“Ganga! Ganga!” repeats a low well-known tone near her, and she is raised by the hand of Demetros. Noiseless he releases her from her fetters, and throwing the robe of a Brahmin over her shoulders, bears her away in the darkness. Swift and silent they pass into the open air—cool to the hot brow and fevered lips of Ganga. Half-leading and half-supporting her, her preserver conducts her down the rocky path to the sea-shore. Hurried was their conversation—it was but a whispered caution on his side; on hers, a murmur of gratitude. Demetros hastens to unmoor the boat, which, hid under the banks, awaited the needs of the priests. They embark on the quiet waters, and Ganga begins to breathe more freely and to express her thanks to her deliverer. With quick motion he signs to her to be silent, and bending his powerful frame with strong but quiet stroke, urges the boat—reeling under the shock—through the rippling tide. Soon they reach the main shore, and pass under the leafy protection of the banks, just as the torches and cries on the island give token of the aroused and baffled Brahmins. Saved, they pass on like shadows under the arching boughs of the forest.
Verdant in summer are the shores of the foaming Hydaspes. The broad, yet impetuous stream roars on its rocky, seaward course. Itself in breadth resembling the vast expanse of ocean: yet not with the slow, mighty surging of the great deep, does it lave its confining banks; but rolling with struggling wave it rebounds from the repulsing strand, like a ball from the head of the buffalo. Yet it is no shallow stream, that, with puny murmur, frets impatient on its rough bed; but the yawning waters disclose abysses which could swallow the mighty elephant. On its banks reposes the lion, when tired with hunting the antelope. On the crags sits the rapacious eagle, watching his finny victims. One mightier than the lion, one more cruel than the eagle, now waited for his human prey, wary and shrewd in watching, on the Indian side of the river.
Why do the youth and the maiden start and pause on the skirt of the forest? They gaze with impatient, hollow eyes on the long-sought banks of the Hydaspes. Their emaciated forms and tangled hair, their sun-scorched features and cautious mien betray their long wandering, their contest with a thousand perils. Why do they not hasten to pass the goal of their journey, and escape from the fury of the pursuing priests into neighboring, friendly Indo-Scythia? Is it not the hope of this result with which the young fugitive has cheered the heart of his weary though courageous companion? And will they, who have long months been traversing the dangerous wilds of the forest, hesitate to plunge into the fierce stream and swim to the region of safety? Farewell to all fond hopes, they recognize all around them the swarthy race who bow to the rule of the Brahmins. If but a scattered few were tilling the soil, they might still escape their attention. Alas! there is a mighty host encamped on the stream, with arms and warlike engines, with holy priests, with banners and vigilant sentinels.
The quiet camp was disturbed by the neighing of horses, the shouting of their drivers, and the shrill blast of the war-elephant. A long row of these cumbrous but terrible animals was placed in front of the waiting army, and nearest the bank of the river. The murmur of a vast multitude, that confused sound of many voices, was mixed with the echoing hoofs of thousands of horses, while the occasional beat of the drum united with the swelling chant of the war-song. Glittering with bright armor, the warriors moved around the camp, eager for the deadly conflict.
The terrified wanderers were seized and conducted into the presence of the king—Porus, the ruler of the country. Porus, the gigantic in stature, the Indian Hercules, and in cunning the Indian Nestor, there awaited the coming of Alexander, the attack of the great Macedonian, whose fame had preceded his approach. The world’s conqueror had turned his ambitious arms to the fair land of India. Her “barbaric pearl and gold” had tempted his soldiery—her vast domain the ambition of the general. He had even then crossed the Indus, and advancing to the outer bank of the Hydaspes, was now preparing to pass this bounding stream and assault the power of Porus.
Here, then, the cunning Indian had placed his army, burning to protect their native soil, where the steep banks of the river afforded a natural fortification. Here, most unfortunately, had the fugitives from Elephantum first emerged from the friendly shade of the forest into the open, fatal light of day. Thus again captives, they are led before the monarch. There, fearful of betraying their fatal secret, their confused answers arouse the suspicions of Porus, and by him they are committed to the care of the guards, to await through the long and anxious night the announcement of their fate on the morrow. Conscious that their pursuers must now overtake them, Ganga, now wholly despairing, refutes the empty consolation of Demetros. Wearied nature, however, asserts its sway—the worn-out fugitives pass the night in dull, dreamless sleep, in the camp of their enemies.
How goes the night? The clouds in the angry south-western sky announce the approach of the thunder. What picture do the winds behold as they cross to the farther shore of the Hydaspes? Is it a sleeping camp? It is the busy note of preparation—the bustle of a moving multitude—the tramp of soldiers moving toward the stream with steady step, unheeding the war of the elements and the clashing of steel upon steel, as they pass. It is the march of the Greeks. The great phalanx, now divided for secrecy, advances with quiet firmness to cross the stormy Hydaspes. Their skillful leader, taught by many campaigns, has chosen this tempestuous night, when the tumult of nature may drown the noise of the army. Perceiving the advantages of his adversary, he has thus determined to outwit him, and by crossing the dangerous river in secrecy and silence, to meet the enemy upon the level plains on the farther side of the stream. Occasional flashes of lightning are the only guides to their path. The rain patters upon the metal helmets of the infantry, and the war-mail of the horses. Snorting with terror, the animals are forced along by the governing will of their masters. The heavy peals of thunder roll through the sky like the rumbling of a thousand chariot-wheels, as they fly over the field of battle. The great host reaches the banks of the stream, which, roused by the storm, rages doubly threatening, chafing with white foam like the steed impatient of his rider. The affrighted horses start back from the leap into the boiling current, seething and hissing like the swift-winged flight of the loosened arrow. With hardly less of terror the soldiers recoil from the roaring waters, rolling sullen now in silence with vast depth, now rushing swiftly over some protruding rock vainly opposing their progress. Shame on the warriors who heedless of death when animated by the despair of defeat, or roused by the clamor of victory, now yield to the power of water! And will the great Polemarch, for whom Macedonia was too small, who sighed for other worlds to subdue, be tamed by the rage of a brooklet when he has crossed the mighty Indus? On! on, good horse! Hasten foot-soldiers, and overcome the pride of the Indian! Will you rather cross this stream in light of day, when every wave will be tinged with your arrow-spent blood? Will you rather climb yon craggy banks, when crowned by the glittering columns of the enemy, and overhung with the trunks of the destroying elephant? On! and trust to your well-tried strength, the kindness of the gods, and the response of the auspicious omen! There is for a moment a gleaming in the air—the flashing steel of the youthful hero—then a loud plunge in the water, and all save one shining crest has vanished. It passes on and on, away from the gaze of the hesitating army; then instantly a mighty rush, and the river is alive with horses, curling under the strokes of the swimmers. The resounding plates of the armor sound faint and hollow beneath the water. The howling blast sweeps ever new waves over the heads of the struggling soldiers. The flashing in the heavens illumes for a moment the stormy scene—shows men and horses mingling in wild confusion, tossing, rising above the black waves—shows some far down the stream, mounted on panting steeds, struggling to regain their foothold, plunging in the yielding water—shows the brief expression of dying agony ere it sinks down in the darkness—the glad look of triumph, as some one more fortunate gains the opposite strand and climbs the beetling precipice—shows all silent and unmoving the shore where Porus is waiting—shows the great war-horse and his rider clear against the dull sky, as they watch the progress of the swimming army—and then the black pall shuts down over all, and envelops in one common gloom; and naught more is seen until sunrise, naught more heard but the surging of the angry Hydaspes.