Allan Quatermain · Chapter 16 (2/2)

Then, before she could find words to answer, the High Priest Agon took up the tale, and in a speech of real eloquence and power pointed out the many advantages of the proposed alliance⁠—how it would consolidate the kingdom; for Nasta’s dominions, of which he was virtually king, were to Zu-Vendis much what Scotland used to be to England; how it would gratify the wild mountaineers and be popular among the soldiery, for Nasta was a famous general; how it would set her dynasty firmly on the throne, and would gain the blessing and approval of the “Sun,” i.e., of the Office of the High Priest, and so on. Many of his arguments were undoubtedly valid; and there was, looking at it from a political point of view, everything to be said for the marriage. But, unfortunately, it is difficult to play the game of politics with the persons of young and lovely queens as though they were ivory effigies of themselves on a chessboard. Nyleptha’s face, while Agon spouted away, was a perfect study; she smiled, indeed, but beneath the smile it set like a stone, and her eyes began to flash ominously.

At last he stopped, and she prepared herself to answer. Before she did so, however, Sorais leaned towards her and said in a voice sufficiently loud for me to catch what she said, “Bethink thee well, my sister, ere thou dost speak, for methinks that our thrones may hang upon thy words.”

Nyleptha made no answer, and with a shrug and a smile, Sorais leaned back again and listened.

“Of a truth a great honour has been done to me,” she said, “that my poor hand should not only have been asked in marriage, but that Agon here should be so swift to pronounce the blessing of the Sun upon my union. Methinks that in another minute he would have wed us fast ere the bride had said her say. Nasta, I thank thee, and I will bethink me of thy words, but now as yet I have no mind for marriage, that is a cup of which none know the taste until they begin to drink it. Again I thank thee, Nasta,” and she made as though she would rise.

The great lord’s face turned almost as black as his beard with fury, for he knew that the words amounted to a final refusal of his suit.

“Thanks be to the Queen for her gracious words,” he said, restraining himself with difficulty and looking anything but grateful, “my heart shall surely treasure them. And now I crave another boon, namely, the royal leave to withdraw myself to my own poor cities in the north till such time as the Queen shall say my suit nay or yea. Mayhap,” he added, with a sneer, “the Queen will be pleased to visit me there, and to bring with her these stranger lords,” and he scowled darkly towards us. “It is but a poor country and a rough, but we are a hardy race of mountaineers, and there shall be gathered thirty thousand swordsmen to shout a welcome to her.”

This speech, which was almost a declaration of rebellion, was received in complete silence, but Nyleptha flushed up and answered it with spirit.

“Oh, surely, Nasta, I will come, and the strange lords in my train, and for every man of thy mountaineers who calls thee Prince will I bring two from the lowlands who call me Queen, and we will see which is the staunchest breed. Till then farewell.”

The trumpets blared out, the Queens rose, and the great assembly broke up in murmuring confusion, and for myself I went home with a heavy heart, foreseeing civil war.

After this there was quiet for a few weeks. Curtis and the Queen did not often meet, and exercised the utmost caution not to allow the true relation in which they stood to each other to leak out; but, do what they would, rumours as hard to trace as a buzzing fly in a dark room, and yet quite as audible, began to hum round and round, and at last to settle on her throne.