“God of Heaven!” exclaimed the young Prince, with almost a frantic air. “Tell me all, tell me all! This suspense fires my brain. Iskander, you know not what this woman is to me; the sole object of my being, the bane, the blessing of my life! Speak, dear friend, speak! I beseech you! Where is Iduna?” “A prisoner to the Turk.” “Iduna a prisoner to the Turk. I’ll not believe it! Why do we wear swords? Where’s chivalry? Iduna, a prisoner to the Turk! ‘Tis false. It cannot be. Iskander, you are a coward! I am a coward! All are cowards! A prisoner to the Turk! Iduna! What, the Rose of Christendom! has it been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath? Farewell, Epirus! Farewell, classic Athens! Farewell, bright fields of Greece, and dreams that made them brighter! The sun of all my joy and hope is set, and set for ever!” So saying, Nicæus, tearing his hair and garments, flung himself upon the floor, and hid his face in his robes. Iskander paced the room with a troubled step and thoughtful brow. After some minutes he leant down by the Prince of Athens, and endeavoured to console him. “It is in vain, Iskander, it is in vain,” said Nicæus. “I wish to die.” “Were I a favoured lover, in such a situation,” replied Iskander, “I should scarcely consider death my duty, unless the sacrifice of myself preserved my mistress.” “Hah!” exclaimed Nicæus, starting from the ground. “Do you conceive, then, the possibility of rescuing her?” “If she live, she is a prisoner in the Seraglio at Adrianople. You are as good a judge as myself of the prospect that awaits your exertions. It is, without doubt, a difficult adventure, but such, methinks, as a Christian knight should scarcely shun.” “To horse;” exclaimed Nicæus, “to horse--And yet what can I do? Were she in any other place but the capital I might rescue her by force, but in the heart of their empire, it is impossible. Is there no ransom that can tempt the Turk? My principality would rise in the balance beside this jewel.” “That were scarcely wise, and certainly not just,” replied Iskander; “but ransom will be of no avail. Hunniades has already offered to restore Karam Bey, and all the prisoners of rank, and the chief trophies, and Amurath has refused to listen to any terms. The truth is, Iduna has found favour in the eyes of his son, the young Mahomed.” “Holy Virgin! hast thou no pity on this Christian maid?” exclaimed Nicæus. “The young Mahomed! Shall this licentious infidel--ah! Iskander, dear, dear Iskander, you who have so much wisdom, and so much courage; you who can devise all things, and dare all things; help me, help me; on my knees I do beseech you, take up this trying cause of foul oppression, and for the sake of all you love and reverence, your creed, your country, and perchance your friend, let your great genius, like some solemn angel, haste to the rescue of the sweet Iduna, and save her, save her!”