Alroy | Page 4

betrayed him. And this
brings me to the real purport of our interview. That sceptre I would
return.'
'To whom?'
'To its right owner, to yourself.'
'Oh! no, no, no; I pray you, I pray you not. I do entreat you, sir, forget
that I have a right as utterly as I disclaim it. That sceptre you have
wielded it wisely and well; I beseech you keep it. Indeed, good uncle, I
have no sort of talent for all the busy duties of this post.'

'You sigh for glory, yet you fly from toil.'
'Toil without glory is a menial's lot.'
'You are a boy; you may yet live to learn that the sweetest lot of life
consists in tranquil duties and well-earned repose.'
'If my lot be repose, I'll find it in a lair.'
'Ah! David, David, there is a wildness in your temper, boy, that makes
me often tremble. You are already too much alone, child. And for this,
as well as weightier reasons, I am desirous that you should at length
assume the office you inherit. What my poor experience can afford to
aid you, as your counsellor, I shall ever proffer; and, for the rest, our
God will not desert you, an orphan child, and born of royal blood.'
'Pr'ythee, no more, kind uncle. I have but little heart to mount a throne,
which only ranks me as the first of slaves.'
'Pooh, pooh, you are young. Live we like slaves? Is this hall a servile
chamber? These costly carpets, and these rich divans, in what proud
harem shall we find their match? I feel not like a slave. My coffers are
full of dirhems. Is that slavish? The wealthiest company of the caravan
is ever Bostenay's. Is that to be a slave? Walk the bazaar of Bagdad,
and you will find my name more potent than the Caliph's. Is that a
badge of slavery?'
'Uncle, you toil for others.'
'So do we all, so does the bee, yet he is free and happy.'
'At least he has a sting.'
'Which he can use but once, and when he stings----'
'He dies, and like a hero. Such a death is sweeter than his honey.'
'Well, well, you are young, you are young. I once, too, had fancies.
Dreams all, dreams all. I willingly would see you happy, child. Come,

let that face brighten; after all, to-day is a great day. If you had seen
what I have seen, David, you too would feel grateful. Come, let us feast.
The Ishmaelite, the accursed child of Hagar, he does confess to-day that
you are a prince; this day also you complete your eighteenth year. The
custom of our people now requires that you should assume the
attributes of manhood. To-day, then, your reign commences; and at our
festival I will present the elders to their prince. For a while, farewell,
my child. Array that face in smiles. I shall most anxiously await your
presence.'
'Farewell, sir.'
He turned his head and watched his uncle as he departed: the bitter
expression of his countenance gradually melted away as Bostenay
disappeared: dejection succeeded to sarcasm; he sighed, he threw
himself upon a couch and buried his face in his hands.
Suddenly he arose and paced the chamber with an irregular and moody
step. He stopped, and leant against a column. He spoke in a tremulous
and smothered voice:
'Oh! my heart is full of care, and my soul is dark with sorrow! What am
I? What is all this? A cloud hangs heavy o'er my life. God of my fathers,
let it burst!
'I know not what I feel, yet what I feel is madness. Thus to be is not to
live, if life be what I sometimes dream, and dare to think it might be.
To breathe, to feed, to sleep, to wake and breathe again, again to feel
existence without hope; if this be life, why then these brooding
thoughts that whisper death were better?
'Away! The demon tempts me. But to what? What nameless deed shall
desecrate this hand? It must not be: the royal blood of twice two
thousand years, it must not die, die like a dream. Oh! my heart is full of
care, and my soul is dark with sorrow!
'Hark! the trumpets that sound our dishonour. Oh, that they but sounded
to battle! Lord of Hosts, let me conquer or die! Let me conquer like

David; or die, Lord, like Saul!
'Why do I live? Ah! could the thought that lurks within my secret heart
but answer, not that trumpet's blast could speak as loud or clear. The
votary of a false idea, I linger in this shadowy life, and feed on silent
images which no eye but mine can gaze upon, till at length they