BOOK IV.
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
In its various workings, how independent mind ever
is of matter. Not so when the proposition is reversed.
The scheme which is perfected with consummate art in
the silence and seclusion of the closet is made fruitless
when it depends for development upon mere thews and
sinews; and the genius of the philosopher is hourly
called upon to lament, more and more, the weakness of
humanity, when it beholds its inadequacy to the execution
of those divine conceptions which arise from intense
thought and daring imagination. Yet the mind
of man, though mortified with its nonperformance, is
never so well assured of its own immortal destiny as
when it discovers the incapacity of its earthly agents in
the prosecution of its thousand purposes.
How various, too, are the forms of mental independence!
With what a noble profligacy has the Deity provided
men to be free of each other! Thought is so
various, that the mind of one man need never encroach
upon the boundaries and the province of another; and
millions shall so work in their several stores of speculation
and invention, yet never penetrate into the empire,
nor disturb the creations, of their neighbours. The
conspirator shall toil in the overthrow of the sovereign,
who, with a thought equally, if not more active, shall
labour, at the same moment, for the eternal bondage of
the conspirator. The rebel and his ruler shall in the
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
same hour meditate their several schemes of subjection
and revolt, yet no divine instinct shall enable the one to
conceive the subject-matter of his enemy's deliberation.
It was thus that, while Pelayo with a proper boldness,
and Lord Oppas with his natural and beloved
cunning, toiled together, and framed their plans of revolt
against King Roderick, that monarch, though troubled
in a thousand ways with his cares of empire and his
plans of tyranny, never once suspected the existence of
such a conspiracy. Nor did the conspirators, in turn,
ever once conjecture that a greater power than their
own was at work, arraying itself, and arising, by which
Roderick should fall without effort of theirs—a power
infinitely beyond their own, and which should, to a great
though still limited extent, control their best efforts for
the restoration of their country's freedom. Still less
did the ever-planning Oppas think that Pelayo, whom he
only sought to use, should soar in triumph when he
himself should be grovelling in the dust—should live in
glorious memories when his name would be allied only
with shame and degradation. And, to descend still
lower, little did the base spirit of the Hebrew Amri
imagine that the hour was so near at hand when the
prayer of his scorned and imprisoned sire would undergo
such direct and fearful realization—when the dreadful
words which his ears had heard from the lips of
Adoniakim, in the moment of his flight—“Jehovah,
God of Heaven, the just God and the perfect, may the
doom of the ungrateful son be sharp and sudden—may
it be felt, and may it be fatal!”—would so quickly meet
with the accord from above which they desired, and
descend in punishment upon his guilty head in their
utmost force. His heart had become insensible to its
fears: it teemed only with the vicious hopes of his lustful
imagination. His fancies only prefigured to his
mind his vengeance upon Melchior, and his possession
of the beautiful daughter, whose beauty was no longer
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
powerful to buy the devoted life of her sire. And the
miserable woman Urraca—little did she think, while she
was planning the fondest schemes of retirement, and,
possibly, of innocence, with the man upon whom she
had so madly concentrated her affections, that the hour
was approaching when all her hopes, like the affections
from which they had sprung into existence, would be
crushed and trampled into dust. Little did she dream
of that fearful mental revolution—that change in head
and heart—in thought and hope—which a few hours
were to bring about. She had lain down in a moment
of repose from sorrow—a short respite from the storms
which vice must ever bring along with it: she awakened
to their dreadful renewal—to the defeat of her
hope—to the annihilation of her dream of peace—to
despair of life—to a desire of death! Let us now
return to her.
It was late when Urraca awakened from her slumbers,
which had been sweeter and purer than, for a long
season before, she had ever known them. She started
with some surprise, and wondered to find Amri no
longer beside her. Her thoughts and her dreams—her
heart and its hopes, had been, and were still, so full of
his image, that it was now with a feeling of intense disappointment,
amounting to pain, that she discovered his
absence. But she was too well assured of the truth of
those pledges which he had just given her, and she
relied too confidently on his vows, to allow any disappointment
of this nature to affect her seriously or long.
She had realized, in the few preceding hours which have
been dwelt upon already, that sense of recovered peace,
and of new and reasonable hope, which must ever arise
to the abused and vicious spirit with every backward
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
step which it takes to those paths of virtue from which
it has so long wandered. With the resolve to lead a
purer life—to discard the ostentatious trappings, and to
reject the base allurements of that lustful self-abandonment
in which she still lived—came a feeling of quiet
peace, which had long been a stranger to her bosom.
She had learned to be weary of those false joys which
must ever end in weariness; and she was possessed
of a strength of determination and of spirit, not often
given to the debased, which supported her in the resolve
to retrace her steps, and recover whatever might remain
within her reach of the lost possessions of virtue.
The pure waters of health and untroubled joy seemed to
flow and well in the prospect which her fancy painted to
her eyes, and her heart glowed and her eye kindled
with the desire to obtain them, even as the weary and
thirsting pilgrim of the desert pants for the fountain
which gleams before his fancy in the distance, and toils
with new vigour for its attainment.
While Urraca looked around her, after her first feeling
of disappointment at the absence of Amri was over,
the person of Zitta appeared before her eyes, as she
emerged from a niche in the apartment which had
hitherto been concealed by a falling curtain.
“Zitta,” said Urraca to the woman, with a voice of
gentleness. She answered the call, and approached her
mistress; but the latter saw, at a glance, that she was
reluctant, and her looks bespoke more than ordinary
discomposure.
“Come to me, Zitta,” said Urraca—“tell me how
long is it since Amri went forth?”
“Since the first hour of day, my lady,” was the
answer of the slave, uttered readily enough, but without
any of that softening deference of tone and manner
which shows a good spirit moving the reply. At another
time such a response might have awakened the
anger of the mistress; but the returning virtue of her
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
mind was hourly gaining strength, and was beginning to
subdue the quick and jealous pride of the irascible and
imperious temper.
“Said he aught to thee on going forth? Did he
not say when he would return? Left he no word with
thee for my ear?”
“None, my lady,” said the slave.
Urraca was silent for a few moments, and turned
away her eyes from the woman, who now proceeded to
her duties in the chamber. But it was not long before
Urraca again addressed her, which she did in the same
gentle and subdued tone which she employed before.
“Come closer to me, Zitta—I have something which
I would say to thee, and I feel too feeble to speak to
thee so far.”
The woman did as she was commanded, something
surprised at the singular change which seemed to have
come over her mistress, and which was shown as well
in the indulgent language which she employed as in
the soft, conciliating, and greatly altered tones of her
voice. Conscious as she was of her own evil design
upon the life of the person who addressed her, she approached
the couch to which she was bidden with a feeling
of apprehension, which showed itself in the sudden
paleness of her cheek and in the awkwardness of her
movement. But this, though observed by Urraca,
failed to arouse her anger or indignation, as had been
but too frequently the case before. The soothing
dreams which had been present to her mind, and the
hopes and thoughts with which she had dressed up the
promised life before her, seemed to have made her indulgent
in the extreme, and to have softened to meekness
a spirit only too easily aroused, and too stubborn
to be easily quelled or quieted. This very alteration in
her usual manner was of itself too surprising to Zitta
not to startle her, and in her guilty consciousness of
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
soul it positively alarmed her with an unaccountable
sort of terror.
“Sit on the couch, Zitta—thou dost not fear me?
Why dost thou tremble—what is it alarms thee? Can
it be that I have been so cruel a mistress to thee?
Wherefore thy apprehension—what is it that troubles
thee?”
“I—'tis nothing—a little sickness—I am not well,
my lady—I—” and the woman resorted to falsehood to
account for the singular emotion which she found herself
unable to conceal.
“Sick—I am sorry, Zitta—thy cheek affirms it—it
is very pale. Thou shouldst retire—thou shouldst have
rest a while; and I would despatch thee at once to thy
chamber, Zitta, but that I have something to unfold to
thee which I think will relieve thee of thy sickness.”
The surprise of the woman was duly increased by
these words, and her fears now amounted almost to
consternation. She stared, without ability to reply,
upon the face of Urraca, who, with a quiet smile upon
her lips as she witnessed the wonder of her servant,
thus continued her speech—
“You have a mother, Zitta—she is old?”
“Yes, my lady, she is very old.”
“You love her, Zitta?”
“Love her, my lady!”
“You do—you do,” said Urraca, hurriedly—“I know
you do—the question was most idle. Your mother—
you must love her. Where does she live now, Zitta?”
“At Merida, my lady.”
“Do you not wish to see her?”
“Much, my lady. I prayed thee more than once
for this privilege, my lady, which you denied me.”
“Did I deny you?—are you sure of that?”
“Most sure, my lady.”
“I do not think it. Yet it must have been,” she
said, musingly, and with a deep sigh: “my heart has
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
been a hard one—stubborn in its weakness; and no
wonder I should deny thee to seek thy mother, Zitta,
when I fled so wickedly from my own.”
“You did deny me, my lady,” said the woman, studiously
repeating the words, as if to strengthen her own
resolve, for the unwonted gentleness of Urraca had also
had its effect in somewhat softening her. The strange
sense of her words, too, had greatly surprised and subdued
the slave.
“'Twas wrong in me to do so,” said Urraca: “and
you would like to see her again, Zitta—would you not
like to go to her, and live with her for ever? Say—
would you not?”
The person thus addressed did not answer this question;
but her eyes sank upon the floor, and her head
drooped, while her tremulousness returned with increasing
force, owing to the complexity of her emotions.
Her disquiet did not escape the searching eyes of her
mistress, who did not think proper farther to remark
upon it, as she ascribed it to any but the proper cause.
She again spoke to her, continuing the topic in part, and
her language was even gentler, and her manner kinder,
than before.
“Thou wouldst joy to leave me, Zitta, and to fly to
thy mother—thou wouldst joy to leave me, even hadst
thou no mother to fly to. I see it in thy face, my girl,
and I may not complain: I have been but a hard mistress
unto thee.”
“Oh, no, my lady—no!” was the response of the
slave, with something more of genuine earnestness than
she had hitherto shown, for the manner and self-accusing
language of Urraca had begun to touch her heart.
“Yes, Zitta, it is but too true. I have made thee
toil overmuch, nor have I often been heedful of thy
proper wants and thy passing wishes. I have sometimes
been careless of thy woman feelings, and thou
hast had claims which came with thy feelings, which, in
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
my evil mood, I have but too much disregarded. Sometimes
I have beaten thee with unjust blows when my
passions have been awakened, and not when thou hast
deserved them. Is not this true, Zitta, as I declare it?
Hast thou not accused me in thy heart of these things?”
“Oh, my lady—do not, I pray thee—thou dost thyself
great wrong,” said the slave, who began to be very
much moved, and could say nothing more than this in
reply. Her mistress continued—
“Though a slave, Zitta, the purchased creature of
my wealth, yet hadst thou thoughts and capacities which
fitted thee for a higher condition; and the toils and the
lot of the slave should fall only upon heads and understandings
which may not repine at tasks to which they
are fitted, but which are so greatly below thee. Thou
hast been improved by thy toils, however, and canst
now much better undertake thine own charge than when
I first took thee into my keeping—canst thou not?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Thou wert poor then, and wretched. Dost thou
remember—it was thy own mother who sold thee in her
need?”
The woman looked down, but spoke not, yet her
tremulousness had utterly passed away.
“I taught thee what thou knowest—I made thee
what thou art. I fear me I have taught thee error, for
I showed it thee, and I practised it myself; but it was
in my ignorance of understanding—in my wilfulness of
heart—in my weakness of resolve, that I have done
this—that I have taught thee these lessons.”
The tears filled the eyes of Urraca as she spoke
these words, and Zitta became uneasy as she heard
them. She felt her own eyes tremble, and with this
consciousness, as if vexed that it should be so, she
placed her hand in her bosom, and felt the little parchment
which Amri had given her, containing the deadly
potion through which she was to obtain freedom from
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
that bondage of which her mistress had just spoken;
and when she had done this, her eyes became dry, and
her heart grew hard and unyielding, and she heard the
mournful words, and looked upon the tearful cheeks of
her mistress with indifferent scornfulness: she thought
then only of herself.
Urraca, after the pause of a few moments, thus continued
to address her—
“I have been foolish for a long season, Zitta, and
many are the wrongs and errors which I have done and
committed in that time, which it is not in my power to
repair, and which I can only, with God's indulgence,
repent. Dost thou hear me, girl?”
The woman did not seem to hear or to heed, for her
eyes wandered away from the couch where her mistress
lay, and hence the concluding inquiry of the latter.
“Yes, my lady, I hear thee.”
Urraca proceeded—
“A change has come over me, Zitta—a happy
change; the blessed Mother of God has softened my
heart, and awakened my understanding to the knowledge
of what is good. Heretofore I have known but
little that was not evil. I have been walking blindly, but
without a consciousness of my blindness, plunging forward,
unseeing my path, with all the desperate audacity
of ignorance and sin. The scales are falling from
my vision; and though I have opened my eyes to behold
the depth of my bondage, I have opened them also to
see a little path yet left to me through which it is my
hope that I may make my way out. Dost thou not
rejoice with me, Zitta, at this prospect of my release—
of my freedom?”
The word “freedom” chilled the sympathies of the
slave, which the sweet appeal of her mistress had
begun somewhat to awaken and enkindle. She made
no answer to the inquiry. Urraca remarked her silence,
and simply placed one of her hands upon her wrist, as
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
it rested upon the bed beside her—the guilty woman
shuddered and shrunk away from the touch, as if it had
been that of a glowing bar of fire.
“Why, Zitta, thou hatest me!” was the exclamation
of Urraca, greatly shocked at what she conceived to be
only an exhibition of disgust and hate. The woman
sought to remove the impression, which was, indeed, an
unjust one, by a denial couched in tones of proper
warmth and directness. It was, indeed, only because
her mistress had never before seemed in her eyes half
so deserving of her love as at this moment that she had
shrunk from contact with her hand, and sought to withdraw
her own. It was with a guilty consciousness, a
feeling of some self-rebuke, that she would have withdrawn
her criminal fingers from the touch of one upon
whose life, at that very moment, she meditated assault,
and against whom her thoughts and feelings were alike
hostile and malicious.
“Do not hate me, Zitta—I pray thee do not,” was
the imploring speech of her mistress—“do not think
ill of me because I have been and am ill, and because
thou hast seen so much that was evil in my doings and
my thoughts. For the scorn and the injustice which I
may have done thee, I pray thy forgiveness. Pardon
me my wrong to thee as thou wouldst have the Blessed
Mother intercede in thy behalf to the Father. For me,
Zitta, it is left only to repent where I may not repair,
and to repair where, perhaps, such is my sin, I may
not be suffered even to repent. I am making up my
accounts in my thought, and the table is black against
me. I have tried to review the claimants upon my
justice, and thy demands, Zitta, have not been forgotten.
I have set thee down even before many others;
and thou shalt not have reason to say, my girl, that I
have forgotten thee.”
“Oh, my lady,” exclaimed the slave, “wherefore
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
dost thou speak thus to thy slave?—wherefore this
language—what does it mean, my lady?”
“A change possesses me, Zitta, which is almost as
strange to me as it now seems to you. My heart is
altered within me, and I tell thee that the light has
been let in, for the first time, upon my eyes. Either,
my girl, I am soon about to be made happy, and win the
peace and quiet I have sighed for, or I am about to die.”
“To die!” almost shrieked the affrighted slave.
“Yes—to die! Is death so terrible, Zitta? I do
not think it: I have sometimes thought of it as a blessing,
though now I do not, for I would live in Guadarrama
once more, and think I should be happy there. Hast
thou never thought of death—of thy death—of mine?”
“Me, my lady—thy death, my lady?” and the tones
of her voice were thick with horror and affright.
“Yes, Zitta, my death or thine. Little do we know
how soon we shall be called upon to leave the friends
and the blessings which are about us, and to go—we
know not where. It should be thy thought, my girl;
of late it has become mine; and with this thought,
Zitta, I would have thy forgiveness now, while I am
able to ask and thou to bestow it. Dost thou forgive
me for all the wrong I have done to thee?”
The woman trembled like an aspen—her frame
seemed convulsed by her emotions, and her head sank
down upon the couch, in the drapery of which her face
was buried. She could not answer.
“Well, well, thou wilt strive, Zitta—I know thou
wilt, and I will pray God to incline thee to grant the
prayer which I have made thee. Look up, my girl; I
will oppress thee no more with my sad talk; but I would
speak to thee of other matters.”
Zitta looked up as she was bidden, but her eyes
dared not encounter with those of her mistress, and her
features were wild with the singular doubts and apprehensions
in her soul.
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
“Hear me now,” said Urraca—“I have news for
thee which will surprise thee. I am at last resolved to
retire from Cordova.”
The woman started to her feet as she heard this
communication, but again quickly resumed her seat upon
the bedside, and said nothing. Urraca continued—
“In three days, Zitta, with the permission of Heaven,
I leave Cordova for the mountains of Guadarrama—
for peace and my native mountains I go, Zitta, there
to live the remainder of my days in a blessed quiet with
my own Amri.”
“With Amri!” said the woman, with unfeigned astonishment.
“Ay, with Amri! What is there strange in this?
Why dost thou start—why dost thou tremble, Zitta?”
“Tremble, my lady!”
“Yes, tremble. Thy lips are pale—”
“Leave Cordova, my lady!” said the woman, who
now recovered herself from the momentary and almost
overpowering astonishment which had seized upon her—
“leave Cordova!”
“Yes, for ever—and hope to leave behind me, Zitta,
the sorrows and the strife that I brought to Cordova and
found in it. Amri has sworn me his: he promises to
go with me to my old dwelling-place among the mountains
of Guadarrama; and there I hope to live in peace
and in truth for him only. I will be virtuous there—I
will break away from the shackles of sin—I will strive
for the peace I have lost, and, with Heaven's blessed
smile, I hope to be happy. Tell me, what dost thou
think of it, my girl?”
“Think, my lady—I know not what to think,” was
the response of the woman, with looks of most unfeigned
and dull astonishment.
“What dost thou feel—how does it please thee, Zitta?”
was the farther demand of Urraca.
“I do not know, my lady,” the woman rejoined.
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
“What! does it not rejoice thee?” asked Urraca,
who began to show some little impatience at the cold
and unmeaning countenance with which the slave had
received her intelligence.
“Rejoice me, my lady!” was the grave and gloomy
response of the person addressed—“why should it rejoice
me?—what does the slave Zitta know of Guadarrama—
why should she wish to leave Cordova?”
“True, Zitta—thou knowest but little of Guadarrama,
and the slave will not have need to rejoice with the
joys of the mistress whom she does not love: but
something thou knowest of Merida, and thy mother
there—”
“Oh, my lady—thou wilt not!” were the broken exclamations
of the woman, as she began to catch some
glimpses of the determination of her mistress.
“Will it not rejoice thee to go to thy mother? to
make her old age happy? to—”
“Thou wilt not say it, Urraca—mistress—no!” almost
screamed the bewildered woman.
“But I will! Thou art a slave no longer, Zitta—I
give thee freedom of the earth and of the air—of the
sun and of the sea—of the voice and of the hand—as
God gave it thee in his mercy, so I give it thee, Zitta,
having the will from God and the power from man to
do so. To-morrow shall the scribe be with me to put
my resolve on parchment; and in three days shalt thou
have the proof of thy freedom in thy bosom, with no let
to keep thee from thy mother. Leave me now.”
The woman sank down at the bedside in stupor and
silence, but she remained there a few moments only;
with a wild scream, mingled with broken words, in
which her mistress could only distinguish her own and
the name of Amri, the overpowered and guilty woman
rushed headlong from the chamber.
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
But the freed slave remained not absent long. Her
guilty bosom, full of self-reproaches, demanded utterance.
She was crushed to the earth by the sudden, the
surprising generosity of her mistress, and the crime
which she had meditated filled her heart with unutterable
horror. She rushed back to the chamber of Urraca.
The convulsive paroxysm of joy had passed away, and
left her features more composed than at first; but the
tears, sweet and bitter, of mingled gladness and reproach,
flowed freely down her cheeks, while her breast heaved
and her lips quivered with her new and strange emotions.
The blessing had been too great, the boon too
sudden and unlooked for, not to overwhelm her; and
even when she came back to the chamber and presence
of her mistress, she could only kneel by the side of her
couch, bathe the extended hand with her tears which she
grasped in both her own, and sigh and sob as if her
very heart-strings were breaking with every meditated
utterance of her striving emotions. Humbled, yet happy—
shrinking with her shame, still hidden, which she
yet felt she could not long conceal—yet pleased that
she was able thus to abase herself before her whom she
had been about to destroy, Zitta strove vainly to articulate
some of the strangely mingled and contending
thoughts and feelings which possessed her. Surprised
at these emotions, yet not dreaming of the criminal
complexion of their source in part, the mistress strove
in vain to quiet her. Ascribing her conduct to excess
of joy, she sought to disparage the boon which she had
conferred, and made light of that freedom which the
other esteemed so great a blessing.
“Thou wilt implore to come back to me, Zitta—let
thy joy not madden thee, for the charge of thyself will
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
prove to thee a heavy burden when, at times, thou shalt
find thyself alone, and when sickness is pressing sorely
upon thee, and thou lookest around thee in vain for
'tendance and sympathy.”
“It is not that, my lady. 'Tis not joy,” was the
broken response.
“Not joy—what! art thou not glad, Zitta? Whence
is thy sorrow? Wouldst thou not be free?”
“Oh, yes, my lady, yes! But I am base, ungrateful.
I deserve not so great a blessing at thy hands.
Thou shouldst put double service upon me rather—thou
shouldst scourge rather than free me!”
“Why, this is madness, girl; rise—look on me—
speak calmly to me—what is thy meaning, Zitta?”
“No—'tis truth, my lady—'tis a God's truth, I tell
thee, I am base—forgive—forgive me.”
It was thus that, brokenly and wild, her self-accusing
spirit obtained occasional utterance, in reply to the exhortations
and inquiries of Urraca, while she sobbed evermore
for forgiveness.
“Forgive thee, my Zitta—what is thy offence? It
calls for no such violence. I do forgive thee.”
“It does, it does! you know it not, my lady; but
look not upon me while I tell it thee. Turn thine eyes
from me. I will tell thee all.”
Her sobs increased with these words; a sudden convulsion
seemed to come over and to rack her frame;
and she sank at full length upon the floor by the side of
the couch, and lay moaning and grovelling in that posture,
but without saying any thing farther. Urraca, without
a thought but of the woman's illness, arose quickly
from the couch and strove to uplift her; but she resisted
her efforts and refused her aid. In a few moments,
as she found that her mistress continued to bestow it,
she arose herself, and now stood with much more of
composure in her manner, though with the look and attitude
still of a culprit, in the presence of Urraca, who
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
surveyed her in the deepest astonishment and concern.
“What does this mean, Zitta—why dost thou look
thus from me—what offends thee—what is thy sorrow?”
“I am a guilty—a base, guilty wretch, unworthy, my
dear lady, of thy favour,” was the reply of the woman,
who now spoke with a resolute air, coherently and
strong, and her eyes, as she replied, now addressed those
of Urraca with a degree of strength which presented a
singular contrast to her show of weakness and self-abandonment
hitherto.
“Of what dost thou accuse thyself?” demanded Urraca.
“What dreadful secret works in thy bosom.
Speak, Zitta; I will not betray thee.”
“God forgive me. Oh, my lady, every word which
you speak makes my heart more criminal in my eyes.
You know not—you cannot guess—I would have murdered—”
“Murdered—horrible! who, Zitta?”
“Look not on me, Urraca! This day I had sworn
to murder thee. This day—this day!”
“Me, Zitta! murdered me! This is thy folly, girl;
thou art but mad to say so.”
“I am not mad. I am no longer mad, my lady.
Thank God, I am not! But what I tell thee is the
truth. In this paper was thy death; touch it not—it is
poison. With this I had sworn to murder thee.”
She drew the paper given her by Amri from her bosom
as she spoke these words, and held it on high.
Urraca advanced, and took it, after some slight objection
of Zitta, from her trembling hands.
“This is a horrible story,” said Urraca, calmly turning
over the little packet, and surveying it on both sides.
“Horrible!” exclaimed the woman, with the unconsciousness
of an echo.
“Tell me all, Zitta. Speak out—I am not angry
with thee, and will not harm thee, now that thou
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
repentest of thy meditated crime, which I believe not, really.
Unfold to me the truth—what was't possessed thee!”
“The fiend—the arch fiend—who else?”
“Thou saidst, Zitta, that thou hadst promised and
sworn to murder me: could it be that thou wast prompted
by another?” was the farther inquiry of Urraca.
“Ay, my lady—yes! You'd fly with Amri to Guadarrama,
my lady; he has vowed you his—Amri has
vowed you his! You are to be happy with Amri, and
live with him in the mountains of Guadarrama, my lady—
ha—ha—ha!”
“What mean'st thou, woman?” said Urraca, sternly,
as she heard these words, and the irreverent and uncontrollable
laugh of scorn which followed them.
“Forgive me, my lady, I would not offend thee,”
replied Zitta, quickly, as she observed the sudden and
stern change which came over the features of Urraca;
“but thou art deceived—dreadfully deceived, my lady.
I have deceived you frequently and long, but I deceive
you not now. It is Amri that deceives you; it is Amri
that would have me murder you; his hands gave me
the potion now in yours, which he swore me to drug
your cup with. I am perjured, since I have betrayed
my oath; but I am not guilty of the crime I promised!”
“Liar and slave!” cried Urraca, in a voice of concentrated
and ominous thunder; “liar and slave that thou
art, unsay thy falsehood. Confess thou dost defame
him—say that he is true to me, and that it was an idle
mischief of thy tongue which made thee say otherwise.
The truth—the truth!”
Once more the figure of Urraca was erect. The
subdued spirit was once more awakened into life. The
meekness had gone from her eyes—the smile from her
lips—she stood, lofty, fierce, commanding, before the
trembling slave, her sable hair flying from her neck, and
her arm extended in an attitude of accustomed power,
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
while through her parted lips the close white teeth gleamed
terribly upon her companion.
“It is the truth—I've said but the truth, my lady.”
“Poison!” exclaimed Urraca, musingly, while again
turning over the packet in her hand and surveying it
curiously, “Poison—it is no poison if it came from Amri.
Speak, woman, did he call it poison?”
“He did, my lady!”
“And bade thee give it me?”
“Even so, my lady.”
“To drug my cup—and swore thee to it, woman?”
“He did, my lady—'tis all true, my lady, as I have
told it thee,” replied the slave, falling upon her knees as
she reaffirmed her statement, absolutely quelled and
bowed by the imperial anger of that fierce beauty, whose
passions she well knew, and whom she had been so
long accustomed to fear.
“And swore thee to it?”
“He did, my lady.”
“Swear that! 'Tis false unless thou swear it!” Urraca
almost shouted in the ears of the slave, while she
advanced her foot, and her arm, now freed from the
robes which had been loosely gathered around her, was
extended, white, beautiful, and commandingly, over the
head of the kneeling woman.
“I will swear!”
“Thou shalt not! Base, black-hearted, damned
slave, thou shalt not! I will save thee from the hell
thou wouldst plunge headlong into. I will not let thee
put this foul perjury upon thy soul. Thou shalt not
swear—it is a deadly sin, beyond all hope of mercy. I
will save thee—I will not let thee, Zitta. Pray—look
up to Heaven and pray. Pray—pray!”
The intensity with which Urraca had spoken these
words, and the excess of feeling working in her at the
time, produced exhaustion, which alone silenced, for the
moment, the infuriated speaker. When she paused,
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
Zitta, humbly but firmly, repeated her assertion, and
again professed her willingness to swear to the truth
of what she had affirmed. With a transition as strange
as it was natural to her, Urraca sank on her knees beside
the woman, and, clasping her uplifted hand in both
her own, now, in the most gentle and pleading voice,
implored her not to take the oath she proffered.
“I know thou thinkest, Zitta, as thou sayst, but
thou errest. Thou art deceived, my girl; thine eye has
blinded thee to confound the person; thine ear betrayed
thee with some similar sounds; 'twas not the voice of
Amri—not his hand. They counselled not the crime—
the deadly crime. Say 'twas Edacer—the base Lord
Edacer—the Governor of Cordova—I'll believe thee.
He would not stop at that—”
“'Twas Amri, dearest lady—none but Amri. Hear
me unfold the tale, even from the first.”
“I would not hear thee, Zitta—yet I must. If what
thou sayst be true, thou killest me—killest me, though
thou hast left my cup undrugged.”
Never was look more mournful—more imploring
than that which Urraca fixed upon the slave. It plainly
solicited that she might be deceived. But the woman
would not understand the meaning, though she truly felt
the wo which that glance conveyed.
“Alas! my lady, what I have to tell—”
“Is truth, thou sayst.”
“It is—it is, my lady.”
“Go on—I hear thee,” said Urraca, coldly, with a
composure as extreme as her former passion was intense.
She arose as she spoke this command, and
walked to and fro along the floor, while Zitta proceeded
to unfold the narrative of her long connexion with Amri,
and the various meditated plans of criminality and practices
of improper indulgence which had been carried on
between them.
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
The freed slave had now no secrets from her mistress.
She unveiled her bosom freely to the examination
of Urraca. She told of a long and criminal intimacy
with Amri, and with a closeness and coherence
in the several parts of her narrative—with statements of
circumstances so well mixed up with other circumstances
which Urraca knew to be true, that the unhappy
woman could no longer withhold her credence, or doubt
the truth of what she heard. She listened in gloomy
recklessness, walking about during the narration,
sometimes interrupting it with a word of inquiry or exclamation,
but generally receiving the several particulars
in silence, and with an ear that lost not the smallest portion
of what was uttered. When the slave had finished,
having brought up her relation to the events which had
taken place in her last interview with Amri, Urraca
paused before her.
“And thou hast told me nothing but the truth, Zitta?”
she demanded of the slave.
“Only the truth, my lady.”
“Thou hast guessed at nothing in thy story?”
“Nothing, my lady.”
“And thou believest, Zitta, that the packet which is
in my hand contains a deadly poison?”
“Amri said so, my lady.”
“And bade thee, in words, to drug my cup with it,
that I might perish?”
“He did, my lady, in words—I do not err!”
“Be sure of what thou sayst, Zitta,” said Urraca,
gently, but solemnly. “As thou hopest for life, for
peace, for happiness—as thou dreadest eternal torture—
the hate of men—the scorn of angels—the wrath of
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
God—say nothing by apprehension and conjecture—
say nothing but what thou knowest to be the truth.”
“I have told thee nothing but the truth, my lady, as
I hope for the mercy of Heaven!” repeated the woman.
“And I believe thee!” exclaimed Urraca, with a long
and difficult breath; “I believe thee; but rather than
this—” putting her hand upon her throbbing temples—
“rather than this pang which I now suffer, Zitta, I would
that thou hadst drugged my cup in silence. Better to
have perished in the dream—the sweet dream of a requited
love—than live in its utter hopelessness, and live
only for hate;” and Urraca buried her face in her hands
as she spoke these words, and threw herself again upon
the couch.
“Alas! my lady, I am sorry for thee,” replied the
woman, as she beheld the anguish of her mistress; but
the sympathy was unwisely proffered to a spirit which,
though severely tried, was still far from subdued to resignation.
“Sorry! sorry for me, Zitta,” said Urraca, scornfully,
rising again from the couch, and looking upon the
slave, her face now freed from the hands which covered
it, and her eyes flashing with new fire upon the woman,
while a smile of contempt passed over her lips; “thou
errest, Zitta—thou shouldst not be sorry. Go—leave
me now. I will but think a while, and then call thee to
my help.”
“But one lone hope was left to me through all!” was
the exclamation of sorrow that burst from the lips of the
unhappy woman as the slave left the apartment. “But
one! but one—and that is gone for ever!”
The tears gushed forth freely from her eyes, and
poured unrestrainedly down her cheeks. They brought
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
her relief, and softened the mood which might else have
maddened her.
“To be deceived by him, and so deceived! My
life, too, would he have! 'Twas not enough that I would
give him all, and live for him, and serve his will alone!
Monstrous—oh monstrous falsehood!—and I so loved
him, so lived for him, and so believed him, too—to meet
with such return! But I will conquer yet; he shall not
escape me. I will have vengeance on him. He shall
die—ay, die, by his own device!”
She paused with these words, then sank down upon
a chair in deep meditation. Her thoughts seemed to
take a new direction, and, though evidently still intense,
and concentrated entirely upon some one leading purpose
of her mind, they had the effect of dissipating and
quieting her frequent paroxysms, and of leaving her infinitely
more sedate than usual. At length she arose,
and proceeded to the arrangement of her toilet. The
fatal potion she placed upon a table, having first, with
some curiosity, unfolded the paper which contained it,
and surveyed, with unshrinking countenance, the deadly
drug. It was a fine powder, of a dark white or bluish
complexion, and the quantity was exceeding small.
She soliloquized as she surveyed the destructive minister:
“And this is death! This! How innocent his shape!
Can this usurp the power that fills my heart, and take
the fire and feeling from mine eye—the glow that warms
my cheek—the hues that shade, and all the thousand
tints and touches of the face that make up human beauty?
Can it be? 'Tis wonderful!—'tis strange!”
She turned away shudderingly from the powder and
the mirror, upon both of which, while thus soliloquizing,
her eye had alternately and involuntarily been directed.
Moving to the corner of the chamber, she struck the
gong with a single blow, and the now obedient Zitta
made her appearance in the succeeding instant.
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
“Help me once more to put these robes on, Zitta.
Your term of service will soon be over—but three days—
and you will then be free of this duty, and subject to
no summons of mine, my girl.”
“You are too good, my lady,” said the now docile
slave.
“Would I were, Zitta.”
“Oh, you are, my lady. I care not now to leave
you.”
“But you must! Your mother—the poor woman—
she will want you. I will not need you long.”
“What mean you, my dear lady?”
“How?”
“Why do you say that you will not need me long?”
“What should I do with thee in Guadarrama?” said
Urraca, gayly, but evasively. “Thinkest thou I will
give so much heed to my attire among the mountains,
and the wild, skin-clothed peasantry that dwell there, as
I was fain to do here in Cordova, with the gallant young
nobles of the Goth coming around me? No, no, my
girl; I'll be a peasant there, and clothe me like the rest.
This mirror shall be thine, Zitta—thou shalt have these
jewels—there—set them in thine ears, and round thy
neck—set them, I say.”
“But, my dear lady—” expostulated the girl.
“Do as I bid thee, girl—thou art not free yet. Put
on the jewels—let me see them on thee.”
With fear, trembling, and surprise at the strange mixture
of earnestness and frivolity which seemed to operate
upon her mistress, the slave did as she was bidden,
and, pushing her away to a little distance, Urraca contemplated
her for some moments with a pleased expression
of countenance.
“I knew they would become thee—thou shalt wear
them; but not now, Zitta. Thou shalt have them for
thyself three days hence, when thou art leaving me. I
must once more adorn me with them, and take one
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
more view of all the charms and glories which heretofore
have gladdened my vain heart, that I may make the
greater sacrifice to Heaven when I throw aside such
vanities for ever. To-night, Zitta, thou knowest I feast
Edacer; Amri will be here also—he!—dost hear me,
Zitta?”
“Hear thee, my lady?”
“Ay; I tell thee of my company—Amri comes
here to-night.”
“He does, my lady?”
“He does! and hark thee, Zitta—I have a doubt—
a thought—it is a blessed thought!—a sweetest doubt!
May it not be, my girl, that thou hast erred in thy story
to me?—that thou hast dreamed something unseemly of
Amri, and, with thy dream to prompt thee, thou hast
vainly imagined all the rest?”
“Alas! my lady, would it were so; but I have not
dreamed—if so, whence comes the poison?”
The slave pointed to the packet, which lay unfolded
upon the toilet, and the eyes of Urraca mournfully followed
the direction given by her finger.
“True—true—true!” she responded, with the hollow
accents of one from whom the last hope has been ungently
taken away.
“True, most true!” She folded up the drug as she
spoke, and a painful silence filled the chamber for some
moments afterward. By this time Zitta had fully arrayed
her mistress, and stood in waiting for her farther
commands. Urraca beckoned her to come nigh.
“Zitta—” she said, in a whisper.
“My lady.”
“Hear me—I doubt thee not, but I would prove the
truth of what thou hast told me! Amri comes here to-night.
Thou shalt see him! Dost hear me?”
“I do, my lady.”
“He will seek thee, I doubt not, if what thou hast
said to me be true—he will seek thee to ask of thee—”
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
she paused before she concluded the sentence, and a
dreadful shudder passed over her frame—“to ask of
thee why it is that I live!”
“He will, I think, my lady.”
“What wilt thou say to him?”
“That the opportunity has failed me.”
“Good; I was not well—hark thee—and drank of
no wine to-day. I will refuse all drink while the day
lasts, that thou mayst not speak a falsehood in thus
saying. What then? Thou wilt promise him on the
morrow to be more urgent with me. Thou wilt promise
a better answer on the morrow—or the morrow after
that?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Where will he seek thee? where was it his wont
to seek thee?”
“In my chamber, my lady.”
“Ha—ha! and from my chamber, Zitta, 'twas his
wont to go to thine,” said Urraca, laughing wildly, and
putting her finger on the girl's shoulder as she spoke.
The slave hung down her head in shame, and made
no answer to the remark. The gloom came back to
Urraca's features, and the smile passed away as she
continued thus:
“Well, well, it matters not now, my Zitta; the
wretch has wronged us both to our shame—if thou hast
spoken truly. But, of this, nothing! I will also seek
thee in thy chamber. Thou shalt conceal me there before
the feast be ended, for I will retire in sickness from
Edacer, and leave Amri with him. There let him seek
thee, and I will hear his speech; and if thou hast said
truly, Zitta—if he speak in support of thy story—if—”
“What, my dear lady?”
“Nothing! nothing now! Go to thy offices! Let
the wines be set—let the supper-room be got in readiness.
Spare no pains—no splendour. Outbrave, outblaze
all our former lustres—it is, you know, the
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
Governor of Cordova that feasts with us to-night!—'tis not
Edacer—the poor, dissolute Lord Edacer, but the favourite
of King Roderick that comes; and Amri—our
Amri, you know—comes with him. Have the wines
set; get ices from Tarracon, and spare no cost for
meats. Amri loves fish—spare nothing to procure
them. Get oysters, the fresh-brought from Africa. Provide
against all stint—against all strait. 'Twill vex me
'gainst your wishes, Zitta, if these lords call for aught
we may not give them. Away!”
That night Urraca was in the highest spirits. She
never looked so beautiful—she never was more witty or
more eloquent before. She had attired her person with
the nicest and most elaborate care; she had exercised
her mind, and drilled her thoughts, now made obedient
and docile as the humblest slave's, by the intense will
which she had brought to bear upon them; and her utterance
was clear, unimpeded, and musical, and her
fancy flashed out like a star, which some hidden minister
is continually replenishing with light from an exhaustless
fountain. She was gay and elastic almost to extremity,
but there was a sarcastic scornfulness sometimes in the
glance of her eye, and a tone of bitterness in the utterance
of her tongue, which, while they added to the intensity
of her grace and eloquence, were not always innocuous
in the estimation of her guests. Much did they
wonder at her improved loveliness; and even the voluptuous
and gross Edacer, to whom, hitherto, the charms
and enticements of animal passions alone had proved
wooing and attractive, began to awaken, under the exciting
influence of her mind, into a partial consciousness
of his own; while Amri, who did not, however, abate a
single purpose, hitherto entertained, of crime against her,
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
could not help admiring the mental resources and the
graceful spirit of that person whom he had learned to
fear, if not to hate, and had determined to destroy.
Nor was it the feast of intellect and female spirit and
vivacity alone which Urraca employed to give pleasure
to her guests. The table was sumptuously spread with
every luxury which could be found in Cordova. The
tastes and appetites which had been transmitted to the
coarser Goths by the voluptuous people of Byzantium,
and which had enervated them in due course of time, as
they had done the nations from which they came, had
been studiously exercised in procuring the various viands
which loaded the table of Urraca. Every refinement of
Greek effeminacy and Roman licentiousness was there;
and the dulled appetite, surveying the crowded board,
would not long want the necessary provocation to sharp
improvement and free exercise.
Edacer surveyed the table with a complacency which
prompted him to speech, but with a delighted surprise
which, for some moments, kept him silent.
“Truly, Urraca,” he exclaimed, at length, “thou hast
gone beyond thy former self—thou hast surpassed all thy
own frequent extravagances heretofore, and hast given
a fitting climax to thy feasts of delightful memory in
seasons overpassed. What new triumph hast thou made
to prompt thee to all this? What conquest over a thoughtless
noble, fresh come from Toledo, with full purse and
empty mind—good treasury, but heedless treasurer?
Say, Urraca, and speak quickly, for great is my amaze.”
It was in such language as this that the coarsely-minded
Edacer uttered himself in inquiry respecting the
sumptuous supper which he saw spread before him.
Yet the smile was playful and unresentful which accompanied
the reply of Urraca.
“Be no longer amazed, my Lord Edacer, nor longer
affect ignorance as to the occasion of my present excess.
Well hast thou called this the climax to my excesses of
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
the past. It is the climax; and what fitter occasion
could I choose for such climax than the entertainment
of the new Lord of Cordova. Is it not enough that I
would do thee honour, my Lord Edacer? The supper
is provided for thee.”
“Thanks, Urraca—many thanks. Thou hast proved
to me that I am valued by thee beyond my own previous
estimation. Thou hast flattered me beyond my thought.
I shall grow vain after this.”
“Grow, indeed, my lord! wherefore? you are already
of sufficient height. To change would be to risk
a loss, and thy shadow, now, more than covers one half
the walls of my chamber.”
The dull Goth looked round upon the walls as she
uttered these words, and seemed to find pleasure in the
discovery that, in a physical point of view, Urraca had
only spoken the truth. The latent meaning of his mistress
was visible to the acuter mind of the Hebrew, who
smiled significantly to Urraca, catching her eye, as he
did so, fixed curiously upon him. As one who had been
detected in a secret watch, she turned away quickly as
the glance of Amri met her own, and spoke in a low
voice to a servant who stood in waiting. By this time
Edacer had turned from the survey of his own cumbrous
person, and addressed Urraca again in compliment to a
splendid cluster of polished steel-reflecting mirrors, that
gave a burning light upon the opposite wall.
“These are new to me, Urraca—have they, too, been
procured to do honour on this occasion to your guests?”
“They came but to-day from Toledo, my Lord
Edacer, and were procured for the occasion.”
“Truly, thou hast spared nothing, Urraca; I must
chide thee for thy improvidence, though it pleases me
to behold it.”
“Nay, do not chide, my lord—I will bribe thee to indulgence,
for I will send the lustres to thy palace on the
morrow, as a gift from Urraca to Cordova's governor.”
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
“Wilt thou?” exclaimed the selfish and delighted
Goth. “Wilt thou indeed bestow them on me?”
“Thou shalt have them,” replied Urraca, calmly and
indifferently.
“But they are fitted—they seem almost necessary to
thy walls, Urraca—the spot will seem bare and cold if
thou remove them. I fear me thou dost unwisely to rob
thyself in this disposition of the lustres. I shall not
soon be able to require thee for so rich a boon.”
“I ask for no requital beyond thy graces, my Lord
Edacer; and, for the walls, I care not how bald they
seem to others—to me they will be nothing ere long;
they will not often challenge my sight after the lustres
are gone!”
The Goth turned upon her with an inquiring look,
and, after a brief pause, she continued—
“You have yet to know, my Lord Edacer, that I have
another reason for making this feast the climax of my
excesses—that which is to exceed them all, and throw
all of the preceding into shadow. It is the last feast
which I make in Cordova—it is the farewell which I
make at parting from it, my lord, and leaving it for
ever.”
The governor was astounded. He replied, breathlessly—
“At parting from Cordova—at leaving Cordova
for ever. Speak! how! what mean you, Urraca?”
“What! hast thou not heard? has not Amri told
thee?”
The eyes of the Hebrew sought those of Urraca, and
their expression was clearly that of expostulation and
entreaty. She paused—her resolve to declare the truth,
so far as the removal of Amri and herself from Cordova
had been determined upon, was abridged in compliance
with the evident wish for forbearance which was shown
in the face of the former; and she proceeded only to a
partial development of her intention and the truth.
“In three days, my lord, I leave Cordova for my old
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
home—my father's home—among the mountains of
Guadarrama. I retire from the city for ever.”
“Ha!—but with whom? Thou goest not alone, I
know. With whom dost thou fly? Thou hast not told
me that.”
“Nor will I, my lord, until I send thee the lustres.
It is a little secret now, but—”
“Is he rich? is he noble? Tell me that, Urraca, or
I will not let thee go. As Governor of Cordova, I will
arrest thee as one suspected of treason to the king, and
will imprison thee in my own palace till I have thy secret.”
“Thou shalt not have need to give thyself such unworthy
trouble, my lord, for I will tell thee freely what
thou desirest to know. He with whom I fly from Cordova
is rich as any Jew in Cordova, and, after the fashion
of the time, as noble as any Goth. That is my
thought of him, at least, my lord.”
“Beware, Urraca—beware that he does not deceive
thee. Be sure of him ere thou confidest, or bitterly wilt
thou weep thy confidence. There are few of our Gothic
nobles in Cordova that have much wealth, and not one
of them who would not lie freely to thee for thine.
Take the truth and my good counsel in payment for thy
lustres.”
“What! dost thou think them all so evil, my lord?
Is not one reserved from thy suspicion?” demanded
Urraca.
“Not one! they are all alike! Evil is their good,
Urraca. A virtuous Goth is always sure either to be
too poor for indulgence, or too great a fool to be knavish,
and help himself to the wealth of others. I know thee
too well to think that thou couldst regard the fool with a
favourable thought; and if thou takest up with the other,
I look to see thee back in Cordova after a little month
of absence, in which he will have stripped thee of all thy
wealth, and beaten thee half to death in charity.”
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
“Verily, my lord, the Goth has need to thank thee.”
“Ha—ha—ha!” exclaimed Edacer—“think not I
do them wrong, Urraca! By my faith, not so. Nor
would they chafe to hear me speak of them in this fashion.
'Tis their own boast, Urraca. 'Tis no shame to
do dishonour here in Cordova, save with the vulgar and
poor citizens. We laugh at shame, and with a fearless
front we brave the exposure which the coward shrinks
from. Having the power, we make the principles; and
that which fools call virtue, we call shame, by virtue of
this power!”
“A goodly power,” said Urraca.
“Of a truth it is—there were no freedom else.”
“But wherefore keep the church—maintain the priest—
dress the high altar—make the sacrifice—and clothe
in state the solemn ceremonial? Wherefore all these?
They do abridge the license which you love, and stop
your way to freedom.”
“Not with us, Urraca. The church is of our side—
one of our arms, by which we keep the animal man,
who might grow troublesome, in wholesome order. It
teaches him judicious fears of something which he knows
not, and so fears. 'Tis a dull blind we set up by the
wayside, and, in proportion as our virtue stales, we evermore
put out some shows of it; for as we all know that
the shadow points some form from which it springs, so
do we toil, building the shadows of a thousand forms,
which all seem good. We thus avoid their substance.”
“That is wisdom—is it?” said Urraca, musingly, in
reply to the Goth, who had not only described the condition
of his own time and people, but of other times
and other nations, before and after. There was little
more of this spoken between them, and the conversation
was soon diverted to other subjects of a different
and less general character. Much merriment succeeded—
the guests drank freely, and Urraca strove, and
strove successfully, to show a pleasant countenance and
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
a cheerful spirit throughout the feast, even to its conclusion.
But her heart toiled dreadfully in this endeavour,
and her thoughts were ill at ease. Her mind at length
began to weary of the unusual restraints which she had
set upon it, and she felt the necessity of retiring soon,
in order to put her plan in execution. Pleading exhaustion,
therefore, and a sudden indisposition, she retired
from the apartment, having first signified to Amri, in a
whisper, that she expected him on the ensuing evening.
This was said in a manner too peremptory to be evaded,
and he readily gave her the required promise to attend.
Urraca immediately retired, first to her own, and
then, by a secret passage, to the chamber of Zitta, who
was there in readiness, awaiting her. Carefully concealing
herself in a closet, she impatiently waited for
the coming of Amri. Nor had she long to wait. Before
his departure he came, as had long been his custom
previously, to the chamber of the slave, with whom
he was now more than ever anxious for an opportunity
of speech. Urraca soon had damning confirmation of
all that Zitta had informed her, and a sufficient overthrow
of her own hopeful doubts in the cruel words
which her ears were now compelled most painfully to
hear, from the lips of one to whom all her hopes had
been too readily confided.
“Thou art slow, Zitta,” he said, impatiently. “Hast
thou no desire for thy freedom?”
“Canst thou ask, Amri? I long for my liberty even
as the caged bird for the sweet air and the wide forests.”
“Wherefore does she live, then? I know that thou
couldst not have given her the drug, for it is fatal.
Never yet, when it once found its way into the human
frame, has it been known to fail. Thou hast not given
it to Urraca—she lives—she has not been affected?”
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
“I have not yet prepared it, Amri, for she has refused
her cup since I had the poison from thee.”
“Ha! Why has she refused? Does she doubt?
does she suspect thee?”
“No! but all the day she has been sick, and she desired
not wine, nor took it from any hands. I proffered
it to her at morning, as was my custom, and she then
declined it.”
“Yet was she free to take wine to-night: and never,
for a while, did her spirits seem more gay, or her looks
more lovely.”
“Yes—she grew well as the evening came on,” replied
Zitta.
“Thou must be better advised against the morrow;
and, hear me, it is not needful that wine be employed—
thou shalt mix the drug with the bread, with the soup,
with whatsoever her appetite may crave whose colour
may disguise it from her sight. Thou must give it her
to-morrow, Zitta, if thou canst—let there be no delay.
Fear nothing. When it is done, thou art free, and I
will myself take thee to Merida.”
“It shall be done, Amri,” was the assurance of the
slave, “if she be not again unmindful of the cup or of
food. She retired for the night, and her pulse was fevered,
and she complained much of vexing indisposition.
But 'twill pass away, I doubt not, with her sleep.”
“Do what thou canst, Zitta—if thou canst not to-morrow,
let not the third day pass upon thy unperformance.
Much depends on thy speedy work in this.”
“It does—I know it does, Amri. Hold it done ere
the third day. I promise thee it shall.”
“It is well! I trust to thy assurances, Zitta. I will
come to-morrow night as she commanded me, but I
hope not to find her all-powerful to command either
thee or me again. Remember, Zitta—thy freedom and
mine thou hast in keeping! It is in thy strength, thy
courage, thy skill, thy firm resolve for the good which
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
thou hast promised, and for the performance which thou
hast sworn to do, that thy hope, not less than mine, is
warm and apprehensive—it is upon these that I rely!
Let not thy heart fail thee, as thou hopest for its future
joy—and be thy hand strengthened to the task, as thou
wouldst lift it from the shackles of the slave. Thou
hast no hope but in this, for she is stubborn against thy
prayer and mine.”
Again she promised him; and, satisfied that she
would not fail during the day following to execute successfully
the dreadful commission which he had assigned
her, he hurried away for the night. Zitta immediately
ran to the closet where Urraca lay concealed, and in
which she had distinctly heard the whole conversation.
“Give me thy arm, Zitta,” said Urraca, “and help
me to seek my chamber.”
The woman did as she was commanded, and assisted
her mistress, who seemed no longer to possess the necessary
powers of life, to her apartment, whence Urraca
soon dismissed her, preferring at that time to be alone
with her own sad thoughts and solemn meditations.
When, on the ensuing morning, the attendant Zitta
sought the chamber of her mistress, she was already
risen and dressed. At the first glance the slave was
sure that she had not slept during the night; but this
conjecture was immediately dismissed from her mind as
she beheld the unruffled composure of her countenance.
It was indeed grave and sad, but there was no visible
emotion—no proof of unschooled, unsubdued, or irrepressible
feeling such as she had looked to see, and no
single trace of that feverish grief which cannot have exercise
without leaving its visible impress upon the haggard
cheek and the drooping and desponding eye. She
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
little knew how to judge of that sorrow which passeth
show—which disdains and dreads all ostentation. Yet
was the slave right in the first conjecture which she had
so suddenly dismissed. Urraca had not slept—the
whole night had been passed in thought—in that intense,
self-searching, but not self-satisfying thought, which produces
humiliation if it does not prompt to prayer. That
humiliation had brought her strength—strength enough
for resignation, if not for right. The crisis of her fate
was passed, and she was now calm! Her resolve was
taken, and she had prepared to die! She had nothing
now to live for. She was not sufficiently the Christian
to live for repentance, and she had been too narrowly
selfish in her devotion to a single object to live for hope.
She lacked the necessary resources of life—and having
too fondly trusted her fortune to one pilot, in his falsehood
she had lost every thing—she was herself lost.
The nature of Zitta was too humble, and her own
sensibilities too coarse to enable her to conjecture the
mental self-abandonment of her mistress. She saw nothing
but composure in the seeming calm of her countenance.
Alas! it was the composure which comes
from despair, like that which follows the storm, and
which, though it speaks only of its own exhaustion, is
not less significant of its former violence. But under
that treacherous surface, with all its treasures and its
precious freight, lie the wrecks and ruins of the goodly
ship. It was thus in the mind, as upon the face of Urraca.
There was all the delusive calm, the treacherous
quiet of composure, which, when the hurricane has gone
by, overspreads the face and extends even to the bosom
of the insidious sea. The storm was overblown, but
the hope with which she had been crowned and chartered,
like some rich jewel, had been swept from sight while
it lasted, leaving her destitute—too destitute and too despairing
even for complaint.
She had no complaint—she uttered no sigh—no word
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
of sorrow in the ear of her attendant. All was calmness
and self-reliance. All her accents were gentleness,
and all her looks were peace. Yet she gave herself no
time for repose—indeed, she dared not—she seemed
resolute to hurry through her crowding toils at once, in
order that she might secure the long slumber which she
desired undisturbed. After a slight refreshment, even
more slight than usual, she commanded the attendants
hastily to perform their several duties, while she despatched
Zitta for the proper officer through whom the
emancipation of the slave was to be effected. This
duty was soon performed, but as yet she held the parchment.
“Until to-morrow, Zitta, it must content thee to remain
with me. Thou wilt serve me until then? I shall
not need thee much longer.”
Zitta professed her willingness to abide the commands
of her mistress with all the warmth and alacrity of one
who has just received so considerable a boon.
“I have much meanwhile for you to do,” said Urraca.
“These lustres, you will instantly send them to the Lord
Edacer. I promised him last night that they should be
his.”
“And greatly did it delight his mean soul, my lady,
that you did so,” exclaimed Zitta.
“Perhaps!” said Urraca, “perhaps! I am glad that
I may so easily delight him. He is fortunate indeed if
his soul can very highly esteem a thing of such slight
worth and poor attraction.”
“Oh, my lady, I wonder that you can think so meanly
of that which is so beautiful. Sure I am there's nothing
like it in all Cordova, and the cost—”
Urraca gently interrupted her: “Alas! my poor girl,
thy error is a sad, but a much too common one for note.
Thou wilt find, when thou hast more experience of thy
freedom, that few things possess a real value in the estimation
of the heart which wealth may purchase or
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
flattery procure. Nothing is worth but the true, unyielding
affections—nothing is lastingly secure but truth—nothing
always beautiful but that which is always good.
Send the lustres to the Lord Edacer; and let it be said
to him that they come to him from Urraca, with the
single wish that he may soon learn to esteem them as I
do who give them.”
“And that is nothing,” said Zitta.
“True,” replied Urraca, “but that need not be said
to him. Despatch them straight, for I have other offices
for thee to execute.”
The lustres were soon despatched to the greedy Goth,
who received them with a loud delight; and the slave,
bringing back his thankful acknowledgments, again stood
in the presence of the mistress, awaiting her commands.
These were few and soon executed.
“Here is money, and there are some jewels in this
casket, Zitta, for thyself. The money will serve thy
own and the wants of thy mother for a season. The
jewels—thou wilt wear them for thy mistress, and think
of her when thou dost so. In thy want—shouldst thou
suffer want at any time to come, which I pray thou
mayst not—they will provide thee, for their value is great
among men. Take them—they are now thine. I will
not need them again.”
“Oh, my lady—I deserve them not at thy hands.
Thou hast already given me but too much—thou hast
been lavish upon me against reason.”
“Not so!” said Urraca; “I give thee a great trust
and a heavy burden when I bestow thy freedom upon
thee, and I should not fix upon thee this burden unless I
provide thee with the ability to bear it. Thou wilt find
that with thy freedom will come new wants and wishes,
which did not belong to the condition of the slave—new
responsibilities will press upon thee, and in thy sickness
or destitution thou wilt know that some difference lies
between the slave whom a watchful interest beyond his
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
own must provide for, and him who can only compel attention
to his need in proportion to his wealth and substance.
Thou wilt need all the money which I give
thee, and more that I may not give thee—the wisdom
from Heaven to guide and direct thee aright in a new
state and progress to which thou hast not been accustomed,
and for which thy education has not prepared
thee. Pray that thou mayst soon learn to shape thy
feelings and thy thoughts to thy new condition, else wo
will fall upon thee and upon those around thee. To
have thoughts and desires which are unbecoming thy
place is wrong—he whose mind is below his condition
must be a tyrant, and he whose mind is above it—he
only is the slave.”
With such good counsel as this, bestowed without authority,
and with a simple and persuasive grace, which
was as strange in the sight of the slave as it was newborn
in the bosom of the mistress, Urraca continued to
direct, and counsel, and employ her. In this manner
she despatched her to bestow sundry presents of money
and of goods upon the various attendants of the household,
all of whom she instructed her to dismiss on the
ensuing morning. This done, she gave special directions
to Zitta for the preparation of a chamber in an upper
story which had long been disused. The order
awakened some surprise and suspicion in the mind of
the hearer.
“Why, my lady—it is so cold and damp, that chamber—
and so gloomy too—with but a single window that
lies free to the street, and all the rest choked from light
by the high houses around. Why wouldst thou employ
that chamber?”
“Is it thy new freedom, Zitta, that thus provokes thee
to question my desire?” responded Urraca, firmly, but
still mildly and with softness.
“Oh, no, my lady.”
“Let the chamber be got in readiness, Zitta, as I bid
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
thee. It is because it is cold and lonesome that I would
employ it. But let it be so prepared that it shall not
seem cold or lonesome. Transfer to the walls and to
the couch the rich hangings of this chamber; close all
its windows, and see that many lights are there to supply
what else it might seem to lack of cheering and gay
character. When thou hast done this, let a table be
spread with fruits within it—and the wine—fill me a rich
vase of silver with wine, and place it in readiness amid
the fruits—but one vase, Zitta—one will suffice,” she
murmured, as the slave disappeared—“one will suffice
for Amri and me!”
Let us return for a brief moment to Amri. That
day he condescended to visit his father, whom he still
maintained within the dungeon to which he had been
himself consigned. He carried him a sufficient supply
of food, but spoke nothing of his release. The old
man simply looked up to the opening above the door,
through which the youth let down the provisions in a
small basket by the use of a string, but he said nothing
to him either in the way of solicitation or complaint.
This taciturnity irritated the youth, who addressed him
somewhat tauntingly with certain inquiries touching his
captivity—demanding to know upon what terms he
would be willing to procure his release. To all of
which the old man deigned him nothing in answer; but,
with clasped hands, he murmured his repeated prayer
to Heaven, imploring protection from the Most High,
and preferring once more the terrible imprecation which
the ears of Amri had already heard, but which now, unhappily,
went by them unheeded. Secure, as he esteemed
himself, in his triumphant position, he permitted
himself to speak harsh words to his father in return.
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
His heart was hardened within him, and he had no
fears of overthrow. Confident of Edacer's success
with Melchior, and of his own with the lovely daughter
of the outlaw, he was too buoyant in hope at this moment
either to fear the wrath of Heaven, or to heed the
curse which his father had invoked upon his head. He
bade the old man a scornful defiance, and departed ungraciously
from his presence. To Mahlon, however,
he gave directions for his release on the ensuing morning,
when he imagined that his projects would be fully
executed, and the events fairly over from which he hoped
to derive so much.
“On the morrow, Mahlon,” said he, “thou shalt release
Adoniakin—not before. And, hear me—thou shalt
not give entrance through the day to any who may seek
him. Say that he is gone forth to those who ask for
him—he is gone forth on pressing occasion, and will not
return till the night. To-morrow we shall neither of us
care whether his mood be pleasant or angry. For thyself,
Mahlon, here is the money thou hast demanded—
there is more for thee to-morrow when I return, if thou
hast truly done as I bid thee.”
That day the plans of Amri were perfected with
Edacer—the latter had portioned out his men for the
investment of the Cave of Wamba, while the former had
received from his hands the desired authority in writing,
by which, in the name of the king, he should obtain access
into the dwelling of the Hebrew Samuel, or any
other dwelling in the Hebrew Quarter where the maiden
Thyrza might be concealed. Nor was he altogether
content to await the hour of midnight, which he had
himself set aside for the proposed search, when the
probabilities were so much the greater of finding her in
the dwelling; but, attended by one of the officers who
had been allotted to him by Edacer, he prowled in a
partial disguise around the neighbourhood in which the
Hebrew Samuel had his abode, and cautiously pointed
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
out to the soldier the place where they should enter.
His disguise, however, was not equal to his perfect security
from detection, and quick eyes were as watchful
to save the maiden and her sire as his who strove for
their undoing. Elate and satisfied that the hour of his
triumph was at hand, he retired to the palace of Edacer,
with whom he had a farther conference on the subject
of their common pursuits; and towards nightfall, with
beating heart and impatient spirit, Amri proceeded to
the dwelling of Urraca, anxious to gain the intelligence
which he so much wished for, that she could no longer
be to him an object of fear, as she was no longer an object
of desire. In this hope, however, he was destined
to be disappointed. The deadly work had not yet been
done; and, cunningly advised, Zitta framed a story
which satisfied him to await patiently for the events of
the following day. A brief time only was allowed him
for interview with the slave, ere he found it necessary
to ascend to the upper apartment in search of her devoted
mistress.
A severer trial was at hand for the Hebrew than
any through which he had ever passed before. He was
conscious that Urraca expected from him a speedy resolve
to fly with her to Guadarrama, as he had already
promised; and he was only solicitous how best to frame
his promises so as to satisfy and meet her present exactions.
Relying on the execution by Zitta of the
crime to which she had pledged herself, he had no hesitation
in this matter; and he had resolved to promise
freely to his mistress for the future, assured that, ere he
could be called upon for the fulfilment of his pledges,
the lips which had exacted them would have lost all
power of reproach. His misfortune was, as it is the
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
misfortune too commonly of the young and partially endowed,
to be too readily satisfied with his own powers
of persuasion. His vanity misled him into a self-confidence
which the circumstances did not justify. But
we shall see in the sequel. That same day, and towards
evening, when the coming of Amri was hourly
looked for, the resolve of Urraca began to assume a
more distinct and unequivocal aspect. The chamber
had been prepared by Zitta agreeably to the directions
of her mistress. To this chamber, which was high and
remote from the other apartments, the drapery and decorations
belonging to that which she had formerly occupied
had been carefully transferred. The table had
been spread sumptuously with fruits, cates, and many
delicacies brought freshly from the East; and in the
centre, as she had specially directed, a beautiful fountain-urn
of the purest silver was elevated, containing a
full measure of the choicest wine. Brilliantly lighted,
and in every respect ready and complete, the slave
called upon her mistress to survey and to approve her
work. She did approve of it, and a smile of bitter
satisfaction overspread her countenance as she spoke.
“It is well done, Zitta—thou hast omitted nothing—
it is fitly designed for those who shall enjoy it. Leave
me now, Zitta—leave me, and give fit reception when
Amri cometh. Deny me to all other persons, and seek
me no more thyself to-night.”
“Should the Lord Edacer come, my lady, he may
seek you to thank you for the lustres?”
“I can spare his thanks—I can understand them unspoken.
He cannot see me—I am sick to all but
Amri; and, Zitta—” The slave returned. There was
a pause before her mistress again spoke. Zitta advanced
a pace inquiringly, and Urraca whispered her thus:
“It may be thou wilt hear noises to-night from my
chamber—heed them not—hear them not!”
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
“Oh, my lady—what mean you?” cried the slave,
beseechingly.
“What matters it to thee, Zitta? thou art free now.”
“But not happy, my lady, to see you thus,” replied
the slave.
“Hear me, and be assured. What I do, I do for
my happiness, under the guidance of the only thought
which can promise me the peace I seek. I am not
wild, Zitta, but what I do and contemplate is done and
considered with a deliberate mind, ungoverned by any
passionate mood, such as has but too frequently misled
me into error. Obey me—leave me now; and—hear
me—whatever cry thou hearest coming from my chamber,
whether of my voice or Amri, give it no heed—
stir not to inquire—suffer no one, not even thyself, to
approach. Think only, and rejoice as thou thinkest,
at such moments, that thou art now free! It may be that,
even with thy thought, I too shall be free, though after a
different fashion. Leave me!”
“But may I not come, my lady—must I not, if thou
shouldst call or cry out?” demanded the slave.
“No—not even if I cry out shalt thou come,” was
the stern reply.
The slave, immersed in tears, would have lingered;
but, gently leading her to the door of the chamber, Urraca
pushed her from the entrance and carefully fastened
it behind her. When she had gone, and her steps were
no longer heard, Urraca carefully inspected all the windows,
and saw that, in compliance with commands previously
given, they were fastened beyond the strength of
any one man, without fitting instruments, to unclose.
This done, she approached the table, and drawing the
packet of poison from her vest, emptied its contents into
the vase teeming with wine, and then carefully destroyed
the parchment which contained it. She had now little
more to do than to await the arrival of Amri—or, we may
rather say, her fate. Her resolve was taken, and her
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
nature was of that impetuous and decisive character that
we may regard her determination as unalterable. This
was evident in the coolness which had marked all her
proceedings, her careful consideration of every subject
in her household, however minute or unimportant, which
might seem to challenge her attention, and the temperate
and subdued demeanour with which she had dismissed
and favoured her domestics. Lifting the curtain of her
privacy a moment before the appearance of Amri, we
behold her in an attitude, to her one of the most unwonted,
but, at the same time, of the most essential humiliation.
Upon her knees she strives earnestly, but
oh! how hopelessly, to pray for that mercy which she
must forfeit for the crime which even then she meditated.
The unspoken supplication dies away in murmurs, and
the murmurs—a vain and broken breathing—are lost in
the unheeding air.
Amri at length made his appearance. Urraca herself
received him at the entrance of the chamber, the
door of which she carefully closed and locked, and, unseen
by him, the key of which she drew forth from the
ward, and secreted beyond his discovery or reach. Yet
her reception, in all other respects, was not calculated to
awaken in his bosom a solitary apprehension. It had
all the show of that fondness which she was accustomed
to exhibit, and which she had really and passionately felt
for him until that luckless moment when she discovered,
not his falsehood merely, but his hostile intention upon
her life. It was then that, scorning him with a scorn
fully commensurate to the degree of love which she had
formerly entertained for him, she determined upon a
measure of policy like his own. She resolved to oppose
artifice to artifice—to meet the false smile and
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
deceptive speech with smile and speech, if possible, more
deceptive still; and, under the garb and disguise of that
criminal cunning which, as she borrowed it from him to
employ against him, she deemed herself justified in
using, she meditated a revenge which should be such as
to satisfy her wounded pride, and sooth her bruised and
disappointed spirit. With this object in her mind, deception
was easy. Her lip was flexible with smiles—
her tongue moulded into forms of the softest and most
beguiling language, and her eyes, in which not even despair
could altogether quench the glorious and unreserved
fire, were made to reflect and exhibit only the benign
and the beseeching looks of love.
“What means this change of chambers, Urraca?” was
one of the first questions of Amri after the usual salutations
were over, his eyes looking with some curiosity,
but without anxiety, upon the array of the apartment.
She accounted for it easily and naturally enough by referring
to the confusion below resulting from her preparations
for removal.
“You sent the lustres to Edacer,” said he; “he was
delighted. I saw him but an hour since. He has reason
to rejoice in your friendship, and I wondered, and
wonder still, Urraca, at your extravagant generosity. I
am almost fain to suspect, dearest, that even now you
hold him too favoured in your heart altogether to bestow
its affections upon mine.”
The eye of Urraca searched closely, yet without lingering
long in the survey, that of the speaker. With
how much earnestness, with what well-acted sincerity
had he spoken these words! Yet she knew all the
while that they were false—that he himself was false as
hell. At first her reply, and the momentary glance
with which she acknowledged his address, might seem
to have been less than confiding.
“And you doubt me, Amri—you would claim for
your love a warmer return than mine can bestow. Is
it not so, Amri?”
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
“It is, dearest Urraca—it is. I know how much I
love you, and I only hear your professions. I know
that I do not deceive myself, but I am not sure that you
do not deceive me.”
“Be sure I do not, Amri,” she said, earnestly, putting
her hand upon his arm; “believe me, Amri, for you
I have lived, for you I am ready to die, such is my love;
and whatever may be the extent or nature of the feeling
in your heart, be satisfied it is more than requited by that
which is alive and active in mine.”
Amri secretly thought with her—he was right—he
knew not the latent signification of her language.
“Yes, Amri,” she proceeded, “living or dying, I am
still yours. You will believe me—I will make you believe
me, dearest—ere very long. Do you remember
I told you that I had a sad presentiment that I had not
long to live?”
“You said so, dearest—'twas an idle fear.”
“It was not idle, Amri—I feel, more and more, that
it was not an idle fear. It comes to me at all seasons,
and in vain would I fly from its presence. Think
you that it comes to me for no purpose? Think you
that the Christian God, who is your God also, has not
sent this thought to chide me, and to drive me away
from my pursuits, which I now begin to see have been
too sinful for the eye of earth not less than for that of
heaven? It is a warning that I should repent and fly
from the wrath which is preparing for me. It is this
thought which prompts and prompted me to fly to Guadarrama—
to leave the places of temptation and sin—to
fly to the places where I knew of none—the places of
my childhood. Thou hast promised, Amri, that thou
wilt dwell there with me.”
“True, dearest Urraca—true! I will fly with thee
to Guadarrama; but thou art over quick in thy proceeding.
Thou saidst to Edacer that in three days thou
wouldst take thy departure. It will not be possible for
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
me to go so soon. I have much, dearest, to execute,
and my time is scarcely my own. See this order—I
have it here to seek for a public enemy—this is the writing
of Edacer, and at midnight I am to search the Hebrew
Quarter for one who has a secret business from
the Saracen, and is an outlawed enemy of King Roderick.
This is a toil of state, and Edacer hath put
others upon me—”
“Edacer!” said Urraca; “let me look upon the
paper.”
He gave it her, and she read—“In the king's name—
Hebrew Quarter—any dwelling—may suspect—a
page—Ha! a page! Has this page thy secret, Amri?”
“Yes—the secret of a great conspiracy against King
Roderick.”
“What!—trusted to a page? Nay, thou dost mock
me.”
“I do not, Urraca, believe me.”
“And when wouldst thou go?” she asked.
“At midnight.”
“What!—this midnight!” she exclaimed.
“Thou sayest.”
“Well, truly, Amri, between thy own, and Edacer's,
and the king's business, Urraca has but little interest in
thy thoughts, and but a shallow portion of thy time.
But it will not be so, Amri, I trust, when we go to dwell
in Guadarrama. There I will bind thee all to myself.”
“Thou shalt,” he replied; “I shall be all thine when
we are in Guadarrama, as I shall look then, dear Urraca,
to have thee all mine.”
“Even as I am now!” she exclaimed. “Look!
dearest Amri—behold the preparation I have made here
in secret for our departure.”
She carried him to a portion of the chamber which he
had not seen, and pointed out to his eyes three large
earthen jars filled with precious gems—with gold and
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
jewels of immense value. The Jew's eye glistened
while he gazed.
“These are thine, Amri,” she said, as she unveiled
them before him; “here is wealth beyond our wants—
beyond your wishes, I believe, as it is beyond mine.
It is for thee I have preserved it—thou art its master
now, as thou art henceforward to be mine. I have
marked these jars with thy name, in proof of the love I
bear thee, and the readiness with which I give thee command
over myself and my possessions.”
“Thanks—many thanks, dearest Urraca—my gratitude
is speechless, and thou mayst not wonder that I
find not words to make fitting acknowledgments.”
“Make none, Amri,” she said, gravely.
“This wealth is immense, Urraca, and far beyond
what I had thought in thy possession. But what is this
of such curious fabric—is it of gold?”
He pointed to a thin piece of flattened gold, shaped
like a crescent, inscribed with unknown characters, and
having two holes in the two horns through which a string
had been passed.
“That is a talisman brought from Arabia—it has a
wonderful power to protect the wearer, and until this
day I have ever worn it. 'Twas given me when a child,
and it was said by him who gave it me, that so long as
I wore it would it keep me from wrong and injury.”
“Is such its power?” demanded Amri, curiously.
“I know not that,” she replied, “but such was the
faith of him who gave it me. 'Twas the old sage Abulfeda.”
“What said he of its properties, Urraca?”
“Oh, much,” was the reply of Urraca to Amri, made
with a show of indifference that proved a perfect foil
to the increasing anxiety which he manifested on the
subject; “much! It was, he said,” and as she spoke
she took up the talisman and passed it around her neck,
“it was a protection against all evil design of mortal.
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
Nothing, he pledged himself, which mortal man could
devise for my injury, could harm me while I wore it.”
“Didst thou believe him, Urraca? Didst thou have
faith in its powers?” asked Amri.
“Surely not! I held his speech as idle; but, as he
prayed me to wear it, I refused not.”
“And you have worn it until now, Urraca?”
“Until this day. I threw it off this morning as a
poor foolery, and as something unbecoming in a Christian
to employ, it being of Pagan workmanship, you see.”
“'Tis beautiful—wilt give it me, Urraca?”
She smiled as, taking the trinket from about her neck,
where she had placed it but a moment before, she threw
it around his. He seemed pleased, and she led him to
the table where the repast had been set, and motioned
him gayly to a place beside her.
“Thou canst not mean to leave me to-night, Amri?”
she spoke, as he seated himself at the table; “thou art
unkind to think it. Some other night will answer.”
“Not so, dearest. I must depart this night. This
commission is imperative upon me—the outlaw may escape—”
“The page!” said Urraca.
“Yes—'tis he I mean. He would escape did I not
seek him out to-night.”
“I think thou wilt not go—thou dost but trifle with
me, Amri?”
“Upon my soul, Urraca.”
“Nay, but thou shalt not, Amri. Thou shalt stay
with me this night—leave me at morning on thy secret
quest, but not to-night.”
“Not so, my love. To-morrow, early morning, I
will come—to-morrow night I'll stay with thee, and next
day. All other times but this, and I am thine.”
“Thou art resolved, then?”
“Be not vexed, Urraca—I may not choose but leave
thee.”
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
“Well, as thou wilt; but yet, Amri, I do not fear but
I will keep thee still. When thou hast supped thou'lt
linger a while and thou'lt stay.” She spoke and looked
in a manner which Amri, in his secret thought, could
not but feel to be most persuasive.
“Till midnight only, dearest; but let us to the fruit.
What is here, Urraca? Where got you these fine Damascenes?
What a rich purple; and these figs look
fresh as if just fallen from the tree. The finger-date,
too, is full grown and ripe, and larger than is common.
'Tis a tempting repast, and so well ordered—but sit thyself,
Urraca.”
“As thou sayest.” She sat down beside him as she
replied, and pointing to the plums, said—
“Thou speakest them so highly, Amri, it puts me in
the mood to take some of the Damascenes. It is a
fruit I love.”
“I join you in the preference,” he said, as he supplied
her. “Wilt have the dates?”
“No, I affect them not. Give me some wine.”
She handed him a little golden tankard as she spoke,
which he filled from the spacious urn before him—a
second goblet, which she gave him for himself, he filled
in like manner.
“Let us drink, Amri—” She lifted the tankard.
“Let us drink to our future life together! Ah! Amri,
there will be no strife then—no doubt—no lingering desire
for the crowd and the clamour of Cordova. Our
abode henceforward will be peaceful—peaceful—peaceful!
Will it not, Amri?”
“Ay, and full of pleasure too, Urraca, I trust me,”
he exclaimed, as he emptied the goblet.
“Perhaps!” she replied, as she drank, “perhaps!—
perhaps!”
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
After a brief pause, during which Urraca, leaning
upon the table with her head resting upon her palm,
seemed utterly unconscious of the objects around her,
while her mind roved away in pursuit of some foreign
thought, she abruptly recovered herself, and thus addressed
her companion:
“Amri, hast thou drank?”
“I have, dearest—my lips have searched the bottom.”
“Fill again, Amri—fill—fill: we are wedded now.”
“How wedded, Urraca?” inquired Amri, who did
not know how to account for the sudden look of exultation
which her features wore.
“Fill thy cup and mine,” was her only reply. He did
as she desired him, repeating his question as he did so.
“How wedded, Urraca? Thou saidst wedded, dearest?”
“Are we not? Hast thou not sworn thyself mine,
Amri, and do I not pledge myself to thee in return?
Does not this wed us most closely?”
“Ay, truly does it, dearest Urraca; but in this fashion
have I been long wedded to thee, and thou to me.
Yet, until now, thou hadst not deemed us wedded.”
“Is't not enough, Amri? Wouldst have a church to
wed us, and a priest?” she demanded, somewhat wildly.
“What church, Urraca?” he asked, gently.
“It should not be thy church, Amri, for that I believe
not; nor yet mine, for that thou deniest; but the church
in which we are wedded, Amri, should yet have sway over
both of us. It should be a universal church, Amri.”
“Where wilt thou find such church, Urraca? What
church is it that thou speakest of?”
Her reply was instantaneous, and her voice rose and
seemed to kindle as she spoke with a sort of enthusiasm
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
little short of eloquence, and which, as she proceeded,
awakened somewhat the apprehensions of Amri, who
regarded it as a gathering and growing insanity.
“What church is it?” said she. “A goodly, a great
church—thou wilt soon know it, Amri. It is a more
mighty edifice than the mind of man may imagine or
his eye encompass. Its elevation is beyond his art to
rival, as it is beyond the ambitious power of any king
to limit. Its altars may be found in every land, the largest
raised of earth. Its sacrifices do mock and swallow
up all others, or put them all to shame—they are so
humble when noted with its own. And of its incense
I need say nothing. It reeks from every land—up, up
to the pure heaven, assaulting the sweet skies with different
scents from theirs. And for its pillars, they do
stand aloft more firmly heaved than those of Hercules.
They better keep our liberties than these do fence our
borders from the Saracen. Its power is mightier yet—
for, in its pale, the thousand sects of earth—the warring
tribes—the jarring moods of superstition and devotion—
grow reconciled and one. What thinkest thou, Amri,
of a church like this? Bethink thee, hast thou never
heard its name? Hast thou no guess? Is it not clear
to thee?”
“Indeed, I know not, Urraca. Thou speakest that
which is to me a mystery. I know of no such church
as that thou speakest of, nor do I hold faith in it.”
“Thou dost—thou knowest it well—thou shalt know
it better before many days.”
“I cannot think—'tis not the Christian church, for
that has no such powers, though belike it may urge such
pretence. Our King Roderick here, they say, like the
Gothic kings of old, makes but little heed of it; and
our rabbins, though they swell greatly when they tell of
Solomon the Wise, and of the temple of his building,
they rise not to such height as to make me regard that
and this church of thine as one.”
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
“Thou question'st not its powers, Amri, as I describe
them?”
“No, not I; but 'tis a wondrous church—wondrous
if only as it brings together the warring sects thou
speak'st of. But truly, dear Urraca, I'm lost to know—
I cannot guess thy meaning. Explain—tell me what
church is this—what name it bears.”
“Drink with me to the triumphs of that church—
drink, Amri—thou shalt then know its name.”
“I've drank, Urraca.”
“And I,” she added, immediately; then laying down
the emptied vessel as she spoke, and looking with a triumphant
smile in the face of the Hebrew, she thus proceeded—
“It is the grave!—that church!—the grave!—the
grave!”
“Ha!” he cried, half starting from his seat, and his
cheeks growing pale with a sudden but indescribable apprehension,
while the tankard fell from his hand. “Ha!
What is thy dreadful meaning, my Urraca?”
“It is the grave, my Amri. What! dost thou tremble?
Wherefore shouldst thou tremble? Hast thou
not promised me to share my fate—my fortune?”
“I have, Urraca. Have I not sworn it thee?”
“Wert thou not glad — thou saidst so, dearest Amri—
to give up all thy freedom—to be bound in life and
death, and to make thy lot with mine? Didst thou not
love me to this measure, Amri?”
“Even so, Urraca. I have promised thee, and with
such passionate fervour do I love thee, that I will give
up all in Cordova, my father, friends, brethren—”
“I know thou wilt,” she exclaimed, laughing exultingly.
An acute look of fear overspread the features
of Amri as he beheld the expression, but he continued,
“And within three days I will fly with thee.”
“Before, before, my Amri—thou art laggard—I will
not wait for thee so long.”
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
“Thou dost forget, Urraca. I have told thee it may
not be before. I am bound to this performance for
Edacer, and much depends upon my execution. But
ere the three days, dearest, I'll be thine—all thine—and
fly with thee to thy own hilly home in Guadarrama.”
“Alas! my Amri, I believe thee not! I do not
think it. Thou wilt not fly with me to Guadarrama.
I know thou wilt not.”
“I swear to thee, Urraca.”
“Thou swearest a lie then, Amri—a base lie—thou
wilt not, canst not—the priest who wed us proclaimed
it should not be.”
“What dost thou mean, Urraca? From thine eyes
glares a terrible wildness—thy brow—”
She interrupted him quickly as she rose from the table,
and replied to him in a manner full of strange solemnity—
“We're wed by a fix'd fate—by one whose word we
may not set aside, nor disavow, nor, in our terror, fly
from. He hath said, and I believe him, Amri, that thou
never wilt leave Cordova—that thou art bound to it by
the strongest links, which thou canst neither bear with thee
nor break. He tells me that, as thou evermore hast
been a traitor to me—to all—thou'lt prove a traitor
still.”
“'Tis false,” he cried; “whoso hath spoken this
hath much belied me. Believe me, dear Urraca, it is
falsehood.”
“'Tis truth!” she responded, lifting her hand to
heaven.
“Who is it tells thee that I will not fly with thee?
What meddling priest is this?” he demanded, anxiously
and angrily.
“Death!” was the hollow answer which she gave
him; and the dreadful minister whose name she had called
at that moment seemed to glare forth from her eyes
in terrible threatening upon his.
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
The affrighted Hebrew looked upon her now as one
who had lost her senses. He, too, rose from the table,
but took a position which left it interposed between
them. She did not suffer him, however, to maintain
this position; but, labouring strongly to preserve or compel
a calmness of manner which had entirely left her
during the scene preceding, she pushed aside the table,
and firmly approached him.
“Hear me, Amri—you deem me distraught—I am
not. But my mind is wrought up to new necessities, a
strange condition, and to the contemplation of a solemn
and singular change, which is in progress not less upon
thee than upon me. When thou knowest all which I
have to tell thee—when thou knowest what my hope
has been, and know that I feel that utterly gone from me
which late I leaned upon in hope—thou wilt not think it
surprising that my eye is wild, and that my thoughts and
language are like the thoughts and language of one utterly
distraught. Hear me, and fear nothing—thou hast
now, indeed, nothing more to fear. Thou hast a better
protection within thee from fear than the talisman about
thy neck. Thou mayst now put Death himself at defiance.”
“Thy words are still strange to me, Urraca, and they
sooth me but little. Tell me thy grief quickly, and
say what I may do for thee, Urraca, for I am soon to
leave thee.”
“Thou errest, Amri, and hast more time, yet far less
time than even thou, in thy impatience, thinkest of.
Thou canst not leave me to-night—no—nor to-morrow,
Amri.”
“How—what mean you?”
“The door through which thou camest is shut upon
thee, and the key which secures it my own hand has
flung through a fissure in the wall which thou wilt
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
see behind yon curtain. It now lies at the foot of the
wall in the court below, and no words of thine—no spell
or power in thy command—will bring it to thy relief.”
“But wherefore this?” demanded Amri, in evident
alarm. She proceeded without heeding him.
“Look with me upon these windows, Amri. I was
resolved to secure thee, and I lodged their fastenings
each with its own rivet, and a strong bolt lies upon all,
keeping them secure from any strength of mine or thine
to undo them. Never was prison more close for criminal
in fetters than this chamber is for thee.”
The alarm of Amri increased duly with this intelligence,
but he strove to conceal it as he replied—
“I fear not thy custody, dear Urraca, for well I know
that thou will not have denied to thyself all chance for
freedom. Thou hast a mode left for escape—that is
enough for me.”
“For escape from this chamber I care not, Amri.
It is true, nevertheless, as thou sayest, that I have a
mode of escape.”
“I will share it with thee,” said Amri, laughing.
“Thou shalt, I well know,” replied Urraca, “but that
thou wilt desire to employ such mode I somewhat question.
Yet, ere thou dost, Amri, I have a something to
disclose to thee. I have a dreadful charge to make
against thee.”
“What is that, Urraca? Speak, dearest, and let me
forth soon, for the time hastens, and by midnight I must
proceed upon the business of Edacer.”
“Let the business of Edacer wait, and think rather
upon thine own. Thine is now more necessary to thee
than his. Hear me; I have it charged upon thee, Amri,
that thou desirest my death.”
“Thy death!” he exclaimed, appalled.
“Ay, my death—the death of the feeble and fond
woman who has loved thee. Nor wast thou willing to
await for it in the common course of fate, when the
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
decree of Heaven should demand it also. Thou wert
bent, it is said, to hurry fate, and didst suborn my own
slave to administer a fatal portion unto me. Thou didst
tamper with Zitta to this end.”
“'Tis false—she doth defame me—'tis a lie.”
“Be not too bold—'tis true—I did behold the potion.”
“I gave it not!”
“Thou didst—there's proof to show the packet came
from thee.”
“'Twas a love potion only that I gave her—it was
no poison.”
“What, didst thou doubt my love for thee, Amri?
Did it need a love potion to make me all thine own?”
“It did—I thought so—dearest Urraca. I did not
hold thee true to me alone; I would have had thee fonder.
The powder which I gave Zitta was innocent, and would
have wrought only upon thy affections.”
“I glad me that thou sayest so—I glad me much.
Would it, indeed, provoke the cold heart to love more
fervently?”
“Such was its purpose—such its quality. 'Twas
framed by an Arabian for my mother, who had misgivings
of my father's love, and sought him for a charm.
He gave her that—the potion which to Zitta I delivered.
It could not hurt—its power was only framed to move
the coy affections—to bend the unyielding heart—to
make it warm with a more pliant method.”
“I glad me that thou sayest so. Art thou sure?”
“Most certain, dear Urraca!”
“How I rejoice me! I do breathe again! I feel
like one set free from a dark prison, and glorying in the
sunlight.”
“Oh, wherefore, dearest?” She proceeded without
seeming to regard his speech.
“When Zitta brought this tale to me, I maddened.”
“Didst doubt me, then—didst think it true, Urraca?”
“I did; and then the world grew black upon me. I
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
cared no more for life! I made her free, yet I bade
her give me the fatal potion.”
“But she did not,” he demanded, anxiously.
“Thou shalt hear all. I then resolved to die!”
“I glad me, dearest, that I spoke so soon. Had I
not told thee of the potion's innocence, it might have
been—”
“Oh, yes—yes! But hear me out. Be patient
now, I pray thee. I bade thee hither, as thou knowest,
last night, and had this feast of fruits and cates provided.
Believing thou didst mean to murder me, and did project
my death with that same potion, ere yet thou
camest—for I was bent on vengeance—I mixed it with
that fountain—”
“The wine—the wine!” he exclaimed, his whole
figure convulsed and trembling, as he bent forward,
making the inquiry.
“Ay, with the wine we drank. Why dost thou
tremble? Was it not innocent?”
“Hell's curses seize thee, woman—fiends and snakes—
'twas poison—deadly poison!”
“Then we are wedded, Amri!” she replied, sternly,
but contemptuously—“in death, if not in life, we are now
wedded. Thou'st drank—we have both drank—and
now—go pray.”
“Let me go forth, Urraca—Jezebel, deny me not.
Give me the key, I bid thee,” he cried, furiously, while
his features spoke at once the intensity of his hate and
the extremity of his apprehension. She replied decisively,
and with a withering scornfulness of expression—
“Why, this shows ill in thee, Amri. Thou shouldst
now love me; having drank the potion made by the Arabian
sage to bless thy mother, and to bend thy father to
a due regard with hers, thou shouldst now love me.”
“God curse thee, woman!—do thou not provoke me!
Undo the door!—let me go forth, I pray thee. 'Tis not
too late—there is a medicine—”
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
“Thou shalt not go—to-night thou shalt not leave me.
To-morrow—”
“'Twill be too late to-morrow. Let me go now,
Urraca—'twill save us both—I'll share the medicine
with thee—”
“I seek it not—I would not now live, Amri, since
thou hast denied that I shall live for any thing.”
“I will be thine, Urraca, only thine? I'll fly with
thee to-morrow—ay, to-night. Let me go forth in season.”
“Never, never! I have resolved upon thy death—for
mine own I care not! Thou hast deceived me as never
yet has woman been deceived, forgiving her deceiver.
We die together; I hope not now for any antidote—I
do deny it thee.”
“I pray thee, dear Urraca—on my knees.”
“Liar! I know thee. Rise—thou but chaf'st me
with thy base language.”
“Pardon—spare—let me fly!”
He grovelled at her feet, which at length spurned him.
“Hope not to move me by thy prayers and sighs.
Too well I know thy villany to listen. I know all thy
schemes, Amri. To-night thou wert to seek a page, an
enemy of Roderick! Do I not know the page thou
aimest at is a woman—a lovely woman—one thou
wouldst make thy victim; but one—I joy to think so—
who doth most rightly scorn thee. Hear a tale I kept
from thee before, in a vain hope to mend thee by my fond
forbearance. I had not then the courage which had
saved me, to pluck thee, as a viper, from the heart which
thou hast stung to madness.”
She then told him all the particulars of his attempt
upon Thyrza, and of her rescue by Pelayo, of which we
have already been apprized, but of which Amri knew
nothing. She concluded by the following stern and inflexible
summary.
“Knowing all this of thee, and more of thy falsehood
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
and base connexion with the woman whom thou couldst
have prompted to the foul crime of murder on her mistress,
even at the time when thou wert most professing
love and service, I gave thee up for ever. I then resolved,
with this last knowledge of thy cruel purpose to strike
at my poor life; at the time, too, when first I had began
truly to live, and when I did bestow upon thee such a
perfect confidence as should have made thee, even if
before thou hadst occasion to be mine enemy, my best
and truest friend—I then resolved to tear thee from my
heart. It was no pain to doom thee to the fate which
thou didst design for me—the pain was in the terrible
conviction that thou didst hate me. After that conviction
I did not wish to live.”
Amri could no longer doubt her sincerity, though he
might her sanity. He, too, began to madden, for an agonizing
pain which passed through his vitals at this moment
more fully impressed him with the terrible consciousness
of his situation. The dreadful imprecation
of his father came to his memory with that pain, and
seemed to be thrilling again through his ears—the petition
had indeed been quickly heard, and as Amri well
knew the horrible effects of the poison, he well knew
that it was likely to be as severely felt as it was most
certain, unless he could procure the antidote of which
he spoke, to prove certainly fatal. Whether he possessed,
in truth, a remedial medicine, may not be said.
It is possible he simply desired escape from the dwelling,
with the vague hope which comes to the otherwise despairing,
and is a hope against hope, that succour might
be had by a quick resort to the men of skill and science
of the time. With this hope he prayed Urraca earnestly
for his release, with every art of persuasion which, of
old, he had seldom exercised in vain. But the conviction
of his utter heartlessness had made her inflexible.
The power of the poison had already begun to manifest
its presence upon herself—she writhed under its fearful
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
pangs, but she also smiled scornfully upon her companion
in suffering. Every word which she uttered in reply
to his agonizing entreaties was a word of bitter taunt
and contemptuous derision.
“You would be every thing, Amri, and you are nothing.
You would win power with Edacer because he
is Lord of Cordova, and find a way, too, even to the favour
of King Roderick. Hadst thou been bold enough
to be true, thou hadst been safe this hour, and in some
of thy schemes successful. But thou wert false where
thy faith was most due, and now, count thy gains!”
“Yet, if thou wouldst forgive me, Urraca—there is
but little time to waste,” said the wretch, imploringly.
“I pray thee—on my knees.”
“I mean not to forgive—I mean not to forego my
power upon thee. Thou art my prisoner, and when I
release thee it shall be to that greater power which already
hath its hands on me.”
He clamoured at the door, and shouted for aid from
without; but she laughed scornfully at the feebleness
of his efforts to shake the bolt or drive the massive timbers
with his feet, which he now began furiously to apply
to them.
“Zitta—Zitta!” he cried to his former accomplice,
and his cries were echoed by the increased laughter of
Urraca.
“Take the gold,” said she, as she beheld his efforts;
“this is thy gold, Amri—dost thou not know it? It is
thine when I die. I bequeath it to none but thee. Buy
her with it to come to thee, and pledge thyself to share
it with her. She will help thee, perhaps.”
“Fiend—wretch—cease thy infernal mockeries!” he
cried to Urraca, who had sunk down in pain upon a
couch, while, turning furiously from his ineffectual clamours
at the door, he shook his clinched fists in her face.
Her laughter mingled in strange contrast with her insuppressible
groans, while she continued to taunt him with
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
his weakness, and to deride him with his ineffectual desperation.
“Thy cries are all in vain, Amri, and thou shoutest
the name of one who is commanded and rewarded not
to hear thee. Before thou camest I had anticipated thy
clamours now. To Zitta I gave orders that she should
heed no cries, of whatever kind; no appeals, whether of
thy voice or of mine, coming from this chamber.”
“Father Abraham—dreadful Jehovah! shield me—
save me!” cried the despairing and bewildered prisoner.
“What fiend from hell has prompted thee to this—this
horrible malice? Curse thee, Urraca—Heaven curse
thee with the plagues of Egypt. It cannot be that I am
doomed to perish thus—it is not true; thou dost try me
only. Thou hast not drugged the wine—it is thy trick.
Ah—ah!”
The last exclamations were extorted from him by a
keen pang, which sufficiently answered him, and contradicted
the hope which he had just expressed. There
needed no answer from her to confirm his fears. The
poison had commenced its work, and, in the momentary
and acute agony of its burning pain, the miserable man
threw himself howling and writhing on the floor. Urraca,
too, had ceased to taunt her victim—she now murmured
only; and she strove to bring her thoughts to the
crisis which was fast approaching—she strove to pray. A
picture of the Virgin hung upon the wall, opposite to,
yet at some distance from, the cushion upon which she
had thrown herself. She arose from the cushion as she
gazed upon the picture; and, though suffering increasing
agony at every movement, she crossed the room, and
sunk down before it upon her knees in prayer. Amri
saw the movement, and at first imagined that she was
about to seize an opportunity for flight, leaving him still
a prisoner. With the thought he hastily leaped from the
floor and hurried after her; but when he beheld her
kneeling, and from the words which came to his ears
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
discovered that she was seeking to deprecate Heaven's
wrath for her misdoings, he rushed furiously upon her.
She heard his footsteps, but turned not once to behold
him; and, utterly unseen, and his purpose unexpected
by her, he drew a dagger suddenly from his vest, and
plunged it deep down over her shoulder into the vital
recesses of her bosom, exclaiming as he did so—
“Thou shalt not pray—thou shalt not find mercy,
but shalt go with all thy sins upon thy head to the kindred
fiends that thou fearest, and that now await thee.”
She fell upon her face with a convulsion; the blow
had been fatal, and her words were few and imperfectly
uttered.
“I thank thee—I thank thee, Amri; thou hast done
me a sweet service. I have no more pain—thy dagger
has disarmed the poison—I am free—free.”
Her face was turned upon the floor, and the blood
gushed all around it. A few more brief and muttered
words fell from her lips, but they were indistinguishable.
In a few moments she was silent. He stooped down,
and sought to lift the body, but he soon discovered from
its weight that life had departed. It was then that his
own pangs became more frequent and acute. In his
agony he turned the point of the fatal dagger upon his
own bosom, but just then he heard a noise—he thought
so, at least, and, hurling the bloody instrument from him,
rushed to the door. He imagined that he could detect
the sounds of retreating footsteps, and with this conviction
he shouted aloud.
“Ha, there—Zitta—Zitta! Come to me, Zitta.
Here—come to me quickly. Bring help—bring axes,
and break down the door—let in the air—bring water to
my help—I thirst—I am on fire—I burn—I die!”
He paused for a few moments, as if to learn the effect
of his cries and pleadings; but he listened in vain, and
his clamours and solicitations were renewed.
“Come to me, Zitta—whoever thou art, I implore—
I command thee. Oh, Zitta, dear Zitta, if thou lovest
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
me, come quickly to my help! Thou shalt have gold—
gold—whatever thou requirest, Zitta; thou shalt have
all that is here—all that I possess! Oh, fire—fire—
fire! I burn—I burn—my heart is on fire! Ah—oh!
it is at my heart—a dreadful tooth—it bites—it burns—
it is fire—fire—fire! They come not—they are
gone! I hear them no more. They hear not me.
They leave me to burn—to perish!”
He paused, and stooped to the floor to listen—to
catch again the sounds which he fancied he had already
heard. The poison even then was tearing and tugging
at his vitals. His own hands, in his dreadful agony,
had grasped his bowels with a fierce gripe and furious
energy, which would seem rather like that of a wolf upon
the flanks of his victim. He listened for several minutes,
until the increasing pain compelled him to forego
the effort, and drove him from the extreme of attentive
silence into the opposite extreme of wild, demoniac fury.
He writhed deliriously upon the floor, and cursed fruitlessly
the unconscious woman that lay dead at a little
distance. His shoutings were renewed more furiously
than ever. He beat upon the door with his unconscious
hands—he shrieked, in his various moods of desperation,
hope, agony, and entreaty, to the supposed listener—
proffering his life and countless wealth to the person who
would save it for him. And, when the echoes of his
own voice came back to him unmingled with any favouring
responses, he thrust his furious head against the
wall with repeated effort, which, however, brought him
no pain in addition to that which he endured already.
The conviction that he must perish without prospect of
relief or rescue was at length forced upon his mind by
the disappointment of all his hopes and the failure of
all his supplications. With this conviction he rushed to
the body of Urraca, determined to repossess himself of
the dagger by which he had terminated her sufferings,
and with which he now proposed to end his own.
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
Having stricken the fatal blow into her bosom, he had hurled
the dagger from him. But the doom against him was
unyielding—the fate was inflexible, and he had not the
choice of death. In vain did he grope around the chamber
for the deadly weapon. His eyes were blinded, and
he failed to see it; the sensibilities of his fingers seemed
gone, for he failed to touch it; and the dreadful imprecation
of his father seemed at once to be realized upon
him, in all the forms of Providential judgment. His
doom was written without mitigation. It was required
not less to be fatal than to be felt; and he was destined
to endure the most protracted form of human suffering.
“But I will not endure it,” he cried, furiously; “I
will fly from—I will escape it yet!”
From one side of the room he prepared to rush, with
extended head, upon the dead stone wall of the other.
To dash out his desperate brains, and thus terminate his
agony, was his last hope; and, closing his eyes, he
bounded forward; but, ere he reached the wall, his heart
sunk within him. A tremour seized upon his knees—
a general weakness overspread his limbs, and he dared
not carry out his more resolute design—indeed, he could
not—the judgment was inexorable, and could only be
endured, not defeated.
“Oh, Adoniakim—father—father! that I had heeded
thy commands—thy prayers—thy counsels!”
Groaning and shrieking, he sank down, and crawled
once more to the place of entrance—once more he listened—
once more he fancied that he heard retreating
footsteps, and he again howled with a strong but foolish
hope, praying for the relief which came not. With the
momentarily increasing agony of the poison, his cries
became more and more dreadful, and nature could not
much longer endure the strife. In a dreadful paroxysm,
the miserable wretch thrust his fingers into his now
wolfish eyes, and tore the quivering globes from their
burning sockets. But this brought not the desired
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
benefit, and, howling and suffering still, the now utterly
hopeless victim rolled and writhed along the floor, calling
vainly for that death which he had once so much
dreaded to encounter. The doom, though fatal, was
yet according to his father's prayer, to be felt in torments
even greater than those which he had endured already.
He was not yet suffered to die, and the tenacious life
hung on in agony until sensibility was entirely subdued.
Through the night the cries of the sufferer came to the
ears of Zitta, in the distant apartment where she lay.
What was their occasion she knew not, for her mistress
had withheld from her the secret of her intentions; and
she remembered the injunction which was given her, and
did not seek to inquire. Yet she could not sleep, and
so piercing at length did the shrieks of Amri become,
that she left her apartment, and cautiously, and with as
little noise as possible, approached that where the victims
lay. The demoniac cries alarmed her, and she
fled. It was probable, indeed, that Amri, with the
acuteness of hope, had really heard her footsteps, but
his appeal availed not. She distinguished no particular
sounds—she heard no call upon her name and for relief;
and even if she had, the fastenings of the apartment were
entirely beyond her unassisted strength to remove. She
hurried back to her chamber, and, with an imagination
active with momently accumulating terrors, she buried
her head in the bedclothes, but she did not sleep. The
dreadful shrieks penetrated the thick folds of her couch's
drapery, and when they did not, she could not forbear the
anxiety which prompted her to remove the covering, and
once more listen. Fainter and fainter at every moment
came the cries until towards morning, when they ceased
entirely. The dreadful catastrophe was over, and the
ungrateful son had too soon and too suddenly perished
beneath the dreadful curse invoked upon his head by his
deeply-wronged and justly-irritated sire.
END OF BOOK IV.
-- --
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1838], Pelayo: a story of the Goth, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf362v2].
