidently poor, for his garments betokened it--but he was still of a respectable mien. “Give me thine ear, Abdael,” said he. The young man bent in his saddle. “The chances are against thee, my boy, for the prince has, in his heart, designed thy ruin, and his son’s triumph; yet there is one thing thou canst do.” “What is it, my father?” said Abdael. “Thy duty”--was the reply. “It shall be done!” said the young man; and he rode away.

Thus the messengers set forth, guided by different counsels, and influenced by different motives. Phalax was impelled by the thought of glory and triumph; Abdael, by a sense of duty. The issue of the story will show that the first is a wavering principle, beaming brightly for a time, like a full lamp, but soon exhausted, and finally going out at the moment of utmost need; while the other is like a heaven-set star, ever in the same place, and ever leading its votary on in the straight and narrow path of wisdom and safety.

Phalax and his companions dashed on with great ardor, taking the road that led through a series of beautiful valleys. The first day, they travelled with the utmost rapidity and diligence, and at evening found themselves far advanced in their journey; but, on the morrow, they were all stiff and sore; and the horses were not a little jaded. The next day, they went but a short distance, and stopped for the night at a little village. Near by, was the palace of a prince, who, hearing of their arrival, invited them to come and see him. Now, the young men knew that this prince was a great hypocrite, and that, under the guise of friendship to the Khan, he nourished the most deadly hostility. Prudence would have dictated a polite refusal of the invitation, but they were anxious to enjoy the luxuries of the palace: so they said, “This act of the prince is too gracious a piece of courtesy to be slighted;” and, therefore, they went to the palace. Here they were entertained with great splendor. A rich banquet was provided, with music and wine, and dancing, and other festivities.

The young men entered heartily into the pleasures of the scene. Phalax drank deeply--and when he was about to put another goblet to his lips, one of his more discreet companions said, in a whisper, “Beware! remember your message--remember your father’s counsel--‘glory and success.’”

“You are a fool,” said Phalax, already partially intoxicated; “I’m not so much a dastard as to take a dastard’s advice;” and saying this, he drank off the goblet, and, in a short time, fell stupified beneath the table.

While this was the state of the leader of the party, the rest were little better. They drank deeply, and, passing into the gardens, where were walks, and fountains, and flowers, and everything to delight the senses, they spent the remainder of the night in dissipation.

It was not till late the third day after the scene we have described, that Phalax and his friends awoke from the deep sleep into which they fell, after their dissipation; for the wine they had drunk, had an infusion in it of a sleepy drug. This had been contrived by the command of the deceitful prince, who, under pretence of hospitality, took this method of thwarting the purpose of the messengers.

Thus Phalax and his party lost two entire days, yet they did not know it. When they recovered, they had their horses saddled, and set out again on their journey. But they were all weary, enfeebled, and out of humor. For some time, they rode on in silence. They then began to grumble at one thing and another. At last, the young man who had been insulted by Phalax at the table, spoke to him on the subject. The latter denied the truth of the charge, and insinuated that he never said what was imputed to him. The youth retorted: “Do you call me a liar?” said he. “I do,” said Phalax, fiercely. “You are a coward,” said the youth. “Let us prove it,” said Phalax, in a rage.

It was in vain that the other members of the party interfered to stop the quarrel. Phalax rode apart--brandished his spear, and challenged the offended youth to mortal combat. Quick as lightning, the latter rode forth, and whirling his weapon over his head, prepared for the attack.

The two were at the distance of a hundred yards, when, putting spurs to their steeds, they flew at each other, each with his spear in an attitude of deadly hostility. The horses met, and both riders were thrown to the earth. The spear of Phalax passed through the body of his antagonist--and the young man lay dying on the ground. Phalax was stunned, but otherwise unhurt. He soon arose, and went to the side of his dying companion: “Forgive me,” said he, “Oh, forgive me. I was drunk and scarcely knew what I said. I remember to have spoken improperly to you. Arise, my dear friend, and tell me you forgive me.” “It is in vain,” said the youth. “I forgive you, but I die.” Saying this, he breathed his last.

Phalax, being of royal blood, had been brought up to think that all mankind were made for princes, and might be used as their passions or pleasures should dictate. He did not feel, therefore, as if he had committed a great crime, or slain one who had the same rights with himself; he had only taken the life of an inferior. He, however, mourned for his friend, and felt much ashamed of his impetuosity and want of self-government. He said little, but determined to be more prudent in future. With this resolve he proceeded on his journey.

We cannot trace all the adventures of Phalax and his party. It is sufficient to say, that they were so confident of reaching the capital before their rivals, that they did not deem it necessary to be either prudent or industrious. They knew that the route of Abdael, was not only more difficult and dangerous, but more circuitous--and, besides all this--they believed that, even if their rival should deliver the message first, the Khan would bestow the honor upon Phalax, and his party, in consideration of their rank. And, finally, if even this should fail, and if, as they said among themselves, “the king should have such bad taste as to prefer a plebeian to a prince--why, at least we have noble blood in our veins; and that is an advantage we shall ever enjoy--Abdael cannot be a prince or a nobleman.”

Thus offering apologies for their negligence, and fortifying themselves in their folly, the party proceeded, forgetting the great object of their expedition in the indulgence of the various passions which tempted them by the way. It was the _love of glory_ that had been presented to the imagination of Phalax, as the motive to action. This was a selfish passion, and gave way the moment another passion, a little stronger, took possession of the breast. The desire of ease, the desire of wine, the desire of dissipation, the desire of pleasure, often mastered the desire of glory, and made the young leader of the party forget this, and the means by which it was to be obtained. Besides all this, it must be remembered that in their debauchery at the prince’s palace, a deception had been practised upon them, and precious time had slipped, unreckoned, away, thus leaving them in a state of delusion.

We must now turn to Abdael and his companions. Soon after they set out, Malek, an old soldier, rode to his side, and said, “It is a hard lot, my young master, to have the longer route, and the more mountainous path; what do you intend to do?” “My duty, and trust in Heaven!” said Abdael. “I had no doubt of it,” said Malek, and, apparently satisfied, he rode on.

The party did not attempt to urge their horses. They proceeded slowly, but steadily, and stopped for the night, after having performed but a very moderate journey. The next day they did the same; and so on, the third and fourth day. The greatest care was taken of the horses at night; and the men were particular to avoid every species of excess. They abstained from wine altogether, for Abdael feared that they might be betrayed into indiscretion, or licentiousness. They were obliged to keep their arms constantly in hand, for they were surrounded with enemies.

It might have seemed, to a careless observer, rather a dull party, but if any one could have looked beneath their stern exterior, and have seen their hearts, he would have discovered a sober satisfaction there, arising from the consciousness of performing their duty; he would also, have seen, that even the dangers and difficulties which surrounded them, became sources of agreeable excitement.

Beside this, the feeling of mutual danger, and the necessity of mutual support, created a kindly feeling between the individuals; and thus they were in fact, like so many steadfast friends, united for common protection and defence. They were, therefore, cheerful and happy. They had little hope of reaching the capital in season to achieve a triumph over Phalax, but they had, at least the satisfaction of feeling that even in defeat, they would have the approbation of their own consciences, and, perhaps, obtain the respect of the king.

In a few days they reached rugged and precipitous mountains, and now the necessity of all their care, courage, and perseverance became obvious. The road wound amid deep and fearful valleys, crossed rapid streams, threaded wild passes, traversed ridges and peaks, which hung like curtains of everlasting rock, over the ravines below. Although it was summer, these lofty regions were covered with snow, and the wind was as keen and chill as winter.

Nor were the obstacles thus presented by nature, the only ones which beset the travellers. One day, as they were pursuing their route along the edge of a dizzy cliff, they saw a party of Tartars on horseback, at a little distance before them. They were about twenty in number, but as soon as they were remarked, they vanished. In a few minutes, however, they reappeared, some in front and some in the rear of the little party. On they came with the speed of a snow-drift, threatening to hurl Abdael and his friends over the precipice into the gulf beneath, by the fury of the onset. But the travellers were prepared; Malek and two soldiers turned back, and met the assailants in the rear, and Abdael and one of his friends, faced the enemy in front.

The Tartars came close up to Abdael, as if to push him from the path, but such was his steadiness and that of the man at his side, that the enemy recoiled, and stood still at a little distance. The leader then brandished his lance, and hurled it at Abdael. The latter received it upon his sloping shield, and glancing off, it cut the air downward into the glen. Abdael, in an instant, hurled his spear at his enemy, and, true to the mark, it entered the breast of the Tartar leader, who reeled in his saddle, fell from his horse and rolled over the cliff. His body bounded from rock to rock, and was lost to the sight in the grisly shadows of the ravine!

This fearful scene took place in view of both parties, and such was the panic created in the Tartar troops, that they immediately took to flight. Abdael and his men now proceeded. In the evening, and at the foot of the mountain, they reached a small town situated in a lovely valley. Though the snow-capped peaks were so near, yet every species of lovely flower was in bloom, and the most luscious fruits hung ripe from the stem. Here they had many invitations to stay and participate in the pleasures of the place, but Abdael remained no longer than was necessary for rest, and refreshment to his men and their beasts.

He had not proceeded far from the town we have mentioned, when the Prince of the Valley, who had heard of his arrival, sent messengers to meet Abdael, and ask him to spend a few days at his palace. The young traveller conceived it necessary, as a mark of courtesy, to call upon the prince; and accordingly, he and his party went to the palace, and caused their arrival to be announced. They were received with due ceremony, and urged to stay a few days. “May it please your royal highness,” said Abdael, “I am but a plebeian, and my companions are common soldiers. They are worthy men--but more fit for battle and foray than for the presence of a prince. I, therefore, pray your highness to hold us excused from an honor too great for such as we are.”

“Thou art a wise youth,” said the prince, “and I suspect there is much pride beneath thy humility of speech. However, thou shall have thy way, only let thy men come and partake of the feast we have provided.”

Abdael bowed, and the men came in. They sat down to the table, which was spread with every luxury the nicest palate could desire. The travellers were worn and weary, and they had now subsisted for a long time on the coarsest food; but, taking example from Abdael, they ate sparingly of the simplest articles, and avoiding the sparkling wines, they drank water only. This was noticed by the prince, who spoke in an offended tone to Abdael; “I am sorry, young soldier, that the wine pleases thee not.”

“Forgive me, prince,” said Abdael, courteously--“it is not that I distrust the quality of the wine--but, we are humble men, and have little to boast of but our wits. Now, wine is a great thief, and should it steal our wits away, we should be poor, indeed. It is only those who are noble, and have something better than their brains to boast of, that can afford to drink wine and run the risk of losing their senses!”

“By my beard!” said his royal highness, “this is a bold fellow: you curmudgeons are too wise to make fools of yourselves, and therefore you leave that to princes and nobles! Upon my word, this is courtly speech! But, young man, perhaps you suspect the wine to be drugged.”

“There is no need of suspicion of the wine to him who has foresworn the cup!” said Abdael.

“I am fairly answered,” said the prince. Soon after, the feast was finished, and the strangers were about to take their leave. “A word with thee,” said the prince, to Abdael; and taking him aside, he spoke as follows: “Your conduct, young soldier, has impressed me favorably; may I ask an honest answer to an honest question?”

“Surely,” said Abdael.

“I see that thou hast some charm which gives thee wisdom above mankind in general. Wilt thou tell me what it is that thus guides thee, and makes thee superior to other men; which, indeed, makes a young soldier the master of a prince who is famous for his craftiness?”

“A father’s counsel,” was the reply.

“And who is thy father?” said the prince.

“A poor peasant of Parthia.”

“And what is this magic counsel of which thou speakest?”

“It lies in few words--_do thy duty_.”

“Indeed! And is this the simple exposition of a riddle that I could not solve? And yet I feel it to be true. Young man, thy father, however poor, is happy--and may well be the envy of a prince. He can give wise counsel, and he possesses a son who can follow it. I confess that thou and he have this day taught me a lesson: I owe thee something, and I will pay the debt by frankness. Thy father’s advice, and thine own steadfast fidelity have secured thy life, and that of thy companions. There was a poison in that wine, that had proved mortal to him whose lips had tasted it. I say this to encourage thee in thy career of virtue; for however, being a prince, I may seek to destroy my enemies by poison, as is my privilege, I can still perceive virtue and approve of it, in others.”

Abdael departed, and, with his companions, proceeded on his journey. They travelled with great industry, but such were the difficulties they encountered, that their progress was not rapid. They were sustained, however, by hope, and seemed actually to derive energy from the obstacles that beset them. They were usually in health; all their faculties were in full exercise; their limbs and their minds were vigorous and active. They were also cheerful; when there was no pressing occasion for circumspection, the laugh and the joke went round, and they were all the better, that they were excited by that kind of wit which springs from knowledge and experience. Their very adventures and dangers became to them the fruitful sources of pleasing and lively reflections.

It was at the end of a month that Abdael reached the capital. This was a short time for performing the journey, and seldom, if ever, had it been accomplished in so brief a space: but still, he had every reason to suppose that Phalax had arrived before him, and that he was going to a scene rather of humiliation than triumph. He entered the city with a beating heart. His companions, as well as himself, were silent. They went straight to the palace, and found Phalax and his party there. They had arrived about an hour before, and Abdael met them in the hall of entrance, waiting an audience.

Phalax was admitted first; Genghis received his message, and heard his story. “You have been a long time,” said the king, “in performing your journey. Was no other messenger despatched?”

“Yes, sire,” said Phalax, “Abdael was sent by the route of the mountains.”

“Has he arrived?” said the king.

“This moment,” was the reply.

“You arrived first?” said the king.

“I did, sire,” said Phalax.

The young prince was now dismissed, and as he passed Abdael in the hall, he darted upon him a look of insolent triumph. The latter was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. He told his story briefly and modestly, and took his leave. The next day, the two young men were summoned before the Khan. As both stood in his presence, the king noticed the calm but modest demeanor of Abdael, and contrasted it with the evident doubt and fear, which lay beneath a veil of assurance, upon the face of Phalax. At last, Genghis spoke as follows:

“I have seen your companions, young gentlemen, and learned the history of your adventures from them. Phalax reached the city first, but only by an hour; yet his route was the easier by at least a fortnight. Let him remember that success is not the evidence of merit. He arrived before his rival, yet he neglected his duty, and violated his trust; nay, more--he has exalted himself in his own account, beyond the truth: besides, he has come with one of his party missing--and he has not dared to tell the reason!”

The king looked keenly at the young prince--who first reddened, then turned pale, and finally kneeled before the king. “Speak not!” said Genghis, sternly--“I know it all; it had been better for thee, if thou hadst not glossed over thy madness and folly, for confession may palliate, if it cannot excuse, guilt. Thy doom is perpetual banishment! Abdael, thou hast done nobly; not only hast thou excelled in prudence, energy, and devotion to thy duty, but thou hast excelled in modesty also. In thy brief and simple story, thou hast rather hidden than exaggerated, thine own merits; it shall be mine to make them known. I hereby make thee a captain of my guard.” Saying this, the monarch hung a rich sash of silk, glittering with costly jewels, around Abdael’s neck, as a mark of his special favor.

“And now, tell me, my friend,” said the king, “how is it that thou hast performed such worthy deeds, and set so good an example?”

“By following the advice of a good and wise father,” said Abdael.

“Send for him,” said the king, “he shall be the steward of my household. Is there anything else thou wouldst desire?”

“One thing, sire,”--said Abdael, with a subdued voice.

“Name it,” said the king.

“That thou wouldst recall thy sentence of banishment against Phalax.”

“For what good reason dost thou make this request?”

“He has been less fortunate than myself: while I have been nursed in adversity, hardened by toil, trained by necessity to self-denial and self-government, he has been bred at the court and treated with indulgence; while I enjoyed wholesome lessons of prudence and wisdom, enforced by poverty, he has been seduced, by the false tongue of flattery, and the deceitful allurements of riches and pleasure. Let me ask forgiveness, then, oh king, for the errors of youth, occasioned by the misfortune of his noble birth and exalted station.”

“This is strange, indeed,” said the king; “that wealth and rank, and power are looked upon, by a plebeian, as misfortunes, which are to excuse wickedness and folly; and yet, I can hardly gainsay it. Abdael, thy request is granted: Phalax is restored--he shall be of thy troop, a private under thee, and it shall be thy duty to teach him the art of self-government. But not till he has shown, by his own example, that rank and fortune may rather bless than curse the possessor, shall I consent to see him at court. Farewell!”

This story was told in an interesting manner, by the merchant, and all present listened to it with attention; but Alexis was attracted by something in the speaker, which he could not readily explain. The voice, the manner, and the looks of the merchant, now seemed familiar to him, or, at least, he felt assured that he had seen him before; but when or where, he could not divine.

The dinner party soon broke up, but the eyes of Alexis followed the merchant so closely that the latter observed it. Coming near to the young man, he said in an under-tone, “You know me--yet you do not know me.”

“True,” said Alexis; “I feel sure that we have met before--but I cannot tell upon what occasion; will you be so kind as to help me out of my perplexity?”

“And myself into a greater difficulty, ha! What is the penalty which the emperor bestows upon an exile, who dares to return to his country?”

“It is death--inevitable death!”

“And yet you wish Count Zimsky, the hermit of the banks of the Lena--the man who dug you out of the snow, and saved your life--to confess that he has smuggled himself on board of a Russian ship of war, and goes to St. Petersburgh to beard the emperor in his palace!”

“Yes, yes,” said Alexis, in profound astonishment--for he now recognised the hermit--“I understand you; I know you; but I must not seem to recognise you. Alas, alas, my dear sir, to what certain peril do you expose yourself! you not only violate the edict of your banishment, but will it not heighten your offence, that you take passage in a government ship, under this disguise?”

“No doubt; but the desperate man, has nothing to fear. I prefer death and torture, to exile in Siberia. I have determined to go to St. Petersburgh, to face the emperor, and let him do with me as he pleases.” At this point of the interview, the parties were interrupted.