“A gate of entrance to the tomb we see,
But a departure thence there ne’er shall be.
The living waves his signal high,
But where’s the loved one’s fond reply?
Ah! where are those thus doomed to die?
“Vain man! observ’st thou not the dead?
No more their homeward path they tread.
The freeman lost may ransom’d be,
By silver’s magic power set free;
But, once the deadly hand has laid them low,
No voice can move them, for they cease to know.
Regardless of our love they lie;
Unknown the friends that o’er them sigh;
Oh! where are those thus doom’d to die?”
Again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. His appearance and words had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved. It was as if they were spell-bound. Once more the poet spoke, and this time in tones of deepest pathos—
“Vain man! why groan ye for the dead?
To be with Jesus they have fled,
With shattered limbs—’mid scorching flame,
They sang the praises of His name;
Now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore
Whence ransom’d sinners shall depart no more.
But ah! while mangled corpses lie,
Our trembling, riven hearts will cry—
‘Why, why were those thus doom’d to die?’”
The man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank on his breast.
“I fear much,” whispered Ravonino to Mark, “that I understand but too well what he means.”
Without waiting for a reply the guide rose. Going up to Razafil he laid his hand gently on his arm, and said—
“My brother!”
The bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by the wrist as with a grip of iron.
“Ravoninohitriniony,” he said, fiercely, “my little one is dead! She is gone! They took her—a mere child—they tortured her, but she would not yield. Hear what I say. You knew her well—the soft one; the tender one, who was always so pliable, so unselfish, so easily led,—she would not yield! They led her to the place of execution; they tied her to a stake and kindled the fire about her beautiful limbs,—my little child, Raniva! I saw the skin upon her flesh blacken and crack and blaze. But she sang! sang loud and clear! I would have rushed into the fire to her but they held me back—four strong men held me! When she was consumed they led me away to the torture—but I burst from them—escaped—I know not how—I care not! for my little one is lost!—lost!—”
“Nay, Razafil—not lost!” said Ravonino, in a quiet but firm tone, for he saw the gleam increasing in the poor father’s eyes. “Did you not say just now that she is singing with joy unspeakable the praises of His name?”