Chapter Fifteen.
The Trial and Verdict.
“Well, Dick,” exclaimed Grosvenor, as the door was closed upon them and they looked round them in the dim light percolating through the long, narrow aperture in the wall which afforded their only supply of air and illumination, “what is your present opinion of things in general?”
“Well,” returned Dick reflectively, “the outstanding fact which dominates all others is that we have actually penetrated to the very heart of the mysterious country which our friend Mitchell predicted we should never reach, and have therefore triumphantly accomplished the chief object of our journey, despite all the difficulties that we have encountered. For the rest, this cell, although it is somewhat lacking in comfort and convenience as a dwelling, is at least clean, dry, and pleasantly cool compared with the temperature outside. And—that is about all I have to say on the matter at present, I think.”
“Um!” retorted Grosvenor with a suspicion of peevishness in his voice; “that is not very much. What do you think they mean to do with us? That is what I am trying to get at. Of course I remember that the gist of Mitchell’s homily to us was: ‘Don’t go, if you value your lives, because those people don’t like strangers.’ But if a fellow seriously considered a little matter like that, exploration would soon be a thing of the past, for I’ve noticed that many of the johnnies whose countries we have passed through haven’t liked strangers. Yet we’ve contrived to pull through all right thus far; and of course I have been hoping that our luck would still hold good, and that when we arrived in this country something would happen to enable us to create a favourable impression upon the chappies, causing them to decide that we are the exceptions to the general rule, and are worthy to be treated as honoured guests and all that sort of thing—eh, what? But when I look round me and take in the details of this apartment it seems to me that things have somehow gone wrong; I can’t help thinking that they must have a more comfortable guest chamber than this somewhere in this old caravanserai—eh? What do you think?”
“I have no doubt they have,” returned Dick. “Yet they may consider this quite good enough for us. But I am not going to worry very greatly just yet, and I would recommend you not to do so either. It is true that so far these folk have displayed a most lamentable and disconcerting lack of appreciation of our many excellent qualities, but you must remember that we have not had much opportunity for a display of those qualities as yet. The opportunity will come no doubt, and when it does we will just make our friends outside sit up—I don’t quite know how, but we will do it somehow. So cheer up, old chap; the fact that they have put us in here instead of killing us at sight, so to speak, seems to suggest to my mind the belief that, if they are displeased at our presence in their country, they at least intend to give us some sort of a trial before passing us on to the executioner.”
“Oh, dash it all, old man, don’t talk about executioners—!” began Grosvenor, when he was interrupted by the opening of the cell door and a man entered, bearing in one hand a pitcher of water, and in the other a loaf of bread of liberal proportions on a wooden platter. These he placed on the floor beside the prisoners, and was gone again before Grosvenor could sufficiently pull his wits together to address him.
The food and drink were most acceptable, for the prisoners had taken no refreshment since breakfast that morning, and the day was now drawing to its close, as they could tell by the rapidly diminishing light that percolated through their narrow window. They fell to upon the viands forthwith, availing themselves of the last departing daylight to find the food; and finally, after a little further desultory chat, in which each did his best to make light of the situation, they disposed themselves as comfortably as they could upon the floor, and sought such rest as might be possible under the circumstances.
The night that followed was certainly not a pleasant one, for the floor was hard, and sleep was shy of coming to them. With the first glimmerings of daylight, therefore, the two prisoners arose, weary, sore of body, and in a distinctly pessimistic frame of mind which found no amelioration in the fact that hour after hour dragged its weary length along, bringing neither visitors nor food, although the breakfast hour had long passed. Noon arrived, and still no footstep approached the door of their cell; and when at length their watches marked the hour of three in the afternoon without the arrival of food, without even so much as a visit from their jailer to ascertain whether or not all was well with them, they began to ask themselves seriously whether by any chance they had been forgotten.
The answer came about half an hour later when the door of their cell was suddenly thrown open by the man who had locked them in on the previous night, and who now gruffly summoned them to follow him.
They emerged from their place of confinement gladly enough—for they had reached that stage of discomfort when one welcomes any change, even though there should be a possibility that it may prove to be for the worse—and were at once taken into custody by a handsomely attired officer in command of ten soldiers who, armed with short, broad-bladed spears, and each carrying a flaring torch, at once closed round them. The word to march was given, and the party moved away along the labyrinth of passages, turning hither and thither in the most bewildering fashion, until at length they reached a narrow flight of stone steps that wound upward, corkscrew fashion, until they emerged into another passage which, after a journey of some fifty yards, conducted them into a spacious and lofty hall lighted at either end by a large window glazed with what, from the cursory glance which they obtained of it, they judged to be talc, or some similar substance. A number of passages led out of this hall, and down one of them the party plunged, finally passing through a doorway into a spacious chamber, lighted, like the hall, by large windows glazed with the talc-like material already mentioned. There was a peculiarity about this chamber that at once attracted the attention of the two young Englishmen, and it was this: the wall opposite the door by which they had entered was divided horizontally into two unequal parts, the lower and smaller of the two being occupied by a grille of exquisitely fine carved work executed in a kind of Greek pattern, while the upper compartment was filled in with a window reaching right across from side to side of the chamber, that threw a strong light right down upon the precise spot where they were halted. As the two prisoners came to a standstill at the word of command of the officer in charge of the party, the soldiers formed themselves into a semicircle between their charges and the door, and grounded their spears with a clank upon the black marble pavement, while, although the room was apparently empty, save for themselves, the officer advanced and, raising his spear in salute, exclaimed in a loud voice, in the quasihebrew tongue which appeared to be the common language of the people:
“Lords! the prisoners from afar are present.”
“It is well,” replied a deep, solemn voice from behind the grille, and the two friends suddenly realised that they were about to be put upon their trial for the offence of intruding where they were not wanted. They both directed their gaze upon the grille with greatly enhanced interest, striving to obtain a glimpse of the person or persons behind it; but a space of at least twenty feet divided them from it, and at that distance the interstices were too small to afford the faintest glimpse of anyone on the other side. There was a pause of perhaps half a minute, then the voice that had last spoken said:
“Let Benoni, the officer who arrested the strangers upon their arrival in Izreel, be summoned to give his evidence.”
The officer in charge of the prisoners stepped to the door, opened it, spoke a few words to someone on the other side, apparently giving an order, then closed the door again and returned to his former position in the hall.
“Did you hear that, Dick—Benoni—Izreel? Don’t those two names suggest anything to you?” murmured Grosvenor behind his hand.
“N–o, I can’t say that they do, except that they seem to be not altogether unfamiliar to me,” answered Dick in a like low murmur.
“Familiar!” ejaculated Grosvenor, incautiously raising his voice; “I should think they are. Why—”
“Silence!” interposed the officer sternly, at this moment. Although Grosvenor’s eyes blazed at the insult, and he looked more than half-inclined to forcibly resent it, he closed his lips with a fierce snap, and obeyed the injunction, at the restraining touch of Dick’s hand. A moment later the officer who had brought them to the island entered, and, closing the door behind him, advanced, saluting as he faced the grille.
“Benoni,” said the deep voice from behind the screen, “say what you know concerning the strangers from afar whom ye yesterday brought across the water to Bethalia!”
Again Benoni saluted. Then, facing toward the centre of the grille, he proceeded to relate how, in consequence of intelligence brought to him by runners from the frontier, he proceeded in search of the strangers, and, having taken them, brought them to Bethalia, in accordance with the general order providing for such a circumstance. Then he proceeded to describe in some detail the journey, making mention of the wonderful tubes that brought distant objects near, so long as one continued to gaze through them; and, from that, passed on to describe in full the incident of the infuriated buffalo, the consternation it had created among the wayfarers upon the road along which it had charged, its persistent pursuit of himself, the wonderful magic whereby the strangers had slain the animal, from a distance, at the precise moment when it had been about to toss him into the air; and how, finally, the younger stranger of the two had insisted upon interrupting the journey to succour the man who had been grievously hurt by the animal; adding that, in obedience to orders received, he had early that morning proceeded to the mainland to enquire into the condition of the injured man, whom, to his amazement, he found to be making favourable progress toward recovery. He spoke throughout in a clear, level voice, and seemed to be concerned only to convey an absolutely truthful impression of everything to his unseen audience behind the grille.
At the conclusion of Benoni’s narrative a silence ensued, lasting for nearly twenty minutes, broken only by a low sound suggestive of subdued whispering behind the grille. At length, however, even this ceased, and the silence became almost oppressive for the space of about another half-minute. Then it was broken by the voice that had before spoken, saying:
“White strangers, say now by what names are ye known?”
To which Grosvenor replied: “My name is Philip Eustace Meredith Grosvenor; and that of my friend is Richard Maitland.”
This statement was followed by another brief silence, when the unseen speaker said:
“Philip Eustace Meredith Grosvenor and Richard Maitland,” he boggled the names a little, especially those of Grosvenor, “ye have entered the country of the Izreelites uninvited, and without even asking permission to do so. Had ye sought permission before crossing our border, it would have been refused you, and ye would have been turned back and permitted to depart in peace. But to enter this land uninvited, and without obtaining permission, is against our law, and the punishment for the offence is the Slow Death!”
Here the speaker made an impressive pause, as though to allow the statement to be thoroughly absorbed by the understanding of those most intimately concerned. Then he resumed:
“But we learn from the officer Benoni, who brought you hither, that since entering our country ye have saved the lives of two men; and since men’s lives are more valuable to the Izreelites than aught else, we have decided to mitigate your punishment to this extent: ye shall live, if ye will, upon condition that ye swear never to attempt to leave the country without the royal assent, and to devote yourselves henceforth to the service of Izreel in such manner as ye may be directed. Say now, therefore, will ye accept life, with the condition attached to the gift; or will ye go forth from hence to die the Slow Death?”
This speech Grosvenor carefully translated to Dick, finishing up by asking:
“What answer shall I give the Johnnie, Dick? On the one hand, I have no fancy for being marched out from here to die the Slow Death, whatever that may be—something pretty horrible, I have no doubt, by the sound of it—but, on the other hand, I have just as little inclination to bind myself to end my days here, among these chappies—eh, what?”
“I fully agree with you, my dear fellow, on both points,” answered Dick; “but there is one broad principle upon which I invariably act, and that is, where one is confronted by a choice between two evils, always to choose the lesser of the two. In this case I think there can be no question as to which is the lesser of the two evils between which we have to choose; because if we were foolish enough to choose death it would mean the end of all things sublunary for us; whereas if we choose life, even with the condition attached, there is always a sporting chance of something happening to make matters better for us. For myself, I would rather live, even here, than die the death, whether slow or quick. My advice, therefore, is to take the life which is offered us, and make the best of it.”
“Very well, then; that’s agreed,” returned Grosvenor, who proceeded forthwith to explain laboriously to the unseen judges that they accepted the alternative of life offered them.
The decision was received with low murmurs of what sounded like satisfaction on the part of those behind the grille. A short silence next ensued, which was followed by further mutterings among the unseen judges, who seemed to be debating some important point. Finally an intimation came from those mysterious individuals that the strangers were to be marched to the Great Hall, there to take the oath which formed the condition upon which they accepted their lives; whereupon the officer, Benoni, gave an order, and the prisoners were marched out of the Judgment Hall through the door by which they had entered.
Making their way back along the passage which they had previously traversed, the party presently found themselves in the central hall out of which all the passages in the building seemed to radiate. Traversing this, they now entered another and much wider passage, which conducted them into what was presumably the Great Hall; for it was a square apartment measuring fully a hundred feet each way, lighted on two adjacent sides by lofty windows glazed with the talc-like substance which the two friends had before observed, only in the present case the glazing glowed with rich colour, having been painted or dyed with marvellous skill into representations of various apparently symbolical subjects, as were also the lights in a great central dome which, supported by massive columns, occupied about three-fourths of the roof space of the apartment. These columns as well as the walls and flat portion of the roof of the hall, were also very elaborately decorated in colour, while the floor was composed of white marble. A long, thin rod, which might be gold, judging from its sheen and colour, depended from the great boss, or keystone, of the dome, supporting a group of seven beautifully ornate, lighted lamps, at a height of about twenty feet above the floor; and immediately beneath these there was a table covered with a cloth, woven in a most intricate and elegant pattern, apparently of very fine gold thread. Upon this table there lay a large roll of parchment manuscript, wound upon two golden rods, decorated with what looked like pine cones wrought in gold at the ends; and behind the table stood seven venerable men with long white moustaches, and beards reaching to their waists, clad in a hooded garment of finest wool, dyed black, reaching to their feet. Their hoods were drawn so far over their heads and faces that little of their features could be seen, save their eyes, which glowed out of the sombre shadow cast by their hoods.
The young Englishmen, still in the custody of the guard, were marched up to within about ten feet of the table, where they were halted; whereupon the central and apparently oldest figure of the seven said, in a deep, grave voice—which both at once recognised as that which had spoken from behind the grille:
“Draw near, strangers, and take the oath which shall free you from the ban of the law, and make you citizens of Izreel for the remainder of your lives. Lay your right hands upon this roll and, with your left hands raised toward heaven, repeat after me:—
“I swear, by the Sun, Moon, and Stars, by Light and Darkness, by the Powers of the Air, and by the Flame of the seven lamps which burn forever, that I will never seek to leave Izreel without first obtaining the royal assent, and that henceforth I will devote myself to its service in such manner as I shall be directed!”
The oath sounded formidable enough, but after all it really meant little to those who were called upon to take it, and they took it unhesitatingly, with the full intention of keeping it both in letter and in spirit—since an oath was an oath, whatever form its wording might assume—and, this done, Benoni and his guard were dismissed, and the two newly enrolled citizens of Izreel were left alone with the seven whom they subsequently came to know as the Elders.
The stern attitude of these toward the two aliens was now considerably relaxed; they invited Phil and Dick to accompany them into another and a much smaller room, where, to the great satisfaction of the Englishmen, they found a substantial meal awaiting them, and to this the entire party forthwith sat down. The appetite of the ex-prisoners was by this time brought to a fine edge by their somewhat protracted fast, and they did full justice to the fare placed before them, to the wonder and admiration of their hosts, who, it appeared, were themselves but indifferent trenchermen. The meal over, and the attendants dismissed, Malachi, the chief of the Elders, and the man who had delivered judgment in the Judgment Hall, turned to Grosvenor and said:
“And now, O Philip! the moment has arrived when we, the Elders, must decide in what manner you and he whom you call Dick may best serve Izreel. Tell me, therefore, I pray you, what ye can both best do, in order that we may assign to each of you a useful vocation.”
“That is all very well,” remarked Grosvenor rather ruefully, when he had translated this speech to Dick. “So far as you are concerned the matter is simple enough; you are a doctor, and when once these chappies have had an example of your skill in that line I expect they’ll find you plenty to do. But what can I do? Absolutely nothing useful! I can ride, shoot, sail a yacht passably—”
“Stop!” cried Dick impulsively. “Ask these ancients whether they know what sails are. If they don’t—and I’ll bet they do not, or they would have used them yesterday—your vocation is cut out for you. You can teach them how to use sails, and also how to model their craft upon better lines; and by the time that you have finished that job I have no doubt another will turn up. Just talk to the old gentlemen along those lines, and see what comes of it.”
And Grosvenor did, with the happiest results. He ascertained that the Izreelites knew nothing whatever about sails, or indeed how to use the wind in any way as a labour-saver; and when he told his little audience that boats could be propelled, corn ground, water pumped, and a number of other useful things done by the power of wind alone, they were at first very strongly inclined to suspect him of romancing. But when he further offered to demonstrate to them the truth of his assertion they at once agreed to afford him every facility for so doing, and cheerfully promised to place at his disposal such men and material as he might require.
And when he came to speak of Dick’s qualifications as a healer of all manner of diseases and injury to the human anatomy, they were even more greatly surprised and delighted, for, astonishing as it may appear in the case of a people so highly civilised in many respects as were the Izreelites, they knew practically nothing of either medicine or surgery, and pinned their faith entirely to the efficacy of charms and incantations. Moreover, it soon transpired that they had a particular as well as a general reason for rejoicing at the fact that a physician of real and proved ability had come among them; for, after a considerable amount of discussion among themselves, Grosvenor was informed that the whole nation was racked with anxiety concerning the health of the young Queen Myra, who seemed gradually becoming deranged; the especial significance of their anxiety being explained by the fact—stated with the utmost gravity—that an ancient prophecy, in which they placed the most implicit faith, foretold that should ever a monarch die without issue, the fall of the nation and its absorption by its savage neighbours would immediately follow. The point of it all lay in the fact that the Queen was unwedded, and insisted on remaining so, while the savages who surrounded Izreel on every side were daily becoming more aggressive!
“Now, here is your chance, Dick,” explained Grosvenor delightedly, when he had translated the above particulars to his friend. “You sail in with your pills and potions, cure the Queen, marry her, make me your Prime Minister, and we all live happily ever afterwards, like the people in the fairy tales—eh, what? Shall I tell these chappies that they need not worry any further about their Queen, for that you are prepared to cure her, whatever her malady may happen to be?”
“Of course not,” answered Dick seriously. “But you may say, if you like, that I shall be very pleased to see Her Majesty and do what I can for her. And pray try to be serious, Phil, for once in a way; frivolity is well enough at a proper time, and in its proper place, but it will not improve these people’s opinion of us if they see us laughing and obviously joking over a matter that seems to be a serious enough one for them, and may be sufficiently serious for us, too, in the long run.”
“Yes—yes—of course,” assented Grosvenor, completely sobered by his friend’s grave words; “I quite see what you mean, old chap, and I promise you there shall be no further ill-timed attempts at jocularity on my part. The poor old chappies look a bit put out as it is; but I’ll soon make it all right with them.”
Therewith he proceeded to explain to the Elders that, while his friend could not promise anything definite without first seeing the Queen, he was willing to have an interview with her at once, or at Her Majesty’s earliest convenience, and would do everything in his power to restore her to perfect health.
This announcement at once banished the glum looks which Grosvenor’s ill-timed levity of demeanour had called up, and restored matters to the favourable condition that had been momentarily endangered. A brief consultation was held, and at its conclusion Malachi, the chief Elder, hurried away to seek an audience of the Queen with the object of endeavouring to secure her consent to an interview with the wonderful doctor from afar. Meanwhile the two Englishmen were conducted up a magnificently wide marble staircase to the building that formed the second story, as it were, of the immense edifice in which they had been brought to trial, and which they now learned was the Government building in which the business of the nation generally was transacted, and the chief officials of the Government had lodging, the topmost story of all being a temple to which the Elders were wont to resort in times of especial national stress and danger, and where they were supposed to seek—and obtain—inspiration and guidance enabling them to successfully grapple with the crisis.
The second story of this curious building, which was part legislative palace and part temple, was the portion especially devoted to the lodgment of the Government officials, and it was a gratifying indication to the two friends of their future status in their new country that they were now assigned apartments in this portion of the building. These apartments consisted of two large and exceedingly lofty rooms, one to serve as a sleeping chamber, and the other as a sitting- and working-room combined. Each room was lighted by an exceptionally large window that opened like a door and gave access to the projecting roof of the story below, which was some sixty feet wider, each way, than the story immediately above it. This roof was flat, and was beautifully laid out as a flower garden, with winding walks through a level lawn thickly studded with beds of beautiful, sweet-scented flowers. The garden was protected all round by a breast-high parapet, and commanded a magnificent view, not only of the entire island, but also of the lake and the encircling hills. The Elder who installed the newcomers in this sumptuous suite of apartments having enquired whether their lodging was to their liking, and received a reply in the affirmative, informed them that, that being the case, the belongings which they had brought with them to the island would at once be placed in their new lodging. Then, having asked whether he could do anything more for their immediate comfort, and being answered in the negative, he indicated an immense copper gong on the landing outside their door, informed them that a single stroke upon it would at once bring the attendant who had been appointed to wait upon them, and so bowed himself out.
Meanwhile, Malachi, the chief Elder, was having a rather difficult time with the self-willed young Queen. First of all she positively refused to grant him an audience at all; and when at length he succeeded in obtaining admission to her apartments by his persistent representations that the matter upon which he desired to see her was of the most vital importance, she at once angrily ordered him out again as soon as she understood that he had found a new physician whom he desired her to see. But if the Queen was self-willed, Malachi was the very incarnation of pertinacity; he protested, wheedled, entreated, and was indignant by turns, but all to no purpose until he happened to mention that the physician in question was a stranger from a far country beyond the Great Water; when, first commanding him to repeat his statement all over again, she suddenly developed a sweet reasonableness, that caused the astonished Malachi to doubt the evidence of his senses, by announcing that she would see the stranger, who was to be brought into her presence forthwith.