Alroy | Page 5

Sinai, let me tell thee that some of the antique blood yet beats within these pulses, and there yet is one who fain would commune with thee face to face, commune and conquer.
'And if the promise unto which we cling be not a cheat, why, let him come, come, and come quickly, for thy servant Israel, Lord, is now a slave so infamous, so woe-begone, and so contemned, that even when our fathers hung their harps by the sad waters of the Babylonian stream, why, it was paradise compared with what we suffer.
'Alas! they do not suffer; they endure and do not feel. Or by this time our shadowy cherubim would guard again the ark. It is the will that is the father to the deed, and he who broods over some long idea, however wild, will find his dream was but the prophecy of coming fate.
'And even now a vivid flash darts through the darkness of my mind. Methinks, methinks--ah! worst of woes to dream of glory in despair. No, no; I live and die a most ignoble thing; beauty and love, and fame and mighty deeds, the smile of women and the gaze of men, and the ennobling consciousness of worth, and all the fiery course of the creative passions, these are not for me, and I, Alroy, the descendant of sacred kings, and with a soul that pants for empire, I stand here extending my vain arm for my lost sceptre, a most dishonoured slave! And do I still exist? Exist! ay, merrily. Hark! Festivity holds her fair revel in these light-hearted walls. We are gay to-day; and yet, ere yon proud sun, whose mighty course was stayed before our swords that now he even does not deign to shine upon; ere yon proud sun shall, like a hero from a glorious field, enter the bright pavilion of his rest, there shall a deed be done.
'My fathers, my heroic fathers, if this feeble arm cannot redeem your heritage; if the foul boar must still wallow in thy sweet vineyard, Israel, at least I will not disgrace you. No! let me perish. The house of David is no more; no more our sacred seed shall lurk and linger, like a blighted thing, in this degenerate earth. If we cannot flourish, 'why, then, we will die!'
'Oh! say not so, my brother!'
He turns, he gazes on a face beauteous as a starry night; his heart is full, his voice is low.
'Ah, Miriam! thou queller of dark spirits! is it thou? Why art thou here?'
'Why am I here? Are you not here? and need I urge a stronger plea? Oh! brother dear, I pray you come, and mingle in our festival. Our walls are hung with flowers you love;[2] I culled them by the fountain's side; the holy lamps are trimmed and set, and you must raise their earliest flame. Without the gate, my maidens wait, to offer you a robe of state. Then, brother dear, I pray you come and mingle in our festival.'
'Why should we feast?'
'Ah! is it not in thy dear name these lamps are lit, these garlands hung? To-day to us a prince is given, to-day----'
'A prince without a kingdom.'
'But not without that which makes kingdoms precious, and which full many a royal heart has sighed for, willing subjects, David.'
'Slaves, Miriam, fellow-slaves.'
'What we are, my brother, our God has willed; and let us bow and tremble.'
'I will not bow, I cannot tremble.'
'Hush, David, hush! It was this haughty spirit that called the vengeance of the Lord upon us.'
'It was this haughty spirit that conquered Canaan.'
'Oh, my brother, my dear brother! they told me the dark spirit had fallen on thee, and I came, and hoped that Miriam might have charmed it. What we may have been, Alroy, is a bright dream; and what we may be, at least as bright a hope; and for what we are, thou art my brother. In thy love I find present felicity, and value more thy chance embraces and thy scanty smiles than all the vanished splendour of our race, our gorgeous gardens, and our glittering halls.'
'Who waits without there?'
'Caleb.'
'Caleb!'
'My lord.'
'Go tell my uncle that I will presently join the banquet. Leave me a moment, Miriam. Nay, dry those tears.'
'Oh, Alroy! they are not tears of sorrow.'
'God be with thee! Thou art the charm and consolation of my life. Farewell! farewell!
'I do observe the influence of women very potent over me. 'Tis not of such stuff that they make heroes. I know not love, save that pure affection which doth subsist between me and this girl, an orphan and my sister. We are so alike, that when, last Passover, in mimicry she twined my turban round her head, our uncle called her David.
'The daughters of my tribe, they please me not,