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When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest
the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of
tile accused person would be decided in the king's arena,--a structure
which well deserved its name; for, although its form and plan were
borrowed -from afar, its purpose emanated solely
from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no
tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who
ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich
growth of his barbaric idealism.
When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king,
surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one
side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the
accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly opposite him,
on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and
side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial, to
walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either
door he pleased: he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of
the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the
one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that
could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to
pieces, as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the
criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails
went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and
the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly
their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old
and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.
But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it
a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could
select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately
married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might
already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged
upon an object of his own selection: the king allowed no such subordinate
arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward.
The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in
the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by
a band of choristers' and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden
horns and treading an measure, advanced to where the pair stood side by
side; and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay
brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs,
and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path,
led his bride to his home.
This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its
perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door
would come the lady: he opened either he pleased, without having the
slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or
married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out
of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were
positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he
found himself guilty; and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot,
whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments or the
king's arena.
The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together
on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to
witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of
uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise
have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the
thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against
this plan; for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own
hands?
This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid
fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual
in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above
all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of
blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance
who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her
lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this
kingdom; and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in
it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on
happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its
existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the
premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was
appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an
especially important occasion; and his majesty, as well as all the people,
was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial.
Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to
love the daughter of a king. In after-years such things became commonplace
enough; but then they were, in no slight degree, novel and startling.
The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and
relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for
the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land
were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that ,he young man
might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a
different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the
accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither
he, she, nor any one else thought of denying the fact; but the king would
not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings
of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No
matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of; and the
king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events,
which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in
allowing himself to love the princess.
The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and
thronged the great galleries of the arena; and crowds, unable to gain
admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his
court were in their places, opposite the twin doors,--those fateful
portals, so terrible in their similarity.
All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party
opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall,
beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration
and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived
among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for
him to be there!
As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to bow
to the king: but he did not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes
were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it
not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is probable that
lady would not have been there; but her intense and fervid soul would not
allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly
interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth, that her lover
should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing,
night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with
it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any
one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what
no other person had done,--she had possessed herself of the secret of the
doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors,
stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the
lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the
inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from
within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of
them; but gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to
the princess.
And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge,
all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the
lady was. It was one of tile fairest and lovelies-L of the damsels of the
court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he
be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and
the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen,
this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her
lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even
returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for
a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been
on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was
lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the
princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to
her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman
who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.
When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat
there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces
about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to
those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the
tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He
understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest
until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other
lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there
was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in
discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she
had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.
Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question:
"Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where
he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a
Rash; it must be answered in another.
Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her
hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her
lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.
He turned, and. with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty
space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was
fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went
to the door on the right, and opened it.
Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door,
or did the lady?
The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It
involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes
of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it,
fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon
yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a
white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had
lost him, but who should have him?
How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild
horror, and covered her face with her hands, as she thought of her lover
opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the
tiger!
But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her
grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she
saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How
her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that
woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eve of triumph; when she had
seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered
life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild
ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous
followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her
very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path
of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude,
in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!
Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in
the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?
And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!
Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after
days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be
asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest
hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.
The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it
is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer
it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened
door,--the lady, or the tiger?
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