Part 29 (1/2)

Roxana looked on him; pity was in her eyes, and he knew he was taking pleasure in her pitying.

”The magic water you ask is not to be drunk from goblets,” she answered him, ”but the charmed valley lies in the vales of Bactria, the 'Roof of the World,' high amid mountains crowned with immortal snows. Every good tree and flower are here, and here winds the mystic Oxus, the great river sweeping northward. And here, if anywhere, on Mazda's wide, green earth, can the trouble-tossed have peace.”

”Then it is so beautiful?” said the Athenian.

”Beautiful,” answered Mardonius and Artazostra together. And Roxana, with an approving nod from her brother, arose and crossed the tent where hung a simple harp.

”Will my Lord Prexaspes listen,” she asked, ”if I sing him one of the homely songs of the Aryans in praise of the vales by the Oxus? My skill is small.”

”It should suffice to turn the heart of Persephone, even as did Orpheus,”

answered the Athenian, never taking his gaze from her.

The soft light of the swinging lamps, the heavy fragrance of the frankincense which smouldered on the brazier, the dark l.u.s.tre of the singer's eyes-all held Glaucon as by a spell. Roxana struck the harp. Her voice was sweet, and more than desire to please throbbed through the strings and song.

”O far away is gliding The pleasant Oxus's stream, I see the green glades darkling, I see the clear pools gleam.

I hear the bulbuls calling From blooming tree to tree.

Wave, bird, and tree are singing, 'Away! ah, come with me!'

”By Oxus's stream is rising Great Cyrus's marble halls; Like rain of purest silver, His tinkling fountain falls; To his cool verdant arbours What joy with thee to flee.

I'll join with bird and river, 'Away! rest there with me!'

”Forget, forget old sorrows, Forget the dear things lost!

There comes new peace, new brightness, When darksome waves are crossed; By Oxus's streams abiding, From pang and strife set free, I'll teach thee love and gladness,- Rest there, for aye, with me!”

The light, the fragrance, the song so pregnant with meaning, all wrought upon Glaucon of Athens. He felt the warm glow in his cheeks; he felt subtle hands outstretching as if drawing forth his spirit. Roxana's eyes were upon him as she ended. Their gaze met. She was very fair, high-born, sensitive. She was inviting him to put away Glaucon the outcast from h.e.l.las, to become body and soul Prexaspes the Persian, ”Benefactor of the King,” and sharer in all the glories of the conquering race. All the past seemed slipping away from him as unreal. Roxana stood before him in her dark Oriental beauty; Hermione was in Athens-and they were giving her in marriage to Democrates. What wonder he felt no mastery of himself, though all that day he had kept from wine?

”A simple song,” spoke Mardonius, who seemed marvellously pleased at all his sister did, ”yet not lacking its sweetness. We Aryans are without the elaborate music the Greeks and Babylonians affect.”

”Simplicity is the highest beauty,” answered the Greek, as if still in his trance, ”and when I hear Euphrosyne, fairest of the Graces, sing with the voice of Erato, the Song-Queen, I grow afraid. For a mortal may not hear things too divine and live.”

Roxana replaced the harp and made one of her inimitable Oriental courtesies,-a token at once of grat.i.tude and farewell for the evening.

Glaucon never took his gaze from her, until with a rustle and sweep of her blue gauze she had glided out of the tent. He did not see the meaning glances exchanged by Mardonius and Artazostra before the latter left them.

When the two men were alone, the bow-bearer asked a question.

”Dear Prexaspes, do you not think I should bless the twelve archangels I possess so beautiful a sister?”

”She is so fair, I wonder that Zeus does not haste from Olympus to enthrone her in place of Hera.”

The bow-bearer laughed.

”No, I crave for her only a mortal husband. Though there are few in Persia, in Media, in the wide East, to whom I dare entrust her.

Perhaps,”-his laugh grew lighter,-”I would do well to turn my eyes westward.”

Glaucon did not see Roxana again the next day nor for several following, but in those days he thought much less on Hermione and on Athens.