Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1845], Count Julian, or, The last days of the Goth (William Taylor & Co., Baltimore) [word count] [eaf369].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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COUNT JULIAN;
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF THE GOTH.
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Preliminaries
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COUNT JULIAN;
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF THE GOTH.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “THE DAMSEL OF DARIEN,”
“RICHARD HURDIS,” “BORDER BEAGLES,” “THE KINSMAN,” &c.
“Count Julian, call'd the Invader: not because
Inhuman priests with unoffending blood
Had stain'd their country; not because a yoke
Of iron servitude oppress'd and gall'd
The children of the soil: a private wrong
Rous'd the remorseless Baron.”
Scuthey's Roderick.
Baltimore:
WILLIAM TAYLOR & CO.
CORNER OF NORTH AND BALTIMORE STREETS.
New-York:
WILLIAM TAYLOR, 2 ASTOR HOUSE.
1845.
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Acknowledgment
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ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1845, BY
W. GILMORE SIMMS,
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE UNITED STATES, FOR
THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF NEW-YORK.
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Dedication
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TO THE
HON. JOHN P. KENNEDY,
OF BALTIMORE, MARYLAND.
My Dear Sir:
In taking leave to use your name in connection with the present publication,
I presume still farther to address myself, through this medium,
to other readers than yourself. You, I trust, will indulge me in this freedom,
as, from your declared sympathy with the man of letters, and your
own well-known and much admired achievements in the same field—
achievements which you have but too prematurely forborne to follow up—
you will easily understand how much of the encouragement of the author
depends upon the reader's sympathy, and how much the just decision
upon his labors result from a correct knowledge of the circumstances under
which he has toiled, and what have been his aims in the scheme of
his performance.
The work which follows has a history of its own apart from the very
romantic history from which its materials have been drawn. This history
concerns me rather than my book, and concerns the reader, who limits
his curiosity to the simple detail of the story which he reads, still less
than either. To all those, however, who would follow in the progress of
an author's mind, through the successive steps and periods in his career—
who are curious to note the stages by which he has advanced from one
labor to another—there may be found, in this brief letter of explanation,
something of equal interest and use.
The conquest of Spain, by the Moors, was an event which, at a very
early period, seized upon and influenced my imagination; and, at the immature
age of seventeen, I had planned the rude draught of a tragedy upon
the subject. When reading law at nineteen, this performance was elaborated
to completion, and its scenes and subjects shared my thoughts in a
disproportionately large degree with Chitty and Blackstone. That, in an
early, and, perhaps, an evil hour, I left the latter for more congenial
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authorities in art, need not be wondered at after this statement, as the
simple fact need not now be more particularly insisted upon.
The drama, thus written, was submitted to the manager of a theatre—
was accepted, announced and put in rehersal. But theatrical management
in modern times is something of an absurdity. The secondary position
which the author holds to the actor—reversing the order of things, as
they were when the drama was successful—of which my first associations
behind the scenes soon gave me sufficient evidence, was quite too
offensive to my self-esteem to be endured patiently. My tragedy was
withdrawn and quietly consigned to the closet. With a passionate fondness
for the drama—with a pressing conviction, not yet surrendered, that,
as a literary man, in this department of fiction lay my forte—I was yet
thoroughly satisfied that the day had gone by, or had not yet come, when
it would be becoming in the man of pride and character—of sensibility
at least—to present himself at the door of a manager, soliciting to be
heard through this medium. I felt that nothing but necessity—the defeat
of theatricals on every hand—the utter desuetude of the drama—would ever
open the eyes of the actors to the suicidal course which substitutes their
art for that of the poet in whose labors only do they find exercise and employment.
I took for granted then—and subsequent experience confirms
all my conjectures—that the day must come, when, in the utter neglect
of the stage by the great body of the public, the manager would discern
the secret of its renovation to lie in the novelty of the fiction itself, and
not in the variety of styles in which different actors would present to the
multitude, the same old story with which they had become a thousand times
familiar. For that day, however reluctantly, I was prepared to wait,
sooner than forfeit any of my self-respect by unmanly concessions to a
system falsely recognised as a legitimate medium of communication with
the public.
But I was not to wait idly. There were other fields of exercise, and I
availed myself of them to make my acquaintance with the public—in what
manner, and with what degree of success, is known to no one better than
yourself. My books were favorably entertained, and, after having repeatedly
illustrated the histories and peculiarities of my own people, in works
of fiction, I began to turn my eyes to those of other lands with the view
to obtaining novelty in my materials. I am not sure that I was right in
this. An author, to whom the locale of his action is so very important (as
it is with me) to the spirit of his narrative, is perhaps always more happy
in his achievements when he looks at home.
In this search I was reminded of my almost forgotten tragedy. I relieved
it from its lock-up, reviewed it, and proceeded to convert the story
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into prose. The work grew beneath my hands. The material was copious.
A certain duplexity in the action suggested its division into two
parts, and the first of these parts took a definite form, before the public
eye, in the shape of a “Story of the Goth,” in two volumes, entitled
“Pelayo.” This work was written in the beginning of 1836. In the
close of that year I wrote the greater part of the sequel—which is now
for the first time presented to the reader, in the romance which I have honored
with the inscription of your name—“Count Julian, or the Last
Days of the Goth.” Not worthy of you, my dear sir, it is yet frankly
laid before you as one of the best testimonies of my own abilities and of
my respect for yours.
There is a further history peculiar to this story. The five first books,
constituting six in seven parts of the volume, were sent to the publishers
early in 1837. They miscarried. My agent for their transmission,
with culpable remissness, had neglected to take any memorandum by
which he might recal the name of the person by whom they were sent;
and months elapsed—and finally two years—before they were recovered.
Meanwhile, a terrible revulsion had taken place in the monetary affairs
of the country. Trade was stricken down—enterprise palsied—and literature,
as one of the luxuries, less essential than bread, and beef, and
beer and brandy, was among the first, in her various departments of art
and education, to succumb to the paralyzing catastrophe. “Count Julian”
lay upon the shelves. The sixth book was only in part written,
and I had no motive to finish it. The loss of the manuscript for so long
a time, of the first five books, and the doubts which I naturally felt that
they might never be recovered, made me resolve to expend no more time
on the composition. I turned to other labors, and, in the study of new
histories, and in the preparation of other fictions, I ceased to bestow
any thought upon that which had been already productive of so much
annoyance.
At length, the work was inquired after by the publishers. The sequel
of “Pelayo” had been promised. It was demanded. Offers from more
than one publishing house prompted me once more to take up the abandoned
papers, and prepare for their completion. In this attempt, I was
led to discover that my mind had experienced a vast transition, in many respects,
since the work was originally undertaken in 1836. My standards
had undergone a change, as I fancy, for the better. I had acquired a
better knowledge of my own strength—I had learned more justly to estimate
my own defects and deficiencies. I had learned, in brief, to write with
a greater degree of reference to the inimitable and unperishing principles
of art, rather than with heed only to the capricious and
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frequently diseased appetites of the multitude. I need not say that, in the
perusal of what had been already written, I saw how much there was
that I could change for the better. But such an attempt would involve
an entire remodelling of the structure—a change of plan and purpose—
of elements and attributes—of scenes, places and characters—and, in the
somewhat mournful language of Scott, in similar self-review, I resolved
to “let the tree lie where it had fallen.” That tree, my dear sir, is at
your feet. I am not without my hope that you will find some fruits upon
its branches, which, if not of the richest flavor, or the noblest size, will at
least possess a not ungrateful relish for your lips, and for those of our
very gracious public, to whom, as to a brother in the art, I commend
your literary fortunes quite as frankly and sincerely as my own.
Very respectfully,
Your friend and servant,
W. GILMORE SIMMS.
Woodland, South Carolina, May 1, 1845.
Main text
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BOOK FIRST.
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CHAPTER I.
A profligate king and a discontented people, bad counsellors and ambitious
subjects, are each of them enough for the overthrow of any kingdom. They were
all combined for the overthrow of the Gothic monarchy. Roderick—it was already
the prophecy of the seers, who were numerous in Spain at this period—was destined
to be the last king of the Visigoths. The signs of evil in the land were numerous.
Commotions in the city, rebellions in the mountain—marvels in the heavens, and
tremors in the earth—betokened the coming changes to the uninformed and superstitious.
To the more thoughtful and the better taught, the actual condition of things
spoke for themselves. The day was at hand—a day of blood, carnage, and singular
moral not less than political revolution—in the dawn of which—a dawn preceding a
long and disastrous night—a moon, according to the prophecy, should give light in
place of the sun, and by its baleful and unnatural lustre, the land of the Christian
was to suffer through long and successive ages of blight and eclipse. But, as if it
were not enough that these changes should be effected by the ordinary tendency of
events, the men high in place and unapproachable in power, those who were most
to be injured by such revolutions, madly contributed to their promotion; and, wholly
blind in the desperate wilfulness of his sin, Roderick himself, like another Nero,
bore the torch which was to fire his kingdom and consume his power. He gave a
loose rein to his own lusts, when his toil should have been to check the lusts of
those around him; and thus precipitated, by his madness, the madness of those whom
it was his true policy and becoming duty only to restrain and guide. But Providence
had willed the destruction of the Goth. His closest counsellors were his
secret enemies, and had commerce with his foes. From them he imbibed an
unhappy and unwise distrust of those who were his truest friends. Oppas, one of
the two archbishops of the kingdom, had insinuated himself into the blind king's
confidence, not by the wisdom and virtue of his counsels, but by adroit appeals to
his moods and desires. He was not too proud to serve his monarch as a creature,
when he found that the vanity of Roderick did not permit him to esteem a counsellor;
and, by a thousand successful but unbecoming acts, he found that favor in the
bosom of his prince, which enabled him to mislead, and in the end to destroy him.
In his secret chamber the archbishop now meditated other plans, not merely for
confirming his empire over the mind of Roderick, but for misleading him to his ruin.
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It was his aim to make his master as unpopular with the priesthood and nobility as
Roderick had made himself with his people. He had already done much toward
these objects. He had secretly persuaded the king, not by any direct charge, but by
dishonest and adroit insinuations, to distrust and consequently to offend many of his
best nobles, whose absence from court, and retirement to their several castles, had
been the necessary result of these operations. Their removal from his own path
was not less an object with Oppas than the misunderstanding which it was his aim
to occasion between them and their sovereign. But he had not been able utterly to
banish from the court the good and the sensible. There were some few who still
held their ground, solicitous to serve their monarch and their country, regardless of
self, and who bore patiently the hourly injustice, the cold and scornful slight, and
sharp rebuke, to which their perseverance continued to expose them. Failing to
drive them away, Oppas changed his means of attack, and now labored industriously
to misrepresent their purposes, and undermine their reputation.
To affect the priesthood was a leading object with the archbishop; and, unfortunately
for Roderick, the indifference of the king, openly expressed, upon all matters
of religion, contributed in no small degree to facilitate the labors of the conspirator.
Roderick, at a very early period, had thrown aside the mask which he had worn
upon coming to the throne. He had then deemed it advisable to conciliate the nobles
and the priesthood, and he had greatly succeeded with both of these powerful castes.
He had raised the standard of rebellion against his predecessor, Witiza, in defence of
the privileges of the former, which had been assailed in his father's person; and the
priesthood was readily persuaded to regard their cause as identical with that of the
nobles, when they remembered that Witiza had yielded but little deference to their
power, which he sought to circumscribe, and, on one occasion, had even bid defiance
to the head of the Roman church, threatening, in reply to rebukes from the
papal chair, to reward his soldiers for the conquest of Rome itself, out of its own
treasury. Having the power of these two classes, Roderick had succeeded in his
rebellion. His usurpation was made legal; and, for a brief season, all parties were
apparently satisfied with his elevation. But, too soon for his own security, the
reckless usurper threw aside the friendly disguises which had gained him so much.
With the consciousness of power, came the confidence, too readily acquired by
princes, in its stability; and Roderick now gave himself but little care to conciliate
any class or character. He yielded himself up to the vices of his predecessors and
of the times. He adopted all the effeminacies of the voluptuous Greek and the debased
Roman; and the nobles who resisted his pretensions to absolute sway, and
the priesthood which rebuked them, equally became the objects of his anger or his
scorn.
It was the policy of Oppas, connected as he was with the growing conspiracy
against Roderick, to foment the discontents of these classes, while stimulating the
king with every counsel to continue and increase their provocations. In this labor
of sin he was indefatigable; yet, though he employed numberless agents, who were
always busy, the archbishop was adroit enough in his machinations, not only to
escape detection, but even to avoid suspicion. It may be that there were some of
the nobles who saw into his secret soul, and conjectured his base purposes; but so
carefully did he conduct his game, and so great was his seeming influence with the
king, that none was able to show cause of suspicion, and but few would have dared,
having the proper evidence, to have declared against him.
Still, though at present thus secure, the time was approaching when he felt that
it would be necessary to practice all his address to avoid the jealous scrutiny and
apprehension of the king himself He was aware that an outbreak was at hand,
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when his nephews, the two princes Egiza and Pelayo, would lift the standard of
revolt in the Asturias; and he well knew that nothing then but shows of the most
devoted loyalty would suffice to protect him from suspicion. This difficulty was
before him now; and alone, at midnight, in his chamber, the archbishop revolved
the matter in his mind. While he mused, a private signal reached his ear. He
rose instantly, and admitted one who seemed to have been expected. The stranger
was one of those upon whom the arts of Oppas had been practiced in part already.
Something, however, was yet to be done, to the completion of his purposes. The
person who entered, and who now seated himself so confidently yet unobtrusively
in the presence of the archbishop, was a priest, and one who had a great influence
among his fellows, being endowed with the popular gift of eloquence in a wonderful
degree, and being at the same time one of the four persons, chosen for their venerable
appearance and known wisdom and sanctity, to be keepers of that famous and
strange fabric in Toledo, which was known as the House of Hercules.
This `house,' so called, was one of the greatest supposed wonders in all Spain,
and was regarded by the people of the country—the natives being understood, and
not the Goths—with a feeling of superstitious fear and veneration, which made it
an object of national care and consideration. It was a mountain, in which there
was a cavern and many secret and subterranean passages. Many were the strange
stories told concerning it; and, in that time of marvels and general superstition, when
religion was only dawning as it were upon mankind, and all was twilight and
shadow in the spiritual world, the popular story was the source of a most prevalent
faith among the people. It was said of this cavern that it had been the work of
Hercules, who, when he first came into Spain, raised it there in the course of a single
night, building it on the inside of the most costly materials, and leaving a written
prediction, which was contained within its walls, concerning the future destinies of
the nation. Wo and nameless miseries were denounced against that person who
should endeavor to obtain possession of the secret which it concealed; and such had
been the fear inspired by the denunciation, that the monarchs of that country, reckless
and vicious as in every other respect they may have been, had never once dared
to penetrate the sanctuary; but, in respect of the prediction, or perhaps with a due
regard to the popular superstition, they had each of them, previous to the time of
Roderick, affixed a heavy lock to its gate of entrance, that it might be the more readily
recognized as a place sealed up against idle curiosity or an improper thirst to
know that which the due progress of events would necessarily reveal. At this
day, it matters little to inquire the source and secret of this superstition. The
probability is that it was one of the thousand arts of that venerable power, known
to all nations and ages, which seeks to maintain its sovereignty by practicing upon
the credulity of the weak and unsuspecting. The House of Hercules was in the
possession of the Gothic priesthood. It gave them at all times a certain, and perhaps
supreme command over the fears and the feelings of the Spanish people. It
was confided to their direction, and a selection of four persons from their body were
appointed to keep it. It does not appear that these four persons were kept from the
knowledge which was denied by the monarchs of Spain—arbitrary though they
might be in all things else—to themselves and their subjects. They had each of
them, up to the time of Roderick, placed an additional lock upon its gate, the better
to secure its secrets. That duty was yet to be performed by the reigning sovereign.
But Oppas resolved that Roderick should not perform this duty. He resolved that
this should be one of the appointed modes which the king should employ by which
to offend the priesthood. This, however, was a secret resolve of his own mind, to be
pursued with cautiousness. While he spoke with the venerable Romano, who, by
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the way, was the chief of the four keepers of the House of Hercules, and who was
himself both straight-forward and simple in all his purposes, Oppas suffered nothing
of his internal schemes to be seen or conjectured; but he strove rather, though still
with the view to the promotion of his own evil objects, to insist as strenuously as
his brethren upon the performance of this duty by the king.
“It was bad enough, Romano,” he proceeded, “bad enough that king Roderick
should permit the accursed Hebrew, because of his gold, to fester in the kingdom, a
stink as he is in the nostrils of Heaven and Holy Church; but what was to be
looked for at the hands of one who has a countenance and a hand for the heretic
Arian? Doth he not hold terms with the heathen, and those who are the known
enemies of Holy Church? Doth he give heed to prescribed rites and the blessed
ordinances? He makes no confession; though well I know he hath a bosom full
of black and uncleanly thoughts which should bring down his proud knees day and
night, at rise and set of sun, in humility before the altar, if he dreamed of, or dreaded,
the wrath which is in store for him, and which hourly gathers increase. What
cares he for my exhortings, or for thy eloquence, Romano, which might move any
other heart than his? His neck is stiffened, and his heart hardened, like that of
Pharaoh. God forbid that he provoke Heaven's wrath too far: God forbid that we
be called upon to avenge his ordinances!”
“Yet, my lord bishop, I would say God's will be done!” said the other. “If it
be so that Roderick shall still farther continue to defy Holy Church, and give so
little heed to her messengers, I trow not what we shall do to avoid the duty which
shall be assigned us. I would not that Roderick should continue blind; I would
that he should come to a knowledge of his danger; and therefore, father bishop, I
would have thee say—”
“I have said, Romano—I do say,” replied Oppas, interrupting him. “It is the
counsel for ever on my lips, and I have warned him as one that had been sent; but
his thoughts are of the world and its pleasures only. He thinks but of wine and
wassail; the voluptuous woman is his master; and the prayers and preachings of
the church avail nothing. The servant of God must speak, having more fire on his
tongue than I, ere Roderick shall be brought to hear.”
“Could I but be brought to speak with him in private, father bishop—”
“Would he suffer it?” said Oppas, quickly. “Alas! Romano, I fear that Roderick
is one upon whom a mark is set for destruction. For what saith the blessed
St. Cyprian? `What shall be hoped of the king that is wilful and heareth not—
that hath sin in his eye, yet seeth not—that shuts his ears against the word that is
spoken, and laughs at the teacher? He shall perish; and man can not save him!'
Is it not so with Roderick, my brother? Thou shalt see for thyself, Romano.
Thou wilt soon go to demand of him, that, as in all time aforepast, he do as the
kings of Spain have ever done, and place a new lock upon the gate of the House of
Hercules—”
“Thou dost not think him wilful to refuse?” demanded the priest, quickly.
“Heaven send him better wisdom, my brother,” said Oppas, with much outward
piety; “but I greatly fear me that he will. He hath too little reverence for the
church to heed thy requisition; and the mystery of Hercules will be to him but a
blinding superstition, which he doth affect to hate and to despise!”
“Now, out upon his profane thought, if such be a part of it!” exclaimed the
pious Romano, with a holy horror. “What doth he know of the mystery of Hercules,
that he should despise it? What is it to all the kings of the earth, who are
but mean and mortal things, that they should presume to fathom the Incomprehensible,
and declare what is worthless and what is good?”
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“Alas! my brother; it is because the kings of the earth are mortal, that they so
presume. It is their ignorance which breeds their presumption, Romano. Roderick
is one of them, and he challenges danger as a thing that can touch him not; and he
has learned to look upon the messenger of death as a summoner for subjects only,
and not for those who sway. This is the woful blindness of which St. Cyprian
has told us: it is the blindness of Roderick, Romano.”
“But wherefore, my lord bishop, should Roderick withhold himself from this
duty, which the kings of the Goth have ever been prompt before to perform?” demanded
Romano.
“I say not, brother, of a certainty that he will, but I greatly fear it, as I know
the nature that is within him. It is enough that none have ever done so before of
the Gothic kings that Roderick will be bold to do it. It is a boast with him that he
may dare when others would dread—that he can do what other kings may not even
think.”
“But the people, lord bishop, the people of Spain—who have been taught to hold
the mystery of Hercules as their pledge of safety—will they forget the prophecy,
which says that Spain shall be lost by the king who shall unfold the mystery; will
they suffer Roderick, in his blind impiety, to do such rashness? Assuredly they
will not, lord Oppas!”
“Alas, Romano, of what is it thou speakest? The people of Spain!—where are
they—who are they? Roderick will have no let to his mood from any, and our
good argument shall yield him none; and if the will so prompt him, he will search
deep into the sacred mystery, in despite of the prophecy which denounces wo to the
monarch who shall fathom it.”
“It must not be!” cried the stern Romano; “the mystery must not be unlocked,
my father. We were lost if it be so. The denunciation is terrible against the monarch,
and against the people, and against the land, if it shall be opened. Better
that we should perish first, my father!”
“Or he, the wrong-doer!” said the archbishop, in a low but inquiring tone, while
he laid his hand upon the arm of his companion. “What says the prophecy, Romano?
`Spain shall be lost to the king that shall penetrate the House of Hercules,
and seize the mystery thereof?' There is a meaning in this for each ear, Romano.
Truly may Spain be lost to the monarch, yet Spain may not be lost to herself. She
may be lost to the tyrant, Romano, but not to the people: she may be lost to the
Arian, and to the Manichean, and to the profligate, my brother; but, if her sons be
true, and the fathers of her church be true, she will never be lost to the banners of
the blessed Jesus. Seest thou not, my brother?”
“I apprehend thee,” replied Romano. “It is true, as thou sayest; but though
the evil fall only on the wrong-doer, and the loss of Spain be only to her present
ruler, yet would I not that the mystery should be laid open to the impious and profane
eye, my lord bishop. The holy things of the church are not for the contemplation
of the Arian. His finger must not touch, his eye must not see, his tongue
must not defame, the relics which are given to our keeping. The trust is sacred,
and we should keep it so, or consecrate the sacrifice which gives it up to the sacrilegious
ruler with our blood, my father!”
“Thou hast spoken like one, my brother Romano, to whom the gates of Heaven
have already been unlocked!” said the archbishop, with an air of the profoundest
reverence. “Thou hast spoken boldly of our duties, and, as thou sayest, it shall
be so. The martyrdom of the saints will be a kindred sacrifice with the profanation
which thou speakest of; and God give us strength, my brother, to bear his cross
meekly, but fearlessly, whenever the earthly ruler shall so decree in his tyrannical
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dictation. But let us hope for better things, Romano. Let us hope that Roderick
may not be thus wicked—that he may do with thee and thy trust as the kings of
Spain have ever done before, and place upon the mystery of Hercules the lock which
thou shalt bear him. It is the only lock, my brother,” continued the archbishop,
and speaking with increased significance of tone and manner; “it is the only lock
which should bind him to his church, my brother; and should he reject its ties, Romano”—
He paused with the inquiry, and looked in the face of Romano, as if seeking for
an answer from him. The eye of the zealot glared with an unspeakable fury, which
was a sufficient answer. His reply in words, though full of meaning, had not the
same emphasis of expression which distinguished his look.
“If the lock binds him not to the church, my lord Oppas, then is the church not
bound unto him. It is with the church to bind and to unloose, to bruise and to heal,
to slay as well as to save!”
“My brother, the truth is living within thee!” exclaimed the archbishop, with
well-affected enthusiasm; “truly is thy lip touched with the live coal from off the
altar, and thou speakest with the voice of Isaiah. Thou hast said what I have
thought, but what I could not so well or so boldly have said. The church has all
the powers which thou hast named; and the positive command to use them in his
holy cause has come from God himself. But though we shrink not from their use,
my brother, we must use them wisely, not precipitately. Roderick must do this
wrong ere we so punish. Let us not idly prejudge him, with the blind wilfulness
of children. True, he hath already done much, and left much undone, for which
he merits sore punishment from the church; and I fear me that, in his heart, he is
an Arian—though his lip, when he first came to the throne, had freely enough spoken
otherwise. But I will not judge him, nor shouldst thou, my brother. Better
that we should be thought slow in our duty and lukewarm in our love for the
church, than that we should minister to error by premature judgment.”
Romano evidently listened with impatience to this long and hypocritical harangue
of the archbishop. Not that he knew or suspected his hypocrisy. No! He gave
his superior only too much credit for his indulgence to a heretic, as Romano had
already learned to consider Roderick, through the artful tutoring of Oppas; and was
only impatient to launch forth in anticipation the thunders of the church upon one
whom he was now well-assured would soon render them necessary. His reply was
marked by this spirit, and gave the archbishop only another opportunity the better
to practice upon the fanatic.
“I dare not think with you, my lord Oppas, in this matter. To be slow in our
duty is to refuse its performance—and to be lukewarm in our love for the church, is
to pursue the blessed Jesus with a deadly hate; for he that is slow is overtaken by
the enemy, and he that is lukewarm is won over by his arts.”
“Thou art right in what thou sayest, my brother; but thou errest when thinking
that I would counsel either sloth or lukewarmness. I said that it were better we
should seem slow and lukewarm in the eyes of the rash and headstrong, than that
we should go madly forward to do injustice in our judgment, though it be upon one
like king Roderick, of whom there is but too much cause for believing that he
looks kindly upon Arianism, even if he has not the accursed sin already in his
bosom.”
“And that is enough for judgment!” said Romano. “He that is not with me is
against me, and he who lifteth not spear and sword in my behalf doth arm the enemy
to my undoing. The blessed scriptures are full of precept; and we may not
pause to denounce judgment upon the backslider!”
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“No, surely, that we must not, good Romano, when the church is in danger.
But—”
“And is not the church in danger? What greater danger than when the king
which it hath chosen for its protection, heeds not its prayer for safety?” was the
demand of the impatient zealot, who, in his sacred fury, did not hesitate to interrupt
his superior.
“But we know not that he will refuse, Romano!” said the archbishop, willing
now to soothe in some degree the devil he had raised, as he was satisfied of its readiness,
when the proper time should arrive, for the execution of its intended purposes.
“But we know not that he will refuse, Romano; we must await the season
and the summons. It is enough for us, my brother, that we understand our solemn
duties to God's holy church, and shall not be ignorant of the performances required
at our hands in the hour of our Saviour's need. When we know the path and feel
the duty, it is easy for the appointed to go therein; and I trust when the hour
cometh, Romano, that I may be but as firm as thee!”
Romano grasped the extended hand of Oppas, while a scowl of the fiercest enthusiasm
overspread his pale and thin features. The flatteries of the archbishop made
him already thirst for that martyrdom which he now imagined was at hand, and a
secret prayer revolved in his mind, having its origin in the selfish ambition which
possessed him at that moment, that Roderick might refuse the application from the
keepers of the House of Hercules, that he might be the first victim in a cause which
must embalm his memory certainly in the odor if not in the actual enjoyment of
sanctity.
“Let us await patiently the hour, my brother. Thou needest not fear to wait
for thou canst not be tempted. Thou art strong to do and to obey; and the church
will call its servant, perchance, when thou lookest not to hear such a call, but never
when thou art unprepared. Thou hast but to remember, as I said to thee erewhile,
that the prophecy of the ancient house thou keepest hath a meaning for either ear;
and though Spain may be lost to the king, it does not follow thence that she will be
lost to herself, or to the church. It is for such as thee, Romano, that the church
will reserve its highest duties. She may call upon thee to save her, Romano; but
whether she call upon thee, or upon me, or upon any more worthy and devoted of
the brotherhood, it is my prayer that we may be always ready, with girded loins and
unshrinking hearts, to do her bidding!”
“Amen!” said the other, crossing himself devoutly as he spoke, and preparing
to retire. Enough had been said for his purpose, and, too good a politician to risk
all by saying more, Oppas did not seek any longer to detain him. Contenting himself
with repeating a few of the heads of the preceding dialogue—such as he conceived
the best calculated to confirm the zealot in these views of the powers of the
church, and the propriety of employing them, even upon refractory princes, in cases
of extreme danger to its authority—he then suffered him to depart. Romano retired
to the House of Hercules, prepared to work according to the feelings and principles
laid down by his superior, and which that wily intriguer well knew he would soon
enough diffuse among his brethren.
CHAPTER II.
With the departure of Romano, the archbishop, in soliloquy, gave a greater freedom
to his secret and true thoughts. He laughed scornfully as he thought upon his
late companion
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“A man,” said he, “to work upon the many—to rouse them into rage until no
lion of the desert shall be less easy to tame or conquer—whose words shall fall
like so much heavenly manna around them, and so readily persuade and prompt—
yet what a child himself!—how easy to be won, to be beguiled, and carried from
the truth, which he really loves, to the blinding falsehood, which if he do not hate,
it is only because of his utter incapacity to see!”
He called a page, after this soliloquy, and proceeded to prepare certain papers
which lay before him.
“These lords,” said he again, in a half-syllabled manner, “these lords, whom
Roderick hath banished, at an instance the source of which he suspects not, are in
Andalusia. They are rush, and rage against him. They must have counsel. It
were pity that so much good anger, which might produce noble performance, should
suffer waste. These advices will better teach them; and their proud stomachs shall
not fail to gorge the counsel, as they shall know nothing of the counsellor!”
The page stood before him.
“Ha! thou art there, Ewitza? 'T is well. Go down to the inner court and learn
if the couriers be yet arrived from Cordova. The couriers of the church, boy;
remember!”
The boy disappeared.
“The church is a good mantle,” said Oppas, with a most innocent chuckle, “and
like charity covereth many sins. But for its vestment my couriers would not so
safely pass with their precious burdens.”
This passing commentary did not, however, interfere with the various matters of
business which still lay before the archbishop for his disposal. Various dispatches
were prepared with the haste and readiness of one expert in his vocation. Over
most of these, as he singly arranged them for the couriers, he spoke freely to himself
of their several objects, their character, and of those to whom they were to be
delivered. All of these dispatches more or less affected the conspiracy which he
had in hand; and, though addressed to wholly different persons, no two of whom
were to be moved in like manner, yet it may be said, in behalf of the good judgment
which the lord Oppas had of men in general, that but few of his dispatches ever
failed utterly of the effect they were intended to produce.
“This!” said he, as he lingered long upon one billet ere he passed the gold and
silken cord around it, “this should be the torch, the blaze of which should kindle
all the rest. This is for Roderick. He shall fire the pile: by his own hand, in
his wild passion, shall he effect his own destruction. It cannot fail: his lust is
now a madness—an incurable disease, and this cannot but mislead him.”
He turned the billet in his hand—once more read over the contents, which were
written in a style carefully disguised. When he had read, he folded it, penned the
inscription in the same assumed writing, folded the silken cords about it, and placed
it in his bosom, out of sight, saying as he did so:
“This will serve to-morrow; and if Roderick flame with its tidings, as I am sure
he must, then will our desires have play not less than his! Julian will be sent
far from sight, and the army be removed to the African coast—taking all hindrance
from the path of Pelayo. What follows next, but that the wronged father should
bring the same army to our aid, and rouse up the nobility to side with him—even
those who are friendly to the usurper. This done, what matters it whether that
great brag of the court and twisted feather, the dangling Edeco, leads the forces of
the Goth? Were it the best army that ever Spain sent out against the Scipios, it
were sent out to ruin under Edeco. God keep him in the grace of Roderick, so that
he may still continue to be the espatorio—sword-bearer it should rather be, for truly
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doth he bear it rather as a burden than as a weapon—rather as a thing that, as it
carries honor, must be carried in its turn, than as a thing it were a grace to carry, and
which should call for eminent grace in him who carries it.”
The page by this time had returned, and, advancing, he laid sundry packets before
the archbishop; on all of which the cross was drawn in deep red lines. Oppas
made a sign to the bearer to wait, and breaking the silk of each he proceeded to
its perusal. When he had done, he gave him the sundry dispatches which he
had made up, and commissioned him to send off the couriers with them straight.
“This,” said he, taking the one billet from his bosom, on which he had so much
relied, and addressing the boy, “this thou wilt dispose of, Ewitza, so that the page
of Edeco shall possess it, yet see thee not. Thou canst place it in his hands after
night, to-morrow, having well chosen a disguise for thy concealment.”
“I can, my lord!” said the swarthy boy, whose dark eyes shone with a quick,
arch, and intense fire: “I can, my lord,” he repeated, as the archbishop watched
his countenance.
“And with the secrecy I require, Ewitza?”
“As thou requirest, my lord!”
“I trust to thee; I know that thou wilt do it. Leave me now; thou hast done
thy service for the night.”
The boy retired, and the archbishop was alone. He looked out upon the stars,
and with that mingling of religion and superstition which was the prevailing feature
of the time, and from which the wisest and the worst were not entirely exempt, he
demanded of them that success in his purposes which he had nevertheless toiled diligently
to secure by merely human means. One star, a dark red orb, shining over
the distant and frowning rock known as the House of Hercules, particularly fixed
his attention. Bright sparks seemed to shoot out from its sides, and while he gazed
he fancied that an eye looked forth upon him from its centre.
“It is the eye of a god,” said the priest, “perchance the eye of Hercules himself,
watching over his temple. Would that the skill were mine to read its language!
It might be, then, that I should not”—
He paused and looked around him upon the chamber, as if he heard some one
stirring within; then turning his gaze again to where the star had shone, he was
filled with new courage as he saw that it had sunk from his sight behind the mountain,
and was no longer visible, no longer watching its temple.
“It is favorable, that sign,” he exclaimed; “if the god withdraw his guardianship,
what care we for the human keepers; what care we for the mummery and the
mystery, if it makes for our cause that it be thrown open to the impious gaze of the
intruder? Roderick shall break the seal, rather than close it. I will move his
vanity to the measure; for well I know that it must work wo to the monarch who
shall do so. It will work him wo with his people, if not with Hercules. The
church shall rise against him—the Iberian slaves shall grow strong, having its sanction—
and the kingdom shall be lost to him for ever. It will be our weakness and
lack of spirit, if it shall then be lost to us.”
Complying with a habit of body rather than a feeling or sentiment of mind, the
conspirator retired to his devotions; and when these were finished, sought his couch
for those slumbers which his protracted and earnest toils throughout the day had
long before rendered necessary.
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CHAPTER III.
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Let us now penetrate the royal palace of Toledo, at present in the occupation of
the usurper Roderick, and that incomparable woman, Egilona, his wife; a woman
superior to her time, in sense and in virtue—but one whose charms, though great
enough to win her the homage of a Moorish not less than a Gothic monarch, were
yet not equal to the task of securing the affections of one so capricious and reckless
as king Roderick.
The palace of Roderick—king of the Romans, as the late Gothic sovereigns were
pleased to style themselves—had become the dwelling-place of Roman ostentation
and Asiatic luxury. The throne blazed with gold and jewels of immense value;
the commonest utensils of the household were formed of the most costly materials;
the robes, dresses, and equipment were of a texture which the early Goths would
have laughed to scorn for their silken effeminacy; and all objects of contemplation
and enjoyment, announced that rapid progress from the extreme of savage privation
and necessity to the refinements—so called—of civilization, to which the Goths may
ascribe the downfall of their mighty empire. The luxuries which enervated them,
at the same time invited the invader; and both the Moors who succeeded, and the
Goths whom they overthrew, learned in due season to deplore the wooing and too
well beloved possessions, which, however willing they might have been to die for,
they had not the strength or courage to defend.
King Roderick sat upon his blazing throne, having on his head the horned crown
of Gothic royalty, and covered with robes richly embroidered from the neck to the
heels, the folds of which swept the floor in a long train behind him. He was a
monarch of a noble and imposing presence, with a face full of authority, an eye
haughty and commanding, and a lip that curled with an imperious and stern expression.
Egilona, his queen, sat below him, upon an inferior seat, and her eyes
were turned up and watchful of his features with a fond but earnest look, which at
moments grew even into sadness. Her features were very beautiful, and not less
amiable than beautiful. In the midst of a court where all was vicious, and where
sensual indulgence had a full guaranty in the universal practices of all, not the
slightest suspicion had ever assailed her purity; and though Roderick had ceased to
love her with that regard which so much beauty might well have awakened in any
but a blunted sense, he at least never ceased to respect her in consideration of her
many virtues and her gentle bearing.
On either hand of the king stood an espatorio, or sword-bearer, of whom there
were four, one of whom always kept guard in the ante-chamber of the Gothic monarch.
The espatorios on the present occasion were Edeco and Favila—the former,
a favorite of the monarch who contributed greatly to his debasing passions by ministering,
as his creature, to those sensual indulgences to which, in his hour of prosperity,
Roderick had unhappily given himself up. Edeco was a servile minister, a
fop, a thing of feather and pretence, who spoke after a manner of his own, and
whose ambition was to emulate the effeminacies not less than the extravagances of
the other sex. Favila was a simple noble, having the royal blood of the old stock
in his veins, but without much character of any sort, and one who would readily fall
in with the prevailing influences of the time, good or bad. There were many
ladies and nobles in attendance, all richly attired; for Roderick was a monarch to
whom the glitter of jewels and the glow of silks and costly embroidery were grateful
beyond all reasonable measure. But the archbishop Oppas was absent from the
assembly, and it was for his presence that the king most earnestly looked.
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But though late in attendance upon the court, Oppas had been already long since
busy with his ministry; and ere the king had made his appearance that morning before
his attendants, the wily conspirator had taken care, though keeping himself free
from any apparent connection with the proceeding, to prepare the mind of Roderick
against the anticipated application of Romano. It was to obtain further knowledge
on this subject that the king looked round upon his courtiers, and at length ordered
that the archbishop should be summoned. Before the command had well escaped
his lips, the door opened and the desired personage made his appearance. The king
addressed him instantly:
“My lord bishop, you are waited for. What men are those without?”
Romano and his associates had followed the archbishop, and now awaited in the
ante-chamber for the summons to the royal presence.
“They are the men, oh king!” replied the archbishop, “who keep the House
of Hercules.”
“The House of Hercules—what house is this?” demanded the king, who affected
ignorance of the whole matter.
“It is a mystery, oh king!” continued Oppas, “no doubt of highest though of
secret value. It is called the `Mystery of Hercules,' though it hath many other
names.”
“Make us wise in them, my lord bishop,” said the king.
“I have little knowledge in this matter, oh king!” replied Oppas, “and not much,
if any, beyond that of the noble gentlemen I behold around me; which is a knowledge,
I believe, commonly possessed by all the people of this country who come of
the native Iberian stock”—
“The native Iberian stock!” exclaimed the king, scornfully. “What idle mock
is this, my lord bishop? What secret should the native Iberians keep from their
sovereign, I pray? What are they that they should thus presume in secrets, in mysteries,
and houses of Hercules? Of a truth, this is a matter for grave heed and close
inquiry, and we'll have more of it, my lord bishop. Give forth thy other names for
this mystery; we will hearken patiently, even though we hearken without gain of
wisdom.”
“These are old names, oh king! by which the charge of the keepers of the House
of Hercules hath ever been known; and each of them hath a signification which ancient
times hath affixed to it. One is the `Perfect Guard,' by which it would seem
that he who hath established the mystery would have shown that the secret should
be made inviolable”—
“Ha! it were no wisdom of Hercules to think to bind the Goth! But go on, my
lord bishop.”
“`Pleasure and Pain,”' continued Oppas, “is another of the names set to this
mystery, having its meaning also; for it is said”—
“We will read this signification ourself, my lord bishop. The `Pleasure' is for
the king of the Romans; the `Pain'—thou shalt have it thyself, lord Oppas, to
share between thy native Iberians and the keepers of the mystery. What think
you, is the division not an equal one, my lords?”
And the wild, scornful laugh of the sovereign was but the signal for a kindred
echo from all around him—all save the queen and her ladies, the archbishop himself,
and one of the lords in attendance whose name was Bovis, and who was one
of the best counsellors, though perhaps one of the least attended to, of the king
whom he served.
“Another name, oh king!” said the archbishop, with a gravity of countenance
which the mirth of the sovereign and of the court had not shaken, “another name
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is given to this mystery, having a higher meaning, which should not move your
scorn, my lords—`God's Honor,' and the `Secret yet to Come,' are no irreverent
titles to our regard, oh king! These are the names of the House of Hercules, and
of the mystery thereof. By all these names, from the time when Hercules slew
Geryon and built this house, hath it been known even until now.”
The archbishop crossed himself devoutly, as he concluded; but the king burst into
a loud laugh, and as he was about to speak, seemingly with scorn of what he had
heard, Egilona, the queen, turned to him, and her hand was laid gently upon his
arm, and her eye looked up in supplication to his face, while she spoke in a gentle
and sweet voice—
“`God's Honor,' oh Roderick! remember it is `God's Honor;' and there can be
no king's honor unless there be `God's Honor.' Speak not in wrath, speak not in
scornfulness of what thou hearest, oh Roderick! for it is holy. Let that name—
God's Honor'—be a spell to keep that secret which may seem to us but a childish
folly.”
“Go to, Egilona!” said the king, gently but quickly; “these are not things of
thy discernment. Have done; we will hear others speak.”
“Then hear me, Roderick!” cried the lord Bovis, advancing. “Hear me! I
would counsel thee to leave this House of Hercules and its mystery, as a thing not
calling for thy heed. It is enough that the native loves it, and deems it sacred—let
it not be seen that thou scornest the thing of his affection, for then”—
“Enough, enough, good Bovis,” exclaimed the king, impatiently; “thou hast the
trick of the aged Santon, and makest thunder when thou pleasest.”
“Alas, Roderick, would that I could make thee to heed the real thunder when
thou but hearest it!” responded Bovis, turning away his face from the monarch in
mortification, as he saw that his exhortations must be fruitless, and that Roderick
was predetermined in his purpose.
“Doubtless this mystery hath gold and silver in it,” said Edeco, in a mincing
tone, seeing the humor of the king, “it may be robes of a curious fashion are there
wrought. I would have a sash from its walls, my lord bishop, could it yield me one
of a most cunning and light texture. These silks, by the burning lance! are unendurably
heavy upon the shoulders.”
The affected speech of the effeminate favorite was as great a provocation of mirth
as any of the good things of the monarch, for which mirth was necessarily expected,
and the courtiers generally laughed, and the king spoke with a kindred humor to the
favorite; but Egilona looked upon him sternly, and the face of Oppas was turned
upon the ground. The latter saw, and was satisfied to see, that matters were going
on according to his desire, though he affected to look with gravity and sorrow upon
the open scorn which the king expressed for the sacred things of which he had
spoken.
“`God's Honor,' my lord bishop,” said the king, “is truly a title to our devout
regard; yet we know not but that `God's Honor,' in the House of the pagan Hercules,
is made a cover for man's sin. We will hear more of this matter from thee,
ere we summon these men to our presence. Where is this house, I pray thee?”
“Here, in Toledo, oh king!” replied the archbishop. “Hard by the ruins of
Erviga, the enchanted tower takes a large and holy space from the press of the city.
It seems but a common rock, heaved suddenly up from the bosom of the broad valley;
and yet, even as a tower, it is built up with a crafty skill and a most consummate
art. So fame gives it out; of my own knowledge I can say nothing. It hath
doors and windows within, all well secured, yet there is without but one single gate
of solid brass, most cunning of design, having upon it a thousand clasps at the least;
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whereto each monarch of Spain, before thyself, oh Roderick! hath set anew a lock,
having due observance to the commands of Hercules securely to preserve his mystery
which he hath therein concealed. To pray thee to do in like manner with the
kings aforepast, do the men stand without. It is for this purpose only that they
come.”
“For this they come in vain!” was the sudden and resolute reply of Roderick.
“I were no king in Spain, if stale conceit like this should bind me down submissive
to an idle mock, that to my mind, lord bishop, would seem greatly to trench upon
ground that is holy. This Hercules—this pagan Hercules—what is he better than
the accursed Mohammed to us? He should, of a surety, lose dominion where the
cross of Christ is held high in honor by truest worshippers. But, let the men
appear.”
CHAPTER IV.
The doors were thrown open, accordingly, and the four keepers of the House of
Hercules, clad in long yellow robes, were ushered into the presence of the king.
They were headed by the stern ascetic, Romano; his long, white beard streaming
down upon his bosom, giving a ghostly and venerable appearance to his thin, pale,
hollow cheeks. In his united hands he bore a huge, heavy lock of brass; and with
a fearless and unblenching manner, resolute and unabashed, he at once approached
the throne, and stopped not till he had passed through the double ranks of courtiers,
who made way on each side, and stood immediately in the presence of Roderick.
He was closely followed by his brethren; but the king did not suffer them to advance
so far, ere he spoke, and arrested their approach.
“Well; wherefore come ye? Why bring ye that massive keeper? Speak!
What would ye? Who are ye? What would ye have of the king?”
The words and manner of the king were stern and ungracious, but Romano was
no ways daunted. He met the fierce glance of Roderick with a glance of defiance,
and as full of resolution, if not so fierce, as that of the monarch. It was indeed this
bold demeanor on the part of Romano which had chafed the usurper, whose nature
was imperious; and the impunity with which he had swayed having made him
reckless, he was not readily disposed to recognise in an inferior any feature that did
not speak for his servility. But Romano had been previously aroused by what he
heard from Oppas, and by his own subsequent reflections on the same subject, and
he was unwilling to abate a jot of his pride or his purpose. Without seeming to
regard, however, the particular language of the king and his stern deportment, Romano,
with eminent and calm dignity, replied as follows:
“God, sire, hath given you power—the monarch chosen of the people of Spain.
The troubles of the strife are all over, and thy duties begin. It were well, then, if
now, like all our kings, you seek with us the House of Hercules, whereof we are
the keepers, and with this sacred lock, after the manner of your predecessors, bind
its great secret fast”—
The king now interrupted him, for it seemed as if Romano would have spoken
further
“And wherefore this?” demanded Roderick. “What is the secret thou wouldst
hold so fast? What is it to us, what is it to the monarch of Spain, that we should
do as thou requirest? Why is it our duty? Speak! And yet beware!—beware,
old man, that thou dost not trifle with us! I suspect ye! I know not that ye do
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not conspire in that same House of Hercules against our throne. There be traitors
all around us, it is said; some we have banished, it is true; some, with their heads,
have paid a heavier forfeit. Beware of this, sir keeper! Speak for thy trust.”
The brow of Romano grew dark, as he heard this speech of the king; his lips
quivered—his eye kindled, and, with hand uplifted, advancing as he spoke, he thus
addressed the king:
“I serve the living God! king Roderick; and, serving Him, I cannot be a traitor
to any of the mortal kings of earth.”
The brow of king Roderick darkened, and he replied, briefly:
“Ay, if thou servest him rightly; mark you that.”
The response of Romano was instantaneous:
“He is thy judge, and mine, king Roderick; let Him decide for us both; to Him
I leave it for judgment, as must thou also.”
“Thou errest, sir priest. The judgment shall be with me, if I find thee a traitor.
So, look to it, and go no more wide of thy business. Speak of thy charge, and tell
us of this House of Hercules. What of thy mystery? Unfold me that. And
hearken me, old man; let thy discourse be smooth, if you are bent that it must be
free. I am not meek of temper. See that thy story has fitting language, but give it
no sting; or, whether thou willest me to be thy judge or not, I will not scruple to
send thy head, white as it is and venerable, along with some others to our city gates.
Beware!—but speak.”
The fierce eye of Roderick looked into one not less fierce, when he sought to daunt
by his gaze the enthusiastic Romano. But the difference of look was in favor of the
priest, whom a constant contemplation of holy things had elevated and strengthened.
There was a dignity mingled with the fire of his eye which Roderick could not quell,
and the influence of which he did not entirely escape. Romano replied instantly,
advancing still nigher to the king as he did so, with his hand extended until the huge
lock which he carried waved directly in the face of the monarch:
“And if thou didst this wrong, king Roderick,” were the solemn and stern words
of the venerable man, “and if the righteous and all-judging Heaven, for its own high
and hidden purposes, looked down and suffered it, God's will be done—not mine;
not even thine, oh Roderick! though thy own hand performed it. We are but creatures
of Providence, and nothing of ourselves. If God ordains that thou shouldst
slay me, I may not murmur, either at his laws or at thy performance. I will but
pray to be strengthened against the hour of trial, so that I may not tremble at the
stroke of the headsman, or deny my Master when questioned of the faith that is
within me.”
“The holy man!” exclaimed Egilona, reverently, and with folded hands. “I
pray thee, oh Roderick! that thou wilt speak him kindly.”
Roderick frowned only, as he heard these words, but did not answer the speaker.
His eye glared only upon Romano, whose dignified manner had the effect of rebuking
the violence of the king, while his language was too little objectionable to yield the
latter any occasion to speak the anger which he felt. While he hesitated, with this
feeling, to speak at all, the conscious Oppas came to his relief.
“Wilt thou not hear the venerable Romano, king Roderick?” said he. “He will
doubtlessly unfold to thee all that thou wouldst know, touching the holy house,
much better than any here.”
“Ay, let him speak his story,” said Roderick, “but reserve his sermons. We'll
have no more of them. To the secret of thy charge, sir priest. What of this house
which ye call holy?”
“Which wise men, before our time, oh king! have pronounced holy; and which
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other wise men have confirmed as such. It is holy; and the secret which it contains
is even holier than the house which holds it. By all prophecy, that secret is
of mightiest power, and if revealed before the fitting season, will be of great evil to
the kingdom.”
“That is thy fear, not mine!” said Roderick, scornfully.
“'T is wisdom's fear, oh king! though, perchance, it be none of thine!” replied
the fearless Romano.
The king half arose from his seat in anger, but the queen Egilona laid her hand
upon his arm, and he maintained his temper, while Romano, without seeming to
note his emotion, thus proceeded:
“This sacred trust comes down to us, oh king! from Hercules himself, who
founded Spain and this Toledo, which thenceforth, he prophesied, should be the
mightiest city of the realm. Then did he prophesy of the fate of Toledo, and of all
Spain. This prophecy”—
The king interrupted him with something of eagerness in his tone and manner:
“What said he? What was the prophecy?”
“'T is that we keep, oh king! within the House of Hercules; and that we might
maintain it truly, he prepared a spell, such as no magic but his own might foil, and
there he sealed it fast.”
“Thou know'st it not?” demanded the king
“I do not, Roderick.”
“Well!”
“Around it, then, he heaved this dwelling, which is loftier far, oh Roderick! than
thou with all thy strength can hurl the smallest stone!”
“Well, what of that? I trow the boast were but a small one; 't were no great
brag in mighty Hercules to build so high a house.”
The sneer of Roderick was followed by his own and the unreserved laughter of
his courtiers; but Romano continued his description of his trust, without seeming to
regard them:
“Four lions, oh king!” he proceeded, “form its foundation. These are of brass,
and made with the nicest art; yet are they so large that not one of all thy warriors,
though mounted on the tallest charger, can reach with his extended arm to their
gigantic necks.”
“'T is a silly tale,” said Roderick; “hast thou no better matter for my ear, old
man?”
Romano replied gravely, and with rebuking language:
“The tale, oh king! is little, of a truth, if the willing and obedient ear find not its
import. 'T is enough for the church, oh king! that Heaven gives its commands; it
is not for us to ask what is the scope of wisdom in our Ruler, or challenge His decree.
Were it so with us, oh Roderick! then might'st thou find a traitor in each
poor Iberian who might claim example from the license of Holy Church to doubt thy
justice and defy thy rule.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Roderick, with a fierce scowl and furious gesture; “wilt thou
not be warned, sir priest, of thy folly ere it be too late? Beware! I tell thee; guard
well thy speech; it chafes beyond thy thought. Beware!—beware! On with thy
tale of Hercules.”
A slight smile mantled the lips of the priest, as he listened to this language, and
beheld the emotion which he had awakened in the king. It was then that he felt
himself the minister of Holy Church in probing to the quick the feelings of one whom
he held to be quite too regardless of her claims. He proceeded, nevertheless, with
out comment, in his narration:
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“He then built up the tower; yet he built it not in human sight. None saw the
building. No inquisitive ear heard the clear hammer ring; no eye beheld the stroke.
The night beheld the plain—a level plain, smooth as this floor, oh king! The morning
saw this tower, like some huge rock, resting upon it.”
“Quick labor that!” exclaimed Roderick. “See, Edeco, that you give this in
counsel to our art sans; so shall our gardens flourish, Egilona, and our new palace
spring at our approach, on the other side of the Tagus. Would he were here, to
give them some strong words, that old Hercules!”
Edeco made some corresponding remark in reply to that of the king, at which the
courtiers generally laughed; but Romano, as if he felt that their punishment would
come sufficiently soon, did not pause to denounce it, but his bosom beat with indignation.
Roderick bade him proceed, and he continued his description:
“And yet, oh king! that mighty tower, having such a sudden and unexpected
birth, is wrought with such true art that it holds not a single stone which may match
in size with thy hand. Yet are they still most large, as they are most precious.
Jasper and marble are most common and least worthy of its materials, and they shine
upon its walls like the loveliest chrystal. A greater wonder than all this, oh king!
is that, though all these stones are so deftly joined together that they seem but of a
single piece, yet no two among them are of the same color!”
“A nice builder he!” said Roderick, contemptuously, “that mighty Hercules!”
Romano continued, without seeming to heed the interruption:
“They further show, oh king! that they are of holy workmanship, as they do
record—being linked together with such intelligence—all deeds aforepast, all great
achievements, as if written in some endless chronicle. Having thus done, Hercules
did then predict what should come hereafter, and the secret thereof is the charge assigned
to us for keeping in that holy house.”
“That shall we read!” exclaimed Roderick, as the aged Romano concluded;
“that shall be read, if there be truth in what thou sayest, old man! The future and
the present shall be ours, even as the past, if it be that courage to defy your superstition
is all that be needed to the purpose. I have no dread of your spells—of your
pagan spells; and we should nothing fear, my lord Oppas, having the cross of Christ
above our heads, to grope for this secret in the House of Hercules. What say
you?”
“Now Heaven forbid! king Roderick,” replied the lord Oppas, in a well-affected
horror. “Now Heaven forbid that you should seek to usurp the secret of the `Perfect
Guard.' We would not have it so.”
To this speech, seemingly injudicious, but really designed as it was, Roderick at
once replied, with the fiercest emphasis:
“Why, who are you, my lord bishop, that will not have it so—that would bind
me with the will of my subject, and impose upon me a fetter which a king only
knows how to break? Truly, good bishop, thou hast greatly forgotten thyself to
hold me such discourse.”
“Pardon my zeal, oh king! that moved my lips to so much freedom. But I
would remind thee of the Iberian people, who regard”—
“Pshaw! lord Oppas; thou dost prate to me of dogs and vermin,” exclaimed the
king, with that common phraseology of scorn which the Gothic sovereigns and people
usually employed, when speaking of the natives of the soil.
“Yet, oh Roderick! remember that, of all the kings who have gone before thee,
none have dared”—
The fierce king silenced his speech at this word. The archbishop well knew, ere
he spoke it, what must be its effect
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“Enough, sir priest!—enough! I dare! I—Roderick, king of the Romans—I
dare! Give way!” And the king rose as he uttered these words. But the lord
bishop was disposed to clench the resolve of the king by an opposition which he
well knew would be fruitless, and would only furnish additional provocation to the
monarch's temper.
“And yet, king Roderick,” he began, “it is my thought”—
The impatient and irritable despot at once interrupted him:
“Thy thought is insolent, my lord bishop!” he exclaimed, “if it will suffer me
none. I will not heed thee, and need no further counsel in the matter. I am
resolved!”
“Yet I pray thee hear him, Roderick,” said Egilona, appealingly. “Thy error
is always too great an impatience, Roderick; I pray thee to curb it. Hearken to the
venerable father—hear the good bishop—hear him, I pray thee, Roderick, for my
sake hear him.”
“And wherefore hear him?” exclaimed Roderick. “I know what he would
say, and am resolved against it. I am no fool—no suckling, to be led by babes and
priests and sucklings! Hear me—hearken, sir priest!—you with the lock! I will
that no further guard shall be kept over that pagan mystery which thou keep'st. I
will possess this secret; and henceforward, if it be necessary, I will maintain this
house. Lead the way, then; I will not fear to look in upon old Hercules, and hear
what he may tell us. Bid our guards nigh, Edeco; and have some implements
ready. Lead on, old man; guide us the proper way.”
“I will not lead ye!” exclaimed Romano, throwing himself directly before the
path of the tyrant. “I will not lead ye to sin! I will show neither slave nor sovereign
the path to evil!”
The hand of the king was uplifted as if to strike, but the lord Bovis interposed,
and strove to persuade the king; while others, the lord Oppas among them, undertook,
though without success, to quiet the aroused enthusiast, Romano. Nothing
daunted by the threatening action of the king, and unrestrained by the appeals of
those around him, he continued to struggle and approach, speaking all the while in
denunciation of Roderick's design:
“Strike, if thou wilt!” he cried to the king; “strike, if thou wilt! I do not
shrink from thy blow, king Roderick, and do not fear even death at thy hands. I
stand up for the cause of God, and am ready to die, if need be, in his service. Yet
hear me, Roderick; I do denounce upon thee a dreadful doom, if with thy unlicensed
hand, defying Heaven, thou dost usurp this holy secret!”
“Fool and madman, away!” cried Roderick, scornfully, and full of wrath, to the
now furious Romano. “Thy doom is dreadful to the coward only—it shakes not
me. Away! Take him away, my lords! I will not strike thee to the earth, old
dotard; thy gray hairs plead for thee against thy folly. Perchance thou hast been
more wise in thy youth: thou art sadly foolish now! Take him hence, slaves; let
him not vex us further.”
“Thou art doomed!” cried Romano, as he struggled with the guards.
“Thou liest!” replied the king, with scorn. “Go, mutter thy doom to thyself.
I heed thee not. There is no bolt in the unmeaning cloud. I stand in its
defiance.”
“Thou art cursed!” cried the old man, gasping for breath, and still striving to
approach the person to whom he spoke: “Thou art cursed! In Heaven's name I
curse thee! I”—
“Take him hence!” cried Roderick, becoming hoarse with his own suppressed
anger, at what he deemed the insolence of the priest.
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Again the lord Bovis spoke to the king, in low tones, and sought to dissuade him
from his purpose:
“Heed not the old man's anger, I pray thee, king Roderick,” said the sagacious
noble, “and yet give heed to it, as it shows thee what may be the anger of others if
thou dost usurp this secret. What though thou scorn'st as idle—and well thou
may'st—this story of Hercules and his house, yet a wholesome policy would have
thee forego thy purpose. Close up the door, rather than open it. Take the huge
lock, and fasten the old tower, though it hold nothing. What matters it to thee
what are its mysteries, so that they are innocent?”
“Ay, but how know I that, Bovis?” cried the king, exultingly, and interrupting
his counsellor.
“By its undisturbed age till now. It hath always been held so, king Roderick,
even by the most jealous of our sovereigns. Leave it untroubled now. Its claims are
modest enough; would that thy professed friends and favorites had as few! Let it
have what it asks. To thee its secrets are nothing; but it behoves thee much not
to offend those to whom its secrets are every thing. Remember, thou art scarcely
seated in thy throne. It were not wise in thee to check these churchmen, who are
too powerful to be trifled with, and scarce honest enough to be trusted.”
Such was the sagacious counsel of Bovis, one of the king's best counsellors. It
struck Roderick with considerable force, but he had not the courage to recede from
his error. His reply was characteristic:
“There is much in what thou sayest, Bovis—much more than in any of these
dooms of Hercules. But the truth is, I am roused now to look upon the ancient
builder and hear his secrets. I must have my way. Besides, it is my humor thus
to punish the insolence of these people, who would bandy speech with me, and seek
to baffle me in my desires. I will make them know and fear me.”
“Is it not rash?”—the counsellor began, but the king silenced him.
“No more! I 've heard thee, Bovis. I am resolved to unlock the cavern, and
thou plead'st in vain to move me from my purpose. I will search the house of our
progenitor, and read his prophecies; see where he lies in state, or holds his court—
and, with the aid of Holy Church, give defiance, if it shall so please me, to the old
pagan and his dooms and thunders. Thou, my lord bishop, thou shalt lead the way,
and lift the cross”—
Oppas started, with a look of profoundest horror, as he heard these words.
“Pardon me, king Roderick! but I may not do as thou wouldst have me.”
The king laughed scornfully at what he deemed the superstitious timidity of
the bishop.
“What, thou art coward like the rest, my lord bishop? Well, truly, we are surrounded
with feeble men, who need a fitting example to be strong. Be it so, then;
I will lead the way, though I lead it alone. The doom be mine, if any doom there
be—and mine the profit, sirs.”
“Yet, oh king! would I warn thee, ere thou mov'st in this, that thou invad'st
the law and break'st the pledge which thou hast given.”
To tell Roderick of laws, the archbishop well knew was only to stimulate him in
his desire to abolish them; and the king, as Oppas expected, repeated his resolve
with accumulated obstinacy.
“Now, by the Cross! my lord Oppas, which thou bearest this day, I swear to
enter into this pagan house—I swear it! The law!—I tell thee, priest, my pleasure
is the law. Away, there, with that madman!”
Romano, seeing the king's intention to proceed, had again thrown himself in the
way before him. The last words of Roderick were a command to his guards to
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remove the aged zealot. But with their utmost endeavors they could not silence his
speech:
“Over me thou walk'st!” exclaimed Romano, in defiance to the king. “Yea,
Roderick, if thou art bent to move upon this bold sacrilege, thou shalt first trample
this lowly body into dust.”
“Why, so I will!” cried Roderick, leaping forward.
The queen seized him by his robes, and implored him to forbear; but he pushed
her away, and hurried forward to the spot where the lord Bovis and others were endeavoring
to silence the furious Romano. They interposed between him and the
angry monarch; but even while they bore him back, the priest shouted his curses
and defiance.
“I call on God to hear me!” he cried aloud, and shook his massive lock at the
approaching Roderick. “He hears!—He sees!—I look for Him to blast thee, Roderick,
ere thou canst rush upon me! Now!—now!—His thunder! Thou wilt
hear it now! I hear it! Now!—now!”
Romano's hands were stretched to heaven as he uttered these words, and his
whole air and manner were those of one who listened for the bellowing thunder
which he invoked upon the sacrilegious king. There was a momentary pause, as if
all waited the storm which was to blast, so earnest was the expression of Romano,
and such was the tacit reverence which his manner inspired. But as Roderick drew
nigh unharmed, the countenance of the venerable man lost its confidence, and looked
the disappointment which he really felt. A moment after, he sank within the arms
of his companions through sheer exhaustion.
“Thrust him forth, slaves!” cried Roderick, “but harm him not. His gray
hairs and his madness plead for him even against his tongue.”
CHAPTER V
Obedient to the commands of Roderick, the soldiers in attendance proceeded to
thrust Romano forth from the presence; but, though greatly enfeebled by exhaustion,
this was not to be done without difficulty. He struggled still to maintain his
ground, and to resist the strong arms which grappled him. The efforts that he made
for this purpose were much beyond his natural strength; but he had been an ascetic,
and his looks belied the vigor which had grown exceeding great through severe abstinence.
His morbid imagination was also active to strengthen him beyond his ordinary
nature. While he strove, the white foam gathered around his mouth, and
the clenched teeth shone fearfully through the pallid lips, like those of some famished
wolf. He was borne back from the pathway of the king, who had now risen;
but still, as they hurried him backward, he continued to shake his lock and hurl his
curses at the tyrant; the lock being conspicuously, but perhaps unconsciously, raised
in one hand, and the cross which he commonly wore extended in the other. Roderick
scorned the priest's feeble efforts too much to be greatly enraged with him, and
he contented himself with saving to Romano, as he was hurried from his sight:
“Does thy God hear thee? Thou wouldst have him blast me, wouldst thou?
old dotard, as thou art! But thou invok'st Him in vain! I laugh at thy curses,
and spare thee for thy insolence because of thy excess of years and folly!”
“Wait but a while—but a little while, proud Roderick! I see the bolt that is
hidden from thee; I hear the voice and the thunder! God speed them to his own
glory!—God speed them to thy confusion! Go—go to thy crime!—speed to the
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sacrilege thou aim'st at! But the vengeance is on its way, and thou but hurriest to
meet it! Go, then, Roderick, to thy doom! I blast thee with Heaven's curses!—I
mark thee as one that Heaven has marked for vengeance! The bolt is shot—I see
it; and thou canst not fly! The shaft is aimed, and thou art without shield to breast
it! Thou fliest—but thou fliest in vain!—the red sulphur chases thee!—the fire is
upon thee!—thy crown is torn from thy brows! Spare me, oh God of mercies!
spare me the sight!”
Raving thus, even to exhaustion, the venerable Romano fell upon his face, still
struggling with those who held held him, and muttering still, though incoherently,
the curses which he continued to invoke upon Roderick.
“Away with him!” cried Roderick, hoarsely; “away with him!—he speaks
folly!”
Although the king affected to despise and to disregard the holy man, it could be
seen by those around him that he trembled even while he spoke, with sudden emotion;
while Egilona, with many tears, sought to prevail upon him to forego his
purposes. But the heart of the king was hardened against her solicitations. Too
much prosperity had blinded him to truth or prudence; and a false and unhappy
pride—a deluding self-esteem—prompted him to continue firm in his first resolution
to explore the cavern. The very interposition of those about him, who were most
worthy of his consideration, as it made him jealous of their adhesion, strengthened
him in his perverse judgment; and an adroit remark of the archbishop, who deplored,
in the king's hearing, but not in the hearing of Romano, the excess of zeal that had
been shown by his holy brother, confirmed Roderick in the contempt which he had
expressed for Romano's ravings. He silenced their further pleading by a fierce repetition
of his resolve:
“Lead on, with thy soldiers, Edeco! I swear by the horns of the crown, to find
this secret, if there be any, and abolish this idle mummery, if there be none. The
House of Hercules is the house of the Goth; shall he be ignorant of what it holds?
Lead on, then, I say, and no more of this howling!”
The lord bishop Oppas with a secret heart exulted in this movement, though his
hands and eyes were still uplifted in a sort of holy horror. He still continued to
urge the king, but without avail, until he saw him depart on his way, with all his
guards and many courtiers. When left to himself, the archbishop uttered his exultation
aloud:
“It is done!—his madness is better than that of Romano. We shall succeed;
between the zealot and the tyrant the game is certain. Now, let Hercules speak
what he may, well I know the language of the church; and these Iberians—these
despised Iberians—shall they not hear of this scorn of their giant and themselves?
That is my care. They shall hear it all!”
He hurried away, with these words, to his own palace, from the towers of which
he beheld the procession of the king—a motley procession of nobles and guards—
some following through obedience, some through curiosity, but all with mingled
emotions of doubt and confidence. The Mystery of the House of Hercules was a
faith so popular, and held to be of such marvellous import in Spain, that there were
but few even of the higher classes of the people that were not in some degree the
subjects of its influence. The natives hung about the procession at a respectful distance;
and had Roderick deigned to study or to examine the faces of those who came
near him, he would have seen much to induce a pause in his progress, if not a repentance
of his headstrong resolution.
Meanwhile, the king, doubly resolute in his purpose because of the strong opposition
and entreaty he had met with, made his way toward the isolated pile which
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was distinguished as the possession of Hercules, and which, with other marvellous
feats of that demigod in Spain, gave him a title to be recognized as the tutular divinity
of the country. The tradition says of this fabric that—“When Hercules the
Strong came to Spain, he made in it many marvellous things, in those places where
he understood that they might best remain, and thus when he was in Toledo, he understood
well that that city would be the best of Spain, and saw that the kings of
Spain would have more pleasure to dwell therein than in any other part, and seeing
that things would come after many ways, some contrariwise to others, it pleased him
to leave many enchantments, made to the end that after his death his power and his
wisdom might by them be known. And he made in Toledo a house,” &c. Then
follows a description of this house, part of which has been given by Romano to the
king, and we forbear repetition. “And he commanded”—continues the tradition—
“that neither lord nor king of Spain who might come after him should seek to know
that which was within, but that every one instead should put a lock upon the door
thereof, even as he himself did, for he first put on a lock and fastened it with his
key.”
But the violent spirit of Roderick, as we have seen, brooked no such dictation. In
vain did sundry of his nobles, while he continued his march toward the enchanted
tower, urge upon him to forbear, and give up the hidden quest; he heeded them not,
but with a momently increasing train he at length reached the rocky dwelling which
he had resolved to enter. But this was no easy matter. Many were the locks already
affixed upon the brazen gate, for which there were no keys—and bolts, and
other modes of securing the entrance, had also been adopted by those whose solicitude
had ever been to keep fast the secret of Hercules. But these were obstacles
only, and not preventives, in the way of the usurper. He commanded pincers and
other appliances to be brought, with which lock after lock was broken. Vainly but
earnestly did the faithful Bovis, and others whose sense of duty was paramount to
all other considerations, plead to the last with the inflexible and wilful monarch.
In the old “Chronicles of the King Roderigo,” there is a rude representation on
wood of the opening of the enchanted tower. A slave with huge instruments is
breaking the locks. Near him stands Roderick, in his royal robes. At his feet a
priest kneels, endeavoring to dissuade him from his purpose. A Gothic noble, also,
holds up his hand in warning to that mad temerity which seemed reckless of all
consequences. But they counselled and implored in vain. The heart of Roderick
was haughty and unyielding, like his countenance. The slaves proceeded with their
labors, and at length, to the great delight of the usurper, the last lock was broken
and the last rivet drawn which secured the massive gate against his progress. At
that moment a dreadful shriek was heard to issue from the cavern, and a noise like
thunder. The workmen threw down their instruments and fled in affright. All
shrunk back from the entrance but Roderick, who, noways alarmed, advanced resolutely
and laid his hand upon the gate. At this moment the lord Bovis once more
rushed between, and with earnest address implored him to forbear.
“It is not too late, oh Roderick! to forego thy purpose. I speak not in fear of
Hercules or of his enchantments; but look upon these sullen slaves, who crowd the
walls of the city, and from the hills gather round to gaze at us. Already is rage
mingled with the religious horror upon their faces; and they but wait as if to hear
the command of their god, calling upon them to destroy thee. Pause, oh Roderick!
while yet in time. It is not too late!”
But the heart of the king was hardened, and the fiat had gone forth for his destruction.
Who can save him whom God would destroy? The supplication of Bovis
was in vain.
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“It is too late, Bovis! Shall I confess to these vile dastards that I fear them?
Shall I say that I believe in their folly, and shrink from the direction of my own
mind? No!—it is too late! It might have been wiser not to have moved upon this
business; but it will not be wise for me to leave it now. The king who recedes
from his resolves, encourages the resolution of the slave, and is no longer a proper
monarch. Let me perish ere I do this! Thou art answered, Bovis.”
“I am—but not satisfied, oh Roderick! with thy answer. If thou wilt give me
none other, I will share thy danger—I will go with thee into the cavern.”
The king warmly grasped the hand of his faithful counsellor, and his eye glistened,
but he said nothing in reply. Boldly throwing aside the gate, which swung
easily round at his touch, he darted into the cavern, and was instantly followed by
the equally resolved but more rational Bovis. They had scarcely entered when the
gate, of itself, swung back and closed upon them, shutting them in from that anxious
but timid crowd who waited without, and who, in the general silence that followed
the departure of the king from sight, now began to imagine a thousand terrible
dangers for him and for themselves.
They had not waited long, however, before the massive gate was again thrown
open, and the king rushed forth followed by Bovis. But he did not return with the
same confident countenance with which he had departed. His eyes were wild, and
seemed starting from his head, in the extremity of his terror—his sword was bared
in his hand—the hair was erect upon his brows, and the thick sweat fell from
him like rain. He grasped the arm of Bovis and stared wildly in his face; but the
words that fell from his lips had no meaning for the crowd. It was well that they
stood away from the cavern's mouth, and that the dimness of twilight was around
the two, so that the consternation of the king was not so clearly seen by the people as
by his companion, who did not seem so greatly the victim of his apprehension. He
strove to soothe the king, who spoke in fitful and incoherent language.
“Be calm, oh Roderick! I pray thee; let not the people see thee thus. Remember
thou hast the robes of a king about thee, and thine eye should have the fire of
an eagle. For shame, Roderick!—it is not becoming in thee.”
It was thus that he strove to chide into subjection the weakness which the king
exhibited; but that was not so easy a labor.
“Thou saw'st it!” exclaimed Roderick; “the king—myself—him that was Roderick!
Was not that Orelio he bestrode? It was!—and he fled! I saw it—with
mine own eyes I saw it!”
“I saw a horse and a man upon him in flight, or something that had the look of
man and horse,” replied Bovis, with indifference.
“'Twas Orelio—my own sable steed, Orelio; but the flying caitiff who bestrode
him—tell me, Bovis, that it was not Roderick. Thou dost not think that he would
fly thus from the accursed Moslem! Thou darest not think it of thy sovereign!”
“Speak not thus, for the people approach us. Be calm—be firm—strive with
thyself, oh king!—so that they may see nothing of thy fear, which will strengthen
their superstitions.”
The wisdom of Bovis was unheeded by the king:
“But the rider of that steed?” he said, wildly.
“Was unlike thee, oh king!—for he fled from his foe; and thou hast never done
a thing so base. The rider was affrighted; and I pray thee, my dear master,” said
Bovis, dropping his voice as he spoke, “to forbear the look and the speech which
will bring thee too closely to such a likeness. Thou wast not the flying slave, for
thou wert beside me all the while, and didst pursue him with thy weapon”—
“Ay, and would have slain him, Bovis, but that he sunk from before me into the
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engulfing earth,” exclaimed Roderick, fiercely. “Wherefore I ask thee, Bovis, did
he sink? Why did he not await my stroke? Canst thou tell me that?”
“I can tell thee nothing, my dear master, for the matter is beyond me. But this
I know, that thou lettest it trouble thee too greatly. It is a foul trick of the fiend;
or, it may be, a trick of the accursed priesthood, whom thou hast been but too reckless
to offend.”
“Perchance, perchance; and I would, Bovis, that I had given heed to thee at the
first. It were better.—But wherefore—canst thou tell me—wherefore, when I
hurled my sword at the flying fugitive, wherefore did it come back to me with the
point turned unto my hand, as if it had been caught, and so hurled to me again, by
another arm? Canst thou tell me that, Bovis?” demanded the monarch.
“We will think more of this hereafter, oh king!—but now let us meet thy
lords”—
“But the speech, Bovis—that dreadful voice!—I hear it now! What said it?
Ha!—Dost thou remember? It rings fearfully through my brain. `Thy kingdom'—
't was thus it said”—
“Heed it not, Roderick!” said his counsellor; but the king continued:
“`Shall be taken from thee!' Said it not that, Bovis?”
“Nay, Roderick, I know not—I gave it no heed,” was the reply.
“It was; but I fear them not! Let them come—the accursed Moslem—let them
come! Shall we fear? They little know my strength. I am strong, Bovis; I fear
nothing. The dream is passing away. I am once more Roderick. Bid our nobles
come nigh!”
And, truth to say, the delirium had passed away from the mind of the king when
he came to think on those dangers which were only human. He resumed his composure;
and when the courtiers once more gathered about him, he was the same
fearless spirit, and imperious sovereign, who had led them forth that morning.
CHAPTER VI
But the consternation of the king, when he first emerged from the cavern, had
been sufficiently visible to such of the people as were bold enough to advance beyond
their fellows. The nobles sagaciously beheld nothing and spoke of nothing
that they saw; for they well knew that there is no knowledge more dangerous to
the inferior than that which shows him the weakness of the superior. The weakness
of the tyrant is the scourge of the slave. But in the absence of the nobles there
was no such check upon the sullen Iberians.
“Didst thou behold his eye?” said one. “Looked he not like one who had been
blasted?”
“And his hair!” said another; “how it rose and stiffened upon his head; and
the sweat poured from him like rain!”
“He hath it truly!” said another; “the good Romano warned him how it would
be, but he heeded it not. He hath it now!”
“But that is not all!” exclaimed a fourth; “that is not all, my brethren, that ye
shall see. It is but a warning he hath had of what is to come. Think you when
Holy Church curses, that he who is cursed lives? No! We know not what Roderick
the Goth hath seen, or what he hath heard; but of a surety he hath seen and
heard matter of fear which is to come. Hush!—the lords move slowly, and may
hear us; and for the native to speak in the ears of the Goth is accounted insolence.”
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“They do say,” murmured the first speaker, in a subdued voice, “they do say
that the king defied the Cross, and spit upon the holy man Romano. If he
did”—
“Can he live?” demanded another. “Something dreadful will happen.”
“I will not sleep to-night,” said the fourth speaker, “for of a truth great Hercules
will avenge his wrong upon Roderick. I look to see it before the morning dawns.
And, lo! my brethren, behold! Look at that great bird which has just lighted upon
the holy house, as if he had been sent from Heaven as a messenger. Look!”
“I see it! I see it!” was the cry of each; and every eye was turned to the rock,
on the topmost pinnacle of which an eagle had alighted, as he had probably done
for a hundred years and a thousand times before, without attracting the same degree
of attention.
“Let us all watch, my brethren!” said the first speaker, solemnly, “for, of a
truth, something dreadful is to happen. It cannot be that this will pass over. Hercules
will have his dues, and the blessed Romano will be avenged. My blood
boils to think how he hath been scorned by Roderick, and thrust away at his bidding
by his soldiers. Of a truth, had any one of the nobles who stood beside Roderick
when he came from the holy house, but said to me, `Brito, cast a stone at his head,'
I had done it.”
The timorous crowd shrank away from the bold speaker, who was thus unconsciously
embodying the popular mind; and, one by one, they left him to those musings
which they esteemed too dangerous to participate, but which were sweet to
him—doubly sweet—as they were now for the first time entertained. But he was
not left entirely alone. When the crowd had gone, a stranger—wrapped in a close
disguise—approached him from behind a ledge of the rocks which were at hand.
Brito started from his place of rest and watch as he beheld him, and his hand
clutched a sharp knife which he carried in his belt.
“Fear nothing,” said the intruder, seeing his action.
“I do not fear much,” was the reply of Brito; “but thou comest so suddenly
upon me. Who art thou?”
The stranger, without answering his question, replied thus by another question:
“Thou art a serf of the count of Saldano, him that is banished, art thou not?”
“I was!” replied the slave, sullenly; “but he is no master now!”
“He was a noble master once,” said the stranger; “but of this I would not speak
I heard thy words but now, Brito, spoken among thy fellows.”
“Well!” exclaimed the slave, while his hand once more clutched his knife.
“Thou wouldst have hurled a stone at the impious Roderick, had any one bade
thee from among the nobles?” said the stranger.
“Ay, that would I! I said it to my fellows, and I fear not to say it to thee,” replied
the man.
“No, thou need'st not fear to say it to me. Thou speak'st aptly. I, too, would
freely have hurled a stone at the tyrant, and should have asked for no one to bid
me.”
“Wherefore didst thou not?” was the natural reply of the Iberian.
“It was not time!” was the reply of the stranger, uttered in low but firm and
emphatic tones. “When I would hurl the stone, Brito, there will be many more to
do as I do, should my aim or strength fail me. Dost thou heed?”
“I do; but thou confusest me, stranger.”
“Wherefore?”
“I know not; but it is so. I am confused, and many strange thoughts are in my
brain.”
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“Let me arrange them for thee, Brito. Thou wouldst have struck the tyrant, had
any one of the nobles commanded thee? Wherefore shouldst thou look to them
for command? Regard thine own limbs. Have they strength in them? What are
thy muscles? Can they not bend and heave, and are they not elastic for all strife
and trial? Look'st thou ever in the water which ran at thy feet, and saw'st thou
ever thine own face, and looked it less like that of a man than Edeco's? Wherefore
look to him for a word of authority, when thou art not less—ay, when thou
art far more—a man than he? What is the difference between you? Hast thou
ever asked, Brito?”
“I have not—I know not, stranger; but some of these thoughts have already
come to me, confusedly,” said Brito.
“I knew they had, or thou hadst not spoken as thou didst. But hearken to me,
and I will show the difference between Brito and Edeco,” said the stranger. “A
feather makes it.”
“A feather!” exclaimed the serf.
“Ay! a feather—a feather, and a robe. Speak to me, and shout, Brito; I would
hear thy voice.”
The Iberian shouted aloud, until the deep valley rang again with the thrilling
sounds.
“Didst thou ever hear the royal espatorio speak?” demanded the stranger.
“I have,” was the reply.
“Had he a voice like thine?”
“Of a truth, he had not,” said Brito.
“What then?” said the stranger. “Thou hast better limbs and sinews—better
lungs for speech, and, since thou hast looked in the brook I need not tell thee that
thou hast a far nobler aspect than Edeco. What is the difference between you?
The feather, Brito, the feather—nothing more.”
“Yes, more,” said Brito.
“What?”
“The king's favor,” said the other.
“A feather too! I marvel what were the value of the king's favor to Edeco,
when the stone hurled from thy hand has taken his master in the forehead! But
little, I tell thee, Brito; but even that little shall be made up to thee if thou wilt go
with me. Thou shalt have the feather and the robes, Brito, and the favor of a
king.”
“I would not have the favor of king Roderick,” responded Brito, quickly and sullenly,
“since he hath banished my master.”
“Thou shalt have the favor of a king, but not of Roderick, Brito. Come with
me.”
“I would wait awhile, stranger, and see if aught comes from the holy house.
Hercules will of a surety avenge his wrong upon the tyrant.”
“Thou seest now!” said the stranger. “It is from Hercules that I come to thee,
Brito. He hath chosen thee, with a thousand others, to minister to his revenge
upon Roderick. Come!”
With a mind crowded with conflicting and new thoughts, the serf followed his
mysterious guide. The stranger had touched the key of thought in his mind, and
had fired the train which ages had prepared and events were still preparing. That
night Brito was dispatched with missives to prince Pelayo; and it was thus that the
lord bishop Oppas gained a new instrument in the cause of revolution.
That same night, sleeping in the arms of the pure and beautiful Egilona, Roderick
started from his dream of fears, in the consciousness of a wild and sudden terror.
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“The palace flames!” he cried, in alarm, arousing his still slumbering queen. At
the first moment of awakening, such, indeed, was the impression upon both. A
bright red glare covered the walls and the chamber, and almost blinded them with
the intensity of its reflection. But, looking forth, the king soon discovered the true
occasion of the blaze. The flames rose vividly, but in the distance; and it required
no second look to tell him that it was the towering House of Hercules that sent forth
such an immense body of light. The pinnacle of the mountain was clearly in his
sight, the flames rising and winding around it and shooting up in pyramidal glory
even into heaven. The superstitious apprehensions of the king, which he had quieted
greatly before his return to the palace, were once more aroused; and while the
trembling Egilona hung upon his arm, he crossed himself, and muttered his regrets
for entering the enchanted premises, against the will and wishes of all beside himself.
It was sweet and singular then, to see Egilona chiding his self-reproach, and encouraging
him against his superstitious apprehensions. She derided the serious fears
he had begun to utter, though she had been the most urgent ere the attempt was
made to discourage him against it. But Roderick was not so easily satisfied, though
the words of the queen tended greatly to soothe his apprehensions. The scene in
the cavern, of which the queen knew nothing, and the knowledge of which he had
enjoined upon Bovis to withhold from all, was present in its fullest force to his mind;
and the dreadful cries which now began to assail his ears, as if they were the cries
of demons dancing around the blazing ruins, helped to strengthen his original fears.
He could bear it no longer, for he heard his name occasionally amidst the uproar,
which by this time had awakened the household. Favila, one of the royal espatorios,
who slept in an adjoining chamber, clapped his hands for admission, and the
king bade him prepare his guards, while he attired himself in his armor in order to
go forth. He was soon equipped and in readiness to ascertain and meet the danger,
whatever might be its shape; for, however great might have been his faults and deficiencies,
the want of courage was not among them. It gave him pleasure to see
the stern lord Bovis beside him, as he emerged from the palace; for, though it was
not often his custom to heed the counsel of the wise and honest, he still found a singular
degree of confidence in having beside him such a counsellor. When they arrived
at the scene of the conflagration, it was singular to behold the spectacle. It
was not merely the trees and shrubs which covered the rock that seemed to burn,
but the rock itself. Red flames seemed to shoot out, like jets or tongues of fire,
through a thousand crevices upon and all around it, which the eye had never seen
before. The whole interior of the cavern appeared to be on fire, and the heat was
insupportable except at a considerable distance. Yet, from its capacious jaws came a
thousand confused and conflicting cries. Voices seemed loud in debate within, and
ever and anon one voice, preëminent over all, cried aloud—“Wo! wo, to Roderick,
who hath possessed himself of the secret! Wo to Spain, that hath suffered it!
Wo!—wo!”
“Now, would that I knew the secret of that cavern!” muttered the lord Bovis to
himself, but sufficiently loud to reach the ears of the king.
“What secret?” demanded Roderick.
“The secret of its passages to and fro, in and out, Roderick; for, of a surety,
these priests are now howling within.”
Even as he spoke the cries ceased, and all was silence. In a few moments more
the flames overspread the pinnacled tower, and seemed to possess a perfect mastery
within. Crash after crash of the falling stones announced this to be the case, and
at length the entire front of the fabric went down, unfolding for a moment, only to
close up for ever, the spacious jaws of the enchanted tower.
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CHAPTER VII.
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It were not just if we should say that these seeming marvels had no effect upon
Roderick, when they affected the greater body of the people. It was his pride to
conceal his sufferings and apprehensions. Whatever he believed or feared, was a
secret between himself and the lord Bovis, who, whatever might have been his anxieties
or his apprehensions, certainly entertained none of supernatural dangers. On
the contrary, he regarded the wonders which so imposed upon the fancies and fears
of others as coming entirely from human origin; and in his argument to the king,
both before and after his visit to the enchanted tower, he referred to a human policy
alone as that which should keep him from his purpose, and when consummated,
which should strengthen him to meet its consequences fearlessly and wisely.
“I fear not Hercules,” he would say, “but I misdoubt these priests, Roderick,
whom thou art but too ready to offend. Beware, for of a truth I tell thee that the
word of the church is of more power with the Iberian—ay, and with thy own people—
far more, than any word of thine.”
But Roderick was insensible to danger coming from men like himself. The moment
he was relieved from his superstition, he was relieved from all other forms of
fear. The argument of Bovis, which went to persuade Roderick that the marvels
which he saw were of priestly contrivance, only aroused him to anger against the
church. In due proportion to the feeling of scorn which he was ever disposed to
entertain for his enemies, was his recklessness now of those earthly dangers which
his faithful counsellor warned him against; and it was to the lord Bovis a subject of
regret that he had indicated the source of those wonders to the king, which had so
annoyed him; for he now saw that he had but let loose an angry enemy upon the
priesthood, whose fury would be such as inevitably to blind him to those dangers
upon which he was bent to run in aiming at their ruin.
“I will pursue them, Bovis, I will drive them from my kingdom! The pope himself
shall feel me; and, like Witiza, I will tell the proud pontiff that from his treasury
shall my soldiers be paid!”
“It was Witiza's folly that he so spake, oh king!” said Bovis, gravely; “he lost
his crown by that and other like madnesses.”
“I will not lose mine, Bovis; yet will I have my revenge for this insolence.”
“Yet be not too quick to anger, oh king! Remember, I have but given thee my
opinion of this priesthood, and that is not the thought of any other of thy nobles.
It were neither wise nor just to do aught against them until thou art sure.”
“I will be sure,” replied Roderick, “and if what thou sayest be true, the saints
shall not save them!”
That day Romano had an interview with the lord bishop Oppas. The fire which
burned in the eye of the venerable zealot was like that of madness. His figure appeared
to have grown, and to have expanded; and the belief to which he had been
persuaded, and, indeed, to which he had persuaded himself, that he had been chosen
as a divine instrument, had elevated his mind, and warmed his spirit into the most
fearless fury of fanaticism. The subject before them was the recent destruction of
the tower.
“The people cry aloud in horror,” said Oppas, “and speak of it, Romano, as an
immediate act of Heaven.”
Romano smiled, but said nothing. Oppas watched his countenance narrowly,
however, and saw that he had much to say.
“They speak,” he continued, “of most wondrous things. They say—for many
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of them watched all night—they say that `they beheld an eagle fall right down from
the sky, as if it had descended from heaven, carrying a burning fire-brand, which it
laid upon the top of the house, and fanned with its wings,' until it blazed, and thus
came the fire, which, as we know, was dreadful and all-consuming. Didst thou
hear this story, Romano?”
Another smile overspread the lips of Romano as he heard this legend, which was
the tradition for ages after among the common people of Spain; and Oppas saw by
his smile that the ancient man knew a far truer story of the conflagration. He
replied:
“The story is an idle one, my brother Oppas; it was no bird, no messenger from
heaven, which consumed the house. It was this hand, my brother, that bore the
torch and set the fire to the house within. These hands piled the fuel; and, with
my brothers, I sang praises to Heaven, even while the flames danced around us and
licked the high walls overhead. We saw them cling like serpents to the roof, and
we cried aloud in our rejoicing. A divine spirit seemed to move us all, for we
shouted and clung to one another, even while the flames gathered strength and body,
and there seemed no escape for us but by passing through them to the far secret passage
which opens upon the Tagus. Yet when we would have gone, for the roof
began to crumble and the wall rocked around us, the flame-wall suddenly parted
from before us at the mouth of the narrow passage, even as the waters of the sea
divided at the bidding of Moses before the flight of the Israelites; and we knew from
this sign, and from others, that the blessing of God was upon our work, and that
He would now have us leave it.”
“And sayest thou, Romano, that this work was thine, and not that of Heaven?
Methinks it doth not become thy humility to say so, and thou hast grown proud
because the Lord hath so distinguished thee above all thy fellows. It was Heaven's
deed, and not thine, my brother—though thy hands may have been employed by the
Blessed Father to do his purposes. They were then no longer thy hands, but the
hands of Heaven, Romano; and thou shouldst be heedful not to let thy heart forget
its place of humility, in the high honor to which it is uplifted.”
“Thy reproof is just, my brother, and the scourge to-night shall be the penance
which shall subjugate my vain and rebellious flesh.”
The venerable zealot folded his arms upon his breast and looked up to heaven as
he spoke these words, with an aspect of most towering humility. His pride had
been duly increased by the artful sophistry of Oppas. But the archbishop had not
done with him.
“Thy speech was a vain one, my brother, for the deed which thou didst had a
voice in thy own heart, which counselled it. Wilt thou say that that voice was
thine own, my brother? Alas, no!—whence came thy authority?”
“Of a truth,” said Romano, “it must have been a voice from God.”
“It was, Romano; and because thou wert within the chambers of the house, and
not without to see with thine own eyes, wilt thou pretend to deny the things of their
sight to others? Wilt thou, in thy heart's vain confidence, presume to say that because
thy hands were chosen to put the fire within which consumed the house, that
God sent not another messenger, even from the heavens, to light the flame without?
Know'st thou not that the flames raged even more furiously without the tower than
they could have done within?”
“There is reason in what thou say'st, my brother. Thou art strong, and I am
weak,” replied Romano.
“Truly do I believe, Romano, what the people declare; and further, my brother,
inasmuch as thou wert chosen by Heaven to do thy spiriting in secret, hidden by the
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thick walls of the cavern from the sight of all, so do I hold that it was meant that
thou shouldst say nothing of thy service to Heaven. Wilt thou boast, my brother,
of thy aid to God? Wilt thou clamor for thy recompense before the day of reward
cometh? Wilt thou forget the command of the scripture, and suffer thy left hand to
have knowledge of the doings of thy right? and—greater sin—wilt thou cry aloud to
the people, with a mighty voice, of that performance which God has made thee to
execute in secret? In truth, Romano, this were a heavy sin.”
“It were, indeed, my brother; but I trust to have mercy. I have spoken but to
thee of this matter.”
“It is well; and it may be that Heaven has suffered thee to speak thus much in
my ears that I may counsel thee, and declare to thee thy penance. I do counsel
thee, my brother, to hear and to believe the testimony of the people, for assuredly
do I hold it to be the truth. The eagle which brought the brand from heaven to
destroy the tower was an outward sign to the crowd, significant of what thou didst
within; and the marvel which they saw is yet further to be expounded, my brother,
for thy benefit. The eagle was emblematic of thy spirit in this great service, and
its coming from heaven indicated the source of thy ardor. The lighted brand which
it bore was thy heavenly gift of eloquence which is required to enkindle in the cause
of God the true worshippers of the Cross in Spain; and was not the tower which it
destroyed a sign of the power of this usurper, Roderick, who had desecrated it, as
he has desecrated all other holy things of this realm to his most unholy purposes.”
“It is light which I see, father Oppas—a glorious light!” exclaimed Romano.
“I have been blind before. And thou, too, art honored in God's employ, as thou
hast been chosen to declare to me the truth.”
“Remember then, my brother, that as God sent his eagle with the lighted brand,
that his purpose might be seen of the people, and has dispatched thee with a secret
counsel to a secret performance, it follows that thy doings should be hidden in thine
own heart, and thou shouldst only speak of that which Heaven intended should be
known. The eagle bore the fire and destroyed the tower, my brother; not thee—
not thee!”
“Of a truth it was the eagle, lord bishop. Forgive me, Heaven, that I made a
vain boast of my own feeble toils in this service!”
The point of the bishop was obtained, and the popular story was generally circulated,
and as generally credited, with many additions. It was said further—for fear
becomes fancy in such cases—that “after a while there came a great flight of birds,
small and black, which hovered over the ashes of the tower; and they were so numerous
that, with the fanning of their wings, all the ashes were stirred up and rose
into the air and were scattered over the whole of Spain, and many of those persons
upon whom the ashes fell appeared as if they had been besmeared with blood. All
this happened in a day, and many said afterward that all those persons upon whom
the ashes fell died in battle when Spain was conquered and lost; and this was the
first sign of the destruction of Spain.”
CHAPTER VIII.
In a few days Roderick had regained his usual elasticity; and, as in all similar
cases, the matter which had caused so much surprise and fear soon ceased to be remembered,
or was only remembered to be laughed at. But a deep and restless feeling
had been awakened among the priests and among the people. The total
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disregard which Roderick had shown for the accustomed privileges of the one, and the
venerated superstitions of the other, sunk deep into their minds, and with the feeling
of general insecurity which his recklessness had produced, necessarily came the desire
to be free from his power. It may be supposed that neither the intrigues of the
archbishop Oppas nor the simple zeal of Romano were spared in promoting this desire.
The effects of their industry may be seen anon.
Roderick, in the meantime, having recovered from his alarm, as the tempest appeared
to have passed unharmingly over his head, relapsed into his wonted indulgence
of lust and license. Unhappily for himself and for his kingdom, the pure
charms and gentle virtues of his incomparable queen, Egilona, failed to restrain him
from the most unbecoming vices. Edeco, his creature, and the pander to his unholy
passions, seldom left him, and his influence over the mind of Roderick, acquired
through the love of pleasure which was the predominant trait with the monarch,
was unapproachable by better and wiser counsellors. With Edeco to minister, and
his own lustful imagination to conceive, the king resumed his career of indulgence,
to which the adventure of the holy house had offered some little check, if not rebuke;
and the court became once again, as it was before, the theatre of wild excess
and abandoned debauchery. But the usurper was destined to receive another warning,
if not a confirmation of the old. It is in the written history of kings, that they
seldom go utterly unadvised of their errors; and the narrow economy which in ordinary
life preserves the ploughman from destruction, would avail with not less adequate
certainty to the protection of the king. It is not less true, however, that high
station is apt to blind one to humble dangers. The monarch is too apt to disdain,
as unworthy of contemplation, the pedestal upon which he stands.
There was one true courtier, who clung firmly to the Goth, and with little but his
self-approval for his guerdon, scorned to counsel in any other than the language of
honesty. This was Bovis. Even as Roderick was about to speed to some pleasures,
or rather excesses, to which he had engaged himself for the day, this nobleman
arrested his progress. His manner was solemn but urgent, and the king seeing
it, and fearing counsel which might interfere with and rebuke his proposed indulgencies,
would have hurried away from his counsellor; but Bovis was too honest, too
faithful, to suffer him to escape.
“Nay, good Bovis, nay; not now—another time,” said the king.
“There is but one time, oh king! for our duties,” replied the plain-speaking and
stubborn counsellor.
“Again!” said the king, while a stern frown gathered on his brow at the pertinacity
of Bovis.
“Again, and yet again, oh Roderick! when I strive against the king in the king's
behalf.”
“Thou art too pressing, Bovis.”
“Not a whit, oh king! if thou wilt hear me. Be not angry with thy servant, I
pray you, my master; my zeal is in your service, not in mine own. Not to serve
you thus would be to wrong thy service, and do myself wrong.”
“I do not reprove you, Bovis, that you neglect me. You shall not, with such a
show of self-reproach, fasten yourself upon me.” And Roderick waved his hand as
if to dismiss the unwelcome counsellor; but the faithful follower was firm.
“The tidings come, oh king!”—
“'T is well! Another time! Seest thou not, good Bovis, that our mood would
be free from toil to-day. We will hear you at some fitter hour, when you may discourse
your will to us, and we will meditate upon it, and plot and plan, if it will
please you, then—but not now. I'm bound for pleasure now.”
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“But few words have I to say, oh king! and they are needful Wilt thou not
hear me?” said Bovis.
“Can I else than hear thee?” replied the impatient monarch, turning full and
fiercely upon the speaker. “Can I else than hear thee, when with thy fullest, freeest
assail of voice, thou perchest on mine ears, and with a note of discord, like the
jay's, though with far less variety of plumage to the sight, still and anon thou rendest
me with thy clamor? Free me of that!”
Firmly but respectfully the counsellor replied:
“It is my love of thee, oh king! and of thy kingdom's good, that prompts my
free duty into active zeal. I would have thee hear me, even though thou chidst me
in return.”
“'T is ever thus,” said Roderick, “it is still the good of my kingdom, or my own
good, and my good subject's zeal. This is the plea for each unhouseled owl, grown
sagacious, and noteful of the tempest. Would I be thoughtful, they assail my
thought, and thrust their own upon me. Would I pray, they come between me and
the holy man, zealous to teach me of their priest's avail, beyond the reach of any
prayer of mine. They make confession for me—decree my penance; would they
could give me absolution!”—
“Not thus, oh king!”—
Bovis would have interrupted the current of his master's fretful declamation; but
Roderick continued, without giving heed to the interruption.
“Still the same, whether in fight or festival, they chase away all my personal
sense or thoughts, solely to requite me with the recompense of theirs. Nor even
when I love are they less heedful to compel me into a passion according to their discretion.
They are still nigh, and when I crave one woman, bring me ten, all the
while chiding me with most saintly discourse of the wrong, and the folly, and the
deadly sin, and preaching with seasoned words of fear, and fast, and fleshly abstinence.
I'm not myself—I cannot be myself, nor rule myself, nor have thought, or
wish, or will, for myself, in the presence of such zealous guardians of my own and
my kingdom's weal as thou, Bovis.”
“Thou art pleased to jibe, Roderick. I have not been the thing thou speak'st
me,” was the calm and dignified reply of the statesman, to the irritable rhapsody of
the king.
“What wouldst thou, then? Speak out at once, and leave me. I thirst for unrestraint.”
Roderick seated himself as he yielded this permission, and Bovis—who was a man
of stern sense and direct purpose—at once replied, addressing himself to the business
on which he came:
“From Cordova we learn, oh king! that Melchior, the famous outlaw, otherwise
known as Melchior of the Desert—he who delivered up Auria to the Moor, and for
whom the late king Witiza offered such heavy reward—has returned from Barbary,
and is somewhere hidden in Spain, and it is thought even in the city of Cordova itself.
Couriers have come from Edacer, who advises us that a Jew whom he hath in
pay is now close upon the trail of the hoary rebel, and he hopes ere long to dispatch
his head to you.”
“For which he would have a goodly recompense. Is it not so, Bovis? The
weight of the traitor's head in treasure was Witiza's offer for the precious possession.
Would he had left the treasure that should pay for it! 'T will task us to provide it,
and the brethren of the rebel must be assessed. There is no mode else. Is this all,
Bovis?”
“No, Roderick; I have other matters of great regard for thy ears.”
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“I could have sworn it! But go on; dispatch them quick,” said the impatient
monarch
Bovis, without being moved by the sarcastic manner and words of Roderick, proceeded
thus:
“Another comes, who reports that Pelayo, the late king's younger son, toils busily
in rebellion; that his followers already begin to grow in the Asturian Passes, and that
it is the thought of Edacer that he hath also dared to move within the circuit of Cordova,
where his Jewish spy reports him to be found.”
“Tell me of a boy! Why, Bovis, thou hast grown womanish and feeble. What
are these boys of Witiza? Both young and sinewless, unbred in arms, having no
wealth, no followers. Let them send out a force and bring their heads, and talk no
more of them.”
“'T is easy said, oh king!”—
“And easy done, my lord Bovis, if that my people be not worthless and my nobles
unfaithful. But no more of this, thou art answered. Hast thou further speech
with me?”
“I have, oh king! The Moor is on our shores!”
“Ha!” cried Roderick, starting quickly from the seat, in which he rather reclined
than sat, his whole countenance filled with sudden astonishment and alarm.
“What is't thou say'st, Bovis? Didst thou say the Moor—the Moor?”
“The Moor, oh king!”
“Then there is truth in it. The accursed house! Thou saidst the Moor, lord
Bovis?”
“I said the Moor was on the shores of Spain.”
“And why didst thou not speak this to me at first? Why tell me of Jew traitors
and Gothic traitors, when thou hadst to tell me of my enemy—Roderick's enemy—
the enemy of the Goth—the accursed Moslem? Go, bid them arm! Let the big
trumpets sound. Array the force of the kingdom. These infidels must be met, and
with all my power. Go, Bovis, let them arm. I will myself lead them to battle. I
fear not—I will not fear!”
“There is no need, oh king! You speak but rashly. The Moor is few in number;
and a small force, led by a trusty captain, will avail. You must not leave
Toledo.”
“Wherefore?” demanded Roderick.
“There are enemies to Roderick in Toledo, more fearful than any that he hath in
Africa.”
“Ha!—who?—what?” demanded the king.
“Another time, oh king! we'll speak of this. It is enough now that we attend to
the business of which I tell thee. It does not need that thou shouldst lead the force
that is to protect thy borders. Send a good captain”—
“Let Edeco go!”
“A fool!—a fop!” exclaimed Bovis, indignantly. “No, Roderick, keep him here
as thy pander to pleasure, since thou must have such a needful officer. But send a
man, and a tried captain upon this duty. Sent thy missives to the count Julian; is
he not the governor of Ceuta? Let him go to his command. There is not a better
captain in thy kingdom.”
“Thou say'st well, Bovis; thou pleasest me. Let him go. Send dispatches to
him with first speed, and let our commands be urgent upon him to drive back the
infidels.”
“It shall be done, Roderick,” said Bovis, preparing to go; but it was now the disposition
of the king to detain him.
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“And thou think'st that the force of count Julian will avail, Bovis? The number
of the Moor is small. Art thou sure that it is small, Bovis?”
“Quite sure, oh king! And the force of count Julian is a veteran force, to which
the Moor can offer no equal.”
“Let him speed straight, Bovis. Take thou all the direction of this proceeding,
and command thou, in my name and behalf, whatever is needful to be done. Ha!
Edeco!”
The fop entered at the moment, and the man of business, who heartily despised so
shallow a creature, departed from the presence.
The parasite and puppy, who was the fair representative of a species not yet extinct,
approached the king with the look and manner of one who was satisfied that
he had in his possession the means of giving pleasure. The monarch saw this in
an instant, and prepared himself accordingly to receive it. In that moment the intelligence
of Bovis, and the apprehensions which it had inspired in his mind, were forgotten;
and, bidding the fopling advance, he demanded his tidings.
“Eh, my master; has that camel-faced counsellor, who has a name so befitting—
has he gone, and will he not disturb us?” was the reply of the mincing courtier
“He is, Edeco. What wouldst thou say?”
“I very much dislike his proportions, oh king!—and his speech is sometimes unsavory
to me.”
“Fight him then, Edeco,” replied the king, with a laugh of mingled scorn and
good nature.
“Why, so I would, Roderick, but that my nose objects. To slay him, I must be
near him; and after such contact I fear me that all the waters of the Tagus would
fail to purify my garments.”
“Thou dost right, Edeco, at whatever reason, not to seek Bovis in fight. He
would swallow thee at a bound.”
“Then, oh king! would he swallow a greater delicacy than he has ever eaten before,
and one far too choice for his coarse appetite to esteem. Should he be so unfortunate,
he should then die of his own self-infliction, for greatly I fear me his taste
would be spoiled for all other food. But I have that for thy royal taste, my master,
which is more becoming for our speech. Behold this paper, Roderick; read—read
for thyself. It were too great a feast for me to partake of twice in the same hour
It is the music to thy dainty supper, which thou hearest. How it sounds! Tink-a,
tink-a, tink-a, tink-a, tee! Would that I had grace of musical speech! Dost thou
read the character, oh king? It is fairly written, with a fine reed, else would I not
have looked upon it, for a bad character offends a nice sight; and then what a pleasure
thou hadst lost, Roderick; what a pleasure of sounds and sights—tink-a, tinka-tink-a,
tee—how sweet is the discourse! `Eye,' and `lip,' `cheek,' and `heaving
bosom'—thus it runs; I could not forget. And so pure, too!—a virgin mine!—ah!
ah!—ah! I have had dreams of these in the spring-time, when, in my youth, I did
strive with a maid of Andalusia, and was not overcome in the conflict. I shall
never handle arms again; but it is pleasant to be reminded of them. Dost thou
read, oh king! Is it a sweet discourse?”
“Truly, Edeco, thou wast born beneath the seven stars, that all fought for thee.
Thou art lucky. Where got you this? I will love thee for ever, if the tale be true.”
“Read it again, oh king! I have a musical ear, though the seven stars denied
that I should have musical speech. Read it, Roderick, read it aloud: Tink-a-tinka,
tinka, tee!”
The epistle, which was one written by the archbishop Oppas, was addressed to
Edeco, but in a hand so disguised that it was impossible to suspect the writer, even
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if the sanctity of his profession had left him, like the rest of the courtiers, open to
suspicion. It ran thus, and the king read it sufficiently loud to be heard by Edeco,
but not loud enough to be heard by any casual listener. Roderick was more prudent
in his amours than in his politics, though sufficiently reckless in both for his
own not less than the ruin of his people.
“Doth Roderick delight in beauty?” said the epistle; “and does Edeco know
not where to seek it for the master who so greatly favors him? Wherefore does
he not look upon La Cava, otherwise called Florinda, the young daughter of count
Julian, of Consuegra. Is she not the beauty who would please my lord, the king?
Look on her eye; is there a bright star shining in the dark heavens alone, that is
like to it in excellence? You shall place it in the centre of the court, and the
princely ladies upon whom ye have looked so long, even until ye could see them
not, will be dark spots and sullen clouds beside it, and they shall grow blind while
it blazes. Is it her cheek that ye would look upon? If you look not too long, ye
are hardened into stone, and feel not. That cheek is soft and rose-like, even as an
evening cloud which hangs in the sun's pathway, and gathers his sweet smile as he
goes. Does this move ye not? Then mark her lips, which have the curl of the
leaf and the flush of the flower, and which only pant as they have not pressure.
Is her lip nothing to a taste so dull as Roderick's? Then regard her bosom, which
heaves up, pure, slow and white, even as a little foam-crested billow, that rises and
swells and shrinks back without a murmur, when the sky is fair, and the evening
smile rests on the rocks, at the foot of the rugged Calpe. Bright and black her
tresses fall upon her shoulders in a sort of bountiful tribute to the rounded beauties
which, though they sweetly shadow, they can never obscure; and for her form, ye
have seen a long white figure of fleece in the sky of Andalusia, which the truant
breeze has pressed here and there, until it grew into the shape of some godlike
messenger speeding on a work of love. Even so lined and moulded as it were by
the breathing rather than the finger of Heaven, is the shape of the lady Cava.
Does Edeco hear, and shall the king not see? Would he see her, let him ask why
she comes not to court; let him bring her there, where she shall shine in his bosom.
Let him send the count, her father, upon some far and troublous service, and let
La Cava be his sweet charge in the royal gardens at Toledo. Sweet gardens for so
divine a bird—bird most fitting for such blessed gardens.”
A bright glow overspread the face of the king, as he read this inflammatory
epistle. His quick fancy, sudden to light up, and overwhelming in its fire, was
instantly aroused by the description which he read. Nor were the words of Edeco,
his profligate minister, calculated to subdue his passion. Everything that could be
said by the habitual lips of the licentious courtier, was said, in order to add fuel to
the flame already burning in the bosom of his master; and nothing now would satisfy
Roderick but possesion of the unconscious but selected victim. This, however,
was a resolve more easily taken than executed. The power of count Julian was
immense: his popularity greater than that of any one nobleman in the nation, and
in addition he had command over a certain portion of the military force of the kingdom,
which he had often led, and the men of which were devoted to him. To dishonor
him was to create an enemy too powerful wantonly to provoke; and, however
reckless in most respects, Roderick paused ere he proceeded. It needed the
artful suggestions of Edeco to spur him on. It needed that he should frame plots,
for the consummation of his unholy purpose; and from him came the base suggestion
that the mind of the maiden herself might be moved to consent to her own
shame, and thus the sin might be concealed, for a season at least, from the knowledge
of the devoted father. With the provocation of his lusts, the reflective
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faculties of Roderick grew obtuse, and in due proportion as his baser desires predominated
in his mind, did his more generous resolves sink down. It was one of his first
objections to any attempt upon the maiden, that he had just dispatched a courier to
count Julian, commanding him upon his duties to the frontier, in order to encounter
with the invading Moors. The honorable first feeling of the king revolted at the
thought of doing a wrong to one who was even then about to toil and battle in his
service; but this suggestion, instead of silencing the vicious Edeco, only furnished
him wiih an additional argument.
“And wherefore send the courier, oh king? Let him be recalled. Speed yourself
upon the mission; and while you give his command in person to count Julian,
he cannot fail but tender you the guardianship of La Cava. Let your words be
mixed up with whatever matter of grace and honor you please to suit his ear, so
shall he the more readily confide to you a trust, which—if this letter be true—shall,
indeed, be the sweetest bird that ever sang in your garden.”
“It shall be so,” said the too easily persuaded king. “Ho! there,” he cried to
the attendants; “one of you speed quickly to the lord Bovis; say to him that I resolve
not to send to the count Julian, and bid him recall his messengers. Away!”
The lord Bovis sought in vain to know the particular reasons which had so suddenly
prompted him to undo that which was most wisely done; and he was not the
more satisfied as he saw that Edeco must have been the king's counsellor to this
end.
“I pray that you may not repent, oh king! that you have been persuaded to
withdraw your missives to count Julian. Well do I know there is none other in
your realm better able to contend with the Moor than he.”
“I know it, Bovis; and though I recall the messenger, I do not thereby recall the
message. No, good Bovis; your counsel is in my mind, and Julian shall be our lieutenant
in Africa; but I, myself, will give him his commission, and advise him of his
duties. In an hour and I will be on the road to the castle of count Julian, nothing
doubting of a hearty greeting from an honored servant.”
“Of a surety, oh king! such will be your greeting from Julian. Would that all
your friends were half so true and warm in your service. May I attend your
majesty?”
The inquiry of Bovis was put hesitatingly. He was bewildered by the suddenness
of Roderick's resolves, and fearful that some unseemly motive had induced it, as he
ascribed its adoption to the counsels of Edeco. The king denied him, though in a
kind manner and with a compliment, the boon which he desired.
“No, Bovis; Edeco shall command the guard which shall attend me—and such
command, I trow, would be to you ungracious. You shall stay here and keep watch
while I am absent. Egilona shall rule through thee.”
The rugged but honest counselior turned away—he had his doubts and his fears,
but he could say no more.
In a little while and Roderick was on his way to that secluded dwelling of count
Julian, where—ignorant as innocent—the young and beautiful Cava had dwelt till
now, happy in her own innocence, and in the passionate fondness, the almost jealous
love, which her proud but noble father bestowed upon her. But one dream had yet
warmed her fancy to any attachment other than that which bound her to her sire.
But one image came between her mind's eye and his commanding person. Her
thoughts, though now warmed to love, were yet most pure and undesiring; and, although
the will of her father stood in opposition to her heart's new-born devotion, it
had not provoked her to murmur at his denial or to seek to break through his restraints.
If she loved Egiza, she loved him with the thought that there would come
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a time when her love would be acceptable in her father's eyes: she did not think of
its indulgence on other terms. Perhaps, indeed, she did not think of it at all. Life,
with her, seemed only a feeling—duty, an instinct—and love, an emotion. To call
her feelings by names, or to inquire into their consistency with one another, was no
part of her mind's employment; and her heart, as yet, was quite too young, and too
well satisfied with itself, to call in its assistance.
END OF BOOK FIRST
-- --
BOOK SECOND.
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CHAPTER I.
The sun was fast sinking in the western heavens, and but a few bright rose tints
remained, resting like so many smiles of a gentle spirit upon the gray hills over
which he had lingered, when a man in the prime of youth, but weary and wayworn,
descended one of the jutting ledges of rock which covered the scene in every direction.
His dress was torn and soiled with dust and mire, and his tread was feeble and
tottering. He went forward with an anxious step which might have been a hurried
one but for his physical inability to make it so. It was evident that he had travelled
far, and had suffered much from hunger and fatigue. His cheeks were sallow and
sunken—his eye dim and spiritless, yet sometimes it lighted up with an expression of
pride and energy, which spoke for concealed character that had once known lofty
purposes, and had been prompted and taught in a high condition. From his neck
depended the short thick sword which the Iberians preferred to use. It was without
sheath of any description, and the dint of many strokes might have been seen upon
both of its keen edges. Fresh stains were also plainly apparent upon its once polished
surface, and distinguished its wearer as one to whom danger had been recently
and fearfully familiar; though his desolate condition might well enough instruct
the observer to believe that his share in the strife had been less than fortunate.
Feeble though he seemed, he did not pause for rest when he descended the tedious
rocks over which he came, though the green and smiling beauty of the little valley
through which he wound, might well have tempted one less weary to repose. But
the traveller went forward, and after a momentary hesitation began to ascend the hill
which terminated the plain and lay directly in his path. It was painful to behold
his toil in this endeavor—so feeble had he become that nothing but the most unrelaxing
resolve of mind could possibly have sustained, while nothing but a conviction
of the last importance could have carried him forward. He reached the peak of the
eminence, and the last gleams of the sun fell cheeringly around him. He turned his
sad eye upon the inspirer, and stretched out his arms in the same direction, as if he
implored strength to pursue his way. While in this attitude the waning orb sank
suddenly from sight, and a cold chill fell upon the heart of the wayfarer. His eye
turned upon the space which he was yet to overcome, and it looked dismal and uninviting.
Once more he gazed wistfully toward the western summits, and sweetly
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did they lie at rest with the purple haze and the various drapery of evening around
them. Then, as if he had too long delayed, he again set forward, and plunged
down the steep passages with a reckless determination that seemed desirous to forget
fatigue while invoking danger. Night closed around him ere he reached the bottom
of the valley, and when he did so his strength utterly failed him. He could go no
further. He sank down by a little hillock, and, in the first moment of despondency,
he refused to hope.
“Why should I struggle longer with my fate!” he exclaimed, mournfully, while
his cheek rested upon his hand, and his eyes peered into the bosom of the earth before
him, as if he would there look for shelter and repose; “wherefore resist; why
not yield, and let the strife cease? I have striven long and hopelessly—I have lost
all—I am myself lost. With my own hand I put away the crown of my ancestors—
with my own lips have I rejected the service of my people. What remains? Wherefore
should I live?”
His arm relaxed in the support which it gave to his head, and, as if he would
yield the struggle for life in compliance with the suggestion of his lips, he sank forward
upon his face without effort, and lay supine upon the earth. But he lay not
long in this manner. The mourner was young, and not utterly hopeless, though he
thus declared himself. He started from his dream of despair—he raised himself from
the earth, and the new-born emotions of his soul found utterance from his lips, having
no check in that evening solitude.
“Yes—there is one! She remains; and, having her, I have lost nothing. Let
the throne go to my brother. It were a toil to govern which I should not seek, having
my heart only filled with the one image of delight. She demands the sacrifice—
she forbids the step; and that is enough! She will reward me for the loss, if loss
there be; and, with her to cheer my solitude and fill my home, I know no solitude.
I lose no kingdom. I am still a king; prince of possessions far more worthy than
any I resign.”
To an imagination so fond and fervent, the pictures which the young man had
drawn before his mind's eye, had the effect of almost making him forget his weariness,
and he lay musing upon them for some time in silence, unconscious that the
night was thickening fast around him; making further travel difficult, if not dangerous,
among the hills. He started from his dream at length, with a sudden knowledge
of his difficulties. His momentary rest had brought with it a certain degree of
refreshment; and his fancies had filled him with new courage to pursue his way.
He started to his feet, and in the uncertain light which hung mist-like and vaguely
around his path, he set forward without hesitation. An hour later, and he lay motionless
at the opposite foot of the hill he was now about to ascend—stupor growing
fast upon his senses, and the feeling of despair, which he had just baffled, coming
over his heart with a darker gloom than ever. He resigned himself to his fate, and
his eyes closed; but a falling torrent at a little distance, unseen though heard, vexed
him with its trembling murmurs, and he vainly strove to sleep. While his eyes
were closed, a voice mingled with the waterfall and provoked his attention. The
voice was evidently calling at the foot of the hill, and from the very valley in which
he lay. He opened his eyes, and a new hope came to his heart. He, too, cried
aloud; and his desperate accents seemed to him like those of a feeble boy. Again
did he cry aloud, and he was answered. While he looked, a light gleamed before
his eyes, and he shut them the next moment in utter oblivion. When he again
opened them, he found himself upon a rude couch of straw, in the humble cottage
of a peasant.
“Where am I?” he demanded, hastily.
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“With friends,” was the kind answer; and a woman stood beside his couch.
“Rest—do not fatigue yourself,” she said. “You are feeble—you need sleep”
“And food,” said the traveller. “But tell me; how far is it to the castle of count
Julian, of Consuegra?”
“It lies near at hand,” was the reply; “but a short two leagues from the mountain;
you may see its towers in the sunlight.”
The traveller seemed satisfied, and the woman brought him food. While he ate,
her husband came in, and described the situation in which he had been found. It
was with difficulty they persuaded him to forbear continuing his journey that very
night, so anxious was he to set forth when he learned that the castle of count Julian,
for which he inquired, was so near at hand. But his frame refused to answer the
desires of his mind, and even while he spoke of going forward, he sank into a deep
slumber.
The next morning, after partaking with the cottagers of their humble breakfast,
the traveller resumed his journey, and in a couple of hours the castle of count Julian
stood before him. But he did not approach it as was usually the wont of visiters to
do. He carefully avoided the public entrance, and the ordinary paths. Sinking into
the rear of the building, he sought shelter from passing observation among the trees
and hills. Here he waited patiently, watching the castle all the while, until at
length, as if an auspicious moment had arrived, he went to a secret place in one of
the rocks with which he seemed to have been previously familiar, and drawing from
it a bow and quiver, he approached a spot visible only from the eastern wing of the
edifice. Advancing from the cover of the trees into a clearer space, he shot three
shafts into the air, in an upright line; then, gathering them up, he again sank back
into the close cover, and awaited the result.
A keen and watchful eye in those towers had marked the flight of the arrows;
and after a brief space of time, the lovely lady Cava, the daughter of count Julian,
stole through the shade of the thicket to meet the stranger.
“My lord, my true lord!” she exclaimed, as he folded her to his bosom; “you
are come to me at last; and oh, how happy does your coming make me! Why have
you lingered from me so long? I feared, Egiza, I feared that some harm had befallen
you.”
“Dear Cava, your fears were idle!” exclaimed the youth, while he clasped her
fondly to his breast. “You see me at last—safe—unhurt, and as true to you as
ever.”
Her eye caught the stain of blood upon his garments, and they bore other traces
of the strife in which he had so lately been engaged. The color went from her
cheek as she surveyed these tokens.
“This blood upon your clothes!—speak—tell me, Egiza, your hand has been
mingling among the men who fight.”
“It is true. I have been striving against my enemy—against the enemy of my
people—against the tyrant who usurps my throne”
“You cannot mean it, Egiza!” exclaimed the maiden, withdrawing herself from
his embrace.
“It is true, Cava; and I fought perforce. It was no merit in the eyes of my
people that I took arms in their behalf. I could not help but fight since I was
assailed.”
“And you were defeated, Egiza!” demanded the maiden, anxiously.
“No! thank Heaven, we were not defeated. The good cause triumphed in the
fight. I waited but for that. I saw my brother a conqueror over his foe, and free.
I saw him with the crown of his people—my crown—upon his head. I heard him
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hailed with the plaudits of my countrymen; while I—alas! Cava, if thou shouldst
love me not, if thou shouldst be untrue to me, I am lost!”
“Nay, doubt me not, my dear lord!” exclaimed the maiden, at a loss to account
for the deep expression of anguish, and the acute, wild fire that gleamed forth from
the face of her companion. He proceeded:
“Yes, Cava, I am still Egiza to you, though it may be to none other. I have
been true to you, though they proclaim me false to all beside. Do you believe my
truth—will you receive my vows—will you give ear to the protestations of one
whom all men call traitor?”
“Alas! my lord, your words are strange to me, and full of terror. What is it
that you mean?” was the reply of the apprehensive but fond maiden. “Who is it
so foul of speech as to call you traitor? You are all truth, and I would believe it
from no lip, not even that of my father.”
“Bless you, bless you, dear Cava! for the word. It is sweet, it is every thing
to my soul,” was the fervent response of Egiza; but, after the pause of a moment,
his manner and his language changed: “I am a traitor,” he exclaimed, “it is true
what they declare, my Cava; I am a traitor to my people—'tis you have made me
so.”
“I, my lord?” she replied in unaffected astonishment.
“Ay; but I blame you not, my beloved. Freely do I bear the scorn—calmly do
I hear the reproach, so that it come not from thy lips—so that thou love me not less
because of it. Oh Cava! I have come to you, indeed—but how poorly do I come!
I am still true to you, but how false to my people. To be yours, my Cava, I have
robbed others—to win you, you know not what I have lost, and forfeited.”
“What lost—what forfeited, my lord?” she demanded.
“My country—my crown—my brother's love—my people's homage, their reverence,
their service—all. They have taken from me all—pride, station, friends' love,
people's service, and honorable name!”
“Alas! it is not so; you do not mean it, Egiza! And it is I that have done this,
that have caused this evil? Oh, my lord, unsay your words. Tell me that you but
toyed with my childish fears—that you meant not the cruel speech in sooth.”
“'T is true!” he responded, gloomily; “'T is all true.”
“Speak—tell me how!” she asked in terror.
“I have met my people—the nobles of Iberia—in solemn council. They profferred
me the crown of Spain”—
“You took it not!” she hastily exclaimed.
“I thought of you, my Cava; I feared that it would rob me of your beauty, and
I refused it.”
The gladness of Cava's heart, as he spoke this, was visible in her eyes; but they
met with little of a glad response from his. Sadly he proceeded, for the memory of
his brother's scorn, and the unconcealed indignation of his nobles, was present to
his mind.
“They would have doomed and slain me,” he proceeded.
“But you escaped!” she exclaimed. “How?”
“My brother spoke for me, and though he spoke for me in scorn, he yet saved
my life—saved me for you, dear Cava.”
“Heaven save him for it with blessings, my dear-lord. We owe him much.”
“Much, much!” was the ironical and bitter response of Egiza. He proceeded:
“He saved me to my own shame, and for the scorn of others, dear Cava—nay,
even, perhaps, for thine.”
“Never, oh never! Speak not thus, Egiza. Why should I scorn you?”
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“Have I not shrunk from the danger of this war, to head which they implored
me? 'T was I, dear Cava, who first set on the nobles, after my father's death,
against his murderer. I was the first to shrink from them. I leave them to the
danger—I desert them at the season when every sword is needful in their ranks, and
every head is numbered. This is my shame, dear Cava—my deep shame. For thee
have I done this; for thee have I given up my father's throne, and suffered dishonorable
words to blot my name. Wilt thou not scorn me for it, like the rest?”
“No, Egiza. Nor will they scorn you, who are wise. This war is hopeless.
How can your people attack king Roderick? Where are the soldiers, the arms, the
money? 'T is madness but to think it.”
“The greater reason, then, my Cava, that I, who have wrought them to this madness,
should be the last to leave them. If the cause be so hopeless, I should be the
first to meet with its dangers, and not the first to desert them because of its hopelessness.
Seest thou not that if thy argument be strong, the greater is my shame to
leave them. Thou takest to thy heart, my Cava, one who is scorned of all but
thee.”
“I will not think it, my Egiza; but if what thou sayest be true, I will love thee
more for the scorn of others. Do I not know that it is for me thou hast risked this
danger and incurred this shame. 'T is I have wrought thee to it; and shall I heed
the error, if it be error, which makes me thine the more certainly—which comes of
thy stronger love for me. No, Egiza, I will but pray Heaven that the power be
mine to requite thee with that love for which thou hast yielded up so much.”
“Thou wilt requite me?” he asked, hastily.
“I will be thine, Egiza; or, I will yield myself to none other.”
“But wherefore the doubt, my Cava? Is this all? Canst thou not say that thou
wilt certainly be mine?”
“My father, Egiza.”
“What! Thou waitest for him to give me to thy arms? Alas! Cava, he will
never give thee to me. Has he not drawn weapons upon me? Dost thou forget
when last we parted, when Pelayo came to my succor, and saved me from bonds or
death? What hope is there that he will yield thee to my prayers, when such has
been his temper.”
“He will relent. He denied thee when thou wast a foe to king Roderick, but
when he hears that you have left your people, and refused the crown, he will relent—
he will yield me to thy prayers; for greatly, dear Egiza, does my father love
me.”
“Would it were so, Cava; but I fear me much that he will not so readily confide
in my pledges—he will not believe my promises.”
“Fear nothing, Egiza; he cannot doubt thy truth—I know he cannot!” said the
relying maiden.
“But if he does, my Cava”— The lover paused in his speech.
“Alas!” exclaimed the maiden, as her head hung down droopingly at this suggestion
of denial.
“If he does withhold thee from my love, my Cava—if, heedless of my prayers
and thy consentings, he should deny me to thy arms—say, what, what wilt thou
say?—what, then, shall I do, that the happiness of both be not lost for ever?” exclaimed
the lover.
“Indeed, indeed, I know not!” said the maiden.
“Let me teach thee,” was the quick response. “Thou shalt fly to my arms, my
Cava; a priest shall be in waiting to wed us; and, far away from danger, in the seclusion
of the mountains of Asturia, we shall enjoy happiness and defy danger
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Wilt thou fly with me, Cava; wilt thou share with me the life I offer thee, should
thy father deny thee to my prayer?”
“Stay!” she cried—her hand uplifted, and her eyes turned upon a distant road,
which wound around the brow of a neighboring mountain. The eyes of her lover
were upon her, and he urged her reply to the demand which he had made. But
her mind had received an interruption, and she did not heed his earnestness.
“Stay—a moment, dear Egiza; look to the road from Toledo. What is it that
thou seest?”
He turned his eyes impatiently in the prescribed direction, as if all objects but that
of his quest had been of no importance—none, at least, which should interrupt his
pleadings.
“I see men,” he replied; “a goodly troop, shining with armor: but what is this
to us, my Cava?”
“They seek my father,” said the maid.
“But do not seek us. Let them speed, dear Cava, as they may; but hearken,
dearest, to the prayer I make thee. Thou hast heard what I have said—what I
would have thee say. For thee, and at thy wish have I yielded all; wilt thou yield
all for me? Should thy father refuse my prayer—should he deny thee thine—wilt
thou then free thyself from his power, and rely on mine? Speak, dearest, and make
me happy by a word”
“Alas! Egiza, what would you have me say—what would you have me do?”
“Be mine—be mine!”
“Why, so I would be. Doubt not, my lord, that my father, who truly loves me,
will yield me to thy prayer, knowing how much I love thee. He is kind—loves
me beyond all human things, and gives me all things I love. Wait but a while,
my lord—give thyself time to seek him, and to make thy worth be known to him,
and all will go well, even as we wish it.”
“I pray it may be so, my Cava—but should it not—say that he should deny me—
say that he holds me as an enemy, or that he would give thee to some other noble”—
“I would not wed another!” exclaimed the maiden.
“Thanks, many thanks, dear Cava!—but say that thou wilt wed with me, and I
will bless thee from my soul.”
“Alas! I know not—the thought is strange—I know not how to answer.”
“Dost thou love me?”
“Canst thou ask?” replied the maiden reproachfully; and she half withdrew
from his arms, which at this time were locked around her.
“Nay, Cava, chafe not with me. I speak like one most desperate. I am despe
rate. I have but one hope left. 'T is in your hands. Speak and save me, Cava—
or, if thou dost not love me as I would have thee love, speak and destroy me.”
“Oh, I am thine, all thine, Egiza; wherefore dost thou doubt me thus, and vex
thyself? I will be thine—thine only.”
With an almost frantic embrace he drew her to his bosom, and, for the moment,
such were his feelings, he had no other mode of speech.
“I hold thee bound, my Cava,” were his words at length, when he broke the silence
which his intense pleasure had imposed. “Should thy father withhold thee
from me, and deny my prayer, thou wilt still be mine. Thou wilt heed my summons;
thou wilt come to my signal as thou comest now.”
“I will, believe me, Egiza; but I must fly thee now. Look! the strange troop
approaches, and my father must not know of my absence from the castle, should he
demand my presence to receive them.”
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The stirring sounds of the trumpet rang with a lively note as the troop wound
their way over the rocky defiles. Egiza surveyed the glitter of their armament with
a melancholy feeling, and his mind busied itself in comparing the gorgeous trappings
of the chiefs who led them, with his own miserable appearance. A jealous sentiment
rose to his lips.
“Thou wilt look on these gallant warriors, my Cava, and in thy thoughts thou
wilt compare them with the sorry looks of Egiza. Their gilded trappings will shine
in thy eyes, till thou turnest from the thoughts of him who seeks thee in so poor
a fashion.”
“Thou dost me wrong, Egiza. I will remember nothing but the trappings thou
hast given up for my love, and remembering these, I shall not regard the glitter which
I behold on others. Be as sure of the love of Cava, as thou hast made her confident
of thine. I leave thee now, Egiza; I will come to thee to-morrow, and we
will speak more of this matter. I will, when thou hast permitted me to speak, declare
to my father, all that thou hast now unfolded to me. Be not impatient, my
lord, in this matter; my love is too strong for thee to make it needful that thou
shouldst hasten the season when it may be thine.”
The gorgeous cavalcade which they beheld descending the hills, had now reached
the main entrance of the castle. They heard the martial summons of the trumpet
clamoring for admission, and the maiden hurried away from her lover, in her solicitude
to gain her chamber ere the arrival of strangers, while Egiza sank among the
covering hills with which he was familiar, and which had often already afforded
him a shelter.
CHAPTER II.
The maiden had but little time to effect her object, and gain her apartment, so
wilful and exacting is the devoted love—so impetuous and rapid had been the approach
of the strange warriors. The cavalcade was that of the Gothic monarch,
whom we have seen setting forth on a double mission for the castle of his lieutenant.
With that reckless hardihood of vice which distinguished his reign, and led to
his downfall, he came at the same moment to exact service from his subject, and to
inflict dishonor on his name. In his corrupt mind he already revelled in the charms
of La Cava, while her brave father was doing his battles and defending his country
from the infidel invader, But while purposing this deadly wrong to a faithful subject,
king Roderick was yet too well aware of the danger which he was about to incur
to suffer his secret thoughts to be known by others. He too well knew the
fierce and jealous nature of count Julian, who had come of the old Roman stock,
and he was not ignorant of the great influence which he possessed over the veteran
soldiers whom he had so often led to victory. To his creature Edeco, alone, from
whom—and the anonymous epistle of Oppas—the base incentive had come, did he
communicate his design. With more caution, therefore, than he was accustomed to
employ, he resolved upon pursuing his present object; and when he met count Julian,
who had come forth to the castle entrance to receive him, his manner and language,
though free and kingly, were yet singularly circumspect, for one so habitually
reckless.
“You do your poor noble honor, my lord king, when you so ride forth to see
him,” was the salutation of count Julian, while he held the stirrup for the monarcb
to alight.
“Ay, my lord; and had I known that your castle held so lovely a spot in
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command, I should not have been so slow to seek thee out. Truly the air is grateful,
and the hills—they rise around thee like a natural rampart. Wert thou a rebel,
count Julian, it would need a goodly force to undo thee in thy stronghold.”
“It is thine, oh king! and little prospect is there that it will be held against thee
or thine. The air, as thou sayest, is grateful; and in the sunset, the hills wear a
look which will delight thine eye far more than now. But let us in, my lord; thou
shouldst need refreshment. Thou wilt find a cup of choice wine grateful after thy
toilsome travel among these hills.”
“The thought is good;” and the king alighted while he spoke. The grooms
came forward and took charge of the horses, while, following their master's example,
the nobles in the train of Roderick alighted also, and, at the bidding of count
Julian, followed them into the castle. When they had drunk and been refreshed,
the lady Cava descended from her chamber, and the eyes of Roderick for the first
time rested upon the features of his chosen victim. He whispered to Edeco, when
he beheld her:
“The billet speaks truth only; there is nothing half so lovely in Toledo.”
The favorite ventured no reply, but his finger was lifted to his lips as if in caution,
for he saw the eyes of count Julian were upon the king, and the pride and jealousy
of the warrior were well known to him. But Roderick, though he strove,
could scarcely keep his eyes from the maiden. His glance riveted hers, for it was
the first time that she had beheld the king, and she looked upon him with a wonder
and admiration, no less fearless than innocent. And truly might she regard him
with admiration, for the person of Roderick was extremely noble. He was taller
than the general race of men, yet so proportioned and symmetrical as to command no
regard in this respect, save when standing by the side of others. His face was full
and his eye commanding. His forehead was rather broad than lofty, and his look,
though it was not wanting in intellectual expression, spoke more for the love of
sway, the pride of pomp, and strong passions, than for the good mind which he possessed
naturally, but which the sudden gain of unlooked for power had either entirely
perverted or kept in subjection. These gave an air of animation to his manner
and countenance, which could not fail to attract the eye, and win the admiration
of those he looked upon kindly.
After a brief space of time given to ordinary subjects, and when the beautiful
Cava, at the command of her father, had retired from the presence to attend to such
concerns of the household as were fitly entrusted to young maidens, in those
days, the king addressed himself to count Julian upon the obvious subject of his
visit.
“I have brought you a heavy charge, Julian,” he said, “and I look for you to be
as heedful in our cause, of the honor and security of the nation, as you have proved
yourself in the time of our predecessor.”
“There are none to challenge the faith of Julian of Consuegra, I trust, oh
king!” was the reply of the count, who looked round while he spoke, with searching
eye, among the nobles who attended the sovereign. “The faith which I have
pledged to you, king Roderick,” he continued, “I have ever kept, as I now again
pledge myself resolute to keep it. Declare thy will, oh king! and receive my service.”
“I believe thee, Julian; I meant not to question thy honor by my speech, but,
declaring my firm confidence in thy ability, again to give it employment.”
“I am ready in thy service, oh king! Command me as thou wilt, in honor, and
my sword and life are thine.”
“I had deemed them so, Julian, ere I came to thee. Advices have reached me
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that the insolent Moslem again threatens us with invasion. The post at Ceuta is
again thy charge. We require thee to move for it by the morning, and do thy best
to chastise the foe.”
“Now, this instant, oh king! if thou wilt, I am ready to depart!” was the immediate
answer of the count.
“I knew thy promptness, Julian, but it will not need that thou shouldst depart
before the dawn, unless thou shalt deem it important to thy toils. Nor, indeed
canst thou well do it, since it is our purpose to be this night thy guest. We wildepart
together in the morning, and thou shalt ride with us to our royal city of Toledo,
where it is the will of the queen Egilona, that thy fair daughter, of whom she
hath heard, should abide until thy return. She shall be handmaid to the queen during
thy absence, and her happiness and instruction shall be our care. Does this
disposition please thee, count Julian?”
“It does, oh king! since this were but a wild and lonely region for my daughter
to abide in when I am absent; and still less would it suit that she go with me to
Algeziras, when the cloud of war hangs over the coast. In the presence of the noble
Egilona my daughter will learn the lessons of truth, and be confirmed in the
gentle virtues which I have toiled, and not in vain, to impart to her mind. Thou
hast well determined, oh Roderick! and I will not spare my sword in strife with
the Moor, remembering the sacred charge which I leave in thy protection.”
The object of the lustful monarch so far had been pursued successfully; and his
exultation could scarcely be concealed. The watchful Edeco beheld it, in his
quick, hurried glances, in the sudden flow of blood into his cheeks, and in the passionate
movements of his person. But these signs entirely escaped the observation
of count Julian, who, though jealous in the last degree of the honor of his name and
family, yet had not the slightest suspicion of the meditated bad faith of the sovereign
who had just yielded to his hands so great a trust; and one which would so readily
enable him to revenge himself for any such wrong. Nor did the reckless spirit of
Roderick, thoughtful only of personal indulgence, permit him to perceive the extent
of the security which he had thus given to Julian, for the honor of his daughter. It
he did, he was but too well disposed to defy consequences, to seek the correction of
his error. With a blindness which was like fatality, he gave to the man whom he
was about to wound in the most sensitive part, the command of a post, the most
important in his kingdom, and the exclusive control of ten thousand veteran soldiers.
But this thought troubled neither the mind of the monarch, nor that of his creature,
Edeco. As his sword-bearer, this man slept that night in a chamber adjoining that
of Roderick, and having access to it. When they were retired for the night, he gave
a loose to those congratulations on the success of his project, which he knew would
flatter the hopes of the king, whose foul appetites were all in activity. He exaggerated
the charms of La Cava, dwelt on her gentleness, which he mistook for weakness,
and with the peurile affectation of the fop discoursed of those topics which belong
rather to the vicious profligate. It need not be said with what impatience Roderick
longed for the departure of Julian, and the possession of his unconscious daughter
But what could exceed the agony of soul of La Cava, when she was apprised by
her father of his intention to remove her to the court. She would have pleaded
against his purpose, but that she had no pretence for doing so. To declare to him
the near neighborhood of her lover, might be to compromise his safety. To declare
to him how deeply she loved Egiza, would be no reason why she should not be
removed to Toledo, unless it could be shown that the supposed rebel could, in a
moment, reconcile himself to the usurper, and receive her immediately, in the eye
of the nation, as his wife. The more the mind of Cava reflected upon these
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matters the more did their difficulties increase. Her own reflections yielded her no satisfactory
counsel, and she could only hope, by seeing Egiza before her departure,
to learn from him what remedy might yet be found to relieve her from the approaching
difficulties of her situation. The anxiety increased to agony, when, after several
attempts to steal forth, she found it impossible to succeed. The courtiers and
guards of Roderick were numerous, and they filled all the grounds of the castle.
Night came on at length, and she gave up the desire in despair. She slept not, or
only slept to dream of sorrows, and she rose the next morning only to realize them.
At an early hour, assisted by her father, she entered the covered carriage which had
been prepared for her, and, escorted by Roderick, who closely attended upon the vehicle,
she set forth, sick at heart, and paralyzed in hope, upon a journey, every step
of which carried her further from her lover. Did she imagine it only, or was it
the face of Egiza, that peered down upon their progress from the brow of the mountain,
as they wound their tedious way through one of its gorges? Did he know of
her departure—did he doubt her truth? How much would she have given that moment
to have breathed but a single sentence in his ears.
CHAPTER III.
It was while they wound through a lovely valley, on their approach to Toledo,
that they encountered a procession of holy men bearing the image of the Virgin.
They were returning to the house of the fraternity, which picturesquely crowned
an eminence that stood at a little distance and within sight. Though engaged in
holy offices, the brothers did not think it unseemly to pause in their progress to gaze
upon the royal cavalcade, which was so much more gorgeous, if not so much more
imposing than their own. It was this purpose of curiosity which Roderick had
ascribed to them, but it may be that there was yet another motive, for, as the king
approached, one of the venerable men emerged from among the crowd which gathered
upon the hill-side to let the royal train pass, and threw himself directly in the way
of their progress. Once seen, the countenance of that singular man was never to be
forgotten; and long ere the king drew nigh, he was troubled with the recollection
of circumstances which had not a little annoyed him when they had taken place.
The person was that of Romano, who had been the chief keeper of the house of
Hercules. He filled the very spot over which they were compelled to pass, and he
seemed resolute to maintain his position. His hands were uplifted as much in sign
to his bretheren—who looked on with mixed feelings of veneration and dismay—as
to the heaven to which they were raised; and with his white beard streaming to the
wind, his uncovered and shaven crown, his wild, fierce, and even haughty expression—
as, in his secret soul, he held himself the representative of God in his anger—
he was altogether the embodiment of a majesty before which even that of Roderick
was compelled to quail. While the monarch drew nigh, and when within hearing,
the words of Romano were heard addressed to his company:
“Witness for me, witness for me, my brethren, that I do what God has appointed.
That I stand without fear in the presence of the tyrant, and denounce upon his head
the wrath which is to come. I call ye to heed me now, my brethren, as ye shall
be asked for your testimony hereafter; look upon him, the enemy of God, walking
in the vain confidence of his earthly power—behold the servant of Heaven, humbled
of earth, and despised of man, yet strong of heart, as I feel that a power greater
than that of earth, and a sovereign before whom this tyrant is a shadow and a
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worm, is my confidence and support. Witness for me, my brethren, witness for the
father and the king, whose servants ye are!”
“Now, what does the old dotard mean?” demanded the king of those about him,
as these words reached his ears. “Ride forward, Edeco, and command him from
the path.”
Edeco rode forward as he was bidden, but Romano heeded him not:
“Not for thee—not for such as thee, are the words of Heaven. Thou art the
creature and the worm. I have no mission for thee. But I have that for the ears
of thy master which shall make him tremble in his secret soul. Bid him ride forward
and learn my message. Bid him haste that he may hear it. Let him not delay
to receive what I do not delay to impart.” And he turned from Edeco to the
brethren, while he continued to speak:
“There is a Daniel for every Belshazzar, my brethren, since by God's abundant
mercy it is that He wills not the death but the repentance of any sinner—no, not
even the vilest and the worst, which is always he whom power and the vain conceits
of earth have hardened into the enemy of Heaven. It may be that He means
not the destruction of this mortal, and that I am but to warn and to terrify, that the
repentance of Roderick may be free and flowing, and abundant like his sin. I know
not—I but speak as I am bidden: and I speak not for myself. If my words this
day, fall not upon unheeding ears, like good seed washed upon stony places, then
am I thrice blessed, since I am the minister of God's indulgence rather than of his
punishments. Let us pray, my brethren, that it be as I have said. Pray quickly,
all, for the sinner approaches.”
He crossed himself devoutly as he uttered these words, while his lips murmured
the prayer that he had prescribed to his brethren. A universal murmur of supplication
went through their ranks, in compliance with his suggestion, for the venerable
Romano had long been regarded among his fellows as one chosen of Heaven.
But the wrath of Roderick was scarcely restrainable when Edeco bore back the
answer of Romano. Hastily leaving the side of the carriage in which Cava rode,
he made his way to the front, and a few bounds of his steed brought him directly in
the presence of the zealot.
“Madman! wretched and reckless fool! get ye from my path!” cried Roderick,
fiercely, while his teeth were gnashed with such vexation that his words were
scarcely articulated.
“I do my duty!” cried Romano. “I speak for thy Master, Roderick. It is for
thee to hear!”
“Take him hence!” cried the king to the priests. “It is ye who encourage this
madman in his insolence. Take him hence, ere I strike him to the earth.”
But the timid priests manifested no disposition to interfere. The words of the
king were far less imposing to their senses than those of Heaven's messenger, as
they believed, or affected to believe, that Romano was. They only huddled more
closely together as the king spoke, as the timorous sheep crowd with apprehension
when the howl of the wolf reaches their ears, at evening. This movement only
left Romano more distinctly opposed to the king, and the soul of the venerable enthusiast
seemed to expand in its confidence, as the isolation of his person, which it
left more exposed to danger, served to increase the commanding character of his appearance.
“I need no encouragement from man!” exclaimed Romano. “I am commissioned
by Heaven, and the glory of my commission gives me the strength which I
need.”
“Get from the path!” exclaimed the monarch, hoarsely.
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“Not till I have said Heaven's judgment, or, it may be, its warning only. That
shall be as thy pride or thy humility wills it, oh Roderick! when thou hast heard
me.”
“Will no one drag this miserable madman away?” cried Roderick.
A dozen of the king's attendants sprang forward at these words, but ere they
could lay hands upon Romano, the brotherhood had closed around him, with their
uplifted and extended crosses; they seemed to defy the soldiers, who shrank in hesitation,
as they feared to encounter that power which ruled monarchs, and had
shaken them from their thrones. The zeal of Romano received new encouragement
from these signs. Encircled as he was, by the priests, he showed no token
of apprehension; he extended no cross for his own protection, but with hands
stretched out to heaven,
“Be witness,” he cried, “be witness of this violence, and of my faith in Thee,
oh Father of the Universe! I fear not the shaft of the tyrant, while I speak Thy
vengeance upon his head.”
The fury of Roderick was indescribable, but Romano, utterly unaffected by it,
proceeded to address him:
“I call upon thee, oh Roderick! to read the writing of heaven—it is upon the
sky before thee—it is written in flames and blood, and it is spoken in words of
thunder. Look there—as upon a wall,” and he pointed to the eastern heaven, while
his eyes watched the same quarter with a devotion that conclusively proved to his
brethren, if not to the king, that he really saw what he called on them to witness.
It is indeed more than probable that many among them saw it also, and even the eye
of Roderick, like that of his followers, turned once involuntarily in the same direction.
“It is there!” cried Romano. “The letters—ye see them, ye see them! Ye cannot
help but see them, for they are written in flame. They have a deadly meaning.
oh Roderick! and the writing is for thee. It is fitting that, as thou hast been the
Belshazzar of this land, that as thou hast been voluptuous, and profligate, and cruel,
that as thou hast scorned the words of the wise, and trampled upon the things that
are holy, that thou shouldst have the warning and the doom pronounced against
thee which was written by the Eternal finger on the palace walls of the Assyrian.”
“Madman—away—away all, or I urge my horse upon ye!” exclaimed the king,
and he advanced as he spoke, though his limbs seemed to be feeble, and he trembled
even while he proceeded, with an ague that seemed to have arisen from his fears,
though it was most probably in consequence of his anger. The monks half receded
as they witnessed his movement, but Romano yielded not an inch, nor showed any
apprehension. With exulting eye as he witnessed the tacit homage which the king
by his seeming apprehensions, paid to his ministry, he continued to speak in the
same fearless and enthusiastic strain.
“Wo! wo! Behold the writing: `MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN!”'
Roderick urged forward his steed, but the wild look, the free, enthusiastic action,
and the supernatural elevation of Romano, seemed to have its effect upon the horse,
not less than upon his rider. The noble animal reared and receded, sinking back
upon the crowd that followed.
“Orelio! Orelio!” exclaimed the king, patting the steed upon his neck while
striving to urge him forward.
“Take counsel from thy beast, oh king!” cried the zealot, whose exultation was
now unbridled. “He has a better knowledge than his rider of what is due to Heaven's
messenger. He will not move forward till my mission is completed!”
“We shall see that, madman!” cried the king, and he drove the rowels into the
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the sides of the reluctant animal. Romano neither shrunk back as he beheld these
efforts, nor paused in his speech.
“The writing, the writing is before thee, Roderick. Hear, and be wise in season,
for, of a truth, even as He spake to Belshazzar through the prophet Daniel, doth the
Lord of Hosts speak to thee through my lips. He hath numbered thy kingdom—
He hath finished it.”
“Dog!” cried the now desperate king; and he snatched a javelin from one of
the soldiers.
“Thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting!” continued the fearless
enthusiast.
“Not in strength to punish thy insolence am I wanting.” cried Roderick, hurling
the shaft with a desperate arm. Heedless of the bolt the zealot continued:
“Thy kingdom is divided,”— the arrow quivered in his thigh, and the sudden
pang of the wound broke the sentence of his lips, which was concluded by a slight
cry, the involuntary acknowledgment of the suffering flesh. In the next moment,
the snorting and terrified steed was driven forward by his raging rider, and the feeble
but erect and fearless form of Romano, was hurled aside and thrown against the
rocks. A cry of horror rose among the monks, as they beheld the injury done to
their comrade—an injury esteemed by them a sacrilege. They gathered around him
where he lay, and raised him up in their arms; and, even while Roderick rode on
with his train, his denunciations followed the monarch, and filled with gloom and
apprehension such of his company as honored the existing forms of religion, and
regarded with respect those superstitions of the time, which held a sway among the
lberians of far more potency than any in possession of the throne.
“Wo! wo!” was still the burden of that voice: and even the fears of Roderick
were aroused when he coupled what he had witnessed in the cave of Hercules,
with the report of the Moorish invasion, and these words of Romano, which he continued
to hear, even when out of sight of the enthusiast, and which predicted to
him the loss of his kingdom. It needed not then that Roderick should desire free
access to the daughter of Julian, in order to prompt him to urge the instant departure
of that warrior for the protection of the coast. Even in his voluptuous fancies,
there came to his mind dark pictures of his land's distress, his own overthrow, and
scenes of strife and bloodshed, which a prescient imagination might safely paint to
a tyrant and usurper, and which the coming time was not slow to realize, in all their
truth, and with increased and indescribable terrors.
“Now the garden which the king Roderick had made for the gentle queen Egilona,”
says a chronicler of the time, “was of a curious and a foreign elegance. It
stood upon the banks of the golden-bedded Tagus, and the sweet murmur of the waters
as they rolled on beside its walls, made a fitting refrain for the pleasant birdmusic
that was for ever heard from within. Aromatic shrubs, which had been gathered
and brought from the far east, filled the air with fragrance; and, after the
Moorish fashion, gushing fountains were made to jet from the complaining well, so
that an ever-going murmur kept the solitude of the garden wakeful. The trees,
many of which were of distant lands, brought by the Roman conquerors into Iberia,
were carefully trained into curious shapes, and made to yield the goodliest fruits;
and Roderick commanded that a hundred of his Moorish slaves should be busy at
all hours, in the building of the garden, and of the palace which stood in the midst
of it, so that, long ere the people had dreamed of the curious labor, which was carried
on, within the massy walls which surrounded it, the nice perfection of king
Roderick's wish had been attained, and the palace and the gardens sprang into existence
as it were by magic, in the brief space of a single night. Thither in the
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oppressive days of summer, would the queen Egilona retire, and secure from intrusion
relax from the toils of the court, and attended only by her favorite maidens, enjoy
the perfect privacy and the soothing luxuries of so charming a retreat.”
It was to this garden of delight that the enamored, but as yet cautious Roderick,
conveyed the lovely Cava. It was here that the queen received her, and, pleased
with her sweet and modest appearance, nor less so with the singular simplicity of
her manners, she took her almost immediately into favor. While count Julian remained
in Toledo, and for a brief season after his departure, the king, with an exercise
of forbearance which was unusual with him, did not approach the maiden,
and Cava might have enjoyed almost perfect happiness in that fairy abode, the
beauties and sweetness of which had sunk into her soul, but that her heart was
too full of the desolate Egiza. When her father departed for his command at Cueta,
the tears of the maiden were unaccountable to him, as they spoke for the secret sorrows
which he did not conjecture. He left her with reluctance as he beheld her
grief, for she was as the apple of his eye, and something of a mournful presentiment
weighed down his heart, as he uttered his hurried language of farewell. It
was with an earnest solemnity of manner, that he yielded the sacred trust to king
Roderick.
“Be her friend and protector, oh king! while I serve in your wars abroad. It is
my wealth and my joy, my treasure and my blessing, which I yield to your protection;
and should it please Heaven, Roderick, that I perish in the strife with the infidel,
I pray you to remember that though you should lose a soldier and a faithful
servant in me, it is not fitting that you should suffer my child to feel that she has
lost a father.”
Roderick scrupled not to promise the noble soldier, and Julian departed, half relieved
of the gloom which had weighed him down. It had been well for Roderick,
and well for all, had he been less free to promise, or more scrupulous in performance
CHAPTER IV.
Meanwhile the hapless Egiza, poised on a ledge of rock which overhung the
great pass leading to count Julian's castle, watched with straining eyes the departure
of the glittering cavalcade which bore away the dear object of his affections. He saw
count Julian riding beside the usurper, and he readily conceived that the maiden of
whose dress he caught partial glimpses through the covering of the carriage, was the
lady of his love. His conjecture was confirmed as he listened to the dialogue of two
peasants which took place in the valley just below his place of watch. He descended
as the cavalcade passed on. Without a thought of what he should do—without
any distinct purpose in his mind—he hurried in pursuit. From rock to rock he kept
upon his way, without fatigue, without hunger, but with a singular feeling of thirst
which prompted him to stop at every spring or brooklet, and drink like one who had
famished long with the desire. In this pursuit, he was not at any time far behind
the travellers. Their progress, in that hilly region, was necessarily slow. More
than once he caught sight of them, as rising to the peak of one eminence, he beheld
the last glimpses of their train stretching away over another; and when he came to
the spot where the adventure of Roderick with Romano had taken place, he found
the venerable old man surrounded by his brethren, and feebly striving, with their assistance,
to ascend the little mountain on the brow of which stood the dwelling of
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their fraternity. But the movements of the feeble old man were necessarily slow, and
the yearning eyes which they cast upon the new comer, evidently called for his
more vigorous aid. He, too, began to fail from the fatigues of his journey, but the
excitements of his soul sustained him; and when, all in a breath, the monks told
him of the impious violence of Roderick, Egiza warmed into new strength with their
narrative, and lent the aid of his vigorous arm in sustaining the enfeebled Romano
up the mountain. It may be supposed that the version which Egiza heard of the
transaction, was wanting in most of the circumstances which might have qualified
the degree of criminality in the violence of Roderick, and, perhaps, to many minds
might have even justified it. The tale they told was one of unmitigated tyranny on
the part of the king; a tyranny for the punishment of which they did not cease, all
the while, to invoke the thunders of Heaven upon his head. Romano did not speak
until the tale was fairly ended. He did not seem to think the matter of sufficient importance
to demand the attention of one having the business of Heaven. But when
the monks had concluded their story, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy features of
Egiza, and suddenly demanded whither he went.
“I know not, father,” was the sad reply. “I care not—to the city—to Toledo.”
“We will journey together,” responded the other, “let us first take refreshment,
since it is not written that the mortal, though he be called to the performance of duties
different from those commonly given to mortality to perform, should live on heavenly
manna, only. Brother, wilt thou give cheer to the aged servant of God, and
to this good youth who has come to our help. I ask thee in the name of the father.”
The solicitation was in truth a command. The entire possessions of the brotherhood
were at the bidding and disposition of Romano. But little time was given by
the two to the business of the feast. The zealot was never yet a voluptuary, and,
with such a burning passion at his heart as love—love denied, love doubtful, or love
apprehensive—youth has not often cared for food, however the need of physical
nature may have demanded it. They were soon satisfied, and once more on their
way together.
Romano led the way with a confidence of step and manner which did not arise
from the vigor of his frame. His was the strength of the mind, the strength of
mind even in its weakness—a strength which is always terrible in its insanity, and
which, though incoherent and without power in all things but one, is yet singularly
powerful to perform in that one. The few words which he had already uttered, impressed
Egiza with wonder and respect; but when, as they proceeded, he beheld
the erect carriage of the aged man, and beheld the deference which all paid to him
who met him, when he watched the eloquent fire that flashed out at moments from
his eyes, and perceived the ready instinct by which the decision and the words came
from his lips, and were sustained by his resolute bearing, the youth began tacitly to
give credit to the claims which Romano urged, to be the special messenger of God.
It is true that Egiza, had he given himself the trouble to reason on this matter,
would not have suffered such a thought in his mind; but youth is the season for
feeling, perception, impulse—not reflection; and, in those days, reason had never
yet dared to lift its voice, in question, for an instant, of the venerable superstition.
The awe which gradually came over his bosom as they thus pursued their way
together, was the tribute of youth to age, of passion to reflection, and credulity to
the ancient hypocrite of ages.
When the two reached Toledo it was night; and, for a moment, Egiza paused ere
he entered the walls of the city. Romano paused also, as he beheld the indecision
of the youth. He gazed upon his face intently, and seemed desirous to read the
thoughts in the mind of his companion. These thoughts were various enough, and
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not so easily followed. He, the rightful heir to the throne, stood before the royal
city of his birthright and feared to enter it. He was a stranger without a home—
an outlaw without hope; one whom any one might slay, and find not only impunity,
but reward for the deed. It would be too much to say that thoughts like these
did not press heavily upon his mind in the few moments which he yielded to hesitation
at the gates of Toledo; but his fears, if he felt any, passed away in an instant.
The monk laid his hand upon his arm:
“Where goest thou?” he demanded.
“I know not. I have no home in Toledo,” was the desolate reply.
“But thou hast business?”
“No; I know not,” said Egiza with similar tones of self-abandonment.
“God provides a home for the homeless!” exclaimed he. “God provides labor
for the unemployed. Thou hast duties, young man, or thou wouldst not have life.
Art thou heedless of this? art thou ignorant of them?”
Egiza was silent. It is not often that princes are taught that they have duties and
labors like common men. Seeing him hesitate, Romano proceeded:
“Go with me, my son, and when thou wouldst have comfort, confess to me thy
griefs. Thou hast them. Life must have sorrows, or Heaven would own no joys;
nor, if it did, should we desire them. Go with me, and, be sure, the God who gave
thee life will find thee employment.”
Still the youth hesitated. He was unwilling to commit himself to a companionship
which might stand in the way of his pursuit, and though he wished to go instantly
to the palace of his uncle, the archbishop Oppas, he was apprehensive that
in so doing he might compromise either his own or his uncle's safety, and possibly
both.
“Hast thou heard, my son,” said Romano with gentleness, “I have asked thee
to keep with me.”
“Where goest thou?” demanded Egiza.
“I go now to the dwelling of the most holy father, the lord bishop of Toledo.”
“What! the lord Oppas?” exclaimed Egiza.
“Even he!” said the other. “Hast thou knowledge of him.”
“No!” replied the other, after a brief pause, in which he deliberated upon the
propriety of falsehood in such a case, and found a justification for it in his own
mind, in his dangers and necessities; “but I have heard of the venerable father, and
I would see him; perchance, it may be as thou hast said, that God will provide
with fitting toils the wayfarer who hath none.”
“Thou hast the proper spirit, for heavenly furtherance,” said Romano, “and it
may be that I am the chosen instrument for guiding thee on the way to thy labors.
Let us go together.”
And the two entered Toledo: Romano full of wild fancies of heavenly anger, the
overthrow of tyranny, the upraising of the abused church, and the healing of its
many wounds; and Egiza divided between hopes and fears of a humbler, a more
selfish, earthly nature. He knew the danger of his present movement, but he did
that for love—and he felt the shame—which he had not been bold enough to do for
his throne and country. He had grown reckless from frequent risks, and desperate
from privation, and almost indifferent to detection; and with a boldness which, in
time of sudden peril, is perhaps, the best protection, he fearlessly went with his
conductor into the very heart of the city, where stood, in the near neighborhood of
his uncle's dwelling, the palace and the dangers of the usurper.
Romano at once proceeded to the dwelling of Oppas, and was instantly admitted.
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At first, Egiza thought to remain behind, waiting an opportunity to see his uncle
alone, but his companion bade him follow close, and, with something like indifference,
careless whether Oppas should recognize him or not, in the presence of Romano,
he obeyed his directions. He relied upon his inferior garments, soiled and torn—
the length of his hair and beard, which he had left untrimmed, and his unexpected
coming, effectually to disguise him from the scrutiny of his uncle until such
time as he should think fitting to declare himself.
But the keen eye of the archbishop discovered him, as soon as Romano, having
told his own story, brought him forward. Egiza, at a glance, saw that he was
known, and pressed his finger upon his lips in sign of secresy. But such precaution,
with one skilled like Oppas in all secret arts, was unnecessary. He did not
seem to heed the prince, but bidding the servant conduct him to another chamber, he
advised Romano that he should take his companion, for the time, into his own protection.
For a long while did the archbishop and Romano converse together, the
former urging new measures upon the latter, which he seemed rather to educe from
the mind of the zealot than to prompt with his own. Such was the occult skill of
the former; and great indeed, was the service, which, under his instigation—which
he deemed to come from heaven and of his own head—the latter performed in promoting
the insurrectionary purposes of the ambitious Oppas.
When Romano had taken his departure, the archbishop called Egiza, and they
conversed long in secret together. The lord Oppas did not spare his reproaches of
the prince for the desertion of his brethren and of his people, of which he had already
heard through his emissaries; until at length the language of Egiza grew
fierce and scornful.
“Thou speakest, my lord uncle,” said he, “as if I might look but for little help
at thy hands. I care not for this, but am I to believe that thou wilt give me up to
the slaves of Roderick? If thou art resolved on this, or if thou but meditatest it, as
from thy harsh speech it would seem not unreasonable to apprehend, I am ready.
Go to your tyrant, and declare to him the truth. Why shouldst thou not have the
money for my blood as well as another.”
“Thou hast taken a tone from the mouth of Pelayo, my son, in this thy language,”
was the mild reply of the archbishop, whose policy it was rather to conciliate
than offend. “But let us,” he continued, “let us speak no more of this or any
matter again to-night. Thou art weary, and this makes thee angry and impatient;
I, too, am troubled with labors of greatest weight, and these make me stern, and
perhaps unjust. Come, my son. Let me lead thee to a secure chamber, and in the
morning I will procure thee a fitting disguise; for in Toledo we must move with caution.
Remember, Egiza, the guards of the tyrant are around us; his spies are busy
in his service ever; and however reckless thou mayst have become touching thy
own safety, thou wilt be heedful not to expose thy person needlessly, when thy
safety will affect that of another.”
With the dawn, Romano was again a visiter in the dwelling of the archbishop
Couriers had arrived during the night in Toledo, and the defeat and death of Edacer
the governor of Cordova, at the hands of an insurgent, under the lead of Pelayo, the
brother of Egiza, was generally known in the city.
“The arm of God shows itself at last,” exclaimed Romano. “His thunder, that
only spoke before, is now winged with the red lightning, and the shafts have stricken
to the hearts of the tyrant's followers. Thou hast heard, my lord Oppas.”
Egiza had given his uncle the intelligence but a few hours before, but the archbishop
was heedful not only not to say this, but to forbear admitting that he knew
of the events at all, until he received them from the zealot.
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“And Julian has departed for the coast,” said Romano. “What warrior will
lead the force against Pelayo, my father? Will it be the silken slave, Edeco—the
piebald, pasteboard minion that the king so loves? If it be, then of a surety hath
God decreed that he shall go mad like Nebuchadnezzar of old, that out of his own
performances he may perish.”
“Of a truth, thou speakest his doom, my brother,” replied Oppas, with solemnity.
“God worketh out his judgments in fear and wonder, in many secret ways; and it
is a wholesome propriety, that which makes crime sooner or later the minister of its
own punishment. We behold in trust and fear, my brother, yet we behold not
calmly or idly. We contribute unconsciously to the good work, and the rightful
judgment of heaven, and like the blind bolts of the storming clouds, we go upon errands
of destruction, and know not what we do, till the victim lies before us. Sawst
thou not much that was a mystery to thee in the youth whom thou brought with
thee last night?” said Oppas, abruptly, seeming to change the subject, but, of a truth,
coupling the inquiry in the mind of his hearer with all that he had previously said.
“Of a truth, I did,” replied Romano, musing idly; for the drift of Oppas was beyond
his search.
“He is young, yet sad; he is strong, but his limbs lack service. He seems like
one quick to strike—to slay if need be, but God has not yet given the victim to his
knife. Wherefore so much sadness in his youth; why is he separate, as it were,
from all other men, and all other ties? Can it be, my brother, that such as he is
chosen for great service?”
“Wherefore not!” exclaimed Romano. “God loveth those whom He chasteneth,
and if this youth have sorrows early, he hath strength also, and he hath an appointed
service which shall lead him to high favor.”
“I think not that he came to your help upon the mountain without advisement—
I think not that he came to Toledo without a business. My brother, is he not an
instrument given into thy hands?”
“Truly, it would seem so, my father, though I thought not this. Verily, thou
art of the seed of those whom the generations which are gone of time, held wisest
of men.”
“Yet were this instrument—which thou must see was put into thy hands—but
an idle one, harmful to itself, and harmless where the just Providence would make
it hurtful, unless it have its sheath. The minister of vengeance were but a failing
minister, if he walked at midday, and concealed not his secret purpose. The youth
must be habited, my brother, in a guise which shall not be unfitting for him who is
appointed to a holy purpose, and which must be effectual to hide his purposes from
the sinner for whom he is sent in punishment, even as the red bolt is hidden in the
black cloud until the moment ere it smite with death.”
The zealot was convinced.
“I will bring thee a garb of my own for the youth,” he said as he hurried away
with this object. The disguise of a monk enveloped the person of Egiza, and he
walked the streets of Toledo with impunity. He urged his inquiries with comparative
prudence, and the circumspect archbishop adroitly helped him to such intelligence,
at intervals, as he thought might best promote his own various, if not sometimes
conflicting objects. The stern soul of Oppas looked forward to the time when
the crime, which was yet only in contemplation, but which Roderick meditated, and
of which Cava was the victim, might find its sudden avenger in the arm of Egiza.
“Let him strike!” exclaimed his archbishop to himself, as he meditated these
important matters in the secresy of his closet. “Let him strike, and strike succesfully,
and I care not though they hew him in pieces a moment after. He can serve
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us only as he strikes the tyrant, and yields a victim who is worthless to us in al.
things beside.”
This cold-blooded policy he encouraged, and many opportunities were secured
to Egiza for frequenting the various places in the city which it was known that
Roderick sought. Bribes, judiciously administered, and never without success in a
court where no other god than gold was worshipped, procured access even to the palace
for the apparent monk; and, with these opportunities, the unhappy prince soon
knew all that he most desired to know. From common rumor he learned that the
lovely Cava was an inmate of the gorgeous palace that stood in the royal gardens,
upon the golden-sanded Tagus, and around these walls he daily wandered, with a
wistful eye, and a burning and sleepless hope. Devoted to the one purpose, and
reckless in its pursuit, or thoughtless of the danger, he meditated nothing less than
to scale the walls, and in spite of the guards who watched them, to penetrate the
gardens, behold with his own eyes, and bear away, if possible, the only object for
which he cared to live, and without which, he was not unwilling, at any moment,
to perish.
CHAPTER V.
The fierce passions of the tyrant, clamorous for their victim, could hardly be restrained
until the departure of her father. He had scarcely gone when he bade the
miserable creature, Edeco, who had grown skilled in long pandering to his master's
views, prepare the way for the contemplated sacrifice. But the stunning intelligence
of the revolt in the neighborhood of Cordova, the defeat and death of Edacer, and the
successful flight of the insurgents under Felayo, whom they had crowned their king,
offered a brief interruption to the progress of his crime. Right gladly, however, even
then, so much moved had he been by the charms of Cava, would Roderick have set
aside the cares of empire, and given himself up to the lascivious objects in his view,
had he not possessed a true friend and faithful counsellor in the severe lord Bovis.
He would not suffer the king to be untrue to himself. It was to his palace in the
pleasure gardens on the Tagus, that this stern counsellor came to rebuke him for his
sloth, and urge upon some particular measures for the general safety. This trusty
nobleman, when he saw the loveliness of count Julian's daughter, as she appeared
in the train of the queen, readily conceived the reason why Roderick had himself
borne to Julian the foreign commission with which he had invested him; though he
did Julian the injustice to suspect that the brave count had connived with the king—
as was but too much the practice of the court—at the expense of his daughter's
virtue.
“Another, and yet another:” he said to himself as he surveyed with feelings of
pity, the evident innocence and surpassing beauty of the maiden. “Poor butterfly!”
he continued, “thou little knowest the price which thou payest for thy gilding. It
is, indeed, all gilt, the mere dust which glitters, and which the pressure of the unlicensed
hand, and the lustful lip, will tarnish and remove. To-morrow will another
like thee take thy place, and all thy satisfaction will be to know that she who has
succeeded thee, and for whom thou wilt be scorned, will in time be superseded by
another, and share in thy disgrace.”
Such were the unuttered thoughts of the stern Bovis, as he beheld the glittering
pageant of the court in which the wondering Cava first appeared before his eyes.
Nor did he spare the king himself, in uttering similar language.
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“My lord king!” he said, “thou hast brought the daughter of count Julian to
court. May I ask of thee hast thou paid him her price, if thou hast not”—
He paused.
“And if I have not,” said Roderick, “what then?”
“Send for him instantly, take from him the commission which thou hast given
him, and with all possible haste thereafter, let his head crown the great gate of Toledo”
“And wherefore thus?” demanded Roderick.
“The girl is too fair, oh king! too fair to be long innocent in a court like thine,
and if thou wrongst her, and hast not secured the blindness of her father, thou hast
made him too strong for thy safety by this commission.”
“Pshaw, Bovis, thou hast the art of dreaming dangers, and thou findest enemies
in thy faculty, where other men behold but rushes. Go to—give thyself no heed to
this matter, but speak of the business which I gave thee in hand. What of Edacer;
hath he not sent the head of the rebel?”
“He hath sent nothing; but I look for his couriers to-night, when we shall, I
doubt not, be apprised of his success.”
The couriers brought other tidings, as we have seen; and for a moment the consternation
of the court was great. But only for a moment. The dream of sloth
and luxury was too soul-subduing in that region to keep it for any length of time
aroused by any remote excitement or foreign danger; and when the lord Bovis
brought his intelligence and dwelt upon the necessity of sending forth a strong army
on the instant to quell the insurrection, the dissolute Edeco, who really feared the
incorruptible counsellor whom he could not emulate, slyly suggested to Roderick to
send Bovis himself. The king, not less pleased to be rid of one whose counsels
were sometimes too free and too just to be always welcome, caught readily at the
suggestion, and commissioned him accordingly. The willing subject accepted the
appointment with alacrity, and proceeded to prepare himself for his new duties. At
leaving his master he barely said:
“I will strive honestly to win the victory for thee, oh Roderick! though I fear
me it will not much avail thee, since thy courtiers are too apt to lose what thy soldiers
win. If thou wilt make Edeco curtail his silks in the matter of tails and tassels
when I am gone, he will of a surety prove himself a better man, and to thee a
better subject.”
“Thou art but a wild animal, my lord Bovis, and I heed thee not. Go to—measure
thy garments as thou fanciest them; thy dull sense would strive in vain to take
the complexion or conceive the fitness of mine.”
Roderick laughed as the two thus jibed each other; but when the lord Bovis had
gone, he felt, in truth, that one was wanting in his court, whose absence—as he was
alike singular in honesty and wisdom—was more immediately felt than that of
any other. But his mind, bent as it was upon the one object of his desires, was rather
pleased that the severely virtuous Bovis had withdrawn. He felt as if a great
restraint were taken away; and assured that he had provided against the pressing
dangers, he once more gave a loose to his passions. With the aid of Edeco whose management
had been begun from the moment that count Julian had taken his departure,
he soon paved the way for the commission of the heinous crime which he meditated.
In the meantime the unconscious Cava, sad and lonely, retired, whenever
the opportunity was allowed her, to the solitary places of the garden, where, in secret,
she wept for her lover, and meditated upon the fortune which separated them.
She little knew that even then—more venturous for her love than ever he had been
for his throne and people—the sad Egiza, was compassing the walls which contained
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her, and, with heedless and daring footstep, was actually treading the labyrinthine
groves of the royal garden. There were others as little conscious of this fact as
herself, to whom its knowledge might not have been so agreeable.
In a remote chamber of the palce, Roderick and Edeco conferred together upon
the base purpose of the tyrant.
“Is all secure?” demanded the former.
“Security itself, cannot be more so, oh king!” was the reply of the creature.
“Thou hast sent the guards to the northern wall?”
“I have, oh Roderick! Thy clamorous summons might bring them to your wish,
but they are else beyond ear-shot.”
“ 'T is well—and she, the bird—where didst thou leave her?”
“In the far quarter of the garden close to the eastern waterfall; she sits upon a
rock that lies below it; yet the trees fence her in thickly, so that, though she can
hear the fall, she yet sees it not. Thou mayst approach, unheard, and look upon
her.”
“How looks she, Edeco?”
“As some desolate dove whom the fowler has just robbed of its mate. She murmurs
little, but you may sometimes catch the burden of a deep sigh, with which the
rude waterfall has no sympathy, and half drowns with its noisy clamor. Were it
not, oh Roderick! that this show of sorrow adds to the loveliness of her charms, I
should deem it but wise in thee to forbear until she hath caught a truer feeling of this
garden's pleasure. Her lip would be sweeter, if, like the buds which bloom around
her, it smiled when it was pressed, though even its present sadness would seem to
increase its sweets.”
“Lead me to see her, Edeco, where I may enshroud myself safely and be awhile
unseen,” said Roderick, whose prurient imagination had been greatly awakened by
what his favorite had said. Edeco led the way, and with cautious footsteps the
king followed him to a spot, where, hidden from sight, yet able to see his victim, he
looked down upon her where she sat in the pleasant shade.
“Leave me now,” said Roderick in a whisper. “Leave me, Edeco, yet see that
thou keep at hand to hear my summons, only, and to restrain the approach of others.
Should the queen awaken—thou knowest.”
Edeco well understood the directions which Roderick did not conceive it necessary
to conclude, and retired with an assurance of obedience, upon which the tyrant well
knew, from past experience, that he might rely with safety. Alone he surveyed his
victim, until passion grew strong within him from long forbearance. He descended
from the little eminence, the shrubbery of which had concealed him, and suddenly
stood before her.
She started, with looks full of surprise, but without distrust.
“Ha! the king!” was the unintended exclamation.
“Your slave, fair Cava. I am no king to you. The name is something formal—
something cold. You will affright me from you if you use it.”
“What should I say, my lord: I know not else?” returned the maiden with a
simplicity which added to her charms in the sight of one who, among the beauties
of his court, was accustomed to see but little of such a quality.
“Call me by any name but that—make your own choice to name me, and I shall
be well content. I am sick of being be-kinged, fair Cava; and from the lips of those
I love, it vexes me to hear such stiff discourse. My courtiers `king' me, ever. Do
they need service, bounty or station, they approach me thus. 'T is still `Oh!
king'—`my gracious lord and maste'—`bestow me this'—`provide me with this
station.' Wonder not then, I sicken of such speech. I would forget the king—the
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throne—the kingdom. I know them but by toils, by crosses, troubles—by gilded
cares, false professions, and heartless attachments. Think it not strange, sweet Cava,
if I would have a different language from thy lips; I would not have thee take
the abused language of the common crowd who throng about me ever. Mere
mighty names but fetter intercourse—make ice of the court atmosphere, dear lady;
and to the poor king, flattered by mouth-service, deny the freedom of the meanest
bird, that sings when he is saddest. Do not then, Cava, err in the common fashion.”
The face of Roderick looked the sentiment admirably which his lips uttered, and
the lady Cava fairly pitied the poor king, in her simple ignorance, who thus be wailed
the royalty that fettered him in his intercourse with men, and denied him those pleasures
of which he envied the humblest of his subjects the possession. Perhaps there
may have been some truth in the language, which, nevertheless, he employed only
for the purposes of deception; for certainly, the monarch who is an usurper of his
station, and whose daily practices are vicious, must live in an atmosphere too artificial
and constrained, to suffer him to know things except through a false medium.
But, though Cava sufficiently commisserated the speaker to look in his face with an
expression of sympathy, she did not suffer herself to employ any other than the
most respectful language in her reply.
“Alas, my lord, what language should I use? Are you not the king, and is it not
the name by which the good subject alone should know you? My father bade me
ever know you by that title, and I feel that I should not speak wisely, oh king! if
I did not obey him.”
“ 'T is a good rule, sweet Cava, for the mere subject. Indeed it is needful too, for
the protection of our kingly state, that our people should approach us with fitting
obeisance; but there are exceptions from this observance, and he or she whom the
king favors does wisely to forget the state, and regard the man only. For you, and
when with you, sweet Cava, Roderick would fain be no king, but Roderick only.”
“But why, my lord, with me—why would you have it so?” replied the simple
girl, without any apprehension.
“For the true love I bear you, my sweet Cava. To you, I am no sovereign, I
could be none. I am a slave—a subject, when I seek you.”
“My lord!” was the exclamation of the bewildered maiden. He smiled at her
simplicity, which seemed to fill him with pleasant, but, as it proved, mistaken auguries.
“You do not conceive me, sweetest. It is true, I am your slave, your subject, not
your sovereign. The king commands, but Roderick solicits you. He can bestow
upon you nothing of half so much value as that which he implores.”
“I do not take your meaning, oh king!” was the response of the untutored maid.
“I am but a dull maiden of Andalusia—your speech sounds strangely in my ears.”
“There is a language, sweet Cava, which I trust you are better taught to understand,”
exclaimed the king, as he impressed a burning kiss upon her lips, ere she
could comprehend his intention.
The deep blush which then overspread her cheeks, her trembling, and startled
apprehensiveness of her air and utterance, spoke audibly for her innocence.
“Oh, my lord,” she exclaimed in insuppressible emotion, as she started from the
seat, and strove to fly. “Oh, my lord, what have you done—what would you do?
Spare me! Let me go. It is wrong, oh king! it is wrong. Let me go to the queen.”
His arm arrested her, and he drew her back to the seat beside him. She trembled
with apprehensions, the source of which were rather in her instincts than in her
mind. Her terrors were those of the bosom and not of the brain, and she shivered
with the agony which they excited.
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“And wherefore leave me, sweet Cava; and what is the wrong of which thou
speakest? Those lips—think you that they were bestowed upon you for non-performance?
They have their joys, my sweet Cava, and you must learn to use them.
Remember, 't is a king that pleads”—
“A man, my lord!” was the quick response, as she availed herself of a distinction
which he himself had suggested. “I know you, my lord, as you yourself commanded,
but as a man, not as a king.”
“As a man, then, Cava—sweet Cava, only as a man would I have you know me.
Behold I put by the sovereign—I command no longer. I am at your feet.”
And kneeling as he spoke, but still preserving his hold upon her arm, Roderick
strove to persuade her to the embrace which, at the same moment he half enforced.
She struggled in his grasp, and with a strength beyond his anticipation, arose to
her feet, compelling him, by her successful movement, as he still maintained a hold
upon her arm, to rise along with her. Her voice acquired strength and volume as
his object became less equivocal.
“I pray you, king Roderick, that you wrong not my ears by such discourse. Remember,
sire, I am the daughter of count Julian; and the Roman blood, from which
I come, will suffer no dishonor.”
“These are words, sweet Cava!”—
“But life rests upon words, oh! king; and a goodly name, and a fearless heart
which is strong in its innocence, must yet be heedful that words, which are yet mere
breath, do not stun what they might not else injure. You do me injury, oh king!
and you do yourself wrong. I would esteem you, sir, as the father of your people;
and I pray you that you strive not thus, and speak not that which shall rob you of
my esteem in this. I pray you let me leave you.”
“No—not yet, sweet Cava. Thou shalt not leave me in anger”—
“I am not angry, my lord. It is not meet that one, young and ignorant, like me,
should presume on anger, and”—
The king interrupted her.
“Nor yet misapprehend me, sweet Cava. Wherefore thy alarm. What is it,
dost thou think, that I purpose? Speak—tell me.”
“I know not, indeed, my lord; but I fear that thou hast not purposed rightly,”
was the bold reply.
“What didst thou fear?” continued Roderick.
“I know not even that, my lord; but the thoughts were strange which have come
to me, and such fears trouble me as have not a name in my mind, and cannot have
a place upon my lips. I pray you, oh king Roderick! release me—let me now seek
the queen.”
“Thou shalt be my queen, fair Cava—the queen of my subjects, and of me; and
I will love you better, my sweet, than all queens, and subjects beside.”
“Oh! my lord speak not thus. You cannot mean it,” she replied with looks of
fright.
“By Hercules, I do!” replied the king, mistaking the tones for those of doubt.
“If thou art noble, king Roderick, thou wilt release me. If thou wouldst not be
held guilty of unmanly violence, thou wilt be silent, thou wilt bid me go from thee,
and spare me further cruelty like this.”
“Cruelty, sweet Cava! Truly thou dost much mistake my temper, or grievously
do I misuse my language. Cruelty! 't is love, I tell thee, sweet. 'T is love I hold
for you. Hear me, dear Cava, never yet have mine eyes looked on woman whom
they better loved to look upon than thee.”
The cheeks of the maiden kindled with a deeper red, and her eye flashed fire,
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which, had such power been in human eyes, would have annihilated the amorous
tyrant.
“Thou errest my lord—thou hast twice erred in thy speech,” she scornfully replied.
“As how?” he demanded.
“Thou hast erred to think that thou didst love—still more hast thou erred to
think that the love of this lowly heart could be thine. Even were it not that to regard
thee with other than such feeling as becomes the subject, would be crime, I
freely tell thee, king Roderick, that my love is given to another. I am betrothed to
one, I shame not to declare, whom I love above all other men of earth.”
“His name!” demanded the king, while a flashing fury mingled with the lustful
gaze of his dark and rolling eye.
“Pardon me, oh king! but I may not tell thee!” was the resolute reply.
“Thou shamest to speak his name!” responded Roderick—“some lowly youth
I trow. Comes he not from Catalon, fair Cava. Thou canst not love such a creature.
'T is in vain. Those eyes are for the court—those lips, that form—oh Cava!
thou shalt love me. I will not suffer thee to throw thyself away on thy poor chief
of Catalon. I will not. Such as are not of the court were but too much honored
in thy scorn.”
There was an increased flush upon the cheek of the maiden as she replied to this
speech, so full of mingled taunt and admiration. But her manner was even more
cool and firm than before, and her words less tremulously uttered.
“I meet your censure with a smile, not so much for the mistake which finds a
birth-place for the man I love, as that you can discern no good in Catalon. I was
taught other lessons. Worth and the elements of virtue spring from timely cultivation,
never from mere place; nor, as I learn, are they the growth of a particular soil.
The Greek was mighty—was the Roman less, or the Goth less than either? There
is no chosen land for noble deeds—high virtue, great endeavor, as I hear, though
some are still inferior to the rest”—
She paused, as she beheld a smile pass over the lips of the king, who was in
truth pleased with the novel directness of her simplicity.
“Forgive me, my lord; but I have spoken too idly. All this you knew before”—
“I marvel, sweet Cava, you are beyond the time. The graybeards lose the palm.
The bookmen's lore hath made solid the silver of your tongue; and you speak, even
against my will, truths so bewitching that I cannot help but hear.”
Her face became even graver in its expression:
“I have been too bold, my lord, to speak thus flippantly. I would retire.”
“Not yet, sweet Cava; but a little while. Why wouldst thou leave me? Dost
thou doubt my speech? Do I not say I love thee?”
“Thou forgettest, my lord; I said I loved another,” was her prompt reply.
“And what of that? Thou shalt love me too, Cava. Thou canst do this; thou
canst try.”
“No, sire, I may not! I would be his wife—his true wife. I would look him
in the face without fear and without deception, and love him only.”
“Pshaw! this is idle, Cava; a virtue now-a-days unknown and stale, not common
to the court. Thou shalt be the wife of thy chosen, if so ye both will it; but
there needs not that thou wilt love him only. Give to thy state some license, and
be mine”—
“I pray thee hold, oh king!—speak not of this. I fear what thou wouldst say,
and beg thy silence. I would still esteem you, oh king!”
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“Why, so you may, sweet Cava: more—you may love me. Yield to my
prayer”—
“A slave!” was the only exclamation of the maiden in reply, as she once more
strove to withdraw from his grasp.
“A tyrant, rather, my sweet Cava. You know not how I 'll love you.”
“Without my will, oh king! what am I but a slave?”
“Have thy own will, dear Cava, as thou willest; but I pray thee bend thy sweet
will to mine.”
“My lord, once more I pray thee release me; let me seek the queen. I have but
too long forgotten myself to speak with thee thus. Sire, I am the daughter of count
Julian—a Roman born, of Roman blood, oh king! I will not hear you further!”
“Thou shalt, sweet Cava. With gentle force I 'll take thee to my arms. Nay,
nay, thou canst not fly.”
“My lord, beware! I warn thee. If thou dost me wrong, my father's vengeance”—
“Sweet, simple girl! I have no fear, I tell thee. I am all love. My heart has
no room in it for fear, unless of thee. I have no fear of man.”
“Of Heaven, then!” she cried desperately, as he grasped her arms and drew her
toward him with a fierce determination, not the less visible in his eyes than in his
action.
“None, none! sweet Cava, if it stands between us.”
“Heaven save—Heaven strengthen me!” she cried, as with a violent effort, that
seemed to be awarded to her prayers, she broke from his embrace, and bounded
down upon the bank. With the speed of wings she darted through one of the little
groves, into which Roderick pursued her. Her fleetness surprised him; and he almost
began to fear she would still escape him, when her feet stumbled, and she fell
upon the ground a little before him.
“Now, Cava, thou art mine! What now shall keep thee from my arms? Who
shall arrest me? Nor Heaven nor man shall help thee now! Thou art mine—all
mine!”
“Spare me!—oh spare me, king Roderick! If thou hast mercy—if thou art a
man, spare me! I am weak—I am alone—I have none to aid me, if thou wrong'st
me! Spare the poor maiden, oh Roderick!—the helpless maiden—and I will bless
thee, I will pray for thee, for ever.”
“Thou pleadest vainly, my beauty, my bird of beauty, my beloved Cava. But I
will not harm thee. It is with love—with a warm, fond love, that I seek thee;
and as I have not the heart to harm thee, thy fears and thy pleadings are alike idle
Thou art mine! Thou art mine!”
CHAPTER VI.
The exultation of the amorous tyrant, as he beheld the victim almost within his
grasp, could not be suppressed, and broke forth into triumphant language, as he bent
forward to embrace her shrinking form; but ere his extended hands could grasp the
innocent maiden, and even while her long and despairing shriek pierced the dull ears
of the slumbering echoes of the garden, a strange figure bounded madly upon the
scene, and, rushing with headlong fury from the cover of a neighboring grove, threw
himself recklessly between Roderick and the screaming girl. Well might the tyrant
give back in amaze, if not in apprehension, before the strange intruder Well might
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he shiver with horror, as the wild yell of laughter with which the stranger answered
his first demand of inquiry, met his ears. Such a spectre had not often startled the
inmates of the pleasure-gardens of royalty and voluptuousness. The habit of the
monk concealed the person of Egiza; but the cowl was thrown back and the untonsured
hair was visible. The long black locks were matted on his brows; the glare
from his eyes was that of madness; and the wild laugh which broke fitfully from
his lips, mingled at moments with a choking inarticulateness, gave him all the appearance
of one who had just escaped from the bonds of the bedlamite. But there
was a terrible directness in his eye, as he gazed upon the shrinking tyrant, which,
though unlike the capricious and oblique stare of insanity, was not less fearful to
the spectator, as it spoke for a fixed resolve in the bosom of the intruder, which
might not be quite so readily disarmed and set aside as the wandering purpose of the
madman.
“Who art thou? Whence this insolence?” cried the monarch, after the pause
of a moment, in which he stopped to catch his breath. The wild and repeated laugh
of the intruder, was his only answer; and the ears of Roderick were pierced with
the shrill and mingling tenor of pain and pleasure, which the discordant sounds embodied.
Even the unhappy Cava, ignorant, in the disguise which enwrapped him,
that it was her lover who had come so timely to her relief, shrunk and crawled
away along the bank where she had fallen, as the strange sounds smote so unusually
upon her senses. But she was not long ignorant of the truth. Enraged by the
intrusion, the disappointment, and the seeming defiance of the monk, he repeated his
demand, in tones which showed the aroused tyrant, with whom further trifling would
be dangerous.
“Who art thou?” he cried. The answer was immediate:
“Thy foe! Ho! monster, have I tracked thee to thy den? Have I followed
thee through thy hellish purposes? Have I come in time to save?”—
And as he uttered these words, he turned a look of painful inquiry upon the shivering,
shrinking, but now fully conscious Cava. She clasped her hands as she beheld
him, and heard his words; and the smile which rested upon her lips, sad and
uncertain as it was, was yet such as to reassure him on the subject of his fearful
doubts.
“Or to avenge?” he continued fiercely, after the brief pause, in which he had
turned his glance upon her. “Ay, to avenge!—not thee, my Cava, not thee only—
though that were enough to drain all the blood from his accursed heart; but the
blood of the now sacred in heaven—the wrongs of the great and the good, whom he
hath doomed to the scaffold, to chains, to blindness, and (worst doom of all) to banishment.
Hear me, father!—hear me, Iberia!—hear me, Heaven!—I avenge ye
all! Thou shalt perish, tyrant! The tiger has been followed to his den. There
is no outlet. Thy guards are far: I left them on the outer wall, to the east. The
dagger is upon thy throat: there is nothing left thee but to die.”
And, as he spoke these words, with an utterance not less rapid than his action, he
leaped upon Roderick, and dashed him to the earth. With uplifted dagger he aimed
at his throat, and although the arm of the tyrant, quick, strong, and ready, parried,
and for the moment put aside the stroke, it was evident to him that he could not
long avoid his fate. At that instant he found an ally where he little looked for one.
Cava sprang to her feet, and rushing to the combatants, grasped the uplifted arm of
Egiza with both her hands, and the blow swerved harmlessly aside from the throat,
into which otherwise it had been unerringly driven.
“Spare him, spare him! Slay him not, I pray thee. However much he may
merit death, let not his blood be upon thy hands.”
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“What! dost thou plead for him who would have wronged thee?” cried the desperate
Egiza. “Whence comes this unnatural mercy? Cava! woman! wouldst
thou have me hold thee guilty? Fond to him, thou art false to me. Away! Take
thy arms from my neck. If thou beggest for him I 'll no longer deem thee honest.”
“Thou dost me wrong. Oh! believe me,” cried the wounded maiden; “I am
true to thee, as ever was woman yet to the faith which she had plighted. He would
have wronged me, but he hath not; and I would not that his blood, or any blood,
should rest upon thy hands.”
“False and foolish mercy! I may not yield to thee, my Cava, since I should
but give freedom to the ferocious wolf, again to prey upon my fellow men. Let the
tyrant perish, that our people may live. Unloose my arm!—give way!”
“Spare him, spare him!” were her appealing words; but he listened to without
heeding them.
“Spare him!” he cried. “What, for further wrong—for other tyrannies—for
more lust and bloodshed? Thou art not wise to ask it, my Cava—neither for thyself
nor me. Seest thou not that if he live, thou art lost—I am lost—and life, and
all that is worth living for, is lost to us. No! I cannot spare him. I love thee too
well, my Cava, to heed thy prayer. He shall die!”
Meanwhile, Roderick struggled manfully to escape from the knee of his enemy,
which was pressed down upon his breast; but he struggled in vain. The arm of the
desperate Egiza threw off the hold of Cava, and a moment after the uplifted dagger,
which had been shaken in the face of Roderick during this brief conference, was
driven forward, with an unrelenting force and a true aim, at the throat of the victim.
But, even then, when the king deemed the struggle over, the doom spoken,
and his death certain, he was rescued. A stronger arm than that of Cava, arrested
the swift-descending weapon from behind, and forced it from the hand of Egiza. Ere
he could turn to meet his assailants, Edeco and the guard of the tyrant had grappled
him on every side. They had come opportunely to the rescue of their master. Another
moment, and they had been too late. But the fiend whom Roderick served had
not yet deserted him; and the unfortunate Egiza, in a single moment, found the position
of himself and the tyrant reversed. The guards secured him with a grasp,
from which all his efforts—and they were Herculean—failed utterly to extricate him;
and the bitterness of his captivity, under existing circumstances, came to his mind in
its fullest force, with an almost instinct consciousness.
Roderick rose silently from the earth, as soon as his enemy was taken from his
bosom. A grim smile rested upon his lips, as he surveyed his assailant, whom yet
he knew not. His eye glanced from the prisoner to the maiden, with looks of
inquiry.
“Who art thou?” at length he demanded of the former.
“I have answered thee,” said Egiza; “I am thy foe. I have no other name to
thee. Thou shalt know me by no other.”
“The thong shall force it from thy lips!” exclaimed the king. “Thine eyes shall
pay for the insolence of thy tongue. Away with him!” he exclaimed to the guards.
Cava sank at his feet.
“I kneel to thee, Roderick,” she cried; “thou wouldst have wronged me; I kneel
to thee—I forgive thee the wrong; but let him go free—let us both go free.”
“Plead not for me, Cava!” said the fearless prisoner. “Thou wrongest both of
us to bend the knee to such a monster. Alas! but for thy erring pity, we had not
needed thy prayer to our freedom; my dagger had freed us—avenging our own and
our country's wrongs at the same moment.”
But Cava continued to kneel and to implore the king. He answered her only by
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demanding, with impatient and furious gesticulation, the secret which Egiza had
withheld.
“His name!—his name!”
But Cava well knew that the discovery of her lover's secret would be the signal
for his instant and cruel death. With eyes upon the earth and folded hands, she replied
mournfully to the demand of the tyrant:
“I may not tell thee, since he hath denied.”
“He dies! Away with him to prison!” cried Roderick.
Her shrieks filled the air, but did not move the tyrant. He motioned the guards
straightway to remove the prisoner; but the timid maiden had grown fearless for herself,
as she witnessed the danger of her lover, and strong in the desperation which her
want of strength occasioned her. She threw herself between the king and his victim—
she made her way to the prisoner, through the guards which environed him,
and, heedless of the reproach which at another time and under other circumstances
she would have expected naturally to follow such an act, she threw herself upon the
bosom of Egiza, and wept and implored by turns.
“Nay, dearest!” exclaimed the captive, who realized his situation perfectly, and
well knew that Roderick was not to be moved by any such exhibition. “This is
but weakness. Show thyself firm, and fear nothing. Thy prayers avail not with
the tyrant: he hears them but to scorn. I would not have him behold thy sufferings,
I would not that he should find pleasure in thy tears.”
“Remove her, Edeco; separate them,” said the king. “As for the traitor, away
with him to his dungeon, and see that he be well secured. I must have time to
meditate a fitting punishment for one so insolent.”
The commands of Roderick were peremptory; and, not often accustomed to dispute
them, the mercenaries were sufficiently prompt in their execution. They seized upon
the prisoner with unscrupulous force. With a resolve not less unyielding, though
of softer seeming, the fantastic Edeco laid his hands upon the maiden. Her shrieks
denoted her agony, though they failed to serve her will.
“You shall not separate us!” she cried, wildly. “You will not—you cannot!”
she said, imploringly, as she heard the commands of Roderick, and beheld the obedience
expressed in the eyes and in the action of his creatures.
“He is my lord—my betrothed—my husband. We must, we will go together—
to the prison, to the scaffold, any where; but you shall not part us—you shall not
tear us asunder!”
A bitter smile passed over the face of Roderick, as he heard these words. They
were so much poison to his soul. He waved his hand impatiently to the guards.
The maiden would have still implored him, but Egiza interrupted her.
“You plead to him in vain, my Cava. He hath neither truth nor mercy in his
heart. Go plead to stocks and stones, ere you waste breath on such as he. The
wolf shall have an ear to supplication when he hath none—ay, weep with pity
when both his eyes are dry. Plead no more, Cava, I pray you plead no more. You
wrong your noble nature, when you bend it to ask grace from the unworthy. You
debase the creature for whom you pray, when you plead for him to the base.”
“You are proud in stomach, sirrah; but the scourge shall teach you a becoming
humility!” said Roderick. “Away with him!” he cried to the guards; and they
could easily see how greatly he was enraged, as his words were always few in his
anger.
“Ye will not!” exclaimed Cava, now addressing herself vainly to the guards;
“Ye will not! Surely ye have wives, and daughters! You, my lord!—you!”
Edeco laughed and simpered when the appeal was made to him, and his
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fore-finger was employed in re-twisting the floating locks on his temples, which in the confusion
had become somewhat deranged.
“I thank you,” he said, effeminately; “but I have never been so afflicted. It is
toil enough, sweet lady, to serve and succor my neighbors. I would not emulate
their virtues. They all have wives and daughters.”
The occult meaning of this speech was not perceptible to the unsophisticated sense
of Cava; but she understood enough from the licentious looks and puerile air of the
fopling, to know that he was incapable of feeling her afflictions. She continued her
appeal to Roderick and his guards alternately, and with all the earnestness of a devoted
heart and a warmly excited spirit; but the wrath of the tyrant was immovable,
and as for the guards, a moment of calm reflection would have taught the unhappy
maiden that they were incapable of one sentiment of generous pity while in the service
of such a master. Little did they heed her prayers or agonies. They obeyed
the harsh and repeated commands of Roderick, and with ruthless violence tore her
from the bosom to which she had not ceased to cling with a most convulsive effort;
and she only ceased to scream and struggle in the utter exhaustion of her nature.
She fell back in a swoon within the arms of Edeco; and Roderick, as he beheld her
condition, made a sign to the servile creature, which he seemed readily to understand,
and at once proceeded to obey. The gesture of the king had not been unseen by
Egiza; and the agony of his soul may be better understood than recorded, as his
mind conjectured its base and sinister import. Was it indeed true, that he, so lately
the arbiter of the tyrant's fate, was now so soon, so suddenly the victim of his will?
Could it be, that she, the innocent and blessed idol of his affection, was in the grasp
of one whose voluptuous inclinations had already been made so fearfully manifest?
And could he not protect, and save, and avenge her? The thought, the conviction,
was maddening. He strove with his captors; he shook them with a giant's strength
from his bosom, but they clung to him again and again; and, writhing and striving
all the while, he beheld the maiden at length borne away from his sight to the secret
places of the usurper's lust, and he had no power to arrest her progress, or weapon
to avenge her fate. His head dropped upon his bosom in his despair, and he had no
spirit to send back from his lips the scorn which he felt in his soul, as the tyrant,
taunting him with the power which he possessed over both himself and the maiden,
bade the guards hurry him to the deepest prison in Toledo.
END OF BOOK SECOND
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BOOK THIRD.
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CHAPTER I.
In politics individuals represent power rather than possess it, as, in the commercial
world, money is the representative of value, without having value itself, only as it
answers this purpose. The power of the despot is that of the vices, the passions,
the injustice of those over whom he rules. It is not the proof of any uncommon
attributes in himself. On the contrary, if it proves any thing, it proves the flexibility
of his moral powers, and consequently his real inferiority. He is the creature
of the vices and circumstances which he represents, and when he ceases to be so, he
is overthrown. The existence of a tyrant proves the necessity for one, since it
would be utterly impossible for any individual to enslave a people who are worthy
of freedom. Sylla never slaughtered in Rome until every senator had become a tyrant.
He could no more have succeeded in the time of Tarquin than could Tarquin
himself. The representative of the popular mind, at that time, derived his powers
from the popular virtues.
Roderick was the creature of his time. He represented the people over whom he
ruled. He embodied their craft, their lust, their faithlessness, their cruelty. He was
properly their sovereign, and he was rightly their scourge. He had his uses; and
we may not regret that in overthrowing a once mighty empire, the Moors overthrew
the dominion of the rankest vice and the most reckless profligacy. It is scarcely
possible that they could raise a worse in its stead. Yet Roderick, like Nero, commenced
his reign virtuously. He commenced as the avenger of his father's wrongs,
and the redresser of those under which his people suffered. But he soon found that,
like Nero, he could not rule the people whom he did not represent. He was compelled
to adopt their vices to maintain his rule; since, to be moral where all were
vicious, were to assert a solitude of distinction which must isolate him from all sympathy,
and leave him defenceless to all foes. With a rapid retrogade, which was
good worldly policy, he soon, like the Roman monster whom we have quoted in
comparison, overtook his subjects, and rapidly passed them in his vices. From excess
to excess he pursued his way, until the very shamelessness of his indulgences
produced that revulsion of feeling in the popular sentiment which would seem to be
the legitimate purpose of the tyrant. Men whose own vices had made them monsters,
now paused in their progress, startled into reflection as they beheld the career
of a monster whose vicious and foul practices far surpassed their own most corrupt
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imaginings; and the general insecurity under a sway so reckless, at length produced
that individual apprehensiveness which works for virtue, as it prompts the continual
fear of punishment. The minds of the Goths were alienated from their monarch,
not because of his vices, but because their own were outdone. The resources which
he possessed were beyond their rivalry; and as even voluptuousness has its vanity,
they were mortified into hatred of those excesses which they otherwise had been
glad enough to share. They were now as ripe for insurrection as they had been
ready for his rule; and he who had never paused or hesitated in the sacrifice of his
victim, was now destined to become one. But he dreamed not of this. The blindness
which precedes destruction had fallen upon him; and in the vain plenitude of
his power, and in the hardness of his heart, he hurried on, utterly forgetting that he
but indicated the power which he fondly imagined to exist within himself. With a
blindness of judgment, he determined that the trial of Egiza, whom he did not recognise,
should take place in public; and like more modern monarchs, who are but too
prone to convert the offices of justice into pompous ceremonials, he resolved that an
ostentatious display of power should accompany the sentence of the criminal, and
discourage other similar offenders. Had he been a wise tyrant, he would have studiously
avoided such a proceeding. He would have strangled the offender in a prison
which had neither eye nor ear. He would have quelled inquiry as dangerous,
and suppressed those shows, to the popular eye, of power harshly exercised in the
sovereign, which are more apt to occasion sympathy than apprehension in the mind
of the spectator.
“Thou hast heard, my lord Oppas,” said the priest Romano, entering the private
apartments of the archbishop, the morning after the arrest of Egiza; “thou hast heard
that a goodly stroke hath been aimed at the bosom of the defier of God.”
“Ay, my brother; but I have not heard that the defier of God hath been stricken,”
replied Oppas.
“Of a truth, he lives, and the avenger hath been foiled,” said the priest, with a
desponding visage; “but it is something, my father, that the blow should have been
stricken, since it showeth that God lacketh not in agents who seek to do his will.
If there be one to try, there will be two; and the blow that faileth once, or twice,
doth not often fail thrice. There are hands yet which are armed, and hearts which
are willing, my father; and let the word be spoken from on high, and the sign be
shown, and even the poor and humble Romano will be ready for the work of punishment.”
The venerable zealot lifted a dagger from his bosom as he spoke these words, and
lord Oppas beheld in the expression of his eye that Romano needed but the promptings
of a dream by night to enter the palace of king Roderick and do the work of
assassination, if he might, as a good service rendered to the Most High.
“Thou art blessed of Heaven, brother Romano, as thou art so ready to hear and
to obey,” said Oppas, with a respectful deference of manner. “Thou prayest to
know thy labors, and thou seekest to perform them. This is the true servant—and
thou wilt not long wait the call to service. It would seem to await thee even now,
Romano.”
“How?—what mean you, father Oppas? Am I remiss?—am I unmindful? Have
I suffered the words of Heaven to fall upon unheeding ears? Say, tell me, my father,
that I may hasten to bind up the broken places, and amend the errors of forgetfulness.”
“I say not that, my brother,” replied the cunning archbishop; “I would not pretend
to counsel one whom God hath chosen for his own teachings; but I should rather
look to thee for counsel, Romano, and for a direction in the passages which are
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difficult. Yet is this thought of mine strong within me, that thy labors are at hand.
Knowest thou the name of him who hath sought to slay king Roderick?”
“No, father; I know not.”
“It is the youth who came with thee into Toledo; he to whom thou gavest the
garments.”
“God is great! He worketh by mystery and in darkness. Who shall fathom
his ways?—who shall declare his purposes? Doth it not seem, father Oppas, that
there was a will and a power in this matter that came from above? Wherefore
should this youth have come so timely to my aid when Roderick had stricken me
down among the hills? Wherefore should he have followed me into Toledo, witless
of all things?—for of himself did he say that he he had no call within the city.
Why should I give him a garment for his protection?—and how should it be that in
the secret gardens of the king, despite of all his guards, he should have made his
way, unless the spirit of God had so devised it, and sent him forward to work out
his vengeance?”
“It is the thought of wisdom, and the faithful servant, Romano; yet the youth
hath failed. The tyrant hath escaped the fatal blow, and the minister of vengeance,
whether through his own weakness, or that Heaven would spare its foe for a longer
space that its accumulated judgments may be more heavy, is now the captive of king
Roderick, reserved in his dungeons for a cruel sentence.”
“But will God suffer his servant to perish, father Oppas? I believe it not. He
will, I think, work out the youth's deliverance; and the safety of Roderick now is
but a blind on his eyes, which shall hood him yet for the executioner. The youth
must escape.”
“Thou speakest thy own labors, Romano. Is it not clear to thee, even as I said
erewhile, that thy tasks were at hand? Thou shalt free this youth; it is thy duty—
thy own lips have pronounced it such; and I doubt not that the God who hath decreed
thy work will give thee strength and wisdom to perform it. And further to
confirm this thought, know that the youth hath been carried to the strong dungeon
of Suintila, whose keeper is”—
“Guisenard, the lieutenant!”
“The same—the same!” said Oppas, eagerly.
“Art sure of this, father Oppas?” demanded Romano.
“As that I live, my brother. I have the words of those who beheld him carried
thither last night in secret.”
“Thou hast spoken rightly, then, my father; the hand of God is in this—for, of a
truth, my power is great upon the mind of Guisenard, who comes to my confessional,
and who will heed the words of reason from my lips.”
“Do I not know this, my brother? Is not thy office plain? What though Jehovah
worketh in secret, the fruits of his labors come forth in light. I knew in my
secret soul that He would reveal to thee what it is fitting thou shouldst know; that
He would point thee to thy tasks, and place thy enemy in thy hands. Thou canst
move Guisenard at thy bidding, and he will deliver up the unholy trust of the tyrant,
when thou shalt show to his sense that it is God's messenger whom he would keep
in bondage, waiting for a cruel death. Yet, my brother, though we obey the will of
God, we are not to be heedless of the wants of man. When Guisenard shall free
the prisoner, it will need that he should fly himself, since the wilful tyrant, upon
whose head Jehovah would accumulate sins that his doom should be the heavier,
would punish the soldier whose fidelity to Holy Church would be falsehood to him.
Guisenard must fly when he has released the youth; and thou shalt provide him the
means of flight, and give him direction for a journey to the Asturias, where the
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young prince Pelayo even now gathers an army. Take this purse—it is filled, and
will speed him on his way. Perchance, too, it will prove an argument to his mind,
persuading him to compliance with thy demand. The ignorant mortal will heed
such argument when better ones perchance would fail. It is our pride and pleasure,
Romano, that we seek the will of God, and perform our labors for his love, regardless
of all other reward,”
Romano took the purse, which was well filled with gold, with the air and manner
of one who scorned what he was yet compelled to conceal with care. He readily
recognized the force of the archbishop's suggestion, though he despised the agent
he was required to use.
While they conferred, a royal messenger summoned the archbishop to the palace,
where, in the hall of audience, it was decreed that the examination of Egiza should
take place. A few words more to Romano, and lord Oppas left him to find his way
from a back and private entrance, while he went forth with his train, through the
great gate of his own residence.
CHAPTER II.
It was not until the archbishop reached the court of the palace that he knew the
business upon which he had been summoned. When he was told its purport, his
apprehensions began to be greatly aroused. He dreaded lest a discovery of Egiza's
secret would lead to a suspicion of his own. Could they do less than suspect the
uncle, if they could convict the nephew? The probabilities were manifestly against
it. The affair looked inauspicious. It was only by a course of the most daring effrontery
and admirable hypocrisy that Oppas had escaped proscription when Roderick
came into power. It was only by joining in the denunciations against the powers
that had been, and emulating the truckling servility of those who threw themselves
in the path and at the feet of the newly-risen, that Oppas had preserved his
station as the head of the Gothic church. A policy to which Roderick had now become
somewhat indifferent, had prompted him to receive professions from and give
credit for sincerity to all those who were allied to the nobility of the nation, or were
connected with that more insolent aristocracy which assumed the powers and wore
the garb of the established religion. Oppas was a superior politician to Roderick,
and well understood the motives which operated upon the latter in his favor. He
now as readily conceived that the rashness and self-conceit of the despot would make
him less heedful than before how he offended the class of which he was a leading
member. Such were his apprehensions that, could he have left the court in secresy,
he would have done so, and at once fled, with all his personal retainers, to join the
young prince Pelayo, in the Asturian mountains. But this could not be, and he prepared,
with his utmost coolness and address, to meet events and baffle their dangers
as he might.
The first nobleman whom the archbishop encountered as he entered the court of
the palace, contributed to increase his alarm. This person was one of the most respectable
among those of the old nobles who yet remained within the pale of the
court. He well knew the doubtful character of that loyalty which the archbishop
professed; and, with a smile of particular meaning, he thus addressed him:
“What! does the young head still linger upon the old shoulders? Is the old fox
to be caught at last? You are scarcely wise, my lord Oppas. I had not thought it
of you. I had thought, by this time, to have heard that you were far on your way
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to the Pyrennees, and rallying the insurgents who are said to lurk in that neighborhood.
Were I in your case, and had I half the sagacity which fame ascribes to you,
I am sure such would have been my speed, and such the direction which I should
have taken.”
The archbishop affected a surprise which he did not feel.
“What mean you, my lord Gerontius? What case is this, which so alarms you
for my safety; and what have I to fear, that I should fly?”
The composure of his manner was admirable as he spoke these words.
“What! you have not heard?” said the other, quickly. “But I must not so far
question your precautions. You surely know of the attempt which has been made
upon the life of king Roderick.”
“Of a truth, I know that,” replied the archbishop; “but how does this concern
me in especial, and why should I fly?”
“You know that the assassin is a monk?”
“I knew not that. I hear that he is a mere youth, but nothing more. Is he in
truth a monk?”
“Ay, of the Caulian schools—so his garb speaks him; and the king is sworn to
rouse you all for it. He couples it with the insolence of the mad priest Romano—
and him he couples with the drones that he drove out from the House of Hercules—
and these he couples with the whole brotherhood—and the whole brotherhood with
the archbishop—and the archbishop with the pope—and the pope with the devil;
and to the devil, if I rightly understand, he is bent to send you all, or such, at least,
as he can lay sudden hands upon. This is the common bruit through the city; and
I held it matter of course that you should have heard it, having, as I well know, in
your own keeping such superior sources of general intelligence. You may conceive
now why it is that I wondered, knowing your prudence, yet seeing you here?”
There was nothing grateful in this speech of the old noble; but Oppas received it
calmly.
“Truly you surprise, if you do not alarm me, my lord Gerontius, These tidings
are new to me, and strange. I had no knowledge that the assassin was a monk—
still less did I deem it probable that our order, which has always been the readiest
to maintain the power of king Roderick, should fall under suspicion of this nature.
Nor can I think now that there is any reason in this rumor. Of whom did you
receive it?”
“Of whom? What a question! Why, from all the mouths of the court, every
prop and pillar of which has its twain. The common tongue is the universal one;
and man never lacks language when he speaks evil of his fellow. I heard it from
Gunderic, the big-bellied, who puffed and blowed, while telling it, to his own exhaustion
and the disquiet of my nostrils: from Sisibert, who apes Edeco, and breathes
nothing but scent and sentiment, and mortally hates sense: from Chilibert, the sleepy,
who proved the importance, not to say the truth—so far as he believed it to be true,
by never once yawning during his narrative: and, to speak guardedly, from a dozen
others, of as long tongue and as little authority.”
“Your own manner, my lord,” said the archbishop, smiling as he spoke, “tells
me what regard you yourself give to this story. I may well be indifferent to the
clamor of the city, when you speak of it so lightly.”
“Nay, do not deceive yourself, my lord bishop, nor let my manner deceive you.
I have learned to smile at most matters, but I do not smile at this. Of a truth, I do
believe that there is something in it. I have reason to know that Roderick looks
suspiciously upon your fraternity, and I bid you be on your guard. I would not
that all our nobles should suffer from a misplaced reliance on a monarch who is but
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too apt to forget an old service, as he is perpetually called upon to remember a new
favorite. But, no more. The guards approach. Be cool, Oppas; for the step of
Roderick is hasty and his cheeks are flushed. They come.”
The advice of the nobleman was not lost upon Oppas, though it was scarcely
needed by so old a politician. The guards of Roderick now filled the chamber, and
the despot only lingered at the threshold of the hall, uttering some hasty commands
to one of his attendants. The nobles began to gather; and in the pause which ensued
before the entrance of the king, the archbishop had composed and arranged his
thoughts for the approaching trial.
He had need of all his faculties for this event; and those who had heard of the
uttered hostility of the king toward the priesthood beheld with surprise his composed
demeanor, and wondered at his presence. He knew, much better than they, the imminent
danger in which he stood, as he better knew the person of the criminal, with
whom his own conscience more perfectly identified him, than could any vague suspicion
of the tyrant, based simply upon the garb worn by Egiza. Could the prince
keep his own secret, Oppas felt that he himself might escape; for Egiza had been
little known in Toledo, and seldom or never seen by those who held the confidential
places around Roderick's person. The dread of the lord Oppas was that the prince,
hopeless of favor from Roderick, and desperate with hate, might declare himself in
defiance; and this done, he well knew that not even his sacred profession could save
him from crimination with his nephew, particularly as, from the nature of the disguise
worn by the latter, it must appear to the jealous tyrant that his attempt had
been distinctly authorized by the priesthood, if not by himself. These thoughts
rapidly passed through his mind during the interim which followed the conversation
with the lord Gerontius, and before the entrance of the king. It would be idle to
deny that his apprehensions were great, since he rested his hope upon one or two
contingencies, together with own presence of mind, and watchful use of circumstances
as they arose. But he took his seat, seemingly with little concern, at the
head of the board and near the throne, where it had ever been his custom to sit; and
neither in look, word, manner, nor in the assertion of his state, did he in the slightest
particular relax from the dignity which belonged to him as a man, and that
which he asserted for his sacred office. The seats around him were rapidly filled
up; and if the men of note in that assembly were few—if the essence of character
and talent in those who composed the king's council was such as to accord meetly
with the degraded spirit and vicious debasement of the kingdom, there was certainly
nothing wanting in external show, in rich dresses, the glitter of jewelry and flowing
trains, to make up for the lack of better attributes, or at least to reconcile the mere
spectator to their loss. The Goths affected the pomp of the Romans and the effeminate
voluptuousness of the Greeks; and, for their useless glitter and vain display,
they were but too ready to yield up the more substantial qualities of hardy valor and
national simplicity. It was thus that the court, on the present occasion, fatigued
rather than won the eye with its overloaded splendors; and the profusion of wealth
which it displayed but poorly supplied the place of good taste and propriety. Even
the guards of Roderick, with their tawdry jackets of purple silk, edged with gold fillagree,
and their long spears, the iron heads of which were softened with a deep
gilding, presented but indifferent substitutes for those rough warriors who had made
the Romans pass under the yoke, and had carried their arms without stop or impediment
from the Danube to the Atlantic ocean. The national character was changed.
The reputation of their forefathers was no longer a source of pride to those who affected
superior refinements; and one of the follies of Roderick, which provoked the
sarcasm of the neighboring Moors, was in the assumption of the empty title, along
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with the idle glitter, of `King of the Romans;' as if the spirit of the Cæsars dwelt
in the frame of the licentious and arrogant Goth.
The entrance of Roderick was the signal for obeisance and servility. He entered
with a quick, sudden step, which, though hurried, did not prevent him from frequently
pausing to dart hasty and inquiring looks into the faces of all around him.
Once or twice he paused and seemed disposed to speak to one or more persons upon
whom he looked, but as if quelling the desire, or unable through excess of passion
to indulge it, he hurried on toward the throne until his eye caught that of the
archbishop. As it did so, the king paused, with a convulsive movement. His arm
seemed to twich and jerk with the angry feeling in his bosom; but he remained
where he was at the moment, and his brow collected over his eye, while it darted
forth a light like fire upon Oppas, as if it intended to consume him. The archbishop
met his glance without blenching. He knew that this was one of the tyrant's tests.
He was wont to say that “he could look down treason, and drive, with a glance of
his own, that of his enemy to the ground.” But it failed to have this effect on the
present occasion. The eye of Oppas was as true to his purpose as was that of Roderick;
and, while all in the assembly looked alternately from the king to the archbishop,
the former turned away with a ferocious scowl from gazing upon his victim,
to dart angry glances upon the watchful assembly. If his eye failed to terrify that
of the stern archbishop, it was more successful in controlling those of the spectators.
Their acknowledgements of its power were instantaneous. Every face was bent
downward in humility, and the vanity of the despot was satisfied with this tacit acknowledgment
of his superiority. He proceeded to the throne, threw himself into
the seat, and for a few moments a dead silence reigned throughout the apartment.
At length, with a voice hoarse and loud, Roderick broke the silence by addressing
his parasite Edeco, who stood beside him.
“Edeco!”
With a servile gesture and a fawning smile the favorite approached and bent himself
before his master. A brief pause ensued, when Roderick continued:
“Edeco!—But no, no. Thou art not the man. Thou hast counsel fit for other
moods, and lighter matters. I would that lord Bovis were here! I could trust him,
head and heart I could trust him!”
These words, spoken aloud, fully declared the disquiet of the tyrant. He seemed
vexed and bewildered; then, as if resolved, he motioned Edeco back, and, again fixing
his eye upon the archbishop, thus abruptly addressed him:
“So, ho! my lord Oppas! You are not content to rule in the church; you would
sway the state. It is not enough that you claim an entire disposition of souls; you
would usurp that of bodies also. You are choice in your victims. The blood of
kings and princes must stain your altars, and you dispatch your assassins to the very
palace of your master. But you have dared too much for safety, as you have done
too little for success. The church shall not save you; and the insolent head of it,
who sits in Rome and sends out his murderous decrees, as if he were God himself,
to all parts of the earth—he shall not save you; even if he shall have power to save
himself, which is doubtful. I will march troops upon Rome itself, but I will have
justice; and his treasury shall pay my soldiers for the toil of his punishment.”
A shout rent the air from the armed band around, as Roderick finished his furious
tirade. He looked round approvingly upon them, and then his eye rested upon Oppas.
The archbishop, seemingly unmoved, replied to him respectfully.
“If I say to thee, oh king! that thy language surprises even if it does not confound
me, I shall but say what is the truth. That thou hast the power to punish
me for offences, real and imaginary, I nothing question. That thou hast power to
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extort tribute from the iron keys of St. Peter, I do not deny thee; for God, of his
own foresight and for his own purposes, not unfrequently suffers injustice to prevail
for a season upon earth, and the axe of the executioner to be stained with the best
blood of his saints. This is no new thing in the history of the church's trials, and
the apostles have testified to its truth. I look not now to find the princes of the
earth perfected in holiness and slow to injustice; and I were but a poor servant of
my master, if I were not at all times ready to seal with my blood the faith which I
profess. If it be, oh king! that thy anger is against the church, of which I am a
most unworthy son, then must I submit to thy decree without murmuring. Yet may
I implore of thee to know of what offence I am guilty, and what is thy complaint
against the holy father?”
The air of the lord Oppas was that of a saint, so meek, so uncomplaining, so resigned
to his fate in consideration of his faith. To a temper like that of Roderick,
such a deportment was irritating in the last degree; nor did it lessen his anger to
listen to the ready acknowledgment of his power which the archbishop had adroitly
given in his reply.
“Now, by Hercules! this exceeds belief. What! thou art ignorant, my lord Oppas?
Thou knowest nothing of the assassin? Thou hast not heard of the villain
who would have slain thy sovereign, when it is the common speech of Toledo?”
“I have not said this, oh king! Of a truth, I know that such is the common
speech of Toledo; but I know nothing of the facts,” was the response of the archbishop;
to which the answer of Roderick was instantaneous:
“Who said thou didst not know? my lord Oppas. I knew thou didst. But thou
dost not justice to thy knowledge. Thou knowest more than the common speech of
Toledo; thou knowest the assassin—thou hadst knowledge of his mission. Wilt
thou dare deny that?”
“If thou commandest me to speak, oh king! I do deny that I had knowledge of
the assassin, as such.”
“But thou knowest him?” exclaimed the king, eagerly.
“That I know not,” replied the wily archbishop; “for, as yet, I have not seen
him. It may be that he is known to me. I will not say.”
“He is—he must be! He wears thy accursed garments—he comes of thy own
black brood—he ministers to thy church!” exclaimed the fierce monarch. “But I
will set him before thee; ye shall see and speak with each other; and I trust to hear
the truth—for as surely as yonder streams the blessed sun upon the marble of this
floor, so certainly shall the blood of one, or both, or all of you, stream in atonement
for this crime, which I hold to have come from your secret counsels together.”
“Let it be, oh Roderick! as thou hast said!” exclaimed the archbishop, confidently.
“Let the criminal be set before us; if he be of the church, it may be that
I shall know him; yet, if he be, I trust to show that the crime he purposed was the
meditation of his own heart, and came from no counsels of mine, or of the holy
brotherhood.”
The king gave a signal to Edeco, who disappeared.
“Holy brotherhood!” exclaimed Roderick, in scorn; “I know your holiness, my
lord Oppas, and the holiness of the brotherhood; and, as you know it also, it makes
not in your favor, in my mind, that you should so reverently speak of it. But here
comes Edeco. Look, my lord bishop, for the prisoner cometh. See that you forget
not your friends; see that your faith holds firm, and denies not the knowledge of a
brother.”
This was the moment of trial for the archbishop, and he addressed all his energies
to meet it—for all eyes were upon him as he gazed. In boldness only—in the
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utmost confidence—could he hope to avoid suspicion. A moment's pause, or hesitation—
an averted look, an agitating apprehension, he well knew—as he was closely
watched by the monarch and by many who would have been but too happy to avail
themselves of his fall to omit noticing his confusion—would confirm the suspicions
of Roderick—and his resolution was taken. Rising, as the guards appeared with
the prisoner, he himself addressed them:
“Bring forward the assassin, that I may look upon him! You shall see, oh
king! that I dread not the contact with this man, which is to confound me—satisfied
as I am that I know him not as an assassin, even though I may have knowledge of
him as a priest.”
The unhappy Egiza, still clothed in the monkish habiliments of Romano, was
brought forward accordingly. He had heard the words of the archbishop—and, indeed,
they were intended quite as much for his ears as for those of the king. They
gave him a clue to the position in which Oppas stood, and taught him the danger of
his uncle—not on the score of his relationship, but as he was a member of the same
religious fraternity. This was enough for the prince. His resolve was taken; and
had he not already determined upon answering nothing that could lead to a discovery
of his secret, this would have made him do so. He met the eye of the archbishop
with as much indifference as he could command.
“My son, who art thou?” demanded Oppas.
The youth paused a moment ere he replied, as if uncertain whether to do so or
not. He then spoke:
“Who are you, that ask?”
“Slave!” cried the furious Roderick, half rising from his throne, and grasping a
javelin; “Speak, slave! and answer, or thy tongue shall be torn from thy jaws by
the roots!”
“Thou wilt have less answer then than now,” was the calm reply; “and wilt
add another proof to the folly, not less than the tyranny of thy sway. Art thou
answered?”
A dozen violent hands were laid upon the criminal as he uttered himself thus; and
this violence on the part of his subjects disarmed that of the despot. He did not like
to behold so much of ready impulse, even though in defence of his own authority, on
the part of those whom he only required to obey; and to the surprise and consternation
of the forward courtiers, his rebuke was by no means gentle.
“How now, my lords; wherefore this violence? Unhand the man, I say. Ye
are too bold. Think you if I had needed that weapon should be used, I should ask
for yours? Am I so feeble of arm that ye come thus to my aid ere I summon you?
Had I needed this free service, and were there danger in the deed, ye had not been
so quick of action. I should have waited for you long, and called for ye in vain.
Ye had been more ready to help the foe, than the monarch who claimed your rightful
service and needed your succor. Give back, and let the slave answer freely. If
he is ready to abide the axe-man, he hath a right to speak. He hath but little time
for insolence, and I am curious to learn his phrase. You have more matter for his
ear, my lord Oppas. Speak to him freely, else you greatly disparage the brotherhood.”
“I know nothing of the man, oh Roderick! and wist not what to ask of him,”
said the archbishop. The king scrutinized him as he spoke this denial, but he detected
nothing in the inflexible features of the speaker to give the least color to his
suspicions.
“Then I will question him myself!” he exclaimed, turning from his unsatisfactory
examination of the archbishop's face, to one equally unsatisfactory and much
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more annoying, which he bestowed upon that of the prisoner. After a few seconds,
during which he gazed at Egiza as though he would read the very thoughts of his
secret soul, he abruptly asked:
“Who are you?”
“A man—your foe!” was the reply.
“We shall try your manhood, slave; for your enmity we care not. We shall
subdue both. But ere your limbs writhe under the torture, be wise and answer.
What name bear you?—whence come you? Speak—unfold the truth, and rely
upon our mercy to save, where strict justice would have us destroy.”
The prisoner replied, without a moment's pause:
“I fear not your torture, and your mercy I despise—for I believe not in your assurances.
I have no name—I am without a country. There is one question you
have not asked, which I might yet answer.”
“What question?” demanded the king.
“You seem not curious to know wherefore I strove to slay you—wherefore I invaded
your gardens of infamy and aimed my dagger at your heart! Why is this indifference?”
“Insolent! Wherefore should I demand that which is so evident. Hast thou
not the garments of the monk upon thee? Art thou not one of the creatures that
fattened at the public charge in the House of Hercules? Answer, slave! Wert
thou not sent upon thy base mission by this same priest? Did not thy charge come
from the lord Oppas?”
“No!—thou knowest, Roderick, that it did not. Thou well knowest the motive
of my hatred, and the cause which moved me to aim my dagger at thy life. It was
not for the church, not for the priest, not for any sect, not for my own ambition, that
I strove to slay thee; but for humanity, for virtue, for innocence. Before thy court,
in the presence of the aged and the noble whom I see around thee, will I declare the
occasion of my attempt upon thee; and if all honorable feeling be not gone from the
court—if there be husbands and fathers among them, to whom the virtue of the wife
or the daughter is dear, they will rise against thee as with one spirit, and strike at
thy heart with a dagger as keen and much more fortunate than mine.”
The fury of Roderick could scarcely be restrained, and he was about to rise, and
would probably have hurled the javelin, which he now clutched in his convulsive
fingers, at the bosom of Egiza, but for the archbishop, who beheld, as he thought, a
fitting moment to interpose. He saw that the suspicions of the king—if, indeed, he
had ever, in reality, entertained them—were, in great part, diverted from himself by
the fearlessness of the prisoner; and he now only feared that the provocation given
by the prince, would be such as might prompt Roderick to inflict upon him a sudden
death. This he aimed to avert by a new proposition.
“The prisoner,” he said, “oh king! declares that he hath neither name or country;
but, as I must profess myself deeply interested in the habit which he wears, will
it be permitted me, Roderick, to propose to him a few questions in private, in order
that I may learn from him the motive for a course which is so very strange and
criminal.”
“Ha!—to counsel him to further insolence!” cried Roderick, his jealousy of the
priest reawakening. “No, my lord Oppas, no! Let him speak without counsel, as
I shall look for you to speak. Ye are traitors, both; and I will trust ye not from
my sight together.”
“I ask it not, king Roderick; in your sight let me speak to this man—but let the
guards be withdrawn. I care not what ye do with him: I am prepared for all that
you may think fit to do with me: but, as a servant of the church, I would examine
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him who wears its garments, that I may the better learn the source of his iniquity,
and move his conscience to atonement. What should you fear? He cannot escape,
nor can I. Your guards are around us—your eye is upon us; you but suffer the
criminal to make his confession, if it pleases him, in secret.”
“Ay, to thee. He has already made it, I doubt not; but as his doom is fixed,
which all your pleading and all his confession may never change, take the privilege
which you pray for. Let the guards fall back, Edeco, and suffer the holy brothers
to speak together!”
The archbishop did not seem to heed the sneer with which the indulgence was
granted; he was only too well satisfied to avail himself of the privilege. Approaching
Egiza, with a slow and dignified manner, which was carefully studied, as he
well knew that it was closely observed, he at once addressed himself to the leading
object which he had in view.
“He has no guess of your secret, Egiza,” said Oppas, in the lowest tones; “suffer
it not to escape you. You will be doomed to death, and I myself will propose
your sentence, the better to avoid suspicion; but fear nothing, I have already taken
order for your rescue, and to-night you will hear of me in your dungeon from one
on whom you may rely. He will bear a token from me, and you will go with him;
but ask him nothing—and be sure you tell him nothing. Be of good cheer—bear
with the tyrant as you may, but provoke him not; his day will soon be ended—he
is on the precipice. Let us but escape this danger, and we triumph.”
“But the lady Cava?” said the prince, in similar tones, overlooking the present
difficulty in his way, and only solicitous for her whom he loved; “tell me of her,
my father; say that she is safe, that all is well with her, that she is out of the
clutches of this monster, and—in honor.”
“She is with the queen,” said Oppas, evasively.
“Speed—send a letter to her father, if thou canst, for I dread to think of the doom
which is before her.”
“Let us make thee free to-night, Egiza, and thou canst do more than this—thou
canst free her. But, meanwhile, say nothing to chafe the tyrant who has thee in
his grasp. Be not afraid when thou hearest me declare thy doom, for, of a surety,
I have but this one mode to escape suspicion. Reply to him in a subdued spirit,
lest, in his anger, he command the torture for thee.”
The youth shuddered, and replied:
“I will try; but I fear me, I should curse the tyrant, though my last breath lingered
at his will. Do what thou canst, my father; I leave it all to thee.”
The voice of Roderick arrested their conference, but not before the main points of
it, as the archbishop had desired, were sufficiently discussed.
“Well, my lord Oppas, to what condition of mind have you brought your worthy
brother? Methinks you have had sufficient time to hear his secrets—ay, and to unfold
your own. To what doth he confess?”
“He will confess nothing, oh king! neither his name nor the place from which
he comes. He is obdurate: I know him not.”
“What!—he will not say to you that his brothers of the House of Hercules sent
him to avenge their wrongs? He wears their garb; he might reveal to you, having,
I doubt not, so much of your lordship's sympathy. But I have an argument—nay,
two of them—which shall make him wiser. What ho, there! guards, advance the
prisoner. Hearken, slave!—you shall have your life—nay, your freedom—if you
will confess the truth. Say that you were sent by these priests, who style themselves
of Hercules, and I give you your life. Be wise; for as I have good cause to
suspect their fidelity toward our government, I am willing to reward in the most
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generous manner the person who shall prove to my conviction their almost known
treason.”
“I were guilty of falsehood, were I to say so. Thou, Roderick, well knowest
the cause for which I set upon thee; and to silence the further wrong which thy
speech would cast upon innocent men, I will declare all the circumstances which led
to my assault.”
But Roderick had no wish that the truth should be spoken. It was to suppress
the truth that he suggested to the prisoner what his confession should be, and offered
him his life—an offer which he meant not to comply with—in compensation for the
lie. The game of the tyrant was well understood by all parties. The resolution of
Egiza enraged him, and he ordered him to the torture. Fortunately for the youth,
the guards announced the approach of the queen. Roderick scowled fearfully, as he
heard the announcement. He knew the gentleness of Egilona, and readily divined
that, having heard that he sat in judgment upon a criminal, she came—as was frequently
the case—to intercede between the judge and his victim, and soften the severities
of punishment. Way was made for her train, and she entered the hall of state
with the wonted ceremonials. Roderick deigned not to rise at her approach, and she
sat down on the seat below him, unnoticed. But the effect of her presence was obvious
to all. As if he had given no order for the torture of the prisoner, the king, assuming
a milder tone and manner, addressed the lord Oppas:
“The prisoner, my lord bishop, is well tutored. To whom he owes the counsel
which makes him thus obdurate, is a matter beyond my judgment, although not beyond
my suspicion. You have heard his crime—a crime which, were the criminal
a noble of this land, would call for his head. But, as the offender is of the church,
a priest, and one who, had he been successful, might have become a saint, the offence,
perchance, in thy mind will seem light, and worthy of no such punishment.
Give me to know thy thought.”
The reply of the archbishop was calmly but gravely uttered, and without a moment's
hesitation.
“His offence, oh king! I hold to be of a most damnable kind; and whether the
offender be priest or noble, its punishment should be the same. If I am to say—as
it would seem to be your desire, oh king! that I should—what the punishment of
the criminal should be, I would say death by the axe, as in the case of all similar
offenders.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the king, who evidently anticipated no such response. Suspecting
the seeming monk before him of a connection with the brotherhood whose
habit he wore, he looked to hear from the archbishop some exhortation to mercy—
some appeal from justice to humanity. Surprised and disappointed, he turned upon
the speaker and scanned him with looks of the keenest inquiry.
“Truly!” he exclaimed, after a brief pause, and a laugh of mingled scorn and
good nature, “truly, my lord bishop, thou art less tender of thy fellowship than I
had looked to find thee. This fellow should be an Arian, a schismatic, a backslider
from the square law and the round, since thou shufflest him down the wind with so
little concern. Wilt thou mutter for him a prayer, my lord bishop? Doth it come
within thy charity to say masses for a soul whose carcass thou art so ready to resign?
If it does, go to thy beads at once, and quickly, for thy decree will I adopt.
The assassin dies within an hour.”
The eye of the unhappy Egiza turned involuntarily upon that of the archbishop.
The suddenness of the sentence—the brief period of life which it allotted him—cutting
him off, as it did, from all hope of assistance such as the archbishop had promised
him—brought to his bosom, in that moment, all the sense and bitterness of death,
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in the conviction of its now unerring certainty. So young—so full of hope—so full
of love, and the warm current of a generous affection—to be torn away from all—
from youth, from life, from love!—the thought was agony; and the thrill which
went through his veins, from the full heart which it convulsed, though he strove to
subdue his emotions, or at least to keep them from exposure, was yet perceptible to
the keen gray eye of the archbishop, though the latter did not seem to watch him.
His overhanging and long eye-brows shaded from others the anxious yet assuring
glance which he gave to the prisoner, the moment after the utterance of his doom
by the king. That doom, though undisputed, was yet to be modified. The archbishop
was not disposed to yield the struggle here. Himself seemingly secure, he
was collected enough to preserve his composure throughout the scene; and with that
temperate manner, which had, more than any thing beside, availed for his safety in
the trial through which he had gone, he replied to the last remarks of Roderick, by
seizing upon one part of his speech which furnished a natural opening for a plea in
mitigation of the sentence.
“King Roderick little knows the servant of Christ, if he thinks that his prayer
can be withheld from the criminal because he belongs not to the true church. Our
mission is for such as he. To save the sinner—to turn him from his path of darkness
into one of light, is the office of the priest; and these offices are more than ever
needed for such as are double offenders—offenders against heaven's laws and the
laws of man. But of little avail would be our prayers for the criminal, if he be not
suffered to pray for himself. I trust, oh king! that it is not your will that the unhappy
man before you should so suddenly be hurried from the presence of his mortal
into that of his Eternal Judge; since such a judgment would be little else than
hurrying his sinful soul into the deeps of eternal damnation.”
The gentle Egilona, for whose ears much of this speech was intended, was silent
no longer. She rose from her seat, which was at the feet of the tyrant, and knelt
humbly before him.
“Surely, surely, my lord, you will hearken to these words of the lord Oppas?”
said she.
“And wherefore? Let the dog die—let him twice, ay, thrice perish! It is his
punishment I seek,” exclaimed the king.
“But not in his sins, oh Roderick!—not in his sins! Let him repent of these—
give him time for prayer, for penitence—that, in the blood of the Redeemer, he may
find purification. I ask not that he may be spared; for the dreadful crime of which
he would have been guilty, if his cruel desire could have been accomplished, deserves
a cruel death. Yet, as his crime was mortal, let not his punishment extend
beyond the boundaries of this narrow life. At least, though you deny life to his
enjoyment, deny not salvation to his hope.”
Thus implored the queenly woman, and the gentle wife. The archbishop knew
that he had said enough, and prudently forebore to urge further suggestion. What,
indeed, could he have added to solicitations urged by beauty, by beauty in tears, in
homage, mingled with religious feeling, and enlivened by personal and devoted love.
Roderick refused at first, chafed and chided next, and at length yielded. The prisoner
was remanded to his dungeon, and five days were allowed to him to reconcile
himself with heaven.
The departure of the king and his train, was the signal for respiration on the part
of the archbishop. He had passed through a narrow and perilous strait, and he now
breathed freely. During the whole conference, and while the danger impended, he
had preserved a calm serenity of countenance, which nothing seemed to affect; so
that, whether guilty, and meriting punishment, or innocent, and likely to suffer from
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injustice, he still secured the admiration of those who looked upon him. But now
he trembled. The color fled from his cheeks, as the guards withdrew in attendance
upon the tyrant; his knees grew weak, and he looked around upon the noblemen
who lingered in the hall with timidity and distrust. The involuntary sigh that then
escaped from his lips, drew the lord Gerontius to his side. The old nobleman approached
him with congratulations which were not less sincere than earnest.
“Your head was fairly within the jaws of the wolf, my lord Oppas; and I looked
every moment to see them close upon it. That they did not is the more wonderful,
as they evidently desired to do so. Can you conceive what is your offence, my lord;
for it certainly is not that which is alleged. Methinks the king well enough knows
the motive of the monk, who, it seems, is the father-confessor of the lady Cava, left
with her by count Julian. Such was the speech of one at my side while the trial
was in progress.”
“Of that I know not,” replied Oppas. “He would confess nothing to me. My
offence against the king, I readily conjecture to lie in the shallowness of the royal
treasury, and the supposed fulness of that of Holy Church. Another day will
show.”
“Such was my thought—my fear, I should rather say—for my suit at court will
then be sped much more suddenly than I desire,” said lord Gerontius, with a graver
countenance.
“What suit?” demanded Oppas.
“One that I fear to urge—a suit for money. I need certain sums—which I advanced
to help Roderick to the throne—to keep my estates from the Jews. They are
hovering like kites around me, and await but to see what face I wear on my return
from court to pounce down upon their prey.”
“What favor has been shown you by the king for your services?” inquired the
archbishop.
“Favor! Why, yes, 't is a favor that I am yet neither banished nor beheaded.
These seem to be the sort of favors with which old service has been requited; and I
tremble, therefore, but to speak of mine. The lords Aser and Gnotho—who,
in all Spain, toiled so faithfully and gave so freely to make Roderick what he is?
Yet are they banished, and without receiving one `L'ovogild'[1] of all their expenditures,
in return. You may imagine, therefore, with what fears I should demand
my just dues, and how greatly my apprehensions should, of reason, be increased
when you tell me that the royal treasury is low. I think to go back to my province
in despair, without praying for those kingly favors, which mercy may commute to
banishment or beheading—the latter being the greatest mercy, when the Jews are
already in possession of the body.”
The archbishop had some sympathies in readiness for the knight.
“If my treasury is to fill the royal coffers, it will be a merit that I pay some of the
royal debts. You will not regret to give me the lien upon your estates, my lord,
which the avaricious Jews now hold. Believe me, your indulgence will be much
greater.”
“Regret! Ah, my lord Oppas, you bind me to you for ever, if you save for me
the old dwelling of my fathers.”
He would have spoken his acknowledgments at greater length, but the archbishop
interrupted him:
“Come and sup with me to-night, my lord Gerontius, and I will then provide you
with the money necessary to free your estates from incumbrance. Yet say not
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where you go, and let your acknowledgments of service be locked up in your bosom.
I shall expect you.”
The archbishop had secured another ally.
eaf369.n1[1] The first gold coins of the Goths were struck by
king Leovogild, from whom they took their name.
CHAPTER III.
That night the lord Oppas received his visiter with a judicious show of satisfaction,
and they supped together without other company. With a delicacy which had
its additional effect upon Gerontius, he obtained from him a knowledge of his debts,
the non-payment of which worked a forfeiture of his estates; and, without a word, he
placed in the possession of the latter a casket containing a sufficient supply of money
to meet his responsibilities. The nobleman was loud in his acknowledgments, the
utterance of which the archbishop gently discouraged.
“I have saved you, my lord Gerontius,” said he, “as I would look for you to
save me, should it so chance that I might need your aid; and as men who regard
each other rightly, and have common interests growing out of common danger, should
always be prepared to serve one another. These are not times, my lord Gerontius,
when wise men should pause to give help, seeing good men struggling with the
waters. It may be that you shall soon repay me for this small succor by a greater
benefit, and one more valued and valuable; but whether you do or not, it gives me
pleasure to make you a debtor to my friendship, by so small a service.”
“I do not esteem it a small service,” said the grateful Gerontius, “and I shall rejoice
in the opportunity which shall enable me to requite thee. It is not now that
we may command money, either from the prince because of past service, or the nobleman
because of ancient fellowship. You shall not suffer loss of this money, my
lord Oppas; for now that your generosity hath enabled me to set at defiance the hungry
vultures that hang over my estates, I shall be the better enabled to linger about
the court, and secure the favorable moment for urging my plea to Roderick.”
The archbishop interrupted the speaker.
“Do not deceive thyself; thou waitest in vain for a favorable moment to urge thy
plea for money. The monarch who is a debtor, like Roderick, yields no such time
to the creditor. Thou wilt but incur danger without profit, to press thy demand for
money at any season upon him.”
“What, then! am I to lose my substance, and behold him who possesses it bestowing
it upon such worthless minions as Edeco?” exclaimed the indignant Gerontius,
in reply.
“Even so; and congratulate thyself that the monarch is not more conscientious.
Were he less reckless than he is, he would extinguish the debt by taking thy head
as a traitor to the realm. Thy very application for the claim, would be a sufficient
argument to prove thee so.”
“And thou thinkest, my lord Oppas, that I shall never get this money from king
Roderick?”
“Of a truth, I do,” was the reply.
“Take back thy casket; I will owe thee nothing which I may never pay. My
only hope to return your loan is in the late justice of the king.”
“No! keep the casket; it is thine, Gerontius, whether thou repayest me or not,”
said Oppas. “If thou takest it not, it will only add to the already large sums which
Roderick has taken from his people, and which he will never return.”
“How! What mean you?” said the other.
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“Roderick claims a greater reward for indulgencies than ever did the priesthood,”
responded the archbishop, with a smile. “I said to thee this morning, ere we separated,
that the wrath of the king rose from the shallowness of his own and the supposed
overfulness of the church's coffers, rather than from any belief in his mind
that I was a party with the assassin who aimed to take his life. I discovered that
while the trial was in progress. An hour after I had reached my palace, comes Edoco
to me with a warning that by noon the next day the king would expect supplies
from the church to meet the expenses of the war against Pelayo and the rebels in the
Asturias. Thou seest my treasury will be his ere noon to-morrow; and he must
have all, else my escape were for a brief season only. That casket were but a trifle
taken from the mass; it would add little to my loss—it will be the safety of thy all
to thee.”
“And yet, my lord Oppas,” said Gerontius, “though there be good reason in what
you say, yet I am greatly loath to lose these monies which the king had of me; not
so much, indeed, because I need their use, as that I chafe at such injustice. I am
scarce a man when I dare not demand a right.”
“Methinks,” said Oppas, with a smile, “methinks thou art extravagant, Gerontius,
in thy desires. Who claims to be a man now-a-days, in Iberia? Who is he
that clamors for his right? Thou hast lived too long in the country; and unless
thou learnest wisdom quickly, thy head will be of little use to thee after a week's
wear in Toledo. Take the casket, put it in thy bosom, and let it be of service to
thee—it will be of none to me after to-morrow. Release thyself from the Jews, and
beware how thou speakest of thy claim to Roderick.”
“What! wouldst thou have me yield it utterly?”
“No. Yet speak not of it in what thou sayest to the king. Go to him—lest he
think it suspicious that, having a claim, thou shouldst not place thyself in the way
for its payment. Solicit from him some goodly office, the rewards of which shall
come from the people and not from the royal treasury. To such office he will readily
appoint thee; for a royal officer of the Goth is now little else than a collector
for the royal treasury.”
“But what office could I seek for? I know nothing of such toils. My youth,
thou knowest, has been passed among warriors, and in strife with the wild Basques
and the impetuous Franks. I am a soldier, and better know the weapon than the
pen. In truth, my lord bishop, to confess a truth, what with imperfect eye-sight,
and a heavy hand, I am fain to content myself with signing the blessed cross where
my name should be written.”
The archbishop did not smile at the tacit confession of that ignorance which was
common among the nobles of the time, but, placing his hand upon that of Gerontius,
he said:
“Dost thou think I would have thee a scrivener? No! Thou lovest command
in war, my lord Gerontius. What sayest thou to the military command in thy province?
Go to Roderick—solicit that command—but solicit it as an humble and true
liege, who, if he has lent his sovereign the money which has made him such, is too
wise to remember it.”
Gerontius pledged himself to adopt the advice of Oppas, and lured on by the artful
conversation of the archbishop, he indulged in a freedom of remark hostile to the
king, which put him completely in the power of the former. But neither in word
nor gesture did Oppas suffer him to perceive that he was conscious of his indiscretion.
So far, the object for which the archbishop had toiled was gained, and he had
no desire to alarm the fears of his companion. He had gained an ally, who, in the
possession of power, he trusted to mould to his own desires. It may be well in
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this place to add that his schemes were all successful. Roderick was not unwilling
to receive Gerontius with favoring regard, when he asked for nothing from the royal
coffers. His application for office was heard with favor, and the military government
of his province bestowed upon him, with the right to fleece the people at pleasure,
risking nothing more than the forfeiture of his treasure and his post, whenever
the royal necessities should be such as to persuade the king that his coffers were sufficiently
full to supply them.
When Gerontius had retired, his place was supplied by the fanatic Romano, to
whom Oppas reported such portions of the day's proceedings as he deemed it proper
to unfold. He took especial care in the narrative not to forget the demand which
Roderick had made upon the treasury of the church.
“The gold and silver devoted to pious uses,” said he, with a sigh, “will he consume,
my brother, in his sinful pleasures. The creatures of his lust will receive
them; and that which has been consecrated to God, and to the benefit to his ministers,
will be assigned by the lawless tyrant to the reward of all manner of sinfulness
and shame.”
The features of Romano glowed with a savage joy, as he replied:
“But they shall bring death among his pleasures, and they shall turn his sinful
joy into the bitterness of despair. I see the hand and the handwriting, my father—
the hour is nigh; and the hour that they drink from the vessels of gold and silver
which belong to the Lord, in that hour shall the tyrant die.”
The countenance of the archbishop was full of heedful reverence, as he gazed
upon the enthusiastic speaker; but he said nothing.
“Ay, my father, I see it and I know it,” continued the other. “This youth hath
not been spared by the tyrant, but that Heaven hath willed him to the execution of
its vengeance. He hath failed in his blow, but he shall not always fail. The spirit
moves me to release him, and I am strong to do it. This night will I see Guisenard,
who hath him in keeping, and as he hath a becoming reverence for holy things, I
doubt not to move him to a knowledge of his sin, in binding him whom God would
loose, and in keeping back the hand which God hath commanded to strike.”
“Yet should he be stubborn, Romano—should he plead service to Roderick, forgetful
of the duty which he owes to his Maker, as it is but too much the practice
with the guilty worlding to plead—what then wilt thou do, my brother?”
“He will not plead thus, my father; Guisenard is humble, and followeth closely
the commands of his father-in-God. Let one but show him the error of his way—
let one but show him that in this deed he keepeth in bonds the special messenger of
Heaven”—
“But,” said the archbishop, interrupting, “if he should not so readily understand;
for he cannot hope to be blessed with the direct revelation which has been made to
thee”—
“I fear not that, my father,” replied the sanguine zealot—“and even should he
deny me, I fear not that God will work the way out of bondage for His servant,
even as His angel wrought the deliverance of the holy Peter whom the bonds of impious
Herod had fettered fast in his dungeons, and guarded by his soldiers.”
“Alas! my brother; but these are not the days of miracle. God trusts now to
the faith of his people—to their zeal in his cause, and when this fails, the victim
perishes—and it is well then that the victim should perish, since the lukewarmness
of the worshippers merits no such benefactor. We must toil for the prisoner, my
brother, nor wait the coming of that blessed angel who set Peter free from the bonds
of Herod; and in working out this holy design, my brother, the end will sanctify
the necessary means, when all others shall fail thee. The purse I gave thee hath
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an argument for the worldling which shall persuade him when light from Heaven
would fail to enlighten his mind; and though I trust that Guisenard will heed thy
counsel, yet thou shouldst not forget to employ the lure of gold, should the pure
silver of thy heavenly eloquence fail to reach his soul—which it were unreasonable
to think, unless, like the master whom he serves, the Lord hath hardened his heart,
as he hardened that of Pharaoh, for his destruction.”
“I will use the gold,” said the other.
“Ay, my brother; thou art chosen for thy work, and thou art bound to its performance.
There must be no idle scruples—no tender misgivings, unworthy of thy
strength, and ungracious in the sight of God, as they would seem to censure His
justice or His judgment. If the Lord hath assigned to this prisoner the holy task of
freeing his people from the bondage of the Egyptians, and if he hath assigned to thee
the no less heavy task of setting the youth free to this service, thou must do it at
every hazard.”
“I will do it!” said the zealot, with uplifted hands, and eyes that streamed with
a fluid fire and rayed out through his long eyelashes with a light like that of wild
insanity.
“Thou wilt try, I well know, my brother—thou wilt try thy pleadings—thy eloquence
shall seek to awaken and fill his mind, and move his heart to humanity;
thou wilt then try the gold which I have given thee, and then”—
“What then? my father,” said Romano, seemingly uncertain what to do in the
event of a failure of those influences upon which he so much relied, and which
were, as yet, the only influences which his mind had proposed to itself.
“Ay, what then, Romano; for the difficulty and the trial now begin. It were
easy for any man to seek to move a jailer by prayers and by the offer of gold to set
free the prisoner whom he hath in bonds. It is for the chosen servant of Heaven
to do more than this; for he is chosen that he may succeed. What, then, if his
prayers fail—if the stubborn jailer be insensible to the wisdom and the plea, and
scorn the temptation of gold and silver—shall the apostle forbear his office? Of a
truth, no! His task has then begun. What, oh my brother! should be thy performance,
if the Lord commissioned thee to take from me the power which I hold
among our people? Wouldst thou not strive to do it, by thy prayers, by thy pleadings,
by the doom which thou wouldst rightly denounce upon me from Heaven?
But if these were unheeded by me—if I scorned thy holy commission, and defied
thy threats—if, like Pharaoh, or Holofernes,”—
“Ah, my father, wherefore dost thou ask? Dost thou think me blind to the duties
which are before me? Believe me, I am ready. I see. I shall free this captive
from his bonds, as the Lord hath appointed. I am chosen for the work, and I
shrink not from it. Count it done, my father—count it done, ere three nights shall
pass away. I go, even now, to Guisenard. I trust to move him as from his own
heart, for I have long esteemed him good, as I know him to be guiltless of wilful
wrong. I will plead with him strongly, even according to the best of my poor ability—
and the gold will I give him, the better to help him in his flight to the Asturias.
Should he not yield to me, and take counsel from Heaven's will— But, I
will not think it. He will hear, he will yield, my father—the Lord will move him;
and should he not”—
The fanatic paused, covered his face with both hands, and remained silent for a
few seconds in this position. Then, suddenly recovering from his musing, he earnestly
grasped the hand of the archbishop, and with increasing wildness concluded
thus:
“The Lord hath strengthened me. I see the path which is before me, and I glory
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in my tasks. Oh! my father, it is a blessed feeling when we can throw aside these
frail and foolish attachments which bind us to earth—which bind us in love even
of its vices, its weaknesses, its impiety. The laborer in the vineyard of God hath
need to discard all these enslaving affections. We are never free until we can cast
off those earthly ties which conflict with our duties, and keep us down from that
heaven to which we aspire.”
But little further conversation passed between them. When the fanatic had gone,
the archbishop seemed exhausted. He threw himself along upon a cluster of cushions,
and lay for some moments seemingly in deep thought, or stupor, with his face
covered by his hands. The path was tangled and intricate before him, and he had
need of reflection. Besides, the day's perils had almost enfeebled him. He had escaped
them; but how many were gathering in the vista, now momently opening before
his view! Should he escape them also? Should he triumph in the completion
of his grasping aims—in the attainment of his objects of ambition? What, in truth,
were those objects? Was he indeed struggling only for his nephews; or, with a
more patriotic spirit still, for the rescue of his country from the iron domination of
her oppressor? Neither! The purpose of his mind may best be understood by a
reference to those dishonorable acts and reckless crimes which he meditated even
now, and which he had already practiced and committed. The strong and deep
passions of the man gave double energy to the goadings of ambition, and hopes and
desires which he had never yet breathed to mortal were ever present to his thought,
and ever foremost in all the promptings of his soul. His soliloquy now, as he rose
from the cushions and paced hurriedly the lonely chamber in which he slept, may
give us glimpses of that dark policy the fruits only of which we have been permitted
to see before.
“A little while, a little while, Roderick, and if thy nature be not changed, and if
the stars fight not against me, thy sway shall be humbled. Let thy lusts but prevail
with Cava, and thou makest an enemy in Julian who shall hurl thee from the
throne and from life. Let the fierce soldier but bring his army to this city, and the
game is then mine own. He hath but the soldiers who keep with him at Ceuta—
and these the conflict with Roderick shall greatly lessen. It is then for me to bring
the discontents whom I have made, and the desperates whom I have bought, to bear
upon the strife. My power will decide the scale; and as it is for me to decide, so
will it be for me to sway. Then shall I triumph—not with thy kingdom only, thou
sodden and blinded tyrant, but with possessions which thy vain heart hath too little
known to prize. What hadst thou to do with so pure a spirit, so high, yet gentle a
soul, as inhabits in the bosom of Egilona? What had she to do with thee? She
could not, she cannot love thee. Alas! the shame that thy foul and common touch,
thy free intercourse and debasing converse, should have taken from her perfection,
as they have made it subservient to thee!”
The archbishop paused, and moving to the lattice, gazed forth long and anxiously,
but in utter silence, upon the lights that still shone from the chambers of the royal
palace. It was late in the night when he sought his couch, and then his slumbers
were broken, and troubled with annoying dreams.
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CHAPTER IV.
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Meanwhile, what of the unfortunate Egiza? He was hurried back to his strong
prison in despair. He had seen enough to know that his uncle was himself in danger,
and under suspicion; and as he knew not what course the judgment of Roderick
had taken in reference to him, he with reason questioned his ability to effect his
rescue, as Oppas had promised him in their brief interview. We shall not attempt
to describe his feelings and his fears. The anxiety, the apprehension, the despair—
not for himself, nor for his own life, but for her honor and her safety, who was far
more than life to him. He threw himself upon the floor of his narrow cell, when
the keeper had retired, and wept scalding tears. In this position the keeper found
him, when he brought him his evening repast. The man seemed to regard with a
feeling of compassion the desponding captive before him; and, indeed, a something
of respect, almost amounting to reverence, marked his language and manner while
addressing him—arising, probably, from the belief that his prisoner was a monk, as
his garb denoted.
“Arise, father, arise and eat,” said Guisanard; “you are feeble; your limbs lack
the sustenance of food. Here is that which shall revive you.”
“I need it not,” replied Egiza, faintly; “take it away; I shall not want it. Let
me sleep.”
The reply, though not churlish, was abrupt, and uttered in a manner which was
intended to discourage all further solicitation. The keeper did not urge the youth
but placed the food on a little table beside him, and was about to withdraw in silence;
but his heart seemed touched by the evident self-abandonment of his prisoner,
and as he looked upon his face and watched the noble and delicate features
which the strifes of manhood had not yet seamed with callous furrows, a stronger
sentiment of commiseration penetrated his bosom.
“Father,” said he, “your food is beside you; though you need it not now, perhaps
hunger will come upon you before you sleep; and you will be better able to
meet the trials which are before you, if your body take its needful support. The
water-jug is in the niche where it is cool. Is there aught that I can serve you in
ere I retire?”
The youth barely raised his head as he replied:
“Nothing—I thank you. I need nothing but sleep. I would sleep, since I may
not strive; I would forget, where to remember is to madden. Leave me.”
The keeper obeyed him, but much he wondered at the deep sorrow which the
seeming monk expressed—so unseemly in one so young, and so inconsistent with
the ferocious criminal who had aimed his bloody knife at the bosom of his sovereign.
Guisenard was a worthy man, devout without rage, and executing his trust
with punctilious exactitude, yet without severity. He left his prisoner with a mind
troubled with the thought of that strange inconsistency with which he had been so
struck, between the show of human feeling in the assassin and the deed of wanton
malice which he had striven to commit. His own thoughts in no way helped him
to reconcile the discrepancy, and he unfolded them to his young wife, as they sat
down to their own evening repast, in the corner of the prison which had been assigned
them as their dwelling. But Amreeta was as little skilled in the elucidation
of such mysteries as he, and she diverted all thought of the captive from his mind,
by placing their young boy—the sole and lovely pledge of their union—upon his
knee. He danced the urchin in air, kissed his rosy and full cheeks, and forgot, in
that happy moment, all thoughts and things but such as belonged to the devoted
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father While thus he toyed, a signal at the portal demanded his attention. He put
down the boy, and admitted Romano. He stooped for the blessing of the father,
and then led him to the table from which he had just risen. Fresh viands were
placed before the zealot, but he declined to eat.
“Give me but bread, bread and water,” he said; “this dainty food is ungracious,
and of hurt to him who labors for eternal love. My daughter, thou art blessed; and
the boy”—
“Is also blessed, my father, for see the health upon his cheeks—how they glow,
and how his eyes kindle; and he never cries, my father—he is the meekest, most
patient child”—
“Stay, Amreeta—thou art too proud of thy firstborn,” said Guisenard, while a
fond and approving smile played upon his lips. “Stay thy idle self-flattery, for
thy praise of the boy is but praise of thyself. Is thy child healthier, or lovelier, or
better than that of any mother?—will not all speak like thee?”
“Ay, but scarcely with so much truth,” said the confident mother.
“Thou speakest truly, dame,” said Romano, gently; “many mothers may make
a boast, like thee, but few with so much truth. Thou art blessed in thy firstborn,
who is lovely beyond compare, and possessed of no less strength and health than
loveliness; but let us pray thee to make thy boast with humility—for the vain of
heart and the strong in confidence but provoke the wrath of Heaven, which comes
like the tempest suddenly at midnight. The bloom upon those cheeks which is now
a glory in thine eyes, may be pale like death ere the morning.”
The fond mother involuntarily drew the child away from the hands of the priest,
as if the certainty of evil lay in the bare possibility which he had suggested. Romano
smiled, but proceeded:
“Be hopeful, but not proud of thy child, my daughter—for the hope which looks
to the favor of Heaven for its fruition, is a direct admission of its power, and such
admission must ever secure its grace. Thy son is the gift of God: let thy charge of
him be such that in years to come he may be worthy of God's giving. Train not
thy child as if he were thy toy, thy plaything, but as if he were an immortal soul,
worthy of the favor of a God, yet not secure from the dreadful slavery of the devil.
My son,”—turning to Guisenard—“I would speak to thee alone.”
The keeper gave a nod to Amreeta, who, taking her child in her arms, was about
to leave the apartment, but, with a sudden impulse, she knelt before the priest, and
lifting the infant towards him, she implored his blessing. His hand rested a moment
upon her head in benediction, his lips moved, but the prayer which he spoke
was inaudible to mortal ears. He felt the beauty of the scene.
When Amreeta had retired, Romano abruptly addressed Guisenard in the following
manner:
“Of what secret crime hast thou been guilty, oh my son! unknown to and unabsolved
by me, for which the Lord has singled thee out for such a heavy weight of
punishment?”
“How!—what mean you, my father?” replied the pious keeper, in unqualified
alarm.
“Thou hast confessed to me thy frequent sins and errors,” continued the priest,
“and thy penance has been slight and easily borne. Thy confessions were only
of light offences, and such as were readily removed by due atonement and the endurance
of thy penance with a right spirit of humility and an uncomplaining temper
What heinous crime is it thou hast withheld from my ears? Why is it that our
Heavenly Father hath chosen thee for this terrible judgment?”
The consternation of Guisenard underwent due increase as he heard these words,
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particularly as the air and manner of the priest was grave and solemn, and adapted
fitly to the singular language which he employed. He dreaded that some terrible
calamity indeed impended over his head, and looked every moment to behold the
cloud part and see himself sink beneath the rushing bolt. Ere he could demand an
explanation, the priest proceeded:
“Thou hast in thy custody a prisoner, newly brought to thee by Edeco?”
“I have, my father,” was the reply.
“Wherefore was he not despatched to the other prisons, by the city barriers?—
why was he sent here to thee, my son?”
“Nay, I know not, my father, unless it be that as this prison is in the heart of
Toledo, it is deemed more secure than all the rest. Thou knowest that the prisoner
is doomed to death—that he hath sought to do murder, even upon the person of the
sovereign.”
“Thou speakest idle things, my son, and I fear that thou hast grievously sinned,
as a just God has willed that thou shouldst be chosen to be the keeper of this
prisoner whom thou holdest in bonds, and of whom thou speakest most ignorantly
This prison is more secure than all the rest, thou sayest—as if any one were secure
when the will of God ordains that the chain shall be broken, that the wall shall part
and the captive be free to walk forth, even as did holy Saint Peter over the prostrate
bodies of his guards. This prisoner is doomed, thou sayest—as if man could
doom and execute when the succor of God is nigh, like a spear that never bends and
a shield that never breaks, to resist the doom, and to destroy the evil judge. And
shalt thou call this holy man a murderer, whom God hath commissioned to destroy?
It were truly an impious speech, my son, and thy penance should be great for its
utterance.”
“I know not, my father,” said Guisenard, after a brief pause; “I know nothing
of the matter of which thou speakest. I am in charge as the keeper of this prison,
under king Roderick, and it is my duty to keep well and securely the captive whom
he sends here in trust. It is not for me to question the decrees of my sovereign, or
to say which I shall heed and which I shall reject. My head were scarce certain
upon my shoulders were I to determine thus.”
“Oh, blind and self-sufficient as thou art!” exclaimed the priest; “thou who
darest not set thy judgment against the will of an earthly prince, yet art not too fearful
to defy that of the Prince of Heaven! I tell thee, my son, that it is God's messenger
that thou keepest in bondage—it is the executioner of His wrath that thou
keepest from the performance of his proper duties.”
“Truly, my father, I should be grievously sad to think that I should do anything
which should be displeasing in the eye of Heaven; and if it were a thing apparent
to my mind that the execution of my earthly trusts, as I have been taught to perform
them duly, were unseemly in the eyes of God, I would fly from the commission
of such an evil as I would fly from the sword and the pestilence. But I cannot
think it evil to obey the king who rules in the nation—nor can I think it evil to detain
under the command of the proper laws, the person of one who hath striven to
murder, in defiance equally of the commandments of Heaven and the laws of earth
Much do I pity the unhappy man who is sent to me for keeping. He is but young
to suffer death.”
“And thinkest thou, vain man, and self-deceiving as thou art, thinkest thou that
he will suffer—that the Almighty Father will leave his servant to perish? Thinkest
thou that He will not break his bonds, and open a way for him through the
walls of his dungeon, scorning your bolts, and heeding none of your common ways
of outlet? He will—look to it—He will; and, if it be that thou shalt not heed the
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counsel which I give thee—if, in thy obstinacy and pride of place, thou wilt not
undo thy bolts and bid the man of God depart in peace, then shall the doom fall on
thy head also; for what saith the Lord?—`the chains of the captive shall fall from
his limbs, he shall walk erect in the open places, and his guards shall be slain by a
sword that is secret.”'
“I hear thee in sorrow, my father. What thou sayest to me is beyond my comprehension
and knowledge. I know not that this man is the man of God—I cannot
think it; else would he come not with the commission to slay.”
“As if God slew not his thousands when it needed—as if he smote not in the
high places, in the strength of the palace, in the thick of the host, by hands seen
and hands unseen, by day and by night,” exclaimed Romano, with impetuous and
loud accents.
“I know it, my father; and such I hold to be often the design and the deed of the
Lord. But how are we to know the executioner who is sent, from him who, with
a bad heart, hath deputed himself for murder? If it be that what thou sayest is to
be the rule of common judgment, then would no murderer suffer harm, and then no
good man could walk in peace and security. If it be that this man is of God, and
from God, then will God work out his deliverance without aid from me”—
“He will! He will! vain officer, He will!” replied Romano, interrupting the
speaker. “Fear not that the Lord will not work out his deliverance, and without heeding either thy help or mine. He hath divine agents which are ready to perform
when human agents fear to do, or fail Him. But, out of my love for thee, Guisenard,
would I have moved thee to this service, because I would not see thee come
to harm. Thou shouldst free this holy man, and thou shouldst follow him. Alas!
my son, thy thought, I fear me, is too much upon the lowly cares and devouring
wants of this earth.”
“Of a truth, father, I love the earth, and I love this life, for there are many things
in it to command my love; but I love it not to sin for it; and greatly, to my poor
mind, should I sin, if, heedless of the trust which is given to me by my superiors, I
set this man free, again to murder.”
“Thy superiors! Thy superior is God; Him shouldst thou obey. But let me to
see thy captive, Guisenard; let me mingle my prayers with those of the holy man
in bondage. Would that his bonds were mine, so that I wore the favor which he
wears, and which is the free gift of the Father.”
Guisenard freely complied with the request of the priest, with whose enthusiasm
he seemed to be familiar. He led the way to the cell, and left Romano with the
prisoner
CHAPTER V.
Sleep, in the dungeon of Egiza, had kindly come to the relief of its inmate
Care, fatigue, pain, had produced their united and natural effect upon him, and, in
spite of thought, he slept. But he slept not soundly. The jarring and sliding of
the bolts aroused him; and, in the dim light, uncertain of the character of his visiter,
and thinking only of enemies, he at once apprehended that the executioner sent by
Roderick was at hand. He started to his feet, resolved to provoke, by a violent resistance,
a more summary death than that of the axe; but, in the next moment, he
felt how idle was the resolve, since he was weaponless. The anguish of that conviction
who shall describe? The consciousness that he lay, like one bound hand
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and foot, having neither the power to fight nor to fly, at the mercy of his enemy,
was humbling and maddening at the same moment. To strive to the last, opposing
blow to blow and skill to skill, would, to the desperate mind, be a rapture of itself,
and would effectually soften, if it did not disarm, death of all its terrors. But to die
without stroke or struggle—to await the blow, effortless, yet anxious—the mind toiling,
yet with a body unperforming, though writhing—is to die of a shame, and an
agony, having stings far beyond those of death. These stings were in the mind of
Egiza, as he felt the helplessness of his situation. But his confidence was not entirely
subdued.
“I have limbs, I have strength, I am still a man!” he exclaimed aloud; “and I
am unbound!”
With these words, he rushed toward the entrance, where the outline of the intruding
person was dimly perceptible. The words of Romano reached the ear of the
captive, ere he approached him, and before he could strike the idle but premeditated
blow.
“Ay, brother; and thou shalt have freedom!” exclaimed the monk.
The progress of the prisoner was arrested; his clenched fingers relaxed, his hands
fell at his sides.
“Who art thou?” he demanded, abruptly. “I thought that thou wert my executioner.”
“No, my brother; I am the poor monk who provided thee with thy garments;
and I come from the Lord, to strengthen thee with hope, so that thy triumph over
thy enemies may be complete.”
As Egiza heard these words, his thought was of the promise of the archbishop
Oppas.
“He hath not, then, deserted me!” he exclaimed.
“Deserted thee, holy brother! the thought was sinful. Never yet did He desert
those who put their crust in His word. He sends me now upon the work of thy
deliverance from the Amalekite; and thought the path is dim before me, and scales
upon my vision still intercept the light that is to guide us forth, yet do I nothing fear
that the gates shall be opened wide, and thy deliverance be as sudden as it is certain.
It may be that, for the more effectual revelation of His power, He may delay thy release
until the latest moment—ay, until the very moment which the Belshazzar of
this land hath decreed for thy destruction. He will set at defiance the decree; He
will defeat the bloody and unrighteous judge; He will give thee vengeance upon thy
enemies.”
In the feverish state of Egiza's mind, such language did not seem exaggerated.
He regarded the monk truly as a fanatic, and as one in the employ of the archbishop;
but he did not for a moment conjecture the sacred light in which he himself appeared
to his companion. Had he done so, he might have felt and spoken in tones of much
greater hesitation and humility, nor shown that composed and sternly elevated mood
which came rather from a despair of all help than a confidence in any heavenly
interposition. The monk, on the other hand, ascribed to this latter cause, the firm
tones, the fearless defiance, the reckless hardihood of the captive's demeanor. He
beheld in his, one who had the very words of the Deity for his assurance, and who,
however he may have doubted his own security for an instant, was too much filled
with sanctity and preternatural strength, to remain doubtful for any longer period.
His deportment toward the youth was that of one who stood in the presence of a
superior intelligence. He regarded Egiza as upon that higher eminence of divine
favor to which his own eyes were turned in hope and holy expectation. So adroitly
had the suggestions of the archbishop been insinuated, which appealed to the
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monomaniacal tendencies of the fanatic, that he had ceased, after the first moment of their
utterance, to regard the speaker except as a humble agent for transmitting them from
the divine source of all intelligence to himself. Holding Egiza as one to whom he
was a chosen auxiliar, the escape of the former and the successful prosecution of
his divine mission were, of consequence, paramount aims with himself, through
which alone his ambitious desires could be realized. The rescue of the youth was,
therefore, his greatest object. For this he was not merely ready to suggest plans,
and to undergo toils, but to destroy all who stood in his path, and to pour out his
own blood with as little scruple. The madness which reconciled an otherwise correct
mind, and a heart rather gentle than otherwise, to such extremes, was at the
same time potent enough to color objects and arguments with the same false and
morbid complexion. Then it was that the merely human fears and feelings which
Egiza uttered before him, were all tinctured with a most heavenly coloring. The
vehemence of the youth was zeal for his Master; his despondency a noble humanity,
which had been the true cause of the Deity's selection of him; and the fear of
death, which had moved him to the first show which the captive had made of violence
toward him when entering his dungeon, only sprung from a desire to perform
his work ere he departed for his reward.
“Thou hast well rebuked my impatience, holy father,” replied Egiza, referring to
the supposed eulogy which the monk had passed upon the lord Oppas; “thou hast
only done him justice. He hath been a true friend to me ever, when other friends
failed me; and I look not to find him forget his promise.”
“He spoke to thee, then, my brother. He promised thee; with His own lips He
spoke to and promised thee!” exclaimed, rather than demanded, the excited enthusiast.
“Ay, this very day, with his own lips, he promised to send one to me on whom
I might rely.”
“And I am he! Oh, Blessed among the blessed! the Glory where all is glorious!
Supreme Father! Divine Principle, which is every where, carrying life and
light, doing wonders without ceasing! wherefore is it that the poor worm is so honored
with Thy grace? what am I, that Thou shouldst lift me to Thy holy work? what
are my poor prayers, that Thou shouldst heed them—or my vain wishes, that Thou
shouldst hearken to them? Lord! give me strength and grace, that I prove not unmindful
of Thy service. Strengthen me, oh Redeemer! that I fall not back—that I
yield not to the Tempter, whether on the right side or on the left, but pursuing the
steady light of Thy holy will—which burneth for ever before my eyes, in the sunshine
and in the storm—that I toil on without ceasing, nor weary in the well-doing
which I have begun! Oh my brother!” he exclaimed, now addressing the wondering
Egiza; “Oh, my brother! favored and blessed among men! I joy with a full
heart that I have been chosen to minister to thy release. Thou shalt go forth from
these feeble walls; they shall not restrain thee. I see thy deliverance with my soul,
even as I shall see it with mine eyes; for though the keeper hath once denied me to
let thee go free, yet do I not despair that he will relent, that he will yield to my
prayers, that he will give heed to my warnings, and let thee forth in safety, ere the
doom fall upon him also, even as it shall fall upon the hardened heart of the Pharaoh
who enslaveth this nation.”
“He hath denied thee? Thou hast sought him, my father?” said the prisoner,
to whom the latter part only of the zealot's ravings had been comprehensible.
“He hath, my brother,” was the reply; “but Guisenard is a worthy man, who
meaneth well, and whom I have long tutored. He hath a love and reverence for
me which shall, I trust, move him to my wishes. I have other arguments in store
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for him which must prove triumphant over his rebellious heart, though he fear not
the displeasure of Heaven. He will”—
“Hast thou gold?” demanded Egiza, interrupting him. “The man who would
scorn all your arguments and mine, would yield to the reason which is in gold, my
father. Has not the lord Oppas given thee gold for this purpose?”
“Of a truth, he has; but I had forgotten!” The zealot took a heavy purse from
his garment, as he replied; “but how couldst thou know that, my brother, unless
Heaven had opened thine eyes to a divine perfection of sight?”
“'T is but reason, my father, that the lord Oppas should avail himself of an influence
having a power upon most men, in these corrupt and dishonest times,” replied
Egiza.
“'T is a divine instinct, my brother, which makes thee to know it. It must be
that Heaven intends that this gold—as it were to mortify the poor vanity of my
mind which made me to think that my frail arguments could move thy close and
stubborn keeper—is the power which, under God's permission, shall alone set thee
free. Let me go, my brother, that I may make trial of it upon Guisenard,” replied
Romano.
“It will do more than all thy arguments, holy father,” said the melancholy captive,
whose words were nevertheless held to be oracular. “I doubt not that it will
be received as reason, when thy promise of Heaven, and thy threats of its wrath,
would only be heard with laughter or defiance.”
“It must be so, my brother,” replied the monk; “and yet Guisenard hath ever
been a dutiful believer, and a man humble in carriage as in desire. I will speed to
him at once, and make the trial of this yellow temptation; for, as God wills that it
should be tried, it is holy; and the Power that created may well use, for His own
glory, the thing of His creation.”
He was about to depart, when Egiza arrested him:
“Ere thou goest, my father, hast thou not with thee some weapon—some instrument
which shall guard life or give death. If thou hast, give it me: if thou hast
not, bid the lord Oppas provide thee with one, which thou shalt bring me.”
“He hath already done so, my brother; but I had forgotten. But thou knowest,
thou seest all things. I go to plead with Guisenard.”
He gave a dagger to Egiza, and with a few words of respectful benediction, as if
receiving the blessing which he bestowed, he turned away and would have left him;
but when he sought egress from the apartment, he found that the door had been
cautiously fastened upon him also, by the watchful Guisenard.
In the first moment of this discovery, distrusting all men, and inferring danger
from all circumstances, the gloomy Egiza apprehended that the agency of the monk,
as an emissary of the archbishop, had been discovered, and that the plan for his escape
was thus defeated for ever.”
“They have listened—they have heard us, my father; they keep watch over us
both.”
“Fear nothing, my brother,” replied the sanguine Romano, whom no misfortune
seemed to discourage; “the Lord is our strength and our redeemer; He will not deliver
us to our foes. Of a certainty, he will shield thee and give thee release, my
brother; though I—poor and feeble worm that I am, whom He hath only too much
honored already—should be left behind to perish. But I will call to the keeper,
who will give us speech, and show wherefore he hath thus closed the bar upon us.
Guisenard!”
The priest called aloud, while, with the handle of his dagger, Egiza beat upon
the door within.
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“At least!” exclaimed the latter, exultingly, while waving the glittering instrument
in the dim chamber in which it was yet distinctly visible; “at least, I have a
sharp weapon which will help me in the struggle. I shall not perish like a chained
beast, whom the sportsman may strike at pleasure, and without fear. If I must
perish, I will perish like a strong man, and some among my enemies shall perish
likewise.”
But there was no cause of present apprehension. The jailer came to the relief of
Romano, whom he quickly permitted to come forth, apologizing gently for the detention
which he said had been unavoidable, as he had been summoned to other duties
in a distant part of the prison. How strong was the disposition, at that moment, on
the part of Egiza, to rush forth also, and to rely upon the strong arm for his release!
But prudence got the better of the ill-advised suggestion. He knew that there were
other and bolted doors through which he must pass; and when he gazed upon the
keeper, and measured his vigorous frame with his eye, he felt that nothing but entire
imbecility of soul on the part of the latter could possibly enable him to succeed.
He resolved patiently to wait events, relying on his uncle, and the zealous Romano,
whom he saw depart with anxiety and regret.
Romano retired with Guisenard to the apartments of the latter; but brief time for
conference was allowed them. A heavy summons at the main portal of the prison,
announced the arrival of others destined for its occupation; and he signified to the
monk the necessity for his leaving.
“It is already beyond the hour, my father; and if the espatorio should hear of
this irregularity, it would go hard with me—it might be the means of losing me my
office.”
“Beware!” exclaimed Romano, anxiously, when he found all his persuasion of
no avail in obtaining permission to continue the conference longer; “beware that
the love of thine office does not make thee forget thy love to God, and thy proper
performance before him. To be the officer of Roderick should not be a desire so
great with thee as to be the servant of Jesus; and in fulfilling thy trust to the one,
and that one the wrong-doer, I warn thee that thou mayst do grievous offence to the
other—and He thy Saviour or thy Destroyer, as thou thyself only shall by thy acts
determine.”
The keeper heard him respectfully, but insisted on the performance of his duties
to his earthly sovereign.
“Another time, my father,” said he, impatiently; “I will hear thee. To-morrow
and to-morrow night; any time before the hour set for extinguishing the lights and
closing the gate.”
Romano prepared to depart, as Guisenard hurried him. The necessity for doing
so seemed to become more and more evident every moment, as the thundering at the
outer entrance grew more and more violent. But the zealot was not content to acknowledge
this necessity, and murmured to the last. He was a little pacified, however,
as, ere he went, the keeper begged for his blessing.
“I give it thee, my son, with the hope that this night the spirit of the Lord shall
come upon thee, and that thou mayst have a better knowledge of what thou hast to
perform; for, in truth, the peril is at hand, and as thou standest as one in a dangerous
place, to whom a step to the right or the left may prove fatal, I pray that thou
mayst have a blessed counsel from Heaven, teaching thee to hearken to those who
know the path of safety, and are ready to guide thee in it. I bless thee, my son,
and I pray that thou mayst be blessed with the divine counsels which we all need,
and thou more greatly than any, in the work which is before thee.”
“Amen! my father,” replied Guisenard, with reverence, as they parted.
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Stimulated by the religious fury which filled his bosom, Romano had no desire
for sleep; and, though the hour was late, yet trusting to find Oppas still up, or most
probably not giving the doubt a thought, he proceeded to the archbishop's palace.
He had been waited for. The latter was too deeply interested in the subject of the
monk's mission to resign himself to sleep while the labors of the priest were yet unconsummated;
and his anxiety to hear, though suppressed by the stronger policy
which governed him, was scarcely less active than was that of Romano for speech.
It will not need that we should dwell upon their conference. It is sufficient to say
that the archbishop, still aiming at an entire control over the mind of the zealot, furnished
new arguments and repeated old ones in a novel form, calculated to inflame
his fanaticism, and prevent its rage from subsiding. The religion of the zealot is
most commonly the vanity of a strong but unequal intellect, of a mind in which the
faculties are not equally balanced—some few, and those, perhaps, the most selfish
(such as the imaginative) being too greatly in the ascendant to forbear tyrannizing
over the rest; and whether the man in whom this occurs be of the religion of Jove
or Brahma, of Manco Capac or Mahomet, the mere principles of his professed faith
will have but little influence in modifying the madness under which he moves. Any
religion would serve equally well, in the hands of a cunning prompter, to impel such
a person to the foulest crime, who, in its commission, would never for a moment
question in their own minds, or suffer others to question, the great service they were
rendering to God.
The archbishop was a prompter cunning after this fashion. Cunning, not wisdom,
was the art which he employed. The distinction between these two powers
is not sufficiently dwelt upon. The former pursues an object, whether it be good or
evil, without scrupling to employ in its pursuit every agent that may serve it, whether
right or wrong. Wisdom has but one single aim, and that is right; and she
employs but one set of agents, and those are all right. We should have reason
always to suspect the propriety of employing any other, since, when was it ever
known that the powers of evil came freely to work for the principle of good? Truth
is always single; and if we kept this fact continually in mind, truth would be a common
virtue of the household, which is now a mystery.
But power and perverse passions were the objects for which the archbishop toiled,
not virtue; and the practice of fraud and subtlety, from having been employed by
him for the attainment of these objects, became objects of themselves in time, and
he derived pleasure from their practice. The pursuit of mischief called for his ingenuity,
and the love of the curious and the ingenious is a natural love of man. Had
Oppas not aimed at power—had he not craved the satisfaction of passions which, in
his instance, were denied—he would still have practiced the cunning with which he
controlled and prompted Romano, for a pleasure of its own. But in their use, the
creature which they moved was suffered to behold none of the secret springs. The
art concealed itself, and the heedless fanatic assumed to himself, as innate discoveries,
the various plans and purposes, every one of which the other had insinuated.
Not a word spoken by Oppas was without its signification; and when, that night,
Romano left him, he went forth, ready, as the minister of Heaven's wrath, to commit
any crime that might tend to bring about the purpose which he had constantly
in view
That night and the ensuing day was a weary and a painful time to the prisoner.
The keeper, Guisenard, came more than once to speak with him. The manner of
this man was kind, and in his language he strove to be consoling. He evidently
pitied Egiza on account of his youth, and much he wondered that one wearing the
holy garments of the priesthood should have been prompted to the attempt at crime
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which had been charged against him. He was led to think, from the interest which
Romano had taken in him, that there must be some mistake in the matter; and this
led him to yield sundry little indulgencies to Egiza, which were not often bestowed
upon convicts. Water was furnished him for his ablutions, a mirror, and a light;
and when he came to the cell and sat down with the prisoner, Egiza thought he
could see in his features the evidence of that natural spirit of benevolence which had
shown itself in conduct very different from that usually of persons in his occupation.
Guisenard even brought his son into the cell with him, and in the display which he
made of a father's tenderness, his features grew still more softened to the eye of the
prisoner.
“Thou hast friends?” asked the jailer.
“I know not!” was the gloomy reply.
“Thy father lives—or thy mother?”
“No! thank Heaven!”
“What! dost thou rejoice,” exclaimed the other, half revoltingly, “that they are
no more?”
“No! I rejoice that they live not to share with me the terrors of this place—of
their son's shame, and the cruel doom before him.”
“And why didst thou provoke that doom, my father? Why—if thou hadst a
terror of this death which is before thee, and of the shame that comes with it—why
didst thou risk the foul crime for which thou art to suffer?”
“Foul! dost thou call it?” said Egiza, sternly.
“Ay, foul! What other name, my father, for the deed of the assassin? I had
thought that in the solitude of thy dungeon, and the impartial current of thy serious
thoughts, thou too wouldst esteem that to be foul which nothing but the greatest
provocation could excuse, and which I hold in thee to be the fruit of a sudden impulse.”
“And so it was! But the impulse was that of justice, sir keeper! and my sorrow
is that my blow was defeated that would have hurled the base tyrant from life,
and to his deserved hell, in the same instant; for I would have stricken him while
in the full fury of his sin!”
“It is a bad thought, and it were a very cruel deed, my father; and it were God's
providence that thou didst not strike surely!” said the keeper.
“It was a most unhappy fortune for this accursed land that I failed in the blow,
and that the slaves of the tyrant set upon me. Hear me, sir keeper; thou art wedded,
thou hast a child—I see in the dim light of this dungeon that it is lovely. Is
the child of our sex? or of that weaker and fairer, more dependent and suffering,
and therefore dearer sex, which lies at the mercy of man, and, failing in his protection,
is lost! lost! dreadfully and deplorably lost for ever! Is thy child a girl?”
“No, my father!” replied the keeper, startled by the vehemence of the speaker,
and clasping the little one closer in his arm as he spoke; “he is a boy.”
“Thou hast reason thank Heaven, and bless his mother, that gave thee not a
woman child! Else, like me, thou mightst have stood to see her a victim, or struggled
vainly to protect her from the brutal lusts of the tyrant, and perchance of his
slaves. Leave me, sir keeper! leave me! Look not upon me, I pray thee! I am
cursed!”
The tide of thought was overpowering, and for a moment reason seemed to be
swept away by its impetuous torrent from the brain of Egiza. He threw himself
upon his face on the stony floor, and shivered and writhed as if wrung by convulsions.
The child screamed, terrified by the vehement action of the prisoner. The
keeper, to quiet him, withdrew in silence; but he felt more commiseration for the
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speaker, and more horror at his approaching doom, than he had conceived it possible
for him to have felt for any criminal, before this revelation reached his ears
CHAPTER VI.
That night, the food given to Egiza was from the table of Guisenard, and far
superior in quality to that provided for the prisoners. But he touched it not, though
the keeper in person entreated him to eat. He neither looked upon the food nor the
keeper, but with a moody spirit he turned his face upon the wall, and answered
in monosyllables only to the salutations of Guisenard. From this mood, the
good-natured keeper strove, but vainly, to turn the current of his thoughts. He
spoke of many things, of passing events which he thought might interest him; and
at length he referred to the subject of his assault upon the king: but on this, Egiza
sternly silenced him.
“Enough!” said he, “Enough that I failed in the blow; that I could not save.
I would pray now to forget.”
When Guisenard was about to leave him, the better feelings of the prince predominated,
and he came forward, and with gentle accents prayed the keeper's forgiveness
for any harshness of speech which he might have employed:
“But, in truth,” he said, “I am too wretched to respect any, even those who love
me. I know not what I say.”
He requested Guisenard to lead the monk Romano to his cell, whenever he should
come, and the jailer then retired, more than ever impressed with sympathy for his
suffering prisoner.
When Romano came, he proceeded as usual to the private part of the prison, in
which the keeper dwelt, and partook of his evening meal, along with the family, as
if he were one of them. Guisenard had much to say of his prisoner, in whom he
had become interested; and Romano was not slow to encourage the favorable impressions
which the mind of the latter had received. But vainly did the enthusiast
strive to fill the more human understanding of the keeper with his own elevated fancies.
He could not be persuaded that Egiza had striven to slay the king as the special
agent of the Deity. He had seen enough in his interview with the prisoner, the particulars
of which we have briefly recorded, to know that passions and feelings of
earth prompted the blow of the avenger, even as they had prompted the criminal
excesses of the king which had provoked it. The efforts of Romano, therefore, to
inspire a reverential regard for the convict in the bosom of Guisenard, failed entirely;
and he smiled only at the bigotry of the monk, in which he could not participate, to
the great annoyance and the unsuppressed displeasure of the latter.
“Thou art blind, my son—be not wilful,” said he, in tones of mingled entreaty
and rebuke. “It is for the ignorant to be humble. They should hearken to the
words and obey the directions of those who are blessed with a better vision. Thou
seest nothing in this holy man, but a goodly youth who hath been wronged in his
earthly possessions, and has sought, with the base frenzy of a feeble spirit, to revenge
himself after the fashion of earth upon the wrong-doer. Alas! that the noble
self-sacrifice of the martyr should go unheeded thus among men! How many are
the holy spirits, suffering for God and for the truth, whom the blindness of men hath
thus deprived of the glory which is of right their due! But they can not do injustice
always; and eternity heals the wrong as it overturns the vain and capricious
powers of time. It is fortunate that tyrants can only kill: they can not hurt They
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rend the body with their powers of torture, but the soul—the soul, my son—that
smiles at the sacrifice, and rejoices at the place of human punishment, as at a sure
token of eternal reward. Their revenge is the revenge of virtue; and that consists in
the great final triumph of the truth. If they rejoice to behold the tyrant writhing in
the unquenchable flame, which his own hellish heart hath kindled, it is not because
they would witness his suffering—except that in his suffering the truth proves itself
triumphant and makes itself secure. This holy man had no purpose in his effort to
destroy Roderick, except to rescue the church, and to vindicate the superiority of
God. He strove not, as thou idly thinkest, to revenge a personal wrong, and to appease
a merely human feeling. He hath been commissioned for higher objects, and
by a higher power; and the justification which thou wouldst make for him, in the
deed which he aimed at, is only truly human, as it derived its perfect sanction from
the countenance and direction of God. There is no justification for crime, unless
such justification come from the express will of Heaven; and man may shed no
blood, and take no life, unless it be for the salvation of Holy Church, and for the
protection of that sacred principle of truth, which is beyond all value, which the
recklessness of the tyrant who should be cut off, would otherwise endanger. Look,
then, upon this holy messenger in his proper light, Guisenard, ere thou suffer from
the anger of the Lord, with him against whom the decree hath gone forth. I see it
written in letters of fire upon the wall—`Roderick is devoted!' I hear it spoken in
tones of thunder! Now, even now, I hear it! Hark!” And he paused, with uplifted
finger, and looked up, as if listening to some passing sounds. “Dost thou not
hear?” he continued.
“No, my father, I hear nothing,” replied Guisenard.
“Alas, my son! thou art deaf as well as blind. I tremble for thee, Guisenard,
unless the Lord suddenly and of his free grace touch thy senses with a keen perception.
Thou seest not the writing which flames before me. Thou hearest not the
deep voice which rolls along these thick walls, and says, plainly to my ears—`The
wrath of the Lord is on its way, winged with red lightning and confounding thunder.
Roderick, thy kingdom is taken from thee! The Mede is at thy gate—the
Persian is on thy throne!' I hear these words, and I tremble. Thou hearest not,
Guisenard—and Roderick heareth not; but though ye hear not, ye shall both tremble.
I would not have you perish, Guisenard, with this evil-minded and devoted
king, for whom the two-edged sword of doom is even now whetted. Provoke not
the wrath of the Destroyer, but yield thyself to His will, and let His people go. Say
to the prisoner, whom thou hast in bonds—which God will burst in his own good
time to thy confusion, if thou heed not the words which I say to thee—say to him,
`Depart in peace, and the blessings of God go with thee.' Say to him thus, this
night, this hour, my son, if thou wouldst have the blessings of eternal favor upon
thy head.”
“If I would have Roderick take my head, thou surely meanest, holy father. I
were but a rash man to risk such danger for any person, however holy and praiseworthy
his life, who was not of kin or connexion with me; and still more to risk the
lives of my wife and little one: for, of a surety, the king would devote us all to
that fate from which thou wouldst have me release the prisoner.”
“He would not—he dare not!” exclaimed the monk, vehemently. “Terribly
would the wrath of God avenge thee, my son, upon the head of thy impious murderer!”
“Perhaps, father, perhaps; but I love not vengeance, and thy own teaching makes
it unholy. I would rather not provoke the wrath of Roderick, to my own undoing,
since the vengeance of the Lord upon him, for the murder of myself and mine,
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would be of little account to me, after my own blood were shed,” replied the jailer,
with a more worldly, and perhaps more natural sort of calculation than comported
with the superhuman imagination of Romano.
The indignation of the fanatic seemed almost unbounded, as he exclaimed:
“Oh, thou of little faith!—thoub lind, yet unbelieving; who canst not see of thyself,
yet will not trust to the guidance of the Lord! Dost thou think that He would
suffer thee to perish, if thou servest Him? When hath He ever failed those who
put their trust in Him? Thou canst not show me! Yield to His desires and thou
art safe; but put thy trust in princes of the earth, and I tell thee, Guisenard, thou
shalt perish! Save this holy man, and, if thou heedst my words, the vengeance of
Roderick can not touch thee. Thou shalt fly with him thou savest!”
“What! to be hunted by the soldiers of the king through all places, wild and
strange, and among all sorts of men, more savage than the hills they live among!
No, no, my father!—such were a folly in any man; and a greater folly in him who
hath a young wife and an infant child to provide for. It behoveth such, as thou
hast often tutored me, to be contented in their places, to be patient of their trials, and
bear up meekly under the toils which are put upon them.”
“Alas! my son, that thou shouldst take the sacred councils of the church for
their perversion. True, I have taught thee these things; but I have nowhere taught
thee to minister to tyranny, to yield to the exactions of vice, to make thyself the
bondman of sin and injustice. If thou servest this tyrant in his tyranny, thou art
also the tyrant—for a tyrant is a thing made up of yielding instruments and directing
vices. If the tools were not there for the artisan, vainly would his hands strive in
the erection of the palace or the prison. If the slaves were not ductile to the desires of
the master, vainly would he strive to slaughter in his hate, and debase and dishonor
in his lust. If there were no ready men like thee to keep the keys of the dungeon,
the good man would not often be torn from the blessed sunshine of Heaven, and the
sweeter sunshine of life and freedom. Roderick has no strength save from thee and
such as thee. Thou makest his strength, my son, but thou canst not sustain it.
Thou tellest me that his soldiers will hunt thee, among the savage hills and in the
secret places; and I tell thee—for the spirit of prophecy is come upon me, even as
it came upon Saul, so that men wondered—I tell thee that the hour is at hand when
Roderick shall have no soldiers to pursue either thee, or thine, or others. But a
little while—but a few more hours of mortal time—a few more blessed and lifting
thoughts, and this worm, whose very power is come from corruption, and who rules
like death in the rottenness of humanity, shall perish, and be cast out from among
men, and they who bow down to him now, in fear if not in honor, shall turn away
from his loathsome carcase in a worse fear, and with a bitter sorrow for their past
servitude. It is against this shame that I would warn thee—it is from this doom
that I would save thee, Let the holy man go free; and do thou and thine fly with
him to the hills, in fear of the wrath which is to come. Fear not, I tell thee, the
wrath and the soldiers of Roderick. Ere long his wrath shall turn into trembling,
and his soldiers shall perish in battle or fly to the mountains, as I now counsel thee
to fly Let me not pray to thee or counsel thee in vain.”
“And even were I to escape his wrath, and the soldiers who would pursue us,”
replied Guisenard, who seemed to take no note of Romano's prophecy, “what then
should keep us from starvation? I know those hills and secret places, and if they
do yield a shelter, it is like that of the house of famine, which all men are glad to
shun. I should be forced to descend the hills to the cities for food, lest my wife and
young one famish; and that were delivering myself at once to the sword from which
I had fled so vainly.”
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“Mark how the providence of God pursues thee, my son,” answered the zealot,
drawing from his cassock the full purse of gold which the archbishop Oppas had
given him; “Behold, this is the lucre which thou art loth to resign. It is in such
as this that Roderick rewards thee, as the minister of his tyranny and crime. The
Lord is heedful of thy safety; and that thou mayst lack no reason to follow the safe
course upon which I would set thee, that gold—the slave of God, not less than of
man—the gift of the church, I bring to thee, so that in flight thou mayst not suffer
from want, neither thou nor thy child. Take it; it is thine, my son. Go, set thy
prisoner free.”
The single-minded keeper paused for an instant, ere he replied; but not in doubt,
or deliberation. A feeling of surprise overcame him, and, though he had already
regarded Romano with the most respectful and reverential feeling, he now looked
upon him with a sentiment of distrust if not dislike. At length he replied:
“Take back thy gold, my father; if thy pleadings availed not to move me, if my
own sorrow for the poor youth availed not, I were base indeed to let thy gold do
more than these. Take it back, father Romano; I sorrow that it should be brought
to me in temptation, and I doubly sorrow that thou shouldst bring it. For thee, I
would do much; but that which I would not do for love of thee or pity for him, I
would not do for the criminal love of gold—nay, scarcely in the fear of immediate
death!”
“In the fear of death then be it, my son Guisenard; for, of a surety, God will
punish thee with death and with judgment, if thou wilt not let His servant go,” answered
Romano.
“Be it so, then, my father! I believe thou meanest me well; but I feel that I
am right now, and I fear that following thy counsels I might be wrong. In God is
my trust, and if I err, He, who sees my heart, knows that I err not through a love
of error, or a selfish love of life.”
“But, my son,”—
Romano would have spoken further, but the keeper interrupted him:
“Thou wouldst see the prisoner, my father. He desires—I had almost forgotten
it—he desires to have counsel with thee, and he prayed me that thou mightst seek
his cell soon after thy coming. The hour is late; if thou wouldst see him to-night,
thou must hasten, for we have but little time ere the outer porch of the prison must
be fastened.”
Without waiting for any reply, which the monk nevertheless made, the keeper
led the way to the cell of Egiza.
“Alas!” exclaimed Romano, “wherefore wouldst thou close the outer porch of
this dungeon, which can not long confine this holy man? If the outer porch of thy
heart were open, my son, thou wouldst be rescued, not less than he. But it availeth
not to speak, when the neck is stiffened, when the heart is hardened, when the victim
is chosen. Yet I would that it were not so. Guisenard! Guisenard! my son!
thou hast listened to me always, and heard my words with a becoming reverence.
Let them not fall upon thine ears unheeded now. Give ear in season, and take the
promise and the security of safety from my lips. I would save thee, my son, from
the bolt that is threatening. I warn thee; I pray thee! Wherefore wouldst thou
perish?”
The keeper was firm, though gentle, in his reply:
“Wherefore, my father, wouldst thou urge me further?”
“I would save thee! Deny me not! Say that thou wilt free the prisoner and
live!”
“Nay, father Romano, no more of this! I have already answered thee!”
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“God have mercy upon thee, then, Guisenard; thou art in His hands only. Lead
on!”
These words were uttered by the fanatic in the solemn manner of a judge consigning
a prisoner to his final doom. They were not without their effect upon the
keeper, though not in the slightest degree to weaken his resolution. He felt a momentary
chill about his heart, but he replied, unshrinkingly:
“So be it, my father. I commend myself and mine, in hope and confidence, to
God. The cell is open, father.”
Romano entered, and the door was closed upon him instantly. He was alone with
the prisoner.
CHAPTER VII.
“Brother, dost thou sleep?” said Romano, advancing toward the unhappy captive.
“No, father; I longed for thy coming too anxiously to sleep. What tidings dost
thou bring me? May I hope? What says the keeper?”
“God has hardened his heart, my son, even as he hardened the heart of Pharaoh,
that he may the more certainly perish. He denies to let thee go.”
“He denies me! Didst thou offer him the gold, my father?”
“I did; but he refused it!”
“Then all is lost!—life, love, vengeance!—all! all! This, this is bitterness!
God be with me!—God strengthen me to the last, and save where I can not!”
With these words, he fell upon his face in all the self-abandonment of despair.
The monk knelt down by his side, and his hand rested upon the head of Egiza.
“No, my brother; all is not lost. Despair not; the dawn is a sister of the dark.
The day is breaking before my vision, and I bring succour to thee from God. What
though man denies thee, and in his fear or in his hate, his selfishness or his scorn,
he shrinks from thee in the hour of thy trial, and with a weakness like that of the
blessed Peter—which, at moments, is too strong for the purest faith—yet will He
who moves man at his pleasure, strengthen thee and save. He will save thee now,
according to the promise made to thee even in the presence of thy human judge; He
sends me to save thee, and I am ready for my commission. Rise, rise, my brother;
lift up thy head and hear the counsels with which Heaven hath inspired me.”
Much wondering at the manner of the monk, and anxiously curious to hear what
was to effect every thing, at a moment when he was the most hopeless of all things,
Egiza arose from the floor on which he had lain, and stood in silent attention. Romano
did not suffer any time to elapse before he proceeded thus:
“Thou hast the weapon of death, my brother, which I gave thee. Thou wilt not
fear to use it when thou hast a commission from Heaven for its use, and when it is
in the name and on the behoof of God that thou wilt strike.”
“What mean you, my father?” replied Egiza, in some surprise. “Upon whom
should I use it; whom should I strike? If it be the tyrant, believe me, thou canst
not put me upon a task which shall prove more grateful to a famished spirit.”
“Ay, and that task shalt thou have also; but it is not now the tyrant that thou
wilt have to strike. It is one of those who toil for him—one of his arms, his creatures.
It may be that thou wilt have to execute many such, ere thou executest at
full the vengeance of the Lord. Thine arm may grow weary of mowing where the
tares are thick, yet must thou not grow weary in spirit where the service is so sweet
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to the soul. The servants of the tyrant are tyrants also, since in upholding his
wrong they are also wrong-doers. It is one of these that thou must gird up thy
loins to slay. The victim is chosen for the sacrifice, and the Lord will deliver him
into thy hands.”
“Of whom dost thou speak, my father?” demanded Egiza.
“Of whom but Guisenard, thy keeper? Hath not the Lord shown him to your
eyes, and taught thee in a vision what thou shalt do to him? I have been more favored,
my son; I have seen, and thy labors are clear before thee. Thou hast the
weapon of death, and the victim will soon be ready. When I summon him to let
me go forth from thy prison, then shalt thou rush out upon him. In the dim light
of the long passage, it will not be easy for him to mark the difference of thy form
and features from mine, since our habits are the same; and this will enable thee to
encounter with him before he can apprehend thy purpose. Thou wilt then smite
him down, in the name of the Lord; and Heaven give thee strength, my son, so that
thy hand shall fail not in the holy performance.”
The astonishment of Egiza may be more readily imagined than described. He
found it impossible to reconcile the continued and devout references of the monk to
the Deity, and the bloody suggestion, which he uttered as if under Heaven's own
promptings. There was no tremor in Romano's voice as he made a proposal so full
of horror, such as would most probably affect the voice of almost any criminal, however
hardened he may have been in the practice of crime. There was no husky hesitation
in his accents, nor were the tones more than advisedly suppressed in which
he spoke. On the contrary, if there was any thing to affect the calm evenness of
its utterance, it was something like exultation, as if assured that the approval of the
hearer would follow the counsel given, as certainly as that of God would follow the
execution of the deed. The wonder of the captive rendered him almost speechless.
He had no knowledge of the madness which preyed upon, and prompted the movements
of Romano's mind; and the steady composure of his voice and manner, drove
all idea of insanity from his thought. While, therefore, he paused in wonder, the
monk grew somewhat impatient.
“Thou hast heard me, brother?” said he.
“Ay; and thou wouldst have me strike the keeper. It is that.”
“Even so!” replied the monk; “there is no course else; it is the will of God.”
“Thou hast tried the gold, thou sayest?”
“I have, my brother.”
“And he refused it?”
“Ay, in the hardness of his heart he rejected the rich gold of the church's coffers,
and the richer gold of its counsels and its prayers. The church hath no further need
of the soul which hath heard its counsels and its prayers with scorn,” said the stern
fanatic.
The thoughts of Egiza were wild and various. He had no hope but from this
man, who had evidently been sent by his uncle; and all means had been tried (so he
said) but the one, the thought of which had filled his bosom with so much horror.
The hope of life, of freedom, and revenge, made him pause; and the strife within
his mind, as he endeavored to deliberate, was almost torture. However, his better
spirit prevailed.
“This man,” he said, as if musing, “this man hath come to me in my dungeon—
he hath sat with me, and sought to cheer me—he hath spared no kind offices which
would give relief—and shall I slay him now?”
“Ay, slay him even as the Lord hath appointed; for hath He not declared that
all the means shall fail thee but this. Hath He not hardened this man's heart, that
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he might perish? There is but one way, and that is the appointed. Vainly, my
son, wouldst thou seek for another; and it were an arraigning of Heaven's justice
wert thou so to seek. It is decreed that this man is to die, and that through his death
shalt thou seek for thine own safety. Thou must do it.”
“He hath a wife, too, my father; perchance a young and lovely woman.”
“A most blessed woman is Amreeta. God will provide for her; He tempereth the
wind to the shorn lamb, and the birds shall bring tribute to the widow.”
“And the sweet child, my father! He brought the child to my cell, and dearly
did he seem to love it!”
“Of a truth, he does, my son; and the child is one most lovely and winning of
love. And it is wonderful to me that the unhappy father, having the double blessing
of a fond wife and a beloved child, should so run counter to the wishes of the
Lord, through whom alone come these blessings, and by whom they may be taken
away. Oh! that he were wise for life. Oh! that he were wise for his own happiness
and safety. But he is not. The Lord would have gathered him, even as a hen
gathereth her chickens; but he would not, and the doom is gone forth against him.
He must die.”
“No! my father,” exclaimed Egiza, firmly; “he must live! I can not strike that
man, though it be save my own life. He hath been kind to me, when kindness was
service; he hath spoken gentlest words to me, and I know he is pained in soul that
I am doomed to suffer. I can not hurt him; my heart refuses—my hand would fail
me at the stroke; I would perish rather.”
“Thou must not perish, my brother, for the Lord hath need of thee; nor do I censure
thee for a shrinking spirit, since I now see that God hath designed thee for another
work than this. It is enough service for thee to slay the greater tyrant. To
other hands may fitly be given the toil and the glory of the smaller sacrifice. Father!
be with me, and make me strong! I see the duty which is before me, and I
gird up my loins and nerve me to the task! Brother! this dagger is not for thee;
give it me!”
Egiza had not heeded the speech of the monk. The last words, however, met his
ears and he freely resigned the weapon which he had determined not to use. With
the handle of it Romano beat upon the door, and summoned the keeper with a loud
voice. When he heard the steps of Guisenard he became silent for a moment, but
his lips were moved in prayer.
“Pray for me, my brother; thou who art so near to God, will do well to pray for
me now. Pray that I be endowed with the needful strength to execute the purposes
of Heaven.”
While he spoke, the door was opened, and the monk immediately emerged from
the apartment; the door was shut instantly, and it was only as the retreating footsteps
ceased to be heard by the prisoner, that he began to meditate upon the conduct
of Romano, and to conjecture a sinister import in the language which he had employed.
His heart misgave him as he mused on his last words, and he reproached
himself for having yielded up the dagger; but such reflections came too late. The
keeper was beyond the reach of his voice, and he waited in painful anticipation of
events which his imagination but partially conceived. He did not wait long.
With all the solemn devotedness of spirit, such as might be supposed to have
filled and governed the patriarchs of old, when they imagined themselves to be called
by Heaven to the performance of new and trying labors, Romano prepared himself
for those tasks which he fancied were assigned to his hands by the direct mandate of
the Lord. He yielded but little, if any thing, to the seeming necessity for circumlocution
and subterfuge which one about to do that in which he looked to meet with
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resistance wonld find it prudent to employ; and the very dagger which Egiza had
given him, was not placed within the concealing folds of his garment until he was
in the passage with Guisenard, nor was it then placed there with the view to its concealment.
He deemed no such precaution necessary, as he did not doubt, in his own
language, that “the Lord had delivered up the victim for the sacrifice,” and nothing
could avail for his safety, when He willed it otherwise. The passage was long and
dark, nor did the doubtful lantern which the keeper carried tend very much to enliven
its gloom. The light which it gave seemed only to guide their feet, step by step,
to the entrance of the prison; and the impatience of Romano to execute his commission
did not allow him to delay his performance until they had reached that point.
When about midway, he abruptly stopped, and placed himself directly in front of
Guisenard. The latter spoke in surprise:
“What mean you, father? Come, hasten, for Amreeta awaits us. She has prepared
some fruits”—
“Fruits!” exclaimed Romano, “fruits! It is thus that we dream of life in the
midst of death! It is thus that we talk of indulgence when the scourge hangs over
our heads! It is no time for us to think of fruits, my son; no time for me—still less
for thee. Hear me, Guisenard! I come to thee with a message from the Lord. He
hath seen thy blindness—He hath heard thy wilfulness. Once, twice, thrice, already,
hath He sent me to thee, praying thee—for thine own sake, and for His service—
to let His servant go. Once more He sends me to thee with this prayer; nor with
a prayer only, but with a warning also. Undo thy bolts, Guisenard, throw open thy
doors, and bid the holy man of God depart in peace, ere the wrath of Heaven fall
upon thee and blight thee into blisters. He who keepeth the apostle of the Lord in
bondage, keepeth a fire which shall consume, a storm which shall rend him—a pestilence
which shall make him a damned and loathsome thing for ever. God hath
blessed thee, Guisenard, and thou hast much to live for. He hath blessed thee, as
He now sends thee counsel whereby thou mayst disarm His anger and secure His
favor. But His further blessings shall depend on thee. Wilt thou let His servant
go?'
“Alas! my,father, why wilt thou press this matter upon me? Have I not said to
thee, I can not? Greatly should I grieve to bring upon me either the wrath of God
or thy reproof; but I can not think that because I keep the prisoner who was alloted
to my keeping by the espatorio, safely as I am bidden, that I should vex Heaven, as
I certainly would not displeasure thee. I am sorry for this unhappy youth, who
hath surely suffered wrong; but I dare not let him go.”
“Thou art not sorry!—thou dost not think that he hath suffered wrong!” cried
Romano, “else thy plainest sense of merely human justice would have thee set him
free! But I argue and plead with thee no more. It is in the name of the Righteous
Judge and the Relentless Executioner, that I now speak!”
“Nay, father, let us in; Amreeta waits for us.”
And the keeper would have led the way on, as he spoke, but Romano caught his
arm and detained him, while he replied.
“She must wait, and thou must wait, Guisenard, while the judgment of God is
spoken. Hear me, my son. The bolt of Heaven is uplifted—the doom is ready to
fall, and thou hast but one more moment left thee for grace! Once more, Guisenard,
I demand of thee, in the name of the Mighty One of Israel, wilt thou let His servant
go?”
“No, my father! I”—
The words were arrested. The blow was as sudden as light—or as the heavenly
vengeance which the fanatic Romano insisted that it was. The dagger was buried
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deep, by a nervous hand, in the bosom of the keeper; and the words of the murderer
that followed it were as stern as if heavenly vengeance and heavenly power to execute
its vengeance were both equally in the possession of the speaker.
“I pleaded to thee, I prayed thee, I counselled thee, and gave thee warning; but
thou wast blind with a wilful blindness, and I now thrust thee out among the lost
ones!”
The blow was a fatal one. The words of the wounded man were few, and betrayed
the paralyzing effect of the stroke he had received.
“Ah! you, father! Ah! my Amreeta!—my boy—my boy!”
He grasped the arm of Romano a moment after, with both his hands, the lantern
yet swinging upon one of them; but his strength was not sufficient to restrain that
of the assassin. Romano drew forth the steel, and the whole frame of Guisenard
quivered like a fringe tree shaken in the sudden wind of September. He gasped the
prayer for mercy which he could not speak, and by the light of the lantern he saw
the gleaming rust of the steel, as it was driven a second time toward his heart. His
prayer was not heard—it did not stay the blow; again the steel was buried, and this
time broken in his bosom. He fell upon his face without a groan, crushing the lantern
and extinguishing the light beneath him as he fell.
In the deep silence which followed, the hands of the wild fanatic were uplifted in
prayerful acknowledgment to Heaven; and through the dense gloom that was around
and above him, he distinctly beheld an eye like an emerald, peering out in glory and
approbation through the pitchy darkness of the night and place. He stooped to the
body a moment after, and dispossessed it of the massive bunch of keys which hung
at the keeper's girdle. Then moving back firmly and without swerving, yet with no
other light than that of his zeal, and as if he were really governed and guided by the
divine instinct which he assumed to himself, he proceeded directly to the cell of the
prisoner, without faltering once in his attempt to find it. A moment sufficed to set
the captive free.
“What hast thou done, my father?” asked Egiza, as he came forth from his dungeon.
“As I was commanded. Praise be to the Father, and to the Son, for they have
broken thy bonds, my brother; they have freed thee, and sent thee forth upon thy
goodly work.”
“But the keeper?” exclaimed Egiza, in doubt and apprehension.
“Stay!—he lies before thee; step this way, or thou wilt tread upon him!” said
Romano.
“Thou hast not slain him!” cried the prisoner, as he started back in horror.
“Yea; I smote him, as I was commanded, so that he died. Follow me; the way
is dark, but the eyes of God are upon us, and all will be light ere long.”
They had now reached a spot where the passage opened into another, which led
to the apartments occupied by the keeper's family. When there, they heard a voice
gently calling:
“Guisenard! Guisenard!”
The tones were those of Amreeta—of the widow, fond and happy in her ignorance,
whom a few hours, perhaps moments, would awaken from her dream of joy
to the reality of her loneliness and the anguish of her despair. The heart of Egiza
felt chill within him as he heard these tones, and he reproached himself for all the
misery which he knew must follow the discovery of the truth.
“Let us hasten, father!” he said, hurrying forward as if to escape from the reproaches
which every sound of the widow's voice carried to his inmost soul.
“It is Amreeta, the wife of Guisenard,” said the priest, as he drew forth the key
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which was to undo the gate before them. “Wilful man!” he continued, as if in
reflection to himself, “but for his devoted blindness—but that he was bowed down
to the footstool of this accursed Pharaoh—he had still been happy with his young
and gentle wife, and the sweet boy which she brought him.”
“No more, no more, father! I pray thee, no more!” cried Egiza, in tones of agonizing
reflection. “Let us speed—let us fly from this place; I would not hear her
voice again! Quick, my father; thrust back the bolt; let us feel the cool air, or I
faint.”
“The gate is wide, my brother. God hath delivered thee in safety; to Him be all
the glory and the praise. I have been but a humble instrument in His hands; even
as this iron instrument hath been in mine. Thou art free. The walls of the pagan
Scipio are before thee; the palace of the accursed Roderick on the left. A light thou
seest is burning in his chamber; but how soon, my brother, will all be dark in that
palace! It is with thee alone, my brother, thou knowest; and I crave not for thy
secret.”
“I am free!” exclaimed Egiza, not seeming to hear the monk, while the sweat
poured freely down his forehead and his neck. “I am free, father, and I thank
thee for thy service—though I would”—
He was about to say, “though I would not that thou shouldst have paid so dear
a ransom for me”—but he forbore, since it would have seemed ungracious for him
to have done so; and he now began to discover the madness under which his companion
labored.
“Thank me not, holy father,” replied the priest; “it is my joy to serve the Lord,
and to help him whom the Lord honoreth. Thou little knowest how my heart rejoices
that I have been permitted to do for thee so much. Tell me what more I may
do for thee, and increase the happiness which is now living in my soul.”
“Lead me to the lord Oppas!” was the reply, and they trod the streets in silence;
Egiza filled with thoughts and feelings that troubled and rebuked him; while Romano,
his hands reeking with blood, felt nothing but a holy fervor, which increased
with every moment of his internal self-contemplation.
END OF BOOK THIRD.
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BOOK FOURTH.
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CHAPTER I.
The historians have described Egilona, the queen of Roderick, in brilliant colors
of romance. Poetry, indeed, would fail to make her lovelier than she appears in the
pages of history. Living at a period and in a country in which so little was the regard
paid to virtue that vice deigned not even to wear the garments of hypocrisy, and
all was gross and audacious in the vulgar and vicious indulgences of court and people,
Egilona not merely maintained the dignity of the queen, but the unapproachable
purity of a faithful wife and a superior woman. In her presence licentiousness was
rebuked and quieted; and Roderick himself, though not sufficiently refined in his nature,
to accommodate himself to those restraints which he esteemed in her, yet felt
their influences upon him sufficiently to forbear in many cases where his tumultuous
passions and indomitable pride would otherwise have prompted him to brave the eye
of the public, and prove his vices to be not less audacious than they were gross and
selfish. Add to this, that Egilona did not merely maintain her virtue, but, subsequently,
her religion also. Her piety was exemplary; and, though she became the spoil
of the Moorish conqueror, she yielded nothing of her faith; but, with a womanly tenacity,
when she had become the wife of the misbeliever, after the death of Roderick,
she exacted such concessions from her Moorish lord to the Christian forms of worship,
that she is supposed by many to have converted him. One of her arts to compel
at least his external acknowledgment to the images of the Saviour and the Virgin,
is worth recording. She had the doors of her apartments in which she kept
them, made so low that he was always compelled to stoop upon entering. “She
was,” says Rasis, the Moor, “a right worthy dame, right beautiful, and of a great
lineage.” When Bilazin, the Moor, the son of Muza, whose captive she had become,
proposed to her to become one of his wives—his law allowing him seven—
she replied: “Sir, offer me no violence, but let me live as a Christian;” and he
married her; and, through her influence, his sway over the Christians became mild
and gentle as her own character, and the faith which she professed.
But we anticipate. These are events which belong to other chronicles. At this
time, the lovely Egilona dreamed not, any more than her vicious lord, of the trials
which were before them, and the destiny which was to abase the latter, and change,
if it did not abase, her own fortunes. She was a Christian, but not a prophet; and
meekly regarding present events, she had but very little solicitude about the future.
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When, in the fierceness of his merriest mood—having extorted from the archbishop
a large amount of the money of the church—Roderick informed her of what he had
done, her reproaches were fearlessly uttered. She had beheld with pain the treatment
which the lord Oppas had undergone at the trial of Egiza, as she neither suspected
nor believed in any connection between the former and the meditated crime of
the latter. Her gentle nature even prompted her to plead, as we have seen, for the
indulgence of time which had been granted to the criminal; and though she did not
pray for his pardon—for she regarded his crime with too much religious not less
than personal horror to prompt her to such an extreme of charity—yet her pleadings
had not been spared to procure for him every indulgence which might have been
supposed not inconsistent with the doom before him. That he was spared the
torture, might even be ascribed to her presence at the trial; for Roderick's curiosity
to ascertain the secret of the person who had braved him, was only restrained by the
dread that she might hear that from the lips of the prisoner which, licentious as the
monarch was, he would willingly have kept from her knowledge, though perhaps
indifferent to its exposure to all beside. Feeling as she did toward the Christian
faith and toward its professors, her sympathy took an active direction when she
heard from Roderick of his morning spoliations. She well knew that any effort to
make her rapacious lord disgorge his plunder would be made in vain; and resolute
to do all in her power to amend the injustice and atone for the wrong, she sent for
the archbishop to her private apartments. To these apartments Oppas had never
come without experiencing a strange mingling of painful and pleasurable sentiments;
and even now, with mingled doubts and hopes, and not untroubled by goading fears,
he prepared to obey the summons with sensations which he loved too well entirely
to suppress. He had the passions of the man, which his profession could not quell;
he had the tastes of a courtier, and more than a courtier's ambition; and, in the beauty
of Egilona and we may add in her very virtue, there was a hopeful prompter to his passion,
which encouraged him to dream of enjoyments not merely inconsistent with the
profession which he taught, but hostile to the very virtue which he so much admired.
When the command was brought him to wait upon the queen, his heart bounded within
him, his pulse beat with increased quickness, and he felt the warm glow rise to his
cheek from the over-full fountain within his bosom. With a feeling and a thought
rather of the vain boy than of the religious and venerable man, he proceeded to make
his toilet with the care of one about to go before a person in whose eyes he desired
to seem well; and never did youthful lover arrange his dress with more precise and
elaborate care than did the archbishop. The imposing garb of the church accorded
well with his strong and majestic figure; and as the lord Oppas moved before the
polished steel plate which reflected back his person and brought it distinctly out, as
if it had been chiseled in the blue metal of Damascus, his eye remarked with unconcealed
satisfaction the vigorous and stately tread of his person—the manly and muscular
fulness of every limb, seeming more like that of a warrior king preparing with
heavy mace for approaching battle than that of the humble servant of God, solicitous
of favor only in the eyes of a Supreme Master. For a moment, while engaged
in this survey of his own person, such seemed to be his thought. He paused before
the mirror, and his right arm was involuntarily extended. He would have grasped
the sceptre at that moment, and his conscious soul seemed to bound and pant with
the haughty and the fond idea.
“Will it be?” he said, musingly; “Will it be? Will it not be?” he exclaimed
with more energy; “Or do I but dream? Is the strife—is the hope—is the toil that
I have had, for nothing? Will the proud boy, Pelayo, triumph without my aid, and
requite my assistance but in the idle acknowledgment, which is the common
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recompense! No! These serve not me! I labor not for him; nor yet for the lovesick
and feeble Egiza. They think me their ally—their willing friend—their creature.
Fools! they are mine. The hour is ripening—the church is strengthening amongst
the people, and, if the pope will but heed my prayer, it shall have its own armies!
And who shall lead those armies? Who?”
His question was answered by himself, as, lifting the crosier from the table, he
bore it aloft with his extended arm, as if that moment he grasped the mace of the
soldier rather than the sign of peace; and his eye gleamed with the fierce desire of
battle which was working in his soul, as the strong thirst of his ambition led him to
regard this theatre as that which was preliminary and essential to his full and complete
success.
“Ay, the crosier shall become a sword—and the sword”—
The archbishop paused. He did not venture to conclude the sentence, even to
himself. The sceptre was still something of which he might dream, but not speak.
There were still uncertainties to overcome, and seas to cross, and church prejudices
and popular prejudices to be worked down, by the gradual attrition of events, before
the cowled head could surrender to the Gothic horns. The laurels alone could conceal
the shaven crown, and make it worthy of the coronet he coveted; and these
were yet to be gathered on the field of strife. These thoughts, and the doubts that
came with them, oppressed him, and he turned away to the contemplation of other
objects. His toilet was completed, and, bidding his groom provide for him a favorite
steed, he set forth on his way to the palace.
CHAPTER II.
To his surprise the archbishop met king Roderick, just as he was about to enter
the apartments of the queen. To his greater surprise yet, the king smiled upon him,
and spoke in language not merely of condescension but of regard; as if he had lost
entirely from his memory the transactions of the morning. Such are the caprices of
tyranny. Indeed, it is the caprices of tyranny which make it tyranny. It is the alternations
of power which occasionally soothe and soften its own terrors, that prompt
to continued obedience in that spirit which, in the people, would otherwise discard
their shackles. Were it not for the hope of amendment, which the insidious smile,
the bland indulgence, and the cunningly conceived promises hold forth, resentment
would soon correct wrong, and suffering rise into rebellion, and exact justice on fearful
terms of rebuke from the reckless oppressor. The successful tyrant is the judicious
thunderer.
But such was not Roderick. He loved too much to hear the sounds of his own
thunder. He was too fond of witnessing the exhibitions of his own power, and of
having it beheld by others; and in this, in great part, lay the secret of his downfall.
His bland benignity of manner, on meeting with Oppas, was not the result of any
thoughtful policy It was simply in his change of mood that he smiled. Besides,
he had gained one, if not all, of his objects. He had extorted the wealth, to obtain
which his anger had been admirably pretended; and with one whose profligacies demanded
continual supplies of money, the attainment of so large an amount as had
been furnished by Oppas, was a sufficient occasion for good humor. A moment's
reflection soon taught this to the archbishop, and he too smiled—and, with more of
policy than Roderick, he too appeared to discard from his thought the scene of the
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morning, which had been so full of peril to him. A few words were exchanged between
them, and the king, having bid the archbishop attendance at council on the
ensuing day, left him to bestow his offices upon the queen.
A single maid was in attendance upon Egilona, and her she dismissed upon the
entrance of Oppas. She sat upon a raised cushion of rich velvet, which lay on the
floor; and her eyes, when lifted upon the appearance of the archbishop, were full
of tears. She motioned him to approach, and he sat down before her on the edge of
the cushion. In silence she sat for some moments, and her beautiful eyes were fixed
upon the faint but lovely rays of the evening sun that streamed through the lattice.
She seemed to derive an interest from the survey of their flickering and uncertain
hues, which every moment of the sun's decline would necessarily divert from their
place, and diminish, as well in quantity as in richness. After a few moments, consumed
in this manner, she spoke—her thoughts still given to the beautiful objects on
which she had been gazing.
“My father, I have been thinking sadly, as I gazed upon you streaming light of
the declining sun, how the bright things and hopes of life escape from us; how we
see and touch and taste, only to lose for ever; and the thought has occasioned in me
a sort of wonder that we should so blindly and so earnestly pursue visions which
are so deceptive. When I first gazed upon those bright colors, that are sliding further
and further from me at every moment, they appeared like a broad wing of purple
all over the spot where now thou sittest, and even to my feet. I could have laid my
hand upon them where I am sitting. They are now beyond my reach; and though
I rise and pursue—yea, though I grasp them—in a little while and they will flee
from my sight, as certainly as they do from my grasp.”
“Yes, my daughter; but the morning restores them to both touch and sight,” said
the archbishop.
“Alas! father; but with the morning there is a change upon the sunlight and upon
me. The beams are not the same, nor do they rest upon the same spot; and a like
change is in the eyes that survey them. In a little while, and their beams will fall
upon me coldly: in a few seasons, and I shall behold them in hues less rich and in
rays less vivid than I see them now. The sense will be dim, and my heart will not
leap, as it was wont, to go forth in the sunlight and be a partaker of the air. I feel
already a forecast of the change which is to come, and, in my thought, I begin to
perceive the gloomy shadow which time is about to cast upon my person.”
“Wherefore, my daughter, should such thoughts of sadness come to thee?” replied
the archbishop. “Why shouldst thou speak of time—of the chill and darkness
of age? Thou art but young, my daughter.”
“Ay, father; but so is the flower which is cut down in the morning,” was the
quick reply.
“True, my daughter; but thy hope is greater than that of the flower,” returned
Oppas.
“Yes, father, if I hope according to the truth. But if my hope be but of this
life—which, alas! it too greatly is—then have I no better hope than the flower, and
I have a fear which affects it not. This is the sorrow which troubles me, my father.
I yearn for earthly joys, for earthly treasures—and sometimes forget those
higher and better desires which should fill the heart of the true Christian. I would
confess to thee, my father; but not as I have confessed to thee. I would tell thee
of thoughts and desires which haunt my soul, and which yet have no name within
my bosom. This is the evil which afflicts me. I feel that there are thoughts that
trouble me, and hopes which keep me from the due consideration of holy things; yet
am I without the form of speech which should enable me to bring these thoughts to
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thy understanding, and help thee to discourse with me upon them for my absolution.
Wherefore should this be so, my father? Canst thou help me in any way by thy
counsel?”
“Thy case is that of thousands, my daughter, and there is no misfortune in it; for
as light often cometh out of the womb of darkness, so does strength come out of despondency,
and hope from humiliation. The state of man on the earth is one of continual
strife, and chiefly with his own passions and vain desires. It is in his conquest
over these that he acquires that proper grace which fits him for the unselfish
and God-loving abodes of heaven. Thy study must be to overcome these vain desires,
these earthly longings—to bring thyself to a proper and careful thought of thy
destiny.”
“Ah, my father, it is this which I would know. What is that destiny?” asked
Egilona.
“The answer is easy, my daughter. Thy destiny is to live: thy destiny is life
immortal—eternal! It is the difficulty to realize this wondrous truth which carries
down thousands and thousands of sinful people to depravity in this life, and dreadful
despair in that which is to come. If thou, or any of us, my daughter, would
have it as a present and continual thought in our minds that the time which we are
spending upon earth is a probationary time, and that we do not begin to live until
we begin to live for ever, how little to thee would seem all the longings which beset
the vain hearts of those who strive and struggle for evermore, like the fly against
the light, for their own destruction. How idle and worthless would be that striving
for wealth, for the glitter and the gain, which dazzle the poor insect of humanity
and tempt him, in his miserable weakness, to all manner of mean and sinful doings
and all forms of injustice. To unlearn pride and the falsehood which is born with
us, is to open our eyes to a perception of the truth. Humility is the first lesson,
penitence the next, and love the last. Love, the prompter, becomes the consoler,
and finally the rewarder. And it is for thee, having thy destiny of eternal life clear
to thy mind before thee, to resolve whether it shall be a life crowned and made for
ever happy with eternal love, or wretched with a hate not less enduring. Confess
to me, my daughter, the sins and the sinful thoughts which trouble thee; this is the
task which humility puts upon thee. Be penitent, and consolation flows, and eternal
love and life are thine own.”
“I will try, my father, and may the blessed Virgin give me strength to know and
to name my infirmities, that I may have the consolation which I seek. But first,
my father, let me strive to do justice and to amend, in what I can, the wrong which
has been done to thee and to holy church.”
“What mean you, my daughter?” demanded the archbishop.
She did not immediately reply; but, rising from the cushion, she went to a richly
wrought cabinet of Mosaic which stood in the apartment, and returned almost instantly,
bringing with her sundry caskets of royal gems and female ornaments of
great value, apart from their exquisite workmanship. These, the tributes of Roderick,
her relatives, her courtiers, and of her own purchase, she placed in the hands of
the archbishop.
“Take these, father, they are of great value in men's eyes—they are also of great
value in mine. Many of them are gifts from my lord, when, perchance, he loved
me better than he loves me now. Many of them came to me from the kindest of
mothers, and some I have bought, in my own lavishness, from the rich Jew, Benhazin,
of Tangier. I give it now to the church, that I may restore thee something
of thy loss, and, as it were, divest myself of some of the shows of that idle vanity
of earth, which it may be afflicts my thoughts and keeps them from making them
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selves entire and single when I would throw myself at the feet of the Lord. Take
them, my father; wherefore wouldst thou refuse?”
“Thou hast spoken of my losses, and of the losses of the church, my daughter.
What is the meaning of thy speech?”
“Alas! father, wherefore wouldst thou have my lips utter that which is so much
a shame to my heart to feel? Do I not know that my lord, king Roderick, whom I
love not the less that I do not approve in this—do I not know that he hath dispossessed
thee of the monies and the jewels of the church—that he hath taken from the
altar of God the tribute put there by His worshippers, and hath thus despoiled the
penitents, whose gifts they were, of the goodly shows of that penitence which was
to work for their salvation. I trust in the Virgin that they will not suffer harm
therefrom, and I would fain replace, or restore their holy offerings with my own,
which though less sacred, my father, as they are not yet consecrated to godly purposes,
are yet I believe of great worth to make good to thee those which thou hast
lost.”
“I did not think, my daughter, that thou knewest of this unholy spoliation. It
was my thought that king Roderick esteemed thee too devout a worshipper to venture
heedlessly upon letting thee know of this sacrilege. Alas! my daughter, though
the rich offerings which thou now puttest into my hands may well replace in temporary
value those of which the altar hath been dispossessed, I know not what atonement
will purge the heedless offender of this most heinous sin. It will be a curse
and a”—
“Stay!” she exclaimed, “stay, father; speak nothing, I pray, I beseech you, of
the curses of the church. These would I disarm—these would I avert from my
lord's head. He hath been sinful, I know—greatly sinful; but not in wilfulness,
my father. Evil men have been his counsellors, not his own thoughts; and it is my
hope that he will of his own resolution do the church justice for this wrong. I have
spoken with my lord, my father, to this end; and I have also shown to him how
greatly it did pain me to hear the violence of his speech this day to yourself, my
father. I told him (though it would not need that I should show to him that which
his own sense would more readily perceive than could mine offer, would he but
calmly think ere he moved in performance) of the grievous sin to speak in such a
fashion to one so much his senior in years, and so made sacred as it were from assail,
wearing the very livery of God himself. Thus did I declare to him of my
thought but a little while before you came, and I am fond to think that he will repent
him of his sin, and make due atonement which shall be grateful no less in Heaven's
sight, my father, than in thine. Be sure, my father, that if prayer of mine be
blessed, he shall not fail in this atonement.”
“Thou art thyself blessed, Egilona, blessed among women!” exclaimed the archbishop,
while his hand rested upon her head; and he paused after he spoke these
words, and his lip quivered, and there was a tremulousness in his voice which her
ear detected, but the sources of which, in the innocence of her pure heart, she did not
dream. She knew not that in that moment when his lips pronounced a seeming
benediction, that the blood was bounding in his veins with the pulse of a wild and
merely human passion. She had no thought that when his hand rested on the long
and beautifully dark hair, that gathered in thick volumes and fell down upon her
snowy shoulders, that his mind was even then dwelling only upon those feminine
charms which were before him, and was as utterly foreign to the subjects on which
both of them had spoken, as were her own thoughts from every thing like guilt.
And when his fingers, relaxing as it were with the relaxing thought, glided from her
head and rested momentarily upon her bare and beautifully rounded shoulders, little
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did she for a moment imagine that she—kneeling and wlth clasped hands, saintlike
in soul as in posture—that she had imparted the flame which was then scarcely
suppressible in the bosom of him before whom she bowed. She did not look up,
else it must have been that his passion would have been seen by her eyes, glaring
forth from his. There, indeed, it had utterance beyond the intelligence of words;
though it might have been, had she not then spoken, that the full soul would have
forced the unwilling tongue of the archbishop into speech, in defiance of all his efforts
to prevent it. But the pure, subdued, and gentle tones of Egilona were as a
spell upon the troubled waters of his soul. He trembled as he heard them, and he
listened breathlessly.
“Bless me not, father; I am not worthy of your blessing. I feel that I am not.
I feel strange thoughts, and I have longed to ask of you counsel, and have your
guidance in doubt. I will confess to you, my father, that I have sinned grievously
since I received your blessing last. I have been angry, and have spoken harshly to
Gerdovia, one of my ladies, using wicked words, and employing ungentle threats to
compel her better service. But there is a sin in my soul, father, which is even
greater than this, and greatly do I tremble, father, lest thou shouldst deem it beyond
grace of pardon. Know then, my father—alas! the sin—know that there is a damsel
lately come to the court, named the lady Cava, the daughter of count Julian, of
Consuegra, who is gone to Ceuta. She is a damsel lovely to the sight and winning
in the eyes of man. Her father gave her to my charge, and she has been a dweller
with us in our garden of the Tagus, where I made her an attendant upon my person.
But, my father, a discontent soon arose within my bosom, and a strange apprehension,
when I saw the eyes of my lord, king Roderick, gazing frequently and fondly
upon her. Then it was, father, that I envied her the possession of those charms
which God had given her”—
“'T was a false judgment that made thee do this,” exclaimed the archbishop, interrupting
the speaker quickly, “for of a truth thy loveliness is far beyond hers.
She is beautiful, I freely say; but her beauty is that of the thoughtless and immature
girl, while thine is the beauty of soul and person, alike, of the highly taught and
the reflecting woman; and the loveliness of thine eye and countenance, speak not for
themselves merely, but for a rich and flowing fountain which thou hast within thy
bosom of noble spirit and commanding thought. Thou, Egilona”—
“Nay, father! thou hast enough said for my humbling,” were the words of the
queen, mistaking or seeming to mistake, utterly, the purpose of the archbishop. “I
know that it was a foolish vanity in me to think of my own poor beauties, if such
they may be called, in opposition to the lady Cava's; but truth it is, I thought of
them with envy—ay, with hate, when I beheld the eyes of my lord follow her, and
heard his soft words in her ear.”
“And thou heardst him then?” exclaimed the archbishop eagerly.
“Alas! for me, my father, I heard him speak in praise of those beauties which I
envied, and my heart sickened within me; and in the madness of my spirit, my father,
I privily left my chamber and watched my lord, as he pursued his steps toward
the apartment of the lady Cava, having in my heart a vexing hope and a dreadful
fear all the while, that he meditated an evil thing in his mind.”
“And thou sawest him in her chamber, my daughter!” exclaimed the archbishop,
his hands trembling even while they contracted themselves more closely upon the
neck of Egilona.
“Alas! my father, how shall I tell thee? But even to the entrance of her apartment
did I, like a thief in the night-time, follow my lord, and know not where my
evil spirit might not have carried me, but that the lord Edeco then appeared, and,
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with a guilty dread lest I should be seen of my lord, I fled back to my own chamber,
where I could not sleep. The evil spirit was still within my heart—it is now
there, my father, filling me with all vexing thoughts, and making me sin hourly, as
it brings me bitter and strange thoughts and wishes that I know are sinful.”
“Thou sawest him to her chamber, thou sayest?” exclaimed the archbishop, musingly.
“Alas! my father, though I shame to say it, of a truth I did,” answered the fair
penitent.
“Unhappy man! foolish as false! to fly from beauties so superior—to scorn a
heart so much more worthy, and to yield himself up to crime for a silly girl, and
one scarcely ripe to the knowledge of affection!”
Such were the exclamations of the archbishop. Egilona seemed to hear him with
surprise. Entirely absorbed with the conviction of her own errors, she had given
no thought to those of her husband.
“Speakest thou of my lord, my father?” she asked, when the archbishop had
concluded.
“Ay, Egilona, of that sinful, that soulless man, who seems madly bent on wronging
the good, and the holy—he who despoils the church, who despoils the innocent,
and who wrongs thee. It is of him that I speak.”
“Nay, father, but thou shouldst not. It is of my sin that I would have thee
speak to me. It is for thy counsel, not for the reproof of my lord, that I come to
thee. I would have thee chide the evil spirit from my heart, and teach me the better
way and the better thoughts of good. Do this, my father, I pray thee; but
say nothing of my lord.”
“Alas! my daughter, the sin that makes us sin is a sin to be chided also. Hath
not the wrong of thy lord led thee to wrong; and is not one evil the fruitful parent
of the other? The axe should be laid at the root, if we would deny that the branches
should bear. Was it not the voice of Roderick that prompted thee to the error thou
hast committed?”
“Alas! my father, I fear that the error was but too strong in mine own heart—
for, to tell thee a truth, I had strange thoughts and unkind suspicions of my lord,
ere this, and of the lady Cava.”
“And wilt thou tell me, my daughter, that thou hadst them unjustly? Alas! no.
The errors of the king Roderick are but too commonly in the mouths of the whole
court”—
“But not mine, my father. It is not Egilona who will or should speak thus of
her lord; and I would pray thee for that counsel which should strengthen me even
against the thought.”
“And this I cannot give thee, my daughter,” answered the archbishop, quickly.
“Thou art commanded to hate the vice and to fly from the vicious. The Lord himself
hath commanded, and the hate which in thy heart has taken the place of love
for king Roderick”—
“Nay, father, that were a dreadful sin. Thou dost me wrong. Evil is in my
heart, I know—this I have confessed to thee already—but no hate. I hate nought
that has life, not even things that crawl, the poisonous reptiles that crawl and sting,
not even these do I hate”—
“The lady Cava!” exclaimed the archbishop.
“Ah! father, thy words crush me; but think not that I hate the maiden—I fear
her, I fear her charms!”
“Thou hatest them, Egilona.”
“Father, forgive me; I fear I do hate them—I envy them!”
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“My daughter, let thyself see. Blind not the judgment and good sense which is
growing within thee. Why shouldst thou hate the lady Cava, or her charms? they
wrong thee not. The wrong is that of Roderick, not of the poor maiden whom he
seeks. Wilt thou do another wrong, in the maintenance of his? Wilt thou revile
the poor victim, because thou art wedded to the criminal? Alas! for thee, my
daughter; thy gifts to the church are unavailing—thy prayers are unavailing; for
how canst thou look to the blessed Virgin to uphold thee, and intercede in thy behalf,
when thou givest countenance to him who wrongs the Virgin? Take back
thy offerings to the altar; they are not worthy of a place before it, nor can they be
consecrated and made holy when they are the tributes of a heart that is obstinate in
its sin, and pleadest in its defence.
Egilona sank in terror at the feet of the archbishop, as she heard this threatening
language.
“Crush me not, holy father!” she exclaimed; “crush me not; I am but a poor,
weak, sinful woman, and I would be a loving and devoted wife.”
“But thou canst not. If thou lovest sin, thou partakest of the sin; and thy best
confession before Heaven, will be that in which thou declarest thy readiness to cut
off and cast away thy right hand if it offend thee. Tell me then, my daughter, the
truth. The truth alone shall save thee, if it should condemn thee; for though of
the truth thou mayest be convicted of the sin, yet is the truth itself a virtue which
shall prove a fitting foil to the sin. Thou hast, I know thou hast, a becoming fear
of vice, and thou dreadest its presence; thou hast hated it also—thou shouldst, thou
dost hate it. Say, Egilona, when thou hast beheld thy lord, king Roderick, sinfully
inclining to other women, and forgetting thee whom it is his solemn and sworn duty
to remember, has not thy heart grown cold toward him”—
“Never, oh, never!—as I live, never!”
Her ready response interrupted and, as it seemed, somewhat disappointed the archbishop.
“Nay, be not too fast—be not rash, my daughter. The church esteems it no sin
if thou fall off in thy regards from those whom thou findst vicious—if thou art cold
to those whom thou didst once love, perhaps, whenever thou seest them unworthy.
Nay, it esteems it a virtue so to become.”
“Alas! father, this virtue is not mine. Though Roderick has of late forgotten
me, and his neglect has given me many hours of weariness and weeping, yet have
I loved him not less in my soul because of his desertion. Even when I beheld him
heedless of my regards, and following after the beguiling charms and arts of other
women—nay, when I beheld him as I thought, seeking himself to beguile the unwary
virgin—yet did I rather envy those he sought, than anger with him for his
wanderings. I have been ever fond of him, and true to him, my father, though, before
thee and Heaven, I fear that he hath almost utterly forgotten me. He cares not
for my love.”
There was no satisfaction in the countenance of the archbishop as he heard this
reply. His looks were full of disappointment, and he half withdrew his united
hands from their clasping folds upon her neck, as he spoke thus:
“But there have been moments, my daughter—nay, there have, there must have
been—when, seeing him thus wanton, thou too hast sighed, my daughter, for a like
freedom and like indulgencies. There have been noble gentlemen of the court whom
thine eyes have looked upon with pleasure, nay with desire.”
“Never! oh, never! my father. The Virgin keep me from so sad a fault.”
“Bethink thee, my daughter, thou art not infallible. We are are all weak, and
to be weak, indeed, is only to have an opportunity to approve our virtue. I mean
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not to reproach thee with any sin beyond the passing thought, the momentary desire,
the lust in thy soul, which thou didst suppress—perchance, the very moment in
which it came to thee. This, indeed, is thy nature—the erring nature of thy sex;
and not to know such feeling, such desire, is to differ from thy nature, and to be superior
to all of thy sex. It is expected from thee, this weakness. It is thy strength,
when they virtue is strong for its subduing. Such has been thy case, my daughter;
nay think, ere thou denyest it. The church is indulgent, my daughter, and its censures
are only given to concealment and perverse devotion to sin, not to free confession,
not to the sinner who tears open the dark shadows with which Satan would
hide the corruption of the heart, and begs for the friendly knife of the soul's physician
to cut away without sparing the callous and the leprous spots thereof. Confess
freely, my daughter; thou hast desired, thou hast sighed for other regards than
those of thy lord.”
“Never, never!—as I live, never!”
“Of a surety, thou hast seen many noble gentlemen, who well merit the love of
woman?”
“Truly, father, I believe it; I think there are many such.”
“And thou hast seen such?”
“I doubt not—I believe it, father.”
“And hast thou not remarked that there were many having the graceful demeanor
and the manly beauty of thy lord, who were yet more regardful of the love which
they had won; did such not seem to thee at the moment, persons to love and desire?
Didst thou never, in thy thought, and without thy wilful resolve, make such comparison
in thy passing mind? Hast thou not remarked other noble dames, blessed
with the affections of such lords, yet more honored than thee, in their constancy?
Bethink thee, Egilona, ere thou speakest; I know it must have been.”
Again did the hands of the archbishop unite in a fond and fervent pressure upon
the neck of the devotee, as he listened for her answer. But he heard nothing that
he longed to hear, and his hands were as quickly withdrawn as placed, in the mortification
of his spirit.
“Of a truth, father, as I kneel before Heaven and thee, I think never! It is true,
I have regarded other noble gentlemen with esteem, and some with admiration, but
not one with a feeling inconsistent with that which I owe to my lord, king Roderick
It is true, I have beheld with sorrow and with deep affliction the neglect of
my lord and his pursuit of other women, but even when I suffered and sorrowed the
most, by reason of neglect or injustice, I never once held it fitting that I should anger
with him, and never did it seem to me that I could love him less. So far from
this, though it may seem strange to thy understanding, as it hath been a passing
mystery to mine, I feel that I have been loved him the most at moments when I
have believed him least worthy of my esteem, and as most ungrateful to my love.
I know not what this may mean, unless it is the will of Heaven, by which to show
to woman, who is the weaker and the humbler object, that, as she is dependent, she
must be dutiful; and as the love, which to her is the very breath of life, is so capricious
and so little likely to be secure, even where it is proffered by men in other respects
the noblest and the truest, so is it the more necessary that she should be unshaken
in her constancy, that her faith may work in behalf of him she loves, and
for the salvation which were else for ever forfeit. It was by love and self-sacrifice
that the blessed Jesus died for the race of man, which fought against His holy and
saving labor; and the love of woman were of little worth, if she were not ready for
the same sacrifice, should it need, for him that she is bound to—even though he
slight her homage and prove faithless to her love. I rank the love of man, my
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father, with that blessed sunshine which I watched when first thou camest. We
have not heeded it while we have spoken, and lo! where is it now? See, but a
few scattered rays rest upon the orange-leaves which twinkle before the lattice, and
now they are dark in their own deep hue, for the beams are departed. Are not
these beautiful things that fleet from our affections and our eyes so fast, are they not
blessed monitors to prepare us for our departure, and to lift our thoughts from a too
devoted love for any of the vanities and seeming joys of earth?”
“Ay, my daughter, and from its affections, also, where they chime not with the
blessed precepts of divine grace and truth. Shouldst thou become enamored of that
sunbeam so that its absence gave thee pain, thou wouldst be guilty of an error, and
the penalty would be hourly pressing itself upon thee. Still more heavy would be
the penalty, if thou didst love a light which came to thee from the infernal abodes
of the damned. Shalt thou, my daughter, love vices which have a like origin; thou
shouldst”—
What more the archbishop said, or would have said, was lost in a new and unlooked
for interruption. While he spoke, a sudden clamor arose from another part
of the palace. Shriek upon shriek, in the voice of a woman, rang through the
apartment, rapidly repeated and increasing in loudness with every instant. The
tramp of feet, as if in flight and pursuit, followed each interval between the cries;
and while they wondered at the uproar, the sounds approached, and in a few moments
after the door was thrown open and the lovely Cava, her hair dishevelled and
floating in the air, her whole features convulsed, her eyes red, full of tears, and almost
bursting from their sockets, burst into the chamber, and rushing forward, fell,
rather threw herself, at the feet of the queen. Her cries all the while continued,
without intermission.
“Leave me, father,” said Egilona, rising and motioning the archbishop; “leave
me for awhile. I will again send for thee.”
The archbishop instantly withdrew, bearing with him the rich offering which the
queen had made to the church, and she was left alone with the beautiful woman
whose fatal charms, destructive to their owner, had brought scarcely less misery
to the queenly Egilona.
CHAPTER III.
A moment only had elapsed after the departure of the archbishop, when Roderick
came to the door of the queen's chamber. His appearance was the signal for the
renewal of those piercing shrieks with which the flying Cava had startled the palace,
and which, in the presence of Egilona, had been changed into a long unbroken
sobbing.
“Save me! save me!” she screamed in terror, the moment that her eyes beheld
the face of the king. “Save me, dear lady! I pray thee save me from that bad
man!”
“Man, dost thou say, maiden?” said Egilona. “It is my lord, king Roderick,
whom thou beholdest. Dost thou not know him?”
“Too well, too well! Save me, I pray thee! Hide me from him! Hide me
in the earth! Let him not approach me!”
Roderick was about to enter and to speak, when the wild paroxysm of Cava was
renewed. Her terror became extreme, and rushing in the opposite direction from
the door where the king stood, she dashed herself against the unyielding wall as if
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she would have found an escape through it, though at the hazard of her life. Her
terror seemed to increase as she found her flight prevented, and, sinking to the floor,
in a series of hysterical paroxysms, she shrieked and gibbered like an idiot, dumb
with fright, her hands extended toward the entrance and waving away the intruder.
This was no time for explanation; and, venting his anger in muttered curses, which
Egilona heard imperfectly, he left his victim to the considerate humanity of his wife.
Nor did the noble woman who, in that bitter moment, in the despair of the young
maiden before her, beheld the full realization of her fears, suffer her own sense of
injury to make her heedless of her who had been, however unwillingly, the cause
of it all. Her humanity and religion were triumphant over her woman pride. Gentleness
was her instinct; and, sighing bitterly, she proceeded to soothe the terror and
condole with, if she could not alleviate, the sorrows of the maiden. Tenderly lifting
her from the floor where she had fallen, she bore her to the cushions, and proceeded
to a cabinet from which she took some bottles of reviving cordials and perfumes.
With these she bathed the temples of Cava, who, meantime, spoke nothing,
or single words only, but who maintained, all the while, with few and those brief
intervals, a most distressful sobbing.
“Poor maiden!” murmured Egilona, as she performed these kind offices—“Poor
maiden! would that I had never seen thee, ere I had seen thee thus. Would thou
hadst still kept with thy father, in his secluded hills, where thou hadst peace—and
innocence. Alas! how will my lord look upon his face? How shall I surrender
thee to him? What shall I say, in discharge of his fond trust—in fulfilment of my
rash promise? Oh Roderick, Roderick! what a ruin hast thou made!”
Cava shuddered in the arms of the queen. She had heard the tones of condolence,
she had distinguished some of the words, and when Egilona paused, and the
warm tears fell fast and thick from her eyes upon the cheek and bosom of her she
sustained, the poor girl turned herself so as to look up into the face of the queen,
and with broken words she thanked her for the sympathy she gave.
“But!” she exclaimed, wildly and passionately, a moment after, “speak nothing
of my father. No! no! I never more shall see him. I dare not! He will spurn
me from him; he would slay me with the sudden blow!”
“Nay, speak not thus, sweet Cava; be not thus passionate. Why shouldst thou
not see him? Thou dost him wrong. He will not hurt thee.”
“Ah, madam, thou knowest not!” exclaimed the shuddering victim—“thou
knowest not, and I cannot tell thee. I have not the words—I have not the strength.
But thy lord—the king—Roderick—to whom, as to a father, did my own father
give me in trust—he”—
She threw herself from the arms of Egilona, and her face lay prone upon the
floor, which was wet with her gushing tears. The queen strove in vain to pacify
her.
“I was not guilty!” she exclaimed, in continuation; “Oh! believe me. They
blinded me, and the strength of men was upon me. Hadst thou, oh! hadst thou
kept me to thyself, in thy apartments, nor sent me to that far, fearful chamber!”
“Would that I had!” exclaimed the queen, fervently. Cava continued:
“I cried to thee, my lady, I cried to thee in my terror and my pain, till my breath
left me. I cried to thee with all my strength, but thou didst not come. Why didst
thou not come; why didst thou not save me?”
“Alas, my poor maiden! but I heard thee not. I would freely have died to save
thee.”
“I called upon God, too, and he did not hear me. Upon my father; oh! that he
had heard—that he had dreamed of this! I had been safe! But all deserted me—
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none came; and I am—oh God! oh father!—I am what I dare not name, and what
will kill me. Would he had slain me! Would that Roderick had put a keen
knife into my heart, ere I had seen this day—ere he had done me this wrong! But
it is not too late. I can die—I can die! He shall not see my face! I shall not
look upon him in my shame!”
Raving thus with the fever of mind and body both, she started at these words
from the floor where she lay, and looked wildly around her.
“What wouldst thou, Cava?” demanded the queen.
The poor girl did not immediately answer. Her eyes seemed to search over the
apartment; then, as if disappointed, she sank forward again upon the floor, exclaiming,
as she did so, in reply:
“Death! death! I would have death: I must! It will hide my shame; it will
give me quiet; it will stop this fire in my brain; it will save me from my father—
my proud, poor father.”
“And wherefore, dear Cava, dost thou fear to see thy father? He will not
chide thee; thou art not guilty.”
“I am! I am!” she vehemently exclaimed; “I am guilty of life. The life of
woman is her purity. She is guilty if she survives it. Canst thou not help me?
Oh, my lady, my royal mistress! be my friend; give me help; let me have death.
Give me some weapon whose keen, quick stroke will release me from this dreadful
agony. Give it me, I pray thee, that I may die ere I see my father.”
“Speak not thus, my dear Cava; but pray to Heaven rather for strength, for
peace, for resignation,” said the queen.
“Ay, it is well!” exclaimed Cava, now sitting up, and speaking not merely in
tones of firmness but of vehemence; “it is well for thee, Egilona, to counsel me
to resignation, when thy lord hath destroyed me for ever! Thy counsel of resignation
to me is but a counsel of submission; but I warn thee that my submission
will work wo to thy lord. I will die—I know that; I cannot live—I must not;
I will perish, ere my father shall behold me; but he shall hear of my wrongs, and
he shall avenge them! I will not perish in silence, though I perish in secret
My prayers, ere I die, shall move the winds of heaven, if other messengers be denied
me, to bear the tidings of this wrong to my noble father. He will avenge
me terribly upon thy lord; he may not be counselled to submission to such foul
dishonor.”
It would be needless to linger upon this painful scene. Words would inadequately
express the anguish of the unfortunate Cava. She was a maniac for the
time; and it was only by sheer exhaustion of the animal faculties, that she was
quieted at last. In the pause of her passion, the queen summoned her attendants,
and they bore her unresistingly to her chamber; but as the fatal apartment in
which she had suffered the dreadful wrong which had debased her pride and shaken
her reason, opened upon her, the paroxysms of her frenzy were renewed.
The excitement of her mind gave new powers to her body; and of a sudden, with
one piercing shriek, which rang through the vaulted passages, she broke away
from the grasp of those who attended her. With a flight which seemed that of a
bird, and a footstep whose fleetness set all pursuit at defiance, once more she hurried
along the course which she had taken when flying from her destroyer. Once
more she would have rushed into the presence of Egilona, whom she had just left,
when, at the entrance of the queen's apartment, she met the cruel Roderick himself.
The sight was like a sudden blow from a steel-gloved hand upon the poor
maniac. Her hands were thrown up in horror and affright, and she sank to the
floor with one deep exclamation of dread and disgust, which smote to the heart of
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the tyrant. The attendants seized upon her senseless person, and conveyed her
now without difficulty to the chamber whence she had fled, and in which the kind
providence of the queen had commanded that two of them should remain with her.
Nor did Egilona content herself with this degree of care. She visited the unhappy
victim in her chamber, and with a humility which was not without its effect
upon Cava, she bore with all those bitter reproaches, which, in her despair
and agony, the latter did not scruple to utter. The blow which had destroyed the
maiden, had also been a cruel blow to her; yet never did Christian meekness and
Christain hope more admirably sustain, even while they subdued her high and
holy spirit. She herself spoke no word injurious to her lord, though she spoke
to Cava in tones and language of sympathy and encouragement, befitting the ears
of one who had so grievously suffered; and when, at length, in stupor rather than
sleep, the poor maiden lay before her with closed eyes and in utter silence, never
did sinner pray more fervently or plead with more humility for grace from heaven
on the sufferer, than did the wife of him who had been the parent of all the suffering.
Nor should it subtract from the power of her prayer, that she mingled with
it a humble petition for mercy on the wrong-doer. Her love, like the heaven to
which she sent her entreaties, was boundless; and in her charity, while she wept
the crime, she could yet hope for that indulgence for the criminal which the interests
of her own heart, if not the merits of his for whom she prayed, imperatively
demanded.
CHAPTER IV.
The unhappy Cava slept; but her spirit was awake, and her dreams were full
of the liveliest images of horror. The events of the day were renewed by her
aroused fancies in the night; and her sudden shrieks, as she started from her rest,
broke the slumbers of the maidens who were alloted to sleep with her. They
quieted her with difficulty; and, finding that she was watched and guarded as it
were, her anguish put on the aspects of a sullen stupor. She gave no seeming
heed to those about her, or to the pressing and cureless thought, but appeared now
satisfied to endure the sorrow which she could no longer avert. The hours were
passed in a slow silence on her part, though her attendants in many ways strove
to attract her attention and enlist her interest. They spoke in light tones and in
playful language in her hearing; but that which they meant as music was only so
much discord to her soul. Like one sinking into stone, she sat in a gloomy indifference
before them. They brought her music, and the gay seguadille—a dance
originally Roman, but mingled in Iberia with certain Moorish movements; they
danced before her with the grace peculiar to the Spaniard; but they failed to
awaken her regard or affect the dull, immoveable features of the mourner. She
ate, as if in compliance with a customary habit, and not with appetite; and consciousness
seemed almost to have left her, until late in the day ensuing her wrong,
when Roderick presumed once more to appear before his victim. With his presence,
life seemed once more to awaken. Her consciousness came back to her in
a renewal of her wo, though not with such an exhibition of it as before. She did
not shriek—she uttered no moan. Her heart seemed to have acquired undue and
unnatural strength; and though she turned from the presence which was no less
dreadful than hateful to her soul, and fixed her gaze in mute deliberation upon the
stony wall of her chamber, her wo was no less apparent to the intruder in its dumb
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aspect, than when, with hair disheveled and voice screaming as she fled, she had
made her escape from his fierce embrace. He motioned to the attendants to leave
the apartment, and she saw them do so without seeking to arrest them. This appeared
a favorable indication to the mind of the lustful monarch. He approached
her where she sat, and kneeled down beside her. She started to her feet, and retreated
slowly to the opposite end the room; and when he rose to follow her, and
looked upon her face, all passion was checked and chilled within him. Her looks
wore that expression of indescribable despair which says, more emphatically than
language, that hope is for ever gone. Her eyes were luminous, but stationary.
They gazed fixedly upon him, and no single revolution of their orbs took place
while he watched her. Her lips were rigidly closed together; and when they separated
to admit her speech, her teeth remained fast clenched below. Her voice
was hollow, like that of one perishing with hunger in the deep abyss of some dismal
cavern; and every word which she uttered went into his soul like a keen iron
He trembled while he heard her.
“My lord, approach me not. If you do, you approach one who is wedded to
and resolved for death. The power of death is even now upon me. I feel it in
me; in my veins—in my head—in my heart. If this may not disarm your cruel
lust, may God have mercy on me—I can do no more. You have already doomed
me. Be satisfied, and leave me to die. It will not be long; and I would be at
peace—such peace as you have left me—until that moment. Be merciful; let me
not pray to you in vain. Be merciful, and spare me from any farther violence.”
“And why do you fear violence at my hands, fair Cava?” replied the monarch,
in tones in which respect and appetite were strangely mingled. He approached
as he spoke. She waved him back, while she replied:
“Why do I fear violence at the hands of him whose brutal power hath destroyed
me? Why does the mother clasp the shivering infant to her bosom, when
she hears the tramp of the wild beast which hath devoured its brother? But you
mistake me, king Roderick; I do not fear your violence. You cannot harm me
now. You cannot—you dare not again seize me, with foul thoughts, in your polluting
embrace. I am secure from that in your fears, in your apprehensions, and
these spare mine own. You would as soon clasp the decaying bones of the already
buried, as clasp me. In the death which is now feeding on me, and which
you must behold in these eyes, I am secure. It is your touch from which I would
fly; it is your presence that I would not behold; it is your voice which I would
not hear.”
“So stern, so cruel to me, fair Cava; whose only error was in loving thee too
much,” said the monarch.
“Thou love!” she exclaimed; “oh God! how are thy blessings and thy benefits
profaned! Love cherishes, but thou hast destroyed. In thy selfish and sinful
lusts, king Roderick, thou hast blasted as sweet a hope as ever blossomed in poor
maiden's heart. For the pleasure of thy foul passion—the passion of an hour—
thou hast taken from me life and love, and all that I have lived for, and all that I
could love; and now I crave but one mercy at thy hands—that, as with thy unmanly
violence thou hast degraded me from hope, and deprived me of the love
which honored and would have blessed me, thou wilt employ another violence,
in compliance with my prayer—the only one which I make to thee—and rid me
of life also. Do so, king Roderick; and if I cannot bless thee, I will at least thank
thee for the kind though destroying blow.”
“Alas! Cava, wherefore dost thou urge me thus? Why wilt thou not be happy,
as I implore thee? Thou art not the beloved of a poor hilding—of a trader to
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Tangier and the Pillars, that needest to be virtuous. Thy state gives thee a certain
freedom which thou wert not wise not to use. Wouldst thou be unlike the
other dames of the court, many of whom would joy at thy fortune? Remember,
it is a king who implores thee, fair Cava; he can make thee a princess, before
whom even Egilona herself shall how. He can deck thee with jewels, and honor
thee with a service which shall vex into jealous fever the proudest damsels of the
court.”
“Thou knowest me not, king Roderick. These things have no power upon my
thoughts. I seek for no admiration which shall beget envy in others; nor would
I trench upon one smallest right of that noble lady, Egilona. But why do I speak
to thee thus? Thou canst not persuade me, king Roderick; thou mayst trample
me into submission by thy brutal strength; thou mayst misuse this frail body by
cruel and unmanly violence; but it is my joy that thon canst not move my spirit;
thou canst not persuade my mind by any temptation which thou showest me. If
it has seemed meet with God to deny me the strength to resist thine, at least He
hath not denied me the resolution of soul to reject thy prayers and scorn the arts
and temptations with which thou wouldst bring me to thy purpose. This is my
consolation now; that I have not yielded, though I have suffered—that I have not
been guilty of wrong in the wrongs which I have borne. It will be this only
which gives me strength to hope that I may see and speak but once with my father
ere I perish.”
“Ha! dost thou hope thus, Cava; dost thou hope to speak with thy father of
thy wrong? Wherefore this? Of what avail will it be to thee that thou shouldst
have speech with him? What wouldst thou say to him, to please him or to help
thyself.”
“I would have vengeance, Roderick! a vengeance as fearful as the wrong I have
borne; and for this reason would I see and speak with my father. It is my only
prayer, ere I die, that he may hear from my lips, or gather, if I have not that privilege,
the tidings from some swift messenger, of thy brutal rage and the disgrace
which thou hast cast upon his blood. He will not sleep ere he avenge it. He will
not sell thee his honor for the baubles in thy gift. I know him, and thou knowst
him well; and when he shall hear of the shame of his daughter, beware his wrath!
it will sweep and rend thee, king Roderick, as even now—better heedful of his
trust than thou of thine—he rends the armies of the invading Moor, which beset
thy coast.”
“But thou shalt not see him, fair Cava; thou shalt not reveal this madness to
his ears; nor shall he have idle knowledge of thy secret. Thou wert too bold to
declare thy purpose. These walls shall circumscribe thee till thou growest wiser.
When thou shalt meet my love with a gentler temper, thou shalt have freedom—
but not till then. Nor shalt thou have cause of anger with me the while. I will
woo thee, fair Cava, as I have wooed no woman yet. I will minister to thee in a
thousand forms of love, and thou shalt not withstand me. Wherefore wouldst
thou withstand my love? What is this demure virtue which thou affectest? A
bond and a fetter, fit only for the cold hearts whose icy temper is proof against all
pleasant warmth. Such is no heart of thine. Thine shalt melt to mine. Thou
shalt smile where thou frownest now; and, forgetting the idle rules of that freezing
chastity which unloved maidens fitly boast, thou shalt meet my spirit with one
no less fond and apprehensive of its joys. Such is my hope, sweet Cava; and in
this hope I will keep thee in bonds until the season of its spring. When, like the
bird which has grown familiar with his wires, thou singest a sweet song of content
in mine ear, then will I withdraw the bolt, and give thee the freedom which
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thou wilt not use. Meanwhile, sweetest Cava, give ear to reason, and bend thy
heart, stern and stubborn though it be, to the fond pleading and the single truth of
mine.”
“King Roderick, I trust thou wilt not keep me from my father,” said the forlorn
woman.
“Will I not! Believe me, but I will. I am doubly sworn to it now, since thou
hast forewarned me of thy purpose. My love for thee is enough to make me resolute
in this; and while thou threatenest, a prudent caution prompts me no less
to the same resolve. Thou art my prisoner, sweet Cava; but like a choice bird,
of mellowest note and loveliest plumage, thou shalt be so tended that thou shalt
not feel thy bondage, nor behold the wires which restrain thee. Ere many days,
thou wilt forget thy cage, and begin thy song of gladness as before.”
“If thou hast so resolved, king Roderick, I have not the strength to break my
bonds, nor the wing to fly them; but I may at least be permitted to hope that I
bear my bondage in solitude. I will bear thy restraints, if thou come not nigh. I
will be submiss, so that thou come not near to compel it. But I warn thee, king,
that though I have not the strength to break thy chain, nor the wing to fly from
thy prison, yet I despair not of escape from thee, and I feel that vengeance is sure.
I know that I will break through these vain restraints of thy power, and I trust in
Heaven's justice to avenge my wrong.”
“I fear it not, sweet Cava; and thy threats, not less than thy hopes, are idle and
fruitless. The walls are thick, and my guards fill the garden. How canst thou
escape?”
She moved a step toward him, ere she replied; then, in solemn accents, which
he felt even while he flouted them, she spoke:
“By a stronger arm than thine—by Death! I tell thee, king Roderick, that
she, the pale maiden, who was given to thee in trust—having youth, and beauty,
and a heart which was gushing with warm hope and the innocentest love, but
whom in thy wanton cruelty thou hast dishonored and destroyed—will escape thee
by death. It comes—slowly, perchance, but surely; and I feel that it is at hand
Ere three days, I tell thee, thou wilt hear, when thou least thinkest to hear, or it
may be when thou least thinkest of her—that she is free. They will tell thee,
while the untasted wine is at thy lips, that Cava, thy victim, is dead—that she fears
thee no longer, as she fears thee now. Thou will hear; and, haughty as thou art,
thou wilt tremble.”
He did tremble, though he ceased not to speak boldly, and in accents persuading
her to guilt. But she answered him no more. She turned from his presence, and
gave no reply to his solicitations, even if she heard them. After fruitless efforts,
as well of argument as of entreaty, he resolved for the present to forbear her presence,
trusting that time and subduing circumstances might change her temper, and
soften that stern resolve of character, which it had not been his lot, in that licentious
court which he ruled, to encounter often—and which, indeed, from the gentleness
of Cava's demeanor heretofore, and the pliant softness of her manner, would
have seemed as foreign to her character as it was singular in his sight. Her character
had undergone a most unexpected change. She was no longer timid, shrieking,
and apprehensive. She was strong in her despair, resolute from the dreadful
cruelty to which she had been subjected, and totally unapprehensive, as she had
already suffered the worst of injuries. When Egilona visited her, which she did
soon after the departure of Roderick, she found her as calm as the immoveable
rock, and seemingly as insensible.
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CHAPTER V.
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The desires of the archbishop were in some measure gratified, though the interview
with Egilona had been productive of but very partial gratification to his personal
feelings. The treasure which he had received from the queen, compensated
in great part for that of which Roderick had despoiled him; and the discovery he
had made, while in attendance, and which abridged the interview, had its advantages,
and furnished the argument which he had long desired by which to move
count Julian to his purpose. To effect this object, what did it matter to him that
the girl was destroyed? What was her virtue, her peace of mind, her happiness
in this life and the next, to his ambition? Had there been thousands, instead of
one, whose sacrifice were essential to his projects, he would not have scrupled to
have required it; though the temporary and uncertain dominion of a few short years
over a vicious and changing people, was the sole reward as it was the sole stimulant
to such a grievous sin.
The shrieks of Cava, her flight and dishevelled appearance, as, rushing from the
brutal embrace of Roderick, she sought the presence and protection of the queen,
revealed the catastrophe to the archbishop. When he reached his own palace, he
proceeded to avail himself of his knowledge. In his private chamber, he prepared
the billet which follows:
“To Julian, Count of Consuegra, in command at Ceuta, etc.
“It is in the mouths of many that Julian left his daughter, Cava, at the court of
king Roderick, as he well knew the surpassing beauty of her charms, and as well
the fierce passion of the king for such loveliness as hers. That he hath not erred
in his expectations, is no less the rumor of the court. Cava, it is said, hath been
distinguished by the king's eye; and the bruit is, that, though she hath lost in virtue,
yet will the gain of Julian in high station be proportionate to her loss and great
beyond his desire. Yet, though this be the speech of many who have integrity and
speak not often idly, there are some who remember of the noble blood and proper
pride of the Julian family, who, though they cannot gainsay the tidings of king
Roderick's favor and of the frailty of the lady Cava, are yet unwilling to yield faith
so readily to that which reports the willing pliance of Julian to his own dishonor.
One of these, in his sorrow and his doubt, hath written these presents. He asks
not for reply, since the deeds of the father, hereafter to be shown, will testify how
far he hath been a party to the ruin of his child.”
This done, he called a trusty courier, to whom he gave instructions to proceed
to the command of count Julian, at Ceuta, to whom he should contrive the delivery
of the letter without being seen to do so. The characters of the writing were disguised,
and there was no signature. He well knew that with a man of the high
spirit and proud sense of honor of count Julian, it needed not a name to prompt him
to action in a matter of such painful moment; yet the courier had his instructions to
wait, observe, and, if need be, to act discretionally upon the movements of Julian,
with authority from the archbishop to declare himself as the bearer of the letter, and
to reveal its author, should events seem favorable to that course
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CHAPTER VI.
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A day passed, and the night following came the release of Egiza from his dungeon.
His escape from his pursuers has been noted, and we have seen his safe arrival
with Romano at the palace of the archbishop. His appearance was productive
of no little anxiety to the latter, who felt that he was hourly accumulating new toils
around himself, from which nothing but the strong hand and the rapid progress of
desired events could give him extrication. To his nephew, he spoke freely of his
fears.
“You must fly. There is no shelter for you here. Your escape, and the death
of Guisenard, will rouse the rage of the tyrant even more greatly than before, and
he will hunt you in every suspected quarter. My palace will be one of the first
places of suspicion, and you must fly from it this very night.”
“God will keep his own!” exclaimed Romano; “let the holy man resolve for
himself, my father. He hath slain the jailer, and he hath confounded the pursuers;
and he will write the doom upon the walls, yea, in the very face of this Belshazzar;
and the Lord will be his keeper, and he will suffer no harm. Praise be to the
Lord!”
The zealot continued to murmur to himself in broken prayers and praises, but the
archbishop gave them little heed; and though his conduct awakened the wonder of
the prince, yet he was too much filled with his own troubles of mind to dwell long
upon those of another. His reply to Oppas revealed the deep anxiety which possessed
his soul.
“Tell me not of flight, uncle; tell me of nothing but the maiden. What of Cava?
Speak!—answer me that.”
Romano looked up with some bewilderment. Oppas had his own reasons for
concealment of the truth. He replied, evasively:
“Indeed, my son, I know nothing.”
“Speak not to me of flight, then. I leave not Toledo till I see her and know all,
and hear from her own lips whether I dare continue to look upon her with hope,
or”—
He paused and clasped his burning brow with his hands for a moment; then starting
suddenly, he was about to depart.
“Whither wouldst thou go?” demanded the archbishop.
“I know not; I am blind—I am without thought or direction,” was the desperate
reply.
“Nay, then, my son,” said the archbishop, placing his hand tenderly upon the
shoulder of the youth, “let me counsel thee.”
“Restrain him not, father!” exclaimed Romano; “he does the will of a greater
than thou. The spirit of the Lord is upon him, and His hand shall guide his footsteps.
How hath He led him in safety, to the discomfiture of the pursuers. The
fierce man, thirsting for his blood, stood up in the way of the Lord, and I smote
him—even under the fifth rib I smote him, as the Lord had commanded.”
“I must go, uncle,” said Egiza to the archbishop, in a whisper. “I cannot remain
here in safety, and I would not wish to do so. I must seek the palace gardens
this night, since I may best penetrate them now undiscovered by the guards
But I would not have this strange priest to follow or go with me. Thou must divert
his thought—his attention. Do not suffer him to pursue me.”
This did not appear so easy a matter. The zealot seemed to consider himself the
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special attendant of the man of God; and when Egiza rose, he rose also—when he
moved, he followed him—and when he spoke, the look of Romano denoted the
watchful regard which he gave to every syllable that was uttered. But the ready
thought of Oppas relieved the prince of his difficulty.
“Command him as thou wilt, my son,” he replied to Egiza, in the same subdued
tones; “he will obey thee. Speak to him with authority; it will the more insure
thee his regard to what thou sayest, for he holds himself, by divine command, to be
thy follower and servant.”
“I will then bid him remain with thee,” said the prince.
“By no means, since it may be that he has been seen in thy prison, and the murder
of the keeper may be traced home to him. If he be found here, suspicion
necessarily touches me, and it behoves me at this moment to be doubly cautious.
Send him rather beyond the walls: stay, come with me while I will find thee a
commission for him. But bid him await thy return here.”
This dialogue was conducted in a whisper. Egiza, as the archbishop counselled
him, bade the zealot await his return. He folded his hands upon his breast, and
howed reverently as he promised to obey.
“As thou wilt, holy brother. To move or to rest, to strike or to spare, even as
thou commandest, am I resolved and ready. They serve not the Lord who serve
Him not according as He wills, and not as they will themselves; and the self-willed
and the stiff-necked He smiteth with the sword. Ay, He smiteth him with a sword
in the moment of his presumption, and his pride is sorely humbled. I will await
thee, holy brother, even as thou commandest; the will of God be done.”
The archbishop, regarding the famished and enfeebled looks of the zealot, inquired
if he needed not food.
“Food! holy father; no! This earthly tabernacle hath need of little, and that
little I already have. My food is the contemplation of the Lord's glories, His mysterious
ways, and His almighty providence In my fastings I have heavenly manna.
The bread which supports me is His blessed love; the drink which refreshes me is
the blood of His atoning grace. Shall I hunger after earthly and low meats, when
such food as this is spread before me? I were most unwise to do so; and the taste
were perverse which could endure the common viands of mortal desire, after such
blessed refreshment.”
“But thou wilt grow weak and weary, my brother, unless thou wilt partake of
this mortal diet. Thy limbs are feeble now—thy face is thin and wan”—
“Feeble, my father! dost thou say? Alas! thou art blind to say so. The
strength is great within me. Thou knowest not the power, under the Father, of
these poor limbs. I smote him—thou shouldst have seen me smite him; though he
had eaten of flesh, and was strong among men, after the common thinking of mankind—
yet I smote him, even as the butcher felleth the ox, with a single blow did I
smite him to the earth. Yet had he eaten in my sight—he and his wife! May the
blessing and the bounty of the Lord be upon her and the child!”—
Egiza shuddered and turned away with a strange sickness, as he listened to these
words. But the fanatic proceeded:
“He had eaten and drunken of earthly food, and he fancied that he was strong.
He refused the Lord—he defied His power—and he perished. But I, who had not
eaten, holy father—if thou wilt believe me—I, who had eaten but of the bitter root,
and drank but of the simple water, for days and weeks—I, whom they call feeble
and thin—with the blessing and strength of the Lord, I smote this strong man who
had fed upon flesh daily and he fell like an infant before my blow. Vainly did he
strive; for though he lifted his arm to avert the blow, and would have grasped my
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throat with his extended fingers, yet the arm was palsied and the fingers were stiff,
and they could not seize the flesh upon which they rested. Wonderful, wonderful
is the Lord! He is a God doing wonders!”
The madness of the zealot was evidently increasing in even degree with his fast
increasing feebleness; and anxious though Egiza was to obtain intelligence of Cava,
and thinking indeed of little else, he could not forbear to linger and to listen to the
peculiar idiosyncrasy which Romano's words developed. He little knew how completely
his madness had been the result of that artful management of his uncle, of
which he, too, had been, in another respect, the equally unconscious victim.
CHAPTER VII.
They left Romano, and proceeded to confer in another apartment. Here they resolved
that the fanatic should be sent upon some business of fancied importance out
of Toledo. This charge the archbishop assumed to himself—Egiza being required
simply to instruct the priest to obey him, as if he himself commanded in each particular.
The prince then demanded a dagger from his uncle, which he received, and
hiding it in his bosom, he prepared to take his departure. When they returned to
the room in which Romano had been left, they found him lying upon his face. He
was faint with exhaustion; and though he seemed conscious of their presence and
care, he did not at the moment give any evidence that he understood their words.
The archbishop commanded that wine should be brought and poured into his mouth
This revived him. A little food was brought at the same time, and an effort was
made to force or persuade him to eat. But it was not successful. They poured a
small quantity of wine down his throat, and a temporary reanimation of his frame
was the consequence. Meanwhile, Egiza, taking advantage of the circumstances,
left the palace; and though the eyes of Romano beheld his flight, and gleamed with
disquiet and dissatisfaction as they beheld, yet his limbs refused their office. Their
strength, of which he had boasted but a little while before, was seemingly all departed.
It had been overtasked by the labors put upon it; and the probability is that
the hallucinations of his mind had been in great part the result of his ascetic life
and unnatural abstinence. He nevertheless pushed aside the attendants who administered
to him, pointed to the door through which Egiza had fled, and strove to rise
and pursue. But he could not; he sank back with a deep sigh and lay motionless
on the floor. The archbishop at first thought that life had departed; but when he
placed his hand upon the body, it shrank from his touch, and the next moment Romano
raised himself to a sitting posture.
“The holy brother, my father? Where hath he gone? Shall I not see him?
Hath he left me no tasks?”
“He hath, Romano; these will I deliver to thee in season.”
The eye of the fanatic brightened, and a smile of pleasure rested upon his thin
and pallid lip.
“Give them to me now, my father!” he exclaimed, striving desperately to rise to
his feet.
“Nay, not yet,” said the archbishop, persuasively. “There is yet time. To-morrow”—
“There is no to-morrow for me, my father. The Lord hath called me. I heard
His voice but now, calling unto me, and I sank down in a swoon while I heard it.
What the holy brother hath left for me to do, that must I do quickly. I have little
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time; keep it not from me; let me not go before my tasks be ended, and the good
work done, which hath been left to me.”
“Thou hast done thy work; thou hast been the faithful steward, and mayst go
without fear to thy account.”
“Said he so?” eagerly demanded the dying man. “Did he tell thee this, my
father?”
The archbishop nodded in affirmation. Romano clasped his hands, and the muttered
prayer and thankfulness of his lips were audible, though indistinctly syllabled,
and the tear stood in his eye—the bright drop of a most pious gratitude—in proof of
the delight which this intelligence gave him.
“Now am I ready to depart!” he exclaimed. “The day is done—the night is
coming on—the weary shall rest....... Yet, father,” he continued, rising and resting
his form upon his elbow; “yet, father, if thou wilt believe me, I had nearly faltered—
nearly sank back from the blessed heights—when the promised land lay before me.
What a moment of blindness was that, my father!”
“What moment, Romano?”
“When I faltered.”
“And when was that, my brother?” inquired the archbishop; not so much with
a desire to know as to amuse and satisfy the mind of the dying man.
“When the Lord bade me strike. Then, then, I bethought me of the long communion
I had had with Guisenard, ere he had sworn himself God's enemy and the
oppressor of the brethren; and I bethought me of his wife, who is young and passing
lovely. Many a time had I broken and blessed the bread in their habitation. Alas!
that it was God's pleasure that I should do otherwise. This was my weakness, father;
when I thought too much upon these things. I had almost stumbled, and fell
back from the service; but I grew strong, when the keeper bade me sup with him.
I smote him ere the speech was over; but I had almost missed, I had almost lost for
ever the blessed crown which is before my hope in this hour. And there was yet
one more trial to my soul, my father—one more trial, when the piercing shriek of
the woman came to my ear, as we fled. Hush! hark! I hear it now!—now!—
now!”
He clapped his hands upon his ears, shrieked loudly himself, then with one convulsive
effort fell over upon the floor, still and lifeless as the man he had slain in
his madness.
CHAPTER VIII.
The archbishop was confounded. He had not expected a death so singular and
so sudden. He saw, from the moment of Romano's return with the fugitive, that
the tenure of his life was slight as the solitary fibre from which the indefatigable
spider depends with all his fortunes; but he looked to see him linger on while the
quick and animating spirit of his phrensy was still within his bosom to sustain it.
Such might have been the case, had any new duty been assigned him by Egiza, as
the Messenger of Heaven. The pious fury which had sustained him so long without
food, would have sustained him to the end. But the body—the frail garment of
mortality—was, in his instance, upheld and warmed and invigorated by the moving
principle of mind, wrought upon by the highest of all mortal powers, religious zeal,
and concentrating every faculty of thought and feeling upon a given object. This
object consummated, the chords were naturally and necessarily relaxed. The
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steward had fulfilled his trusts; to employ his own words, and at the same time afford
the proper clue to his sudden death—the duties of life were fairly over, and the
laborer had gone to his reward.
It was fortunate that, at the moment of Romano's demise, the archbishop was
alone. Though confounded by the event, he did not forget his customary policy.
He carefully closed the door of the apartment, secured the key, and leaving the body
where it ceased to live, he retired to his own apartment. Here he deliberated upon
what he should do in the present difficulties. It was manifestly necessary that the
corpse should be removed. If, in the search which he knew would be made after
the fugitives, it should be found in his dwelling, the suspicious which must follow
in the mind of Roderick would be difficult to parry, and, as he well knew the scorn
if not hatred which the latter entertained towards the priest—a scorn that only for
bore injury as it too little esteemed the object, or was governed by a policy that
feared to break utterly with a powerful priesthood—he dreaded lest Roderick should
identify him and his feelings with those of the deceased. This was a well-grounded
fear, and it called for especial caution on his part, not merely to avoid the hostility
of the despot, but to disarm those suspicions which might otherwise stand greatly in
the way of his farther projects. It was his policy, not merely to avoid all question
of his fidelity, but particularly to inspire the king with confidence in it. He aimed
at the employment and direction of Roderick's power, not less than the aggrandisement
and promotion of his own; and this could only be secured by a policy as tortuous
and refined as his desires seemed to be ultimate and difficult. But the removal
of the corpse of the fanatic was absolutely and immediately necessary. This was
resolved upon; and the mind of Oppas, while he resolved, conceived a project in
which boldness seemed the fruit of necessity. He gave orders to his servants to retire
to their offices for the might, while he prepared to undress himself alone. This
done, he arranged a habit which he wore only upon occasions of similar necessity,
and which effectually disguised his person. Having put on this dress, he waited
patiently the progress of the night. When the hour had become sufficiently late,
he descended without a light to the apartment in which he had left, the body of the
monk, and with ease raised it upon his shoulder. The burden was slight. The
miserable ascetic, to whose wretched system of life the irregularity of his mind and
exhaustion of frame, might be ascribed equally, was a mere skeleton, and the powerful
limbs of the archbishop, better calculated for the fatigues of the field than the
humbling devotions of the cloister, bore the corpse as if it were unfelt. Cautiously
moving through the apartments, Oppas made his way without interruption into the
outer court of his dwelling, and paused under its archways, until he could note the
appearance of the street. Finding all quiet, he emerged from his place of concealment,
and went resolutely forward in the direction of the royal palace, which rose
before his eyes at a little distance. He had not gone far when he beheld the shadow
of a mule, and a man lying beside him, seemingly asleep, against one of the columns
of the public aqueduct. He laid the corpse down upon the ground, and went
forward to reconnoitre the spot. The man slept soundly. He was a water-carrier,
and only waited thus the coming of morning to commence his duties. The
goat-skins in which he carried the water, lay about and beneath him; and the
patient mule, as if long accustomed to his present station, stood by, entirely untethered,
and yet immovable. Having satisfied himself that he might pass unnoticed,
the archbishop hastened back, and resumed his burden. He passed the aqueduct,
and the sleeping man, in safety, and approached the palace. When he came in
front of it, he paused abruptly, and sank behind one of the rude stone abutments
of the fabric A soldier paced along sluggishly, before the court, and was then
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approaching. The apprehension of the archbishop was, that he might walk the
whole length of the palace, and if he did he could scarce escape detection. To be
discovered, was to lose everything, and the resolve of the stern churchman was as
fierce as it was ready. He felt for the handle of his dagger in his bosom, made it
easy to his grasp, determined, if he came nigh, to stab him to the heart. But he
was spared such a cruel alternative. The soldier sauntered but a little distance in
front of the court, then wheeled about, and proceeded in the same listless manner
toward the opposite tower. With the change in his movement, the archbishop resumed
his own, and reaching the entrance of the palace unobserved; immediately
darted beneath the arches. It was here that he resolved to leave his burden; and
with something of tenderness toward the corpse, he placed it directly before the
massive gate which opened upon the great hall of the royal dwelling. This done,
he hurried away. With cautious steps he moved onward until he had got fairly
beyond the reach of the guard, when he resumed the unruffled and composed gait
of one who had no motive for flight or fear. He reached his own habitation without
any adventure, and slept, in an hour after, as composedly as if nothing had
occurred.
CHAPTER IX.
Meanwhile, the hapless Egiza, was pursuing his own lonely pilgrimage to the
gardens of the royal palace. He had once before scaled the walls, high and huge,
which the tyrant had raised as a barrier, to keep away the intrusive footstep and
the curious eye from the scene of his lustful and luxurious pleasures. There was
no reason why he should not scale them again. He went forward, approached the
walls, and prepared to do so; but while his hand grasped the rugged projection
of the wall, and ere he sprang upward, he heard a murmur, and the tread of a footstep
within. He paused and listened; the sounds at length died away, and with a
reckless spirit, seizing the protruding rock, and swinging upward with elastic muscle,
he planted his foot firmly upon a strong knob, that bulged out midway upon
the wall, and, in another instant, looked down upon the lonely maze of grove and
garden, that spread themselves out before his eye, in the spacious courts within.
All was silent at that moment in the scene before him. The moon was just rising,
and brought with her from the east a gentle breeze, that, as it came subdued among
the flowers, was rather a melodious breathing than a zephyr. The deep leaves of
the olive lay here and there like glittering specks of water before his eye, as they
gave a plane surface to her rising glance; and the vine spreading with dark purple
clusters, in a wanton maze that clasped even the tops of the gigantic oak-tree, and
bound them in many places to the wall itself, upon which he leaned, and over
it wandered with unrestrained luxuriance, made a roof to the verdant neighborhood,
which rendered it a spot as secret and secure as it seemed sacred to the generous nature
to which it owed so much. How beautiful was the night, even to his gaze! He had
a soul open to such influences, and it was a source of frequent sarcasm, if not censure,
on the part of his brother Pelayo, that he could dream away the hours in
slumbrous groves, as idle as the birds that fill them. “At our birth,” Pelayo was
wont to say; “at our birth, Egiza had all the ballad minstrelsy,” and the phrase
denoted truly the pliant spirit of the now hapless youth to all gentle and natural
influences. Though miserable, he could not even now reject the sentiment of loveliness
which filled his soul, at the various pictures which lay before him The
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moonlight, rising over the gloomy towers of the palace, stole through the thinly
scattered leaves and the open boughs, and lay, here and there, like so many silvery
gems, mottling the dusky ground; while, on the thicker foliage, her glances rested
as upon a plate of green and polished metal, which reflected back a loveliness that
was even richer than that they received. A light more subdued, and therefore
sweeter than that of day, played fantastically upon the gloomy towers of the palace,
and the solemn crags of rock which furnished a natural wall to one portion of the
garden, through the ledges of which the interrupted Tagus went slightly murmuring.
Dark hollows in the rocks, and among the courts of the palace, where the light did
not come, stood like so many lurking shadows, crouching for concealment. Upon
those towers the eyes of Egiza were riveted in mournful anxiety. What were
their secrets? How anxiously did he desire, yet how greatly did he dread to know
what they could unfold. To think only, was to suffer a misery too acute for his
endurance; and he was about to rise upon the top of the wall, and descend to its
inner base, when a slight rustling in the leaves below warned him to use greater caution.
He drew back and listened quietly, though with unspeakable impatience, for
other sounds, while his eye peered watchfully over the wall. In a few moments a
soldier emerged from the chesnut-grove, which lay at a little distance off, the thick
foliage and massive limbs of which had entirely concealed him, and the glittering
shaft of his silver-headed pike waved as he paced along within a few feet only of
the eye of the fugitive. He could have grasped it with a sudden effort, and had
there been but one soldier, and no other mode of entrance into the garden, he would
not have scrupled an instant to have done so. But in another moment a second
soldier made his appearance from an opposite point, and the two moved off together
in the direction of one of the towers of the palace, to the guard of which they
seemed to have been assigned. Egiza readily saw the risk and danger of descending
from the spot at which he stood. While he gazed and listened, his eye turned on
the wall which lay by the Tagus, and partly within its waters, the murmuring
sounds of which had guided his ears, and insensibly attracted his sight; and he saw
that the region of the garden upon which he looked lay in greater depth of shade
than any other. He readily conceived that in this quarter the grounds would not
be so well guarded as that lying toward the city, and the thought which prompted
him to seek an entrance in that direction was instantly acted upon. He leaped once
more to the ground outside the wall, hurried around the heavy blocks of palace and
prison, which lay between him and the river, and soon reached its margin. A little
farther observation only was necessary, to enable him to see that it was easy to
enter from this quarter. The majestic river floated on calmly beside him, but as it
shallowed to its shores in little rivulets, and broke upon the rock of wall that
divided it from the garden, where its murmurs made a fitting music for the triumphant
and stately march of the stream which went on so unheedingly, he felt that
he could wade easily to the ledges that lay at the foot of the wall, and he then
thought that with the assistance of the shrubbery that grew thickly, even amid the
shallows, he might readily effect his ascent. He pressed forward unheeding the
depth of water, though, in some of the hollows of the stream, he found himself up
to his waist. Passing over the rocks, which were scattered thickly about, he soon
reached the base of the wall, and paused for momentary rest and observation.
He sat upon a stone the while, which was covered with moss; around him the
bushes were thickly waving, and from a cleft in a larger rock, which rose beside
him, a ragged tree had shot upward, crooked and imperfect in its growth, but nevertheless
admirably calculated to serve his purposes. Of this tree he availed himself
to rise to the wall, and then his task was easy. The groves within were of a
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donsity which guaranteed security from all passing scrutiny, and no stir or sound below
him indicated the presence of the jealous sentinel. Seizing upon the broad and
massive limbs of a huge chesnut-tree which grew near an angle of the wall, he
descended by its trunk, and once more found himself within the same inclosure
with the beloved object of his affections and his fears.
END OF BOOK FOURTH.
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BOOK FIFTH.
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CHAPTER I.
Meanwhile, what of the unhappy Cava? We left her abandoned to despair, and
eagerly desirous of that fate which, she predicted to her seducer, was approaching
fast. The encouragement which she gave to her grief was calculated to contribute
to the fulfilment of the prediction. Yet she had uttered no sorrow. She now poured
forth no clamorous shriek, such as had startled the echoes of the palace when first
king Roderick had committed his brutal violence. She was now silent in her wo,
but it was the deadlier and deeper from its suppression. She sat apart from those
who watched her, while her face wore all the rigidity of marble. Her ear seemed
obtuse; she grew indifferent to what they spoke, and almost unconscious of their
voices. When her eyes were uplifted they did not seem noteful of the objects upon
which they were fixed. There was a glazed and death-like lustre in their expression,
as if the tears had become frozen in the orb, and preserved its glow while
utterly defeating its capacity to see.
Vainly did the maidens seek to interest, or, at least, to attract her attention. They
tried the arts of music upon her, but in vain—they moved her not. They engaged
in curious games beneath her eyes, but she took no heed of their progress; and they
won and lost—exclaimed with disappointment and victory, without being able to secure
a smile or a word from her for whose attention they toiled. At length the
queen came to their assistance, and, dismissing them, she sought, and with more
success, to attain their object. The victim turned her eyes with consciousness, and
teeming with expression, upon her who was only less injured than herself. There
was sympathy between them—the sympathy of a mutual suffering. The wrong
which had destroyed the one, had gone like a burning arrow into the bosom of the
other; and though Egilona had no reproaches for her husband, she was yet just
enough to know how much he deserved them.
“I have a prayer to thee, Egilona,” said Cava to the queen, as the latter concluded
a kind wish to be allowed to serve her; “and thou mayest greatly serve me. Wilt
thou do it—wilt thou grant to the poor Cava the only prayer that she will ever make
to mortal again? Say, dear lady, that thou wilt—say, and I will bless thee, if, indeed,
blessing from my lips be not hurtful to the pure like thee.”
“Oh! speak not thus, my Cava—thou art pure, and blessed in thy purity. Give
me to know thy wish, and I will endeavor to deserve and to secure thy blessing.”
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“But thou hast not said—thou dost not say,” exclaimed Cava, with much anxiety,
“that thou will grant me what I pray for. Tell me that thou wilt, ere I name it to
thee, since it were vain to say to thee my desire and have it denied.”
“If it be not wrong—if it be not of hurt to king Roderick, Cava, I will surely do
what thou askest of me,” replied the queen.
“Alas! if it be not of hurt to him who hath been of such grievous hurt to me!
Well even thus, Egilona, even thus will I pray thee. It is not of hurt to him—it
is nothing—nothing in thy eyes or in his, but much in mine, which I now implore
at thy hands. Say, then, that thou wilt yield thee to my prayer.”
“Speak, Cava—tell me thy wish,” said the queen, kindly, “and if it be as thou
sayest—of no hurt to my lord, and in itself not wrong—I promise thee to do as thou
wishest.”
“Bless thee, bless thee! Thou wilt hear and judge for thyself. Thou wilt see
that I ask nothing which should be hurtful to any; but, as one whose hours are
numbered—who looks not to live many days—bring me pen and paper—I would
record my last thoughts and wishes for the eye of one who should know them all.”
“Ah! then thou wouldst write, Cava. Thou shalt have what thou prayest for.
But thou speakest idly. Thy hours shall be long and happy; thou shalt live, and
be blest with a devoted love”—
“Oh! vain, vain and cruel, Egilona, is the speech which thou utterest in my ears.
Thou knowst that I cannot live—that I dare not live—that, as I have lost that which
secures respect to life, and a proper love to woman, I have nothing left me now but
to die. Do not, then, utter such words in my ears; thou knowest that they are idle,
and thy own heart, to which I leave it, will tell thee that I cannot live—that I must
die, or live as one utterly shameless in the world, as I am now utterly without hope
of happiness in it. Jeer me not, then, with such idle fancies; and as for the devoted
love”—
She paused; a shuddering went through her whole frame as she thought upon
Egiza, and a worse bitterness than death was at that moment in her heart. Egilona
felt that the poor victim had soothly spoken, and she resorted to other modes
of consolation. These were not found so easily; and the hapless woman smiled
with all the sadness of despair, as she listened to the fruitless efforts of the amiable
queen. These she heard with patience to the end; and when the arguments of the
speaker were exhausted, she quietly reminded her of her promise. Egilona rose,
and was about to go forth in search of the things required, when Cava, seeming to
recollect a forgotten thought, stayed her departure.
“Yet, my lady!” she exclaimed, “I would not that it should be known what thou
bringest me. Fold it in thy shawl; let them not see it; let him—thy lord—let him
not see it, above all, nor know what thou doest. He may else deny thee.”
“Nay, wherefore doest think so, Cava? He will not deny thee. Thou doest
him wrong.”
“Do I?” exclaimed Cava, mournfully. “It may be; but I think it not. I would
only be secure of having what I seek, and I would, therefore, have thee cautious;
indeed, I would not that it should be known to other than thyself. Promise me,
dear lady, that thou wilt be secret.”
The queen promised her and departed, wondering at the suspicious nature which
this last desire implied. But Cava was more sagacious than her mistress. She could
better conceive the policy of Roderick; and she applied to the only person whom
he had not thought it necessary to counsel in reference to his victim.
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CHAPTER II.
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Egilona brought her the parchment and the pen, which she carefully concealed
from sight. The first moment in which Cava found herself alone she proceeded to
make use of them. The fruits of her industry were the two following letters, addressed,
one to Egiza, and the other to her father:
“Egiza—my lord, that should have been, had our hopes been blessed—farewell,
farewell for ever. Hold me as one dead to thee, even if I be not dead to life. There
is an impassable gulf between us. I cannot love thee, last I should debase thee
by affections which can never more be hallowed. I cannot keep thy love, since such
cannot belong or be given to those who are degraded. I cannot look upon thee, even
if I live, since I feel my shame, and should dread to meet with favor in thy eyes.
Yet, for the love which thou didst bear me, give me thy pity now; let thy prayers
go up for one who has not so much sinned as suffered sin—whose weakness of body,
not whose willingness of mind, has given her up—a most unhappy woman—to the
brutal rage of a tyrant. I can speak no more. My cheeks, which have been cold
and pale, like the unfeeling marble, now burn me as I write thee. I dare not say
what I have suffered—thou wilt scarce dare to conceive it. Yet, think only that I
I am lost to thee, to hope, to life, to myself, for ever, for ever, and thou wilt know
cannot tell thee. Once more, my lord—my noble lord—once more I implore thy
pity and thy prayers for the wretched
Cava.”
This letter was not written without many efforts. The tears, shed freely now,
which had been so long congealed in their fountains, stained the sheet. Her hand
trembled, and when she had finished, her nerves seemed about to withdraw from her
all sustaining strength. When a little composed, she wrote to her father, and though
with as many tears, yet with far less effort and emotion. A sterner spirit seemed to
pervade her soul, and as she had prayed to her lover for pity only, she now prayed
to her father for revenge.
“Would it had pleased the Almighty!”—It was thus that she began an epistle
which brought desolation upon the land, and watered every foot of its soil with the
noblest and best blood of the people—“Would it had pleased the Almighty, my
dearest father, that the ground had opened and swallowed me up, rather than that I
had ever live to see myself reduced to this wretched necessity of writing to give you
the knowledge of a disgrace which will cause an eternal disquiet in your bosom. The
innumerable tears which have blotted, and almost effaced this whole letter, will let
you understand the violence I do myself in writing you such unwelcome news. But
I apprehend, that, if I should defer it one single moment, I might leave room to doubt
whether, at the time when my body was defiled, my soul was not likewise stained
with an indelible blemish. Who can ever put an end to our misfortunes except you
repair the insult which has been done us? Shall we stay till time makes public
what is, at present, a secret—when we shall be cursed with an opprobious name,
more insulting than death itself? Oh! wretched and most deplorable destiny! In
a word, my dear father, your daughter—your blood—this branch of the royal Gothic
stock, who, like an innocent lamb, was recommended to the care of a ravenous wolf,
has been violated by king Roderick. If you forget not what you owe to your illustrious
blood, you will revenge the affront offered it, by destroying the tyrant who has
so basely stained it. Remember that you are count Julian, and that I am Cava,
your only daughter.”
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These letters she concealed, having first made duplicates—the better to secure the
certainty of having one or other reach their destination. At this time she knew of
no means of transmitting them. She had not thought much upon this difficulty.
Her first object had been to procure the means of writing that which she well knew
she would not be suffered verbally to communicate to either of those for whom her
letters were prepared, and which, indeed, she very much doubted her ability to speak.
This accomplished, her next thought was upon the mode of sending them. She had
some trinkets—some rich gems, which had been employed in decorating that person
whose charms they could not enhance, and which ceased, indeed, to maintain their
value in such connection. It was by means of these trinkets that she hoped to effect
her object. She had learned enough of the mercenary character of all around her to
believe that she could readily bribe one of the maids about her to execute her desires.
But while she reflected upon this part of her purpose, a dreadful thought came to
her mind. The address upon the letter to Egiza lay before her eyes, and she shivered
as she demanded of herself where he should be found. The dreadful doom to which
she had been subjected, terrible and trying as it was, had too completely occupied
her thoughts to suffer her to think of him. Where was he? she now demanded.
Did he live? Had he not also fallen a victim to the ferocity of that tyrant whose
unscrupulous lusts had destroyed her. With this apprehension she fell upon her
knees—then upon her face, and long and fervent was the fond prayer for his succour
and release which she poured forth to the ever-present God. Her prayer was
heard, and the boon accorded to her. That very night Egiza was released from his
prison, and was, though she knew it not, a close watcher, from the thick groves
which concealed him, of those towers which still held her as a prisoner.
CHAPTER III.
The appearance of Romano's body at the gate of the palace, produced an astonishing
sensation when it met the eyes of the populace on the ensuing morning. It
was beheld by the water-carriers first, and they proclaimed it throughout the city.
The soldiers on duty about the palace, dared not remove it, until commanded by
their officers, and the citizens in the meantime collected from far and near to behold
it. The fanatic was well known, and greatly esteemed throughout Toledo. By
many among the lower orders, he was regarded as a saint; and the rigid and ascetic
life which he invariably led, at a time and in a region where none were abstinent,
and few moderate or just—these qualities in the deceased, had commended him to
the favorable consideration of many who were not low; as it is not unfrequently
the case that we admire the virtues in another, which we dare not ourselves practice,
and which we admire probably for that very reason. The venerable features
of Romano commanded respect, apart from his known character; and as the head
keeper of the famous House of Hercules, he was regarded as one endowed with a
sanctity beyond any of his fellows. When, too, it was recollected how grossly he
had been spurned by Roderick, there seemed a solemn meaning in the fact of his
having come to the door of the despot in order to breathe his last; and this thought
took various shapes at the expense of Roderick, as the crowd momently increased to
survey the body, until they looked up and around them in anticipation, while they
spoke freely of the judgments which were to follow.
By the time the sun had fairly risen, the crowd had increased to such an extent
as to alarm the apprehension of the soldiers. Their murmurs were audibly uttered,
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and now and then a sentence from some hasty speaker, betrayed a spirit of insolence,
which was very apt in those days to draw down summary punishment upon
the heads of the populace. They all remembered the virtue of Romano, and the
transition was easy from the virtues of the deceased to the vices of him who was
supposed to have destroyed him. One of the speakers, a sturdy Gallician, endowed
with all the pugnacity which distinguished his fierce tribe, was the first to approach
the body of the deceased priest, and kneeling down reverently before it, to breathe
forth his maledictions freely upon those, whoever they might be, whose cruelty had
reduced it to its present condition. The language which he employed offended the
jealous soldier who stood by, and with all the contemptuous insolence which marked
the deportment of the military in that period toward the inferior and laboring population,
he threatened to apply the staff of his spear to the speaker if he did not instantly
depart. This threat aroused the other, who, in an instant stood upon his
feet, and looked, if he did not threaten, defiance. His eye flashed fire, and his lips
were compressed, while it could be seen that the short stick which he carried in his
hand, and which was simply the handle for his panniers, was grasped firmly, as if
about to be employed as a weapon of strife. His look and attitude irritated, if it did
not alarm the soldier.
“Wouldst thou bite, dog?” he exclaimed. “Hence—get back to thy brethren!
Begone, ere it be worse for thee!”
As he said these words, he advanced, and, with the point of his spear, pricked
the Gallician in his side. To the surprise of the solders, no less than of the populace,
the stick of the latter was raised instantly, and with one blow he shattered
the spear of the soldier, breaking it completely in twain, just where the iron head
was fastened upon the wood, and leaving nothing but the pole in the hands of his
assailant. This daring act of insubordination was beheld with astonishment by the
crowd, who, for a few seconds after, preserved a profound silence, awaiting the
issue, for they looked every moment to see the bold Gallician hewn down by the
approaching comrades of the soldier; but when they beheld the stupid wonder with
which the latter stood, looking alternately at his broken spear and at his sturdy
opponent, a unanimous and spontaneous shout, which made the area reëcho again,
attested the delight which the circumstance afforded them. They had too frequently
suffered under the insolence of the soldiery, which they dared not resent, not to
rejoice in any rebuke which should give them that revenge which they had never
dared of themselves to take; and shout succeeded to shout, and clamor to clamor,
increasing rapidly, and stimulating momently that sentiment of new-born courage
in the mob which came to them like a draught of intoxicating enjoyment. The
clamor aroused the rage of the soldier, who instantly rushed upon the Gallician.
Their weapons were more nearly equal now than before; and the short stick of the
latter, while it effectually parried the thrusts of the soldier's staff—for he still used it
as a spear—rang about his head with a quickness which he found it impossible to
parry. A sharp stroke sent him reeling backward, and the Gallician pressed upon
him. Luckily, at this time, several of the guards rushing from other sections of the
court, came to his assistance, and the sturdy Gallicean, still waving his stick in triumph,
gave back slowly before them, until he was sheltered in the crowd, which
received him with joyful acclamations.
Their clamors chafed the soldiery, already irritated by the defeat of their comrade.
They collected together, and resolved not merely to disperse but to chastise the
populace. This, however, was no easy matter. The guards were few; but accustomed
to strike without being resisted, they did not count the difference of numbers,
and resolutely determined upon having satisfaction for the insult, which they had
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received. Besides, it was necessary that they should preserve the silence, not less
than the security of the palace; and such now was the excited feeling of the mob, that
their clamors increased with every moment of delay. The whole front of the court
was covered with them; and their heads and hands swayed about with the increasing
swell, like the waves of a broken sea. They were unarmed however, with the
exception of a few staves and sticks, and the short knife—the handle and blade
being both of steel—which the natives generally carried. These, unless the owners
of them were determined upon extremes, could not have opposed effectually the
small but drilled band of armed men that now advanced in a close body, compact as
a wedge, upon the mass; and this determination was, as yet, lacking in the hearts of
the greater number of that mighty but undecided mass. As those in front beheld
the approaching soldiers, they turned, with one or two exceptions, to fly; but the
crowd behind them, still increasing, and as yet ignorant of the danger of those within,
opposed an effectual obstacle to their flight. The soldiers pressed upon them with a
haste of step and a ferocity of demeanor which proved them to be quite in earnest, and
rendered it necessary that those in danger should do what they could in the emergency
to avoid or avert it. A few fell to supplications; but the greater number were
silent and sullen—and one or two, the more resolute among them, already grasped
the handles of their knives. At this moment the Gallician, who had been completely
hidden in the crowd, was seen bustling forward to the front; and this
temerity in seeking the danger which all others were disposed to fly, was hailed
with murmurs of applause from many around him. But there was one in that
numerous assembly—but one—who sought to restrain the fierce mountaineer. That
was a female, a young girl, not more than fifteen, whose dark sparkling eye was
now bright with tears of gathering apprehension. She grasped the arm of the
Gallician, which was lifted high above the heads of the crowd, and bore aloft in its
yellow hand a thick Gothic curtal-axe, which waved threateningly conspicuous in
the eyes of all. Her words at the same time, pleadingly soft, were still audible to
all around.
“Do not, do not, dear Toro!—remember our poor mother!—come with me,
brother—she is waiting for us by the fountain, and if thou shouldst come to harm,
what will become of her?—what will become of me? Do not go forward—thy life
is precious—and see, where the guards come. Stay, stay!—go back with me,
brother—help me out of the crowd.”
“Unloose me, Toly!—let my arm go,” cried the impatient brother, as he still
pressed forward to the front, bearing the girl along with him, who clung resolutely
to his arm, while she pleaded for his retreat.
“Be not rash, dear brother. Toro, Toro!—our mother, dear Toro!—she waits.”
At this moment the charge of the guards was made, and the bristling line of pikes,
bearing down upon the indecisive crowd, produced a terrible uproar and confusion
in front. The assailed and unarmed line, thus exposed unwillingly, and unavoidably
now, to the assailants, reeled back in consternation upon the dense and mighty
mass, which was still gathering behind them, and while some fell, struggling and
kicking confusedly upon the ground where they lay, others, with a supernatural
exercise of physical energy, the result of their sudden and great terror, pressed their
way farther back among the crowd, ever turning those immediately in the path, and
bearing those along in their flight who yet seemed resolute to go forward. Of this
number, was our bold Gallician. Vainly did he strive to resist the rush; for though
possessed of immense strength for one of his size, it proved unequal to the task of
opposing the impetuous progress of those whom the pressing terror was impelling
in blind confusion. Hoarsely he cried aloud to them with bitter reproaches, while
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with arms and knees, and full and forward chest, he threw himself in the way of
one after another of the fugitives. Meanwhile, the soldiers, provoked by a brutal
indifference to the cruelty of such an assault, continued to thrust among the crowd
with their spears, wounding severely and indiscriminately the miserable wretches
who offered no resistance. But they urged the fugitives too fast, and the peasants,
goaded, beyond patience, and unable to escape, like the trampled worm, turned at
length upon their enemies. The Gallician beheld the awakening spirit of his
brethren with delight, and with a joy which was absolutely furious; he shouted to
them in brief, stern, quick cries, bidding them do as they beheld him do, and promising
them success, if they would but show a proper courage. With an unscrupulous
effort, which was almost violence, he broke away from the grasp of his sister,
who still implored him with lifted hands to desist, and hurried forward. The young
maiden strove to follow him, and though swayed about with every movement of the
striving bodies around her, she contrived to keep him in sight. A spear was levelled
at his throat the moment he appeared in front, which he parried first and then
grasped with a prompt and efficient hand. In the next instant his axe clove the
head of the soldier, whom, with a jerk upon the spear, he had drawn within reach
of the blow, and he fell dead without a groan.
There was a dreadful pause after this had been done, but it lasted for an instant
only. The soldiers, furious at what they saw, now turned their entire rage upon
the Gallician, who was conspicuous in front, and he must have perished but that
the blood dripping from his axe, which he bore within sight of the multitude, had
a powerful effect upon them. They saw it on every side, and from the remotest
members of the mass, a shout—the shout of a common appetite, of the ferce instinct
of destruction—arose terribly on the air. The language of that shout was a stimulant
to the mob, and it had an appalling meaning to the soldiers. They were now
conscious, for the first time, that the mere pressure of the human mass in front of
them, must be fatal, and they sought to amend their error. They now aimed to
retire, until they could recruit themselves from the guards who filled the various
stations in the palace and the neighboring gardens; but their movement had still
farther the effect of inspiring the multitude. The members in the back ground, now
farily conscious of what was going on within, and at the same time secure themselves,
gave full exercise to their curiosity, and pressed forward, urging those within
more densely between the walls of the court, and more immediately upon the soldiers.
The latter sounded their trumpets of alarm; and a moment's consideration
then came to the fierce Gallician. He now saw the beginning of the end, for
which, in the first movements of his impulse, he had not prepared. He had struck
at first, because of the personal indignity to which he had been subjected—he had
armed himself and reappeared, because he perceived that his fellows were about to
suffer for his offence; but it was only when he had advanced nearly to the front,
that he knew of the presence of his sister. Taking advantage of the pause in the
strife, occasioned by the falling back of the guards toward the inner court of the
palace, he endeavored to bear the girl to a place of safety; he had already got his
arm about her waist, and had lifted her from the ground, intending to bear her if
practicable, through the crowd, when a hollow and deep voice from the midst of the
mass attracted the general regard.
“Saint Romano! Saint Romano! my brethren!” was the sudden cry. Every eye
was turned now upon the body of the fanatic, which lay upon the steps of the
portal, leading to the inner courts, and to which the backward steps of the guard
were turned.
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“Shall we leave the blessed remains for his murderers to trample, my brethren?”
continued the mighty voice.
“No, no, no!” was the cry from a thousand tongues.
“Saint Romano—the body of the saint is ours—let us bear it to the sanctuary of
the Holy Church. Come, all ye who would be blessed, come! Give your hands
to the labor, and let us bear the holy corpse of the saint to the bosom of the Holy
Church!”
Such was the cry from hundreds. The deep voice from the bosom of the multitude
was heard again, and its summons was potential.
“Saint Romano, the blessed martyr—whoso shall touch of his body, shall have
eternal life.”
This was enough. The enthusiasm became a fury, and from the farthest groups
of the mob, to which this adjuration had extended, all strove in the effort to obtain
possession or at least a touch of those holy remains which were to work out their
deliverance and salvation. A common rage was in every countenance—eyes were
kindled with hope, hearts beating with excitement and anticipation, while the
compressed lips of all forbid the utterance of that breath, every particle of which
seemed essential to the desired object. One short, one mixed cry, in which the
unanimous motive was clearly uttered, was all; and the silence which followed it,
was like a spell. There was something terrible in the sight of thousands, thus
striving and toiling forward, in one direction, with one aim, with all their strength,
and their souls evidently going with their efforts, yet in such profound silence.
The rush of the mighty mass was irresistible. Vainly did the fearless and strong
Gallician, sustaining his lovely and terrified sister in his arms, endeavor to stem the
torrent, and maintain his ground. His teeth were shut together—his axe lifted to
threaten—his whole frame thrown forward—his head thrust down, like that of a
wild-bull when he meets the sudden hunter, resolute to rend the approaching enemy;
but in vain. Vainly would the advancing individual, whom thus he threatened, have
sought to turn aside and avoid him. He was but one of the thousand wedges of the impelling
mass behind. The study Toro was drawn forward and compelled to join in
the rush; but he still bore his trembling and panting sister aloft, unhurt, though
terrified in the last degree, by the pressure of the crowd and the madness of its
every movement. The guards turned at the entrance of the court, and presented
their spears immediately over the corpse of the newly created saint. But of what
avail were such weapons, or weapons of any sort, in opposing men on the eve
of salvation? The spears were dashed aside, and even where they took effect upon
the body of one or other of the mob, the individual only thrust himself still more
impetuously upon the shaft, which was buried in his body, willing to perish, if he
could only fall upon the miserable but worshipped remains which lay before him.
The efforts of the guards were unavailing. Indeed, they were utterly surprised
by this unwonted outbreak of the people, and they were divested, in consequence,
of half their accustomed confidence. They were borne back from the body of the
fanatic, over which their spears had been crossed, and, separated in the rush from one
another, broken and disordered, they fled tumultously through the passage leading
to the inner court, and sought safety by the most dastardly flight from a pursuit
which they thought would have been continued. It was here that they should
have made their stand. The passage was narrow, and might have been maintained
by their small number against thousands. But they had been completely terrified
by the sudden, unusual, and unlooked for exhibition of the popular rage, and they
fled, without being conscious, for several minutes, that they were not pursued.
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CHAPTER IV.
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The only object of the mob had been obtained. In all their rage they had
never contemplated an assault upon the palace of their tyrant. This may have
been the desire of some, but the great mass, as yet, were in possession of too few
thoughts, to dream that they had other rights than those of service, and other
hopes than those of animal indulgence in this life, and vague ideas (scarcely less
animal in their promise,) of salvation in the next. Religious frenzy had drawn
them forward, and having the sacred remains in their possession, for which they
had ventured life, and the touch of which was to give them life eternal, they
were satisfied with their achievement. The corpse was lifted from the ground; and
when it appeared in the arms of those who had the felicity first to lay hands upon
it, conspicuous to the eyes of all, and over the heads of the mob, their shrieks of
fury were changed to shouts of congratulation. From hand to hand the sacred
remains were borne aloft by the populace, its course altered momently in compliance
with the will of the boldest or the pressure of the strongest handed. Now it
was hurried in one quarter, now in another; and in their enthusiasm, grasping it
from every direction, it was in great danger of being torn in pieces. Some leaped
above the heads of the mass, pitching forward recklessly in their efforts to touch at
least the garment which it wore. Mothers lifted up their infants as the carcass
was hurried by, that the unconscious babes might obtain the valuable pressure for
which they could make no effort; and in the madness of the moment, fierce men
strove with one another, even to blows, for that contact with the object of their common
veneration from which so much was hoped.
But the Gallician, Toro, beheld their fanaticism with scorn. He had been
busy, from the moment of the flight of the soldiers, in the effort to extricate his
sister from the press of the crowd. To this object he had devoted all his strength;
but he had striven idly. The impetuous torrent bore him from side to side, with
his precious burden, until his strength was almost exhausted. In vain did he seek
to command attention by his voice. There were none to listen. None gave heed
to any object except the poor remains of a man, a victim to madness like their own,
whom, in their folly, they had sanctified.
“Accursed fools!” exclaimed the Gallicean; “they will waste time with their
plaything, until the guards collect and crush them.”
His speech was uttered sufficiently loud for all to hear, who stood around him.
Indeed, he addressed words to the same effect to many. But groans of devotion
and shrieks of delight, drowned his voice and defined his arguments; and panting
and striving, at least to preserve his position, and protect Toly against their pressure,
he was compelled to abide the progress of events, and wait patiently until
their madness should have found its termination in their general physical exhaustion.
Meanwhile, the crowd pressed to and fro upon him, and he was compelled
to resort with every moment to stern words and sharp strokes, to secure his place.
The terrors of his sister were duly increased as she beheld the increasing violence
of her brother. He could scarce forbear the use of his curtal-axe, when some
zealot, more furious or less heedful than the rest, encroached upon the little space
which he maintained as a sort of boundary in front of him; and to the howling
of this or that devotee, he had bitter words and fierce execrations. Toly dreaded
lest the harsh language of her brother should provoke retort, and probably violence;
but he had no such fear.
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“Nay, they do not hear me,” he would reply to her exhortations; “they are too
mad to hear—they are deaf and stupid; and even if they did hear, I care not. A
set of cowards—the base scum; if they had but the proper spirit, we should have
torn down these walls and left not one stone of the palace upon another. The
place was ours—had they but gone forward, it would have been done, and we
should have had our revenge. Now, it is hopeless. They will waste all their
strength upon the body, or upon one another, and by noon they will fly like hares
from the dog, if they see but a single one of the soldiers, whom they have just
now driven. Ay, roar fool!” he exclaimed, as one ragged wretch rushed by him,
with a wild shout, hurrying toward the group over whose heads at that moment
the corpse of Romano was in progress—“roar and howl—'t is all that you are fit
for. The prick of a spear-head, and the stripes of a green thong, are your proper
counsellors. They only keep you right, and send you forward, and keep your
brute madness in check!”
“Oh, Toro! do not speak thus, or speak not so loud,” said Toly. “If they hear
they will strike—they will hurt you.”
“Let them try—the curs—let them try!” and the Gallician waved his axe, while,
as if to prove his scorn, he thrust forth his foot as one of the group rushed by
him, and the fellow tumbled over the obstruction and went forward at full length
to the ground. The fierce laugh of the Gallician followed his fall, and afforded
the injured man but an equivocal atonement for the wanton indignity which he
had suffered; but, when he rose and looked upon the offender, he saw enough in
his countenance to satisfy him that he was not the sort of man whom he could
trifle with. Hurrying on, therefore, the fellow joined the crowd—while Toro, the
offender, turning to his sister, with a laugh, exclaimed:
“You see, Toly, what spiritless wretches these are—how worthless. I only
wonder that they pressed the soldiers as they did. Indeed, they never would have
done so of themselves. The pressure came from those without. They were in no
danger, and they knew it; and they were not unwilling to have their sport at the
expense of those within. The fiends light on them; but I fear that they will make
us suffer yet. I would, that you were out, Toly. Why did you follow me?”
The girl pressed his arm, but said nothing. At that moment a dreadful shout
rang through the crowd.
“Raise me, Toro, and I can see, and tell you,” said Toly to her brother, while
he was vainly striving, on tip-toe, to look over the waving, rolling and reeling
heads of the dense mass before him. He did so, and the cry of the girl was immediate.
“It is a woman, Toro!” she exclaimed. “They have raised her up—fie—fie—
her neck is bare, and yet she does not heed it. She scrambles among the people—
they tear her clothes—they will kill her, Toro—they pull her about so. No—they
seem to carry her forward. How she screams and laughs. Ah! I see—I see”—
“What, Toly?”
“The body of the holy man, brother. It is that which she strives at. She
clambers over their heads, I know not how; and yet they pull her back—some pull
her back—some push her forward. Hark! hear how she screams. She has nearly
reached the body. Now, now—she grasps—she siezes it by one arm. She falls—
they have let her down—no! they lift her again, and oh! Toro, how they have
torn her clothes. Take me down, brother, I must not look—I would not see It
is too ugly.”
Toro gently let the maiden down, while, mounting upon a small rock, he strove
to behold the scene which she had witnessed and in part described. The woman
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of whom his sister had spoken, was still in sight—a virago, evidently, of immense
strength and size. By dint of violent exertions, she had forced her way among the
men; now on equal terms struggling with them upon the ground, and now rising
above their heads, sometimes with their help, but most frequently in defiance of their
opposition. She had at length succeeded in grasping one arm of the sainted Romano.
To this she clung, while those in possession of the body tugged a different
way. At length she fell to the ground, but this did not have the effect of making
her relax her hold. On the contrary, it not only gave to her increased powers for
retaining it, but enabled others around her to seize upon the same unconscious limb,
and to unite their strength with hers in opposition to the equally determined fanatics
who had possession of the body. The tide of numbers swayed to and fro, under
this conflict. Shouts and screams filled the air from both parties, as they severally
gained or lost an advantage in the strife. Almost naked to the waist, the fierce woman
still struggled and fought, with all the vigor and more than the madness of the men
around her. The fury of a tigress seemed to fill her bosom, and now she raved and
now she swore, while, in her efforts, she did not scruple to seize, even with her
teeth, the arm of one of those who drew in the same direction upon the lifeless and
yielding limb. Piece by piece the sleeve that covered it was torn away, and the
withered and yellow flesh was left in her tenacious grasp. She held on to her
prize as if life and immortality were hers in consequence. Nor was the hold of those
in possession of the body less unyielding. They strove with redoubled efforts to
bear away their relic entire. Wherever a hand could secure a hold, it was taken;
and those who could not, grasped firmly upon the more fortunate arms which did.
At length the joints yielded—they twisted the fibres which secured the shoulders—
then tugging with diligent ferocity on both sides, they wrenched the arm from the
socket, and the flesh and fibres were separated and torn in fragments, like decayed and
worthless rags. A wild shout of delirious triumph rent the air, and in the same
moment the ragged and bleeding limb was seen waving in the eyes of thousands,
above their heads, in the hands of the fierce and triumphant virago. She was alone
in the possession of the prize. The men who had joined with her in the struggle
had relaxed and withdrawn their grasp, when the limb separated. A feeling of natural
horror ran through every bosom, even among those who had been most active
in the strife. But she suffered from no such sentiments. Her shrieks were preeminent
above the clamors of the crowd, and the Gallician shuddered as he beheld her,
armed with the yellow, meagre, yet blood-dripping limb, forcing a passage through
the crowd by the sheer force of that terror which its approach seemed to inspire.
His feelings of disgust would not permit him to look longer, and with a shiver he
descended from his perch, and clasped the frail form of the young girl beside him to
his bosom, with an increased apprehension, which the spectacle he had witnessed
was well calculated to occasion.
“Oh, Toly! what would I not give if you were free from this press!” he exclaimed,
as he put his arm fondly about her waist.
“Do try, Toro, and get me out. Our poor mother will fear that harm has come
to both of us, unless we go to her directly.”
Toro looked about him with many anxious doubts.
“Harm will come to us,” he muttered to himself, “unless we can get out now.
We have little time left us.”
“What say you, Toro?”
“Nothing, Toly—only follow me. That mad woman has left an opening, and
if we could only reach it, we should be safe. Follow me closely. Grasp my doublet
thus, and keep close. I will get you out, if the strength of a man may do it.”
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He placed the skirt of his doublet in her hand, and resolutely pushing among the
crowd, he led the way, and Toly, trembling at every movement, clung close, and
strove to follow him through the opening which, by sheer resolve of temper and
strength of arm, her brother sought to make.
CHAPTER V.
But their progress was necessary slow and scarcely perceptible. They had not
proceeded ten paces when a sudden clamor was heard—the clamor and the clash of
arms, the unfolding of heavy gates, and the rapid tread of approaching soldiers. The
inner court gates had been thrown wide open, and the Gallician augured from this
that the guards were about to return, mounted on horseback for the strife. With
the thoughts of the plunging of horses among the unarmed and crowded population,
he turned quickly and caught up his sister in his arms.
“What is that, brother?—is there danger?” she demanded, trembling with new
terrors as she looked upon his countenance, where ferocity began to be qualified by
apprehension and anxiety.
“Ay, Toly—a little, but not for you, Toly. You shall be safe.”
She clung to him as she cried:
“Yes, Toro, you can save me, I know. You are strong enough—as strong as
any of these men. But, make haste, Toro, for I fear the crowd, and they squeeze
me dreadfully now.”
He set his teeth firmly and made no answer as he struggled forward with his burthen,
but he muttered to himself while he did it, and, to the quick ear of Toly, his
mutterings were half audible.
“I will try to save you, Toly—with my own life will I try. I am strong, true,
as any one of these, but not as all.”
“Oh, Toro! what is it you say? Can you not save me? Haste, brother! remember
our poor mother—let them not crush me thus. Save me! save me!”
The breathing of Toro was suppressed awhile. He strove with the right arm extended,
and bearing the girl in the other, to force the passage. While he strove, one
of the flying crowd who was behind him, grappled his shoulder with the same
object. The fierce Gallician turned and smote him in the mouth with the handle of
his axe which he still held firmly, as a weapon might soon become imperatively necessary.
The fellow gave back in terror, and Toro resumed his flight. A woman lay
struggling under his feet—the terrors of the girl within his arms made him reckless,
and the bosom of the fallen and writhing victim became his stepping stone, as it
had already been that of hundreds. He pressed onward, certainly but slowly, and
began to hope; but, looking over the track before him, the entire area was still covered
with dense and struggling masses. He was almost spent. The sweat trickled
from his brow, and the weight grew almost insupportable upon his arm.
“Oh, Toly!” he exclaimed, in mournful accents, which reproached her more
painfully than stern language could have done—“oh, Toly! why did you follow
me!”
“Forgive me, brother,” she whispered, rather than spoke—“forgive me—I was
a foolish child—forgive me and save me! Save me, Toro, this time, and I will
never vex you again. I will try and do everything for you, Toro. I will never
marry—no! not even if Diego should ask me—if you will only save me.”
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He kissed her—amid the crowd, none of whom beheld it—he kissed her, while
he murmured, resolutely but sadly:
“Ay, Toly! if I die for it, I will save you. Be of heart, and let us try once
more. The Blessed Mother be with us—we will try once more.”
CHAPTER VI.
Meanwhile the crowd became conscious of the approaching danger. They regarded
no longer the body of the fanatic, which fared more fortunately than the living
thousands over whose heads it was hustled. It was borne in triumph out of the
mass, and was received by those who remained on the outside, and who bore it
away in triumph, to be hoarded up with other relics equally valuable and equally
maddening to the minds of thousands as well in that as in times more remote. The
escape of the living in that dense mass was not so readily effected; and, pressed on
every hand, in a court which was narrow in proportion to its great length, having
no guidance but the individual impulses which drove each other in a different direction,
and to the obstruction of one another, they struggled vainly for escape. Confused
by their fears and mutually baffled by their various impulses, when the alarm
was given from within of the approaching soldiers, they grew blind with very terror.
Shouts and shrieks of fear filled the area where they struggled, and falling upon
each other in heaps in their vain efforts at flight, they presented no obstruction to
those who sought their destruction.
The sound of a single trumpet silenced the clamors of the mob with increasing
terrors. Toro, the Gallician, still maintaining his burden, with failing limbs but
with unrelaxing resolution, with writhing neck, and eyes cast for a moment behind
him, sought to discern the condition of things among the enemies at whose mercy he
well knew the wild, thoughless, yet cowardly wretches were, who strove with
contrary minds at a single and common object. That one look was all that was allowed
him. In that glance he beheld Roderick himself rushing forth, mounted, at
the head of the guards, part of which were also on horseback, and attended by Edeco
and a few other noblemen. The king was in armor, but without his helmet. His
armor seemed to have been put on hurriedly, and his weapons seized in haste. The
Gallician saw that his features were full of fury. Indeed, it would be an idle attempt
to depict the anger of one like Roderick, the spoiled child of fortune, and for
so long a time accustomed to the most complete exercise of his own will, and the
most brutal disregard to the rights, not less than to the will, of all others. It was
absolutely fearful even to the eyes of one, like the Gallician, so entirely indifferent
to all the minor influences of fear. His eyes glared like those of the wild-boar,
whom the spear of the hunter hath pierced at the very entrance of the den where his
young are hidden. His cheeks were the color of a bright and sudden flame—his
hair floated wildly above his head, and its raven hue still more contributed to give
an air of fierce resolution to the almost scarlet terrors of his face. While Toro
gazed, he instinctively pressed forward; he saw that though there were numbers
still between the tyrant and himself, on whom his vengeance must first be wreaked,
he was yet conscious that these would offer but a brief obstruction to the passage of
men on horseback. To throw a greater number between was an object therefore,
but this was the object of hundreds, who were not, like himself, incumbered with a
burden, the weight of which, if it did not enfeeble the mind, increased its anxiety,
and oppressed it with apprehension that weighed it down, even more effectually than
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its physical pressure did his body. The prayers and pleadings of the poor girl—her
entire dependence upon the strength and resolution of her brother, greatly increased
both, and never did man yet labor more desperately, and strive with less fear and
more zeal to achieve his object, and secure the saftey of the beloved one and the depending.
Help, Holy Mother!” he prayed inwardly—“help, Holy Mother!—give me
strength—thy blessed favor upon the young girl, not yet fifteen—a pure virgin, who
keeps thy thoughts in her mind, as, when she is at home in her chamber, she hath
thy image for ever before her eye. Be thy white arms of blessedness about her neck,
so that she be saved to our mother, and if it please thee, serenest Virgin, I will return
to the strife, and fight for thy grace and honor. Be with her, Mother of God,
and help us forth from these numbers!”
He did not pray only. He struggled bravely; but the Virgin did not heed his
prayer. The density was greater than ever, and in the next moment, Roderick
charged headlong, followed by his nobles and guards, upon the terrified and shrieking
populace. However provoked it may have been at first, nothing could have been
more wanton or unprovoked than this movement now. The people were only turbulent
in flight. They were seeking, on all hands, to effect their escape, and would
have been glad to disappear, and would soon have dispersed, had sufficient time been
allowed them. But this would have been no gratification to the reckless and remorseless
tyrant, to whom the unnecessary display of his power, in its most cruel
forms, was the highest pleasure. He had no thought, no mercy, for the thoughtless
and unreckoning wretches who were then scrambling forward in the very attitudes—
those of flight and fear—which would rather have called for the smile and forbearance
of the wise and merciful ruler, than his blows and fury. He charged upon
them as they flew—he smote recklessly on all hands, and looked not to see whether
his weapon descended upon the head of the resisting or trembling man—whether he
struck the wildest of his own sex, or the weakest and gentlest woman. His example
was closely followed by his soldiers, and for a few seconds their horses trampled
and their weapons mangled none but unresisting and screaming fugitives.
But this could not last for ever. The sheer physical impracticability of flight where
such numbers struggled, was, of itself, sufficient reason why those should turn to
defend themselves who could no longer hope to fly. They did so with their staves
and sticks, and such rude instruments as they had seized in their haste. At first
they did not aim at anything more than to parry the thrusts of the soldiery; but this
show of defence was soon changed into positive conflict, by the ill-judged haste and
ill-reasoning anger of the king. He could not brook to see the base plebeians striving
even to protect themselves from harm, and with increased impetuosity charging
them himself, he bade those who followed him do likewise. They needed no second
exhortation—they rushed on with a fury kindred to that which now filled the bosom
of their savage master, and only paused in their brutal melee, when it became
necessary, for the slaughter of more victims, that they should tear away their
pikes from the writhing bodies, to which they had already given the fatal and the
final strokes.
The madness of despair seized upon the crowd, and they grappled the spearmen
about their necks while engaged in this bloody work. Roderick, shouting the warcry
of the Goth, plunged amid the thickest of the fray, cleaving down with his
heavy-handled sword, all who stood before him. The rising hoofs of his steed hung
over the heads of the brave Gallician and his trembling sister. The madness which
filled the crowd wrought with redoubled violence upon him. With a mighty strength
he raised her above the crowd, and throwing her forward, by this means increasing
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the space between the poor girl and the ferocious monarch, he stood alone, and more
ready and resolute to confront his fury. As the hoofs of the steed descended, he
leaped aside and boldly grasped the bridle with his hand. His swarthy cheek grew
purple with his rage—his coal-black eye looked the anger which the words from his
lips expressed and as Roderick beheld the look, the action, and the general manner
of the Gallician, he could not but see in him one who would not scruple, if it needed,
to strike even at the bosom of royalty itself. The thought enraged him, and rising
on his stirrups, he waved his sword above the head of poor Toro, resolved that the
descending blow should cleave him in twain.
“Ha! slave!” he exclaimed twice, as he struck. He struck heavily, but the blow
descended upon a head which it could not harm—the steel was buried in the skull
of one whom he had slain before. The agile Gallician, as he saw the meditated
stroke, swinging upon the bridle of the steed which he had grasped, threw himself
completely under the animal's neck, and out of the way of the impending blow. In
the next instant, and ere the tyrant could recover his weapon, the sharp knife of
Toro was driven up to the handle in the bosom of the plunging animal. He bounded
forward among the crowd, uttered one wild snort of fear, and struggling and plunging
with his fearless rider, he sank dead, while the populace, unable to escape,
closed around him.
“Toly! Toly!” cried the Gallician, in a piercing voice of terror.
A faint cry came to his ears in return—a suffocating cry, and he shivered, though
he rushed forward as he heard:
“Toro! oh, dear Toro!” said the grasping accents.
“Here Toly! I come—I come!”
“Come!” was the faint and scarcely intelligible word with which she replied.
He leaped with an agonizing apprehension over the heads of those who stood between
him and the spot from whence the sounds arose—he dashed aside the peering
heads of the curious and the trembling, and paused in doubt, for he knew not where
to turn. The hoarse voice of Roderick was heard at the place where his steed had
plunged and fallen; and then, once more, the faint accents came to his ears, seemingly
from the same quarter:
“Come, Toro! come!”
He rushed forward, though the enemy was there. He could see the form of Roderick
rising—he could hear his furious language—and his uplifted sword was visible
to his eyes; yet he hurried toward him. The faint voice of his sister was again heard
in a feeble scream, which at length died away in a murmur. He leaped on the dead
horse—her face was barely visible beneath it. Her eyes were closing, but a faint
light was perceptible to his beneath the shutting lids. She seemed to recognize him,
and the lids partly receded, while she looked upon him. In another instant they
were shut for ever.
CHAPTER VII.
He stooped to the body. He strove to drag the crushed and mangled remains of
the girl from beneath the carcass, but he could not, and he trembled—for the heart
of man never believes in the utter insensibility of that which it loves—lest he should
hurt the innocent, of whom, in life, he had regarded the lightest curl of hair with a
fondness which would have prompted him to risk life freely in its protection from
the slightest harm or the most casual indignity. He shrunk back from the task—
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the terrible truth came upon him in frenzy—the sister of his boyhood—the child
whom he had loved almost alone of all the world—the favorite of his aged mother,
and his own, she was dead—and such a death! Crushed, trampled down, and
mangled beneath furious and flying men, and the hoofs of the agonized war-horse,
himself stricken with death, and by his arm. He sank down beside the body—
lifted the long and raven locks which were dabbled and clotted with her own blood,
and gazed upon the terrible spectacle for an instant in speechless horror. Shrieking
and shouting he started to his feet. Fury was in his soul, and he panted for revenge.
What then was the uplifted sword of the tyrant—what the pikes of the
soldiers! He felt them in his flesh; but there was a deeper wound within his soul
which made him indifferent to their tortures. He rushed fearlessly upon the king,
and defied his weapon. Fired with his spirit, and unable to fly, the populace gathered
around him, and answered his shouts with their own. The uplifted arm of
Roderick was grappled by one from behind, and his balanced weapon shone idly in
the air. It was not suffered to descend. Toro rushed upon him while in that situation.
Already his knife glared in the eyes of the monarch—another moment and
it would have been buried in his heart; but with the desperateness of his situation
came increased powers of body and resolve of mind to the beleaguered king. He
dropped his sword which had thus been made useless, and shaking off the assailant
who held his arm, he grasped that of the fierce Gallician. Vindictive and maddened
as he was, his strength was not equal to that of Roderick, and though the latter
could neither overthrow him, nor wrest from him his knife, yet was it equally impracticable
for him to inflict any injury with it upon his regal opponent. Thus they
stood—thu they strove, like two angry demons, contending fearfully, yet in vain,
while all were striving around them. But though Toro could do no harm to his
foe, his grasp kept him in a situation which momently exposed him to the assaults
of others, and but for the desperate devotion of his guards, Roderick must then have
perished. But they clung to him in his peril with a fidelity worthy a far nobler service.
They fought and fell—the plebeian knife was drenched in their blood, without
discouraging those who yet survived. They girded their master to the last—
presenting their weapons like men, and unsparing of their own bosoms while seeking
to cover his. One of them grappled Toro and sought to tear him from his hold;
but he, in turn, was seized by one of the populace, and fell a victim to his boldness.
The crisis was momently becoming more fearful to the environed monarch. His
guards were diminishing—the mob growing proportionably strong, and from their obvious
advantage, more and more resolute and wild. A shudder, but not of fear, convulsed
the frame of Roderick, as he became conscious of this fact. To die thus
ignobly—in such a strife—bound like a slave—without arms—without even a breathing
field and room to struggle; this was not merely to die, but to die shamefully.
Toro felt his convulsion, though it lasted but for an instant, while he grappled him.
“Ha! tyrant! dost thou tremble! Thou hast slain the weak and the innocent—
the trembling innocent; who could not help themselves, nor hurt thee! Yet thou
tremblest!”
“Not with the fear of thee or them, slave!” was the fearless reply of the monarch,
as he strove with renewed but unsuccessful efforts, to extricate himself from
the iron grasp which the Gallician had taken. Toro with clenched teeth replied:
“Slave though I be, it will not be long ere I am thy master—master of thy life.
Look, tyrant! they come. Ho! men! slaves and knaves, hasten! Here is work
for you. Ha! ha! ha! Dost see them—dost see them? Look! they hasten.
What though I strike thee not myself; yet I bind thee for the knife! Ho! there!
Will you not strike?”
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A gigantic serf from the mountains of Asturia sprang forward, and vainly did the
presented spear of one of the soldiers seek to arrest his progress. An unarmed
peasant of Andalusia threw himself forward upon the extended shaft, and it snapped
like a brittle reed beneath his weight. The arm of the Asturian was lifted; his
knife pointed to the king's bosom, and no seeming hope of his escaped remained. But
nothing daunted, though weaponless, motionless, and at the mercy of the peasant,
the king abated none of his fearless spirit. Gazing steadfastly at the enemy, he
exclaimed with a stern voice:
“Slave! wouldst thou strike thy sovereign? I am Roderick the Goth.”
The very name of his victim appalled the executioner. The mark was too high
for the soul of the peasant, and he sank back among the crowd, with more terror
than had troubled the bosom of him whom he had threatened.
The peril was passed. That moment saved Roderick. A new ally came to his
aid. Shouts rang from the scattered soldiers, who still fought, though feebly, with
different bodies of the populace, unable to help their master, or to extricate themselves.
The shouts went warm and cheering to the almost hopeless monarch. He
turned a quick, momentary glance around him, and beheld charging horsemen. The
sight had its effect, though of a different nature upon the Gallician. Vainly now
did Toro strive to use his knife. The king was invigorated by hope, and his enemy
strove without success. The horseman came on rapidly to the charge, and taken in
the rear, the populace were seized with consternation. They were beaten down on
every side. Two hundred armed and well mounted warriors were upon them,
hewing fiercely among the undaunted and half-exhausted peasants. A voice from
his new allies came to the ears of Roderick, and it no less astounded than cheered
him. It was the voice of one upon whom of late he had not counted. It was the
archbishop Oppas, who came to his rescue, heading his own retainers.
“Rid me of this knave, my lord Oppas, and name thy own reward!” cried the
king, as the archbishop approached him. Toro released his hold upon the king, in
order to encounter the new comer; but Roderick relaxed not his. He held the arm
of the Gallician, while the huge mace of the archbishop descended thrice upon his
head. The second blow had slain him, and the brother lay in death by the mangled
remains of the hapless maiden whom he did not desire to survive. The fight was
ended with the blow; but Toro was not the only sacrifice to the fury which he had
helped to provoke. Nearly three hundred serfs perished, along with a goodly number
of the soldiers by whose arms they fell. Yet, among the carcases that strewed
that unhappy field of blood, they found not that of Romano. Devotion had
achieved its object, and the sacred bones had been carried to a place of safety and
concealment, long ere the strife had ended.
CHAPTER VIII.
This scene of tumult and terror which we have endeavored, though feebly, to
describe, though seemingly irrelevant to the progress of our narrative, was yet not
without its influence in favor of one of its chief personages. It gave an opportunity
to Egiza to emerge from his place of concealment, and advance boldly through the
garden to the rear of the palace, before the courts of which the strife was still going
on. He heard the clamor, he beheld the rapid progress of the guards, as, in obedience
to the prevailing necessity, they were drawn from their several stations, in
order to make head against the insurgents; and, though he had not the least idea of
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the cause of such commotion, he readily divined that it arose from some outbreak
of the popular spirit. As the guards left the garden, he approached the palace, and
giving no heed, and scarcely an ear, to the loud shouting and fierce cries in front, he
was only solicitous to seek and see the one ruling object of his thoughts and his affections.
Not with such a spirit as this would his brother, the single-minded Pelayo,
have welcomed such a commotion. He would have hailed it as the beginning of a
strife in which he was secure of triumph. To rouse the spirit of the populace against
their tyrant had been the labor and the wish of both. It had been a tedious labor,
and it seemed almost to be a hopeless desire. They had toiled long, and with results
which imperfectly corresponded with their efforts. But here the work was executed
to their hands. The people were awake, aroused, angry, and in arms. They
needed nothing but a leader, and in him they would have found one who would not
so soon have suffered the fire of so noble a spirit to have been so shamefully extinguished.
Quick to see the opportunity, prompt to secure it, the energies of
Pelayo would have annihilated Roderick by a concentrated movement of his entire
masses upon the conspicuous tyrant long before any succour could have reached
him. A far different spirit controlled the movement of Egiza. Though brave enough,
with his foe immediately before him, he lacked that sleepless energy of character
which would have prompted him to go in search of his foe, and enable him to
seize upon all events calculated to bring about the issue which he desired. He did
not think, as he beheld the rush and consternation of the guards, that their panic
declared the situation of their master, or if he did, he did not further deliberate upon
the application of this panic to the noble purposes of his people's liberty, for which
he had set forth with Pelayo, and for the security of which the latter was still nobly
striving. Feeble and vascillating, with a heart filled with a softer fire than that of
freedom, and a spirit which was too selfishly devoted ever to serve a nation in its
hour of danger, the hapless prince, ignorant as yet that all was lost, or worse than
lost, for which he had striven, hurried on without interruption to the foot of the
tower in which Cava was a prisoner. Had he known her fate for whom he toiled,
his feet had taken a different direction. He would then have done for personal vengeance
what Pelayo had done for his people.
Let us return to the inmates of the palace. The clamor which had aroused Roderick,
and challenged his presence in the fearful melee which we have witnessed
had drawn the queen and her handmaids to the massy towers which looked upon
the area, where, watching and trembling, they saw a part of that commotion on the
termination of which depended their own fates. The defeat of Roderick would have
been a signal for their own destruction, since the infuriated populace, it was but
reasonable to believe, would have ravaged the palace, where they well knew there
was so much treasure to reward plunder, and so much that was tempting to the lustful
and licentious. Their apprehensions came not to Cava. She knew, indeed, that
strife was going on. Perhaps, too, there were moments when she thought that there
might be danger—that death might follow to thousands from that strife; and that
she, too, might fall the victim of the unsparing sword. But the fear of death was
no longer a fear in the bosom of the once timid Cava. She had resolved upon death.
It was life only that had fears—it was life only that teemed with terrors. She
dreaded that her living eye should again encounter those of the beloved and the venerated.
She dreaded to see her father—she shuddered when she thought that she
might again behold her lover. And yet, when she thought of his danger, and of the
fierce tyrant in whose presence she believed him to be; when she thought upon the
cruel death which awaited him—which, perhaps, had already befallen him—her love
grew predominant, and, for a while, she trembled for him with an anxiety that
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almost wrought a forgetfulness of her own despair. How glad would she be to die
for him—to arrest the cruel blow—to brave the deadly rage of the tyrant. She sank
upon her knees as she thought upon his dangers. She strove to pray, but she could
not. The moment that she demanded the Almighty presence, she flelt that His eye
looked upon her shame; she felt that it was a God of vengeance and not one of
mercy to whom her spirit, in its fervent mood, could properly address itself. Her
prayer took a different direction. She no longer prayed for the safety of her lover;
she prayed rather for his death.
“If he love me—if he hold in his heart, oh! blessed Mother of God!” she cried,
with hands and eyes uplifted to the “Mother of Grief,” who looked down from the
gloomy walls upon her—“if he hold in his heart but half the love for me which
I have in mine, then grant that the axe has fallen upon his neck; that he may no
longer see—that he may never hear my shame, till, like himself, I shall cease to
look upon earth, and hear its cruel sounds—till, like himself, with thy mediation,
Blessed Mother, and the mercy of thy Son, I am a dweller in a better world, where
lust is shut out, and where the tyrant may not come.”
Even while she prayed thus, a voice—a gentle, but quick and anxious voice—
reached her ears from below. She trembled in every limb as she heard it. Too
well she knew that voice. Its tones, gentle and soliciting, rebuked her for her
prayer. She had prayed for his death; dared she now look upon his face?—dared
she encounter that eye which she had just now desired should be sealed for ever in
the eternal night of death? She dared not—yet she must. She had not wished to
see him; she had feared this interview—yet he had come opportunely. Her revenge
was in her thoughts, and she felt that she could not die until her father knew
her wrong. This passion strengthened her, and, with an apprehensive thought that
was like an instinct, she had planned her purpose ere she rose from her knees
to approach the window looking out upon the garden whence the sound arose,
meanwhile, the appealing tones once more reached her ears, and she heard the rustling
of the boughs beneath. He had climbed one of the trees of the garden, almost
immediately below the window, and its thick umbrage half screened him from her
sight, while effectually hiding him from all scrutiny of others, had there been any,
from below. She brushed the tears from her eyes ere she sought the window. It
was now her object to conceal all traces of her suffering—all such traces, at least,
as should speak for her peculiar injuries. She did so. Her voice was bland, musical,
and if not lively, at least not sad, when she replied to his first inquiries.
“Cava, sweet Cava!” he exclaimed; “you are safe, well, unharmed?” was his
first anxious question; and it spoke and demanded volumes in answer She did not
answer it—not then, at least.
“Nay, heed me not, Egiza; speak for yourself; tell me, are you safe? Are you
secure from danger? Has the tyrant freed you. Are you not pursued?”
“I am safe, dearest—safe, as you behold me; but I am not freed, and may be
pursued I am a fugitive, and must fly soon and far. But of me—nothing. Tell
me, my own love—say to me, Cava—give me a sign—a look; wave but your handkerchief
to tell me that you are mine—solely mine; that you are not”—
The waving of the handkerchief interrupted his speech. Well did she understand
the import of his interrogation. Grateful, indeed, was she that he had suggested a
form of reply which would obviate the necessity for speech. A nice delicacy had
prompted him to this, and she had seized upon it with avidity. The falsehood may
be forgiven; she prayed fervently that it might; she did not intend to deceive him
long, and the pang was great at her heart that she was compelled to do so even for
a moment. A brief time was consumed by him in congratulations; and he then
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urged upon her to join him in flight. But the bolts were closed without; the walls
of her chamber were high, and the means of her descent wanting. Nor would she
have assented, even were flight possible. She had other purposes, and she proceeded
to their execution.
“I cannot join you now, Egiza; but I will shortly prepare to do so. Meanwhile,
my lord, I pray you to receive this letter. Convey it with instant dispatch to my
father—nay, you need not go yourself, but send it by some trusty hand. This done,
come instantly to me, and I will then join you, at the foot of this tower.”
She threw him the epistle prepared for her father, which we have already read.
He descended from the tree, and picked it from the ground where it had fallen.
“I go, dearest Cava; yet greatly do I dread to leave you. I fear”—
“Fear nothing!” she replied, in tones of solemnity, very unlike those which she
had employed in the brief interview preceding, and which brought an instant feeling
of disquiet to his heart.
“How, dearest?” he exclaimed. “What is my security—what is thine, against this
tyrant? Do I not leave you in his power—in the walls of his accursed palace? And
is there not everything to fear from his still more accursed lust?”
“No, nothing!” she replied, in tones of reassuring confidence—“be sure, my lord,
I have nothing to fear; you know not how strong I have become since we were torn
asunder. I have a talisman which will shield me from all further wrong. I am
safe from him—from all—from everything, save thy hate, thy scorn, Egiza, thy
loathing! Tell me, am I safe from that, Egiza? Wilt thou love me—wilt thou
promise to love me ever, my lord? Say that thou wilt ere thou leavest me.”
“How, my Cava—wherefore this—what mean thy words? I scorn—I loathe
thee, dearest? Wherefore should I? Wherefore shouldst thou fear such injustice at
my hands? Believe me, sweetest Cava, I love thee; I shall ever love thee; I cannot
help but love thee!”
“Bless thee, my lord—Heaven bless thee, that thou sayest so; yet would I have
thee swear it; swear it by the Holy Mother ere thou leavest me; swear it, and come
then, when thou hast dispatched the mission to my father—come quickly and receive
me. I will then be all thine—in life, in death, for ever more—thine, and thine
only!”
“By the Holy Mother—by the Blessed Jesus, I do swear it, my Cava; and if I
speak thee falsely in this, may I perish!”
“Thanks, thanks! Fly now,” she exclaimed—“fly now, my lord; thou wilt
find me at thy coming.”
He kissed his united hands to her, and turned away to leave the garden. Her
eye watched him in his progress till the folding umbrage concealed him from her sight,
She then turned within the apartment, and once more addressed herself to prayer
before the image of the Virgin, whom she implored for strength with all the solicitude
of one about to set forth upon a journey of great toil and greater peril.
CHAPTER IX.
Buoyant, with a lightness of spirit which for many days before he had not felt,
Egiza rapidly made his way across the garden. There was no obstruction to his
progress. The guards as we have already seen were all withdrawn, to engage in
the strife in the palace court in front, and were not yet permitted to return. Indeed,
the strife, or rather the slaughter, was not yet over. The fierce Roderick had not
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yet glutted his vengeance, nor appeased his anger. The mere dispersion of the fugitives
was not enough for a mood so sanguinary as that which marked his character;
and long after opposition had ceased that day, did his keen sword drink of
the blood of those who were neither bold enough to fight nor swift enough to fly.
Murder succeeded to strife, and drunk with gore, and wanton in due degree with
the absence of opposition, his features and his deeds, not more deadly than before,
were yet more fearfully foul. The sanguinary career of the tyrant was scarcely
over, when Egiza emerged from the garden. He had made the same cautious circuit
of the ground in effecting his departure, as he had chosen at his first entrance; and
the way was long, before he could compass the extensive courts and wings of the
palace, spreading up as they did, even from the golden bedded river to the opening
valley within which, and immediately contiguous, the city stood. What a sight
then met his eye! Trails of blood marked the ground around him, and denoted the
flight of the wounded fugitives. Faint cries of flight echoed along the distant hills,
and indicated the apprehensions of those who still fled, or the agonies of those
whom the murderers had overtaken. Hurrying groups, in which women were quite
as numerous as men, having reached a supposed perch of safety, on the hill tops,
paused to survey the bloody scene from which they had just escaped; and the immediate
field of battle was now absolutely bare of all those who yet lived, either
for pursuit or flight. None but the dead were there—the piled bodies, crushed,
mangled and trampled down—with faces lifted to the sun, as if challenging compassion
and Heaven's vengeance—alone testified to the cruel horrors of the strife in
which they had perished.
The whole scene struck Egiza with no less surprise than horror. When had
these deeds been done? What was the occasion? Who had been the parties? He
now remembered the shouts and clamors which he had heard, as he was about to
enter the garden. He had also seen the departure of the guards from the enclosure
toward the courts in front; and to their absence he well knew he was to attribute
the impunity with which he had penetrated to the tower, in which Cava was confined;
but so completely had his soul and thought been given up to her—so entirely
had her situation and supposed danger, absorbed all other objects in his mind,
that the battle in the courts in front, if waged immediately beneath his eye, would,
it is more than probable, have called for as little of his regard as did the various
circumstances which had challenged, without heed, his consideration. He looked
now with horror and sufficient consciousness upon the bloody prospect before him.
While he gazed he heard the cries of the returning soldiers, and, following the lead
of one who seemed a spectator like himself, he turned aside for security into a
little recess formed by two jutting walls of one wing of the very prison from which
he had escaped the night before. The propinquity of this prison annoyed him,
and he would have left it, but that the soldiery was at hand. He heard their shouts,
and looking forth cautiously, caught a glimpse of his uncle, the lord Oppas, at their
head. The mystery of the connection was doubly increased as he surveyed the
archbishop—armed in mail from top to toe, and carrying a mace, which had evidently
done fearful execution in the conflict. How could he have fought? was the
question with Egiza—not for Roderick? and if he fought against him, was he not
a conquerer? He rode as such, in full armor, unrestrained, and a goodly troop,
wearing his household badge, were following at his heels. The joyous thought
came to his mind that Roderick was no more—that Oppas had headed the successful
insurrection, and that the path of safety and happiness, henceforward, lay open
to himself and Cava. The dream was dissipated in a moment after, when Roderick,
unhurt, and with weapon bare, came bounding furiously forward to the side of the
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archbishop. The vindictive fire still blazed in his dark eye, and overspread his
fierce features and crimson face. His arm not less than his weapon, had been literally
drenched in blood, and the dark stains extended beyond his elbows. His
helmet was off—lost in the melee—and the black hair was, in many places, dyed
with the same bloody tokens of the recent strife, while his hoarse voice shouting
his approbation to lord Oppas, proclaimed him sufficiently the victor. With a
countenance in which exultation and ferocity were mingled pretty equally, he looked
round upon the field which was every where marked with the trophies of the strife;
and his ferocity was increased, and his exultation somewhat diminished, as he beheld
how many of his own guards were mingled with the carcasses of the unhappy
peasantry, whom he had slaughtered. His jealous eye looked round greedily,
as if to see that there were no other victims yet to strike, and bitter was the fury
which he expressed to Oppas, when he remarked that one-third of the number of
his guards had perished in the conflict, being nearly half the number of the halfarmed
peasantry whom they had slain.
“The base curs, but they shall pay for this!” he exclaimed. “By saint Jupiter,
but they shall! I will have a bonfire of these carcasses, by the light of which I
will hang up an hundred of their brethren. But for you, my lord Oppas, I had
perished by the hand of that villian mule-driver—his knife was at my throat, and
the hand which held him back from the stroke, was well nigh palsied ere you came.
I have done you wrong, my lord bishop—I will do you right. You shall not say
that the king of the Romans is ungrateful, though truly you may complain that he
hath been unjust. I have been deceived, my lord bishop. Busy and jealous spirits
were about me, counselling me against thee, and proclaiming thee a traitor, along
with that outlawed brood of Witiza. I have erred, my lord bishop—the Goth has
erred. He can say no more.”
He extended his bloody hand as he spoke, and the wily archbishop grasped it
with an air of mingled gladness and humility, as he replied:
“Nor need you to have said thus much, oh Roderick! I feared not that I
should have justice in season, at thy hands. Well I knew, that busy tongues had
done me wrong to thy ears—and deeply did I feel the severity which followed it.
But I am more than gratified now, since thou hast permitted me to think that I have
rendered thee a service in a moment of necessity.”
“A service!” exclaimed the king. “By Hercules, I tell thee thou hast saved
my life. My blood, ere this, hadst thou not put in when thou didst, had reddened
the knife of that infernal mule-driver. Nay, never mince the matter—I tell thee, it
is so. My hand that grappled his lifted arm, and stayed the stroke, was failing me—
numbed, almost paralysed with the long strain upon it. I feel it now, to my
elbow. I had not counted the holy twelve, ere it had utterly given way, when thou
camest to my help. I owe thee a life, my lord bishop—a life, which I might have
lost, while my lieutenant Edeco, here, was adjusting his gorget.”
A smile of bitter scorn played upon the lips of the king, as, looking round upon
Edeco, he uttered these words. In nowise discomposed, the latter casually responded:
“Not so, oh Roderick! and I marvel that thou shouldst mistake the yellow
fingers of the Bascon, who made free with my poor throat, for those of your espatorio.
I owe the bishop a life also, oh king; since the good onslaught, which
saved you from the muleteer, gave me pleasant release from the most cruelly oppressive
fingers that ever yet troubled my gorget. A fellow bearing your badge, my
lord Oppas, clove the Bascon's skull, and not till then, would he be pursuaded to release
my throat. I would I knew the fellow, that I might pay him the value of a life”
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“Let the sum be small—a leovogild, or so,” was the half-scornful, half-playful
reply of Roderick. “For,” he continued, “hadst thou counted it at more thyself,
thou surely hadst striven for it better, I saw not thy strokes—I heard not even thy
shouts, which should have cheered our men. My own voice grew hoarse in its
labors to remedy the lack of thine.”
“And wouldst thou have had me, oh Roderick! mingle sounds so unseemly?
What ear would have noted the war-cry of the espatorio, when it was ringing with
that of the king. But I did cry aloud, oh Roderick—I had need to do so, for the
knaves pressed me sorely, and never did I behold men hang back more lazily than
ours. I had need to cry aloud and spare not, and, but for thy own shouts, oh king!
thou must have heard me.”
“Ay, methinks I did hear certain clamorous entreaties for mercy, which seemed
to come from the quarter where thou sayest thou fought. The voice was small and
soothing—it had an air of the chamber, Edeco, which was marvellously like to
thine.”
“By the ghost of Cæsar, king Roderick!” cried the courtier, with a greater degree
of earnestness than was his wont, “but thou dost me wrong. I struck many and
weighty blows—I fought like a true man—and my cry was not for mercy, but for
vengeance and battle. Would I cry for mercy to such dripping knaves? Would
I take life at their hands? By my beard, no!”
“A brief oath!” cried the king, laughing—“and a carefully trimmed one. Thou
hast brought thy credit to a narrow point, Edeco, and a little of the oil of beasts,
such as they sell to thee at such cost from Tangier, will make all smooth to thy
conscience.”
The popinjay stroked complacently the inverted pyramid of bristles that depended
from his chin; and smiling good humoredly, but contemptuously, the king turned
from his favorite to the archbishop. The contrast between the two, forced itself at
this moment more than ever before his consideration. The sleek effeminacy, and
loose, voluptuous air of one, compared unfavorably with the lofty, inflexible demeanor,
the fearless manhood, the erect carriage, and the almost barbarian simplicity
and sternness of look, which distinguished the archbishop. He was clothed in a
suit of full armor, plaited but plain, of bright steel; and the heavy mace, which he
bore, of the same metal, covered with blood-stains, which were not yet dry, carried
with it indubitable testimony that he who bore it was not merely a carpet-knight.
Admirably did the war habit which he wore, become lord Oppas; and we may add,
studiously and with the most elaborate care had it been chosen by the wearer. He
was not insensible to the fine symmetry, the superior manhood, and the noble carriage
of his person—and the very opportunity of appearing in the splendid military
costume of that age, was to him a matter of infinite gratification. Yet did he conceal
this little vanity of heart, by a careful sobriety of countenance, and a reverential
form of speech. While he fought manfully, he deplored war; and only
recognised its propriety in regard of the leading necessity, which left no other alternative
between that and greater immoralities.
“By my faith, lord Oppas, but you are a warrior!” cried the king, as he surveyed
him. “The coat of mail better fits your limbs than the surplice; and the
mace in thy hands is a far more imposing object than the crosier. I will look me
out a husband for the church, who bears himself less vigorously in fight than thou!
What sayest thou, Edeco, if I wed thee to the Gothic church? She is a rich damsel—
indulgent, too, to the select; thou will have infinite time for thy caparison, and
thy privileges—but let my lord Oppas tell thee of them. He shall be eloquent, if
I err not, in his speech of them; and let him tell thee but half, I look to have thee
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don the cassock with impatient haste, and hurry with even greater speed to the
confessional. Ha! my lord bishop, have I touched thee, ha! But for thy privileges—
nay, I know it—but for thy privileges, thou hadst been a warrior—thou
hadst striken heads, rather than hearts; and I will wager an Andalusian damsel
against one of thy golden candlesticks that thou hadst done more good in quelling
rebellious men, than thou hast ever done, in censuring dreaming women. Ha! wilt
thou wager, my lord bishop. If thou wilt”—
Egiza heard nothing more, and the sentence was concluded by a burst of broken
laughter from the king, which seemed to follow some reply of Edeco. The cavalcade
were now passing the open court, in one of the recesses of which the prince
found shelter. He concealed himself, as they now passed, behind one of the massive
projecting buttresses of the wall; while the stranger, who had likewise sought
concealment in the same area, sank behind a corresponding projection of the wall
opposite. It was then, while the tyrant and his train were passing; while the
tramp of the heavy horsemen, and the clattering of armor, and the confused hum of
voices were in his ears—even then, audible beyond all other sounds, and mingling
with them strongly and painfully, came to the senses of the prince a stifled moan,
followed by bitter and broken accents, from the bottom of the recess behind him.
The voice was that of a woman, and he turned involuntarily at the sound. He was
surprised and startled. Such had been his hurry and excitement upon first seeking
the shelter of the court, which was deep and spacious, that he had failed to see that
it was already occupied in front. He now started, and shuddered with horror at the
cruel picture which he had not marked before. An old woman sat upon the ground,
with a young girl and a youth before her, both of whom were dead. The head of
the former rested upon her lap—a hand of the latter was clasped in one of her own.
This she let fall, as the train of the tyrant came in sight, and her withered arms
were lifted to Heaven in imprecation as it passed. The bitter words which she
uttered were partly audible to Egiza, but not to those in whose denunciation they
were uttered. Few were the words, yet dreadful was the curse which she uttered
in that moment. With laughter on his lips Roderick passed by, unconscious of,
and indifferent to, the miseries which he had brought upon the land; but the wretched
and desolate woman cursed him not the less, as she saw that he heard her not.
Her appeal was to Heaven, and through Heaven's judgment only could she hope to
have her imprecation descend upon the head of him who had despoiled her of her
children. She was the mother of the fearless Toro, and the gentle girl, his sister,
for whose safety he had striven so unsuccessfully, and for whom, indeed, he had
perished. Had it not been necessary for her extrication, he had not remained in the
crowd. She had unwisely followed him, and the anguish which he suffered, even
ere she had fallen a victim in the strife, and the apprehensions which he felt on her
account, were more painful to his heart, than any blow which he suffered in his
person. But they neither suffered now; and the soldiers who slew, and the tyrant
who permitted and provoked the slaughter, passed on without emotion to the proud
palace and the pampering feast. Little thought had they of the thousands whose
humble cottages they had that day filled with misery and death. Few were the
reflections, and slight the commiseration, which, in that period, the prince gave to
his people. Man had not then risen to command the rights of humanity. His
rights then were those of service, not sympathy. He had limbs and sinews, could
procure arms, and possessed a valor which feared not to grapple with the forest
lion; but he lacked the few crowning thoughts, which could concentrate his own
powers and those of his kindred in a common cause. Barbarians are individuals—
not men. They feel a common necessity, but they lack a common purpose. Could
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the brave Toro have been heard, when he spoke of the common danger; could he
have been followed, when his hand pointed out the common direction, which their
own safety counselled them to take, his own cottage, and those of hundreds besides,
had not been desolate that night. But the Avenger was at hand, and the imprecation
of the aged woman had not been spoken idly. The blood of the murdered had gone
up to Heaven, and rang in thunder-tones through the eternal vaults. Even then
the bolt was aimed at the offender, and the Angel of Divine Wrath stood with unfolded
wing at the eternal portals, waiting but the fiat which should send him forth
on his work of annihilation.
CHAPTER X.
Egiza had not beheld the efforts of the Gallician in the strife in which he perished;
he had not seen his fiery energies striving to the last, for the rescue first, and
finally for the avenging of his innocent sister. He felt, consequently, but little or
none of that interest in the fortunes of the group which a previous knowledge of
events must have inspired. But there was still enough that was painfully picturesque
in the situation to rivet his regard. It had been a scene for the patriot painter,
seeking to leave a record of the fruits of despotism, which should be an argument to
all succeeding ages. When the cavalcade of Roderick had gone by, and it was safe
for him to emerge from the buttress, in the rear of which he stood, he hurried with
a painful sort of curiosity to the back part of the recess, where the group found
shelter, anxious to learn the particulars of their history, the catastrophe of which,
so far, was amply delivered in the two silent forms now lying beside their lonely
mother. The man who had found a similar cover with himself, on the approach of
Roderick's party, behind another buttress of the walls, as if moved by a like curiosity,
followed his steps—and they both stood, but without speech, in the presence
of the woman. She looked up after a pause of a few brief moments, in which her
lips had moved, though in the utterance of no distinguishable words.
“What come ye for?” she demanded; “ye can do them no more hurt. Feel
them, they move not—they have no more life. But this morning the boy brought
me water. Look now!” She raised his head as she spoke, and let it fall suddenly
upon her lap. The blood and matter oozed out from the cloven skull as she did so,
and lay in clotted masses upon her garments; but she seemed not to heed; while,
lifting the head of the girl with more of tenderness, she subjected it to a like test,
and allowed it to fall with its own unresisted weight upon the lap beside that of her
brother.
“Is't not enough?” she demanded. “Would you give them more blows? You
may, but they cannot feel them. Go, take away your bloody axes from my sight.
You would not strike the dead. No, take them away.”
“We have no axes, good mother. You mistake us,” said the prince. “We are
not soldiers—our hands have not done this.”
“I see them—think you to hide them from me? But I care not—I fear them not.
Perhaps, it is me that you would strike now. Toro said you would. He always
said that the soldiers would as soon strike a woman as a man, and perhaps sooner,
since then they had not so much to fear in return. But you may strike—strike,
only give me time to say a prayer, and perhaps a curse. I would curse—it is easier
to curse than to pray, when one's children are murdered. Toro, I will curse for
you first, and the curse shall be upon the Gothic men! For you Toly, I will curse
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all the Gothie women!—let the devils hear!—let them come out of the tombs and
hear, for I would give them work. Are you not a Goth?” she suddenly exclaimed
to Egiza; but without waiting for his reply she continued, and her features assumed
a horrible and ghastly expression of rage as she spoke, as if they had been those of
one long familiar with curses, and thrice blasted of Heaven. “Go! I curse you
with many deaths!—with the death of all that love you!—with the death of all
that you love!—may you eat of your own hearts, bloody Goths that ye are! Go
to Roderick your master, and may ye perish like him! I curse ye all, for ye have
cursed me!”
“But we are not Goths. I, at least, am not a Goth!” was the exclamation of
Egiza.
“Nor I, mother!” hurriedly repeated the stranger, as if to divert the curse of the
desolate woman.
“It matters not!” she exclaimed. “If ye are not Goths, what are ye? Ye are
not men, or ye had not suffered these things. Ye are the base slaves of the Goth—
that serve his sway, and do his bidding; and I curse ye—with a worse curse than I
have for him! Had ye been men, ye would have fought like Toro; and then he had
lived, and Toly had lived, and I had been happy with my children; but now I have
none. Do ye not hear? Go! I give ye curses for company to travel with! Leave
me now, or handle your axes! I care not how soon you strike!”
She drew the dead bodies at the same moment in a fervent embrace to her bosom,
and looked not up once at the spectators, nor uttered another word to them, while
they remained. The scene was too painful for contemplation, and they simultaneously
turned away from it. When they had reached the outer wall of the court,
Egiza remarked more narrowly the person of his companion, and beheld with some
satisfaction that he wore upon his bosom the leathern pocket, or pannier, which
was the certain sign of the courier. This discovery delighted him.
“You are a courier?” he said.
“I am, father,” was the reply; and it reminded Egiza, that he wore the habit of
the Caulian friars.
“I would employ you then,” said Egiza. “I would have you ride with all
speed to the fortress of count Julian at Algeziras, and it may be that you will have
to pass to Ceuta. Bear this letter to the lieutenant in safety, and your reward shall
be suitable to your labor. He is a generous prince; you will not speed in vain;
and, in earnest that you shall not, here are ten leovogilds! Will you speed on this
journey?”
The man closed with him instantly, and received the money.
“What time will it be before you start?—I would have you proceed quickly,”
was the farther address of the prince.
“I will but pause to bait my horse,” was the reply. “An hour will find me on
my way to Algeziras.”
“Enough! Thou wilt deliver the missive into no hand but that of count Julian;
he will reward thee for greater trouble in so doing.”
“I believe it, father. His hand shall take it from my own. The blessed Virgin
hear me as I promise, and help me as I perform. Father, your blessing.”
The courier knelt to Egiza before he could interrupt him; and the latter, deeming
it better to maintain his assumed, than risk the exposure of his real character,
without scruple conferred the blessing which was solicited; an offence, for which
he prayed forgiveness from Heaven, the moment that he was alone. Speeding the
courier upon his way, he hurried back in the direction of the royal garden, where
the woman of his heart awaited him.
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CHAPTER XI.
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She awaited him, but how! Little did he imagine the sort of reception which he
was to have, as he hastened, with a buoyant heart, to the spot where she had
pledged herself to meet him. Little did he dream that all the toils which he had
undergone, and all the sacrifices which he had made, for the single object of his
devotion, were undergone and performed without avail. He was now to experience
the just reward of his narrow selfishness. Heedless of what was due to his
people, to justice, to freedom, and to his father's memory, he had been meanly
solicitous of his own enjoyment, without any of the cares of life; and to secure this
object, he had basely shuffled off all the solemn responsibilities of his birth, as a
prince and citizen, alike. He was now about to be taught the noble truth that the
cause of liberty is the common cause of man; and that no station can be secure,
whether high or humble—no happiness certain, whether lofty or unpretending, in
any land where injustice remains unpunished, and where tyranny is suffered to
obtain a foothold.
With the last lingering look upon her lover, as he left her to seek the courier
who was to convey the letter to her father, the unhappy Cava had addressed herself
to prayer. That parting with Egiza was the last—such was her resolve; and,
strive as she might, she felt that she could not pray. A dark shadow waved its
arms constantly between her eyes and the image of the Virgin. The features
seemed to contract, and the brow to frown upon her. The benevolence which had
looked forth upon her from the maternal eyes had departed, and she felt that she
had sinned in her resolve, and was about to do a farther and a greater sin in its
execution. The tears ran down her cheeks as she prayed for mercy—for indulgence;
but the frown passed not away from the features to which she looked, and
the dark shadow waved its arms more frequently before her eyes, and finally shut
out the blessed image entirely from her sight.
“Oh, mother! desert me not,” she cried; “desert me not! Thou knowest that I
have not sinned in this dreadful suffering; that I strove against the sin; that I
called upon thee all the while. I called upon thee, mother, but thou didst not come.”
Once more her eyes caught a glimpse of the blessed features, and they seemed to
smile upon her; but the prayer of her lips, the next moment, again brought with it
a blindness of the sight, as it denoted a greater blindness of the spirit.
“Take pity on me, Mother of God!—pity on the poor handmaiden, who kneels
to thee. Be thou before me, oh blessed Mary!—be thou before me at the Burning
Throne; soften the eyes that look upon me—plead for me, and win the grace for
me in mercy, which, through the intercession of thy son Jesus, thou canst well
command. Thou knowest that I cannot live; I cannot live for the scorn of those I
love—for those that should have loved me. I cannot meet their eyes. I dare not
look upon them. I must die!”
The once gentle features scowled upon her, and a voice at her very heart appeared
to say:
“And art thou more bold to meet God, whom thou now seekest willingly to
offend? Art thou less ready to look upon man than upon God? Is the Eternal
Love nothing to thee; and is the mortal love everything? Foolish and sinful that
thou art, seest thou not that what is pure and worthy in the love of earth, is a part of
God's love which He resumes at death, and which lives for thee evermore hereafter?
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Be not blind to offend God. Live for prayer—live for His love and mercy, if not for
the mercy and the love of man.”
“Would I could!” exclaimed the desperate woman, as if in reply to this exhortation.
“Would I could dare to live, to meet his face, to serve his bidding, to be in
his presence ever. But I am not strong enough.”
A voice at her ear seemed to her to say:
“Thou art not!” and the shadow swelled and distended as she listened, until her
eyes swam in the increasing darkness, and her extended hands grasped the wall below
the image of the Virgin, to whom she vainly stretched them for support. The
evil prompter had triumphed. The soft features of the Mother of Grief no longer
looked forth upon her, or looked forth only in rebuke. She rose from her knees.
She hurried to the recess in which she had hidden the letter to Egiza. This she
grasped in her hands, as she hurried to the lofty window. She climbed—she stood
upon the ledge, another step and she was upon the balustrade, and nothing now
remained, but God, between her and the awful precipice. She turned her eyes once
more within the room in search of the Virgin, but she saw not even the picture.
A hand seemed to grasp her throat. She strove for breath—she was choking with
her terrors, but she suppressed them:
“Let me not feel it, mother—my flesh shivers—I would not feel the pain. I am
dizzy—I—ah! I reel—I fall—Mother of God—Blessed Mary, help me—stay me—
keep me back—I would not perish now—I would live!”
These were her last words as she disappeared from the window. She had
repented of her resolve; but too late. Her head was dizzy with her elevation—her
knees gave way beneath her—and her last appeal, her last resolution to live, came
from the first physical consciousness of her inability any longer to maintain her
perilous position. Yet, as if the reluctant repentance was still in season, the cruel
pain of the death which she had chosen, was spared her. Ere yet she reached the
end of that fearful flight—ere yet her delicate limbs came in contact with the unyielding
and cold earth, all consciousness had departed, and she felt nothing after.
One part of her prayer seemed to have been heard by the Blessed Spirit to whom
she addressed it, and permitted by the indulgent God. She had been spared the
pang from which her flesh had shrunk in apprehension, and the earth seemed to
have received her as gently as it does the traveller who sinks into a passing slumber
by the wayside.
CHAPTER XII.
Thus, like one who slept happily, was she found by Egiza. He had passed the
walls in safety. The guards were not returned, or were in very small number
within the garden. He reached the appointed spot without interruption. At first,
approaching the tower, with eye turned upward to the window at which he had
before left her, he saw her not, until his feet were nearly in contact with her garments.
Then, he started back with surprise and apprehension. The next glance
somewhat reassured him. She seemed to sleep. The features were composed—even
placid, and a smile rested upon them. He stooped—his arms encircled her—he was
about to press her lips with his own, when he started back, and now trembled with
apprehension. A slight stream of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, and
her cheek, which rested upon the grassy bank, as he slightly lifted her form and
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changed its position, was impressed with the green outlines of its several blades.
A slight cry of doubt escaped him, and he called to her with a hurried tremulousness
of accent which he vainly strove to overcome.
“Speak to me, Cava—dearest—best beloved—my heart—my life—speak to me—
tell me that you are not hurt—that you live—that you will fly with me. Speak to
me—it is Egiza, your own Egiza, who implores. Speak! speak!”
He lifted her from the ground—the eyes opened upon him, and glared glassily and
cold—the long hair was undone, and the unsupported head distorted the limber neck,
as it fell heavily back upon her shoulders.
“God! she is dead!” he exclaimed, as he suffered the insensible body to fall from
his arms. He knelt like one stupified—aghast, and utterly silent beside her. He
could not realize the dreadful truth before him. He could not trust the evidence of
those senses which had been impatient to behold a far different prospect. While he
gazed astounded, upon the inanimate maiden, he caught a glimpse of the letter in
her hand. It had been clenched firmly, and was still held fast. He extricated it
from her grasp, and with swimming eyes read the superscription to himself. Convulsively
he tore asunder the folds, and read the epistle, which but too plainly announced
the wrong which she had suffered, and but too certainly accounted for the
manner of her death. Twice he perused it, then crushing it convulsively in his
hands, he sank upon the body with a single groan of the intense and otherwise
speechless agony of his soul. A cry from above startled him. He looked up, and
met the terrified gaze of a group of women. They were those who had been assigned
as a watch upon the movements of Cava. They had been led to a brief
desertion of their trust, by the clamors of the populace in the courts fronting the
palace, and they returned to find their captive free. Their shrieks filled the air,
and he heard the clamor of approaching voices. He started to his feet. A new
impulse prompted him, and he lifted the insensible victim in his arms. He rushed
through the coppice, and with gigantic effort ascended the walls of the garden. The
voice of Roderick reached his ears, and with a vindictive fury he felt for the dagger
which he had placed within his girdle. It was no longer there. He was unarmed,
but desperation filled his soul, and he shouted his defiance aloud. His shouts
aroused a soldier who guarded a corner of the walls, and who instantly made toward
him. His approach produced no pause in the progress of Egiza, as it occasioned
no apprehension in his mind. He dashed forward unhesitatingly, still bearing his
insensible burden.
“Stand!” cried the approaching soldier, presenting his spear as he did so. “Stand!
or I thrust you to the earth.”
“Stand!—yes!—I will stand upon thy carcass, reptile; upon the carcass of thy
master! Get from my path, I tell thee!”
“A madman!” exclaimed the soldier involuntarily, but presenting his spear, more
in apprehension than resolve. Egiza dashed it aside, and darted upon him, grappling
at his throat with the one free arm. The soldier shrank back, but still presenting
his spear, it took effect with the next effort which Egiza made—not upon
his person, but that of her whom he bore. The spear-head was driven through her
breast, and he let her sink to the ground with a feeling of horror, as if a new crime
had been committed. Then, having both arms freed, he sprang upon the now unarmed
guardsman, whose weapon remained fixed in Cava's drapery, and from which
he vainly strove to wrest it. Before he could succeed he was grappled in the arms
of the furious prince, whom no effort at this moment could possibly resist. In a
moment he had lifted the clinging and struggling soldier from the ground—in another
he had hurled him from the wall and into the garden, where, maimed and lacerated,
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he lay writhing fruitlessly, among the thick plants and shrubbery. Egiza paused
not to behold him, but seizing once more upon the dead body of Cava, he hurried
forward with insane agility, seeking to gain that portion of the garden-wall where
it had a natural and easy descent, by means of the tall trees which grew there upon
the loose rocks by the side of the river. Ere he could effect his object the alarm
was given behind him, and the guards were in full pursuit. There was but little
time for hesitation, and, when it became clear to him, as it soon did, that he could
not reach the point proposed before his pursuers were upon him, without a thought
of the desperation of such a deed, gathering the body up more firmly in his grasp,
he leaped from the lofty point of the wall upon which he stood, boldly into the deep
and boiling river which hurried on beneath it. A cry something between a shout
and a shriek rose from the soldiers that pursued, who had reached the surface of the
wall in sufficient time to behold the desperate deed, and to note its consequences.
Roderick, too, appeared upon the wall, followed by the archbishop Oppas, a moment
after, and their eyes were intently fixed upon the yet bubbling spot upon the
waters, where the fugitive with his unconscious prize had descended. He arose but
the spectators were more conscious than himself. In the concussion which followed
his contact with the waters, the body of Cava had been torn from his grasp, and his
arms were struck out upon the stream rather in search of her than in support of
himself.
“Shoot! shoot!—is there not a bowman among you to send a shaft through yon
sturdy traitor?” was the cry of Roderick to the soldiers One of them advanced,
armed with the required instrument, and the aim was already taken, when the arm
of the soldier was arrested by the archbishop.
“Why do ye stay the shaft, my lord Oppas?” demanded the king, who beheld
the interruption. “Let the knave shoot, and be sure of the traitor.”
“See, oh king! he hath disappeared!” was the reply—a reply uttered with a
calm case of voice and manner, which had not been attained but with a wondrous
effort. The lord Oppas knew his nephew, his favorite nephew—and, selfish though
he might be in his ambitious projects, he was not utterly insensible to the ties of
kindred, and to the once noble promise of the youth whom he now saw perishing.
He turned away from the prospect, and ceased to look. The tyrant gazed again and
again upon the surface of the stream, which hurried on with indifference to its eternity,
the ocean; and the rapidity with which strong life may be abridged, was forced
upon his thought at that moment more emphatically than by the repeated murders
of his own hand, and those which but a brief hour before he had witnessed and
commanded. There, life only had departed—the strong man lay still in his eyes—
no longer struggling it is true—but with the massive limbs, and the corded muscle,
as if strong to struggle still. Now, not a vestige remained, either of the life that
prompted, or the frame that followed its direction. It was something terrible even
to the reckless despot, that single instance, not of death only, but seeming annihilation.
But he affected not to heed the sight.
“Come, my lord Oppas, let us in—Egilona shall give thee thanks for thy good
service, and for her lord's life, which thou hast saved to-day. Nay, look no more.
It is all over with the ruffian. Tagus will cast him up ere it gain the ocean, and
if it do not, the loss will be to the vulture, and the gain to our nostrils.”
“But the maid—the daughter of count Julian?” said the archbishop, in a tone of
inquiry.
“Is silent,” was the quick reply of the king, who placed his hand familiarly on
the churchman's shoulder as he spoke it. “Cava is silent; and so, my lord Oppas
must be the friend of Roderick. She stole off with her paramour—do you heed
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me—and they perished together in their flight. Come, to the queen, to the queen.
We are waited for.”
In the presence of Egilona, Oppas forgot his nephew—everything, indeed, but her
beauties, and the lustful ambition which they had long inspired.
Yet Egiza lived. Without his own consciousness he lived. Borne down by the
current beyond the eyes of his enemies, he was rescued from the waters by the
timely aid of a fisherman, who dwelt upon the banks, and who, at that fortunate
moment, was plying his vocation in his little barque. With a doubtful kindness,
the rude man brought him to the shore, restored him to life, and gave him, while he
remained feeble, the shelter of his miserable hut. There let us leave him.
END OF BOOK FIFTH.
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BOOK SIXTH.
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CHAPTER I
The Arabs of the East, under the Caliph Almanzor, had swept, with the sword of
the prophet, the Oriental nations. The progress of conquest had brought them to
the shores of the Atlantic, and they already looked forth upon the narrow straits
which lie between the Pillars of Hercules, with the impatient yearnings of a desire
which was yet beyond their power to satisfy. To overpass this narrow limit, to
possess themselves of the fertile regions which lay beyond, was an appetite the more
keenly felt in consequence of the obstacles which opposed it. Of the wealth and
luxury of the Gothic empire of Spain, they had full assurance; of its feebleness,
however, they formed no adequate conjectures. It had been fortunate for Spain, that
the defence of Tingitania, or that small portion of Western Africa which still belonged
to the empire of Roderick, had been intrusted to a veteran soldier so renowned as
Julian of Consuegra. Julian was one of the greatest warriors of his time. With a
natural predilection for war, his experience had confirmed the tendencies of his
genius. Skilled in all the military arts of the period, he was beloved of the soldiery.
Ten thousand well-appointed warriors obeyed his paramount authority; and, placed
upon the borders of the kingdom, and constantly threatened by an active and imposing
enemy, they had preserved their courage and military vigilance. They suffered from
none of those enervating tastes and luxuries which enfeebled, in the heart of the
kingdom, the great body of the people to which they belonged. They knew nothing
of those vices which disgraced the court, and found their way from that polluted fount,
through all the arteries of the social system. They constituted, on the frontiers of
Tingitania, a powerful military colony. Their virtues, in times of comparative security,
were exercised by the labors of the field, and by those toils of the hunter and
the peasant by which men's muscles are rendered equally enduring and elastic. A
hardy simplicity of character made them heedless of luxuries, and the occasional demands
of war had no other effect than to increase the charm of their rude mode of
life, when a return of peace or quiet enabled them temporarily to enjoy it. Count
Julian, whom, for many years, they had known as their only leader, was, in some
sort, their patriarch. He regarded his followers with the friendly interest of one who
had always secured their fidelity; and his frankness of manner, great bravery, and
the even measure with which he administered justice among them, left him without
a competitor in their confidence and affections. They knew little of the Gothic
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kingdom—nothing of Roderick or his predecessor; had little interest in the internal affairs of
the empire, and, as has been already in part intimated in our history, would have
been much more ready to follow their immediate military leader, at the expression of
his bare will, as absolute subjects, than they would have been to throw up their caps
in acknowledging the elevation to the throne of the sovereign born in the purple!
That such, indeed, had not been the case on the ascent of Roderick, was due rather
to the loyalty, or, it may be, to the prudence of Julian, than to any notion which his
followers entertained of what was due to legitimacy.
Contending with such a people only, the Arabs, whose otherwise victorious arms
had borne the crescent of Mahomet over the proudest cities of the East, could form
but an imperfect idea of the nation at large, whose interests they maintained in Tingitania.
Reasoning from what they know, of the valor of these men of the frontier,
they might very well entertain serious doubts of ever gaining foothold upon the
shores of Spain, to which their eager eyes were directed in equal hope and misgiving.
But, though this great conquest might yet appear beyond their grasp, the spirit of
Moslemism necessarily hurried on its warriors to the complete conquest of Western
Africa. The provence of Tingitania was too necessary to the integrity of Almagreb,
not to make it desirable that the military colony of Julian should be driven across
the straits. However brave and indomitable might be his ten thousand followers,
however skilful their commander, it was still beyond reasonable conjecture that they
should be able long to hold out against the mighty force which the standard of the
prophet could array for the completion of conquests. One hundred thousand veterans
were brought together for this purpose. From the seat of the caliphate, at Damascus,
Waled Almanzor, otherwise called by the Moslems, the “Sword of God,” had
issued his command to drive the Gothic Christians unto the waters of the sea. His
troops were free to this enterprise. His foes had sunk, in all other regions, before
the baleful influence of his prevailing star. Led by Muza Ben Nosier, one of the
most remarkable of all the warriors of the early ages, they were drawn together
from all parts of Almagreb. A mixed multitude, they sent up to the heavens the
separate cries of a thousand tribes of the great desert. A fiery race by nature, the
fanatic tenets of the prophet had given to their mood an intensity which, like the
famous artificial fire of the Greeks, was only heightened by the effort to extinguish
it. Impatient of opposition, as special instruments of eternal truth and vengeance,
they held life cheap in comparison with conquest. To perish in the prosecution of
their holy war, was to secure immunity for their sins and salvation for their souls; and
the pangs of a violent death, in this life, were more than compensated by the glowing
descriptions of sensual happiness, by which their prophet proposed to reward
them in their transition to the next. Light and vigorous, fearless and full of faith,
skilled in the use of their weapons, and rendered more so by actual conflict with a
thousand various tribes, they threw themselves forward upon the Goths of Tingitania,
with the reckless hardihood of men who had nothing to lose but all to gain, even
from the worst issues and results of battle.
Their great leader was a warrior after their own hearts. Muza Ben Nosier, when
summoned by the caliph to the command of Almagreb, was in his seventieth year;
but he had lost in age but little of the vigor and elasticity of youth. In several respects
he had undergone no change from the character which he had borne in youth.
Time, which subdues the blood in other veins, seemed only to have given a fresh
impetus to his. He was still the fiery warrior which he had been when he went
forth a humble follower in the armies of Mahomet. Religious fanaticism had
added to the force and fervor of his temper; and success, which, after a certain
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space, seems to satisfy the cravings of most warriors, contributed only to the increase
of his desires in this respect. Fierce, yet cool and calm in his deportment—vindictive
and deceitful—impetuous in battle, but a most subtle politician—Muza was altogether
one of the most remarkable men of modern periods. That he was selfish,
mercenary, bloodthirsty and unjust, is probably natural enough to such a person.
This, perhaps, is to be understood as inevitable from his successful leadership of
such people as those who followed him to battle. There were veterans under him
not less remarkable—one of whom will become even more conspicuous than himself,
in the progress of this narrative.
The opening of the year seven hundred and ten, was an eventful period in the fortunes
of Gothic Spain. It found the fortresses of the Goths in Tingitania, everywhere
menaced by the power of the Moslems. Musa Ben Nosier led the assault
upon that of Ceuta, the most powerful, defended by Count Julian in person. The
forces of the latter, in Africa, were, as already said, about ten thousand men. Those
of the Arabs are said to have defied computation. The more cautious estimates of
the historian have placed them, however, at no less than ten times that number.
Confident in his strength and superiority, assured by continual success, Musa Ben
Nosier, disdaining the slow processes of siege, at once led his formidable array
against the Gothic towers. The genius of Mahommedanism has always preferred
to make its conquests by storm. From the rise of morn to the set of sun, his fierce
and active followers flung themselves with desperate hardihood against the ramparts
of Ceuta. They asked for no forbearance—they yielded none. The assailant who
looks not to his own danger, is not easily defeated. The swarthy sons of the desert
had never yet taken counsel from defeat. They disdained the cold considerations
of prudence. They went forward to conquer; and death, in this desire, was still a
conquest, sufficiently precious to reconcile them to all the danger. But, in this instance,
their fiery valor was in vain. The Goths of the frontier were worthy of the
old Romans, from whom it was their boast to have sprung. They were a stern and
stubborn people. If they lacked the peculiar fire of the Arab, they had a patient
doggedness of resolve which more than compensated for the deficiency. If they
were less lithe and active, they were more firm; and, with a power of resistance
such as the sullen rock opposes to the billows, on the edges of their own empire.
The children of the desert thus flung themselves upon the walls of Ceuta, only to
recoil, like broken billows of the sea, from the fast-rooted Pillars of Hercules. Their
fury, their numbers, their fanaticism; their rage of conquest, their scorn of death;
the wild cries with which they went into battle, the stormy clamor of the cymbal
and barbaric drum—were all fruitless. They were driven back, baffled and dispirited,
from the Gothic fortress; and, as they fled in confusion, Julian sallied forth, and a
terrible slaugher ensued among the flying columns. For once the Moslem despaired
of his prophet. The spell of his invincibility seemed broken. His progress was
fatally arrested, and even Muza, the fierce, the proud, the fanatic, trembled with the
conviction, that, in his defeat, the waves of Moslem conquest were to be stayed for
ever. Sore in spirit, discomfited, confounded, he sought the shelter of his camp,
and, in resolute seclusion from all his followers, declared to them the depth of his
affliction and disgrace.
Far different was the feeling within the walls of Ceuta. A natural, and not
unbecoming exultation filled the bosom of Count Julian. His followers gloried in
their successes, and boasted of their exploits. Gothic Tingitania rang with the
shouts of triumph, and the name of Julian was thrice honored with the grateful
applauses of his people. Gay lights shone from the house-tops, bonfires blazed
in the streets. Merry strains went up from terrace and balcony, and, in the general
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impulse of rejoicing, beauty and innocence forgot that there were Moslem spoilers
in the land. If ever heart was satisfied with itself, it was that of Julian. He sat
within his chamber, meditating the victory which he had won, and the farther
duties which yet remained to his valor to perform. He thought with pride of the
applauses which he should win from Spain—the thanks of his sovereign, the shouts
of his people, of which these, that occasionally ascended to his ears, were so many
faint but expressive harbingers. Even at that moment the messenger was in the
court below, bearing the fatal missive from the dishonored Cava.
“In no hand but that of Julian of Consuegra, can I place the letter.”
Such was the answer of the courier to the attendant.
“Follow me.”
He did so, and stood in the presence of the warrior.
“From whence?” demanded the latter.
“From Spain—from the city of Toledo. I bring a letter from one who bade me
haste, and find my reward from Count Julian. The grass has not grown beneath
my feet.”
“'Tis well,” said Julian, slowly receiving the letter. Then addressing the attendant:
“Take him hence, and see him fed and comforted. Yet stay—remain!
From whom got you this missive?”
“I know not well. He was a Cambrian friar.”
“An evil race, methinks—a restless, troublesome—! The writing would seem
to be that of Cava!—of my child!”
Julian went aside, and with the letter still unopened within his grasp, trode slowly
the apartment. Pausing at the side opposite that where the messenger stood, he
contemplated the superscription of the letter with signs of emotion.
“I know not why, but something disturbs me. I feel a vague sense of evil.
This is the writing of my child, but how unlike! The line is uneven—the words
are interrupted. She writes not usually thus—and to me! The child has suffered—
she is sick! Jesu grant it be not worse! But this is a sorry weakness!”
He unfolded the missive as he spoke—drew near one of the cressets which burned
against the wall, and proceeded to read. On a sudden his cheek paled, then flushed—
a convulsion passed over his countenance and shook his frame. He looked round
him, and exclaimed:
“Ha! stay! where is this villain courier?”
Then, as his eye found him—the object which it sought—he crumpled the scrawl
in his hand, bounded forward, and before the astonished messenger was conscious
of his movements, he had grappled him about the neck. A simple effort sufficed
to bring him to the floor. The serf was as an infant in the clutches of the
strong man. He gasped—he could not speak—while the terrified attendant looked
on aghast, with horror and surprise. The scene lasted but an instant only.
As suddenly as he had taken hold upon his victim, did Julian release him from his
grasp. He rose slowly to an erect position, and, while the big veins stood out,
cord-like, upon his forehead, and big drops of sweat rose upon his brow, he moved
backward a few steps, seemingly, in the effort to recover himself. The courier
partly rose also, but, as if still apprehensive of danger, crouched once more upon
the floor.
“Rise!” said Julian.
The man obeyed him in silence.
“Hither—to me!”
He betrayed some reluctance to obey the farther command.
“Fear nothing! Nay, even though you prove false, fear nothing. Hither!”
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The tones were hollow and strange. They did not assure the trembling messenger,
but he dared not hesitate. He approached; and, seizing one of the lights that
stood at hand, Julian thrust it close beside the countenance of the man, and steadily
gazed upon his features. The scrutiny lasted but an instant.
“He is, indeed, nothing but a courier. Take him hence.”
When he was gone, Julian once more unfolded the fatal letter, which had been
crushed in his grasp even before he had finished its perusal. Once more he took it
to the light, and with desperate determination proceeded to make himself master of
its contents. He did so. His hands fell at his side. The cruel paper escaped his
grasp. His eyes were lifted up in agony to heaven, and then closed as if in the
pangs of a death spasm. With the single words—
“My child! my child!”—
He sunk, in a convulsion, upon the floor of the aparment.
CHAPTER II.
Terrible indeed was the shock to the unhappy father. A man of intense passions,
of indomitable pride, of exquisite sensibility—for all these may, and do, frequently
exist together—thus dishonored by his sovereign at the very moment
when he was most exultant in the consciousness of having achieved for the kingdom
of that monarch one of the most important victories,—the revulsion of feeling
was actually so great as to choke, for the moment, all the most vital faculties of
his physical and mental nature. For more than two hours he lay unnoticed in his
swoon. His officers and followers were too busy without, in attendance upon their
duties, or in the enjoyment of those sports and revels which grew naturally out of
their recent triumph, to know any thing of the suffering of the strong man within.
It was by the slow recovery of his unassisted faculties, that he finally became relieved
from this situation. His eyes opened upon the scene around him. The cressets
were still burning upon the wall. The fatal letter of Cava lay beside him.
His convulsion had served in some degree to obliterate the impression of his misery.
He had but a vague, confused sense of suffering—an imperfect memory of a terrible
wo—dark, fathomless, eternal. But the sight of the scrawl, as he half rose from the
floor, restored his more perfect consciousness. He grasped it convulsively.
“It is no dream!” he exclaimed; “the truth is here—the cruel, horrible truth!
God of heaven, have I been reserved for this!”
He took the paper in his grasp. Once more he crumpled it in his hand, as if to
stifle its cruel tidings. Once more he unfolded it, and drew near to the lights. As
he read, the strong man grew once more convulsed with his agony. But, this time,
the pressure upon the heart and brain was somewhat lessened by the big drops which
gushed out of his burning eyes.
“My child! my poor child! why hast thou been abandoned of heaven? Why
was thy innocence no surety—no safeguard? Oh! brutal, bloody tyrant! Oh!
dark, viperous wretch! insatiable for spoil—heedless of honor and of virtue! But
I will set my foot upon thy neck! I will rend thee as the tiger rends the lamb! I
will gloat upon thy agonies in death! My child, my child! thou shalt not pray
vainly for the vengeance which is thy due!”
He strode the chamber with irregular but heavy steps, the letter clasped in his
hands—then, closing and lifting them to heaven, he paused.
“I must return to Spain—I must rescue the poor child from his grasp. I must
do this with the smile of one who knows no injury—who feels no hurt. I am
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desolate at Ceuta—thus will I declare myself. I need my child, my comforter, at Ceuta.
On this plea will I get her from his arms—and then! oh! then—”
Voices were heard before the entrance. He paused, the door was unclosed, and
one of his officers appeared conducting a stranger.
“Who is this? Who art thou?”
The stranger answered:
“Let this man retire; then will I speak.”
“Be it so. Speak! Who art thou?”
The officer disappeared, The stranger advanced.
“Look on me. Thou knowest me.”
“No! I know thee not.”
“'Tis well.”
The stranger was of graceful and becoming form, and bore himself with an air
of natural majesty. The tones of his voice were sweet, but solemn. His garments
were those of a monk, but they were rent and stained by travel and exposure.
Julian perused him for a moment with an indifferent eye, which showed no sign of
recognition.
“Thou knowest me not; yet thou shouldst know me. I am Egiza, son to
Witiza!”
“Ha! thou aft he who sought my daughter to wife? Coward that thou art,
loving his unhappy maiden—thou in Spain, breathing the same atmosphere with
her—thou hast yet suffered her to fall a victim to this brutal tyrant. Methinks,
hadst thou but half manhood, didst thou cherish but a tittle of the passion which
thou didst profess, thy arm could have saved her from this cruel, killing wrong.
Thou wouldst have been taught by quickest instincts the moment of her danger;
thou wouldst have been nigh and powerful to save her when she cried aloud for
help. Methinks I hear her now—that voice! that innocent, entreating voice—it is
ringing in mine ears! Hark! dost thou not hear? `Save me! father! dear father!
Wilt thou not save me from this monster!”'
Julian assumed the attitude of one who listens—his finger uplifted—his head
thrown forward—his air that of one absorbed in attention. But he maintained the
attitude for an instant only. He turned abruptly upon his visitor:
“Thou didst not help! Perchance thou couldst not. Well, what brings thee
hither now?”
“To aid thee.”
“In what do I need thy help?”
“In vengeance!”
“Ha! true! There is that yet for us. But we must pluck the victim from the
monster—the lamb from the wolf! My child, still precious though dishonored,
flies to my love from the arms of this monster. We must smile for this! Put on
the lamb, approach meekly, play the hypocrite; and only show the teeth when the
precious innocent is safe from harm. Thou lovest her—thou hast loved her, young
man. I repent me that I did not yield her to thy love. But I nothing dreamed of
this. How should I dream of such indignity to child of mine! That this reckless
king should dare so high—should so presume on brutal appetite—should— But
this avails us nothing. Thou wouldst aid me—we would have our revenge. Well,
it shall be so. I must first remove my child from the embraces of this Roderick.”
“This is already done!”
“Ha! thou hast saved her?”
“She is saved?”
“How? Here?”
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“In death? The beautiful Cava is no more among the living, unless it be with
the angelic hosts of heaven!”
“God! I thank thee! This one pang is spared me, that her blood crimsons not
these hands. Dear child! may the blessed have thee in keeping! Thou art with
thy mother, in heaven; Frandina, Cava—he who loved ye, and loved ye only,
stands alone on earth. He hath now but one work before him, and that must be
accomplished.”
A brief period was employed by the wretched sire in giving utterance to that
natural ebullition of passion which the terrible event occasioned in his soul; and
he then succeeded in so far subduing the expression of his agony, as to listen to a
long and painful narrative which Egiza had to relate. This over, Count Julian
summoned his attendants. A stern composure settled upon his features as they
made their appearance; and, commanding them to prepare an apartment for his
guest, he proceeded to shut himself in from every eye.
“Leave me, now,” he said in subdued accents. “I cannot hide the agony which
rends me, and it suits not that I should bear, in any presence, the expression of a
weakness which befits not my authority. This night for sorrow. When we again
meet, young man, it will be for other and sterner feelings. The attendant will lead
thee to a chamber. Sleep, if thou canst!”
With a stern gripe of the hand—such a pressure as one gives who feels how
inadequate are words to the earnest thoughts which he yet desires to express—he
dismissed the young man to the care of the attendant. Then, fastening the door of
the apartment, as excluding all further interruption for the night, he yielded himself
up to those humiliating contemplations, which must naturally be supposed to
oppress a mind and spirit so endowed and so constituted as were his. What were
his meditations and what his agonies—in what hopes and memories he found his
consolations, if any of these he had—must be left to the farther progress of this narration,
and to the lively conjectures of the reader. But, till a late hour of the night,
his footsteps might have been heard by the warders who kept watch in the courts
below, as he strode, with irregular movement but without pause, in the otherwise
silent chamber above.
CHAPTER III.
It was long past midnight when the chamber assigned to Egiza was thrown open
by a page and entered by Count Julian, who bore in his own hand the lamp which
gave light to the apartment. The young exiled prince, exhausted by anxiety and
travel, was sleeping; but his sleep was troubled with fearful and tormenting images.
He groaned piteously, and his arms were extended, and his hands closed, with the
action of one engaged in a struggle with his direst enemy. Julian, as he beheld
this sight, dismissed the attendant, and, setting the light upon the floor, bent over
the sleeper. His hands were placed upon his shoulder, and his voice summoned
him to rise. There was an impatience in his movement, and in the tones of his utterance,
which seemed occasioned by the fact that one, suffering, though perhaps in
different degree, from the same cruel affliction with himself, could thus subside into
consolatory slumbers. The agony in his own heart taught him to believe that his
eyelids would never again be visited by that sweet soother of the wretched and
desponding soul.
“Arise, and come with me! Thou hast surely slept enough. It will help thy
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slumbers hereafter, when thou hearest that we are now on our quest of vengeance.
Arise, if thou hast the heart for food like this!”
Egiza was upon his feet in an instant.
“I am ready,” was his only answer.
“Give me thy hand!” said Julian, while he extinguished the light. He grasped
the wrist of the youth, who felt the fingers of his conductor, like so many icicles,
closing upon his own. In this manner they went forward, the youth unknowing
whither. In a few moments they found themselves in the court of the citadel and
under the full glory of the starlight. The heavens wore an unclouded hue of such
sweet serenity, that Egiza looked upward with the momentary flush of one who
fancies that pure spirits are gazing down upon him. Julian's eyes were fixed upon
the earth. His fingers still grasped the hand of the youth, with a muscular tenacity
which only forbore to give pain. They went on in silence until they reached a
postern. Here Julian spoke a few words, in low tones, in the ears of a soldier who
made way for them as they emerged through the opening. The gates were closed
behind them, and as the morning star looked out from his fold they found themselves
beyond the walls of Ceuta and on their way to the tents of the Almagreb.
“Whither do we go?” demanded Egiza, somewhat impatient of the silence. His
hand had been released by his conductor the moment they were without the fortress.
“What matter?” said the other. “Hast thou anywhere a home? Hast thou
a country? Art thou not an exile—a banished man! Is it not permitted to any
one to slay thee! What shouldst thou care whether thy feet wander through the
courts of Andalusia, or among the wild tents of Tingitania?”
“It is true!” said Egiza, mournfully, and with that seeming lassitude of spirit
which was but too apt to control and enfeeble his energies.
“True! ay! But is that good reason why thou shouldst faint? Is it not something
to move thee to manhood rather?—to make thee show thy strength, thy resolution—
to arm thee with pride and hate—to fill thee with a bitter anxiety for strife—
to give thee courage—to show thee where vengeance is to be won, and make thee
to laugh at dangers?”
“Thinkst thou that I fear?”
“No. But not to fear is not enough? The common brute opposes a firm front
to the danger which assails him in his own jungle, but the nobler nature waits not
to be baited in his den. To endure is the mule's courage—to contend is the lion's
instinct. The breadth of back and strength of sinew counsels one—the great spirit
informs the other, Wouldst thou have vengeance, there must be deeds as well as
endurance: a courage to seek and assail, not less than a hardihood to contend with
the danger when it comes. I tell thee, man, I am one to pluck down the temple
upon my own shoulders, if so be that I can drag my enemy in the same moment
beneath the toppling ruins!”
“What meanest thou?”
“I have said to thee—hast thou a country?”
“Have I not answered?—I have none!”
“Nor I! nor I! But yesterday I had a country! Did I not love that country?
Witness, ye stars, that have seen my watches for her safety—ye sands, that have
beheld my marches and my battles—with what ardor, what constancy, what strength,
let the Arab tell you—let all Tingitania, all Spain declare! Over these plains but
this day I hurried, smiting, sweeping the swarthy Arab from my path with the
unsparing edge of the sword. Look around you: here are the proofs. My foot,
even now, is upon an enemy's careass!”
Egiza recoiled. Such was the fact. The face of the slain man was turned
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upward, pale and immovable, beneath the light of the stars. Rigid in death, his eyes
were yet opened to the heavens, glazed and glittering with a spectral stare, that
made the youth for a moment forgetful of his own griefs in the natural horror of
his emotions. Before him were numerous proofs of the truth which Julian uttered.
Their course lay along the plain of battle. Their feet were momently among the dead.
Little heaps lay, at intervals, where the opposing combatants had fallen together;
and sometimes the sandals of the prince were held to the earth in the little puddles
of congealed, or congealing gore, which, but a few hours past, had warmed some
hopeful human heart.
“Ay, here they lie! These are sacrifices, which, but this day, I offered up for
the safety of my country. This hour I have no country! The desert is now more
dear to me than Spain. These Arabs whom I slew—they who survive—are less
the foes of Julian than the Goth and the sovereign whom he serves with such
base fidelity.”
Stern and solemn was the silence which ensued. Slowly they made their way
among the bodies of the slain. The plain of death was covered with thousands.
As far as the eye could stretch Egiza could detect the little heaps which, he too
well conceived, were raised of stiffened corses that had lately been living hearts. A
natural horror kept him silent while they hurried forward. But, indeed, Egiza
knew not well what answer to make in the hearing of a passion, such as that of
Julian, which seemed so much more intense and overwhelming than his own. He
did not conceive the purpose of the other, though he had vague doubts and misgivings
of the purport of the journey. But, with that incertitude of character
which distinguishes the feebler moral nature, he did not venture to question its
object. He did not demand, as the more determined temper always does, that the
blind should be taken from his eyes. The superior will of his conductor effectually
cowed and coerced his own. On they went, he following in a silence which, but
for the mutual solemnity of their thoughts, would have been humiliating to his
mental independence. He was in no mood for speech—and brief, broken exclamations
only, now fell from the lips of Julian. Still they trode through ranks of the
dead. At length they reached the summit of a hill which they had been gradually
ascending. Here the carnage seemed to have been most terrific. Here the pursuit
ceased—and the last terrible struggle had been made by the fugitives to unite
against their pursuers. Every step was made over bodies of the slain. The lightarmed
Arab, with his dark eyes glistening in death, lay grappled and stiff in the
immovable grasp of the more muscular soldier of the north. The fire seemed to
linger still in the eyes of the one, and the fierce muscular compression of strife was
still conspicuous in the close pressed lips and frowning forehead of the other.
Gazing, even against his will, upon these frightful images, Egiza was not conscious
of those farther objects towards which the hand of Julian was outstretched.
“See you not?” said the latter.
The tones of his voice, which were hollow, struck painfully upon the ear of his
companion. He looked up. They stood on the summit of the hill, the opposite
side of which sank abruptiy. The wide spread plain was before them; and, in the
distance, a thousand dusky objects were spread out which the inexperienced eye
might not define, and scarcely distinguish
“Seest thou?” said Julian.
“What are these?”
“The tents of the Arab!”
“Ha!”
“Within those tents sleep the soldiers of Muza Ben Nosier. But this day my
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foes, they were driven with shame and bitter discomfiture from before the walls of
Ceuta. Now!—”
“What wouldst thou?”
“Now!—I hold them foes no longer. The savage is the friend of Julian—the
Arab, the African, the wolf, sooner than Roderick and Spain. This night I take
my place in the tents of the Arab.”
“Thou will not yield thy country to the infidel?”
“I have no country!”
“Why hast thou brought me here?”
“For vengeance!”
“I will not go with thee!”
“Thou shalt!”
“I will not be a traitor to my country—yield my religion to the infidel—renounce
my God!”
“Country—God—religion! Ha! ha! ha! Why did I cumber myself with this
boy? What! thou hast a country? It has given thee a precious shelter! A
God? He has watched over thee truly with paternal care! Religion? Verily!
thou wearest the garments! Go to! thou art no man!”
“Show me the way to vengeance upon Roderick, and thou shalt see if I lack
manhood.”
“And thinkest thou, idle boy, that the arm of Julian would need thy help if
fate should give us chance to meet Roderick in combat? And thinkest thou that
such poor revenge as his destruction will satisfy a thirst like mine?”
“What vengeance wouldst thou have?”
“Vengeance upon the criminal, be sure! vengeance upon his creatures—the
ministers of his will—those who pander to his lusts, and stimulate his monstrous
appetites!”
“I am with thee.”
“Nor these alone. I will leave my vengeance as a trophy upon the face of the
land over which he sways! Her blackened cities shall be the monuments of my
wrath? Her smoking turrets shall proclaim my triumph, as, in their pride of
place, they beheld the dishonor of my child! Ages yet to come, which shall hear
of the shame of Cava, shall hear, also, of the terrible vengeance of her sire! The
Arab shall be the weapon of my wrath!”
“We part: I go with thee no more!”
“Nay! nay! we cannot part! Thou shalt go with me, thou shalt partake in
this glorious consummation. My daughter gave thee her love—I had been better
pleased had she chosen a bolder spirit; but as she loved thee, thou shalt partake of
the vengeance to which I dedicate my soul this hour. Spain is no more thy country.
Thou art a banished and proscribed man. We cannot conquer Roderick but
through the heart of Spain. Come with me, my son. It is not that I seek thy
help, or care for what thy arm may do; but I would have thee share, for my
child's sake, the great revenge which is to pacify my heart!”
“I dare not! True, I have no country, but I will not be a traitor to the country
which was once mine!”
“Will not! Say'st thou, will not? Say not so. Be not rash—be not erring, my
son. Bethink thee! Be wise—be bold. Be with me the minister of a mighty
vengeance.” This was said entreatingly and in subdued accents.
“I cannot—I will not—dare not!”
“Will not? Then thou diest! Thus I cut asunder all the links which bind me
to the soil of Spain?”
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Sudden and terrible was the doom that followed. The fierce man smote
the unconscious victim to the earth with a single stroke of his dagger. He uttered
not a word—not a groan. The weapon had passed into his heart with unerring
aim, and the unhappy prince fell on his face, upon a hillock of Gothic and Arabian
dead. Julian lifted the dagger aloft in the starlight, as if dedicating it to the service
of some observant Fate; then, calmly folding it beneath his vest, he continued his
way in the direction of the tents of Muza Ben Nosier.
CHAPTER IV.
We have said that this deed was executed calmly. There is a calm of the passions,
when most excited, when most intense, just as there is in the tempest, when
all its powers are most awfully arrayed for action. The temperament of Julian
was of a sort that, after the first terrible outbreak, appears singularly subdued even
in its fiercest rages. It is as if the ordinary exercise of thought and judgement, overthrown
by one deep convulsion, no longer provoke, by their unadvised suggestions,
any farther struggle with that frenzy which they have already felt so forcibly.
Shrinking from the conflict, they leave the torrent unopposed, and though it still
rushes headlong with irresistible power, yet its waters, meeting with no obstruction,
no opposition, move forward smoothly and with even surface, to the bosom of the
mighty deep. Of their volume, of their depth, of the vast troops of terrible forms
that glide below, ravenous for prey, the eye sees nothing on the seemingly placid
and innocent waves above. There is nothing more awful in the moral world than
those mighty passions which thus hurry forward, wearing a surface so deceitful.
Yet Julian was not calm. There was nothing placid in his soul. There, all was
confusion and uproar—a conflict which he could not govern—frenzies by which he
was mastered—which his thoughts no longer availed him to oppose. It was only
to the eye that he was thus subdued. That he felt something of the awful deed
which he had just done, may be inferred from the brief sentences which fell from
his lips as he proceeded—musings which seemed in some degree designed to lessen
the enormity of the offence, by showing how valueless was the previous boon of
life of which his sudden stroke had deprived his companion. The stern philosophy
which he thus expressed, was found in that fanatic mood which has, in every age,
provoked to like performances some of the most remarkable of men.
“Incapable of vengeance, for what should he have lived? If there be no natural
passion to be fed—if there be no country to retrieve, no father to protect, no wife
to love, no pride to feel, and no revenge to take—there is death only. He could
not have lived to hope—he might to shame. It is better thus. Enough, that he
stands not in my path—obstructs me not—thwarts not, with his feminine fears, the
great work to which, this hour—hear me, ye Arab dead, whom I have stricken!—I
dedicate all that is left me of strength, or soul, or passion. Spain! Spain! thou
hast looked on the dishonor of my child, and shalt share in the doom to which I
devote the tyrant thou hast served. Thou heardst her cries! thou sawest her agonies!
thou knowest her shame! Thou shalt know the vengeance of her sire!
Come to me, dark spirits of the Moslem and of night. Mohammed!—Lucifer! I
summon ye, here upon the field, from which a thousand gloomy ghosts are rising
up in your honor—I summon ye to the retribution craved by mine! Take from
me these feebler affections which would unman me. Take from me all human
thoughts of country, friends, affections—make me what ye would have me—that,
working in your cause, I may triumph in my own!”
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An awfu, majesty—the gloomy pride of a satanic spirit—glared from the countenance,
and declared itself in the attitude and action of Julian, as thus, in sentences
more broken than in our arrangement of them, he devoted himself to the stern
deities of hate and vengeance. His form seemed to dilate as if in communion with
the invisible world which he thus challenged to the audience. His hand was
stretched in threatening to the opposite shores of Spain. His voice was deep and
portentous. Terrible, indeed, was the shock which he had received. The mind
of power was deranged—the nice adjustment of its capacities was partially lost, but
there was still a strange and awful harmony in its action, in obedience to the new
and absorbing motive which his spirit had received. It seemed as if the new deities
which he invoked had accorded him a nature, in lieu of that nobler one which he
had lost, by which his way was shown him—dark and marked by madness as it
was—inflexibly to one consistent end and undeviating purpose. It is thus that the
intense aim of the monomaniac accords to his moods the semblance of a method,
which is wanting to all its purposes but one. The mind of Julian could now
grasp but a single object. There was no need for reason—her faculties were
suspended. Even as he waved his hands in threatening—even as he invoked his
deities of vengeance—a gloomy form, a dusky shadow, with long trailing garments,
swept between him and the red orb, on which his eye was unconsciously cast. A
shrill gust passed over the bloody plain, and Julian felt that his prayer was
answered. The dark and mighty spirits which he had summoned had yielded to
his wish. His invocation was heard, his vow sanctioned—his foot was yet to be
placed upon the neck of his prostrate country.
He had now no relentings. He hurried toward the tents of the Arab. There
they lay, a thousand dusky shapes, with their crescent-summits gently gleaming
in the starlight. The horse-tails were waving before each. The great banner of
the prophet rose up conspicuous in the centre, just beside the tent of Muza. On
its top shone forth a golden emblem of the moon in the first quarter, which, to the
eye of the faithful, might naturally seem to ray out with a brightness of its own.
Wild and beautiful was the scene, silent and softly peaceful, of that strange and
wondrous picture. The camp of the Moslem lay as still, in the serene starlight,
as the crowding dead, among whose insensible forms the feet of Julian had passed.
But he beheld as little of the splendid beauty of the one scene, as he had done of
the terrible features of the other. The eye of his soul was turned within, and there
were objects of more startling character there, for his contemplation, than any in
the external picture. The hell of a heaven-abandoned heart, conscious of wrong—
or it may be unconscious—but going aside from all the social gods which it has
been taught to follow and obey, is too much crowded with its own horrors to find
any in the external world.
A light from the tent of Muza streamed timidly forth and lay in a long direct
line, stretching to the very foot of the great standard of the prophet. At the foot
of this standard, Julian of Consuegra came suddenly to a pause. He lingered for
a moment. Here his guardian genius made its last stand. Virtue opposed herself,
however faintly and feebly, to the haughty strength of her assailant. But her
voice had sunk into a whisper. It was not entirely unheard—but it was unheeded.
The demon of vengeance mocked her supplications. Hate answered, with terrible
strength of utterance, to all the suggestions of love. The dark spirits were about
to triumph. One involuntary shudder passed over the form of the apostate, marking
the brief conflict between the contending genii. The ties of country were given
to the winds. The remembrances of youth—the triumphs of manhood—the honors
of a family name—the trophies of reputation—the regard of friends—the tributes
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of the good and great—all availed nothing in that final struggle. With clenched
hands, thrice shaken toward the shores of Spain, Julian advanced firmly to the
tent of the Moslem. The die was cast. His form covered the light which guided
his footsteps to the entrance. He did not suffer himself to linger, but, with a will
becoming more and more obdurate with every moment of delay, he strode with deliberate
resolve, and growing erectness, within the concealing folds of the canvas,
which, in the same moment was to shut him out from his country and his God.
CHAPTER V.
The night was far advanced when Julian of Consuegra penetrated the tent of the
Arabian, Musa Ben Nosier. But the latter did not sleep. He was even then
busy with his best consellors, in considering the events of the late battle, its disastrous
effects, and in how far it was in his power to repair them. Deep, indeed,
was the mortification which he felt at the signal defeat which he had sustained.
The Arab warrior was unaccustomed to reverses. Hitherto, his army had swept
onwards with the inresistible wing of the tempest. Thousands had perished by
the way side, but countless swarms, that seemed never to know decrease, had gone
forward, like their own locusts, blackening the face of the land, and leaving but
desolation behind them in token of their terrible progress. His sword had indeed
seemed to carry with it, as claimed by the Moslem prophet, the irresistible will of
the deity. The oriental kingdoms, realms the most powerful in the East, had yielded
to his arms. That he should be baffled upon the shores of the Atlantic by the
Northern warriors, scarcely numbering one tenth his legions, might well provoke
his fiercest passions and prompt the expression of his immitigable rage. Musa
Ben Nosier was a man of terrible passions. But he also knew, in some degree,
the art of suppressing or silencing their exhibition. He could enjoy their excitements,
yet hide their show. The flame could burn in his bosom—nay, warm it into
powerful impulse and decision, yet could he preserve upon his features the aspect
of a most placid calm, an indifference amounting to coldness, which effectually
baffled the anticipations and judgment of the beholder. He was greatly advanced
in years. Seventy summers had passed over his head, yet he looked not less bold,
less strong, or less capable of endurance. His beard was thick, and hung down
upon his breast, soft, white and flowing, as that of the earliest patriarchs of the
East. White as the snows of Caucasus, he had the art of dying it with henna
when he came before strangers, by which, as his cheeks were smooth and unwrinkled,
the appearance of much age was removed from his face, and the spectator
beheld only a great warrior, in whose limbs there was yet the promise of long
years of brave achievement. The unexpected entrance of Count Julian surprised
him, and the white beard, now loose and untrimmed, betrayed the extreme age of
the venerable warrior. He sat upon a divan of oriental richness. His tent declared
the vanity and the wonder of his conquests. The shawls and furs of one region,
the crimson drapery of another, the gems and jewels of a third—were hung, or
strewn about the chamber, in careless profusion. In the centre burned a glorious
cresset, whose rim, crowned with precious stones, cast about the apartment a prismatic
halo which dazzled the uplooking vision to behold. The caftan of the old
warrior was set with jewels. The scymitar which lay upon his lap was surmounted
in like manner. A sapphire, whose worth might be that of a princely city,
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glowed softly upon the front of his turban, from which shot up a single feather
of the heron.
Musa Ben Nosier was in council with his best officers. Their personal state
was scarcely less imposing than his own. Their conquests over wealthy nations,
had led to their adoption, in great degree, of the wealth and and luxuries of
which they came into possession; and, indeed, the love of splendor is natural to
the simplest tribes of the Orient. Five war-like captains surrounded their chief.
They were a hardy and valiant band, with fiery black eyes, swarthy cheeks,
and great muscular activity. Their words, as they conferred together, were few,
but expressive. Their tones were low and earnest. Their countenances denoted
depression, but showed nothing of unmanly despondency. They felt their reverses,
it is true, and were mortified by them—but these feelings did not lead to
any abandonment of hope or resolution. It was of their future hope and resolution
that they spoke, when the gigantic form of Julian of Consuegra stood proudly
in their midst. His superior height and bulk, the massy vigor of his limbs,
his erect majestic frame, fierce commanding eye, might well cause to start the inferior
persons—inferior in majesty and bulk at least—by whom he was surrounded.
His air was rather that of conquest and defiance, than of friendship or solicitation.
In an instant every form was erect, every eye darkened with indignation, every
scymitar flashed in the light of the burning cresset, as if winged for instant execution.
Old Musa Ben Nosier was in a moment on his feet, his right foot thrown
back, his right arm swung in air, and his keen weapon of Damascus, glittering in a
snake like circle behind his own head, ready to descend upon that of the intruder.
Scornful and haughty was the smile with which Julian beheld these preparations.
His form remained unshaken, erect and unmoved, as at his first entrance. His
arms were folded upon his breast with the placid indifference of one who feels
that there is nothing now for him to fear.
“What!” he exclaimed, “fear you danger from one man, he weaponless, save
with this, and this even now dripping with Christian blood!”
He drew from his breast the dagger with which he had stricken down the young
prince, Egiza, to the earth. Thus speaking, he flung the weapon at the feet of
the Arab chieftain.
“Behold me!” he exclaimed, “Julian of Consuegra, your enemy—he stands unarmed
among ye—strike if ye see fit, and if thus your terrors move ye!”
Musa Ben Nosier lowered his scymitar, and resumed his seat upon the divan—
the weapon was again laid across his lap. His followers, at a sign from their chief,
forbore their attitudes of defence.
“Why comes Julian of Consuegra to the tents of the faithful?” demanded Musa.
“Why comes our enemy to the Arab? Would he have peace with the sons of the
prophet?”
“He would give it—and more! He would give them victory!”
“Ha! speak on!”
“Julian comes to bring conquest to the tents of the prophet. He comes to yield
the keys of Tingitania—nay, more—Musa Ben Nosier shall have possession of those
keys which unlock the gates of Spain—which secure the empire of the Goth—the
great cities of Roderick—realms of wealth and splendor—territories of pride and
numbers—such as the Arab does not dream in all his Mauritanian range—these are
gifts which Julian brings to the Arab!”
“Thou canst do this, and wilt?” demanded Musa eagerly.
“I can do this, and will.”
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“Wherefore? What wouldst thou that Musa Ben Nosier shall do for thee in
return?”
“Give me vengeance!”
“Vengeance!”
“Ay! vengeance! the last, the best food to the famishing heart of pride. The
blood of the tyrant—the foe! Thou shalt have all Tingitania, all Spain, so that
thou shalt help me to my vengeance upon Roderick who sways the realm thereof.”
“What hath he done to thee, that thou shouldst hate him thus?”
“What matter that thou shouldst know? Enough that he hath wronged me so
that I pant for vengeance—so that I have but one prayer—one passion—and that
is for his blood. Let this suffice thee—this is enough for thee to know.”
“Nay, by the prophet, but thou errest, Count Julian of Consuegra. We may
not trust the enemies of the prophet but for good cause. This day thou fightest
like a brave soldier and a faithful, in behalf of thy king and country; this night
thou wouldst destroy them both. That thou wast in earnest this day, when thou
didst battle under the banners of the cross, thousands of the slain among my people
declare from the bed of slaughter where they lie. But that thou art in earnest
in what thou sayest to-night, is a matter to be shown by sufficient reason. What
has happened to thee since we met in battle but this morning, to make so great a
change in thy heart? What have been the tidings of this night, that thou art here
with a language which is now so strange?”
Wild and terrible was the meaning in that eye which the Count Julian cast upon
the speaker.
“Moor!” said he, “there are some words which the proud heart dreads to speak.
There are some truths too terrible for the strongest soul to bear when spoken.
Thou art a warrior—thou canst feel what it is to be stricken with dishonor! Ha!
thou canst feel shame—thou hast a guess that there are some injuries that stain as
well as hurt—that degrade as well as destroy. Wouldst thou have me name my
hurt? Wouldst thou have me linger over the words that tell of my dishonor—that
show me trampled in the earth, with all that the Christian heart considers holy in the
world of his private affections, made loathsome, even when most precious in his
eyes?”
“There are offences against the proud heart which it feels shame to declare, even
as thou sayest,” replied the Arab, gravely.
“Think thou then that mine is the worst of these—that there is none more terrible
or humbling to the soul, than is the one which hath driven Julian of Consuegra
to thy tents, seeking that vengeance which else he may not compass. He comes to
thee with a cry of blood. He will give thee blood. Thy sword shalt grow weary
of slaughter in the ranks of the Christian—thy feet shall tread upon their haughtiest
necks—thy crescent shall shed its baleful lights from the high turrets which now
bear the banner of the cross. These shall be thy triumphs, if thou will lend thyself
to mine. Array thy troops with mine at my bidding, and I will lead thee into the
very heart of Spain. I will yield that fatal country to the empire of thy Caliph.
For me, I have but one prayer—I make but one stipulation—that no weapon in
thy array shall dare uplift itself against the heart of Roderick. He shall be my
prize and victim only. I claimed his life for my reward. That is the one sole
prayer, as it is now the sole object, which dwells in mine!”
“Thou hast said well, and if Musa Ben Nosier, leading the troops of the prophet,
could put faith in the words of the infidel—”
“Pshaw! what dost thou heed of these tenets of a national superstition—thine
or mine!” was the scornful response of the apostate. “Thou art a man and a
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warrior. What matter to thee these idle reveries of the dreamer and the woman—
these miserable mummeries by which the cunning priesthood fetters the feeble spirit
to its own purposes. Thy God shall be mine, if thou wilt. I have a purpose—a
conquest—a large human desire, which reigns paramount in my bosom. Thou
hast also. Shall these be baffled and set at nought because of a fable. I tell thee,
Musa Ben Nosier, if thou hast at heart the triumphs of thy Caliph, as Julian of
Consuegra hath those of his revenge, then will thy faith in me carry thee far above
the miserable superstitions of those creeds which make the vulgar worship among our
mutual people. It is not what I believe, but whether thou believest me! Look I
like one who comes hither to deceive? Have I put myself, unweaponed, in thy
power, for a falsehood? See'st thou not in these eyes—in this face—hearest thou
not in my voice—in these accents—that I am dishonored—wrought by shame to
madness—that I am terribly earnest in what I promise—in what I demand? If
thou be true to thy Caliph, thou canst not help but give thy faith to my assurance.
Thy question is not whether I believe in Jesus or Mahomet, but whether I believe
in the tyranny and crimes of Roderick—whether I am sincere and resolute in the
burning desire to avenge them.”
We need not pursue the details of this conference. Suffice it that Musa Ben
Nosier still hesitated. He was a truer worshipper, after his faith and fashion, than
Count Julian had ever been with his. He believed that, to the inherent virtues of
Mohammedanism, all his successes were fairly to be ascribed; and he looked with
real horror upon the apostate when he so coolly declared his indifference equally to
all religions. Julian, meanwhile, had withdrawn himself, with averted brow, as if
disdaining farther exhortation or argument, to a remote part of the tent; leaving
the Arab generals to discuss among themselves what decision to make upon the
matter. It does not need that we should inquire how it was that Musa showed
himself so cautious in committing his armies to a project which promised so greatly
for the success of his cause. It may be that he knew not the extent or the weakness
of the empire of Roderick—it may be that he questioned the ability of Julian
to convert his forces to the cause of their country's enemy. It was certainly impossible
to doubt the terrible sincerity of Julian's hate, gleaming out in his eyes,
and articulate in every syllable of his keen and anguished utterance. It did not
matter that the Moslem did not feel in the same degree with the Christian warrior
the cruelty and shame of the peculiar wrong which had driven him to desperation,
and which, by the way, it became necessary for him to declare in language which
was humiliatingly distinct. The purity of woman forms but a humble consideration
in the eyes of a people who regard her, in the highest point of view, only as
a minister to the most sensual appetities of man. Her fidelity, as a creature of the
harem, does not necessarily involve a guaranty of her purity as a moral being.
But, while Musa doubted, one of his warriors, who had hitherto observed the
most cautious silence, approached and challenged attention. Tall and gaunt, with
a face scarred with wounds, and roughened by long exposure to the worst conflicts
of the seasons, was the person of this warrior. He was a genuine Arab—one
whose soul might be said to live only in arms and the excitement of the strife.
His height, like that of Saul, exceeded that of most men; his arms, unequally
long, extended almost to his knees. To complete the hardness and severity of this
outline, he was wanting an eye, which was stricken out by an hostile lance in one
of his numerous battles. He was called for this reason el Tuerto, or the One-Eyed;
Taric el Tuerto! This man had no pleasures but in war. His affections were set
upon his steed and scymitar. He was the perfect master of his weapon; and it was
wonderful, even among his brother Arabs, to see with what proficiency he could
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use the lance in battle. He had been marked from his boyhood as one of whom
wonders might yet be known; and there were prophecies among his native people
of Damascus, that promised that he should one day become a mighty instrument
for conquest in the hands of Mahomet. It may be that this was one of those predictions
which lead to their own verification. It may be that, even in this hour,
in the tent of Musa, Taric el Tuerto, hearkening to the words of Count Julian,
and heeding the reluctance of his general, remembered the early tradition of his
youth.
“Why,” said he “should you doubt the assurance of the Christian? Is it not
a great conquest which he promises? Shall we forego this conquest because of
the peril? Is it that we have no soldiers for the adventure? Are lives too precious
for the risk? Are the warriors of the prophet too apprehensive of danger,
to encounter peril for the promotion of his work? What is the peril? Death? I
fear not death! A thousand sons of Ishmael are ready to fall with me in battle.
I will take this danger, nothing fearing but that we shall find good friends. Give
me but a handful of the forces of Waled, and send me forth with the Count Julian.”
The words of the swarthy Arabian were of instant effect.
“If the Christian will swear upon the Koran—if he will forswear the cross,
and adopt the crescent?” said Musa.
“Surely!” exclaimed Taric, looking to where Julian stood; “surely if he hath
suffered this great wrong—if he hungers for this great revenge—he will not shrink
from a trial of which he thinks so lightly.”
The flushed features of Julian were turned upon the group. There was a moment's
hesitation in his glance; but as he read the expression in their eyes, he strode
toward them.
“Behold!” said he, and, as he spoke, his foot trampled heavily upon the crosshilted
dagger which he had previously cast upon the earth. The action was understood.
“It is good!” exclaimed Musa Ben Nosier, and, striking the little gong which
stood beside him, he pronounced, in low accents, the single word, “Abul-Cassim!”
The priest made his appearance from a recess in the apartment—a man of venerable
aspect, having a benign and gentle countenance. A few words from Musa
explained his object. The Arab generals surrounded the apostate. Abul-Cassim
advanced, bearing in one hand a splendid copy of the Koran, in the other a small
casket of solid silver, in one of the compartments of which was a chafing dish of
fiery coals. A rich stand of ebony, cushioned with crimson, was placed before
him, upon which the Koran was laid. The casket of silver occupied a ledge or
shelf below it. An odorous powder, cast upon the coals, sent up a grateful but
somewhat oppressive perfume; and while this was floating in the confined atmosphere
of the tent, Abul-Cassim brought forth a chrystal vase filled with the purest
water. In this he motioned Julian to lave his fingers.
“This is a wretched mummery!” was the exclamation of the person addressed,
but he complied with the requisition. This done, Abul-Cassim laid bare the wrist
of the Christian, and, with a sharp instrument which he had previously dipped in
some precious ointment, he punctured the skin. Julian submitted with the air of
one who himself scorns the performance. The operation consumed but a single
instant, and, when it was over, Julian observed, with a feeling of disquiet for
which he was scarcely able to account, that a distinct blood-red crescent was visible
upon the arm. Instinctively he passed his thumb over the character. The
Emir smiled as he did so. It did not lessen the disquiet of the apostate to discover
that his involuntary effort to obliterate the foreign and unnatural symbol was
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wholly fruitless. It was the effect of natural superstition that made him feel, however
little of a Christian he had been before, that he was now wholly separated from
Christian alliance, and delivered over to the arch enemy of that creed in which his
people still believed and trembled. A chapter of the Koran was now read by
Abul-Cassim, and Julian of Consuegra was ennobled in the ranks of the Moslem
faithful. Did he fancy at that moment the distant shriek which filled the air?
Was it, indeed, the last cry of the maternal genius, abandoning her sacred trust
forever?
CHAPTER VI.
The unholy compact was at length accomplished, and Julian of Consuegra,
while the star of morning looked pale and ghastly down upon the uncovered faces
of the slain, retraced his way over the field of battle to the walls of Ceuta. In the
single hour which he had passed in the tents of the Arab, he had completed all
the plans by which to render his treachery to his country successful in her overthrow.
We need not dilate upon or detail the schemes in this object, devised between
himself and Musa Ben Nosier. Let it suffice that the latter wrote to his
caliph, Waled Almanzor, in all the exulting spirit of a newly acquired hope. He
reminded him of his past conquests, and begged permission to undertake the new.
Of this permission he had no doubt, and he suffered none to escape him of the entire
success of those designs which he meditated now. The assurances of Julian
were such as to remove all his fears of the powers of the Goth—fears which
might naturally enough be awakened by the terrible repulse which he had just received
before the walls of Ceuta. The apostate count had but too truly shown
him the weakness of his country—its wealth, its vices, and the emasculating sloth
and luxuries in which all ranks of her people indulged. Her strength lay chiefly in
the army of the frontier, and that army, veterans under Julian himself, were, as he
truly described them, faithful personal adherents of himself, rather than the subjects
of Roderick, or the sons of Spain. The aged, but fiery souled Emir, depicted
in his letter to the caliph, the empires already subdued, the spoils already won, and
pronounced the treasures and the charms of that now unveiled before his eyes, and
ripe for invasion, as superior to them all—equal to Syria in the serenity of its sky
and the fertility of its soil; Arabia Felix in its delightful climate; India in its spices
and fragrance; Cathay in its precious metals; Hegiaz in its fruits and
flowers, and Aden in its majestic cities seated by the sea. Shall such a land, he
asked, be left with the unbeliever, when we may so easily subdue it to the sceptre
of the faithful. The caliph's reply was immediate and favorable. `It is the will of
Allah!' was his answer; and the legions of Islam, twelve thousand in number, under
the conduct of Taric El Tuerto, were put in readiness, with the aid of Julian,
to attempt the conquest.
The apostate chieftain was not idle. But his passion did not lessen his policy.
He was one of those dark, proud spirits, who, with a soul shaken to the centre by
his own great griet, can, after the first terrible convulsions, conceal utterly all outward
commotion that is busy still within. Though a man of unbending and sleepless
passions, he was yet a politician. From the moment, when at midnight, he
left the tents of the Arabian, he devoted himself to the task of winning his soldiers
to his purpose. For this purpose his great wealth was distributed among them.
What was wealth and treasure to him who had first made the sacrifice of friends
and country to the desires of an unsparing vengeance. His officers were already
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devoted to his will. His soldiers beheld in him their immediate sovereign, and
acknowledged, in the long relationship which they had maintained together, a
friend and leader, rather than a lord and master. It was not difficult to secure for
himself those affections which had long been withdrawn, upon the skirts of Barbary,
from any social affinities with their own people dwelling beyond the straits.
Julian was soon sure of his adherents.
He too had his correspondence. He wrote, by a trusty hand, to the Archbishop
Oppas, and adroitly insinuated such hopes in the bosom of that subtle priest, as reawakened
in full all of his ambitious projects for the princes, his nephews, and
himself. Of the fate of Egiza, Oppas knew nothing. Julian spared him that
portion of his knowledge, secret to all but himself, of which he had left such a
sudden and bloody record, at midnight, on the battle-field of Ceuta. But the archbishop
had learned to base no calculations on the spirit of this feeble prince. His
eye had gradually turned to Pelayo, as to the active hope of the royal family which
had been deposed; and the letter of Julian had scarcely been received and announced,
before his own mission, embodying the new hopes which he had imbibed
from Julian, were transmitted to the daring young chief, who continued to bring
together a little army in the secure passes of the Asturian mountains. The communication
made to Pelayo informed him only of the defect of Julian, with the
forces which he held at Ceuta. Of his own alliance with the Arabs, Julian had
withheld the information from the archbishop. That was his secret only, for he
dreaded lest the religious prejudices of the priest might render him reluctant, even
at successful revolution, sustained and brought about by infidel alliance. His caution
was unnecessary. Oppas was scarcely less corrigible, in this matter, though
a Christian teacher, than himself. To the king—to Roderick, he who had thus
driven him to the deepest desperation, and to the commission of the last of crimes—
he also wrote. He was able, in this letter—such was the strength of his will,
and the intense character of his hatred—to forbear all complaint, and every show
of passion. He spoke of his daughter as if he knew not of her death—as if he
entertained not the slightest notion of the brutal usage she had endured—and spoke
to the tyrant, as if still his warm and confiding adherent. Bitter was the pang of
suppression which the apostate felt, as he wrote this fraudulent epistle. Wild
was the shudder which shook his frame as he laid his pen aside, and gave freedom
to the emotions which he struggled successfully to keep down till the scroll was
written. He had his policy in this also. He could tell the monarch of his victory—
could dilate on its extent—its advantages, and the security which it had brought.
But this security was not yet complete. The Arab was not entirely subdued. He
was still in force in the pastural vallies which spread themselves in the sun, sheltered
by the distant range of the Atlas mountains; and drawing new warriors to
his thinned array from the numerous tribes of the desert, which had been subdued
by the sword of Islam. To crush effectually this enemy—to drive him far from
the neighborhood of Tingitania, and prevent the accumulation of powers which, at
a later period, it might not be so easy to overcome, it was necessary that new succors
should be sent to Ceuta. Arms and horses, in particular, were among the desired
supplies, und for these Julian wrote to Roderick in language of entreaty, the
earnestness of which was well calculated to make itself felt without provoking
suspicion. Remembering the awful vision which he had witnessed in the mysterious
cavern of Covadonga—the vision of these swarthy invaders, following in the
pale light of the baleful crescent—recalling the terrible prediction which he could
not drive from his senses, and which told him that, by infidels in this aspect, his
sceptre was to be wrested from his hands, the soul of Roderick was startled by its
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fears, and he readily conceded to so brave a captain as Julian, all that he craved
for the defence of the frontier against this greatly threatening foe. In his anxiety
and apprehension, he stripped his kingdom of its means of defence, and, even as
the apostate count had desired, accumulated, ready for the use of the traitor, the
implements of war, and the steeds necessary for a mighty cavalry, conveniently at
the foot of the rock of Calpe, one of the great guardian mountains which keep the
entrance to the Mediterranean sea.
Circumstances continued to favor the progress of conspiracy. The temporary
suspension of hostilities, and the disappearance of the Arabs from the immediate
neighborhood of Ceuta, by withdrawing from sight the immediate danger, disarmed
the fears of the Gothic monarch. The preparations which he made and
the precautions which he had begun to take for the safety of his kingdom were
at once suspended, and satisfied with having furnished adequate means for its defence,
to the very person whom he had most reason in the world to fear, he again
surrendered himself to the heartless dissipation and the unwise tyrannies in which
he had so long indulged. But he was soon to waken from his dream of security
and the voluptuous languor of that life which had so enslaved his soul and subdued
his courage. The preparations of Julian being all complete, he summoned
the veteran Taric el Tuerto to his side. The banner of the Christian and of Islam
waved together in the ghastly starlight, as, darting across the narrow streight that
divides the shores of Spain from those of Africa, the prows of the Arabian, which
had been silently gathering along the coast preparatory to this event, shot into the
dark but sheltering shadows of the great mountain height of Calpe.
“Here,” said Julian the Apostate, to the gaunt and fiery veteran, Taric el Tuerto,
as they climbed the rugged elevation, and looked down upon the blue waters that
lay below sleeping in the serene starlight—“Here did Hercules the mighty set up
his pillar. This is the rock of Calpe.”
“And here,” said the ambitious and impatient Taric—“here will I set up mine,
and it shall be a mark forever, high above the sea. Calpe no longer! It is my
mountain now—`Gebir al Taric'—the pillar of Taric.”
Strange that the exulting and arrogant spirit of the Arabian should, in this moment,
have spoken in the voice of prophecy. His pillar has indeed overthrown
that of Hercules. To this day, Gibraltar—“Gebir-al-tar”—is the name of the mountain—
perpetuating the events of that night of import, and of the confident speech
of the Islam chieftain.
CHAPTER VII.
The troops of the Arabian once safely landed upon the shores of Spain, the resolved
spirit of Taric el Tuerto led him to a performance which forced upon his
followers the necessity for putting forth all their valor. He secretly set fire to their
ships, and when they gazed with appalled hearts upon the terrific spectacle, and
demanded to know, how, if the fortune of war should go against them, they were
to escape from the country? He answered sternly, “There is no escape for the
coward!” When they asked, “Are we never more to behold our homes?” his
reply, “Your homes are before you,” declared for the presence of a spirit which
soon made itself acknowledged by the multitude. The resolve of their leader set
their hearts on fire. They felt that they had now to win their country with their
swords. Prophecy came to their encouragement. Auguries and miracles declared
in their behalf, and for the sacred mission of their leader; and the fearless Taric,
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no less politic than brave, did not forbear the employment of auxiliary arts, to find
a sanction for his own audacity, in provoking the religious and sensual enthusiasm
of his followers. But our details must not relate to him. Our eye rests upon the
dark and terrible spirit, at whose instigation he lifts the baleful lights of the crescent
upon the heights of Calpe. He marks the progress of the Moslem with exultation.
He sees in the fierce and single-eyed Arabian, whose fanatic energies have
warmed the meanest of his followers with a fiery temper like his own, only the
minister of his individual vengeance. Living for this passion only, he sees not the
awful vision of his country ruined, which had else harrowed up in humiliating
agony every pulse within his bosom; but, as if blinded for the destroyer, and decreed
to work in blindness until the terrible destiny to which he is set shall be fulfilled,
he rejoices in the progress of the invader over devastated plains and burning
cities. That progress was at once begun. The sons of Ismael, impetuous by
nature, and urged to superior impulses by the tenets of a faith which found and
taught that the scymitar was the true means and medium for spiritual conversion,
suffered not the grass to grow beneath the feet of their horses; and no provocation
beyond that already flaming and inextinguishable fire within the heart of Julian,
was necessary to goad him to activity in the fearful mischief to which he had set
his hands. The united forces of the Moslem and the apostate chief were soon in
motion, and the astonished Christians of Tarifa were suddenly confounded with
the presence of the turbaned enemy, at the very moment when they felt themselves
most secure from any danger by the great preparations made for the defence of the
kingdom, and the recent great victory of Julian at Cueta. Their hasty levies under
Theodomir were driven from the path of the invader, who continued to advance
with equal speed and good fortune into the very bowels of the land.
It was in the midst of his most precious luxuries, lapped in profligate ease,
abandoned to his insane pleasure, slothfully confident and criminally joyful, that
Roderick was surprised with accounts of the invasion of his kingdom. The
despatches of Theodomir smote his senses with a terrible sense of apprehension.
When he read, in the language of this brave old chieftain, that the Africans were
upon him, without ships, and as if descending from the clouds—he recalled once
more the fearful vision of the enchanted cavern. His memory took a wild and
rapid survey of the events from that period to the present time, and his conscience,
not yet utterly crushed and subjugated in his repeated crimes, smote him keenly
with the wrongs which he had done to Julian, and the hapless child of that apostate
sire. Of that apostacy, to this hour, he yet knew nothing. The deeds of
Julian in the foray which he was now making into his motherland, had not yet
rendered him conspicuous, as they were destined to do, in the sight of his countrymen;
and Roderick, regarding him as the warrior upon whom, over all, the
safety of the realm depended, now felt more than ever how cruel had been the
recompense which the monarch had bestowed, in requital of the great services of
the subject. The defeats of Theodomir, and his appeal for succor, rendered necessary
his immediate preparations. Roderick was no imbecile in moments of peril,
and he now prepared to act with a decision which was honorable to himself, and
not unworthy of the valor of his race. Forty thousand men were summoned to
the field, and put under the command of Ataulpho, a prince of the royal blood of
the Goths. This prince was brave, and so, perhaps, were the nobles and the soldiers
who followed him to battle. But they lacked in military experience—they
were without discipline, and the luxuries of all classes of the people had unfitted
them for the vigorous duties of the camp. They lacked in that hardy muscle
which could best have served them in the field. Ataulpho sought out the invaders
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with all diligence, nor did they avoid the encounter with an enemy fully twice
their number. This inequality of number was more than compensated by the
wild enthusiasm of the Arabians, by the vindictive fury of the apostate Christian
leader, and by the superior skill and hardihood of their soldiers. The Gothic warriors
fought gallantly, for they still cherished a portion of that valor, which, from
immemorial time, had conducted their sires through successful conflict. But they
strove against the fates. The stars in their courses fought against Roderick as
they did against Sisera. In the midst of the conflict, when the troops of Taric
were about to recoil from the stern and determined ranks of the Christians, Julian
of Consuegra, at the head of a select body of horsemen, charging upon the centre
where Ataulpho fought, turned instantly the fortune of the day. Ataulpho fell,
but not before the weapon of the apostate. His arm struck no blow in the perilous
conflict. His judgment led, his sword pointed out the way to victory, which
his soldiers successfully pursued; but he kept his own weapon unstained, reserving
his personal valor for a nobler victim. Grimly and coldly did he gaze upon
the havoc of the field. His emotions were all still and silent as the storm, when
marshalling its tempests for the sea. He beheld, with no exultation, the great banner
of the cross go down in dust and blood—beheld, with scarce a mood, whether
of pain or pride, the noble features of Ataulpho, as pale and ghastly, smeared
with dust and blood, and looking still terrible from the conflict, his head, smitten
from the trunk, was lifted high upon a lance in the presence of the triumphant armies.
It was necessary that Ataulpho should be slain—that his army should be annihilated—
if only that his path should be laid open to his own particular enemy. But
not for him to feel emotion of any description, whether of gladness or of grief, but
in that one event. The passions of his heart were not now to be awakened
until his weapon crossed in mortal conflict with that of Roderick the Goth. He
reserved the prowess of his arm—matchless at any weapon—only for this single
foe. What to him was the constant progress which the Arabian made? What to
him were the armies which he overthrew? save that each advancing step, and
each successive victory brought him so much nigher to his enemy. Well he knew
that it was not possible for Roderick to forbear much longer to appear at the
head of his armies. Shame, and the absolute necessity of addressing all his military
skill and valor to the exigency, (and Roderick was not without high reputation
for both,) would, he well knew, soon bring the tyrant into the field. But he
did not allow for the cowardice of a guilty conscience. From the moment when
tidings were brought to Roderick that Count Julian fought with the invader and
against his Christian countrymen, he shrunk from the necessity of meeting with
the foe. He had no fear of the armies of the Moslem—would probably have joyed
in the encounter with the foreign enemy—but his heart failed him when he thought
of meeting in battle with the proud and mighty noble whom he had so deeply injured.
What were his feelings when the tidings reached him of the successive
defeats and destruction of his army—of his kinsman's fate—the slaughter of his
bravest leaders, the veterans and the nobles of his kingdom—for it had been the
policy of Taric, counselled by Julian, to single out for slaughter the distinguished
persons, suffering the hirelings and the common herd to escape with little notice.
The infidels in growing numbers overspread the country. Host after host from
Africa, hearing of the successes of Taric, followed in his footsteps; and the
smokes of their devastation, rising up everywhere from the plains of Sidonia to the
fertile waters of the Guadiana, called reproachfully upon the imbecile sovereign to
shake off his lethargy, and to lead his mightiest force against the infidel, Nor did
they summon him in vain. His old courage was gradually reviving in his heart—
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reviving, perhaps, at the instigation of that very fate which required him for the
sacrifice. He shook himself free from his nervous apprehensions. The name of Julian
lost its terror in his ears. The awful image of the injured father of Cava ceased to
look out in characters of fear upon his vision; and a burning desire to resent the
insolence of the invader, and revenge the wrongs done to his kingdom, at length
drove him into the exercise of energies of a kind which almost compensated for all
his previous apathy. His movements were urged with rigor. His troops were
assembled with speed. His nobles were summoned to his side. Weapons were
brought, armor forged, the various munitions of war sought for in all directions,
while his camp witnessed momently the arrival of men, mules and horses, from all
quarters of the kingdom. Roderick possessed in himself rare natural resources of
strength and providence, of which the slothful career in which he had so long indulged,
had not entirely stripped his genius. But his strength lay quite as much
in himself as in his armies. The levies thus hastily brought together were not
the men with whom to meet the hardy veterans of Julian and Taric. Nor were
the nobles on whom he relied, altogether calculated as counsellors or leaders for
an exigency so fearful as that which threatened the kingdom. Many came, but
few deserved to be chosen. Roderick felt but small confidence in their succor when
he looked around him. Many of the nobles gave him, he well knew, but lip service.
Many of them had suffered by his injustice—and, upon the rest he could
found but few hopes, whether as respects their conduct or their courage. The
Archbishop Oppas came with the rest, and was one of the king's most trusty counsellors.
His conspiracy had been too cautiously carried on for the suspicions of
the tyrant. More than once in danger, he had more than once escaped by the
adroitness of his judgment, and, on each occasion, by securing additional holds
upon the confidence of the sovereign he was now preparing to betray. It was he,
chiefly, who had persuaded Roderick to take the field in person. He exaggerated
the strength of the kingdom, the valor of the troops, and the weakness of the invader.
He wrote to Julian: “The tiger leaves his jungle. Be you ready with the
hunters.” And Julian rose when he read the missive, and a convulsion of joy
shook his manly frame. A deep red light seemed to kindle in his eye, and there
was no more apathy in his movements. He shook his hand slowly and threateningly,
as if one even then stood before him. Then he might be heard to mutter,
as if to one speaking behind him: “Peace, Frandina, reproach me not! The
hour cometh and the victim. Peace, pure and suffering spirit, thy stains shall all
be washed away in blood.” Then, moving with hasty stride to the tent of Taric,
he said to that chieftain whom he wakened from iron slumbers: “Arouse your
Arabs, Taric, for the day is reddening in the east Arouse ye, for, even now, Roderick
is setting his army in array, and marehes to the banks of the Xeres.
It is there that we shall meet him.” And, this time, Taric el Tuerto rose with a
submissive air, for the command in the eye and the voice of Julian was that of a
master, not to be withstood. From that moment the sway was with the great
avenger. The troops were marshalled, and Julian of Conseugra led the host,
calmly, and with the countenance of one who has already willed that a mighty
victory shall follow.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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Roderick had put forth the most astonishing efforts for bringing together his soldiers
for the war; and as the numerous host defiled through the plains of Andalusia,
on their way to the seat of conflict, the soul of the tyrant forgot its fears and evil
forebodings, exulting in conviction of certain and complete conquest. The host
was beyond computation great, no less than fifty thousand horsemen, and a countless
multitude of foot covering the plain like an agitated sea. But it was not such
a host as the experienced man relies upon, and its very masses were unfriendly to
its celerity of progress and the concert of its action. Never had there been in Spain
the spectacle of such a multitude, and thus caparisoned. The luxury of the land
was more conspicuous than its power. The nobles of the Goth were clad in armor
better adapted to the uses of the spectacle and ceremonial than to those of battle—
better calculated for the bright eyes of damsels than for the wild buffets of sturdy
enemies. Art had expended all its fancies, and wealth all its materials, on this vain
foppery; and curiously adorned with gold and precious stones, with drooping plumes
and silken scarfs, and surcoats of brocade or velvet richly embroidered, the vainglorious
creatures of the court, prepared to undergo the toils and dangers of the camp
and field. They still possessed the spirit and courage of their sires, and this, perhaps,
was the redeeming aspect in their progress. They could meet the foe without
shrinking, and striking boldly if feebly, could in this manner die, if they could not
do, honorably. If the nobility were thus decorated with superfluous trappings, the
common multitude were wanting in the absolute necessaries of war. The politic
providence of Julian had stripped the kingdom, as we have seen, of the means necessary
for arming the people against sudden invasion. Lances and shields, and swords
and crossbows, might be seen among them, but without any uniformity of equipment
upon which so much of the success of an army, acting in masses, depends in
any encounter with a foe. Thousands were provided only with sling and stone,
with bill and bludgeon, and the ordinary implements of husbandry. They were
without a knowledge of war, and, lacking in discipline and arms, gave little promise
of that good service which the sanguine and eager spirit of Roderick anticipated at
their hands. They shared in some degree, however, the courage of their monarch,
and when he appeared at their head, mounted on his favorite charger, Orelia—a
noble form himself, clad in armor of burnished gold, and looking the emblematic
hero of his kingdom—their enthusiasm declared itself in a shout which rent the
firmament. Their courageous impulse encouraged their sovereign, and making them
a speech full of encouragement and of hope, he concluded with commanding their
instant march for the Xeres in compliance with the insidious counsel of the
Archbishop Oppas. This wily traitor had already contrived to establish secret but
regular communications with Count Julian, The latter was punctually apprised
of every movement in the camp of Roderick. Similar intelligence was conveyed to
the young Prince Pelayo, who was summoned with his little band of partisans to
descend from his mountain passes to the famous quarry which the usurper was
preparing for the stroke. Pelayo was not made acquainted with all the facts in the
history of Julian, which, by this time, were in possession of Oppas. They did not
revolt the latter, though he well knew that their revelation would produce such an
effect on the gallant and faithful prince, his nephew. To him the story came that
Julian had revolted in behalf of Egiza, his brother, or himself, the heirs of their
father, unrighteously slain by Roderick. That he should bring among his
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followers a small force of Arabs whom he had overcome, drawn to his service in Tingitania,
offered no reason for suspecting him. Glad of an opportunity at last to cross
weapons with the usurper with some prospect of effectual struggle, Pelayo readily
put his troops in motion for the purpose of forming a coalition with Julian against
Roderick, before the two armies could possibly meet on the banks of the Xeres.
At this place, and in the moment of greatest struggle, even while the battle raged,
the treacherous archbishop was to draw off his legions, and crossing to the side of
the invaders, return with fatal effect against the ranks which had counted on his
strength and assistance. Such was the cunning contrivance by which it was calculated
that the overwhelming masses of Roderick—overwhelming in spite of all
their inferiority of weapon and discipline—were to be foiled and overthrown. The
archbishop headed a select body of soldiers. They were attached to his cause with
a sort of personal attachment. His solicitude for a long time had been to bring
about this feeling. For this he had spared no means. Cajoling arts, kind offices,
and a liberal bounty, had won the hearts of their leaders, while other means of
a grosser nature—animal indulgencies and high wages—had effectually won to his
purposes the common people. The soldiers led by Pelayo were a hardy tribe of
mountaineers, a simple, virtuous race, unaccustomed to luxury, little ambitious,
and content with that poverty which they knew how to enjoy, as it seemed to secure
them the precious boon of liberty. Pelayo was the very leader for such a
people. He loved no silken couch, loathed with a strange dislike the voluptuous
effeminacies in which his order were wont to forget themselves and all the virtues
of becoming manhood, and, superior to all considerations of self, set before them
ever the example of a self-denying spirit, toiling only for the glory and safety of
his people. They believed equally in his valor and his virtues. Secure of both
in him, he was secure of their loyalty and adherence, and when he bade them descend
with him to the conflict with the usurper, they bounded up and went forth
as to a festival.
Little did Roderick dream of these dangers. Oppas, with an adroitness which
has distinguished the established priesthood in all periods, had wormed himself into
full confidence of the usurper. His counsel, urged indirectly, suggested frequently
rather than boldly declared, was that which Roderick prefered commonly to the
arguments of better men. He encouraged the rapid movements of the usurper
against the enemy, before his followers were provided with weapons, and in spite
of their obvious want of discipline. His argument was a specious one: “Shall we
wait,” he asked, “until the force of the Arabs, now small in numbers, shall be increased
by countless swarms from the desert? Already they begin to pour in upon
us, and we must crush them speedily, if we would not do battle with all Almagreb!”
The impetuous nature of Roderick readily sympathized with this seemingly wise
but really injudicious counsel, which Oppas rendered more palatable still by insisting
upon the great ease with which their myriads could be overthrown. He spoke
with scorn of their numbers and their skill, and by adroit flatteries, so wrought upon
the spirit of the king that he longed for nothing so much as the encounter with a
foe, from whom, according to the voice of prophecy, he had everything to dread.
The artifices of Oppas did not stop here. We have already seen in previous pages
the glimpses of a passion which he felt—a passion perhaps more criminal than
any other that worked within his bosom as it meditated injury to the most unoffending
innocence—for the person of the beautiful spouse of the usurper—the meek
and gentle Egilona. It was the hope of Oppas to secure this victim in the course
of those events which his artful counsel was now hurrying forward. He promptly
availed himself of the suggest on of the innocent and dutiful wife, herself, to
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promote his passionate devices. “Why,” said she, “should I not follow my lord in
this march of peril? Why should I not be near him in the hour of danger? Too
well I know that his fearless spirit will bear him where the strife is thickest—that
he will rush to the embrace of war, and grow mad with rapture in the dreadful
glory of the flashing spear and scymitar. Verily, it is but meet that I should be
near him in this peril, that I may tend upon him should he suffer hurt—which Jesu
forbid—dress the wounds of his limbs, and sooth his weariness with my cares,
and console him after his toils by the song and story which he so much loves.”
“It is thy duty, daughter, that thou shouldst thus attend thy lord. Thy thought
becomes thee. It were pitiful if he should be wounded and alone, needing succor
and soothing which thou mayst bestow—and thou absent here reposing on thy
couch, little heeding of his wants and sorrows.”
“Ah! father, I thank thee from the bottom of my heart for this sanction. I have
already spoken of it to my lord, but he chides me for the thought. Thou shalt help
me in my quest. Thou shalt speak to my lord, and show him what is needful for
me to do, and to desire, and what is but right and generous in him to grant. Wilt
thou not do this, holy father—I pray thee to serve me in this wise, for well I know
that thy counsel is of all others most grateful to my lord.”
“Verily, daughter, thou art a pattern of virtue and duty. The sex is honored
in thee, and the church glories in thy faith. How rightly dost thou see these
things. Where should the wife be, in the peril of her husband, but by his side?
I would not have thee share in his danger, for that becomes not thy feebleness of
sex; but there are duties in which thou art strong, and these are particularly needed
of thee to exercise. Daughter, I will speak to thy lord in thy behalf.”
“Oh, father, how shall I thank thee?”
“Thanks, dearest daughter of the church, it needs not. It needs but duty only.
Verily, the heavens smile upon thee, and thy virtues will greatly serve against the
too erring and too vicious nature of thy lord. Thou art precious, my child, in the
sight of heaven. Thou remindest me in thy meekness and loving-kindness of those
accepted women which made lovely and secure the tents of the ancient patriarchs.
Be thus, ever, my daughter, and the smiles of the Virgin shall give thee countenance
and protection in the moment of thy greatest need.”
Thus speaking, while the royal lady knelt with uncovered head before him, his
paternal hand rested on her neck, and, unconsciously, as it were, glided into her
bosom, the heaving billows of which were swelling with a sense of pleasure at
the terms of commendation which she heard from one in whom she was accustomed
to behold the visible agent, and almost the only means of communication
with her Saviour and her God. She felt no distrust of that patriarchal pressure
which was yet not without its influence upon other sensibilities than those which
belonged to her devotions. How should she dream to find the wolf in the shepherd!
The pure heart, unconscious of guilt itself, not easily suspects the secret
guilt in the souls and thoughts of others. The meek submissive woman, untrained
and inexperienced in the strifes of the brutal world, is slow to fancy cunning or
deceit in those minds upon which society itself commands that she shall RELY.
And thus it was that the pure-souled Egilona knelt before the lascivious and abandoned
priest, submissive, while his polluting hands, made authoritative by his patriarchal
mission, presumed upon freedoms with the person of the innocent and lovely,
which are permitted by heaven to the sacred rites of wedlock only.
Very difficult was it for the bold and impious Oppas to tear himself away from
the exercise of his audaciously assumed privileges. She, the meek and virtuous
woman, knelt still, immovable as beneath a spell, looking down upon the earth,
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and submitting, as she fancied, to a benediction which was to secure her the special
favor of the Mother of the Lamb. The wolf in sheep's clothing tore himself away
at last. His hands lifted her from the ground, and rested still upon her snow-white
neck and bosom, while pressing his burning lips upon her cheeks. This was all
apostolical only, in the humble and unsuspecting thoughts of the woman—for a purer
heart than that of Egilona never beat within mortal breast.
To Roderick, Oppas urged the wishes of Egilona—and his own—but with a
different argument. To the fearless man he justified the presence—not of the queen
only, but of the court—on the ground that there was no danger. “Shall these
infidels thus affright us with their crescents? Are these barbaric drums so terrible
in our ears, that we must needs keep them from the ears of our women? Is there
no valor among your nobles that they dread lest the ladies whom they serve should
see them as they go into conflict. I tell thee, Roderick, if thou wouldst have thy
young warriors do famous service, let them be seen of the young maidens of the
court.” And the subtle priest then made some familiar farm-yard allusions to the
effect upon the courage of the male bird, of the presence of the female.
“Verily, my Lord Oppas,” said Roderick, with a merry visage, “thou hadst
been a better soldier than a priest—albeit, thou hast some of the rarest attributes
for the priesthood also. Thou hast a tongue to wheedle Satan himself out of his
prey—and, I tell thee, I half suspect thee of a warmer passion for the sex than
thou hast for the surplice and the altar. Thou canst not cheat me, lord bishop. I
know thee, if the church does not. But thou art right in this. Shall these scurvy
sons of Ismael make us afraid? Shall there be no more smiles—no more sunshine
because of their moons? By Bacchus, I will it otherwise. Egilona shall be with
us and the court. We shall have all the dames of beauty and of grace, to see that
we are not wanting in the spirit to defend them. Our young nobles shall do
battle in their sight, and well I know there will be no cowardice—no skulking
then.”
There were other counsels among the veterans, but those of the archbishop prevailed,
and when he bore the grateful intelligence to Egilona, his wild passions rejoiced
in the renewed exercise of his patriarchal privileges. Once more his lips
were pressed upon her cheek and forehead—once more his audacious fingers rested
upon her neck, or lifted, in a seemingly wandering mood, the tresses of her silken
hair; and evil were the triumphant thoughts which kindled into burning tumult
the blood mounting to his brain, as he rushed in imagination over the brief interval
between that moment and the day when the woman at his feet was to be widowed
by his unbridled passions.
CHAPTER IX.
Of the further details of the conspiracy against the crown of Roderick it does
not need that we should now take heed. It will suffice to remember that the conspirators
were counselled by shrewd, sagacious heads; men well experienced in
such practices, and entirely free from those disquieting morals of patriotism which
might have made them scrupulous in such employment. They carried their plans
forward so as to include all the probable elements of success—neglected no precautions,
and disregarded none of those considerations which might be supposed to
operate, whether favorably or otherwise, in connection with their schemes. After
some delays the two opposing armies came in sight of each other on the banks of
the lovely waters of the Xeres.
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“Henceforward this shall be the river of death!” exclaimed the fierce captain of
the Arabs, as he looked down at the water flowing before his feet; and the name
of “Guadalete,” which, in the Arabic, has this signification, consecrated to the purpose
by the terrible strife which followed upon the banks of this stream, has clung
to it even to the present hour, and will probably cling to it forever. The dark
soul of Taric el Tuerto, conscious of its own purpose, was prescient of the awful
event about to follow, and he was destined soon to put in exercise all his fearful
energies in order to realize his own predictions and desires. Glorious, indeed, was
the spectacle then visible upon the borders of this lovely river, so darkly consecrated.
On the side of the invaders might be seen a small but formidable army—grim warriors,
well armed, compact, accustomed to work together in warfare, expert in the use
of their weapons, and yielding to the summons of battle with the exulting spirit of
the war horse, impatient of the trumpet. This well-appointed army though but a
speck in comparison with the numbers brought into the field by Roderick, wore yet
the aspect of a power which might be regarded with respect and apprehension. The
order of the well-drilled masses—their compact army—the symmetry and proper relationship
of body to body, horse and foot, seeming to co-operate as by some secret
sympathy, and without a word—these were signs not to be misunderstood or undervalued
by him whose eye hath ever enjoyed the spectacle of combat. The swarthy
legions of Taric looked like warriors embrowned by strife on every field in Mauritania.
The fiery steeds of the desert, admirably trained by the hand of the Bedouin,
gave life and animation to the array, as they coursed over the adjacent plain; and
the wild clash of the cymbal, mingled with the jeering cry of the Arabian horsemen,
seemed to awaken the very echoes in mockery of the vast but comparatively feeble
battallions of the Gothic monarch. But the spectacle that gave most pain and apprehension
to the eyes of Roderick was that of the small but formidable body of
Christian warriors leagued with the invader against his country. His heart grew
cold and sunk within his bosom, when he was shown, a little apart from the array
of the Moslem, the command of Count Julian, with his well-known banner waving
in the midst. Here were ten thousand of the bravest warriors of the Goth—hardy
veterans, daring soldiers, bold, firm and excellently skilled at every weapon. But
it was of their leader and not of these he thought; and, turning from the sight with
feelings which humbled, and which he did not dare to name to himself nor show
to others, he secretly resolved that it was not in this quarter he should seek to find
his enemies in battle. The conscience that makes cowards of us all, palsied the
valor of the tyrant when he remembered the wrongs that he had done to the daughter
of Count Julian, and his heart did not suffer him to join in the frequent maledictions
of his nobles, as they shook their vindictive hands towards the tents of the
apostate.
A short league lay between the opposing armies. That of Roderick presented a
spectacle of unexampled magnificence. The immense number of his host, rated by
historians almost as extravagantly as those of the Persians in the invasion of Greece,
was itself a sight of marvellous impressiveness. But the splendor of its array put to
shame any exhibition of a like character either in ancient or modern times. The
habitual luxuries into which the Gothic nobles had fallen, could not be separated
from their connection, even though they were about to engage in new toils and
perils in which such luxuries were incumbrances only. Details cannot well be
given of a display of which all the writers deal in superlatives only. Enough to
say that the ostentatious exhibitions of the tournament, in the most glorious periods
of chivalry, were translated to that field of death, and crowned it with a magnificence
and beauty that contrasted terribly and sadly with the fearful issues of the strife
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Myriads of pennons streamed above the scattered hosts of the Gothic monarch—the
tents of their nobles were almost hidden in their ornaments of silk, while their persons,
blazing with jewels, were only so many inestimable motives to valorous exertion,
on the part of an enemy roused to avarice by the exhibition of a wealth which
it required nothing but valor to obtain.
There was yet another army on the field. Scarcely an army, if we regard the
mighty legions of Roderick, and the inferior, but still imposing force led by Taric
and Julian. This was the little band of Pelayo, the true heir of the Gothic crown.
These were his mountaineers, from the Asturian passes, and they occupied a strong
position on the side of a hill, in sight of both the opposing armies. They lay
quiet but watchful in their camp, as if without a motive or a life; but their prince
and leader, Pelayo, was even now a victim in his tent to the bitterest pangs of disappointment
and distrust. He who had come to the field under the assurances of
the Archbishop Oppas, to find himself seconded by Julian with his forces, now
found that Julian himself was but the auxiliar of the infidel invader. It was at
the hour of vespers that the army of Roderick pitched its tents on the banks of the
Guadalete, and that night Pelayo and the archbishop, his uncle, met midway between
his own small array and the multitudes of the tyrant.
“To what feast is this you have brought me?” demanded Pelayo sternly of the
archbishop. “A feast where we furnish the food and are ourselves the prey. For
whom do we fight here, Lord Oppas? for Roderick or the Moors? for Spain or
Africa? Count Julian or yourself? Well, I trow that mine is to be a small share
in this business. Why am I here?”
The archbishop's explanations availed nothing.
“Hark ye, Lord Oppas,” was the conclusion of Pelayo—“I stand here in most
bitter opposition to ye all. You have humbled me to the earth, as you have brought
me to a pass where I may but look on the deeds of others, doing nothing of my
own. For what should I strive here? If I put in with Count Julian and against
Roderick, I but toil for the sons of Islam—the infidel Moor—the swarthy and
savage invader. If I strike against him, as it is my mood to do, I strike against
my brother's right and against my own—against my father's memory, against
Spain, and in behalf of a foul usurper. This is a strife, most like an agony, now
working in my soul. My will is feeble and knows not where to turn. My hands
are tied—I wist not where to strike. Verily, I must but look on, in waiting for
the mood; doing little in this conflict which approaches, unless it be in saving
from the scymitar the poor wretches of the land who follow only as they are
driven to the fight. Look to it then, lest, in what thou doest to-morrow, thou bring
the terrible curse of a foreign sway upon the land which a thousand generations
may never shake from its prostrate neck.”
They separated, the archbishop failing, with all his art, to disturb the first conclusions
to which the honorable mind of Pelayo had attained. Pelayo returned to
his heights, and the Lord Oppas proceeded with a guide to another interview in the
tents of the Arabian. Here, for the first time, he met with Taric. Here was Count
Julian also. Their schemes for the battle were to be adjusted, and the archbishop
was to make his conditions. He was to stipulate with Julian and Taric for a certain
share of that power which was to accrue from the defeat of Roderick. The ambitious
priest had his designs apart from the priesthood. An appetite for power was
raging in his heart, with other appetites of which nothing need be said. The Arabian
warrior readily conceded to the traitor all that he required. Taric had been impressed
with the numerous array of Roderick. Its splendor had dazzled his eyes,
and insensibly influenced his apprehensions. He knew his veterans, and he could
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reasonably judge of the inferior training of the force opposed to him; but he as
well knew that such an inequality of numbers as existed between the two armies,
was not easily to be reconciled by any inequality of practice or even valor; and
he had no reason to suppose, that, if not veteran soldiers, those of Roderick were
at all deficient in bravery. He felt the policy, therefore, of acceding to any terms,
within certain limits, which might be proposed by Oppas as the price of his treachery
on the ensuing day. The archbishop left the tents of “the faithful” for his
own, perfectly satisfied with the result of his nocturnal expedition in this quarter.
CHAPTER X.
The night, according to the Arabian and Spanish historians, was one of auguries
and omens to both armies. Those which occurred in the tents of the Arabian were
all friendly and auspicious. Taric was cheered by a vision of the prophet, who
promised him success, and a prolonged triumph; while, in the tent of Roderick, as
he sate quaffing the red wine with some of his favorite nobles, a bearded pilgrim
suddenly appeared at the entrance of the tent, and spoke to him, in words, terrible
like those which appeared to Belshazzar, written at his fatal feast on the walls of
the chamber: “Thy sway hath departed from thee, Roderick! thy hours are
numbered! The Arabian sits within thy palace, and looks out upon thy people
for his own! He who would save himself must abandon thee! Wo! wo! to
thee and Spain!” Before the king could recover from his consternation at this sudden
vision and these awful words, the venerable stranger had disappeared. There
are those who assert that the speaker was no other than a Caulian monk, whom
the archbishop had suborned for this purpose, and thus tutored, that he might alarm
with new fears, and move to treachery like his own, certain of the nobles who sate
with Roderick that night. One with such an aspect was known to follow in the
army of the archbishop. This event was followed by another of even more inauspicious
omen. Going forth with the dawn of day, Roderick summoned to him a
noble called Ramiro, to whom he delivered the royal standard, charging him in the
usual language, to maintain it faithfully and at the peril of his life. Ramiro received
the standard, and as he waved it aloft with a triumphant grace, and a bold
delighted spirit, his horse grew unmanageable, and darting away beneath it, flung
him under his feet and trampled the royal standard in the dust. When the good
knight was lifted from the ground he was round to be dead. His neck was broken.
He never stirred once from the moment that he fell. This fatal event, which took
place in sight of both armies, was well calculated to encourage the one and to depress
the other. But the soul of Roderick seemed to grow stronger because of
these sinister aspects in his fortunes. The really brave man is always true to himself:
and a prouder feeling, the growth of a noble self-reliance, was kindled in his
heart, as, lifting the standard from the ground, he himself rode with it along the
plain of Xeres, waving it proudly aloft in the eyes of his assembled legions. The
sacrament was administered to Roderick, kneeling in his tent, by the hand of the
Bishop Urbino, the Lord Oppas being busy at the time making his own preparations
for the battle. “I have sinned before heaven and the sight of man, venerable father!”
said the usurper. “I have done cruel wrong to Julian, and my heart
shrinks from the meeting with him, alone, of all in the ranks of mine enemy!”
“Be of good cheer, my son,” replied the Urbino. “Remember thou goest forth
to battle in defence of thy faith and thy country. Thou goest forth representing
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thy people and thy church, and art not simply the man whom men call Roderick.
Forget thyself in thy people and thy God, and holy mother will strengthen thee
against thy fear!”
“I repent me from that neavy sin, my father,” said the royal criminal, while a
deep tremor overspread his frame and grew apparent in the sound of his voice.
“And of all others, my son?”
“I would repent me. I would forswear them, but I am feeble and erring,
vicious by blood, and quickly led astray from better resolutions.”
“Be thou firm in thy desire for good; be thou faithful to thy fears and sorrows
for the evil done, and I grant thee the dispensation which flows abundantly with
grace. I assoil thee, Roderick, as thou art thus repentant, from past and present
sin. Go forth, for thy God and people, and the strength of thy God and thy people,
bring thee safely through the terrors of the foughten field.”
Urbino left the camp for a place of safety, while Roderick proceeded to take his
last farewell of Egilona. She, with the ladies of the court, had tents assigned her
contiguous to that of her husband. It was now the purpose of Roderick to send
her with Urbino to some distance from the field. But she refused with a stubbornness
of will which had not often been exhibited to her lord, to retire at his bidding.
For this resistance she had the secret counsel of the Archbishop Oppas. To afford
her husband the succor which he might need, it was essential that she should be
near him, and to this desire she religiously adhered. And Roderick's resolution
yielded to hers. In truth he had no apprehensions of the issue. He could not
doubt the capacity of his numerous masses to overwhelm the inferior armies of his
foe. He had no reason to doubt the courage of his people. He did not suspect the
treachery in his ranks. The auguries of the night had affected him much less than
his nobles, and those of the morning already recited—the death of Ramiro, and the
trampling of the consecrated standard in the dust—had not yet taken place. He
yielded to the loving and earnest entreaties of his wife, and left her, tearful and full
of fears, but glad that she had been permitted to remain in compliance with the
calls of duty near the person of her lord. His place in the tent was supplied by
the person of Lord Oppas. The last kiss of her husband was yet warm upon her
cheeks, when it was removed by the “holy” pressure of other lips. The patriarchal
blessing of the archbishop was to be enforced by the imposition of hands,
and the mailed glove removed from his fingers—for he was in full armor—they
once more wandered in forbidden places. And the pious and unsuspecting woman
looked up to the reverend father, and fancied she beheld before her one of those
mighty kings among the Jews, who, serving now before the altars of the Lord, and
now leading his armies forth to battle, were commissioned with a sort of universal
power, in correspondence with the great variety and compass of their moral endowments.
And, truly, the Lord Oppas was a person to impose this conviction
upon any spectator. We have already spoken of the nobleness and majesty of his
frame. He was not wanting in that solicitude which takes care that its habits and
ornaments shall properly correspond with what nature has done in his behalf. He was
clad from head to foot in armor of jet black, with a noble polish; on his left breast
was a cross in gold, and another glittering in blood-red rubies, was above his helmet.
He carried himself with the port of a prince. A person more noble moved not that
day in all the gorgeous ranks of the Gothic monarch; and it was with a sentiment
of delight and exultation that the secret glance of the archbishop detected the eyes
of Egilona as they followed the movements of his majestic form, with an expression
of admiration, the perfect innocence of which, founded as it was upon her
belief in his christian and spotless character, it did not enter his impure spirit to
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conceive. He left her, with all his loathsome appetites and foul desires and purposes
more than ever active, with the secret hope that the events of the day, already
begun, were to gratify them with the fullest triumph. Of this we shall see
hereafter.
Roderick, destined to be the last king of the Goths, went forth to battle in the
luxurious state which had been so much affected by his predecessors. His robes
were of gold brocade, his sandals were embroidered with precious stones; he carried
the sceptre in his hand, and the royal crown, full of jewels of inestimable value,
upon his brows. The chariot in which he rode was of ivory, the axles of silver,
the wheels of burnished gold; the pole was plated with the same precious metal.
This sumptuous chariot was canopied with cloth of gold, embossed with armorial
devices, studded with jewels, and drawn by four milk white horses, caparisoned in
a style of like folly and magnificence. A body guard of a thousand youthful cavaliers
surrounded this precious car, which might well suggest the necessity of a far
greater force for its defence against a foe so eager and avaricious as the children of
Islam. These cavaliers were knighted for the occasion by the king's own hand,
and were sworn, as their especial charge, to defend his person to the last. This
spectacle of magnificence, according to Arabic historians, seemed to match the sun
in heaven. The hosts of Roderick shouted their wonder and delight as he passed
along their ranks and enjoined upon them to do their duty as became men fighting
for their country and their God. The sight of so much splendor had its effect upon
the Africans also. Old Taric, who knew them well, made it the occasion of a
speech appealing to their cupidity. “This Roderick,” said he, “would save us
the pains of looking after his treasure. Would he pay our soldiers or his own with
these precious jewels? Dreams he that we know not their value? Hear me, children
of the desert, and know, that, from this day, the brave man wears the jewel
that he wins!”
The rising of the sun was the signal for the conflict. The two armies drew nigh
to each other as his first smiles crimsoned the plain which they were soon to dye
in deeper colors. The forces of the Arabian descended in regular order, troop after
troop, from the gentle eminence which they occupied. Their advance was wild and
picturesque. Their long robes and turbans made their appearance equally majestic
and imposing in the sight of their enemies; while their several squadrons, each
habited after a fashion of its own, religiously preserving the custom of their homes
in the desert, rendered their exhibition quite as various and fanciful, though in a
less extravagant and expensive manner, as that of the gorgeous battallions of the
Goth. These, with sound of drum and trumpet—with equal show of valor, but
far less skill and order—bounded forward to the encounter. Their music was answered
by the clash of cymbals, and the wild, piercing cries of the distant horsemen.
The sun disappeared from sight as they rushed to the embrace of death;
clouds of dust enveloped them, through which could be seen the gleam of the
whizzing javelins and arrows, and could be heard the rattle of a thousand stones.
These were the missils of war in that period, and such a stony tempest as raged
that day, has left its trace upon the plain of Xeres even to the present. The troops
of Roderick, undefended in most part, by shield or buckler—for the criminal prudence
of Julian had despoiled the kingdom of the materials of war before his invasion
was begun—fought to manifest disadvantage. But their courage was equally
manifest, and their swarming multitudes more than compensated for the deficiency.
The old valor of the race shone out wondrously in the very moment of its extinction—
even as we are confounded at the sudden blazing up into brilliance of the
light which has long been dying in the socket. Their efforts promised to prevail.
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The Moslems yielded before the reckless masses, as they flung themselves, troop by
troop, upon the ranks of the invader, and Taric el Tuerto, borne back by his own
legions, tore his beard in the agony of a conviction that the day had gone irretrievably
against him. It was at this moment—in the very crisis of his fortunes—that
Julian of Consuegra, who had hitherto employed his skirmishers rather than his
force, gave orders for the trumpet to sound thrice, a peculiar peal, which had been
agreed upon between himself and the archbishop. Scarcely had the sound subsided
upon the ear, when piercing and similar notes from the ranks of Roderick, gave
significant response from his accomplice.
“Now!” cried Count Julian, rising in his stirrups, and drawing the weapon of
vengeance from the sheathe—“Now, Roderick, thy hour has come!”
At the same moment, while the charge of Julian arrested the assailing and pursuing
Christians, now closely pressing on the heels of the flying Moslems, the
Archbishop Oppas, detaching his squadrons from the rest of the army, led them
suddenly against the centre of Roderick's array with a shock that was irresistible.
The rout followed—vain was the prowess of the monarch—vain the valor of his
nobles. They perished, man by man, fighting bravely to the last. Roderick himself
performed prodigies of valor. He had fought from his chariot, sending dart
and javelin, with fearful accuracy of direction, against every conspicuous foe; but
when, in the defection of Oppas and the terrible onslaught of Julian, the reverses of
the field began, he descended from the gorgeous car, and mounted his famous steed
Orelia, which had been kept in readiness for such emergencies. Thus mounted, his
sword made fearful havoc among the assailants. His valor maintained the fight,
and infused new courage into the hearts of his nobles. They emulated the reckless
and desperate strength and spirit which he displayed, and yielded themselves to
the slaughter, conscious rather that they were smiting as they fell, than of the fearful
pang and other trembling emotions of approaching death. Shouting a cheering
encouragement to such as survived, Roderick plunged forward to fresh encounters.
But a voice, wild and powerful, answered exultingly to his own, from a cloud of
combatants in front. It was the voice of Julian. It struck a deep terror to the
heart of Roderick. The reins fell upon the neck of his steed—then, as a second
time the fearful accents met his ear, he caught them up in his trembling hands,
wheeled the animal about, and plunging deeper than ever the rowel into his bleeding
sides, he fled from the battle, with a ghastly terror in the shape of the dishonored
Cava looking over his shoulders, and a prowling hate, in the aspect of her
gigantic father, close pursuing at his heels. He fled—fled wildly from his people—
and knew not in what direction his terror led.
CHAPTER XI.
The disappearance of Roderick from the field was the signal for a general rout.
The thousand brave young cavaliers who had formed his body guard, thinned terribly
in the previous conflict, now perished to a man in covering his flight. The
victory was soon complete, and the Arab and Bedouin horsemen hurried in the
dread pursuit, gleaning the fugitives with the edge of the scymitar as they vainly
sought refuge among the contiguous hills, or strove with uncertain and fainting
footsteps to shelter themselves within the neighboring town of Xeres. The pursuit
was unsparing and vindictive, and the slaughter terrible. The panic of the Asturian
army was such that they lacked the nerve to rally, and the few bodies of men that
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endeavored to hold together, under cool and resolute leaders, were annihilated in
the onward sweep of the Moorish squadrons.
It was while the Arabians were thus hotly engaged in the pursuit of the fugitives,
or more gratefully occupied still in despoiling the gorgeous camp of Roderick, that
the Archbishop Oppas, at the head of a chosen body of men, followed the footsteps
of Egilona and the court. This wily priest had so admirably made his arrangements,
that his creatures directed the course of the flying cavalcade while his spies
followed close and reported to him its direction. It was with feelings of indescribable
exultation that he beheld his calculations all verified, and felt himself on the eve
of realizing all his audacious hopes. Already the objects of pursuit rose on his vision;
and the gorgeous and flowing robes of the women might be seen momently
gleaming to his eye, as they wound above the hills lying in the distance on the
right of the town of Xeres. The archbishop rose proudly in his stirrups. The
prey was already in his grasp, and, urging the pursuit with renewed energy, he overtook
the party in a dense thicket of chestnuts. His eye was fastened upon one victim
only, and singling her out from the rest, while his troops followed in pursuit
and dispersion of the queen's escort, he grasped the bridle rein of her steed, and led
his victim aside from the highway. The wife of Roderick and her traitorous confessor,
were alone together. He assisted her to dismount from her steed. He
smiled upon her—he spoke to her in the ancient fashion of saintly and patriarchal affection.
But he now spoke to her in vain. She was aware of his deception; she now
felt how fraudulent had been his mission. The lamb's skin had been torn from his
shoulders, and she now knew the wolf in his natural aspect. Farther deception
was in vain. Her kindling eyes, her haughty and reserved aspect, soon taught him
this; and, after a vain attempt to persuade himself that his old arts might yet be
renewed with profit, his impatient spirit, vexed at repulse, abandoned all farther
attempts at hypocrisy.
“At length,” said he “lovely Egilona, I may speak freely. I may declare
the passion with which thou hast inspired me so long, and which it has been so
maddening to conceal. If I erred, as thine eyes seem to reproach me, it is thy
beauties—those very eyes, which are to blame. Thou hast been the cause of my
error. For thee I have renounced the church, and put on the armor, with the spirit,
of the warrior. Be mine! As the wife of Lord Oppas, thy rule shall be in Spain
quite as sufficient and large as when thou wert the wife of Roderick. Roderick
lies upon the field of battle, never more to rise. Let the rites of the church bind
thee to one, whose love for thee, more true than that of Roderick, is yet more fervent
and considerate of the nature which dwells within thy heart.”
The answer of Egilona was that of scorn. She was no longer the devotee. She
was the woman and the queen.
“False traitor!” she exclaimed. “I loathe thee as the pestilence. Egilona thy
wife! Sooner let her perish!”
The face of the priest glowed as with fire beneath his visor. He removed his
helmet, and cast it upon the ground.
“Egilona!” said he, “art thou blind? Seest thou not we are alone together?”
“Approach me not, traitor. Forget not that I am the wife of thy sovereign.”
“He lives no longer.”
“I believe thee not.”
“I saw him fall before the sword of Julian.”
“Jesu spare and help me! Holy mother be my succor. Strengthen me that I
may not give ear to the falsehood of this traitor priest.”
Oppas had indeed spoken falsely. He knew nothing of the fate of the monarch.
Why should we prolong the parley? Why pursue the conference in which the
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entreaties and arguments of the disloyal archbishop were answered only by the unvarying
scorn and loathing of the royal lady. His passion at length grew stronger
than his respect. He laid his hands upon her—not the patriarchal hands, gently
and tenderly laid, with which, quite as polluting then as now, he had before done
wrong to her sacred person. His touch now was that of open violence. His
muscular arms were folded about her delicate and exhausted form, while his lips,
priestly no longer, but wholly reckless and passionate, were fastened upon her
own with a desperate eagerness which seemed to drink a rapture akin to madness in
each draught. Her voice was stifled—her cries were silenced—she sank fainting to
the sward, and prayed for death from heaven.
Her prayer was answered in that very moment—not with death, but with safety.
The tread of a horse echoed through the grove. A wild strange voice was heard to
summon, and the archbishop, furious at the intrusion, turned savagely on the
stranger, and hurriedly lifted his sword from the ground where but a moment before
he had thrown it. The intruder was a Moor, and by his costume and bearing, a
person of distinction. He was armed after the Arab manner, with scymitar and
javelin and lance. His person was tall and slight, but eminently graceful and well
made. His air was very noble and his features particularly handsome. He was
young, scarcely more than twenty; but it could already be seen that he was one
destined for great achievement. He had been already heard in counsel, and his
deeds were already glorious among the Arabians. He was the son of Musa Ben
Nosier, and destined to arrive at distinctions to which even his ambitious sire had
never looked even in his fondest dreams of eminence. The noble and chivalrous
spirit of Abdalazis—for that was the name of the youthful Ishmaelite—revolted at
the spectacle before him; and, heedless of the dignity of Oppas, whom he at once
recognised, he called upon him, for shame, to quit his prey.
“By Allah!” said he, “Christian, these be not deeds which shall do thee honor.”
“Hence, Moor—away with thee from this presence ere I slay thee. Know me
for the Lord Oppas, confederate of Count Juhan of Consuegra. Away with thee
in pursuit. I will answer for my own deeds.”
“I know thee,” said the young man, “and will not leave this lady, whom I regard
as noble, in thy hands.”
Egilona had recovered from her swoon. Her exquisite beauties, her noble air,
had fixed the attentions of the Moor.
“Leave me not, I implore thee, to this man! He is mine enemy. Save me, I
entreat thee! I am the wife of Don Roderick, the lord and sovereign of the Goth
in Spain.”
At these words the young man lifted his hand to his turban, and knelt respectfully
before the royal lady.
“I will bear thee to a place of safety,” he exclaimed.
“Thou!” cried Oppas, who, in his rage, neither recognised the youth, nor knew,
perhaps, the rank which he held in the army of Taric. Possibly, even did he know,
at that moment he had not heeded the rank of the stranger. “Thou!” he cried, rushing
upon him with his weapon. Abdalazis recoiled before the terrible sweep of
the sword, drew quickly a javelin from the quiver at his side, and launched the
steel with unerring aim and force at the face of the assailant. The action was as
quick as light. The shaft sped recklessly to its mark. The bolt penetrated the
eye of the archbishop, and the sharp steel was buried in his brain. The gigantic
frame of Lord Oppas fell forward heavily upon the earth, which seemed to shake
beneath the fall. He writhed but in one convulsion at the feet of Egilona, and his
dark passions and fraudful life were at once at an end together.
It may be quite as well to suspend the progress of our story—though for a
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single instant only—in order to indicate the fortunes of the two persons thus singularly
and happily brought together. The events of that meeting between Egilona and
Abdalazis constituted but the beginning of an interesting drama, terminating in his
final ascent to the throne of Spain, and his marriage with the widow of Roderick
the Goth. Let this suffice of their history. The chronicles go a step farther, and
it is more than suspected that the pure and lovely Egilona finally won the heart of
her Arab lover to the foot of the cross; a triumph of the wife and the devotee
which brought them both to the scaffold, victims to the brutal rage of a populace as
warmly devoted to Islam as Egilona was to Christ.
CHAPTER XII.
While these exciting events were in progress in one quarter of the field, what
was the fate of Roderick, and whither did his footsteps tend? With the vindictive
shouts of Julian ringing in his ears, conscience-stricken, he urged his noble steed—
the good steed Orelia, of which tradition has deemed it not beneath its care to preserve
some pleasing memorials for posterity—to the utmost powers of limb and
muscle, in the fond hope of escaping from the avenger. But, as eagerly as he fled
did the father of the unhappy Cava pursue. His instincts were all aroused and
unerring in the chase, and while the feet of Orelia were laving themselves in the
edges of the Guadalete, some seven miles from the field of battle, the steed of
Count Julian came thundering down the banks. The oozy surface of the marsh
on the sides of the river deceived the unhappy Roderick. Orelia, striving with
generous effort, in obedience to the voice and spur of the rider, became entangled
in the sedge and mire at the perilous moment, and, compelled to abandon her, Roderick
leapt from the saddle to the shore, only to meet with the avenger. Julian was
not the first to encounter with the fugitive monarch. This was a fortune reserved
to a valiant Moor, the captain of a select body of Bedouin horse, named Maguel
el Rami. Their weapons were already opposed, when, hot with haste, weary from
hard riding and fighting, and feeble from several wounds, Julian of Consuegra
dashed between them, and struck their swords asunder.
“God! how I thank thee that he lives,” was the first exclamation of the panting
sire! “Moor!” said he, turning to Maguel el Rami, “hadst thou slain him by thy
unwitting sword, all Barbary had not saved thee from my wrath. Away! choose
thee out other victims—leave this to me!”
He was obeyed! The Moor was in a moment out of sight.
“Roderick!” said Julian, “how I rejoice me thou dost survive this hour—that
thou livest to satisfy, however poorly, the hungry passion of revenge which is consuming
within my heart.”
“Slave!” cried Roderick, with a show of scorn and confidence which he did not
feel—“I am still thy king.”
“King! to be sure thou art! a king still—but none of mine! It is a part of my
rejoicing that I slay in thee a sovereign. The memory of Cava, her bloody wrongs,
call for no less a sacrifice. I would not rob thee of a single dignity. Nay, were
the passion of my heart once satisfied—could this thing be possible—I would restore
thee to thy power—restore myself again to Spain—and all for one small boon
which thou hast to bestow.”
“And that!” demanded Roderick, somewhat eagerly, deceived by the suddenly
subdued tones of the apostate, and the calm and, as he fancied, the gentle expression
of his eye. Roderick began to flatter himself with new hopes. He began
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to think that Julian might possibly relent—might be bought off with new dignities
and treasures, and employ his power in repairing the injuries he had done to his
country. He built something upon the remorse of the apostate—
“What is that, Julian?” he repeated, as the other remained silent a moment too
long for his eager hopes—“What is that?”
“Thy blood! thy blood!—no petty drops—no small tribute, tyrant! idly drawn
to show me that thou hast blood in warm and ruddy veins. No! I must rend thy
heart from its black caverns! watch its pulsations—note where it beats most
quickly and with most life, and there execute my vengeance with keen steel—vexed
that so poor a vengeance, after all, must atone to me for my crushed honor, and
the tortured innocence of my child! Art thou prepared for this? Art thou ready
for thy death?”
“I am no coward, Julian!”
“Would I prate with thee, knew I not this? Hadst thou been, the Moor should
have despatched thee in my sight.”
“Julian!” said Roderick, “I have wronged thee deeply—sorely have I repented
of this wrong—sorely has my kingdom suffered from it, and I stand here ready to
await the issue of thy sword in the encounter. But what had thy country done to
thee, that thou must gore her with thy cruel weapon? What had these children
of the soil—these poor herdlings—the women and the children of the land—that
thou shouldst bring the wolf into the fold, and ravage the cities of thy people with
the havoc of the African?”
“That is the pang and the shame which thou must answer,” said Julian, with
the agony of hell speaking in his visage. “Thou hast spoken soothly. Thinkest
thou I feel nothing of my shame?—that I loathe not my own crime in this? But
it is thy crime, Roderick—it must be revenged on both of us. Come on! I look
not to survive this struggle. I am faint with many wounds, but thee I must slay!
That I feel and know. Thy doom is on the record! Prepare thee! This hour I
give thee to the sword!”
“I am ready! I will fight thee, Julian, to the last—yet not deny heaven's justice
if I fight with thee in vain.”
Fierce and terrible was the conflict. As if conscious of all his danger, Roderick
put on all his coolness and courage. He strove with moderate arm, simply at defence,
and his prudence baffled that of the avenger. The sword of Julian was smitten
asunder in the struggle. He stood weaponless before his foe. His battle-axe
was left upon his saddle bow. He looked aghast upon his enemy. In that one
moment Roderick forgot his caution.
“I am safe, Julian! Thou art unarmed, and at my mercy!”
“Traitor and tyrant, in thy teeth thou liest! No! Thou art at mine!”
At the risk of a fearful wound, which took effect upon his shoulder in a deep
gash, and upon his neck in a slight one, Julian closed in with his victim, grappled
him about the waist with a single arm, and with the hand of the other plucked the
dagger from the belt of Roderick, and struck with it, once, twice, thrice, to the very
heart of the monarch. This done, he flung him from his grasp—writhing and
gasping in a mortal agony upon the sands.
“This to thee, Cava! my child! This to thee, Frandina, the mother of my child!
And thou!—”
He turned to look upon Roderick. The eyes of the king were already glazed in
death. He himself sunk upon the ground, even as he gazed upon his victim.
“It is over! My limbs fail me! My strength. But it has sufficed. I have
lived long enough. My task is ended. Yet! that pang! that agony! It is here!
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a dreadful fire in my brain!—Spain! Spain!—it is for thee I burn! Thou wilt
curse me! curse me with thy homes made desolate—thy fields ravaged—thy people
in captivity. A fearful vision grows up before my sight—the vision of a terrible
future from thy enemies and mine. Spare my eyes this spectacle of blood.
Ha! it is she! Does she reproach!—my child—my Cava! It was for thee—for
thee only that I wrought. Alas! and thou deniest me! thou! thou!—”
He raved. His form writhed beside that of Roderick. He grappled it with his
hands. His eyes swam. He no longer saw the objects around him, or he saw
them indistinctly. His hand still grasped the dagger with which he had given the
fatal blow to his enemy, and as the conviction was renewed in his mind that it was
still his enemy that he grappled, he smote again, once, twice, thrice, even as before
when he had slain him; then sinking back, he shrieked as with a shuddering and
terrible agony. His dying senses caught the sounds of approaching persons—the
heavy tread of cavalry. Voices reached his ears.
“Who comes?” he demanded, feebly striving to rise and look around him.
“What is here?” said one. “This surely is Roderick, the Goth. And here is
the royal robes and the crown.”
“That voice!” exclaimed the dying man: “Is it not Pelayo, son of Witiza,
whom I hear?”
“It is!” replied the speaker. “Who art thou?”
“Look on me!”
“Julian!”
“Ay! and nothing. Thy brother—he who loved my daughter—he sleeps by
Cueta. I saved him from this day. Thou, Pelayo, art the rightful king in Spain.
Save her from the Africans. My prince, place thy sword before me, that I may
behold the cross ere I perish. Give it me—in my hands. Give!—give!”
“There! seize it quickly—press it to thy lips. It is thy last refuge!”
“Jesu! mercy!”
In these words the spirit passed. The young prince knelt over the corse in
prayer, while his followers, lifting the crown of Roderick from the earth where it
lay, placed it upon the brows of Pelayo. The sky then rang with their unanimous
shouts as they proclaimed, in a burst of popular enthusiasm, “Pelayo! King of
Spain!” He proved himself deserving of the title, and became the real founder of
that marvellous race, whose deeds in after centuries, in Europe and America, were
among the greatest marvels of human performance. His power did not suffice to
expel the Arabs from his country, but he prepared the way for their final expulsion,
and preserved the sacred fires of liberty, secure from extinction, in the wild
passes of the Asturian mountains.
Pelayo gazed upon the body of Roderick with melancholy contemplation.
“He was the deadly enemy of my home and country. To him we owe the
dreadful desolation of this field. But let not the brows which have worn the
crown of the Goth, be subject to the indignity of barbarian hoofs. Lift him upon
your shoulders, my friends, and let the Xeres bear him to the sea!”
It was done, and vainly did Taric el Tuerto look for the royal victim. The
gory head of a noble Gothic cavalier, whose features resembled those of Roderick,
was sent, as a sufficient trophy, to the Caliph at Damascus, while the deep waters
which could not hide the history and the shame, effectually kept from indignity the
person of the “Last King of the Goths!”
THE END.
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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1845], Count Julian, or, The last days of the Goth (William Taylor & Co., Baltimore) [word count] [eaf369].
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