At the Queen's Mercy

by Mabel Fuller Blodgett

Astolba’s story had made me a little late, and Lah loved not to wait the coming of either subject or lover. A dozen slave girls were seated on a rug in the room’s centre; as I took my tardy place beside the Queen, they, at the royal word, began a love chant that was strangely sweet and plaintive. Perhaps I praised their voices over much; perhaps the jealous humor that had seized their mistress had not yet been spent. However this may be, I know the musicians were, at a word, dismissed, while, at Lah’s command, one of the slaves attending on the Queen’s person took the vacant place.

Soft strains of wild, sad music came from a room beyond, and at the royal signal the girl began to dance. Hers was a slender, jewelled figure, and it floated hither and thither, like some gaudy tropical blossom blown by the wind. Her whole body responded to the half-savage harmonies; her arms wreathed themselves to the measures of the melody; her bracelets and anklets tinkled as she swayed.

Then as the strains grew wilder, discordant and yet strangely sweet, I know not how it happened, but the veil that covered the girl’s face was thrown back. I saw that she was beautiful, despite her red-bronze skin; saw for an instant only, it is true, but in that instant the Queen beside me was changed from a woman to a wild beast that springs upon its prey.

At the first words I saw the poor girl sink before the feet of Lah, in a mute agony of supplication and of fear,—while from behind the throne two burly blacks came forth to do the Queen’s bidding. I do not know how I had wit to use the words I did. Perhaps Astolba’s story furnished me the key. But I will say that never was human life in more deadly peril. I thank Heaven that I have not its ending, in some measure, to lay at my door. Trembling from head to foot the maid passed from the royal presence, to disgrace and imprisonment indeed, but not to death.

The sound of her weeping had not died away before Lah had become her same, sweet, gentle self of the last five days. But I had seen that which could not be forgotten. Astolba’s anguish was branded upon my mind. Her white face came between the Queen and me, yet I had learned dark wisdom in that same Palace, and I think I showed not the change that had come upon me.

Nevertheless, I turned over and over in my mind every device that could lead to freedom. But I had now to guard against an enemy more potent and subtle than Agno or any of his priest-ridden mob. I walked slowly, with bent head, towards the women’s apartments, and there was little profit in my musing.

Then the thought came to me to match Astolba’s wit against the Queen’s; and even, as half-smiling I pondered the conceit, a hand fell lightly on my arm, and there before me stood the maid herself.

Now the mild sweetness, even the fears of my gentle fellow-captive held for me a new charm in the light of the tigress’s fury of her whose side I had but lately left. It won me the more that she should lean on me. And remorse burned within me that I had laughed at her terrors and left her, hardly more than an hour since, in heaviness of spirit, well nigh in tears.

So I took in my two great hands her little one, and it nestled unresisting but trembling like a bird ensnared by the fowler. Then I looked into the depths of her innocent eyes, and they drew me nearer with a strange power. So near that my lips had in another moment touched hers, and the words that began “Forgive me”—ended with “I love you.”

It was pretty to see the pink roses bloom again in that sweet face, raised in perfect trust to mine, and to myself I swore that, come what might, I would do a man’s part to keep them there.