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succeeded thee, and for whom thou wilt be scorned, will in time be superseded by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.

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

“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!”