A sudden and startling change came over the hitherto
inflexible countenance of Melchior as he heard these
words.

“Wretch!” exclaimed the fierce old warrior, drawing
a poniard from his girdle as he spoke, and in the same
instant rushing towards the infatuated youth. The aged
Adoniakim, with a cry of entreaty, tottered forward to
arrest the weapon; but, before he could interpose, Melchior
of himself had stayed his hand and progress; yet
the fury in his soul, though checked in its exercise, could
no longer be concealed. His eyes flashed all the fire
of indignation and of youth, and the long white beard
that depended from his chin curled and quivered as if
endued with a spirit and vitality of its own.

“Speak out what thou hast to say!” cried Melchior,
as he contracted his hand and returned his dagger to the
folds of his garment where it had lain concealed—
“speak out the whole of thy foul thoughts and insolent
spirit, and let there be an end of this. But hear me,
Amri, if, in what thou hast to say, thou dost utter word
or thought to which a father's ear might not listen, that
instant will my hand grapple with thy throat. I spare
thee now, not in consideration of thy deservings, but
simply as thou art the son of Adoniakim.”

“Let Adoniakim thank thee as he ought,” was the
insolent reply of the youth; “but, for my part, I fear
thee not. I have thee in my power, Melchior; and,
since thou hast proved thyself so rude and violent, I will
be less heedful of the words which I shall choose out for
thy hearing.”

“Beware!” exclaimed Melchior, and his finger was
uplifted in warning—“beware! Not a word, Amri, that
shall graze upon the purity of my blessed child, or the
presence of Adoniakim, and my own scorn of thee, will
not suffice to save thee from the weapon which thou deservest,
but which thy base blood would most certainly
dishonour.”

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

“Speak not—say not, Amri—I implore thee, my son—
be silent. Say nothing to offend the father.”

“Peace, Adoniakim—I will say. I have been too
long silent—too long kept in bondage and base subjection
by his teachings and thine. I will be so no longer,
and ye shall both learn to heed what I command, as ye
shall both learn, and quickly, how much ye are in my
power.”

The father would have longer solicited, for he was in
terror lest his son should use more audacity, and well he
knew that Melchior was one ever prompt to strike where
an injury was offered to his honour and his child.
Though affecting to defy his threats, yet, in his farther
speech, Amri adopted the safest policy, and was more
cautious, though still insolent enough, in the language
which he made use of.

“I must have thy daughter, Melchior—I will have
her; and I offer to thee to have her in honour as my
wife,” said Amri, renewing the dialogue.

“I have said,” was the simple reply of Melchior.

“Yet I ask her not as a free gift—I will give thee an
equivalent for the maiden.”

“An equivalent for Thyrza!” exclaimed Melchior.
“What equivalent?”

“Thy own life!” was the unhesitating response.
Before either his father or Melchior could utter any reply
to a speech so daring, and which so much astounded
them, the youth proceeded—

“Thy own life, Melchior—nor thine alone. What
sayest thou to the life of Pelayo, the son of Witiza—
ha! Have I touched thee now—have I not thy secret—
have I not thee, and thine, and Thyrza at my mercy?”

But the countenance of Melchior was unmoved,
though Adoniakim trembled all over with his apprehensions.
The former looked calmly upon the face of
Amri, and his tones and language were milder as he replied
to the audacious youth.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

“Thou speakest to me a mystery, Amri,” was his
quiet answer; “I know not what thou meanest. If
thou wouldst say that as Melchior is outlawed by the
Goth, and at the mercy of the base informer who may
happen to fall upon his hiding-place, this is no new thing,
or new thought, or fear with me. I am that outlaw, I
well know; and I am not blind to the dangers which I
risk and encounter during my sojourn in Cordova. Of
this secret thou hast long been in possession—with the
knowledge of this truth I have long since intrusted
thee.”

“Perforce — perforce!” cried the other, bitterly.
“Thou didst not trust me with this because thou wert
glad or willing to trust, but because the trust was unavoidable.”

“Perhaps—perhaps,” said Melchior, calmly. His
inflexibility chafed the insolent Amri into fury.

“Perhaps! perhaps! And dost thou receive what I
say so indifferently? Is it thy own life which thou valuest
so lightly? And hast thou not heard—did I not
tell thee that I had, not thy secret only, but the secret of
the tribe—of Pelayo, the Iberian rebel—he who now
toils, with a foolish hope, against the Gothic monarch,
King Roderick? What! thou knowest not that Abimelech
leads the Hebrew discontents—that they gather
even now along the Pass of Wallia—thy secret, forsooth—
thy secret! It is the secret of the tribe, of the nation,
which I have, Melchior—not thy secret—not thy one
life, but the lives of many, and the hopes of all. Dost
thou wonder now that I am boastful—dost thou marvel
now that Amri claims thy daughter for his bride, and will
not be bought to silence by any smaller or less worthy
boon? Art thou not at my mercy? Wilt thou not
hear—art thou not ready to bargain with me now?”

“But, my son—Amri—thou wilt not—”

The aged Adoniakim was full of trepidation, and
would at once have implored the youth in such a fashion

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

as would have made him infinitely more insolent in his
language and more extravagant in his demands—but
Melchior interrupted him.

“Thou hast indeed spoken strange and grave matters,
Amri; but I believe not that thou hast any such secret.
Whence comes thy intelligence—who is thy authority?”

The words of Melchior were artfully mild. He was
an aged politician, and at once understood the necessity
of the utmost coolness. Nothing could have seemed
more quiet and pacific than his spirit in the moment of
his speech. It completely deceived the person he addressed,
who now believed that he was in a fair way to
achieve his purposes, and that he had properly alarmed
the conspirators.

“Dost thou deny it?” he asked, in answer to the inquiry
of Melchior.

“If I do, Amri, and defy thee to the proof, will thy
mere declaration, thinkest thou, go to overthrow thy father,
upon whose means and good-will so many powerful
Gothic nobles depend? Will thy word prove his conviction?
Thou art not so mad as to think it.”

“I have the proof—clear, unquestionable, and utterly
apart from my own words. It will not need that I
should speak. It will only be necessary that I should
point with my finger to guide the Gothic Lord Edacer,
who is now governor of Cordova, to the proof which
shall make all that I say a thing to be seen, not heard.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Melchior, with a deep feeling,
which he yet contrived to suppress. “May I believe
what thou sayest, Amri?”

“By the beard of Samuel! It is true—I swear it,”
was the immediate reply of Amri; who saw in the inquiry
of Melchior nothing less than his apprehension of
detection, and a relenting of his determination on the
subject of his daughter.

“And thou knowest—what?” was the further inquiry
of the outlaw.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

“Thy plan of meeting at the cave of Wamba three
nights hence, with Abimelech and other Hebrews, where
thou art pledged to join arms with certain Gothic and
Iberian chiefs, the princes Pelayo and Egiza, the lords
Eudon and Aylor, the Count of Garaynos, and certain
others. This, and much more, touching gold, arms, and
movement, is compassed in the secret I propose to barter
with thee for thy daughter.”

“And thou wilt treat for no less an object? Remember,
Amri, thou too art a Hebrew. The aim which is
thy father's and mine is not less thine. It is a blow
for the emancipation of the Hebrew. It is thy freedom
not less than ours.”

“Ha! it is thus, now, that thou art willing to think;
but when I urged to thee this argument in the hope to
bespeak thy confidence, thou didst deny me—thou didst
disdain me. I reject the argument now, as thou didst
reject it then. If I was then unworthy of thy trust, I
am not less so now. We will speak of it no more.”

“And for my daughter only wilt thou be bound to us
in secresy?” said Melchior, in a question, the manner
of which was one rather of intense musing than of direct
inquiry.

“For nothing less, Melchior,” was the reply; “and,
indeed,” said the youth, continuing with but a moment's
pause, “I think even to exclude from this guarantee of
safety the insolent and proud Abimelech—”

“Ah!” was the exclamation of Melchior, and his
thoughts seemed busy elsewhere while he spoke.

“Ay!” continued the youth, whom the manner of
Melchior continued to deceive; “I hate him for his
scorn of me. You shall be safe. To you, and all beside,
I will stand bound; but for Abimelech—you shall
give me counsel where to find him, so that I may prompt
the Lord Edacer—”

“I believe not that you have this proof, Amri,” said
Melchior, quickly, without seeming to regard the last

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

words of Amri. “I deny—I doubt that you can show
the evidence you speak of. No! You do but boast,
Amri—the thing is not in your power!”

It was in these words that Melchior hastily interrupted
the youth while he was proceeding in his requisitions.
Without reflection, and completely misled by the earnest
manner of the aged man—

“I swear it by the seal of Solomon, by the beard of
Samuel, by the bosom of Abraham, by the shadow and
the pillar, by the burning bush—I swear I have these
proofs!” responded the youth, readily and with solemnity.

“Good oaths enough, if true. And thou wilt swear
by these?” said Melchior, with a bitter smile.

“I do swear!”

Melchior paused for an instant—then, hastily advancing
a few paces towards the youth, proceeded thus—

“And what if I consent? What if I say to thee that
Thyrza shall be thine if thou wilt keep this secret? Wilt
thou be free to tell me in what these proofs consist, and
how thou gottest them? Speak—who is the traitor to
our cause—who hath betrayed us?”

The youth simply pointed to his father. The two recoiled
in horror and astonishment.

“Thou dost not mean?” said Melchior.

“Ay!” and the depraved youth laughed aloud as he
beheld the consternation of Adoniakim.

“Liar and wretch!” exclaimed the indignant old man,
now too much aroused longer to contain himself from
speech, though pliant and indulgent to the youth previously,
until his pliancy became a shameful and dangerous
weakness. He would have exclaimed much further
had not Melchior interrupted him; and Amri himself, at
that moment, explained away his own charge by telling
the truth.

“He was the traitor, though unwittingly. He left his
papers where mine eye beheld them—”

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“But only thine?” said Melchior, inquiringly.

“Only mine,” was the reply of Amri.

The old man, his father, when he heard this development,
hastened, as fast as his infirmities would permit,
to the secret chamber in search of the documents; and,
as he went, Melchior cried out to him to destroy them.
The youth laughed aloud as he heard this direction, and,
smiting his bosom unwittingly, exclaimed—

“He cannot—I have seen to that.”

The speech had scarcely left his lips, when, with a
bound that dashed the youth to the floor, Melchior of the
Desert sprang upon his bosom. The suddenness and
severity of his blow would have stunned a much stronger
person than Amri, and it was all in vain that the latter
struggled with his gigantic though aged assailant. He
was but a child in the hands of the venerable Hebrew.
Yet he drew his dagger from his girdle, and aimed a
fierce blow at the bosom of Melchior, which, had he directed
it more cautiously, and at his side or back, must
have proved fatal; but the stroke was aimed full in the
sight of his enemy. Grasping the upraised arm of the
assassin, Melchior easily wrested the weapon from his
hold, and he would, such was his anger, in another moment,
have buried it in the youth's throat, but for the
timely return of Adoniakim, who seized him from behind,
and arrested the down-descending blow.

“Spare him, Melchior, spare him!” was all that the
old man could say, when he sank down, overpowered by
his deep and conflicting emotions, in a fainting fit upon
the floor. Melchior slowly relaxed his hold, and, rising
from the prostrate Amri, he bade him also rise; but not
before he had torn open his sash and vest, and wrested
the stolen documents from the bosom of the felon.

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

Amri rose he was commanded, and stood, sullen
and stupified, in silence before the persons to whom he
had purposed so great an injury. His face was full of
shame and humiliation. Not that shame which springs
from the consciousness of, and is followed by the regret
for, error; but that mortified pride which feels disappointment
and defeat, and regrets nothing of the meditated
crime but its nonperformance. The miserable
youth, who had but a little before exulted in the belief
that Melchior of the Desert was in truth at his mercy,
now dared not look the aged Hebrew in the face. He
felt chagrined that his own weakness and vanity had so
far seduced him from prudence as to allow of his exposure
of his secret, and of its place of keeping, to one so
vigilant, and, as it had been shown, one so infinitely superior
in sagacity to himself. Had he but placed the
papers in a keeping beyond the reach of Melchior, but
still within his own control, he might—so he now thought—
have succeeded in his desires. Reflections like these,
however, only came to increase his mortification. They
were too late to avail him now; and, like a base culprit
as he was, he stood in the presence of the men he had
offended so deeply, having no word by which he might
excuse himself to them, and no thought in his mind from
which his own heart could gather the smallest consolation.
The eyes of Melchior rested upon the face of the
youth with an expression of pity and scorn mingled
evenly in their glance. He surveyed him a few moments
in silence ere he spoke—

“Miserable boy!” he exclaimed, while his hands destroyed
the papers which contained the secrets of the
conspirators—“miserable boy, having the weakness of
vice without any of that cunning which may sometimes
supply the place of strength. Didst thou think thyself

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

one fitted to contend with men—to conceive their plans—
to advise in their counsels—to keep their secrets?
Learn, Amri, false son of a most virtuous and most
abused father—learn that he only is wise who is noble—
he only is fit to counsel who is faithful—he only can
take heed of the hopes, the fortunes, and the fame of
others who is most heedful, yet least selfish, of his own.
When I look upon thee, boy, I know not whether to pity
or to scorn thee most. Thou art stripped of all thy disguises—
thou standest naked in thy shame before us—
and even the pretence of virtue, with which thou wouldst
have deceived me before, and by which thou hast so long
deceived thy father, even that is taken from thee. Thou
hast played for a high stake, but thou hast not played
highly. Know that he whose aim is lofty should be
lofty in soul; for, though the snake may sometimes
reach the nest of the mightiest bird of the mountain, he
still reaches it by crawling, and he still remains a snake.
Wouldst thou win Thyrza, thou shouldst have striven to
be like her—to have in thyself the virtues which thou
didst admire in her. Thou hast erred grievously after
the fashion of that elder born of sin, who would have
wrested the sceptre from Jehovah, having another and
an adverse nature to that which it sought to supersede.”

The hardihood of the youth came back to him as he
listened to this stern and bitter language of the aged man.

“It is well, Melchior—thou hast baffled me in this,
but thou hast baffled me for a season only. I tell thee
now once again, thou shalt yet comply with my demands.
Thy daughter shall yet be mine.”

The fire flashed from the eyes of Melchior as he replied—

“The hour of her wrong by thee, Amri, I swear by
the blessed lamps of the temple, shall be the hour of thy
death, if so be that Heaven denies me not the strength
which should cleave thee to pieces with my weapon.
Beware!”

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“And I say to thee, `Beware!”' replied the youth,
with a look of insolent defiance; and, as he spoke, he
would have passed to the entrance of the apartment, but
the strong arm of Melchior grasped him firmly by the
throat. The youth gasped and struggled.

“Release me,” he cried; “wherefore dost thou hold
me now? I have no more of thy papers.”

“But thou hast thy tongue,” was the fierce reply of
Melchior—“thou hast thy tongue—a tongue not too
base for falsehood—not too base to betray the just, and
the just cause, even though thy own father perished by
its words. Thou shalt not leave us, Amri.”

“I do but go into the court—I will return,” said the
youth, and he trembled in the unrelaxing grasp of the
Hebrew.

“We trust thee not,” said the other. “Thou knowest
too much to go forth. Thou wouldst madden until
thou couldst find some enemy to thy people to whom
thou wouldst give up thy stolen burden. No, no!
Thou hast, of thy own head, made thyself a keeper of
our secrets. Thou shalt be taught to keep them safely.”

“I will keep them—I will not unfold them,” promised
the youth, to whom the grasp of Melchior now became
somewhat painful and oppressive.

“Thou shalt. We shall see to that,” said the other,
still continuing his grasp, but now addressing Adoniakim,
who appeared to surrender all charge of the youth
to his brother. “Speak, Adoniakim—thou hast a close
chamber in thy dwelling, from which the inmate may not
fly? Thou hadst such a one of old—thou hast it now.”

This inquiry aroused the farther apprehensions of
Amri, who also addressed his father—

“Thou wilt not suffer this wrong to me, my father.
Thou wilt command that Melchior free me from this
constraint. I will keep thy secret—I will say nothing
to betray thee.”

“I trust thee not now, Amri, no more than Melchior.

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

I have lost all hope in thee. My heart is shut against
thee—my ear regards not thy prayer. There is a chamber,
Melchior, such as thou demandest.”

“Guide me thither,” was the brief direction of the
latter. Adoniakim led the way into the secret chamber,
and from thence into a narrow apartment, which was entered
through a massive door having a heavy iron bar
across the outside, and holding within but a single window,
grated well with close bars, and looking down upon
a small courtyard, which was formed by the crowding
houses around, many of which were among the very
highest in the Hebrew Quarter. To this chamber Melchior,
with strength which was wonderful to Amri, dragged
the reluctant and still struggling youth; and, thrusting
him in, they both withdrew, and carefully fastened
the bar upon the outside of the door, which secured it
from every effort made from within.

Left to himself, the musings of Amri were of no very
pleasant description. The very novelty of the constraint
was to him annoying in the last degree. The
indulgence of his father had, from his boyhood up, left
him, in a great measure, his own master. To denial
and privation of any kind he had been but little accustomed.
It may not challenge much wonder, therefore,
if, in his new condition of confinement, he found himself
wanting in most of those sources of native strength
which could enable him to endure it with tolerable
patience. As it is only the strong-minded man that
makes the true use of freedom, so it is only the strong-minded
that can best endure constraint and privation.
The mind of Amri had neither strength nor elasticity.
When free—if such a mind can ever be esteemed to
possess, as it certainly never does perfectly appreciate

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

freedom—it never was satisfied until it plunged into
some fettering weakness—some palsying indulgence;
and when denied and deprived of liberty, it was prostrate
and utterly deficient in energy and concentration.
He raved in his prison like a fevered child, when his
father and Melchior had fairly departed. He threw
himself upon the floor, beat the walls, tore his hair, and
yelled aloud in the very impotency of his boyish vexation.
Exhaustion at length effected what thought never
could have achieved with him. It brought him quiet;
and, after some hours of puerile excitement and misdirected
anger, he was at length surprised by sleep, and
slept for some time, until awakened by his father, who
brought him food.

But let us not anticipate. Let us go back to Melchior
and Adoniakim. After leaving the youth to his
prison, they returned to the chamber which they had
left, and there renewed the conference, which the meeting
with Amri, and the subsequent matter which had
taken place between them, had completely interrupted
for the time. Long and serious was their conference.
They discussed the plans of the conspiracy now ripening
to its open development. Every thing depended
upon their secrecy and circumspection until that period.
Their men were gathering along the passes of the
neighbouring mountains. Several of their leaders were
concealed within the walls of Cordova; and though it
was not then the hope of the Bishop Oppas or of Pelayo
to carry the city, yet they fully trusted that with
the first open show of insurrection, many discontents,
now inactive and unknown, would at once declare themselves
under the banner of revolt. The Jews, fully
confirming the promise and prediction of Melchior, had
freely given of their wealth, and pledged their young
men to the cause of the princes, in the hope of overthrowing
that domination which had ground them to the
dust in its unrelaxing and ruinous exactions. Two

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

thousand of them were already volunteered, and it was
hoped, — when the news of the rebellion could reach
Merida and other places where they were numerous,
that the number of Hebrews engaged in the active progress
of the war would not fall short of five thousand
men. These were yet to be disposed of and directed;
and it was one part of the business which Melchior
then had with Adoniakim, to devise certain modes of
bringing thse troops in small bodies from distant places,
to the general co-operation with the native insurgents,
without exposing them to be cut off by the already
armed and active troops which, under various commands,
the usurper Roderick had distributed over the
country. On this point they soon came to a satisfactory
conclusion, and effected all necessary arrangements.
Their final deliberations being now completed among
themselves, preparatory to the great general meeting of
the conspirators, which was to take place at the Cave
of Wamba in a few nights,—the subject of his son's
conduct, and of his own future course with him, was one
natural to the thought of Adoniakim, and as naturally
the subject of his spoken concern to Melchior. The
latter was a stern, though strictly just, arbiter. He did
not scruple to discourage the weaknesses of the father.

“He is now safe, and so far we have nothing to
apprehend at his hands. But our apprehensions would
return with his enlargement, and we must keep him
where he is for a while. We are free only while he remains
our prisoner.”

“What! confined to that narrow cell, my brother?”
demanded the too indulgent father, while his inmost
heart yearned, in spite of all the mean misconduct of the
youth, for his enlargement.

“Ay, there, Adoniakim: what better place to keep
him securely and without question? There he is beyond
all hearing of the stranger. He may not alarm
by his cries the neighbouring dwellings, for the court

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

upon which that chamber only looks is, thou hast said,
confronted by thine own.”

“It is—it is safe, indeed, my brother; but, Melchior,
he will die of that constraint. It is a miserable chamber—
the cell in which the unanswering debtor was restrained.”

“Fear nothing, Adoniakim; thy tenderness makes
thee apprehensive overmuch. He will suffer only in
his mind, which is moody because of its disappointment.
The cell of the poor debtor cannot be too dreadful a
place for the viperous and dishonest criminal; and the
restraint will be of vast benefit to a temper so illgoverned
as that of Amri, while it will be but a moderate
chastisement of his most heinous offence.”

“And how long, my brother, dost thou think that it
will be needful for us to hold him in this confinement?”
demanded the father.

“Till we are safe!” replied Melchior; “till the
meeting is over in the Cave of Wamba—till the first
blow is stricken for the freedom of the Hebrew! That
is the secret which is in his keeping, and which he
would not—he could not—keep were he free. He
would instantly bear it to his dissolute accomplice,
Edacer, whom the rebel Roderick has just made Governor
of Cordova. It would be a glorious stroke for
Edacer, our arrest and that of Pelayo, by which to
commend himself to Roderick. It was this which so
maddened the youth, and prompted his audacious insolence.
It was the assurance that he should find ready
aid from the power of Edacer that led him to defy thee,
his father, and to denounce me, the friend of his father
and of his people, though we both toiled, unselfishly,
for his own and the freedom of that people. We cannot
trust him to go forth until the blow is struck, when
it will be of no avail to our injury that he should speak;
for then, with the aid of Jehovah, we ourselves shall
have spoken, in a language for the whole nation to

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

hear. Let him then be free, and thou wilt then see by
his future bearing whether there be hope that he may
return to the paths of his duty. If he be worthy of thy
thought, he will take arms in our ranks; if he do not
this, forget, Adoniakim, that thou ever hadst a son; and,
in the battle, bid the warriors of the Hebrew not look
to see if the enemy they strike in the bosom wears a
semblance such as thine. Should thy own arm be uplifted
then, thou shouldst strike still, though thy weapon
be driven unerringly into the mouth of one who called
thee father with the blow, and prayed for its forbearance
with his dying breath. In that hour, as in this, having
the cause of thy people to strike for, thou shouldst no
more heed thy son than did Jephthah the daughter of
his love, when the solemn duty was before him for performance,
to which he had pledged himself in the sight
of Heaven and his country. Let him but cross my
path in the battle other than as a friend, and I slay him
as a base hound which hath turned in its madness upon
his owner.”

The stern resolve of Melchior paralyzed the weak
old man. His speech was interrupted by his tears—

“Thou wilt not, Melchior—thou wilt not. Thou
wilt spare him, if it be only for my sake—for the sake
of Adoniakim,” he implored.

“Were it only for thy sake, Adoniakim, I should
slay him; and, for his own sake—to save him from
a worse doom and a more open disgrace—thou too
shouldst slay him. But let us speak no more of this.
It may be that he will grow wise when he beholds the
whole of his nation in arms, and join heartily and with
an honest feeling in our cause. Let us hope for this,
and think farther upon no evil things. For the present,
thou wilt keep him secure. Bear him his food thyself—
trust no one in his presence—trust him not thyself.
Speak to him kindly; promise him fairly; but I warn
thee, Adoniakim, trust him neither with his own person

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

nor with thine, and beware that he practise not cunningly
upon thee, to thy ruin and his own escape.”

With these words Melchior prepared to depart, and
Adoniakim followed him to the entrance. The eye of
Melchior caught that of Mahlon, who attended them,
scrutinizingly fixed upon him, and he then drew Adoniakim
back into the apartment to repeat the warning
which he had already given him, to allow no one to
have communication with Amri, and to bear his food to
him with his own hands.

“And trust not thyself in the chamber with him, my
brother. Thou canst convey to him the food and water
through the bars above the door. Beware, too, that
thou sufferest not too much of thy person to be within
the control or reach of his; and see, when thou seekest
him, that thou goest armed.”

“Why, thou dost not think, Melchior, that the boy
would seek to do a violence to his own father?” said
Adoniakim, with a sort of horror in his countenance.

“Would he not have betrayed thee to the violence
of others? The traitor, if need be and occasion serve,
will not scruple to become a murderer, and thy son is a
traitor to his father and to his people. Beware of him—
again I counsel thee—beware that thy affection for
thy child mislead thee not, in his indulgence, to thy own
and the grievous undoing of others.”

They separated, Melchior to move other friends to
the cause, and to complete other arrangements prior to
the great meeting of the conspirators; and Adoniakim
to prepare his business generally, against all of the numerous
hazards accumulating about him with the prospect
of that wild change which was so near at hand.

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

But the mind of Adoniakim went not with his present
labour. What to him were the goods of life—the
profits of industry—the successes of his toil? For
whom did he labour? Of what avail were all his
wealth, when the son of his heart, the only child of his
affections and his hopes, had proved so worthless and
unwise? Life itself seemed valueless in his eyes as
he thought of his present sorrow. It brought him little
else than pain; and he felt that it was only fitting that
he should live for the good which he might do in the
approaching struggle for his people, over whom his influence
was so great that he could readily move them to
their just purposes when all other pleading and influence
must fail. He strove to fix his sight upon the collected
folds of closely-written parchment that lay before him,
but he could not. The writing danced confusedly
before his eyes, which grew more and more dim at
every moment; and when he put his hands up to them,
he felt that they were full of tears.

“Unhappy son—unhappy father!” he exclaimed, in
the bitterness of his sorrow. “Would that this toil were
over—this sorrow at the eyes—this deeper suffering at
the heart! Is there a curse, Father Abraham, other
than this and like to this, of a dishonest child, who loves
not where he is beloved, and forgets the duty to that
parent who never forgets him even when least dutiful?
God strengthen me, for I am weak to death!” and the
head of the old man fell heavily, as he spoke, upon the
table before which he sat.

He did not sit in this position long; but suddenly
starting up, he muttered to himself aloud, while he proceeded
to provide some food for the imprisoned youth—

“The boy must not starve, though sinful,” he

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

exclaimed, as he placed some refreshments in a basket.
He added a little flask of wine to the viands, which he
procured from a recess in one corner of the apartment;
then, placing the basket upon the table, he proceeded to
secure the outer door. This done, he opened a little
bureau in the wall, by pressing a hidden spring, and his
eye rested curiously upon certain beautifully-wrought
Damascus poniards, mingled with sundry other weapons
of a strange and Saracenic fashion. Among these,
for a while, his fingers wandered, without possessing
themselves of any one in particular; and his mind
seemed busied elsewhere, and took no heed of their
movements. At length, however, after a few moments
thus spent, he fixed his attention sufficiently to enable
him to make a choice, which he did of one of the
smallest and simplest of the deadly instruments before
him. This was a little dagger, sufficiently short for
concealment in his bosom. Then, having secured it, he
closed carefully the bureau, and prepared to depart for
the prison of the youth; but a sudden paroxysm of grief,
mingled with self-reproach, seized upon him as he
reached the door, and he straight returned to the chamber
and threw himself upon a cushion, burying his face,
as he did so, in its pliant folds.

“Melchior, my brother,” he exclaimed, after the first
effusion of his sorrow was over, “thou art only too
stern of soul—just in thy awards, but too distrustful of
the once guilty. Thou hast counselled me to carry the
deadly weapon against the life of my child, and I have
placed it in my bosom, as if his blessed mother had not
lain there for many long and blessed seasons. Was it
her thought, when she reposed there so long and so
happily, that such counsel as thine, Melchior, should be
heeded by me? No!—no!—such a thought had been
a sleepless misery to her, and I cast the cruel weapon
from me now. I will not believe that the child of my
love should so far err and be wilful as to make its use

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

needful; and if I confide too greatly to his love and
duty—if the fears of Melchior be sooth, then, indeed, it
will be time for Adoniakim to die: I will then bare my
bosom to the knife.”

With averted eye, and a shudder of his whole frame
that spoke for his deep feeling, he threw the weapon
from his bosom, as thus passionately he soliloquized
aloud; then, rising hurriedly from the cushion, he hastily
resumed the little basket of refreshments which he
had previously prepared, and, as if he dreaded that, by
lingering, his resolve should undergo alteration, he hastened
at once, as fleetly as his weight of years would
permit, to the apartment where the vicious youth was
imprisoned.

Yet, though in his thought thus indulgent to his son,
and unwilling as he still felt himself, in spite of all the
evidence which he possessed of his guilt, to think that
he was all worthless, he yet resolved that his words
should be those of rebuke and reprehension.

“I will accord him no indulgence—he shall see that
I am firm to withstand his prayers and pleadings. I
will but bid him to his food and leave him.”

It was thus that he muttered his determination to
himself as he reached the chamber in which Amri was
imprisoned. Alas! for the unhappy old man, he overrated
his own strength as much as he did that of his
son's virtue. The result proved his weakness as completely
as it did the viciousness of Amri. He reached
the door, and, tapping gently upon it, he called the
name of the inmate, and bade his attendance. He received
no answer. The youth, at that moment, slept.
He repeated the summons with more emphasis and
earnestness; and though Amri, by this time, had become
conscious of his father's call, he yet obstinately
forbore to answer. With the evil mood of a sullen and
spoiled child, he determined to continue a dogged
silence, having no other object, with the first thought,

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

than the annoyance of his venerable father. This
thought, however, was superseded by another of a more
criminal nature still, as he discovered from the subsequent
words of the old man, and his tremulous utterance,
that Adoniakim was seriously alarmed by his
silence. Cautiously, therefore, he undid the sash from
about his waist, and so quickly and silently did he effect
his movements, that not the most distant sound reached
the senses of the aged listener. This done, he wrapped
the sash about his neck, and turning himself upon his
face, continued to hear, without regard, the reiterated
calls of his father. His subterfuge was not practised
in vain. Paternal affection got the better of all human
and politic caution; and, procuring himself a stool,
which enabled him to rise sufficiently high to look into
the chamber through the iron grating above the door,
Adoniakim saw with horror the position of his son. His
utter immobility—his silence—the sash tightly fixed
about his neck, the ends of which, though now relaxed,
seemed drawn by a desperate and determined hand—
all conspired to impose upon him completely; and, with
a cry of terror, rapidly descending from his elevation,
the old man tore away the bar from the door, threw
wide the entrance, and, rushing forward to his son,
would have cast himself upon him, but that the more
adroit and active youth, watchful of his opportunity, in
that moment hastily eluded his embrace, and leaping to
his feet, stood erect, while the aged sire fell heavily
upon the floor in the place where the son had lain.
Before Adoniakim could recover from his astonishment
at this base deception, and rise from the floor, the elated
youth had already fled the apartment. His exulting
laugh reached his father's ears, and went like a viper's
tooth into his heart. In the next instant the old man
heard the bar fall into the sockets on each side of the
door, and he then knew, even if the audacious youth
had said nothing, that he now filled his place and was

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

the prisoner of his son. But the soul of Amri was too
utterly base to forbear the taunts which now came
thickly and insolently from his lips.

“Ha! Adoniakim, is it with thee thus? Where is
Melchior now to counsel with and to aid thee? Thou
canst hope for nothing from me. Thou didst look on
tamely, and see me trampled under foot by his brutal
violence; thou didst obey his commands to put thy
own flesh and blood into bondage—where is he now to
help thee forth?”

“Amri, I will curse thee with a heavy curse,” said
the old man, threateningly, as he looked up and beheld
the exulting eyes of his son glaring down upon him
with scorn and laughter.

“Curse on!” was the defiance which the son sent
back in response—“curse on!—I care not. Thou
wilt heed, too, the saying of the Arab—`Curses, like
good chickens, ever come home to roost!' Beware,
then, for so will it be with thee. Thou hast cursed me
already in thy denials—in the ready obedience thou
hast given to the malice of Melchior. Thou hast no
curse in thy mind which I can fear more than those
which thou and he have already made me to suffer.
Now, I defy him and thee! Thee will I keep safe, for
I will keep thee from the Cave of Wamba. But hear
me, Adoniakim—Melchior will I destroy. I go to
Edacer now—I go to the governor of Roderick in
Cordova. I go with thy secret and the secret of Melchior.
Thee will I save—I will keep thee where thou
art; but Melchior of the Desert, and Abimelech the
Mighty, and others whom I hate, will I give up to the
executioner of the Goth. I leave thee with this purpose,
my father; yet thou wilt need food, and the
basket which thou hast brought for my service I leave
to thee for thine. I pray that it be well and choicely
filled, for thou well meritest what thou hast provided.”

He dropped the basket through the grating above the

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

door, and was about to descend from his stool, after
saying these words, when the voice of Adoniakim
reached his ears. He paused and listened to his
words.

“Stay but a moment, Amri—I would have thee see
and hear me but for an instant.”

“Speak quickly, then, Adoniakim, for I thirst to see
the armed bands of the Lord Edacer, in preparation for
the quest upon which I shall soon send them.”

“I shall not keep thee long,” was the reply; and, as
he spoke these words, Adoniakim knelt down, folded
his hands and bowed his head, as in prayer, while thus
he appealed to Heaven—

“Hear me, Jehovah—hear me, Father Abraham—
let the doom of the ungrateful and false son be sharp
and sudden: let him feel it; and let it be fatal. I implore
thee for this, God of my fathers, as thou art just
and merciful.”

He rose from his knees, waved his hands, and exclaimed—

“Now, Amri, thou art free to depart. Go!—go
where thou wilt, thou wilt not escape my curse. It will
for ever pursue thee.” He said no more, but turned
away his eyes, and deigned no other word or look.
A cold and strange chill rushed through all the veins of
Amri as he heard this fearful invocation. For a moment
his limbs refused to perform their office; but,
gathering strength at last, he descended and fled hurriedly,
but even as he fled a voice seemed to follow him
into the public ways, saying perpetually in his ears,
with a low and solemn tone—

“Be his doom sharp and sudden—let him feel it, and
let it be fatal!”

He hurried with the speed of fear—he rushed to the
dwelling of the Lord Edacer, and strove with earnest
endeavour, but strove in vain, to lose the sound from
his ready senses of that pursuing voice. For many

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

hours it continued to pursue him, repeating its fearful
penalty, until his own lips at length caught up the words,
and joined also in the repetition of the doom.

There was but a single mode of escape for Amri
from the terrors of that voice of conscience, and that
was by plunging madly into newer depths of vice and
indulgence. The terror which it inspired only drove
him the more impetuously forward in the prosecution
of his dishonourable purposes; and he hoped, in seeking
his not less vicious but more powerful associate, Edacer,
to quiet, or at least drown in a greater confusion,
the strife which was busy in his mind. Filled with the
toils, not to speak of the “pomp and circumstance,” of
his new condition, the Governor of Cordova was not
so readily accessible to the Jew as the dissolute Edacer,
a coarse and worthless noble of the Goth, had
usually been found; and Amri was compelled to wait
among the crowd of officers, applicants, and offenders,
who desired or needed the presence of authority. Nor,
when he did appear, did Edacer condescend to regard
the Hebrew, until the demands had been satisfied of
the greater number of those persons who were in
attendance. Yet was it evident to the latter that his
eye had been one of the first to catch that of the governor
upon his entrance into the Hall of State. At
another time, and under other circumstances, the impatient
spirit of the Hebrew youth would have been loath
to brook such slight from one who had been his companion
in all manner of vice; but now, thirsting as he
did for vengeance, which he felt could not well be
attained but through the power of Edacer, he was
content to suppress, or at least to conceal, his annoyance.
The novelty of the scene before him had also

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

its effect, as it excited his imagination, in quieting his
discontent. Edacer presided as a judge; and, to the
surprise of Amri, he now observed that the person in
authority was most severe in his judgments upon all
those vices which he, in connexion with Amri, had been
most given to indulge in. It may be that a selfishness
not less singular than narrow prompted the noble to
deny that to others below him which was a source of
gratification to himself. It is not unfrequently the case
that the vicious mind, not through any lurking and
lingering sense of virtue, but through the sheer intemperance
of excess, would punish those very practices in
another which it most earnestly pursues itself. The
problem was one most difficult of solution to the Jew,
but his was not the sleepless spirit which would deny
itself all rest in a search after truth; and even while he
mediated the matter, in an errant mood, the audience
was dismissed, and a private signal from Edacer motioned
him, when the crowd had withdrawn, to an inner
apartment. The Jew followed in silence: the soldiers
remained without, in waiting, and Amri stood alone
with the governor in a private chamber. Here Edacer
threw aside his robes of state, and casting himself at
full length upon a couch, bade the Jew, before he could
speak a syllable of that which he had to say, bring him
a bowl of wine from a vessel which stood in a distant
niche of the chamber, and was hidden from sight by a
falling curtain.

“Drink, Amri,” he cried, as he gave back the halfemptied
bowl to the Hebrew—“drink, and speak
freely. The wine is good—it is a god.”

“Thou hast said not more in its behalf, my Lord
Governor, than it well deserves,” said Amri, as he finished
the draught; “the wine is more than a god—it
is a god-maker. We have both felt its power. This is
old, and of a rich flavour and fragrance. It is worthy
of the lips of the Lord of Cordova. May I

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

congratulate your highness on the justice and extreme felicity
of your decrees to-day. Truly, my lord, I should think
you had heard some homilies, and imbibed some lessons
from the lips of my worthy kinsman, Melchior of the
Desert. There was a holy unction in your rebuke, as
you counselled that citizen in the soiled mantle, charged
with rape upon the daughter of his neighbour, and
doomed him to a loss of half his substance in compensation
to the woman he had defiled, which I looked not
to have heard from your lips.”

“Thou knowest me not, Amri,” responded the noble,
with a laugh of peculiar self-complaisance—“thou
knowest me not, my worthy Amri: my principles have
ever been held most unexceptionable, and the most
sanctified priest in all Iberia could never discourse better
than can I on the vices and ill practices of youth—
with a more holy phraseology, and a more saintlike
horror and aversion. What matters it if my practice do
not accord with the rule of my lips? The mason will
prescribe to the noble a dwelling, whose vastness and
beauty he himself will never compass, nor seek to compass,
in building up his own. The low hovel satisfies
his pride, and he heeds not the lofty symmetry of the
fabric which he designs for his neighbour. It is thus
with all. We teach others—we thus show that our
hearts are free and liberal, since we give, confessedly,
good principles and wholesome laws to our neighbours
which we appropriate not to our own use. The priest
is thus liberal—the learned doctor, and his reverence
the pope—his decrees are wise and holy; though 'tis
most certain that he waxes fat, and wealthy, and powerful,
the more he goes aside from the exercise of his own
teachings. When I counselled and punished the young
citizen, I but followed the practice of our holy father. I
counselled him for his good, and not for my own: my rebuke
was addressed to his necessities, not to those of the
Governor of Cordova. Dost thou conceive me, Amri?”

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

“Do I see the sun to-day, my lord? I shall answer
one question much more readily than the other. The
argument is clear. It was not thy sin that thou hadst
in cognizance, else the case, perchance, had been somewhat
different,” replied the Jew.

“Of a truth it had. We, at least, who have the
power, and can make principles, have no reason to
believe in our own fallibility. Holy church is full of
analogies which give wholesome sanction to the indulgences
of this transitory life. The rules of virtue and
conduct which we lay down and declare to be fixed
laws, are rules only for those who are to obey them.
The maker of the law does his sole duty when he has
made it—the citizen does his when he obeys it. The
path is clear for both; and as he who has made can
unmake, so the ruler may not for himself heed the rule
which is the work of his own head and hands, when it
shall be the desire of his head to undo it.”

“It is light, my lord. Of a truth the great Solomon
never spoke more truly or wisely; though I misdoubt
if Melchior, of whom I came to speak to thee but now,
my Lord Governor—I much misdoubt if he would not
pick me some open place in thy argument.”

“He could not well, Jew, believe me; the truth is
beyond the cunning of any of thy tribe. But what hast
thou to say to me of Melchior? Hast thou tidings of
his movements? Get me knowledge of his place of
secret hiding, Amri, so that I may entrap him, Hebrew,
and I make thy fortune, since my own will then be
secure. Such success will give me a stronger hold in
the favour of Roderick, and silence the enemies, some
of whom have striven, though, as thou seest, but vainly,
to keep back my advancement.”

“I will do it—I have the knowledge which thou
desirest, my lord,” replied the Jew.

“Now, wouldst thou wert a Christian,” responded
the Gothic nobleman, half rising from the couch upon

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

which he lay, “for then would I hug thee to my heart
as the best friend and truest servant in Cordova. Speak
out thy knowledge, Amri, that I may rejoice in what
thou promisest.”

“I have a greater knowledge and a more profitable
secret even than that of Melchior's place of hiding. Know
that he designs once more a rising of our people.”

“Ha! but I shall foil him there. I am glad of it,
nevertheless. This will only make greater the good
service which I shall render to Roderick;” and the
governor rubbed his hands together joyfully and confidently
as he uttered these words. He then bade the
Jew relate more fully the intelligence which he brought.

“There is even more matter in this than thou hast
heard, my Lord Edacer, since there are yet others
linked in this rebellion of Melchior, making it one of
more character and import. What sayst thou if I tell
you that the banished prince Pelayo is one of these
conspirators?—what if I tell thee that he is here, even
now, in Cordova?—and if, farther, I say to thee that
thou mayst, at one grasp, take both the rebels, with
others yet unnamed to thee, and place their heads at the
feet of King Roderick. This were good service to thee,
my Lord Edacer, and no less good service to thy lord
the king.”

“Thou stunnest me, Amri, with thy good tidings.
I can scarce believe what thou sayst, Jew—thou mockest
me—thou hadst better not!”

“I do not—I swear it by the beard of Samuel, and
the speaking rod of Moses! It is true as the graven
tables. I mock thee not, unless the sober truth be thy
mock.”

The governor leaped from his couch, himself proceeded
to the beverage which was hidden in the niche,
and drank freely of its contents; then, turning to the
Jew, he bade him relate at full the extent of his knowledge,
and the manner in which he became possessed

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

The Hebrew shivered as he heard this threat; the
ill-directed kindness of Adoniakim came to his mind,
and once more he heard the dreadful sounds of that
pursuing voice which threatened him with a sudden and
fatal doom. But he tasked his utmost energies to the
performance, and replied fearlessly and with but little
hesitation, while he repeated his resolve still to reserve
to himself something of the narrative he was required to
unfold—

“I fear not, my Lord Edacer, and thy threat is most
unwise, since, without my limbs to lead thee, and my
hand to guide thee, in some matters yet unascertained,
even the words of my mouth would fail to serve thee in
the matter of which we speak. There is something yet
to me unknown which is needful to thy success.
Hearken, then, to what I am willing to unfold to thee,
and content thee with my conditions. Is it not enough
that thou shalt have Melchior and Pelayo, and the very
heads of this rebellion—the hated enemies of King
Roderick—to proffer to his acceptance? What is it to
thee if I would save an old man who has wealth which
I need, or a boy who has suckled at the same breast
which gave milk and nourishment to me? Perhaps a
Jewish maiden is also at risk, whom I would preserve
with a fonder feeling than belongs to either of these—
art thou so greedy that thou wouldst take all? Will not
the part which I assign to thee—the all that is needful
to King Roderick's favour—will that not repay thee for
thy toil and the valour of thy men?”

“It will—it will!” replied the impatient Edacer, who
probably only insisted upon having that portion of his
secret which Amri seemed anxious to reserve, as he was
unwilling to forego the exercise of any portion of his
supposed power over the fears and service of the Hebrew.
“It will!” he continued—“save the old man
whose money thou desirest, and thy foster-brother, who
has drawn milk from the same nipples with thee, and

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

the Jewish girl, too, if she be worth the care which
would save, when so many of the Gothic blood are ready
for any hire and for any service. They demands, if these
be all, are small enough. They are granted thee. Speak
only as it pleases thee, Amri, and I am satisfied.”

After this, the Hebrew framed his story to his own
satisfaction. He simply omitted all those portions of
his intelligence which could effect the safety of his
father, and guide to the present place of Thyrza's concealment—
a discovery which he had also been fortunate
enough to make. The papers which he had read had
apprized him of the place of meeting, of the probable
number of the leaders who would be there assembled—
of what would be the direction of their troops—how
gathered together—how divided—and of the particular
command which should be assigned to Melchior and
Abimelech, as leaders of the Jewish insurgents. The
fond parental care of Melchior had already, meanwhile,
placed his daughter (still disguised in her male attire)
in the secluded and unsuspected dwelling of a Hebrew,
within the walls of the city of Cordova, where she was
required to remain while the success of the rebels continued
doubtful. These portions of his secret excepted,
the traitorous youth revealed all that he knew of the
conspiracy to his dissolute listener, whose ears drank in
greedily every syllable which he uttered. His joy at
the intelligence could scarcely be restrained from the
most wild excesses, and he now—forgetting all differences
of station and religion, both hitherto so much insisted
upon in his intimacy with the Hebrew—actually
embraced the informer, and lavished upon him the most
unqualified praises and caresses. When he became
sufficiently composed, he proceeded to examine Amri
more closely, and required him to recapitulate, that he
might better determine in what manner to proceed in
arresting the insurgents. In this decision the cunning

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

mind of Amri proved a useful auxiliary to the more
purposeless but more daring one of Edacer.

“The leaders only will assemble in the Cave, my
lord: their numbers will be few—some fifty at the most.
To take these the force required will be moderate, yet
it must greatly exceed theirs, since, doubtlessly, they
will fight like desperate men. What guard have you in
Cordova?”

“Two hundred men,” replied the governor.

“Enough, if rightly managed, my lord. You need
no more. To go out of Cordova to gather a greater
number would be to make the rebels suspicious of
danger, and they might avoid the meeting. No doubt
they have many emissaries in Cordova, who would convey
to them the knowledge of any addition to your
guards, or any sudden or strange movement which you
might make. There should be no change in your regular
doings; but after nightfall you should steal forth,
with your men, at different routes, sending them under
chosen guides, and they should rendezvous near the
Fountain of the Damsels; from thence, under your own
lead, they could reach the Cave of Wamba in time,
moving silently and with caution, to find all the conspirators
assembled. One sudden blow, and the game
is yours. They cannot save themselves by flight—
they cannot even give you battle, for they will be crowded
together beyond all chance of a free movement, with
necks stiffened only for the better exercise of your
swords.”

“'Twere a brave fortune, truly, could I but secure
it—could I but succeed!” was the exclamation of Edacer
as he listened to the plan of Amri. The Jew urged
the certainty of his success.

“You must succeed, my lord. It needs only that
you be resolute, and keep your men so. The rebels
cannot hope to fly; and they are quite too few for any
hope from flight with the force which you can array.”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

“But then their troops, Amri: they have been gathering
along the passes—how far, how near, we know
not. They may press down upon Cordova itself, hearing
of the fate of their leaders, and endanger the city.
What then?”

“This staggers not, my lord. Have you a trusty
captain in your troop?”

“Yes, there is one—Balermin—my lieutenant.”

“Give him command: bid him make alarm in the
city when you shall have been gone five hours from it.
Let him arm the trustiest citizens, as if they stood in
danger from the Saracen; then let him send forth trusty
messengers to the lieutenant of King Roderick, who has
a force of men but five leagues off—off by the west—
I have not the name of the place—”

`Darane—I know the village,” said the governor.

“I know—what then?”

“Bid him quick bring his soldiers to thy aid. Thou
wilt need them to disperse the rebels and clear the
passes, when thou shalt have entrapped their leaders.
What more? The game is before thee!”

“Clear enough! Thy plans are excellent, Amri—
thou shouldst have been a warrior, Amri.”

“No, my lord—the shouting terrifies me. I could
plan out the field, and say well enough when and where
the blow should be stricken, but the shouting of many
men has a dreadful sound which appals me. My heart
trembles when I hear it even in the peaceful walls of a
city, and when they shout with joyfulness and glee; but
when they shout in anger, and with the fierce rapture
of an angry beast, who scents the carnage with a keen
nostril coming down the wind—then I shiver with convulsion,
and I sicken even to faintness. I cannot fight—
I cannot even fly—my knees give way from beneath
me, and a child might slay me then.”

“'Tis very wonderful!” exclaimed the Goth, looking
upon the Jew with a pitying surprise as he listened—

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

“I have no such terrors. The cry which appals thee,
to me is like the blood-scent to the angry beast of which
thou speakest. It is then that I shout also, and I hear
my own voice with a rapturous sense, as it thrills and
rises louder than any of those who shout around me.
My blood leaps then in my bosom, and my eyes glow
red and burningly, and my hand grasps my sword, and
twitches with a pleasure of its own, as if it tugged at the
throat of my enemy.”

“I know it—I have seen thee angry. I saw thee
once take Astigia by the throat, even as thou sayst,
until he grew black in the face under thy grasp,” and,
as he spoke, the Hebrew gazed upon Edacer with a
simple expression of admiration in his countenance,
while the other, as if to secure the respect he had
already excited, now bared his muscular arm, upon
which the veins were swelling in heaped-up ridges, and
the brawn stood out in hills and knots that seemed fearfully
to deform it, and demanded no less admiration for
the exhibition which he made of his strength than he
had before elicited from his admirer by his display of
courage. Not satisfied by the acknowledgments thus
extorted from his companion, the dissolute nobleman,
who had his vanity also, himself sneered at the incident
to which the Hebrew had referred when he sought to
convince him that his valour had not been unobserved
by him.

“That affair with Astigia,” said Edacer, “of which
thou speakest, was only a child's affair. He was but
an infant in my grasp. I could tell thee, Amri, of other
strifes and struggles which laugh at this. What sayst
thou to the fight which I had with two strong and subtleminded
Saracens, both of whom I slew without succour,
and both striving against me at the same moment; and
yet that was boyish valour only. I could do better now.
It would not be so easy now for any Saracen to make
his mark upon my bosom, as did one of those in that

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

same combat. Look, Amri, at the scar—the cimeter
went keenly there, as thou seest, though not deeply.
In the same moment my mace dug deeply into the
scull of the infidel, and the other, as he beheld the fate
of his companion, sought, but in vain, to escape his
doom by flight. They lay not far apart from each other
when the fight was done, and a like blow had slain the
two.”

“Both slain by thy hands?” demanded Amri, while
beholding the scarred bosom which Edacer bared to his
sight.

“Have I not said? They both perished by my
hand; and thou shalt see what blows that same hand
will bestow upon the limbs of the rebels to whose hiding-place
thou shalt guide me. The strife with Astigia
will no longer have a place in thy memory, in the thought
of the blows which thou shalt then behold. Thou shalt
see—”

The idle boaster, who, nevertheless, was brave
enough in battle, would have farther gone in his selfeulogistic
strain, had not the apprehensions of the Jew
here interrupted him—

“I will believe what thou tellest me, my lord—but I
would not see it. There will be no need that I should
be present when the strife comes on—”

“Fool!—timid fool that thou art!” responded the
other, scornfully—“what hast thou to fear? Thou
shalt look on the strife as one upon the eminence, who
beholds the spectacle below. The danger shall be beneath
thee, if there be danger; but I warrant thee there
shall be none, though the force of the rebels were thrice
what thou hast said it to be.”

“Freely do I believe thee, my lord,” said the other;
“but what need that I be there? I should not be able
to help thee with a single blow, or, when the fight was
done, to rejoice in thy victory, since the clamour would
appal me, and I should not even see the heavy strokes

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

or the brave men who give them. Besides, I have
cares at the hour when thou shalt strike which shall call
me elsewhere; and I would have thee assign to me a
badge of thy service, and one of thy attendants also
wearing the habit of thy soldiers. These, with a written
order under thy hand as Governor of Cordova, commanding
for me free entrance into any house in Cordova
in the keeping of the Hebrew, under pain of death to
those who may deny me, I would have thee intrust to
my use and good discretion.”

“What wouldst thou with them?” was the demand
of Edacer.

“There is a page kept bound in Melchior's service—
a tender, timid boy, that has my blood—him would I
challenge as my right. I would take him from those
who keep him back from me—”

“What sort of boy is he—he is thy blood?”

“From the same heart with mine,” replied the Jew;
“but kept from me unjustly. 'Tis a boy—a simple,
sad, and very timid boy, having the spirit of a shrinking
girl, and needing kindest tendance. Melchior keeps
him under pretence of right, but mere pretence; for I
will show thee, when I have him safe, that I am his best
guardian. The power I ask from thee will draw the
bolts and make the doors open which now are shut.”

“This all?” demanded the governor.

“All, my lord.”

“It shall be thine. When the time comes thou'lt
have it, not before, and for that night alone. Now
bring the bowl. Let us drink, Amri—then speed to
the Lady Urraca. When didst thou see her last?”

The Jew shrank from this subject, but he replied
quickly, and with as little show of hesitation or annoyance
in his manner as possible, for he feared to awaken
suspicion. The consciousness of his purposed crime
was in his mind, and there is no foe like guilt. It pursues
us wherever we fly, and, unlike other enemies, it is

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

found in all forms and all places, and we have no moment
secure from its obtrusion. The Jew felt its presence
as he replied to Edacer, stating the time at which
he had left the ill-starred lady of whom he had been
questioned. But Edacer drank, and did not heed the
confusion which Amri could not altogether suppress or
conceal.

“Thou shalt meet me there to-night,” said the noble.
“She has bidden me to supper, and I make bold to take
thee with me. She hath a kindness for thee, Amri,
which shall well excuse me, and call for no words of
mine. We shall have other toils upon the morrow
which shall keep us both from such indulgence.”

“Thou wilt have thy enemies in the toils, my lord.
King Roderick will do well already to look around him
for thy reward. Thy success in this will make thee a
favourite with the Goth. It may be—”

“What, Amri?”

“Ah! my Lord Edacer, when thou becomest a royal
prince, thou wouldst have no eye for the poor Hebrew.”

“By Heaven, thou wrongest me, Amri. Let the
power but be mine, and thou shalt be—what matters it
to promise? I tell thee, Amri, thou shalt rejoice that I
have had thee in my service. Thou shalt glory to have
been faithful to me. No more. Leave me now; we
meet at Urraca's.”

The Jew left him, as he was commanded; and the
smiling scorn he did not seek to hide which rose involuntarily
upon his countenance as he listened to the
speech of the vain, thoughtless, and dreaming Edacer.

Let us now seek the Prince Pelayo, whom we left
about to proceed in search of his truant brother. Assured
that Egiza haunted the dwelling of the maiden

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

Cava, it was thither that he bent his steps. Yet he did
not dare now, as before, to present himself openly before
Count Julian. That nobleman, since his last interview
with the princes and the Archbishop Oppas, had received
instructions, as the king's lieutenant, to arrest the young
princes as traitors to the realm; for they had forborne
to appear before the usurper, as had been especially
commanded them, and profess their obedience. They
were now outlawed men. The practices of Oppas had
been conducted with too much secrecy to provoke the
suspicions of Roderick, and—such had been his address—
he was then actually in the royal palace at Toledo,
in council with the usurper on the condition of the
kingdom. The visits of Egiza were addressed, therefore,
to Cava, in despite, and without the knowledge of
Count Julian, who was rigidly faithful in the assertion
of his loyalty. The heart of the maiden had been too
deeply impressed with the reards and the person of
Egiza to heed altogether the commands and counsels
of her sire; and the two met in secret when opportunity
allowed, in the neighbouring grounds and garden of
Count Julian's castle. It was beneath the twinkling
olive-leaves at evening, or in sweet and haunted dells
among the neighbouring mountains, that they enjoyed
their stolen moments of delight; and the eyes of Pelayo,
as he wandered in search of his brother, beheld the mutually
devoted pair seated in a little hollow of the hills,
which gave them a fitting shelter from the keen eye of
observation, though scarce a stone's throw distant from
the castle, and in the immediate grounds of its noble
owner. The thought of Pelayo grew softened, though
still indignant, as his eye took in the loveliness of the
scene. The sun was just then setting, and his yellow
robes rested upon the summits of the brown and distant
hills. The leaves were died in his light, and the dark,
topmost towers of the castle still kept some few but fleeting
glances of his smile. The silence that rested upon

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

the scene was like the whispering spell that seems to
follow the thrilling music of some wizzard instrument,
and a haunting glory seemed to gather and to grow with
the increasing march of the twilight up the swelling and
increasing mountains. The love of the two sitting at
their feet, though a love injurious, if not fatal, to the
cause in which the whole soul of Pelayo was interested,
seemed fitly to mingle in and harmonize with the scene;
and the prince, as he approached the unconscious pair,
half paused, and the thought came to his mind to leave
his brother to his idle but winning dream, and pursue
the strife for empire alone. He would have done so,
but that no one stood nearer to the seat of royalty, after
Egiza, than himself; and his was a spirit that would not
only be pure in performance, but would seem pure also
in intention. As he moved towards them, his eye discerned
the shadow of a third person, also approaching
from the western rock—a shadow not perceptible to the
lovers, but readily so to himself. Apprehending some
treachery—for the strifes in which he had been for so
long a time engaged had taught him to look for treachery
as one of the attributes of warfare, if not of life—he sank
behind a projecting ledge of rock, which gave him a perfect
shelter, determined to await the approach or action
of the new comer. In the mean while Egiza, in the
arms of the maiden of his desire, indulged in those visions
of the heart and youthful fancy which conceal the
gloom and the tempest, and array earth in those features
of perfect and true beauty which only belong to heaven.
And, as he surveyed the pair, Pelayo muttered thus to
himself while throwing his form at ease behind the
rock:—

“It was a true saying of our dam, that, at his birth,
Egiza had all the ballad minstrelsy, and would better,
in future years, desire the music of the shepherd's reed
than the clamorous ringings of the trumpet. I would
she had spoken less truth in this. He hath grown

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

utterly sinewless, hath no purpose, and would seem better
pleased to pipe away, than to command, existence. It
were less than folly to look to him for manly endeavour
in our sharp controversy with Roderick. He can strike
well, but what avails the muscle of the arm when the
heart lacks, when the soul is sluggard? There he sits
as he were dreaming, with a head that drops upon his
palms—with half shut eye, and words which, when they
flow, break into murmurs that speak for his sad unconsciousness
only, and have little meaning else. What a
thing were this to rescue a people from their tyrant, to
revenge the wrong of a sire, to set the times right which
are now so turbulent! And she, too, the witless damsel
who sits beside him, with a beauty that must blaze only
to be extinguished—bloom only for the blast—its own
worst victim. They deem themselves happy now, as if
they were secure. Could they see the clouds—the storm
that hangs upon the hill—would they dream thus idly?
'Tis well for them, perchance, that their eyes are with
their thoughts, and either turn within or hang upon each
other. They live, and are conscious only in the mutual
sighs and smiles, which is love's idle barter.”

While he spoke thus to himself his eye caught a
glimpse of two persons approaching cautiously towards
the unconscious lovers from an opposite hill, clinging
carefully to its shadow as they came, and having an air of
premeditation in their movements, which was visible to
the prince even at the distant eminence from which he
gazed.

“Ha! some treachery awaits the turtles. Their
commerce is like to have interruption. Two men steal
along the ledges — both armed. I see the shine of
steel. Now, by Hercules, but Egiza deserves not that
I should help him in this strife; and the enemy, who
now steals on him thus, may save me the stroke of
justice. I am sworn to slay him should he deny our
people, should he refuse to seek them with me; and

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

will he not refuse? Hath not this woman defrauded
him of his better purpose? is he not already a traitor?
And what hope is there that he will be true in time to
come? But no! I will not think it. He will—he shall
go with me, and I will save him yet. A bound will
bring me to his help; there are but two, I will manage
the one, and he—he hath not surely forgotten the use of
the weapon he would seem to have forsworn—if he
cannot keep the other harmless, he will well deserve
the harm. He will surely battle for his mate, if not
for his people. Soh! they speak together—their loving
words come up to me at moments with the wind. They
dream not of the danger while they prate of their delights;
and—”

He paused, and the words of Egiza, sitting with the
Lady Cava upon a little table of the rock below, came
distinctly to his ears.

“Thou dost, indeed, distrust me wrongfully, sweetest
Cava. I have no such purpose as thou fearest. Freely
will I forego the crown which, heretofore, I've sought—
refuse the hope which would have me toil for it.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Pelayo, “then may the assassin, if
such he be, do his work.”

Egiza continued—

“To be a quiet cottager with thee, sweetest Cava,
would be my best ambition. Thou shalt teach me to
forget that I was born to high estate—thou hast taught
me so already—and in some deep wood, some quiet
glen like this, sweetest Cava, I will content me to be
only happy, and share my happiness only with thee.”

“Well said—well promised! Shall he perform it
well?” were the muttered words of Pelayo. The reply
of Cava, though doubtful also, was uttered in far other
language.

“Ah, my lord, this is thy promise now; but when
thou hearest the tidings of the fight; when it is told thee
how this brave warrior battled, and how this; and,

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

perchance, when it is said to thee that the fight went against
thy friends—thy brother—ah, then! then will thy heart
burn and chafe to mingle with them.”

“Would it were so!” exclaimed Pelayo, with a sigh.
The next words of Egiza almost vexed him into open
rage, and it was with difficulty he restrained himself from
shouting his scorn to him aloud.

“Believe it not, Cava; let the warriors strike as they
may, I shall not envy them. Let the fight turn as it
will, it shall be no fight of mine. As for my friends and
brother, they will be but the happier at my absence.”

“Perchance the better for thy loss, thou craven!”
was the bitter speech of Pelayo, which broke through
his clinched teeth.

“Ah, my lord, but when thine eyes look upon thy
sword,” said the maiden.

“They shall not, sweet lady. I will straight turn it
to a reaping-hook.”

“Ah, but thy pride, my lord—”

“I am proud no more, dearest Cava, unless it be of
the blessed love thou hast given me. Believe me, I do
not thirst now for glory as I have thirsted, and the hope
is gone from me for ever that promised to make me
famous. I care no longer for the dazzling shows, the
thick array, and the clamour that belongs to princely
eminence. Ambition works no longer in my heart.
The trumpet moves me not; but, in place of it, a
softer, a sweeter note of music comes from thy lips,
and I know not that I have had a loss. Thou hast
blessed me with sweeter joys than all that I yield. I
think only of thee, my Cava, and my dream is only and
ever of some far solitude, where the quiet love broods
for ever over its own visions, and lacks none other.
Thither could we fly, my beloved—ah, wilt thou not?
I feel that I should be no less happy, than it would be
my happiest labour to make thee. My glories then
should be in those bright sweet eyes; in those dear lips

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

that mock the redness of the rose; and in those words
of music which thou breathest into a speech of the
heart that goes with every utterance into mine. Oh,
we shall be most happy, dearest Cava, thus to fly to
each other and from the living world beside.”

“Could I believe thee, my lord; but the heart of
man, it is said, soon tires of the love of woman, and
needs better employment than tending its devotions.”

“The girl's no fool,” said Pelayo, above.

She continued—

“In a little while, when thou hast seen the eyes of
the poor Cava until thou tirest with the gaze, and
hearest the words of her lips until they sink into a forgotten
sound, then will thy hope strain for empire—for
the brave toils which thou now profferest to lay down
for the poor Cava.”

“No, sweet lady, no! My hope has been subdued
to suit the desires of my heart, and that lives only in thy
smile. Believe me, I seek no higher throne than thy
bosom; no sweeter toils than those taken in thy service.
Once more will I resume with thee, in our woodland
home, those labours of our nation's father, when he roved
along the hills a fearless peasant, having no greater victory
than to tame the wild steed of the desert, or contend
with some neighbouring hunter touching the common
spoil.”

“Could I think it,” said Cava, with a happy smile
overspreading her yet girlish features, which freely declared,
by their expression, the pliant yielding of her
heart to the desires of her lover—“could I think it, my
lord—but no! Thou smilest—it is in a pleasant scorn
that thou speakst to me as to a child too willing to believe
what she wishes. I am foolish to think that thou
shouldst love so weak a maiden as I.”

“By Heaven, I swear to thee—”

“Nay, do not, I pray thee—do not swear. It is not
well; and yet thou mayst tell me thy thought without

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

thy oath. It is so sweet to hear that we are loved from
the lips we love, we may not even chide, if there be a
gentle falsehood—a trick of speech too beguiling to the
fond ear, and the ready believer in the words they utter.”

“Not from mine, Cava, shalt thou hear the trick thou
speakst of. Believe me true, dearest lady, though I
swear it not. Dost thou not believe me, sweet?”

“Oh, indeed, I wish it, my lord,” was the unsophisticated
answer of the damsel.

“I bless thee for the word, dear lady. Thou mayst
believe me. 'Tis my soul that speaks to thee, and not
my lips only. My love is no idle wanton to go abroad
in fair disguises seeking but to blind fond belief, and
deceive gentle faith to its undoing. Mine is not the
false mood so current with the world.”

“It joys me to believe thee, my lord,” replied the untutored
damsel; “and yet I doubt—”

She paused. The hand of her lover clasped hers
as he demanded—

“What is thy doubt, dear lady?—doubt me not.”

“I doubt—I fear, my lord, that thou art fashioned
like the rest of men. Hath not the world taught thee
its erring practices. Art thou not one of the youth of
the court, of whom it is told me, that they give but refreshment
to a weary mood, and come not with any
love when they come abroad into these mountains.
Thou wilt return soon—wilt forget thy promise to the
too believing Cava, and in the crowd—”

“The crowd!” exclaimed Egiza, interrupting the
fond reproaches of the maiden—“oh, keep me from the
crowd, I pray. Thou little knowst how thou wrongst
me, dear lady, by that thought. Even though I loved
not thee, I should still pray for protection from the
crowd—the coarse, the base, the wild, the clamorous—
the beings most inhuman that prey upon their fellows,
and lose humanity in the possession of themselves. I
have no wish, no desire for life in their communion,

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

and, loving thee, the very thought of the crowd is loathsome
to my soul. The pomps of state, the pride of
place, the noisy strifes and pleasures of the court—if,
indeed, they be pleasures—are hateful to my thoughts
since I have known thee, and their presence would but
trouble me and torture. No, dearest lady, sweet were
the doom of exile, perpetual exile from the court and
the crowd, wert thou doomed to share it with me.
With thee, in some distant wilderness, having no hope
but in ourselves, no joy but that which springs from
our fond communion, how sweet would glide away the
hours—how happy, could we hope that the world would
leave us thus to ourselves and one another, as two poor
idlers, who, having nothing but their own loves, which
the world seeks not, are unworthy its observance!”

The quick eyes of Pelayo from above beheld the
shadows in motion of those persons whose cautious advance
before had controlled his attention.

“Patience, good dreamer,” he exclaimed, “patience!
The world, or a portion of it, is not over heedful of your
prayer; and, if I greatly err not, you are soon to have
more of its heed than is altogether grateful. They
move again. One seeks the western path, the other
stoops; he crawls aside. I see him not—ah! there he
moves; he seeks a fissure to the right, through which he
glides. Well, let them come. Meanwhile, I must
beg my uncle's boon of patience, and keep quiet as I
may.”

Thus spoke Pelayo to himself, while the amorous
Egiza, unconscious of all matters but his newborn admiration
for Cava, was discoursing to her of that sweet
and selfish seclusion which forms no small part of the
dreams of young lovers in general. The reply of the
maiden to his declamation showed a spirit no less willing
than his own for such seclusion.

“'Tis a sweet thought, my lord, and it were a blessed
destiny to have no hope hanging upon the capricious

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

will of the crowd. And yet I would not, when I have
thee to myself—I would not that we should utterly lose
sight of the world. I would that the world should
sometimes see the gifts of my fortune. Methinks
'twould give me pleasure to behold great lords and ladies
watch thee at coming, and follow with a long glance
thy departure. It were but half a blessing could we not
challenge the eyes of others to behold it.”

“Dear lady, if thou speakst to me soothly, then are
thine eyes but traitors to thy heart. Thou holdst me
too high for justice, and wilt cease to love me when
thou comest to better judgment. So long hast thou
been a dweller among these lonely hills; so few have
been the gallant gentlemen thou hast seen among them,
that thou errest when thou deemst me unrivalled in all
estimation as in thine own. When thou seest more of
that world from which I would have thee fly with me,
thou wilt wonder at thy credulous eyes which, with such
favour, have beheld me.”

“Nay, my dear lord, thou wrongst my judgment. I
have seen many gentlemen, and lords of high pretension,
and of claim allowed, who were cried by herald when
the court was at its fullest, and did not shame, by free
comparison, among the proudest for valour and all noble
exercise. I do not fear to have you show with them;
nay, I would have it so. It were my wish to have you
conspicuous with the rest, that I might love yet more,
as I behold the admiration of all yielded up to him I
love. I feel, my lord, I should be the envied of my
sex, calling you mine own.”

The sarcastic Pelayo could not forbear comment
upon the fond eulogium of the maiden.

“Now, had he better die!” he exclaimed; “he shall
not have more lavish eulogy if he live a thousand years.”

With becoming humility, but increased fondness,
Egiza replied—

“Thou art rash, dear lady, in thy unlicensed flattery.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

By my faith, if thou speakst in such measures often, thou
wilt tempt me to become a very puppet of the court—a
noble fit only to bear the shining ring from the gallery,
join in a sportful fight with home-valiant boys, and take
any pretty labour in the eyes of noteful dames which
shall vex a rival on holydays. If thy pride be of this
fashion, sweetest Cava, I fear me thou wouldst soon
deem me wanton or unworthy.”

“Not so, my lord; my pride would have it as thou
sayst—not always—not often—nor would I have thee
lose in these skirmishings thy truer thought of me.
What though thou shouldst turn thy curious eyes upon
all the gallery, and smile with this fair dame and toy
with another; it were all well if thou wouldst then,
when the game were over, come to me, and press my
hand, and whisper in my ears, and say how tired thou
art, and how much better thou wouldst love to be alone
with me, as thou art now.”

“He were much wiser, and both much safer,” said
Pelayo, “if ye were as far apart as the crowd could
make ye. The enemies are upon ye, and, with eyes not
less keen than mine, watch all your practises. Ye were
better at prayers than kisses, and your coming lessons
will, I doubt not, make ye think so too. But stay—
the minstrel prates anew.”

“Ah, sweetest,” cried Egiza, fondly, “thou persuadest
me to be vain with thy free flatteries and with thy
lip so wooing—nay, do not chide me, dearest, such coy
denial dwells not with the true affection, and is less than
the love deserves which is now hooded and bound down
before you.”

His lips were pressed upon hers as he spoke, and
though she resisted with a maiden's might, he succeeded
in kissing her. Her head hung down in a sweet bashfulness,
and her words trembled as she spoke.

“Love me not less, my lord, that thus I favour you.
It is little that I can deny you when you plead, and the

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

wrong, if it be wrong, is surely yours when you press
so earnestly.”

“It is no wrong, dearest love.”

“And if it be, I forgive you, my lord, so that you
take not from me the esteem in which you hold me now.”

The comment of Pelayo upon this proceeding was
of a different order.

“A goodly smack!” he exclaimed, as Egiza kissed
the struggling maiden—“a goodly smack! and had
this valley the echo of Agarillo, it might have shaken
down yon castle. As it is, the echo hath alarmed other
ears than mine, and you shadow comes from the gorge.”

Then, after a brief pause given to keen observation,
and while the approaching figure came out more distinctly
into the light, he continued—

“By Heaven, it is Julian himself, the stern old father,
and in his hand his bared weapon. Now would I
gather from his words how far he doth approve of this
tenderness. It may be that it shall strengthen our claim
upon Julian if Egiza were allied unto his daughter. He
might gladly desire to give to his son a throne which he
would not toil to bestow upon a stranger. We should
then prosper without the sacrifice of this poor maiden's
fondness. She is a sweet and an innocent, frail, fond,
gentle creature. 'Twere pitiful if she were wanting.
Ha! the doves see the fowler. They are on the wing,
but fly not.”

Even as Pelayo had said, at this moment one of the
persons whose shadows he had seen descending the
gorge and cautiously stealing round the hill, at the foot
of which sat Egiza and the maiden, came forward and
stood suddenly before the two. Well might they start
as they beheld him. The person was Count Julian.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

His sword was bared in his hand—his countenance
stern and threatening. He did not pause for speech;
but, ere Egiza had risen to his feet, the count thus addressed
him—Cava, meanwhile, standing apart, trembling
with maiden bashfulness and the consciousness of
having offended—

“How now, sir—wherefore this? Knowst thou
me?”

“Count Julian,” was the reply of Egiza, who answered
fearlessly, though surprised by the sudden appearance
of the count.

“Ay, sir—and this my daughter. What mean you
with her on such terms of secrecy? Who art thou?”

The fierce demand of the count produced no hesitation
in the reply of Egiza; on the contrary, his air became
more resolute and manly with the appearance of a
seeming enemy. His answer was calm, and, but for
the interference of Cava, would have been explicit.

“I am one, Count Julian, who should not be altogether
unknown to you, if justice had its due and I my
rights. I am he, sir, that was—”

The hurried accents of the Lady Cava interposed at
this moment, and silenced those of Egiza.

“Speak it not, my lord—speak it not, I pray thee, if
thou wouldst live—if thou wouldst have me live.”

She paused—she would have said, what she well
knew, that the commission which her father had received
from Roderick directed him to arrest the fugitive princes.
To have said this was to have declared him one. Believing
that, in the dimness of the hour, her lover's
features were undistinguished by, and that he was still
unknown to her father, she fondly thought to prevent
his fatal declaration of the truth. She little dreamed
that all was already well known; that Julian, though
affecting ignorance of the person he addressed, had yet
prepared all things for his capture as a rebel.

Indignantly did her father reproach her for her interference.

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