Sarchedon gj whyte melville

Merodach, or Mars, no less sensible of his lord's caresses than he was worthy of the praises lavished on him, arched his crest, shook his head till his ornaments rang again, and increased his speed, for a reply. He was in truth a rare and unequalled specimen of his kind, the true pure-bred horse of the Asiatic plains.

Strong and bold as had been the very lion he was leaving rapidly behind him, beautiful in his rounded symmetry of shape, and so swift that Sarchedon, his rider, was wont to boast only one steed in all the armies of the King of Assyria was able, with a man's weight on his back, to outstrip the wild ass in her native plains, and that steed was Merodach. Horse and rider seemed a pair well matched, as they flung their dancing shadows behind them on the sand.

The arms of one and accoutrements of the other shone ablaze with gold in the splendour of the morning sun. Both seemed full of pride, courage, mettle, and endurance, counterparts in strength and beauty, forming when combined the fairest and noblest ideal of the warlike element in creation.

So they galloped on, choosing their course as if by instinct, through the trackless waste. Long before noon a lofty tower seemed to grow, cubit by cubit, out of the horizon. Presently the walls and palaces of a city were seen stretching far on either side along the plain, like a line of white surf on a distant shore.

Then strips of verdure, intersecting each other with more frequency, as a network of irrigation filtered the waters of the Euphrates through many a trickling stream, to fertilise the desert in the neighbourhood of Great Babylon. Yet a few more furlongs of those smooth untiring strides; a startled ostrich scudding away on long awkward legs before the wind; a troop of wild asses standing at gaze for a moment, to disappear with snort and whinny, and heels glancing upward through volumes of dust; a fleet gazelle scouring off in one direction, a desert-falcon darting through the sunlight in another; and Sarchedon could already descry that knot of feathery trees, that sprinkling of black tents, that low marble structure of dazzling white, which, under the name of the Well of Palms, afforded a landmark for every thirsty wayfarer journeying to the Great City.

But, except the sea, there is no such fallacious medium through which to estimate distance as the sun-dried atmosphere and unbroken expanse of the desert. Ere they reached those scattered tents and halted at the Well of Palms, neither man nor horse were unwilling to enjoy a moment's respite from their exertions; while the former, at least, was suffering from a protracted thirst, which under those scorching skies made a draught from the desert spring such a cordial, such an elixir, as could not be pressed from the choicest grapes that ever blushed and ripened under the Assyrian sun.

Springing off Merodach's back, his master drew the embossed bit carefully from his favourite's mouth, pressing his head down with a caress towards the water, while he administered, like a true horseman, to the needs of his servant before he slaked his own parched lips, or so much as dipped his hand in the cold, clear, tempting element. But Merodach, though he pointed his ears and neighed joyfully, scarcely wetted his muzzle in the marble basin; thereby affording a proof, had any been wanting, of his celebrated pedigree and stainless purity of breed.

His young lord was not so abstemious. He looked about, indeed, for a drinking-vessel; but would have done very well without it, had not a shadow come between him and the sun as he was in the act of stooping to immerse face, lips, and nostrils in the sparkling water. With the ready instinct of one whose trade is war, he sprang erect, but bowed his head again in manly courtesy when he saw a girlish figure bending over him to dip her pitcher in the fountain.

Drink, my lord, said a very sweet and gentle voice from the folds of a thin white veil. When your thirst is quenched, your servant will take her payment in news from the army of the Great King. He was young, bold, gallant, born under a Southern sun; but had Ashtaroth, Queen of Heaven, come down in person to accost him, with a pitcher of water in her hand, he must have drunk before he could utter a syllable in reply.

The girl watched him, while he emptied the vessel, with such tender interest as women take in the physical needs of one to whom they render aid, and refilled it forthwith, showing, perhaps not unconsciously, a lithe and graceful figure as she bent over the fountain.

Thanks, maiden, said he. You have put new life into a fainting man; for I have galloped over many a weary league of sand, and scarce drawn bridle since yesterday at noon. The poor horse! But my lord comes doubtless from the camp, and has joyful tidings to bring, or he had never ridden so far and fast. What of the Great King? Is he safe? Is he unhurt? Is he well? There was a tremble in her voice that denoted intense anxiety, and the pitcher in her hand shook till it overflowed.

The Great King, he answered, raising his right hand quickly to mouth and eyes while he named him— the Great King has triumphed, as he must ever triumph when he mounts his war-chariot. The captain of the host is well in health, unwounded, though foremost in battle;—trusted by his lord, feared by the enemy, and honoured of all. She clasped her pretty hands together in delight, while the pitcher, escaping from her grasp, poured its contents into the thirsty soil and rolled under Merodach's hoofs, eliciting from the horse a prolonged snort of astonishment and disgust.

You are indeed a messenger of the gods! Have I then brought tidings of one so very dear to you? None can ever be so dear, she exclaimed with a light laugh, musical and pleasant as the whisper of the rippling fountain— none will ever love me so well—none shall I ever love half so dearly in return!

Arbaces is my father, and every day since he mounted his chariot at the head of the Great King's captains have I watched here with my maidens, to catch the first gleam of his armour when he returns, to learn good tidings of him by the first messenger who rides hither from the camp. Not one has yet arrived but yourself, my lord. I say again, may all the host of heaven befriend you, for to me you are welcome as the dawn!

It was unaccountable that his heart should have bounded so lightly at her speech, that his tone should have been so much softer while he replied:.

I am bearing tidings from a king to his queen,—from the conqueror of nations to his people in the greatest city of the earth. I have to relate how we slew and spared not, crushing and trampling down the enemy as an ox treads out the ripened corn; breaking their chariots of iron; taking their fenced cities by assault; capturing and bringing away men, women, and children by thousands and tens of thousands.

All that I have to tell is of honour, glory, and victory. Yet I speak truth when I swear to you, maiden, by the light of morning, that whatever recompense it may please the Great Queen to bestow on the lowest of her servants, to have met you here to-day at the Well of Palms, and to have gladdened you with assurance of my lord your father's welfare, is to me the richest and brightest reward of all.

You have noble triumphs to report, she answered hurriedly, and drawing her veil closer, as if he could see the blood rushing to her cheek behind its folds. Great victories, but not without fierce warfare—many a broken shield and shivered spear, and deadly arrow quivering in its mark! And you, my lord—have you escaped scathless? Has this good horse borne you always unhurt and triumphant in the press of chariots?

O, it is dreadful to think of! Pardon me, my lord: I speak too freely. Let me give you to drink once more from the fountain; then will I gather my maidens about me, and depart in peace.

You are not alone? The daughter of Arbaces does not travel unattended so much as a bowshot from the city walls? My damsels are in those tents, she answered, my camels are kneeling in the shade. I have no need of guards nor horsemen. Over many a league without the ramparts of Babylon her father's fame is a tower of defence for the daughter of Arbaces.

The daughter of Arbaces! Maiden, so long as I eat bread and drink water I will remember her by that name. And by her own, she added hurriedly. The servant of my lord is called Ishtar. It was my mother's name, and Arbaces loved her well.

And changes, my lord, like a true woman! I thank my lord for his favourable notice of his servant, and I bid him farewell. Your list has reached the maximum number of items. Please create a new list with a new name; move some items to a new or existing list; or delete some items. Your request to send this item has been completed.

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You may send this item to up to five recipients. The name field is required. Ask Seller a Question. Title: Sarchedon. A Legend of the Great Queen Visit Seller's Storefront. Seller Name: Richard Beaton. Telephone No: Email address: richard. If the condition of any book or books does not meet the description, the item may be returned The true cross: a legend of the church by George John Whyte-Melville it was amazing 5. Hunting poems and verses by George John Whyte-Melville it was amazing 5.

Sarchedon by George John Whyte-Melville it was ok 2. Uncle John. A Novel. The Works of G. General Bounce, or the Lady and the Locusts, Vol.