I.
THE CAPITULATION OF THE LAMANITES.
Moroni leaned back in his chair under the canopy of his tent. Another man, under the strain that the young general had passed through, would have looked wan and haggard. He possessed that inexhaustible vitality characteristic of great leaders, that can be drained heavily and still meet all emergencies.
"A messenger to see you, sir," announced a young lieutenant, pulling back the flap of the tent.
Moroni looked up to behold an Indian of powerful build. As he entered the fur mantle fell from his shoulders leaving them bare. As their eyes rested on the superb figure whose skin glittered like polished mahogany, the captains in the room ejaculated in admiration. The new comer's bold eyes scanned every face and finally rested on that of the youngest man in the room.
"I address the commander-in-chief of the Nephite forces?" he presumed.
Moroni eyed him keenly, as he inclined his head.
"Zerahemnah, leader of the Lamanites, sends greetings, and asks when he can meet you to make terms."
"Let him come at high noon to yonder eminence," replied Moroni.
The messenger bowed and silently withdrew. As his magnificent form disappeared, the captains whose composure had been perfect during the interview, threw back their heads and raised a shout of triumph. To them it meant the end of the war at practically their own terms. Hostilities had ceased since the night before. The Nephite forces, though outnumbered two to one, had triumphed over their ancient enemies. The battle had been long and stubbornly fought until night closed down to stop the conflict. The captains, picturesque in their bandages, had fresh sword cuts as proof of their valor, but even they did not know that the battle would go down in history as the greatest that the Lamanites had ever fought. The Indians were ably generaled, for Zerahemnah, himself a Zoramite, a descendent of the servant of Laban, had placed the bloodthirsty Amalekites as officers among them. Little wonder that they fought like dragons.
That the Nephites had vanquished them against such odds was due to three things: they were fighting for their liberty as the Lamanites had tried to take them into bondage; they had superior arms and were protected by armor while their dusky antagonists fought almost naked: Moroni by strategy had surrounded the Lamanites by the Nephites, had penned in Zerahemnah's forces between two wings of his own, and crushed them.
With spies he had determined the line of the Lamanite march. Then he placed one of his generals, Lehi, with his command in ambush behind the hill Riplah. When Zerahemnah advanced to the banks of the river Sidon, Lehi attacked him and finally drove him across the river.
When the Lamanites emerged dripping on the other side, they were swooped down upon by the phalanxes of Moroni. Like rats in a trap, surrounded on all sides, they struggled with ferocious courage, clanging their cimeters on the Nephite armor and in return being frightfully mangled. Sickened with the sight of gore, Moroni finally called off his troops.
Moroni's position was unique. Chosen as commander-in-chief of the Nephite army at the age of twenty-five, he yet towered so far above the other characters of his age, that older men did not dispute his place. Even the lean Amalickiah, eaten up with ambition, hid his envy.
Educated in the school of the priests, Moroni combined wisdom with the fire of youth. Disliking warfare and bloodshed, he had been forced into it in defense of his people when their freedom was threatened. To the spotless purity of his life was attributed much of his power.
As men often owe successful periods of their lives to the influence of some woman, so Moroni had known two, Hirza, clear-eyed and spiritual minded, he had met at school. Keenly intellectual she had dazzled him with her brilliancy. To her he owed much of his erudition and his wide knowledge of human nature. He was genuinely attached to this gay comrade when the handsome Zorabel came into his life. She reminded him of a full blown rose, whose fragrance gradually steals over the senses until they are steeped in delirium. He was yet to find out that she had her thorn below the soft petals. Zorabel was a sister of Amalickiah, and, like him, was ambitious.
Moroni sallied out of his tent into the brilliant sunlight to go and meet Zerahemnah at the appointed place. Behind him filed his body-guard, led by Amalickiah who walked by the side of his chief. Doubly dear to the general was this brother of Zorabel, yet he dared not give him a higher place in the army because he could not trust him. Amalickiah had done things—and yet under the genial influence of his presence, soothed by his flattering words, Moroni was inclinded to laugh at his fears.
Moroni reached the little hillock, ascended it, and let his gaze rest on the emerald expanse of the river that writhed like a green snake between the burnished gold of its banks. Below him swarmed the hordes of the Lamanites, perturbed by a spirit of unrest, as they expectantly awaited the result of the parley.
There was a commotion in the ranks and Zerahemnah moved out from among them and advanced toward Moroni. A shaggy homely man, he seemed, yet not without a suggestion of power. A gruff leader of men, of violent temper, he had gained his position by force. When he stopped a pace from Moroni, the latter addressed him.
"Behold, Zerahemnah, we do not want to be men of blood. You know that you are in our hands, yet we do not desire to slay you." He reminded him that the Nephites had not gone to war for power, but to defend their loved ones against the yoke of bondage. He added that they had tried to destroy his religion whereas the Lord had delivered them into his hands. He finished by demanding their weapons of war and the promise that they would go their way and come not again to battle against his people.
Zerahemnah unbuckled his sword, threw down his cimeter and handed his bow to Moroni, saying, "Here are our weapons of war. We will not suffer ourselves to take an oath unto you, which we know that we shall break, and also our children. Take our arms and suffer that we may depart into the wilderness. Otherwise we will perish or conquer. We are not of your faith, we do not believe that it is God that has delivered us into your hands; it is your cunning that has preserved you from our swords."
Moroni handed him back his arms. "We will end the conflict," he said.
When Zarahemnah grasped the import of his words his face purpled with rage. Paying no heed to his weapons that clattered to the ground, he brandished his sword and rushed at Moroni. It would have pierced him had not the alert Amalickiah on Moroni's right smote it to the earth with a blow of such force that it shattered it at the hilt. Before the dazed Zerahemnah could realize what had happened, a second blow descended with such swiftness that it shaved off his scalp. With blood streaming in his face and a snarl like a wounded beast, Zerahemnah sprang back to his own cohorts that had surged forward at the vivid spectacle.
Amalickiah stooped and picked up the scalp by the tuft of hair. Fastening it on the point of his sword he stretched it toward them crying in a loud voice, "Even as this scalp of your chief has fallen to the earth, so shall you fall to the earth unless you deliver up your weapons of war and depart with a covenant of peace."
Visibly impressed, and quaking with fear, many of the Indians came forward, took the oath, stacked their weapons at the feet of Moroni, and departed in little bands into the wilderness. But Zerahemnah, hoarse with wrath, mingling with the remaining soldiers urged them on to recommence the assault.
Angered with their stubborn resistance the Nephite leader turned his legions loose. In the frightful massacre that ensued the dark warriors were swept down.
When Zerahemnah saw that they were going to be all wiped out, he cried mightily to Moroni, promising, if he spared the remainder of their lives, never to come against him again.
The latter ordered the battle to cease and allowed the shivering remnants of the Lamanites to leave.
Night descended on the field of horrors and obliterated many of its sights, and Moroni, weary and sick at heart, made his way back to his tent. Outside a lashing rainstorm had arisen, increasing the agony of the wounded. The soldiers were clearing the field and throwing the bodies of the unnumbered dead into the river. Dreariness enveloped the general as he threw himself disconsolately down.
"A lady to see you, sir," announced the sentry at the door. Moroni started up. Doubtless some heartbroken mother come in search of her son. Was there no end?
"Admit her," he ordered curtly.
A woman clad in a rough brown cloak entered. She threw back her hood from which her head emerged like a gorgeous poppy.
Moroni started toward her. "Zorabel," he exclaimed.
"Thank God you are safe!" she withdrew her hand from his compeling grasp to feel the massive armor on his shoulders, to assure herself that he was not hurt.
"This is no place for you. How did you come here?" he gently chided.
"Since you left I have been in torment. When I heard of a clash of arms on the other side of the river, I jumped on my swiftest steed. See how fast I rode. It shook down all my hair." She showed him her black hair streaming almost to her knees. "When I reached the lines they said you barely escaped death today," her voice broke.
"I suppose I should have been killed if it hadn't been for Amalickiah! Your brother saved my life."
"Dear Amalickiah! You must tell me."
As he recited the incidents of the day she drank in his words with her soul in her eyes.
Strange spectacle that, of Zorabel, the charmer. She had recognized Moroni as the coming man and had deliberately set out to fascinate him. But as she entrapped him with her hundred coquetries, she found herself in the toils. The fresh young general had stirred her as no other man ever had and the proud Zorabel was now avowedly the abject slave of love.
In her sweet presence the exigencies of the camp were forgotten, the turmoil of the day faded away, and Moroni felt a calm descend on his spirit.