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 The guards as we have already seen were all withdrawn, to engage in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.