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.