The Rise of Iskander

The Rise of Iskander

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Title: The Rise of Iskander
Author: Benjamin Disraeli
Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7842] [This file was first posted on
May 21, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English

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THE RISE OF ISKANDER
by Benjamin Disraeli

CHAPTER 1
The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was
suffused with the violet glow of a Grecian eye. A light breeze rose; the
olive-groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustled with
returning animation, and the pennons of the Turkish squadron, that lay
at anchor in the harbour of Piræus, twinkled in the lively air. From one
gate of the city the women came forth in procession to the fountain;
from another, a band of sumptuous horsemen sallied out, and threw
their wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they galloped over the
plain. The voice of birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of
fragrant flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the pattering call
of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, shrinking from the
embrace of the twilight breeze, filled the purple air with music and with
odour.
A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the Acropolis, amid
the ruins of the Temple of Minerva, and gazed upon the inspiring scene.
Around him rose the matchless memorials of antique art; immortal
columns whose symmetry baffles modern proportion, serene Caryatides,
bearing with greater grace a graceful burthen, carvings of delicate
precision, and friezes breathing with heroic life. Apparently the
stranger, though habited as a Moslemin, was not insensible to the
genius of the locality, nor indeed would his form and countenance have
misbecome a contemporary of Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life
and far above the common stature, but with a frame the muscular power

of which was even exceeded by its almost ideal symmetry, white
forehead, his straight profile, his oval countenance, and his curling lip,
exhibited the same visage that had inspired the sculptor of the
surrounding demigods.
The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, however, certainly
not classic. A crimson shawl was wound round his head and glittered
with a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest which set tight to his
form, was of green velvet, richly embroidered with gold and pearls.
Over this he wore a very light jacket of crimson velvet, equally
embroidered, and lined with sable. He wore also the full white camese
common among the Albanians; and while his feet were protected by
sandals, the lower part of his legs was guarded by greaves of
embroidered green velvet. From a broad belt of scarlet leather peeped
forth the jewelled hilts of a variety of daggers, and by his side was an
enormous scimitar, in a scabbard of chased silver.
The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect before him with an air of
pensive abstraction. "Beautiful Greece," he exclaimed, "thou art still
my country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not
uncheered by hope. I am at least a warrior; and this arm, though trained
to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour of battle, the
blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved Greece and died a Satrap:
I am bred one, let me reverse our lots, and die at least a patriot."
At this moment the Evening Hymn to the Virgin arose from a
neighbouring convent. The stranger started as the sacred melody
floated towards him, and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he
kissed it with devotion, and then descending the steep of the citadel,
entered the city.
He proceeded alone the narrow winding streets of Athens until he at
length arrived in front of a marble palace,