The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar, R. M. Ballantyne [tohfa e dulha read online .txt] 📗

wrong with him. At last he spoke in a kind of low singing tone which harmonised with his appearance—

“Vain man! Observ’st thou not the dead?
The morning warmth from them has fled,
Their mid-day joy and toil are o’er,
Though near, they meet fond friends no more.”

He paused and looked wildly yet tremblingly round, as if in search of some one, but took no notice of his friends, many of whom were present at the gathering. Then he continued in the same strain—

“A gate of entrance to the tomb we see,
But a departure thence there ne’er shall be.
    The living waves his signal high,
    But where’s the loved one’s fond reply?
    Ah! where are those thus doomed to die?
 
“Vain man! observ’st thou not the dead?
No more their homeward path they tread.
The freeman lost may ransom’d be,
By silver’s magic power set free;
But, once the deadly hand has laid them low,
No voice can move them, for they cease to know.
    Regardless of our love they lie;
    Unknown the friends that o’er them sigh;
    Oh! where are those thus doom’d to die?”

Again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. His appearance and words had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved. It was as if they were spell-bound. Once more the poet spoke, and this time in tones of deepest pathos—

“Vain man! why groan ye for the dead?
To be with Jesus they have fled,
With shattered limbs—’mid scorching flame,
They sang the praises of His name;
Now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore
Whence ransom’d sinners shall depart no more.
    But ah! while mangled corpses lie,
    Our trembling, riven hearts will cry—
    ‘Why, why were those thus doom’d to die?’”

The man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank on his breast.

“I fear much,” whispered Ravonino to Mark, “that I understand but too well what he means.”

Without waiting for a reply the guide rose. Going up to Razafil he laid his hand gently on his arm, and said—

“My brother!”

The bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by the wrist as with a grip of iron.

“Ravoninohitriniony,” he said, fiercely, “my little one is dead! She is gone! They took her—a mere child—they tortured her, but she would not yield. Hear what I say. You knew her well—the soft one; the tender one, who was always so pliable, so unselfish, so easily led,—she would not yield! They led her to the place of execution; they tied her to a stake and kindled the fire about her beautiful limbs,—my little child, Raniva! I saw the skin upon her flesh blacken and crack and blaze. But she sang! sang loud and clear! I would have rushed into the fire to her but they held me back—four strong men held me! When she was consumed they led me away to the torture—but I burst from them—escaped—I know not how—I care not! for my little one is lost!—lost!—”

“Nay, Razafil—not lost!” said Ravonino, in a quiet but firm tone, for he saw the gleam increasing in the poor father’s eyes. “Did you not say just now that she is singing with joy unspeakable the praises of His name?”

The words were fitly spoken. The father’s agonised soul was quieted, but as quietness partly returned to him, a new expression appeared on his countenance.

“Listen,” he said, still holding the guide’s wrist in his powerful grasp. “I go to my poor wife. She is safe in the cave with Réni-Mamba—”

“Not in the cave you think of,” interrupted the guide, explaining the change of abode which had been recently made by the Christian fugitives.

“No matter,” returned the bard, “I know all the caves, and can find the one she has gone to. But now I must warn you—warn all of you who are Christians,” he added, with emphasis, looking round upon the natives, “if there be any such among you—that Queen Ranavalona has got one of her bad fits again. She has ordered that no one is to sing or pray to Jesus, or to read the Word of God, on pain of imprisonment, death, or being sold into slavery. Many have been sold already, and some have died. Things would have been even worse, for the English missionary has left Antananarivo, but Prince Rakota remains our friend. Still, he cannot save every one. He could not save my Raniva! Now,” he added, turning to the guide abruptly, as if anxious to keep his mind from dwelling on his terrible bereavement, “you must go to Antananarivo with all haste if you would save Rafaravavy, for she is in great danger.”

The bard had touched a cord in Ravonino’s breast which vibrated sensitively.

“She has not confessed? She is not in prison?” he asked, quickly, with emotion which was too powerful to be entirely suppressed.

“As to confessing,” returned Razafil, “there is no need for her to do that, for it is well-known that she is a Christian; but the queen is fond of her and wishes to spare her. Nevertheless, she is so exceeding mad against us just now, that there is no saying when her forbearance may come to an end. If you would save Rafaravavy, you must get her out of the palace without delay.”

The guide did not reply for a few seconds. It was evident, from the knitted brows and the pallor of his countenance, that he was endeavouring to make up his mind to some course of action. Suddenly the frown passed from his brow, his countenance became perfectly calm, and his eyes closed.

“He is speaking with God,” whispered Laihova to one who sat near him.

Laihova may have been right. If so, the prayer was a very brief one, for the guide turned almost immediately to Voalavo and explained that in the circumstances it was absolutely necessary for him and his comrades to depart at once for the capital.

The chief, being a sympathetic as well as a hilarious soul, made no objection, but rather urged him to make haste.

Ravonino then turned to his white companions, who could, of course, only guess at the meaning of all that had been said, and explained to them the whole matter. They rose at once, and, having no preparations to make, professed to be ready to start there and then.

Now, while they were yet speaking, the festive party received another surprise, or alarm, which was even more exciting than the previous one.

A young man suddenly burst into the village with the announcement that a body of the Queen’s soldiers were close at hand. They had been sent off in pursuit of Razafil, with directions to scour the country, and bring in as many Christian fugitives as possible, and he—the young man—being a fast runner, had been sent in advance by some friends of the bard to warn him of his danger.

“I would not try to avoid them if I stood alone,” said Razafil, softly. “Should I shrink from dying for Jesus, after seeing my Raniva go to Him in a chariot of fire? But I stand not alone. My wife claims my support, and my little boy.”

While he was speaking, it was seen that a few of the hunters, as well as one or two inhabitants of the village, rose quietly and left the place. These were either professing or suspected Christians, who were anxious to make their escape from the danger that threatened.

After bidding Voalavo farewell, the guide and his friends left the village and struck into the woods. They were accompanied by the bard a short distance, until a point was reached where their routes diverged, and here, after a few words of brotherly sympathy and counsel from Ravonino, the bereaved man went on his solitary way, and the others directed their course towards the capital.

“Poor man,” said Ebony, who looked over his shoulder with profound sorrow in his earnest eyes as long as the tall figure of the bard was in sight, “I’s most awrful sorry for ’im. Why don’t dey hang Randalvalona, or shot ’er?”

“History teaches that it’s not always so easy as one might think to get rid of objectionable queens in that way,” said Mark.

“Hm! I’d teach history suffin diff’rent if I had my way,” returned the negro.

“But surely the great men around her might have some sort o’ power to clap a stopper on ’er?” said Hockins.

“They have some power, but not much,” returned the guide, “for Ranavalona is a passionate, self-willed, cruel woman; and when such a woman happens to be a despotic queen, nothing short of a revolution, or her death, can save the country. She usurped the throne in 1829, we have now reached 1857, so she has been reigning more than twenty-seven years, and a bitter reign it has been. There have been many persecutions of the Christians since it began. Hundreds have been slain; thousands have been sold into slavery; many more have been banished to pestilential districts, where disease has laid them low. God grant that this mad fit may not be the forerunner of another burst of cruelty.”

“But do you really think,” said Mark, “that Rafaravavy is in great danger? Did not the bard say that she is a favourite with the queen?”

“That is some security, but not much, for Ranavalona is changeable as well as cruel. But my dear one is in the hands of God. No harm can come to her unless He permits. Nevertheless, our God works not by miracles but by means, therefore it is my business, having the opportunity given me, to hasten to her rescue.”

“And it is mine to help you,” said Mark, an impulse of youthful enthusiasm and sympathy swelling his heart as his mind suddenly reverted to the morning when he left England, and said his last good-bye to the fair one with the golden hair and the rosebud mouth and “such lovely blue eyes!”

“But how,” he continued, “shall we best aid you in this matter?”

“That question I cannot answer immediately. When we draw near to the capital and hear what is going on I shall be able to form a plan. What we have to do just now is to travel fast. You are strong stout men, all of you. Do you think you can walk fast and far with little rest or sleep, and without breaking down?”

“I think so,” answered Mark, modestly.

“I’s cock-sure ob it,” said Ebony, “if we’s allowed lots o’ grub.”

“I’m not quite so sure,” said Hockins; “you must remember I’ve only got sea-legs on—but I’ll try.”

And he did try, and so did the others; with such success, too, that before the sun set that evening they had penetrated into the very heart of the mountain range which runs through the centre of the island.

There had not been much conversation on the way, for hill-climbing all day at top-speed is not compatible with small talk. Besides, the obvious anxiety of Ravonino rendered his companions less inclined than usual to engage in desultory remarks. Nevertheless there were occasions—during momentary halts to recover breath, or when clear bubbling springs tempted them to drink—when the prolonged silence was broken.

“Putty stiff work dis hill-climbin’, massa,” said Ebony, during one of these brief halts, as he wiped the perspiration from his sable brow with the back of his hand. “Lucky I’s used to it.”

“Used to it?” repeated Mark.

“Yes. Di’n’t I tell you I was born an’ raised among de Andes in Sout’ Ameriky?”

“To be sure, I forgot that, but there must be a considerable difference between the two mountain ranges.”

“Das troo, massa, but de diff’rence don’t make much diff’rence to de legs. You see, wild rugged ground much de same wheder de mountains rise a few t’ousand foot, like dese, or poke der snow-topped heads troo de clouds right away up into de