Filled with gloomy foreboding as he noticed this sudden and total change in the old Jew, Othniel left him in the care of gentle friends, and hastened away in the direction of the prison once more.
The sun was setting as he neared the great walls, and the youth saw a procession moving from the gates, and a band of soldiers was guarding the death-doomed prisoner! The crowd gathered and increased with every step of the slowly moving procession—in solemn silence Jew and Mahommedan strode together, for the moment forgetful of all save the mournful cause which brought them there.
A moment Othniel moved on hastily, he would rejoin Myrrah, would be with her to the last—then a remembrance of his own weakness, and of the effect his sorrow might produce upon her, stayed him—and apart from the crowd he walked or crept, slowly and heavily, for the burden of his unutterable sorrow was too great to bear.
Afar in the distance, beyond the confines of the town, the funeral pile was to be made—the sacrifice pure and innocent as was ever brought to the altar, was to be offered up.
Alone, deprived of her comforting words, and removed from the restraining presence of the old man, Othniel thought on all that she had been to him in the happy past, of all that she might have been in that future to which they were wont to look with so much hope. He called to mind her beauty, her youth, and her innocence; the love which she cherished for all that was good, and pure, and true; for her aged father, and for his unworthy self.
And as he thought, darker and darker grew the cloud that swept over his mind; the lightning of hope one second blazed athwart it, but was close followed by the heavy pealing thunder of despair. His step grew feeble and slow. The crowd was fast passing by him, soon they were all gone, and the youth still tried to totter on, as a feeble little child—for what? to look once more, but once on her beloved face—but not to witness her agony, he could not endure that. Faintness crept over his limbs—his eyes became dim—slower and slower was his step, but still he strove desperately to move on in that direction in which the multitude had gone.
At last he was forced to pause—his strength had all deserted him. There were trees growing by the wayside, and a little spring wound through the pleasant grove. Othniel reached the shade, and half-fainting, flung himself upon the ground. He bathed his burning brow in the cool stream, he drank of the reviving waters, but though by degrees strength came again to his limbs, there was a faintness in his heart that would not pass.
Soon impelled irresistibly to the road-side again, Othniel looked toward the north—there whither the crowd had gone. Great Heaven! the black, hateful smoke already was staining the pure air! and a murmur that arose from the great mass of people, a faint sound of wo, was wafted to his ear on the soft breath of evening. Inspired with new life and strength, he moved again swiftly on. He must see indeed if it were indeed a reality that they would sacrifice his bride, his worshiped Myrrah, to that hellish lie the Moor had conceived. The weakness of limb was gone with that thought. Forward he rushed as borne on the eagle’s wings, until he stood with the great multitude.
For a moment his heart failed him, and Othniel stood gazing on the armed guard who were ranged about the prisoner, on the blazing faggots, on the weeping men and women—on the pallid and sorrowful countenance of the pasha, on the motionless Orien Fez where he proudly stood with his powerful relatives, and on her, his beloved, adored Myrrah, who stood so calm, so brave before the kindled fire, that was kindled to consume her. Looking upon her as she stood thus, alone and unsupported, save by the inward sustaining consciousness of right and innocence, his resolve to only look and then depart, was broken; he lost all self-control, and with the force of a whirlwind rushed through the dense, astonished mass, that gave way right and left before him; past the ranks of vigilant soldiery with maniac speed, until in the centre of the awfully charmed circle, he flung himself before the pale, loving, and forgiving idol, about to be crushed and destroyed by the hand of power.
In those past moments, so fraught with horror to all about her, Othniel had been in all her thoughts—but she had hoped to never see his face on earth again—she had hoped that his dear voice might not come, drowning the voice of the angel God had sent to comfort and to strengthen her.