After galloping for some miles with the few chiefs who had escaped from the fatal field, a short halt was allowed to refresh the horses, and Medóko proclaimed his intention of accompanying the party no further. Asylum and assistance were offered in vain; the stout heart of the rebel had been quelled by the late heavy loss he had sustained, and for a time at least he bowed to the power of the monarch of Shoa. Short was the moment allowed for the explanation, and after a hurried parting and a hope for better days, the band mounted and pressed on.
Medóko and his surviving son Chára, now commenced the more difficult undertaking of threading their path back again among the advancing Amhára; but a perfect knowledge of the localities enabled them to take advantage of every hill and hollow. After many weary hours of anxiety they passed the capital undiscovered, and urging their horses to speed, took the road to Ankóber. The Beréza was swollen and unfordable, but their gallant steeds successfully breasted the rushing waters. The king’s watchmen had left their cold posts, in order to take shelter from the cutting blast, before the riders swept down the rocky defile of the Chaka, towards the wooded sides of Mamrat; and long ere the voice of the brotherhood had risen in the matin chant, the rebels had been formally admitted to sanctuary, and were safely reposing in the sacred monastery of Affaf Woira.
Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.
Tragic End of Medóko.
In an open glade, at the foot of the great mountain range, stands the church of Affaf Woira, and the tenement of Abba Salama, its superior, enclosed by a rough stone wall. Numerous huts are scattered in clusters over a wooded eminence, which rises on the steep side of the river, and here the indolent brothers,
“Beneath the shade of melancholy boughs.
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.”
An air of the most perfect repose usually pervades the scene. The inmates are alike indifferent to the blast of winter and to the cares of life. Majestic trees tower high overhead, yielding undisturbed protection to the vulture and the white ibis. The “monk of the wood,” the Guréza ape, there displays his variegated coat floating in peace amongst the mossy branches; and whilst every breath from beneath wafts up the perfumed air, the lazy monk of the monastery, during the entire day, basks in the sun amidst the bright flowers of nature’s growth, gazing in apathy on the sparkling stream which steals through the forest, half hid in a fringe of the willow and the bamboo.
But bustle and confusion for once disturbed this dreamy repose. The priests had been engaged in noisy choir, and the sacred drum had resounded since dawn of day. At length the portals of the hallowed edifice were thrown open, and the holy procession, under the thundering chorus of an Abyssinian psalm, moved over the bright greensward. The gay umbrellas of the church, rich in satin and silver, led the van, and the corpulent Superior, in his white cotton robes, followed the insignia, bestriding a sleek mule decked in metal chains and tinkling bells. At his side marched the bearers of the straight falchions, sheathed in scabbards of polished silver. A band of priests followed, with their heads swathed in folds of white cotton, and their persons wrapped in black woollen cloaks, profusely studded with blood-red crosses and other emblems of Christianity; and closing the procession strode two hundred stout dirty monks, clothed in the skin of the wild antelope, with their shaven heads enveloped in dark greasy cloths, each carrying in his hand a small iron cross, and joining the tribute of his lusty throat to the deafening chant. Dell and dingle rung again as the psalm increased in violence, and the cavalcade, threading the intricacies of the wood, proceeded on its mission of mercy, to implore pardon for the rebel who had thrown himself on the protection of the monastery.