“We are voyagers from a distant land, who have been induced to visit your shores, from a desire to do honour to a country once so famous.”
The old man, without making any reply, hastily returned his sword to its scabbard, and then, with a countenance in which fearlessness and kindness were blended, held out his right hand. The hand of Oriel Porphyry was soon in its cordial and friendly grasp, and a compact of sociality seemed immediately agreed to between both parties. “And you, fair maid, need not be alarmed,” said Zabra, approaching the maiden with a look that might have inspired a savage with confidence. “You will meet amongst us none but friends anxious to do you honour and service.” She shrunk back from his advances with a strong feeling of timidity expressed in her features; yet continued to gaze on the handsome face and graceful person of the speaker, as if they had for her an attraction impossible to be resisted.
“The child is unused to strangers,” observed her companion, as he noticed the shy and wondering manner with which she regarded Zabra. “It is long since she has seen a human being except myself. Be not afraid, Lilya,” he exclaimed, as he drew her towards him. “These are not enemies. They are wanderers, like ourselves; but they have a home and kindred—we have neither.”
The cheerful countenance of the old man now became clouded with melancholy, and he sighed as if there was a heaviness upon his heart that could not be removed; but the timid Lilya still gazed upon the features of the young musician, as if she found it impossible to remove her eyes from their beauty. There was an extraordinary contrast between her and her companion. She seemed just in the dawn of womanhood, with delicate limbs, and looks all bashfulness and pleased surprise; while he appeared on the extreme verge of old age—all bone and sinews, hard and rough with exposure to the severities of time and climate. She was evidently too young to be his daughter; but that there was some relationship between them was evident, for even in the gentle loveliness that distinguished her youthful face might be discerned faint traces of resemblance to the ancient but noble example of manhood that stood by her side.
“Your appearance has much interested me,” said the young merchant, gazing on the stranger’s venerable appearance with affectionate respect; “and I hope it will not be deemed intrusive or impertinent if I inquire who it is I behold.”
“You see before you the last of the Englishmen,” said the old man, looking proudly upon the inquirer.
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Oriel, regarding him with increased admiration and a voluntary feeling of homage.
“The last of that powerful and illustrious race is now before you,” he added, “and this is the child of my child’s child. We are all that remain of the great people who filled this island with their multitudes and the world with their fame. Kindred and countrymen—all are gone; their homes are the habitations of the wild cat and the vulture, and even their very graves have been made desolate by the jackal and the hyena.”
“You appear to have attained a great age,” remarked Zabra.
“Alas! I have outlived my country,” replied the Englishman. “A hundred and twenty years have passed since my existence commenced. Time has forgotten me. I have been where the sword was ploughing deep furrows around me far and near.—I have seen Death busy at his work amid the youthful, the old, the innocent and the guilty.—I have noticed the young trees grow up, put forth their bravery, and die.—I have beheld mighty buildings crumble into dust.—I have known all things perish before my eyes: yet I have remained untouched in the midst of the desolation.—Three generations have passed away, and have left me to gather consolation from their tombs.”