The Wooing of Malkatoon E-Book

Lew Wallace

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Lew Wallace's 'The Wooing of Malkatoon' is a captivating novel set in ancient Mesopotamia, blending historical fiction with elements of romance and adventure. Through intricate storytelling and vivid descriptions, Wallace paints a vivid picture of the exotic landscapes and rich cultural tapestry of the ancient world. The narrative is intricately woven with themes of love, loyalty, and betrayal, keeping readers engaged from start to finish. The author's literary style demonstrates a deep understanding of the historical period, bringing ancient civilizations to life with meticulous detail. The book is a testament to Wallace's mastery of storytelling and his ability to transport readers to a bygone era with authenticity and flair. Fans of historical fiction and romance will find 'The Wooing of Malkatoon' a rewarding and immersive read. Wallace's expertise as a historian and his passion for storytelling shine through in this captivating novel, making it a must-read for anyone interested in ancient civilizations and tales of love and intrigue.

Leseprobe

Lew Wallace

The Wooing of Malkatoon

 

EAN 8596547396390

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

THE WOOING OF MALKATOON

COMMODUS: A Historical Play

THE WOOING OF MALKATOON

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Prologue

Edebali the Dervish

Othman and Malkatoon

Othman and Edebali

Othman and His Tribesmen

Othman in No Man's Land

Othman Renews His Prayer for Malkatoon

Othman and His Tribe

Othman and the Lord of Eskischeer

Edebali and the Lord of Eskischeer

The Lord of Eskischeer in Quest of Othman

The Combat

Othman and Islam

Othman Has a Vision

Prologue

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Child Mahommed1

The dance and song, the tales and juggleries, With which the wise Sultana-mother used To speed the laggard hours of harem life, Were good for folk with souls of every day; But Mahommed would nothing have that did Not stir his warrior sense. The cymbal's crash, And trumpets strident notes, unmixed of plaint Or melody, could always bid him near And hold him fast, a wild-eyed listener; And with his urchin's fist he beat the drum, And trembled with delight to hear its roll Invade the silent places of the house, And die in distant halls. And all day long, With a heap of stippled ivory cubes, The gift antique of a forgotten prince Who erstwhile ruled a land of elephants Off in the sunrise somewhere, he would build Tall castle piles, and wall and moat them round, And when he thought them perfect for defence, Retire a little space, and with his bow And arrows shoot them into formless wrecks. But best of all he loved of afternoons, When, in the musky - shaded central court, The ladies of the household met to feast On spiced meats, and nuts, and snow-cooled draughts, And exchange trinketries and quips as rich, And chorus loud the while the slaves before Them spread what all the merchants from the gates Without had dared to send them — such the time The doughty child best loved to dight himself As Eastern knights for battle bound were wont, And on the Kislar-Aga's sword for steed, And yelling shrill,, with undissembled rage And fury burst upon the startled groups, And send them screaming thence, and, doing so, Imagine that he did but re-enact The role of black Antar, who used alone To sheer ten thousand horsemen of their heads. Nor were there any of the luresome wiles With children potent since the world began Enough to lay the martial jealousy With which he held the court. Nor cared he more For truce proposed in form by heralds trained, And leading troops of buglers clad in gold, And blowing flourishes until the sky Were like to crack and fall. At length would come The high Sultana. In her deep reserve Of mother-love she held the only charm To calm his mood and raise the well-kept siege. "The battle's done. My lord must now dismount; And I will tell him of our Othman bold, And how he wooed and won his Malkatoon."

Edebali the Dervish

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"My lord must know That in the ancient time, near Eskischeer, A many-gated town, there dwelt a Sheik, Edebali by name. A chambered cave He had for house, and wild vines made his door, Which was a nesting-place for singing birds. Two paths, divided by an olive-tree, Led from the door: one to a spring of cool, Sweet water bubbling out from moss-grown rocks, And it was narrow; while the other, broad And beaten, told of travel to and fro, And of the world a suitor to the man, For it is never proud when it has need. He had been Sheik in fact, but now was more— A Dervish old and saintly, and so close To Allah that the Golden Gate of Gifts Up Heaven's steep did open when he prayed. Wherefore the sick were brought him for a touch; And in their crowns his amulets were worn By kings and queens, and scarce a morning came Without a message— In my tent last night A foal was born to me, and that in truth It grace its blood, I pray thee send a name To know it by.' Or, from a knight whose brand Had failed him, 'Hearken, O Edebali! Thou knowest by chosen texts to temper swords. The craftsman hath a new one now in hand, And in the rough it waits.' And men of high Degree came often asking this and that Of Heaven, and the Prophet, and the laws Of holy life. Nor was there ever one

Othman and Malkatoon

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"And to the cave Our Othman often went, because he knew The good man loved him. Once he thither turned While hawking and athirst, and at the door Bethought him of the spring. So down the path, The narrow path, he went, but sudden stopt— Stopt with the babble of the brook in ear, And straight forgot his thirst in what he saw. Below the fountain's lip there was a pool O'er which a mottled rock of gray and green Rose high enough to cast the whole in shade; And in the shade unconscious sate a fair And slender girl. A yellow earthen jar, Which she had come to fill for household use, Stood upright by her, and he saw her face Above a fallen veil, a gleam of white, Made whiter by the blackness of the hair Through which it shone. And she, all childlike, hummed A wordless tune of sweet monotony, As in the hushed dowar at dead of night The Arab women, low-voiced, sing to dull The grinding of their mills. And to her knees Her limbs were bare, and as the eddies brought The bubbles round she beat them with her foot, Which glistened mid the splashes like the pink And snow enamel of a sea-washed shell; And by the throbbing of his heart he knew

Othman and Edebali

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"'A quest I bring, O saintly Dervish!' Thus, when in the cave, Our Othman spake. "The elder to him turned His face benignant. "'Is there in the Book2 A saying that would make it sin for me To marry ?' "'Nay, son, speak thou whole of heart.' "'Then be it whole of heart,' young Othman said, 'And to thy saintliness.' And stooping low, He raised the other's hand, and kissed it once, And then again, and humbly. 'At the brook But now I saw thy daughter Malkatoon— Nay, be thou restful!— Drink for soothe of thirst Was what I sought. Her presence made the place In holiness a Mosque, and bade me off, And I ran trembling here. And that which was Not more than thirst is now a fever grown, A fever of the soul. And if I may Not wed her, then it were not well to let My morning run to dismal noon of life; Nor shall it. See, now, O Edebali! Here at thy feet my soul. Save Malkatoon's, Thou canst not find one whiter.' "And he knelt, And laid his forehead lowly in the dust; And at the sight, Edebali made haste, And both hands helpful raised the suppliant, Saying,' O gentle son of Ertoghrul! What Allah of his love and bounty gives, That we shall keep, and in the keeping make Our care of it becoming thanks and praise. Thou knowest I love thee'— "His farther speech Was tearful. "'I remember well the day A woman beautiful, and mine in love And wifely bonds, and dying of the birth, Gave me her baby, saying, I have named It Malkatoon,3 and as thou dost by it, So Allah will by thee. Ah, verily! The Prophet measureth the very show Of evil gainst the good; and dost thou think It full enough with Him that I have kept. The child in bread and happy singing all The morning through, if now, her noon at hand, I give her up to certain misery? A prince art thou, and she but dervish born; And men will laugh, and with their laughter kill.' "And to and fro he walked, and wrung his hands, While all the lineless wrinkling on his face From thought, and fast, and vigils long endured, The deeper pursed itself; and when he stopt, It was to say, 'To Allah let us leave The judgment, prince. Who dares in Him to trust May always hope. So canst thou hither bring A pigeon from an eagle's nest escaped Unruffled, or a lamb that overnight Hath harmless lain with lions, it will be As speech to me, and I will do His will. Knowest thou the Legend on the seal of God? Our lives are but the wax on which 'tis stamped. They call it Kismet.' "And with that he drew

Othman and His Tribesmen

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"'Ho, now! Hood the hawks, And leash the whimpering hounds. The day is done.' Thus he to them. "They stared, and in his palm One whispered, l Oh! It is the evil eye.' "A bolder spake, 'My lord, it is but noon.' "And yet a third addressed his hunter's love In strain more cunning, 'Has my lord forgot The heron in the marsh?' "But he, low-voiced And patient, answered them, 'Nor hawk, nor hound, Nor heron more for me, for I have seen A lily with a star's light in its cup. 'Tis something by the breath of Allah blown This way from Paradise, I swiftly thought, And all impulsive would have made it mine But that a voice forbade; and now I go To find what never mortal eyes have seen— A pigeon from an eagle's nest escaped, Or in a lion's den a lamb alive. So on my breast the lily I may wear, And in my heart the star's light.' "Then their eyes Were hot with dew of tears repressed by awe. For strangers to the sweet delirium Which only lovers know, and know to make The gentle-hearted gentler, and the brave More covetous as errants in the Land Of the Impossible, they thought him mad; And at his feet one wistful flung himself, With outcry, 'I was born to serve my lord, And go with him.' "Whereat the others drowned His voice with theirs united, 'And so were we.' "But Othman waved them off: 'Bring me my horse. But yesterday from noon to set of sun He kept the shadow of the flying hawk A plaything 'neath his music-making feet. I will not comrade else.' "Tent born and bred, The steed was brought, its hoofs like agate bowls, Its breast a vast and rounded hemisphere, With lungs to gulf a north wind at a draught. Under its forelock, copious and soft As tresses of a woman loosely combed, He set a kiss, and in its nostrils breathed An exhalation, saying, to be heard By all around, 'Antar, now art thou brute No longer. I have given thee a soul, Even my own.' "And as he said, it was, And not miraculously, as the fool Declares; for midst the other harmonies By Allah wrought, the hero and his horse Have always been as one. "And when they saw Him in the saddle, face and eyes aglow With the low-burning, splendor-chastened flame That serves the Angel of the pallid wing In lighting martyrs on their rueful way, They closed around him, and of their charms And priceless amulets despoiled themselves, And tied them on Antar until his mane And forelock jangled as with little bells, And glistened merrily, though all the time

Othman in No Man's Land

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