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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

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.