“Start not, Teresa! By the God who
looks upon us now—who looked of yore on
that most hellish crime—who shall anon look
on that crime's meet retribution. By the God—
I say—the God of both our fathers! the
blood of thy race runs even now, hot as the
lava of Vesuvius, through every artery and
vein of this my body! my body that has lived
through agonies and toils and perils, which
might have consumed nerves of brass and
thews of tempered steel, which would have
worn out mine, but for the treasured oath of
vengeance that upheld me!

“But passion boots not. What is done, is
done!—what shall be, shall be! Friendly
connexion had, I said, been maintained ever!
Letters had passed from age to age, presents
been interchanged, and mutual benefits done
and requited. When our Black Prince displayed
his Lion banner in aid of your King
Pedro, my ancestor was rescued from the wrath
of that brave bastard, Henry de Transtamara,
by the Melendez of that day. When Spain's
armada was dispersed, scattered to the four
winds of heaven, by Frobisher and Drake and
Hawkins, it was a Ringwood that redeemed
the chieftain of the Des Aviles; and sent him
home cumbered with gifts and ransom, free
from the dark tower of London. Allied in
blood, allied by mutual courtesies, my father—
when first war broke out—remitted treasures,
plate, gold, and store of jewels, to the
faith of his Spanish kinsman. Provident and
prepared for either fortune, he looked to Spain
as an asylum, should the king's cause be
bucklered by bold hearts in vain. When my
good father fell—letters—fair letters full of
greeting—full of high courtesy and noble promise—
styling me `Dear and trusty cousin,
praying me `of my love to deem his purse as
mine—his palace as my castle,' were borne to
me—fair seeming! false! false letters! signed
`Juan de Melendez de Aviles.' Full of all
honorable confidence, full of gratitude and love,
now that even hope was lost in England, I set
sail; freely as to a second country, for the
bright shores of Spain! as to a second home,
for the proud halls of De Aviles! Three
days' fair sail, we made the Spanish coast!
another week, and in Madrid we were received,
received not as exiles and outlaws, but as most
honored friends, most esteemed kinsmen, by
that same Juan de Melendez—that same vile,
heartless, soulless thing, which thou callest
father. Aye! I recall it! all—all—everything!
The very palace gates, upon the porphyry
steps of which the smooth-faced fiend received
us—the very liveried menials, who cringed so
humbly to our bidding, the very smile, the
very gesture, yea more, the very garb, with
every small detail of plume, and scarf, and jewelled
rapier, which he wore—all gleam upon
mine unforgetting eyes distinct and palpable, as
though they were depicted to my outward
sense by some rare limner's skill. He was a
noble gallant to the eye; witty, accomplished,
beautiful, and brave—nor, as I fondly deemed,
more fair than faithful. Every art, every
gentle knowledge, every superb accomplishment
were centred in his mind, his manner.
To the eye nothing—nothing of God's creation
here on earth could be more glorious, more
transcendantly surpassing man's estate, more
god-like! In heart, no thing on earth, no
thing in the abyss of hell could be more utterly
corrupt, more base, more superhumanly
depraved and bad, more fiendish! Yet years
passed ere I gained this knowledge, years
passed, and I believed him—nor was I even
then unwise in this world's wisdom—all that
was kind, and good, and noble. What wonder
that one younger than myself, artless and
unsuspecting, judging of others' faith by her
guileless standard, full of sweet fervent gratitude,
betrayed into security by her own very
purity of soul, and by the sanction of a brother's
presence, should have believed as I! and
loved! and—and—oh God! that I must speak
it—fallen! fallen! the victim to a perjury so
hellishly devised, so deep, so fathomless, that
wisest wisdom would have been all at fault to
sound it! The growing love of my sweet
sister, the constant and devoted wooing of the
enamored Juan I saw, and was well pleased to
see it. For—when I saw the liking mutual;
when I knew that my Teresa in purity of an
unstained descent was a match meet for kings;
that in the rescued treasures of my father's
house she had a fitting dowry; that in all else—
beauty of form and face, intellect, feeling,
soul—she would have been a prize for the
choice of angels; when I beheld and knew all
this, I had no whisper of false pride to bid me
interpose between their inclinations and their
union! I had no doubts, no fears, no hesitations!
Juan, too, had a sister—a fair, bright,
artless being, of whom, if I did not entirely
love her, I had at least mused fervently and
deeply. Thoughts of a double link had crossed
my mind, as no impossible solution to the
Gordian knot of our entangled fortunes, not as
a termination to be gained by rash or sudden
speed, but as an end, which, other things agreeing,
might in due time crown all our cares
with pure and peaceful happiness. Thus
days and months rolled on, calm, undisturbed,
and happy. At times indeed, a touch of wonder
would come over me, why—when their
mutual feelings were so evident; when my
approval might have been known even from
my silence; when everything was suitable,
and no cloud even on the remote horizon threatened
a storm which could divide them—why
they should so prolong their courtship—so
needlessly delay the consummation of their
bliss. Still, as they seemed to understand each

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

other, I deemed it equally indelicate and unwise,
that I without the shadow of a pretext
should interfere between them. Entirely unsuspicious,
therefore, and fearless even of the
possibility of wrong, I left things to their natural
course.

“Meanwhile an opportunity at length occurred
for my advancement, my establishment
in a befitting rank, and active service; an expedition
was in course of preparation under
the prince, Don John, for the Low Countries,
there to co-operate with the great Condé, against
the allied force of the Cromwellians under
Lockhart, and the French Mazarinists under
the great Turenne, which had already reduced
Gravelines, and Merrdyke, and were now
threatening Dunkirk. In this fair expedition
I was appointed to take part; and in no
humbler station than lieutenant-general of the
cavalry. This proud appointment was obtained
for me by the solicitations of Melendez,
for which—Heaven's hottest curses blight
him!—I deemed him worthy of my eternal
gratitude. Brief space was granted for my
preparation—yet, ere I started on my honorable
duty, I opened my heart freely both to
Melendez and Teresa; and it was settled that,
the campaign ended, they at least should be
made man and wife; while Juan plighted me
his word that, should I prosper in my wooing
with his sister, his every aid should be forthcoming.
With a light heart I started; all careless
at the present, all confident of the bright
future. In a short time we reached the Netherlands,
and there my every faculty of mind
or body was engrossed by my military duties.
It is not now my purpose, for it avails us nothing,
to spin out long details concerning that
disastrous and disgraceful campaign, wherein
we were out-witted, out-manœuvred, and outfought.
First came the defeat of Sandhills,
whereat the English standard waved on both
sides, and victory was once again decided by
the stout fanatics of the republic! then Dunkirk
instantly surrendered! then step by step
were we beat back, town after town admitting
our victorious foes! Enough, that at the
Sandhills I was dismounted in the last charge
of the superior cavalry of Castelman, which
broke us like a thunder shock! My right arm
shattered by a pistol shot, my helmet cloven,
and my skull laid bare by a long broadswordcut,
a pike wound through the broken taslet of
my left thigh—twice was I galloped over by
the contending troopers in close melée, and left
for dead upon the field. Rescued by the attachment
of a veteran follower from the tender
mercies of the plunderers, I lay for weeks insensible,
and for weeks more in helpless agony
till the campaign was ended by the truce; and
weak of frame, bent and bowed by my half
healed wounds, I slowly journeyed homeward.
Something I was indeed discouraged, and
something grieved, that during my long illness,
during my slow recovery, no letters should
have reached me whether from Juan or my
sister; yet even this might be explained by the
distracted state of the whole country; France
torn at the same time by civil strifes and foreign
warfare; the Netherlands divided into
factions, filled with fierce bands of foreign soldiery;
all business at an end, and all communications
interrupted. Consoling myself with
such thoughts as these, for the neglect of my
Spanish friends, I journeyed, with all the speed
my frail health would allow, towards Madrid.
I reached that splendid city; hurried through
its deserted streets, for it was midnight when I
arrived, to the proud dwelling of Melendez.
The porter who replied to my loud summons,
after a pause strangely at variance with the
former promptness of attendance which characterized
all my friend's retainers—knew me
not at the first; so strangely was I altered by
the enfeebling nature of my wounds, and by
the great exhaustion consequent on my journeying
with those wounds yet unhealed—nor
when he recognised me, did he seem wholly
unembarrassed by my appearance. The family,
he told me—Don Juan, and the Lady Isidore,
and the English Senora—had removed
from the city several months before; and were
now dwelling on a magnificent estate, of which
I had heard Melendez speak with rapture, situate
on the lower ridges of the southeastern Pyrenees.
Worn out with fatigue, I resolved to
give myself a single day's repose; in the
course of which I learned from the porter, that
shortly after the removal of the family from
town, tidings had come that I had been slain at
the Sandhills; and that no subsequent news
had arrived concerning me, so that on all hands
I was believed dead; to which he cunningly
attributed his consternation at my unexpected
re-appearance; he also mentioned, as a casual
report, that it had come to his ears that my sister
had been married to the Conde de Aviles,
shortly before the tidings of my death in battle.
The following morning, so much of fever
had anxiety and toil produced, that I was
miserably ill, and utterly unable to rise from my
couch, much more to undertake a tedious journey.
I wrote, however, on the instant, both
to my sister and Don Juan; telling them all
that had befallen me, mentioning the reports
which had encountered me on my arrival, promising
to make all due speed to join them, and
praying them to write me instantly, as I was
all anxiety and agitation. Ten days elapsed
before I was enabled to rise, and a week more
before I could endure the motion of a horse—
yet not a line had come to hand to lighten my
curiosity, which was fast growing—why I
knew not—into a fixed presentiment of evil.
At length I was sufficiently recovered, and on
a bright autumnal morning, gallantly mounted

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

and well armed, followed by two stout English
veterans. I sallied forth from the portals of Melendez;
hurrying with the speed of fear towards
the city gates. Before I had reached
there, however, I was surrounded and arrested
by a band of the holy brotherhood according
to a warrant of the all-powerful Inquisition.
Four months I languished in its dungeons, often
examined, often threatened with the torture,
forbidden any intercourse with those without—
in short, entombed alive. At length,
when I had given up all hope of liberty, I was
discharged with no more of explanation than
I had received on my capture—what of that?
there was no possible redress! I had been denounced
to the Holy Inquisition—therefore arrested!
The charge had not been made out—
therefore I was discharged! and well for me,
I ought to be content! yea! thankful! and I
was thankful—none but the captive know the
exceeding, the transcendant bliss of freedom.
I was free! I was strong! for spare food and
hard lodging had worked miracles for a restoration
of my health—I would seek out my
friends—fly to my sister!

“I repaired once more to the palace of my
friend; when, to my mighty wonder and yet
mightier rage, the porter dashed the wicket in
my face with a horse laugh, barred it within,
and grinning through its barred lattice to my
teeth, he bade me `go seek my sister in the
Lazar House; meet place for harlotry like
hers!' Words cannot express my rage, my
madness. All availed nothing—madness, rage,
entreaty!—no further answer was returned to
me—the wicket opened not—all was contemptuous,
scoruful silence. At length, dreading
I know not what, I turned me to the Lazar
House, and there—there—oh God! there I
found her!—there in that den of guilt and
misery, dying by inches, worn, and wan, and
wasted—there on the sordid pallet vouchsafed
by niggard charity, in the last agonies of life,
pale as the sheeted snow, and shrunken till
each bone of her fair frame seemed struggling
through the transparent skin—there found I
my sweet sister. She died—happy at least to
die upon a friendly bosom—she died in blessing
me, and praying, from Eternal mercy, the
pardon of her murderer. She died, but not till
she had faltered forth the tale of her unprecedented
ruin! The sun did not turn pale in
heaven—the earth yawned not, nor trembled—
nature held on its wonted course—God heard
the tale, as he had looked upon the deed—and
the fell villain prospered—prospered, and
laughed in the exulting pride of conscious
strength, and high impunity of wrong! All
from the very first had been premeditated—I
was appointed to command, merely that I might
be removed from the scene of destined outrage;
a future period was appointed for the marriage,
merely to drown all possible suspicion.
Scarce was I gone, before the treachery stirred
into action; the first step was to find an expert
forger of handwriting; nor was this first want
long ungratified; a villain, triple dyed in
guilt, a disfrocked monk of Italy, the minister
for years of Juan's secret infamies, was pitched
upon for the foul deed; and foully he performed
it. My letters, regularly intercepted by
Melendez, were laid before him, one by one,
as they arrived, till he had learned the trick of
my handwriting; so that I scarce myself could
mark the fraud. This done, the work commenced;
letter was forged on letter, to that
unhappy girl, urging her to delay no longer
the consummation of her nuptials—urging her
by a thousand specious pretexts, and at length
enjoining it upon her, as the last dying mandate
from a brother's death-bed, to be united on
the instant to Melendez. So specious was the
plot, that mortal wisdom scarcely could have
fathomed it. Her letters, like my own, were
intercepted—answered!—each argument refuted;
each doubt set aside; each apprehension
banished! moreover, not my handwriting
only, but my whole turn of composition, my
character of thought, my style, had been so
copied, that as I read the living evidence of the
lie, myself, I almost deemed them mine. It is
enough, that they prevailed! a marriage, a
false marriage, performed by that same villain
monk, and witnessed by, her sex's shame, the
shameless Isidore, completed the accursed plan.
Innocent, innocent she fell! Fell, as an angel
might have fallen, and yet remained an angel.
Secure of his poor victim, flushed with success
and passion, he carried her to his castle
in the south; and till satiety had effaced passion,
and custom worn away the charms of
novelty, had treated her with at least the semblance
of affection. Soon, soon was the dream
ended! My return from the army struck the
last blow to his expiring love—if love that
may be called, which was in truth corrupt and
brutal lust! The illness which delayed me, he
deemed an anspicious chance, and with unexampled,
aye! unheard brutality, in the most public
manner, in the most coarse revolting language
before his grinning menials and sycophantic
guests, he told that suffering angel of
the fraud—the fraud which had destroyed her!
jeered at her tears—yea! bade her convey her
beauties to some new lover, and some fresher
market! And when she clasped his knees in
agonies of tearless supplication, he spurned
her—spurned her with his foot, and bade his
vassals cast her forth into the wintry midnight.
Alone, on foot, in the light garments
of the ball-room, without food, or aid, or money,
she was cast forth at midnight; doubtless
cast forth to perish. But so it was not fated!
through storm and snow she struggled on!
barefoot! begging her bread! She reached
Madrid, and fainting in the street, some

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

charitable hand conveyed her to the wretched dwelling,
where suffering, and woe, and utter desolation,
soon brought her to the long last home:
sole refuge of the wretched. She died! Died,
I say, died! but left me living; living alone
for vengeance. My tale is ended! it boots not
to tell how, when the second Charles regained
his father's throne, he yielded by base amnesty
the lands of his true followers, to the oppressors
who had seized them. A double outlaw,
thence, have I lived for vengeance—and though
thus far thy father hath escaped me, some have
I had already, more shall I have ere long—aye,
to satiety!—

“Some have I had already!—and that, girl,
not a little. The monk I watched for weeks—
for months—(thy father, conscience-stricken,
had fled his country.) For months had I
watched him, till, as he journeyed towards
France, through the wild passes of the Pyrenees,
I swooped upon him. I dragged him to
the loneliest peak of those dread summits—
stripped him and bound him to a thundersplintered
tree—it was the very height of
summer—placed food and water close before
him—so close that he could see! so far that he
could not reach it—no, not to save his soul!
I left him there to perish—yet watched him
from a distance, that none might succor or release
him—that I might hear his blasphemies,
and mark his agonies, and glut my soul's dear
vengeance. He perished—how, you may
guess; he perished there, and knew me ere he
perished.

“Thine aunt—the Lady Isidore—married,
as thou knowest well, Teresa, the Conde di
Ribiera; and within three months after, was
found dead—pierced by three mortal wounds—
in her own bridal bed. I slew her!—I,
Teresa—I!—I, Ringwood the avenger! scaled
the terrace at midnight—entered her room and
woke her—woke her to die! One shriek rang
through the silent house, rousing its every inmate!
I leaped from the balcony, one
moment ere the chamber-doors flew open.
Have I not been avenged?

“Before your father's eyes, your brother
died by the torture!

“Before your father's eyes, Teresa, you
shall be shown ere long!—shown—what hedared
to call my sister, and lied in calling her!
Start not—be sure of it; for it shall be! This
only boon I grant thee—grant to thy courage,
girl, and nobleness of heart!—that not now
will I wrong thee—nor by violence!—thou
shalt consent to thine own degradation!
Meanwhile, rest here—that state-room shall be
thine; and the black girl, Cassandra, shall be
restored to thee; fit garments shall be furnished
thee; thou shalt eat at my table. Answer me
not, girl!—not a word—it shall be so, I say it
shall!

“I must on deck, somewhat is moving there,
that needs my presence. Content thee, and
farewell!”