Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
For, flying wildly on toward the
forest, was his beauteous Nisida, scattering flowers in her whirlwind progress,
those flowers that had ere now decked her hair, her neck and her waist.
At some distance behind her was
the bandit Stephano; with sword in hand he still maintained the chase, though
breathless and ready to sink from exhaustion. Not an instant did Wagner tarry
upon the top of the bank which he had reached; but darting toward Nisida, who
was now scarce fifty yards from him, he gave vent to an ejaculation of joy.
She saw him—she beheld him: and
her speed was checked in an instant with the overpowering emotion of wonder and
delight.
Then, as he hurried along the
verge of the forest to encounter her—to fold her in his fond embrace—to protect
her,—she once more sprung forward, with outstretched arms, to fly into his
arms, which were open to receive her. But at that instant there was a horrible
rustling amidst the foliage of the huge tree beneath which she was hastening
on;—a monstrous snake darted down with a gushing sound, and in another moment
the beauteous form of Nisida was encircled by its hideous coils.
Then fled that wondrous
self-command which for long years she had exercised with such amazing
success:—then vanished from her mind all the strong motives which had induced
her to undertake so terrible a martyrdom as that of simulating the loss of two
faculties most dear and most valuable to all human beings;—and with a cry of
ineffable anguish, she exclaimed, “
Fernand,
save me! save me!
”
Oh!
with what astonishment and joy
would Wagner have welcomed the sound of that voice, so long hushed, and now so
musical even in its rending agony,—had not such an appalling incident broken
the spell that for years had sealed the lips of his beloved! But he had no time
for thought—there was not a moment for reflection. Nisida lay senseless on the
ground, with
the monster
coiled around her—its long body hanging down from the bough to which it was
suspended by the tail. Simultaneously with the cry of anguish that had come
from the lips of Nisida, exclamations of horror burst alike from Wagner and
Stephano.
The latter stood transfixed as it
were for a few moments, his eyes glaring wildly on the dreadful spectacle
before him; then, yielding to the invincible terror that had seized upon him,
he hurled away the sword—knowing not what he did in the excitement of his mind,
and fled! But the gleaming of the naked weapon in the sunbeams met Wagner’s
eyes as it fell, and darting toward it, he grasped it with a firm
hand—resolving also to use it with a stout heart. Then he advanced toward the
snake, which was comparatively quiescent—that portion of its long body which
hung between the tree and the first coil that it made round the beauteous form
of Nisida alone moving; and this motion was a waving kind of oscillation, like
that of a bell-rope which a person holds by the end and swings gently.
But from the midst of the coils
the hideous head of the monster stood out—its eyes gleaming malignantly upon
Wagner as he approached. Suddenly the reptile, doubtless alarmed by the
flashing of the bright sword, disengaged itself like lightning from the awful
embrace in which it had retained the Lady Nisida, and sprung furiously toward
Fernand. But the blow that he aimed at its head was unerring and heavy; its
skull was cloven in two—and it fell on the long grass, where it writhed in
horrible convulsions for some moments, although its life was gone.
Words cannot be found to describe
the delirium of joy which Wagner felt, when having thus slain the terrible
anaconda, he placed his hand on Nisida’s heart and felt that it beat—though
languidly. He lifted her from the ground—he carried her in his arms to the bank
of the limpid stream—and he sprinkled water upon her pale cheeks.
Slowly did she recover; and when
her large black eyes at length opened, she uttered a fearful shriek, and closed
them again—for with returning life the reminiscence of the awful embrace of the
serpent came back also. But Wagner murmured words of sweet assurance and
consolation—of love and joy, in her ears; and she felt that it was no dream,
but that she was really saved! Then, winding her arms round Fernand’s neck, she
embraced him in speechless and still almost senseless trance, for the idea of
such happy deliverance was overpowering—amounting to an agony which a mortal
creature could scarcely endure.
“Oh! Nisida,” at length exclaimed
Wagner, “was it a delusion produced by the horrors of that scene?—or did thy
voice really greet mine ears ere now!”
There was a minute’s profound
silence—during which, as they sat upon the bank of the stream, locked in a fond
embrace, their eyes were fixed with fascinating gaze upon each other, as if
they could not contemplate each other too long—he in tenderness, and she in
passion.
“Yes, Fernand,” said Nisida,
breaking that deep silence at
last,
and speaking in a voice so mellifluously clear, so soft, so penetrating in its
tone, that it realized all the fond ideas which her lover had conceived of what
its nature would be if it were ever restored, “yes, Fernand, dearest Fernand,”
she repeated, “you did indeed hear my voice, and to
you
never again shall I be mute.”
Wagner could not allow her time
to say more: he was almost wild with rapture! His Nisida was restored to him,
and no longer Nisida the deaf and dumb, but Nisida who could hear the fond
language which he addressed to her, and who could respond in the sweetest, most
melting and delicious tones that ever came from woman’s lips.
For a long time their hearts were
too full, alike for total silence or connected conversation, and while the
world from which they were cut off was entirely forgotten, they gathered so
much happiness from the few words in which they indulged, and from all that
they read in each other’s eyes, that the emotions which they experienced might
have furnished sensations for a lifetime.
At length—she scarcely knew how
the subject began, although it might naturally have arisen of its own spontaneous
suggestion—Nisida found herself speaking of the long period of deception which
she had maintained in relation to her powers of speech and hearing.
“Thou lovest me well, dearest
Fernand,” she said in her musical Italian tones; “and thou would’st not create
a pang in my heart? Then never seek to learn wherefore, when at the still
tender age of fifteen, I resolved upon consummating so dreadful a sacrifice as
to affect dumbness. The circumstances were, indeed, solemnly grave and
strangely important, which demanded so awful a martyrdom. But well did I weigh
all the misery and all the peril that such a self-devotion was sure to entail
upon me. I knew that I must exercise the most stern—the most remorseless—the
most inflexible despotism over my emotions—that I must crush as it were the
very feelings of my soul—that I must also observe a caution so unwearied and so
constantly wakeful, that it would amount to a sensitiveness the most
painful—and that I must prepare myself to hear the merry jest without daring to
smile, or the exciting narrative of the world’s stirring events without
suffering my countenance to vary a hue! Oh! I calculated—I weighed all this,
and yet I was not appalled by the immensity of the task. I knew the powers of
my own mind, and I did not deceive myself as to their extent. But, ah! how
fearful was it at first to hear the sounds of human voices, and dare not
respond to them; how maddening at times was it to listen to conversation in
which I longed to join, and yet be compelled to sit like a passionless statue!
But mine was a will of iron strength—a resolution of indomitable power! Even
when alone when I knew that I should not be overheard—I never essayed the
powers of my voice, I never murmured a single syllable to myself so fearful was
I lest the slightest use of the glorious gift of speech might render me weak in
my purpose. And strange as it may seem to you, dearest Fernand, not even on
this island did I
yield to
the temptation of suddenly breaking that long, that awful silence which I had imposed
upon myself. And, until this day, one human being only, save myself, was
acquainted with that mighty secret of ten long years, and that man was the
generous-hearted, the noble-minded Dr. Duras. He it was who aided me in my
project of simulating the forlorn condition of the deaf and dumb: he it was who
bribed the turnkeys to admit me unquestioned to your cell in the prison of the
ducal palace. And for years, perhaps, should I have retained my wondrous secret
even from
you
, dearest Fernand; for through
dangers of many kinds—in circumstances of the most trying nature, have I
continued firm in my purpose; abjuring the faculty of speech even when it would
have saved me from much cruel embarrassment or from actual peril. Thus, when
the villain Stephano Verrina bore me away by force from my native city, I
maintained the seal upon my lips, trusting to circumstances to enable me to
escape from his power without being compelled to betray a secret of such
infinite value and importance to myself. But when I found that I was so
narrowly watched at Leghorn that flight was impossible, I seriously debated, in
my own mind, the necessity of raising an alarm in the house where I was kept a
prisoner for two whole days; and then I reflected that I was in the power of a
desperate bandit and his two devoted adherents, who were capable of any
atrocity to forward their designs or prevent exposure. Lastly, when I was
conveyed at dead of night on board the corsair-ship, the streets were deserted,
and the pirates with whom Stephano was leagued, thronged the port. I therefore
resigned myself to my fate, trusting still to circumstances, and retaining my
secret. But that incident of to-day—oh! it was enough to crush energies ten
thousand times more powerful than mine: it was of so horrifying a nature as to
be sufficient to loose the bands which confine the tongue of one really dumb.”
And a strong shudder convulsed
the entire form of Nisida, as she thus, by her own words, recalled so forcibly
to mind that terrible event which had broken a spell of ten years’ duration.
Fernand pressed her to his bosom,
exclaiming, “Oh, beloved Nisida, how beautiful dost thou appear to me!—how soft
and charming is that dear voice of thine! Let us not think of the past, at
least not now; for I also have explanations to give thee,” he added, slowly and
mournfully; then, in a different and again joyous tone, he said: “Let us be
happy in the conviction that we are restored to each other; let this be a
holiday—nay, more,” he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper; “let it be
the day on which we join our hands together in the sight of Heaven. No priest
will bless our union, Nisida; but we will plight our vows—and God will accord
us his blessing.”
The lady hid her blushing,
glowing countenance on his breast, and murmured in a voice melodious as the
music of the stream by which they sat, “Fernand, I am thine—thine forever.”
“And I am thine, my beauteous
Nisida; thine forever, as thou art mine!” exclaimed Wagner, lifting her head
and gazing on her lovely, blushing face as on a vision of heaven.
“No; she is mine!”
thundered the voice of the forgotten Stephano, and in a moment the bandit flung
himself upon Wagner, whom he attempted to hurl into the crystal but deep river.
Fernand, however, caught the arm
of the brigand and dragged him along with him into the water, while a terrific
scream burst from the lips of Nisida. Then furious was the struggle that
commenced in the depths of the stream. But Stephano lay beneath Wagner, who
held him down on the pebbly bottom. In another moment Nisida herself plunged
into the river with the wild hope of aiding her lover to conquer his foe, or to
rescue him from the grasp which the bandit maintained upon him with the
tenacity that was strengthened rather than impaired by the agony of
suffocation.
But she rose again to the surface
in an instant by the indomitable influence of that instinct for
self-preservation which no human being, when immersed in the deep water, can
resist if the art of swimming has been attained. Again she dived to succor her
lover, but her aid, even if she could have afforded any, was no longer
necessary, for Fernand rose from the crystal depths and bore his Nisida to the
bank, while the corpse of the drowned bandit was carried away by the current.
Wagner and Nisida were now the
sole human inhabitants of that isle—the king and queen of the loveliest clime
on which the sun shone. Toward the sea-shore they repaired, hand in hand, and
having partaken of the fruits which they gathered in their way, they set to
work to form a hut with the planks, cordage, and canvas of the wreck. It will
be remembered that Nisida had saved the carpenter’s tools, and thus the task
became a comparatively easy one.
By the time the sun went down a
tenement was formed, rude, it is true, but still perfect enough to harbor them
in a clime where the nights were warm and where the dews prevailed only in the
verdant parts of the isle. Then with what joyous feelings did Nisida deck the
walls of the hut with a tapestry of flowers and prepare the bridal couch with
materials which she had saved from the wreck.
Softly and sweetly shone the moon
that night; and, as its silver rays penetrated through the crevices of the
little cottage so hastily and so rudely formed, they played kissingly upon the
countenances of the happy pair who had wedded each other in the sight of
Heaven.