The Spanish Jew's Second Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Third

SCANDERBEG     The battle is fought and won     By King Ladislaus the Hun,     In fire of hell and death's frost,     On the day of Pentecost.     And in rout before his path     From the field of battle red     Flee all that are not dead     Of the army of Amurath.     In the darkness of the night     Iskander, the pride and boast     Of that mighty Othman host,     With his routed Turks, takes flight     From the battle fought and lost     On the day of Pentecost;     Leaving behind him dead     The army of Amurath,     The vanguard as it led,     The rearguard as it fled,     Mown down in the bloody swath     Of the battle's aftermath.     But he cared not for Hospodars,     Nor for Baron or Voivode,     As on through the night he rode     And gazed at the fateful stars,     That were shining overhead     But smote his steed with his staff,     And smiled to himself, and said;     "This is the time to laugh."     In the middle of the night,     In a halt of the hurrying flight,     There came a Scribe of the King     Wearing his signet ring,     And said in a voice severe:     "This is the first dark blot     On thy name, George Castriot!     Alas why art thou here,     And the army of Amurath slain,     And left on the battle plain?"     And Iskander answered and said:     "They lie on the bloody sod     By the hoofs of horses trod;     But this was the decree     Of the watchers overhead;     For the war belongeth to God,     And in battle who are we,     Who are we, that shall withstand     The wind of his lifted hand?"     Then he bade them bind with chains     This man of books and brains;     And the Scribe said: "What misdeed     Have I done, that, without need,     Thou doest to me this thing?"     And Iskander answering     Said unto him: "Not one     Misdeed to me hast thou done;     But for fear that thou shouldst run     And hide thyself from me,     Have I done this unto thee.     "Now write me a writing, O Scribe,     And a blessing be on thy tribe!     A writing sealed with thy ring,     To King Amurath's Pasha     In the city of Croia,     The city moated and walled,     That he surrender the same     In the name of my master, the King;     For what is writ in his name     Can never be recalled."     And the Scribe bowed low in dread,     And unto Iskander said:     "Allah is great and just,     But we are as ashes and dust;     How shall I do this thing,     When I know that my guilty head     Will be forfeit to the King?"     Then swift as a shooting star     The curved and shining blade     Of Iskander's scimetar     From its sheath, with jewels bright,     Shot, as he thundered: "Write!"     And the trembling Scribe obeyed,     And wrote in the fitful glare     Of the bivouac fire apart,     With the chill of the midnight air     On his forehead white and bare,     And the chill of death in his heart.     Then again Iskander cried:     "Now follow whither I ride,     For here thou must not stay.     Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,     And honors without end     Shall surround thee on every side,     And attend thee night and day."     But the sullen Scribe replied     "Our pathways here divide;     Mine leadeth not thy way."     And even as he spoke     Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,     When no one else was near;     And the Scribe sank to the ground,     As a stone, pushed from the brink     Of a black pool, might sink     With a sob and disappear;     And no one saw the deed;     And in the stillness around     No sound was heard but the sound     Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed,     As forward he sprang with a bound.     Then onward he rode and afar,     With scarce three hundred men,     Through river and forest and fen,     O'er the mountains of Argentar;     And his heart was merry within,     When he crossed the river Drin,     And saw in the gleam of the morn     The White Castle Ak-Hissar,     The city Croia called,     The city moated and walled,     The city where he was born,--     And above it the morning star.     Then his trumpeters in the van     On their silver bugles blew,     And in crowds about him ran     Albanian and Turkoman,     That the sound together drew.     And he feasted with his friends,     And when they were warm with wine,     He said: "O friends of mine,     Behold what fortune sends,     And what the fates design!     King Amurath commands     That my father's wide domain,     This city and all its lands,     Shall be given to me again."     Then to the Castle White     He rode in regal state,     And entered in at the gate     In all his arms bedight,     And gave to the Pasha     Who ruled in Croia     The writing of the King,     Sealed with his signet ring.     And the Pasha bowed his head,     And after a silence said:     "Allah is just and great!     I yield to the will divine,     The city and lands are thine;     Who shall contend with fate?"     Anon from the castle walls     The crescent banner falls,     And the crowd beholds instead,     Like a portent in the sky,     Iskander's banner fly,     The Black Eagle with double head;     And a shout ascends on high,     For men's souls are tired of the Turks,     And their wicked ways and works,     That have made of Ak-Hissar     A city of the plague;     And the loud, exultant cry     That echoes wide and far     Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!"     It was thus Iskander came     Once more unto his own;     And the tidings, like the flame     Of a conflagration blown     By the winds of summer, ran,     Till the land was in a blaze,     And the cities far and near,     Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,     In his Book of the Words of the Days,     "Were taken as a man     Would take the tip of his ear."     INTERLUDE     "Now that is after my own heart,"     The Poet cried; "one understands     Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,     Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,     And skilled in every warlike art,     Riding through his Albanian lands,     And following the auspicious star     That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar."     The Theologian added here     His word of praise not less sincere,     Although he ended with a jibe;     "The hero of romance and song     Was born," he said, "to right the wrong;     And I approve; but all the same     That bit of treason with the Scribe     Adds nothing to your hero's fame."     The Student praised the good old times     And liked the canter of the rhymes,     That had a hoofbeat in their sound;     But longed some further word to hear     Of the old chronicler Ben Meir,     And where his volume might he found.     The tall Musician walked the room     With folded arms and gleaming eyes,     As if he saw the Vikings rise,     Gigantic shadows in the gloom;     And much he talked of their emprise,     And meteors seen in Northern skies,     And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom     But the Sicilian laughed again;     "This is the time to laugh," he said,     For the whole story he well knew     Was an invention of the Jew,     Spun from the cobwebs in his brain,     And of the same bright scarlet thread     As was the Tale of Kambalu.     Only the Landlord spake no word;     'T was doubtful whether he had heard     The tale at all, so full of care     Was he of his impending fate,     That, like the sword of Damocles,     Above his head hung blank and bare,     Suspended by a single hair,     So that he could not sit at ease,     But sighed and looked disconsolate,     And shifted restless in his chair,     Revolving how he might evade     The blow of the descending blade.     The Student came to his relief     By saying in his easy way     To the Musician: "Calm your grief,     My fair Apollo of the North,     Balder the Beautiful and so forth;     Although your magic lyre or lute     With broken strings is lying mute,     Still you can tell some doleful tale     Of shipwreck in a midnight gale,     Or something of the kind to suit     The mood that we are in to-night     For what is marvellous and strange;     So give your nimble fancy range,     And we will follow in its flight."     But the Musician shook his head;     "No tale I tell to-night," he said,     "While my poor instrument lies there,     Even as a child with vacant stare     Lies in its little coffin dead."     Yet, being urged, he said at last:     "There comes to me out of the Past     A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild,     Singing a song almost divine,     And with a tear in every line;     An ancient ballad, that my nurse     Sang to me when I was a child,     In accents tender as the verse;     And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled     While singing it, to see arise     The look of wonder in my eyes,     And feel my heart with tenor beat.     This simple ballad I retain     Clearly imprinted on my brain,     And as a tale will now repeat"