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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