Henry heard the sobbing of a child and a soothing voice. He descended deeper through the shrubbery, and discovered sitting beneath an old oak tree. A beautiful child hung crying on her neck, and she herself was weeping; a lute lay at her side upon the turf. She seemed a little alarmed when she saw the young stranger, who was drawing near with a saddened countenance.
"You have probably heard my song," said she kindly. "Your face seems familiar to me; let me think. My memory fails me, but the sight of you awakens in me a strange recollection of joyous days. O! it appears as if you resembled my brother, who before our disasters was separated from us and travelled to Persia, to visit a renowned poet there. Perhaps he yet lives and sadly sings the misfortunes of his sisters. Would that I yet remembered some of the beautiful songs he left us! He was noble and kind-hearted, and found his chief happiness in his lute."
The child, who was ten or twelve years old, looked at the strange youth attentively, and clung fast to the bosom of the unhappy Zulima. Henry's heart was penetrated with sympathy. He consoled the songstress with friendly words, and prayed her to relate to him her history circumstantially. She seemed not unwilling to do so. Henry seated himself before her, and listened to her tale, interrupted as it was by frequent tears. She dwelt principally upon the praises of her countrymen and fatherland. She portrayed their loftiness of soul, and their pure, strong susceptibility of life's poetry, and the wonderfully mysterious charms of nature, She described the romantic beauties of the fertile regions of Arabia, which lay like happy islands in the midst of impassable, sandy wastes, refuge places for the oppressed and weary, like colonies of Paradise,--full of fresh wells, whose streams trilled over dense meadows and glittering stones, through venerable groves, filled with every variety of singing birds; regions attractive also in numerous monuments of memorable past time.
"You would look with wonder," she said, "upon the many-colored, distinct, and curious traces and images upon the old stone slabs. They seem to have been always well known; nor have they been preserved without a reason. You muse and muse, you conjecture single meanings, and become more and more curious to arrive at the deep coherence of these old writings. Their unknown meaning excites unwonted meditation; and even though you depart without having solved the enigmas, you have yet made a thousand remarkable discoveries in yourself, which give to life a new refulgence, and to the mind an ever profitable occupation. Life, on a soil inhabited in olden time, and once glorious in its industry, activity, and attachment to noble pursuits, has a peculiar charm. Nature seems to have become there more human, more rational; a dim remembrance throws back through the transparent present the images of the world in marked outline; and thus you enjoy a twofold world, purged by this very process from the rude and disagreeable, and made the magic poetry and fable of the mind. Who knows whether also an indefinable influence of the former inhabitants, now departed, does not conspire to this end? And perhaps it is this hidden bias, that drives men from new countries, at a certain period of their awakening, with such a restless longing for the old home of their race, and that emboldens them to risk their property and life, for the sake of possessing these lands."
After a pause she continued.
"Believe not what you are told of the cruelties of my countrymen. Nowhere are captives treated more magnanimously; and even your pilgrims to Jerusalem were received with hospitality; only they seldom deserved it. Most of them were worthless men, who distinguished their pilgrimages by their evil deeds, and who, for that reason, often fell into the hands of just revenge. How peacefully might the Christian have visited the holy sepulchre, without being under the necessity of commencing a terrible and useless war, which embitters everything, spreads abroad continued misery, and which has separated forever the land of the morning from Europe! What is there in the name of possessor? Our rulers reverentially honored the grave of your Holy One, whom we also consider a divine person; and how beautifully might his sacred tomb become the cradle of a happy union, the source of an alliance blessing all forever!"
Night overtook them during this conversation, darkness approached, and the moon rose in quiet light from the dark forest. They descended slowly towards the castle. Henry was full of thought, and his warlike inspiration had entirely vanished. He observed a strange confusion in the world; the moon assumed the appearance of a sympathizing spectator, and raised him above the ruggedness of the earth's surface, which there seemed so inconsiderable, however wild and insurmountable it might appear to the wanderer below. Zulima walked silently by his side, hand in hand with the child. Henry carried the lute. He endeavored to revive the sinking hope of his companion, to revisit once again her home, whilst he felt within him an earnest prompting to be her deliverer, though in what manner he knew not. A strange power seemed to lie in his simple words, for Zulima felt an unwonted tranquillity, and thanked him in the most touching manner for his consolation.
The knights were yet in their cups, and the mother was engaged in household gossip. Henry had no desire to return to the noisy hall. He felt weary, and with his mother soon betook himself to the chamber, that was set apart for them. He told her before he fell asleep, what had happened, and soon sank into pleasant dreams. The merchants had also retired betimes, and were early astir. The knights were in deep sleep, when they started on their journey; but the lady of the house tenderly took leave of them. Zulima had slept but little; an inward joy had kept her awake; she made her appearance as they were departing, and humbly but eagerly assisted the travellers. Before they started, she brought with many tears her lute to Henry, and touchingly besought him to take it with him as a remembrance of Zulima.
"It was my brother's lute," she said, "who gave it to me at our last parting; it is the only property I have saved. It seemed to please you yesterday, and you leave me an inestimable gift,--sweet hope. Take this small token of my gratitude, and let it be a pledge, that you will remember the poor Zulima. We shall certainly see each other again, and then perhaps I shall be much happier."
Henry wept. He was unwilling to take the lute, so indispensable to her happiness.