ready
invaded the Greek provinces of Asia Minor, from Cilicia to Armenia,
along a line of 600 miles, and here it was that he had achieved his
tremendous massacres of Christians. Alp Arslan renewed the war; he
penetrated to Caesarea in Cappadocia, attracted by the gold and pearls
which encrusted the shrine of the great St. Basil. He then turned his
arms against Armenia and Georgia, and conquered the hardy mountaineers
of the Caucasus, who at present give such trouble to the Russians. After
this he encountered, defeated, and captured the Greek Emperor. He began
the battle with all the solemnity and pageantry of a hero of romance.
Casting away his bow and arrows, he called for an iron mace and
scimitar; he perfumed his body with musk, as if for his burial, and
dressed himself in white, that he might be slain in his winding-sheet.
After his victory, the captive Emperor of New Rome was brought before
him in a peasant's dress; he made him kiss the ground beneath his feet,
and put his foot upon his neck. Then, raising him up, he struck or
patted him three times with his hand, and gave him his life and, on a
large ransom, his liberty. At this time the Sultan was only forty-four
years of age, and seemed to have a career of glory still before him.
Twelve hundred nobles stood before his throne; two hundred thousand
soldiers marched under his banner. As if dissatisfied with the South, he
turned his arms against his own paternal wildernesses, with which his
family, as I have related, had a feud. New tribes of Turks seem to have
poured down, and were wresting Sogdiana from the race of Seljuk, as the
Seljukians had wrested it from the Gaznevides. Alp had not advanced far
into the country, when he met his death from the hand of a captive. A
Carismian chief had withstood his progress, and, being taken, was
condemned to a lingering execution. On hearing the sentence, he rushed
forward upon Alp Arslan; and the Sultan, disdaining to let his generals
interfere, bent his bow, but, missing his aim, received the dagger of
his prisoner in his breast. His death, which followed, brings before us
that grave dignity of the Turkish character, of which we have already
had an example in Mahmood. Finding his end approaching, he has left on
record a sort of dying confession:--"In my youth," he said, "I was
advised by a sage to humble myself before God, to distrust my own
strength, and never to despise the most contemptible foe. I have
neglected these les