Abdael, the other messenger, was well mounted upon a horse of a celebrated Tartar stock—but the animal was of a humbler line, and of less imposing qualities than the horse of Phalax. His attendants, too, were common soldiers, though of tried valor and long experience.
As the two parties set forth from the palace of the prince, there was a shout among the populace—some calling out, “Phalax! Phalax!” and others, though very few, “Abdael! Abdael!” The superior beauty and splendor of the prince’s party dazzled and pleased the eyes of the unthinking rabble, who are apt to look only at the outside of things; beside, they had been taught to look upon those of noble blood with respect; and, more than all, mankind are apt to be on the side which seems to be that of power, and likely to obtain success. It was for these reasons that the greatest portion of the spectators, cheered Phalax, while only a few, who reflected more justly, encouraged Abdael, the more humble and modest of the rival messengers.
As Phalax was about to depart, his princely father beckoned him to his side, and whispered in his ear a single word—“Success and glory, my son! may the Father of light bless thee!”—It was almost at the same moment, that an old man stood at the side of Abdael. He was evidently poor, for his garments betokened it—but he was still of a respectable mien. “Give me thine ear, Abdael,” said he. The young man bent in his saddle. “The chances are against thee, my boy, for the prince has, in his heart, designed thy ruin, and his son’s triumph; yet there is one thing thou canst do.” “What is it, my father?” said Abdael. “Thy duty”—was the reply. “It shall be done!” said the young man; and he rode away.
Thus the messengers set forth, guided by different counsels, and influenced by different motives. Phalax was impelled by the thought of glory and triumph; Abdael, by a sense of duty. The issue of the story will show that the first is a wavering principle, beaming brightly for a time, like a full lamp, but soon exhausted, and finally going out at the moment of utmost need; while the other is like a heaven-set star, ever in the same place, and ever leading its votary on in the straight and narrow path of wisdom and safety.
Phalax and his companions dashed on with great ardor, taking the road that led through a series of beautiful valleys. The first day, they travelled with the utmost rapidity and diligence, and at evening found themselves far advanced in their journey; but, on the morrow, they were all stiff and sore; and the horses were not a little jaded. The next day, they went but a short distance, and stopped for the night at a little village. Near by, was the palace of a prince, who, hearing of their arrival, invited them to come and see him. Now, the young men knew that this prince was a great hypocrite, and that, under the guise of friendship to the Khan, he nourished the most deadly hostility. Prudence would have dictated a polite refusal of the invitation, but they were anxious to enjoy the luxuries of the palace: so they said, “This act of the prince is too gracious a piece of courtesy to be slighted;” and, therefore, they went to the palace. Here they were entertained with great splendor. A rich banquet was provided, with music and wine, and dancing, and other festivities.
The young men entered heartily into the pleasures of the scene. Phalax drank deeply—and when he was about to put another goblet to his lips, one of his more discreet companions said, in a whisper, “Beware! remember your message—remember your father’s counsel—‘glory and success.’”
“You are a fool,” said Phalax, already partially intoxicated; “I’m not so much a dastard as to take a dastard’s advice;” and saying this, he drank off the goblet, and, in a short time, fell stupified beneath the table.
While this was the state of the leader of the party, the rest were little better. They drank deeply, and, passing into the gardens, where were walks, and fountains, and flowers, and everything to delight the senses, they spent the remainder of the night in dissipation.
It was not till late the third day after the scene we have described, that Phalax and his friends awoke from the deep sleep into which they fell, after their dissipation; for the wine they had drunk, had an infusion in it of a sleepy drug. This had been contrived by the command of the deceitful prince, who, under pretence of hospitality, took this method of thwarting the purpose of the messengers.
Thus Phalax and his party lost two entire days, yet they did not know it. When they recovered, they had their horses saddled, and set out again on their journey. But they were all weary, enfeebled, and out of humor. For some time, they rode on in silence. They then began to grumble at one thing and another. At last, the young man who had been insulted by Phalax at the table, spoke to him on the subject. The latter denied the truth of the charge, and insinuated that he never said what was imputed to him. The youth retorted: “Do you call me a liar?” said he. “I do,” said Phalax, fiercely. “You are a coward,” said the youth. “Let us prove it,” said Phalax, in a rage.