BOOK V.
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There is nothing more touching in the history of
human affections than the hopelessness of youth. Hope
and youth would seem to have been twins—they belong
naturally to one another. Their separation is one of the
most painful subjects of mental contemplation. We
cannot help but weep when we survey it. It does not
seem so hard or so improper, the parting of age with
hope. It is for age to despair. When the sap runs
slowly, when the branches are dead, when the trunk is
withering, and the green honours no longer come forth
in the pleasant springtime to adorn the tree, the axe of
the destroyer is then fitly laid to its root! We are then
reconciled to its overthrow, and, indeed, recognise a sort
of propriety in the event, even though it brings a sorrow
to our hearts. But it is far otherwise when the young
plant is doomed to perish—when the warm sap suddenly
withers on its passage up—when life's currents are destined
to be prematurely frozen—when the spring, which is
its life and lovely emblem alike, deigns it no glance and
brings it no nourishment. Hope is the spring season to
the youthful breast, and love is the fruitage which it
brings to bless it. Alas if the one comes unattended
by the other! Alas for love! alas for youth!—they
must both perish!
The last time that we looked upon the Jewish maiden
Thyrza, she had been sleeping in the chamber of the
Prince Pelayo. His noble courtesy and honourable
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forbearance were duly written upon her heart. Poor maiden!
Her heart had been equally tenacious of his virtues
in all other respects, and the page was full of records.
His manly beauty, his bold demeanour, his patriot
love of country, his delicacy, and his wisdom—his
beauty free from effeminacy, his boldness from brutality,
his love of country without ostentation, his delicacy unaffected,
and his wisdom beyond the time, yet adapted
to its necessities—all constituted him a being singular in
the sight and supreme in the heart of Thyrza. She
was too full of thoughts of him to speak of him; and
when Melchior pronounced his praises, she was silent—
she was speechless—she could only smile and weep.
It did not now escape the penetration of her father
that the affections of his daughter were irretrievably
given where they could look for no return. His heart
shuddered with the conviction. He attended her home
from the dwelling of Pelayo the morning after her rescue
from the attempts of Amri, with a bosom lightened,
it is true, of the heavier fear which had possessed it during
the preceding night, but full of sorrow at the new
conviction which filled his mind.
“Thyrza,” he said to her, when they had reached the
seclusion of his own apartments in the house of Samuel,
“Thyrza, my child, it had been far better for thee and
for me if we still had lingered upon the desert, and dwelt
until the coming of the death-angel in the tents of the
Saracen.”
“Oh, wherefore, my father—wherefore dost thou say
so?” she replied, affectionately and earnestly.
“For thee—for thy sake and safety, far better, Thyrza,
I am sad to feel. Thou wert a blessed and a happy,
though a solemn-thoughted child when we dwelt in the
solitude and enjoyed the freedom of the desert. Thou
hadst no hope beyond thy aim, or out of the attainment
of thyself or me. Thy dream was humble, thy thought
was fetterless, like a bird's wing. To be with me, to
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pour forth thy heart in music, and to sweeten our solitude
with our mutual sighs, when thy wild song was
ended, was thy greatest care, as it was my happiest enjoyment.
Thyrza, it is otherwise now. Thy heart has
other hopes—it is not so happy now. Thy voice is no
longer airy like the bird's—thy footsteps are light no
longer.”
The maiden hung down her head, and her breathing
was suspended. Melchior bade her approach him; and
not daring to look him in the face, and with eyes still
drooping and downcast, she did as he commanded her.
He took her within his arms, and seated her upon his
knee. She was still silent. He continued—
“Thou art changed, my child. A sad change has
come over thee, and a new sorrow is in thy heart, gathering
strength with thy thoughts, and taking the strength
from thee while it does so.”
“Alas! my father,” she exclaimed, and her face
was hidden in his bosom.
“It is written, my child. Thou art chosen—thou art
doomed! I know thee too well to believe that thou
canst feel the searching thirst of love for a moment only—
it is a life with hearts like thine, and it will exhaust thy
life ere it will leave it. Thou art not the one to devote
thyself, and, after a brief season, depart from thy devotion.
Alas! no! Would it were so, though it might
make thee less worthy in my sight. Would that thy
soul were of that lighter temper, which, like the insectbird
of Cashmere, may spring away from the flower it
has all day sought with a wing lighter and more capricious
as the evening cometh. Were it so, I should
have better hope of thee. Then might I rejoice still in
the thought that thou wouldst be spared to my old heart,
though I might then regard thine own as far less worthy
of its love. But such is not thy nature, Thyrza. Thy
affections have hands that cling, not wings that fly.
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They cling but to one altar, and they perish there—they
cannot be torn away.”
“Alas! my father, of what is it you speak?” demanded
the maiden, her sobs striving with her speech
for utterance.
“Thy tears answer me, Thyrza—and if they did not,
my child, dost thou think me so blind now, or so indifferent
through the long sweet years when it has been
my joy to watch thy infancy and growth, that I know
not the signs of feeling within thee? It is vain, Thyrza,
that thou wouldst hide thy heart from my sight. I
have learned to read it. I read it now. It is open before
me like a book. I read it in thy pale cheek—thy
upturned eye—thy bosom troubled and shaken with convulsive
heavings. Seek not to deceive me, my child—
thou canst not, and I so love thee that I would not have
thee strive. Thy woman nature, I know, must shrink
and labour for concealment of its weakness—it has but
little strength else! But the veil must be removed from
thy bosom as it is removed from thy face. Thou shalt
speak to thy father for thy peace, my child, and that he
may the better console with thee, and teach thee, though
it be beyond his art to save thee.”
“Do I not, my dearest father? Have I not told thee
all? What have I kept from thee which has happened
unto me? When Amri came and approached me—”
“No more, my child—thou dost still deceive me,
though, I trust, only because thou dost still deceive thyself.
Why shouldst thou speak to me of Amri and of
thy heart in the same moment? It needs no word from
thee to assure me that they have no thought, no feeling,
no sentiment in common which should bring them together.
I speak of thy affections, Thyrza. Alas for
thee, my child, I speak of thy fruitless affections!”
A heavy sigh escaped from the lips of the maiden,
but she made no other answer.
“Thou lovest, Thyrza, and thou lovest one who is
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worthy, but whom I would not have thee to love as
thou dost.”
“Alas! my father—speak no more of this—spare me—
in pity spare me—I have not strength to bear with thy
reproaches.” She sank down in his embrace as she
spoke—her knees upon the floor, and her face buried in
his lap.
“Thou errest, my child. I have no reproaches for
thee. Thou art good, and pure, and innocent in this of
any wrong. Thou art guilty of weakness only—of a
proper and a sweet, though, for thee, an unhappy weakness—
a weakness belonging to thy nature, and given
thee by Heaven as a blessing, but which man, with
trick, and false standard, and foolish contrivance, has
turned into a bitterness and a blight. If there be error,
it is my error. I should have known thee too well to
have put thee where thou mightst behold, and study,
and love the nobility of soul and of performance which
I have taught thee so greatly to admire, but which was
yet to thee unattainable. I should have known thy
quickness to love that which is lofty, and manful, and
true. Had I but thought of thee, my child, with a
proper thought, I should have kept thee from danger.
But my heart was too much possessed by the wrongs of
my people, and my head too much given to plans for redressing
them, to think of my own blood, and of one so
close to me as thou! I have erred in exposing thee to
the danger—I may now only grieve for my blindness,
and sorrow at thy fortune—I cannot blame thee that
thou art overcome!”
“Speak not against thyself, my father. There is no
danger that I fear—I have suffered nothing. I am not
overcome, for my heart is strong for resistance,” said
the maiden.
“There is danger, and thou hast suffered, my child.
Seek no longer to deceive me. Know I not that thy
heart is given to the Prince Pelayo—that thou lovest him?
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That he is all in thy thought and thy estimation, and
that thou hast no affections now which are not given in
tribute unto him?”
“Forgive me, oh, forgive, my father—thou hast spoken
but the truth. I feel it, though I have not dared to say
so much, even to myself.”
“I believe thee, my child, for I know thy purity and
meekness. Thy cheek, which now burns like fire
upon my hand, is a proof to me that thou hast not been
wanton in thy regards and thoughts.”
“I have not, I have not, my dearest father, believe
me.”
“Thou hast loved unhappily, but not unworthily, my
Thyrza. I trust me, my child, that thou also knowest
that thou hast loved hopelessly.”
“I do—I do, my father!” she replied, with broken accents
and a choking voice.
“The God of Abraham look down upon thee in
mercy, my beloved, for thou needest his blessing. Thou
lovest deeply; thou hast set all thy heart upon the one
object, and in thy affections is all thy life. Thou lovest
hopelessly, my Thyrza, and I fear me thou wilt die.”
She clasped her hands between his knees, and his
hands were folded above her head, and they both prayed
in silence, and both hearts were softened to resignation
by their prayer.
With a heart filled to overflowing as he thought upon
the unrequited and profitless state of his daughter's affections,
and the fate to which it would doom her, the
position of Melchior was yet such that he could neither
indulge in idle grief nor spare the necessary time to
convey her once more, as was now his desire, into the
deserts which they both sighed for. The business of
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the Gothic-Jewish nation hung upon his hands, and to
his undoubted capacity and sleepless energy alone had
his people deputed their rescue from the tyranny under
which they groaned in Iberia, and their hope for future
security and the protection of a better government.
This he had promised them to achieve, and to this he
had solemnly devoted himself. Inspired with a patriotic
and unselfish zeal not common to the time, and far less
common among the nation of which he was a member,
Melchior would have freely given up his child in sacrifice
to the God whom he worshipped, and the people
once so greatly the object of his care, to achieve his
present object. It cannot, therefore, be held strange
that he should now waive her claims as a child, and his
own love as a father, to proceed upon toils which, individually,
could bring him no advancement in place and
no increase of the benefits of earth, and the prosecution
of which involved him only in a thousand privations, not
to speak of the risks of life which, as a notorious outlaw,
he hourly incurred. Freely and joyfully would he, more
than once, have given up the struggle, as he saw how
few there were among his tribe who sought for freedom
for its own sake. They all desired it for the security
of their gains; but they desired only the liberty of the
tradesman, and for this Melchior strove not. The freedom
which he sought was that of the principles and the
affections—the right to speak the truth, to look up to
Heaven unrebuked, to resist injustice, to side with the
victim against it, to frown upon the brutal and undeserving,
to enjoy the air and the sunlight, and to yield up
his sympathies, whenever they were demanded, in tribute
to the beautiful and the good. The mere security of
his goods formed but a humble portion of those desires
in which his love of liberty had its origin. A cause
even higher than his regard for his people prompted his
labours, and permitted not a relaxation of his purpose.
He laboured, like all true patriots, in the cause of truth;
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and his own life and the life of his child—ay, the very
existence of his people—were all as nothing in comparison
with the great aim and principle which nerved and
stimulated his patriotism.
He gently pushed her from between his knees. His
prayer was ended, and leaving her for the present to the
care of Heaven, he went forth on that visit to Adoniakim
his compatriot, which terminated, as we have already
seen, in the temporary confinement of the wicked Amri.
Little did he think that, at a season so perilous, the
foolishly fond old man would so far have suffered his
misplaced regard for the youth to have overcome his
wisdom, as to have exposed himself within the dungeon
which had been assigned for the safe keeping of his
son; still less did he anticipate the employment of so
successful an artifice as that which the cunning Amri
had practised upon his sire to beguile him within the
apartment. His own warnings to Adoniakim had been
strong and earnest—and he thought them sufficient. It
is true, he well knew how weak had been the father, but
he held him to have been weak only because he had
been so long deceived. But the mask had been taken
from his eyes—the baseness and dishonesty of the son
had been openly avowed, and Melchior did not dream
that it was possible for Adoniakim to be again beguiled
into his former weakness. He left him without fear of
any evil consequences; and, returning to Thyrza, made
his preparations for his own immediate departure from
Cordova. He was required to travel far and fast during
the two days which should intervene between that time
and the night appointed for the great meeting of the
conspirators at the Cave of Wamba. He was yet to
notify Abimelech, the young warrior who led the Jews,
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to gather his force along the neighbouring passes, and,
bringing with him a select body of his men to the meeting
at the cave, there provide himself for his entire array
with the arms which, for some time before, Melchior had
been studiously collecting in that place of retreat and
supposed safety. There were yet other duties requiring
his performance calling for despatch; and the time allowed
for his parting with his daughter was much too
brief for the love he bore her, and the sorrowing passion
at his heart. Ere he reached the solitary chamber
which was assigned her in the house of Samuel, he
heard her sad voice in song—a deep, wild lay, seemingly
the offspring of the moment-mood, and truly denoting
the fond and sacred hopelessness of her pure and gentle
spirit.
THE LAMENT OF THYRZA.
I.
And shall there be a song when I am sleeping?
And shall there be a voice when mine is dumb?
Ah, birds—ah, sisters! wherefore would ye sing?
Was not my song a music in the spring—
Was not my voice a bird's that bid ye come,
As if from sloping hills it saw ye leaping,
And gather'd gladness from each glancing wing?
II.
Have I not loved ye, sisters, with a spirit
That did not freeze to bid ye gather round?
Sweet birds—ye never dropp'd a silvery sound,
But my heart leap'd in ecstasy to hear it—
And can ye sing when I am in the ground?
III.
Alas, for me, since sorrow is undying,
And music is sweet sorrow—sad but sweet!
The birds shall lose no voice, though mine no longer
May fondly strive with theirs, for victory vying;
The bowers will not the less bestow retreat,
Nor streams deny to murmur at the feet
Of some sad sister, all denied like me;
While the big torrents, with an accent stronger,
Shall pour a rolling music like the sea.
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IV.
These shall not wail the voice that is departed—
God's blessed things shall know not I am lost—
The temple will not lose me from its choir—
And but one star shall pale its sacred fire,
And shroud itself within the world unborn.
Exiled and hopeless—lone and broken-hearted,
But with no murmur, one old gray-hair'd sire
Shall miss me ever from the crowded host,
And call my name, and hear his voice return
In echoes, and no answer shall be given,
Unless it come from heaven!
V.
Yet in my heart, undying, the sweet feeling
That taught a love of flowers and innocent song
Still spreads its thousand hands to grasp the throng
Each sunny hour of life is still revealing.
My soul shall live in them—my spirit waken
To every blessed bird-note in the trees—
To every murmur when the leaves are shaken
By the sad, sighing breeze.
I cannot lose the lovely hues that rise
In summer-setting skies—
These go not utterly with parting breath,
Oh no! it is not death.
VI.
It is not death—it is but a resuming
Of childhood's peace and infancy's first vision,
The calm of confidence, and the native clime;
Death is the shadow-born, sole child of Time,
Truth's foil, and hope's derision,
The pathway of the blind alone beglooming.
I fear him not, for in my soul I feel it—
Sweet whispers, born of thought, do still reveal it—
These birds shall yet be mine—these songs, these treasures
Of day and sunlight, and the passing pleasures
The night-breeze flings us, which has newly fann'd
Yemen's fresh gardens and the Happy Land.
VII.
Yet, are these hopes to me? oh, what the flowers,
The songs of birds that nestle on my heart,
What if they all depart?
I may not weep to lose them, nor the glory,
The freshness of the blossom-bidden hours
That came about me with such sainted story,
And made heaven-haunted homes of hoary bow'rs—
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I should not find sweet music in the bird,
The whispering hours, in solemn shadow heard,
The fairy, flowery throng,
Nor in the seats of haunt and hopeful song,
Though all with me transferr'd—
If, in that other home, I still abide,
A worshipper denied.
VIII.
My thought is of my childhood's thought no more—
In place of gentle birds and blooming flowers,
I dream of mighty things,
Such as Judea loved and look'd of yore!
An image of command and sceptred powers
Before my vision springs.
A voice is rising ever on mine ear,
A voice of majesty, of peerless sway,
Such as all men must honour and obey—
I see a proud array—
I hear the trumpet ringing, and the song
Of the young bird my childhood loved is lost
In the deep murmur of a marching host
And banner-counted throng.
IX.
Sisters! oh, sisters! these are not for me—
These people are not mine—these things I should not see.
Let the proud Gothic maid from the high tower
Look forth with glittering eye,
And hail, with happy voice, the mighty power
Of a great nation, clothed in majesty,
Marching with pomp of war, and many a cry
Of banner'd princes, on its enemy!
Oh! where should Judah's damsel find a place
Among that victor race!
X.
Yet, sisters, when he comes,
The victor in the fight,
Amid the clang of the barbaric drums,
And follow'd by a shout of far delight—
Be fond, and seek me then—
Bring some sweet flower that hath
Been trampled on his path,
And with a gentle song within mine ear
The pleasant tale declare
Of how he look'd among the crowd of men—
Sweet sisters, ye were bless'd
Thus hallowing my rest!
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The heart of Melchior was subdued within him as
these sad strains fell upon his ears. He dared not then
approach his daughter; but, leaving her for a time to the
indulgence of her sorrows, he fled silently to his own
chamber, and there, unseen, gave free utterance to his.
When he came forth the traces of grief, other than it
was his wont to show, were completely obliterated from
his countenance. In sadness, but without any reference
to the secret care of both their hearts, he now addressed
her; he was about to take his departure for the country,
and, as it was not his purpose to return to Cordova, he
gave her directions as to her mode of procedure during
his absence.
“You will here remain, my child, in the house, and
with the family of my brother Samuel, until you shall
have heard from me. Heed no word that you shall
hear counselling your departure from this place, unless
the bearer shall show to your eyes, when he speaks, the
ring which now you see upon my finger. Do not leave
this dwelling for less reason, unless it be that some
cause to me unknown, and which I look not for, should
compel you. Your own judgment must then direct your
course, and the blessing of the Great Jehovah keep with
you to protect and guide you.”
“But if Amri, my father—should he again seek and
pursue me, for truly do I think it was he who so assailed
me when I was saved from his grasp by—”
She paused—she could not speak the name of Pelayo.
“It may be it was he. I thought not of that,” said
Melchior, musingly—“but now he cannot harm thee.
He is secure for a season—secure from harming thee,
as he himself is secure from harm.”
Melchior then related the occurrence which had taken
place at the house of Adoniakim, which resulted in the
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commitment of the vicious youth to the temporary prison
from which we have witnessed his escape. The cheek
of Thyrza paled with apprehension as she heard the
narrative.
“My mind misgives me, my father, if Amri be in possession
of your secret,” said the maiden.
“There would be danger, my child, were he free.
But he is secure, and the bolt which fetters him is under
the hand of Adoniakim.”
“Alas—his father! I fear that he too greatly loves
Amri to keep him in bondage. Amri will plead and
promise, and Adoniakim will believe and set him free;
and thy life, my father, and the life of—”
She did not finish the sentence. Melchior reassured
her.
“I warned Adoniakim against his weakness, Thyrza,
and his eyes are now fully opened to his son's unworthiness.
There is too much at risk, my child, and the
heavy responsibility upon Adoniakim will keep him
bound to caution. He will not relax the bolt nor draw
the bar which bind Amri until the meeting is over, and
our people have all departed for the mountains, whither it
is our present purpose to depart.”
“Yet, my father, should it be that I see danger, or
hear words of alarm ere the meeting in the cave be over?”
inquired the daughter.
“Then don the garments of the page, my child, and
seek me at the cave. Thou wilt find shelter among its
close recesses from any present danger; and if there
be danger, we shall encounter it, as heretofore we have
ever done, together. Leave not thy weapon, but keep
it secret about thee. Thy power to use it successfully
will much depend on the ignorance of thy assailant that
thou hast such weapon in possession. Thou knowest
the path to the cave?”
“There are two—”
“Take thou that which leads by the Fountain of the
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Damsels. It will be less noted than the other which is
by the woods, and there will be fewer to suspect thy
purpose being flight, as it is a trodden and familiar path.
But I trust there will be no need of this. I would not
have thee fly until I send thee word by a safe hand, for
there may be blows to be given along the passes which
lead to the Asturian mountains, whither we shall guide
our footsteps; and the fierce soldiery will make it unsafe
for thy present travel. Yet take thy own counsel if thou
seest cause of fear in Cordova.”
With other words of advice, mixed with cheering
and fond language besides, the old man took his departure,
leaving his now doubly-desolate daughter to her
own sad moods and heart-sorrowing meditations.
Melchior sped from Cordova mounted upon a noble
steed, which he had chosen as a steed for battle. Long
and late did he ride, and the villages were sought wherever
the Jew could be found, and he who had pledged
himself heretofore had a place and an hour appointed
him for attendance. Similar duties had been assigned
to Abimelech and other leading men among the Hebrews,
so that a goodly number of the more adventurous
and patriotic of the nation were prepared to assemble,
ready to take arms, and gather under the lead of the
princes, to fight against the usurping King Roderick.
Though the toils were great before him, yet did the
venerable Melchior, covered with years and full of sadness,
go forward with a fearless heart and most generous
spirit. He executed the task assigned him so that
nothing was left undone; and, with a speed somewhat
relaxed, pushed his good steed forward on his returning
track towards the Cave of Wamba, where the meeting
of the chiefs was to take place. It was early in the
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afternoon of the day on the night of which they were to
assemble, when Melchior came in sight of the rocks
which lay around the cavern. He alighted from his steed,
which he carefully fastened in a hollow out of sight;
then, pursuing his farther way on foot, he proceeded
to the entrance. It lay in shadow and the deepest silence,
yet the waning and sweetly-softened sunlight was
smiling upon the surrounding hill-tops; and the old man,
whose mind was never unconscious of the lovely and
the lofty things of God's creation, stood a while beholding
the rich glories spread around him. The tinkle of
bells from a shepherd's flock reached his ears, and the
shepherd, when he looked up, was descending in his sight
along the slope of a distant hill which lay between him
and the sunlight. The man was clothed in skins, and
Melchior distinguished that he was a native. “Yet this
man—this miserable man,” said he, musing to himself,
“will link his brute strength to that of the Goth who enslaves
his mind and tramples upon his natural wishes,
while denying his proper wants, to destroy the creature
who has a thought unlike that of his tyrant. Little does
he know that he who gives strength to injustice arms
his own enemy, who in due time will turn his steel from
the bosom of his foe to that of his creature.”
He turned away from gazing, and, as if he strove not
to think, hurried at once into the cave. It was unoccupied.
A dull dead silence reigned over the wide
enclosure save in one spot, near its centre, where a
stream, having a natural basin, murmured continually, as
it found a difficult and narrow aperture through a sunken
chasm in the rock, through which, after much winding,
and a long and secret passage, it found an outlet into
the sunlight. The musing Melchior likened it to the
spirit struggling after truth, which is the moral sunlight.
“Thus,” said he, “at first—it awakens into life with
darkness around it. The rocks environ it. The cold
hangs upon it in fog—men refuse it countenance, and it
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struggles unheeded and without regard. But the sleepless
water wears away the rock in time, and the spirit
thristing after the truth will find a passage from its dungeons.
The rocks cannot always gird it in, and it
makes a chasm. The walls divide—the rocks split; and
slowly, but certainly, through difficulty and darkness, it
emerges from its gloom and captivity, and the smile of
God rests upon it in its freedom, even as the blessed
sunlight hallows these waters when far down, at the
foot of the mountain, they break away into the valley.
And, Father!” he continued, “is not this our cause—the
cause of truth? Is it not for this that we shroud ourselves
in these gloomy places—these natural prisons of
the earth? Find we not an emblem in this secret water?
Shall we not emerge into the glorious sunlight free and
unrestrained? Will not the rocks fail to keep us—shall
we not break the chain—shall we not foil the vigilance,
and defeat the wiles of our oppressors? Be thou with
us, God of Abraham, and the cause of thy people is safe;
the glory of Judah, so long departed, will again return to
him, and the jubilee of his emancipation will be sung in
thy temples.”
From the cavern he emerged as his prayer was concluded.
The blessed sunlight was still around him,
and it was doubly sweet and beautiful in contrast with
that shrouding darkness which in the cave had enveloped
him. A playful bird hopped before his path, and led him
onward with a sweet inviting hum to follow as it flew;
and with a thoughtful and sanguine mind, that drew favourable
auguries at every step as he proceeded, and
led unconsciously his footsteps down the sides of the
sierra, he wandered onward in the direction leading to
Cordova. On a sudden he heard the flight of many
birds, and looking before him, beheld a cloud of them
rising from a wood at a small distance beyond him,
and making their way towards the distant mountains.
Another and another flock followed, and arrested his
further attention.
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“It is from the Fountain of the Damsels they rise,”
said Melchior, musingly—“some one approaches for
water;” and, with no definite intention, he still continued
his walk in the direction of the fountain.
It will be remembered that the impatient Amri, as
the evening of that day approached at the close of which
he hoped to obtain possession of the person of the Hebrew
maiden, wrapped himself in a disguise which he
deemed to be sufficient for concealment, and, accompanied
by one of the soldiers of Edacer who was appointed
to attend him, cautiously approached the dwelling
of the Hebrew Samuel, and narrowly examined its
several modes of entrance and egress. He was determined
not to be foiled again by events, if possible; and
he resolved to guard against the sudden flight of the
maiden through any unknown passage. His examination
resulted in a resolve to divide his attendants, in
order that each of the three doors which he discovered
to belong to the building might have its sufficient guard.
This determined upon, and the station which he was appointed
to keep designated to the eye of the soldier who
was with him, Amri took his departure from the spot,
and hurried away, as we have seen, to the fatal interview
with Urraca, which so terribly foiled his schemes and
terminated his career of crime.
But he pursued not his examination with so much
caution, nor hurried away so soon as to escape notice
and suspicion. It is not the guilty mind only which
suspicion haunts. It is the mind of the weak, the
humble, the oppressed—of him who is conscious of frequent
wrong during the past, and who has little hope of
better fortune from the future—which must regard all
objects with suspicious fear, and every strange aspect
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with jealous circumspection. Even kindness to such a
spirit becomes an object of dread and apprehension, as
it is too frequently found an insidious cover to beguile
the poor heart into confidence the more securely to
ruin and to sting.
The fortune of the persecuted Jew had made him
thus jealous and apprehensive. Feeble and wronged,
he could only oppose to strong-handed injustice the
most sleepless vigilance and the nicest cunning. His
eyes slept never, and his hands were always quick to
convey his valuable possessions from the grasp of his
tyrant. The children of Samuel the Hebrew had early
imbibed the lessons of fear and watchfulness which the
necessities of their father and their people had taught
them. They beheld the suspicious stranger disguised
in his heavy cloak, and closely followed by a ferocious
and half-armed soldier of the governor, as he slowly
walked before and lingered about their dwelling; and
they at once conveyed the intelligence to the elder inmates.
At the first glance upon the suspicious person,
Thyrza was convinced that he was Amri, and a second
look fully confirmed her in her fears of her base enemy.
Amri had paused before the dwelling, and his hand was
uplifted as he pointed out to the eye of his companion
a door that opened from the house upon an inner court.
His cloak was discomposed by the movement of his uplifted
arm, and his bosom partially uncovered. The
colour of his vest was familiar to the eye of Thyrza, and,
with the oppressed and the suffering, to suspect is to fly.
“It is he,” she exclaimed, “it is Amri. I must fly,
my friends, I must seek my father.”
They would have dissuaded her from this sudden
determination; but she was resolute. Yet her resolve
to fly arose from no apprehensions which she entertained
for her own safety. She thought not then of herself.
She thought only of the meeting at the cave of the conspirators—
she feared for the life of her father—she
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thought of the danger of another even dearer; and no
argument of Samuel, and no persuasions of those about
her, could move her from her purpose. She immediately
sought her chamber and proceeded to her preparations.
Once more the garment of the page was made
to conceal her lovely person; once more the dagger
of the desperate was fastened in her girdle, and hidden
by her cloak; and when the unwelcome visiters were
no longer to be seen in the neighbourhood, she sallied
forth, with a trembling heart and hurried footsteps, on
her way by the Fountain of the Damsels to the cave of
Wamba.
Melchior, musing still, and with a mind filled to
overflowing with various and thick-gathering thoughts,
approached the Fountain of the Damsels. Art never
yet has presumed to vie with nature in scooping out so
beautiful a place. The water gushed from the hollow
of a rock, and fell with a playful clatter into the basin of
another and more spacious rock which lay beneath it,
and innumerable fragments of stone were scattered
around, upon which the young maidens who came for
water were wont to sit during the pleasant summer.
Trees grew from the clefts in many parts of the rocks
around, and there were two large trees, the shadows of
which entirely screened the fountains from the sun. It
was one of the most lovely achievements of nature; and
the ambitious art, vain and daring as it is, never yet
dared to impair its loveliness by labouring idly at its improvement.
It stood as it had stood from the first; and
it was venerable and beloved in the regards of the people,
as it had always been the same.
Melchior was aware, as he approached, that a boy sat
upon a loose stone overlooking the fountain; but his
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thoughts were busy within him, and he deigned no
second glance upon the stranger until a faint, sweet,
well-known cry reached his ears, and with a slight scream
the boy bounded towards him.
“My father, oh! my father—I am glad, I am happy.”
“Thyrza, my child—what brings thee here—what
has happened to make thee fly from Cordova? Speak—
let me hear.”
“Amri!” she exclaimed—“Amri!”
“What of Amri!” demanded Melchior.
“He is free!”
“How! who set him free?—not Adoniakim! It
could not be! He could not be so weak. Speak—
what knowest thou?”
“Nothing do I know, my father, save that he is free,”
replied the maiden.
“How knowest thou that?” he demanded.
“Mine eyes beheld him,” she replied, “but a few
hours ago.”
“Where didst thou see him?”
“He walked with a thick garment over him, as if for
concealment, before the dwelling of Father Samuel.”
“Art very sure, my child?” demanded Melchior, with
much concern in his countenance.
“As that I live, my father. I knew him well even
through his disguise; and once, when his arm was lifted,
and he pointed out the dwelling of Father Samuel to the
soldier who came with him—”
“Ha! a soldier with him!”
“Yes, my father—a dark, short man. To him he
pointed out the dwelling, and when his arm was raised
his vest was open—a purple vest, thou knowest—”
“How didst thou know, my child, that his companion
was a soldier?”
“He had a half pike in his hands, my father, and
walked stiffly like a soldier.”
“Wore he a badge, my child?”
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“Of yellow, on his breast—”
“Edacer's badge—'tis done! Some harm has surely
happed to Adoniakim—he has not willingly suffered the
boy to go free. He hath stolen forth, or done his father
some harm to obtain his liberty; and, doubtless, hath
told the secret to Edacer. Come with me, Thyrza. I
must foil them yet.”
Thus saying, the old man led the way to the hills
where his horse had been fastened. He spoke not during
his progress, except musingly to himself, and then
his words were broken and few. At length, when he
had reached the spot where his horse stood, he bade his
daughter mount, which she did, behind him.
“It is not too late,” he said, as much in soliloquy as
for her ears; “Edacer can bring but a small force, and
if I can urge forward the troops of Abimelech, they
will be enough, with the leaders in the cave. We must
ride fast, my child, and I will soon put thee in safety.
Fear nothing, but grasp firmly upon my girdle, and be
of good cheer. Some three leagues hence he bides—
in two fair hours we shall be there—then thou wilt rest.
In two hours more we can return to the cave. Yes—
in that way only—but it must be done. Art sure of
thy hold, my child?”
She replied in the affirmative. Melchior then gave
the word to his steed, and they were soon stretching
away for the lively plain where Abimelech held himself
in readiness, with the Hebrews who had come out with
him to the war.
Two hours later, and the cavern which Melchior had
left in solitude and darkness presented other aspects.
It was illuminated by flaring torches, borne by the immediate
attendants of several of the conspirators. A
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hundred armed warriors were its occupants, and the reflected
glare of the fire from their shining weapons and
glittering armour made the spectacle a noble and imposing
one. And it was noble and imposing in other and
more essential respects. The true patriots—such as
loved their country, and lamented her downfall and degradation—
few though they were, and compelled to seek
in secrecy and by stealth for their just rights, were now
assembled for the last time ere they awoke the war-cry
and drew the blade openly against the usurper. These
were now met, claiming to be the national council of
Iberia. They claimed to hold in their hands the true
popular sovereignty of Spain; and from that hour we
may date her deliverance from the Goth, and her first
rise as a nation in the presence of the world. True,
they had not yet the power and the sway, but they had
the spirit for the achievement; and it does not need that
we should now be told that where there is that spirit of
freedom, there also will be, in time, the substance. The
bands of the tyrant may press and repress, but it can be
for a season only. Warriors are but flesh, and that perishes;
but the true principle is immortal—though smothered
and hidden in the caverns of the earth, the sacred
fire is never utterly extinguished.
It was to meet this august assembly that Pelayo had
brought his brother. They were assembled when the
two princes reached the entrance of the cavern. Ere
yet the elder Prince Egiza entered the subterranean
apartment, and before his approach was known to those
within, Pelayo once more addressed him. His language
was earnest and imploring. He seized Egiza's
hand as he spoke, and pressed it with all the warmth of
a true affection.
“Brother,” said he, “ere thou goest, and before our
friends behold thee, I implore thee, shake off this weakness.
Remember thy father, thy name, thy own hope
and character. Let them not degrade thee as a
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coward, for assuredly will they do this if thou hangest back
when thou shouldst go forward. Remember, it is the
Council of Spain—the great Council of the Nation
which receives thee—the nobles who yet cling to the
throne of thy fathers, and to the ancient principles of
the people. In them is the power of election—in them
is the power of destruction. Life and death are in their
hands, and by thy temper this hour will they judge thee.”
The reply of Egiza was cold, and unresponsive to
the warm appeal of his brother.
“It is thou that hast brought me into this peril, Pelayo,”
said he, reproachfully.
“Alas! my brother, wouldst thou not have perilled
thy good name, thy honour, thy pledged word as well as
mine. I have rescued thee from this peril. Be thou
not now a traitor to thyself. Upon thy word now hangs
thy honour; and more—I say to thee in warning—upon
thy true action will depend thy life. Beware of thy
weakness—pledge thyself to our people—become their
leader, and let them crown thee, as, if thou falterest not,
they will freely do, their king.”
“No more,” said Egiza, “no more! It may not be
as thou sayest. It were a dreadful loss to me now were
I to take arms against Roderick, and I am sworn not to
do so.”
“They will slay thee, Egiza, if thou sayest so,” said
Pelayo.
“My blood be upon thy head!” was the stern reply
as they went forward.
The audience rose as one man to receive the princes,
and a murmur of pleasure ran through the assembly,
mingled with the half-suppressed shoutings of many.
The ear of Egiza, however, could distinguish more
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frequently the name of Pelayo than his own, and his hostile
feeling to his brother found due increase from this
circumstance. But he smiled scornfully as he reflected,
for he thought that his brother had been improperly striving
and seeking to supersede him in the estimation of
the people. Pelayo saw his secret thought, and turned
away in bitterness and sadness of spirit from the contemplation
of one having his blood in his veins, yet so unworthy
of it.
“We have waited for thee, Prince Egiza,” said Count
Eudon, speaking for the rest. “We looked to have
found you here in grave preparation, and much has it
grieved us that other matters of moment have made
it needful that you should bestow your time otherwise
than upon your people.”
“Yet have I had no unfitting representative, my Lord
Eudon, in the person of my brother. He, methinks,
has not unworthily fulfilled the trust which I have given
him. He hath laboured with you, if I err not, in this
weighty business.” The speech of Egiza, though uttered
in a bitter mood and with sarcastic reference, was
received in a literal sense by his audience.
“Rightly hast thou spoken, Prince Egiza. Pelayo
has truly fulfilled his trust, and with a diligence and forward
spirit that craved not slumber in the execution of
his duties. Were it possible for a prince to fulfil his responsibilities
to his people through the help of an agent,
none better could have been found for his purpose than
Pelayo. We, who have seen him toiling without craving
rest, moving among his enemies without fear or
precipitation, and devoting every thought and every energy
to the good of his people and of his prince, may
not scruple to confirm thy words, and award him the full
justice which he merits. But we are not willing, Prince
Egiza, to believe that the sovereign may sleep while his
good servant works in his behalf; for then the king becomes
but a shadow, and he who performs his offices
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is wanting in his responsibility, and may not possess the
high principles as he may lack the blood of his master.
It were a sad misfortune to the nation of Spain, or to
any nation, if its monarch ruled over its people by a
deputy.”
“My lords, you are about to err in two ways,” said
Egiza, in reply to this reproachful speech. “You would
assume for me, in the first place, the desire to be your
sovereign—”
“And do you not?” cried Lord Eudon, and Count
Aylor and many lords followed him in the demand.
“Hear him not, my lords; how can he gainsay his
blood? How can Egiza refuse to be the King of Spain?
He is bound to you by blood—by his father's name and
bidding—by his own pledges!” exclaimed Pelayo.
“He is bound to obey the National Council of Spain,”
was the solemn response of Count Eudon; “and in its
name, Prince Egiza, I demand of you, what has been
done by you or after your command in the prosecution
of our war against the usurper, Roderick the Goth.”
“Perhaps it were better that you address such demand
to him who has so ably been performing for your
sovereign the duties which should have been his charge.
Pelayo, there, shall answer you.” The cold insolence
of this reply was felt by all of the assembled lords, and
by none more than Pelayo, but he said nothing. Leaning
with his elbow upon the projecting ledge of a rock,
he awaited the further proceedings of the council.
“Prince Pelayo, as it is the will of your brother, we
would hear from you. We would not willingly proceed
in any manner until we shall have been taught as to
your proceedings, lest our several doings conflict unhappily,
and end in peril to our cause. What is the
word from the Lord Oppas?”
In obedience to the commands of Lord Eudon, who
presided over the council, Pelayo advanced from the
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rock on which he had been leaning, and thus addressed
the assembly:
“My Lords, Nobles, and Gentlemen of Spain—
“Before I unfold to you my various performances in
behalf of our prince and people, let me say, that from
this moment I surrender up into your hands and the
hands of my brother, from whom it came, all the authority
under which I have toiled; and I would have you
learn that, in all that I have willed or done, I have done
as best it seemed unto a poor mind unskilled in the
great affairs which belong to a nation, but not unmindful
nor wanting in zeal to do that which to it seemed
most necessary and proper to be done. And I give
thanks here to the trusty and brave men, many of whom
I see around me, who have freely seconded my poor
labours, and lent their wise counsels to my assistance.
This is all. I have done with this. I am not apt at
mouth-speech even to speak my courtesy, trusting rather
for its show to the action which speaks ever more than
words. If now the Lord Eudon will propound his
question, I am ready to answer according to my best
capacities.”
Pelayo paused; and after a few words of general
compliment uttered among the nobles, Count Eudon
repeated the inquiry which he had made ere Pelayo
spoke.
“What word from the Lord Oppas?”
“A warm encouragement he sends to you to prosecute
your present goodly enterprise. He has also
placed at your disposal a large amount of money, of
which he prays you to make such disposition as in your
mind may best serve against Roderick. He limits you
to this. He will not give for any other purpose.”
“But comes he not to join us with his household?”
“He does not, my lord, for various reasons. It is
for you to say with what propriety.”
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“May they be said, Pelayo?”
“They may, my lord, though it may be I shall not
phrase them so ably as my worthy uncle might have
done. The Lord Oppas loves stratagem, I prefer
open strife. He would do, but he would do secretly;
what I do, that would I do openly. He loves patience,
I prefer liberty. Shall I speak more nicely? Thus,
then. The lord bishop is summoned in close attendance
upon Roderick. He is busy in Roderick's household,
and I have his word that he is serving us ably
with those who are about him. He hath a glozing trick
of speech which I affect not, but which is a strong argument
for right with many; and he promises me that he
will soon be able, by this same trick of speech, to send
us better aid than twice or even thrice the force of his
household in battle. He hath a head full of artifice,
and a tongue which so ably seconds it, that, spite of his
blood relationship to us, he hath won a close confidence
from Roderick, who holds him in long consultation upon
great affairs of the nation.”
“May he not betray us, Pelayo? May he not be
won by Roderick, who but shows him this seeming
confidence the better to practice upon him?”
“I think not, my Lord Aylor. My uncle hath a
trick of the church—he hears confessions, but he makes
none; he is true to us, though it would please me better
if he rode the war-steed Courage instead of the jade
Dissimulation. He will serve us, doubtlessly, quite as
much where he is as where I would have him, though
it would please me better that his word should be more
manful.”
“And what hope is there that Count Julian of Consuegra
will leave the cause of the usurper, and find the
right with us.”
“None! Roderick has bought him to his service,
and he now goes to meet the Saracens who arm against
his government of Ceuta. There is better hope for our
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open movement in his absence, since he will then take
with him a veteran army that might greatly check our
first efforts if employed against us.”
“And of the Jews with whom thou hast made league—
what of the old man, Melchior—the outlaw?”
“He should be here to-night,” said Pelayo, anxiously;
“I wonder that I see him not.”
“Art thou sure of him? If he betray us—” said
Aylor.
“I fear not that,” said Pelayo; “but he hath many
and active enemies in the city of Cordova, even among
his own people, and the price set upon his head by
Roderick makes his dwelling there perilous. I fear
not that he will do us wrong—I only fear for him.”
“What hath he done, Pelayo, so to secure thy confidence?”
“Given up his wealth; provided us with means
we had else wanted; and been a sleepless labourer in
the cause. These arms, my lords,” pointing to the collection
which filled a recess of the cave, “are of his provision
solely; and already he hath shown to me the
names of near a thousand of his people, pledged to join
our ranks when it shall be said we need them. Even
now they assemble in other places, and seek in small
bodies the mountain passes of the Asturias, where I have
sworn to meet them.”
Pelayo then proceeded to unfold the particulars of his
agency, which he related with a strictness, a fulness,
and general regularity of detail which rendered all his
statements perfectly clear to his audience. When he
had done he received the cheering acclamations of the
lords, and then sank back in silence to the place which
he had formerly occupied, leaning upon a projection of
the rock, and awaiting in sadness the further progress
of events.
Meanwhile Egiza said nothing. The Lord Aylor
then addressed him.
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“Prince Egiza, the performances of thy brother,
which to us are full of proof that he hath been a strict
and provident servant of thy will, seem not to touch thee.
Thou approvest of them?”
“If they please ye, my lords, what matters it whether
I cheer or chide? Doubtless he hath done well.”
“This is cold courtesy, prince, for noble service;
and thy nobles in council assembled are grieved to behold
a spirit in thee which looks adversely upon thy
brother; and it has been said to us that you are but a
laggard in the good cause which should warm us all—
the cause of your king and country.”
“I am not cold or laggard in the cause,” said Egiza,
“if it were hopeful, my lords; but it were a needless
sacrifice of lie and waste of valour, with our poor
abilities, to strive against Roderick.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Aylor, and his exclamation was
seconded by many. Pelayo started forward.
“My brother would not risk ye, gentlemen—'tis for
your sakes he pauses. But when ye speak, and show
him that you nothing heed the risk, and freely take the
danger to yourselves—”
“Nothing pledge for me,” said Egiza, coldly. Pelayo
persisted, however, and approached him.
“But, brother, when I show you that our force, Count
Julian's being absent, will avail—”
“Show me nothing. You shall not force me at your
pleasure, Pelayo, to do what I refuse.”
“But 'twas your will, my brother.”
“I have changed it,” replied Egiza.
Pelayo turned away indignantly. This little dialogue
had been conducted in under tones, but yet it reached
the ears of the council, particularly the latter sentence
of Egiza; and Count Aylor, as chief of the council,
spoke.
“We do not change so soon in our purposes, Prince
Egiza, nor are we a people bound to submit to such
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caprice. Do you behold in us, prince, the National
Assembly of Spain?”
“I hold you so, my lords,” said Egiza, promptly.
“'Tis well; and now, Prince Egiza, it were better
if, to the question I shall now put to thee, thy answer
shall be equally prompt and pleasing. The National
Council of Spain is now assembled to take measures for
the overthrow of her tyrant, for the resumption of her
rights, for the array of her armies. They call upon
thee to help them in this service. Wilt thou, as first of
blood, having a claim of lineage from Recared the
Great, assume their lead? Wilt thou, if so they call,
become their sovereign, bound by their old laws and
pledged to their protection? Art thou ready? Speak!”
A general silence prevailed in the assembly when
this question was put. The members were all anxious
to hear the reply of Egiza, for it had been already said
among them that he shrunk back from the work which
he had been the first to begin, and that he was no longer
willing to risk his life in the cause of the common liberty.
Egiza beheld this anxiety, and he felt the toils
closing around him. He turned and fixed his eyes
upon Pelayo, but his brother was immoveable, and still
stood leaning upon the rock. Egiza could not but see
the anguish which was in his countenance, and he turned
from beholding him with increased disquiet at his heart.
He half believed that Pelayo had striven to drive him
from those regards of his people, which he himself was
now disposed to yield and set aside, and regarded the
present meeting as one calculated rather to entrap him
among enemies than to secure his services and influence
for the nation.
Doubtless there were some in the assembly—perhaps
many—who, if a choice between men were the question,
would unhesitatingly have preferred Pelayo; but they
were desirous of obtaining for their sanction the eldest
son and most obvious successor of their late monarch;
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and, perhaps, the unanimous voice was ready for the
election of Egiza. But the unhappy prince could not
believe this. He was wilful not less than bewildered.
He had promised Cava not to take up arms against her
father, and, by consenting to lead the conspirators, such
an event was, perhaps, unavoidable. But whether he
met with Julian in battle or not, the evil was not the
less great to him, since it could not be supposed that her
father would ever consent to her marriage with one denounced
by his sovereign as a rebel in arms against his
authority. It has been seen that there was no prospect
of persuading Count Julian to adopt the same cause
with himself; and, according to his passionate yet narrow
mode of thinking, he adopted that course which,
while it lost him the regards of the one, failed to secure
him those of the other. Rebellion trusts not the half
resolved, and tyranny is equally exclusive. The lords
assembled in the cavern, and calling themselves the
great council of the nation, were resolved upon having
from him a direct acknowledgment of their authority.
This he could not refuse to do without tacitly declaring
for the usurper, since theirs was the only existing authority
in the country at variance with his. They had
heard vague rumours of his attachment to the daughter
of Count Julian, and they were too jealous of those liberties,
for which they were willing to die, to suffer them to
be the sport of a doubtful leader or an ill-digested design.
Egiza saw, in the countenances of all around him, that
they were men of resolution; that they were well assured
of their own authority, and determined upon its execution.
He saw that they were not less able than resolute, and
he felt that his opposition could only result in his defeat.
Yet how could he yield? He could not. He could
not yield to his own fears what he had refused to the
reasoning of his brother, and the prayers of his brother
and friends alike. Once more he looked upon Pelayo,
and his jaundiced spirit fancied that he detected a smile
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upon his lips, and the glance of his eye seemed to have
correspondence with that of his questioner, Count Eudon.
This resolved him. He looked proudly upon the
chief of the council as he thus replied:
“Methinks, Count Eudon, there is little need that
you should look to me to lead you in these matters.
See I not, in the high thoughts which you all have of the
worth and diligence of my brother, that in truth you look
to him. He is your best servant. He hath no scruples
such as trouble me. A hundred men will suffice
with him to lead against the force of Roderick. I have
no such skill in war. I cannot compass such great
ends as these you design with so scant a provision.
Let Pelayo be your choice, my lords—I will not be your
sovereign.”
“Prince Egiza!” exclaimed Lord Eudon, as the
assembly gathered round, anxious and silent, “know
you not that in the hands of the National Council of
Spain lies the award of life and death, of honour and of
shame, and that to deny their authority and to refuse
obedience to their decree is to provoke their doom?”
“I deny not your authority, my lords; I hold you to
be the National Council of Spain, and, as such, you
have the powers of life and death. I deny not your
authority, and I am willing to submit to your doom,”
calmly and gloomily replied Egiza, who now stood
apart from the rest. Pelayo approached him with rapid
strides.
“Say not so, my brother—recall your words, Egiza,
and speak your readiness to do battle for your people.
Give him time, my lords, press not upon him so. Grave
matters, such as these, call for grave deliberation, and
he should have it. Speak, my brother; declare yourself
ready to lead them against Count Julian.”
“Never! Away—thou hast betrayed me, Pelayo,
and I would not hear thee speak,” said Egiza, scornfully
interrupting him. But Pelayo continued:—
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“I forgive thee this too—I forgive thee all, Egiza,
so thou wilt but speak as they would have thee. Thou
art the rightful king—'tis but a word, and a new kingdom
waits thee. A most noble kingdom, too, my
brother—not of the Iberian, not of the Goth, not of the
Roman, but of Spain's mingling people, all thy subjects.
Speak—say, my brother, and the first knee that bends
to thee is the knee of Pelayo.”
“Thy words are hateful to me, Pelayo, for I hold
thee to have brought me with bad design among mine
enemies. Thou wouldst have my blood—thou wouldst
push me from thy way. I know thee, and I scorn to
hear thee speak.”
The ire of Pelayo kindled in his eye, and his whole
frame shook with his suppressed emotion. He drew
back, however, and said no more, but again leaned
against the ledge of the rock. Count Eudon then
spoke.
“It surely needs not much time, Egiza, to resolve
so clear a question. Thou hast had a long season for
thought already; and it should have been a fixed answer
in thy mind before, to say whether thou wilt obey
the council of thy nation or abide its decrees. It calls
upon thee, through me, to lead its armies against the
common enemy—to take its power upon thee, and become,
when they shall have lifted thee upon the shield,
the true monarch of the realm of Spain. Speak I
rightly, my lords—is not this your word?”
“It is—it is,” was the unanimous cry.
“It may not be, my lords! I cannot lead you,” said
Egiza, with a calm, conclusive manner, and with his
arms folded in resignation; but his eye was turned
upon Pelayo in doubtfulness and in ire. Count Aylor
then advanced into the centre, and, lifting his right arm
on high, spoke aloud with a terrible voice.
“My lords and noble gentlemen, the National Council
of Spain—hear me: I do pronounce the Prince
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Egiza, son of Witiza, a traitor to the realm, and I claim
judgment and the doom against him.”
“He is no traitor,” shouted Pelayo, rushing forward
in the face of the assembly, and confronting Aylor.
“He is no traitor, my lords. He hath erred, he still
errs, and his wanderings I may not approve; but he is
noble—noble as any gentleman in Spain. With my arm
will I maintain his worth, and with good blows assert
his truth against any warrior in this high presence.
Who calls him traitor I will prove one, and hold from
this moment my foe.”
While thus generously Pelayo came forward in his
behalf, the unhappy Egiza looked composedly around
him, but said nothing. He seemed stubbornly indifferent
to any direction which the affair might take. The
Lord Aylor, nowise daunted by the rash challenge of
Pelayo, and, indeed, nowise provoked to wrath, replied
gently, but with sufficient firmness to show that he was
neither to be driven from his position nor baffled in his
purpose.
“Thy defiance, Prince Pelayo,” he replied, “in no
manner confounds or offends me. It is worthy of thy
blood that thou shouldst be valiant; it is due to thy kindred
that thou shouldst boldly come forth in defence of
thy brother. I would that he had thus boldly come forward
for himself. It had given better hope to his people
that he was still worthy to lead them to our foe.
But he has no voice; the spirit of valour has gone from
him with the consciousness of virtue; he dares not, because
he does not nobly. If he be no traitor, as I
charge upon him, let him speak—let him strike—let
him go with us in battle—let him approve his faith.”
“He will—in good season will he do this, my lord,”
was the prompt response of Pelayo; “but, I pray you,
noble lords and brave warriors of Spain, bear with me
for a while. I have that to say in your ears which shall,
I trust, acquit my brother of the charges which you so
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heavily make against him; and, if it do not utterly acquit
him of error or of weakness, will at least bring
ye to behold him with a sad reflection, and pity for the
mischance of mind which seems to have befallen him.
You all have seen him, my lords, when he battled first
in the eye of our father, and won his bloody laurels from
the insurgent Basques. That he is brave ye have but
to look back to your memories for his gallant doings
then. He was no laggard in that season, and his froward
valour and his good success won him praises, as
ye well know, from every tongue.”
The reply of Aylor was no less ready than had been
that of Pelayo.
“That we well know, Prince Pelayo; and it is the
greater wonder with us, that, having been so valiant
then, he should prove himself so laggard now. Hence
our unbelief in his virtue, and the reason which he gives
us for thus shrinking from the encounter which is our
aim. We well know that there is nothing coward in his
blood; and we can believe only that he has grown traitorous
to our cause, and is sold to the usurper.”
Egiza grasped the hilt of his sword, and his lip quivered
with his anger; but he closed his lips firmly, turned
half aside from the presence of Aylor, whom he had
angrily confronted while he spoke, and, with difficult effort,
composed himself to silence, while Pelayo replied
to the bitter speech which had so much roused him.
“A cruel thought, Lord Aylor, and most unkindly
uttered; a thought which it would better please me to
meet with strife than other answer, but which I calmly
speak to, as I would not disturb our purpose by show of
that anger which were so much better shown to our enemies.
Let me remind you, then, that the ban of Roderick
is even now upon the head of Egiza. His mercenaries
track our footsteps, and the knowledge of his
place of concealment is fatal to his life. How, then, is
he bought by the usurper? and wherefore should he
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yield up his throne, by which he should have all that
Roderick could give him, and far more? and what is
the proud temptation which, in thy thought, has won him
away from the faith which he had pledged to his people,
and the homage which they proffer in return? What is
the mighty bribe which has bought him to such dishonour?”
A grim smile on the lip of Aylor prefaced his reply.
“Thou shalt have my answer but too soon to thy
confident demand, Prince Pelayo; the bribe which has
bought thy brother from his faith is not less known to us
than is his treason. The daughter of Julian of Consuegra
is the prince of his honour.”
Three strides brought Egiza to the place where Aylor
stood, and with a keen eye fixed upon the assailant,
and a demeanour which might have terrified a less determined
foe, he replied in tones of thunder to the
charge.
“Lord Aylor, thou liest in thy throat—my soul is
more free from dishonour, such as thou imputest to it,
than is thine in thy slavish suspicion. I will not deny
to ye, my lords, that I love the Lady Cava, the daughter
of the Count of Consuegra—that I truly love her;
yet with no such passion as would move me to yield in
shameless sacrifice one solitary principle of right, one
pledge of faith or service which I have ever made to ye
or any; nor, let me add, without fear or shame, to what
I have already revealed to ye—that my suit, though well
advanced to the maiden and found gracious in her ears,
is in no wise favoured or accepted by Count Julian.
He, in truth, denies me, and with violence—”
The voice of Pelayo was heard at this moment—
“My lords, thus do I also avouch. I have heard
the language of Count Julian in denial, and have seen
his violence towards my brother.”
The eye of Egiza was fixed scornfully upon him
while he spoke, and his acknowledgments were thus
made when he had concluded:
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“My lords, if there be need of other lips to confirm
the truth of what I have said, and would say, to the ears
of this fair assembly, I speak no more. I have already
said but too much for the complexion of mine honour.”
Pelayo advanced, striving with conflicting feelings,
while he gave utterance to the most earnest appeal to
his brother's better feelings and more sober reason.
“Oh, brother,” he exclaimed, “play not so wildly
with thy own fortunes, and the affections which thou so
little knowest to value. Take, I implore thee, a truer
thought to thee of thy duties and of me. Defy not our
love as our hate—beware of such rash defiance. I forgive
thee—I forgive thee thy harsh and idle judgment
of me and of my performances, but I cannot forgive
thee, nor will these around forgive thee, thy most erring
judgment of what should be thine own. Be wise, I
pray thee, for thy own sake no less than for the sake of
our good cause.”
“No words with thee,” was the cold answer. “I
speak but to these noble lords—I have ears for no
other.”
“Thou speakest like a madman or a child,” replied
Pelayo, with a resumption of his former dignity, “and
I regard thee with too much pity to be angry with thee
now.”
The Lord Aylor replied to Egiza after the following
manner:
“So far, 'tis well, Prince Egiza; I bear with thy reproach
of falsehood, since I now have some hope of thy
truth. Having said that Julian denies thee, thou canst
have no hope from him?”
“None!” was the reply.
“What hinders, then, that thou shouldst continue
thy pledges to us? What binds thee to this apathy?
Wherefore wouldst thou withdraw from thy own cause
and ours, and forsake the honourable strife which is to
give us a common liberty?”
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“I answer thee,” replied Egiza, sternly, “my own
mood—my free, calm resolve denies thee, and hinders
such pursuit. I am, I trust, the master of my own
mind, and I yield it to no will of thine, Lord Aylor, nor
to that of any other here.”
“Then hear us, Prince Egiza,” replied Aylor, with a
stern solemnity; “if thou, having pledged to us a service
which thou art pleased to withdraw from at thy will,
art thus resolved, it will not offend thee to learn that we
too have a will in this matter; and that the National
Council of Iberia have, in addition to this will, the tribute
powers of life and death, the power of judgment
and doom no less than of reward and elevation. To
their power I now refer thee for thy judgment, for I do,
in Heaven's presence and thine own, pronounce thee
a traitor to their authority not less than to thine own
pledges; and I demand of them the doom upon thee
such as the traitor may deserve—the doom of death, if
they hold thee worthy of the headsman—or, if they
think too meanly of thy valour, and yet distrust thy ambition,
the shaven crown of the monk.”
“I am before ye—in your power—it must be as ye
will, my lords. Ye may destroy me by the axe, or ye
may degrade me in your malice. Be it so! Yet,”
unsheathing his sword as he spoke, “though ye deem
me base, ye will not find me coward! There must be
strife ere ye do your will upon me, and one life or more
shall pay for the doom and the dishonour which ye
meditate.”
Slowly receding as he spoke, he placed his back
against a massive projection of the rock, and prepared
with a manful valour to do battle to the last. His show
of decision, though late, gave pleasure to Pelayo; and
when Eudon, Aylor, and many other lords prepared
with drawn swords to rush upon the refractory Egiza,
Pelayo, also drawing his weapon, placed himself midway
between them.
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“Stay, my lords; ere you move in this procedure, I
pray your attention to my words.”
“Not now, Pelayo,” was the prompt reply of Aylor,
who was about to advance. The sword of Pelayo
gleamed before his eyes.
“You hear me or you feel me, Lord Aylor. If you
hear not reason, you are no less enemies to me than ye
are to Egiza. Be not rash like him. What we do we
do as a great people, not as wilful and passionate children.
Hear me speak to you as such; I pray you hear
me. I would resume my argument in behalf of my
brother, and think to render good reasons which shall
bespeak your indulgence for his most erring mood.”
The Lord Eudon, who had officiated as moderator of
the assembly, now prayed the hearing of the lords; and,
having obtained silence, declared for the rest their readiness
to listen. Thus encouraged, Pelayo began as follows,
with an argument in defence of his brother which,
though he urged it with all warmth, it is no disparagement
to his honesty to add, he was not himself altogether
satisfied to believe such as would or should be satisfactory
to them. The tie of kindred gave the impulse
which moved him to the defence, of which a deliberate
reason might well have despaired.
“I have said, my lords,” resumed Pelayo, in defence
of Egiza, “that my brother, when fighting with the insurgent
Basques, approved his valour, which became a
lauded thing, and the theme of praise even among the
bearded warriors of our army—men who had coped
with the Roman legions. Nor in this warfare alone did
he win the applause of our people. When the rebel
Roderick first rose in arms, and we encountered his
fierce lieutenant, the one-armed Palitus, whom he slew,
it was a marvel to all how Egiza fought. The murder
of my father — sad mischance!—then followed; and
though the news spread panic among our followers, so
that they deserted our banner, and fled to the caves and
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heights for safety—not less courageous, though all alone,
he kept a strong heart, and his counsel and resolve was
then that we should do battle to the last. He took
heart, even from the heartlessness of those who followed
us, for a new and more desperate war. You all remember
his counsels on the plains of Aurilia?”
Here the Lord Aylor, with a triumphant smile, thus
interrupted him.
“All this but helps, Prince Pelayo, to approve my
words, since it speaks loudly against the present temper
of Egiza. Wherefore this sudden change of mood but
in treason? Wherefore should he shrink now from the
battle which he prayed for then, if he were not false to
the principles for which we have striven in despite of
danger and privation. Thy words but help to his conviction.”
“Nay, be patient,” replied Pelayo, “and thou wilt
hear. Dost think that a natural force could so have altered
him? could so have changed valour into cowardice,
strength to weakness, and the noble into the base
spirit? Impossible! The truth is, my lords, that my
brother suffers from disease; some potent witchery is
working in his brain, so to impair its reason and to enfeeble
the manhood of his soul.”
“Ay, the disease of treachery, Pelayo; the base
malady which made him sell himself to Roderick, and
give up the noble struggle for his own rights, such as
manhood would have taken; preferring, as a boon, the
life which he should rather lose than take at the hands
of him by whose blow his father perished. He suffers
the disease of a base selfishness only, which makes him
heedless of the loss of liberty to his friends—their
hourly risk of life—their long-continued privation, while
he sneaks to base security, and to the womanish enjoyments
which make up all his desire in existence.”
“A while, my lord,” replied Pelayo, with an effort at
calmness which he saw was essential to his success in
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pleading the cause of one for whom so little could be
said; “a while, my lord, and, ere I pause, methinks I
will give a sufficient answer to your harsh opinion.
Egiza, surely, has not yielded this power to Roderick,
and bows not in obedience to that tyrant without some
recompense. Can ye say what is the pleasant boon
which hath moved him to this baseness? What is the
price of his treachery with which ye reproach him? I
see it not, and, I make bold to say, ye see it not. Well
I know Egiza hath none of it as yet. The countenance
of Roderick hath no smiles for him. The ban of the
tyrant makes him an outlaw no less than ourselves, and
decrees him, if taken, to the same cruel doom. 'Twas
but late that, with mine own eyes, I saw the usurper's
lieutenant with threatening weapon at his breast. Ay,
my lord, the same Count Julian, through whose fair
daughter ye deem my brother to be bought by the tyrant;
his weapon was set in serious anger at the bosom
of Egiza, and their swords clashed, and, but for my arm,
would have clashed fatally, in controversy together.
Smacks this of treachery in Egiza? Looks it like favour
in Julian's sight, or in the sight of Roderick, that
the sword of the lieutenant struck at the rebel? Had
it been that Julian had sent his daughter, with a goodly
dowry and a mighty train to my brother, and he had taken
her, there had been some reason in the thought
which ye hold of his treachery. There is, sure, no
reason now.”
The words of Pelayo were not without some influence
upon the assembly, but they did not satisfy the
stubborn Aylor.
“Wherefore, then,” he demanded, “this sudden
change in his spirit? Why would he forego his hate
to Roderick? Why withhold himself from the goodly
cause in which his friends are yet striving, through peril
but with hope, and deprive us of the valiant arm whose
prowess we have witnessed, and which, in this same
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cause, hath already so nobly striven? True, we see not
that he hath the tyrant's reward as yet; true, the ban of
outlawry is yet upon him; but have we assurance that it
will be so long? What proof that the price of his treachery
is not already on its way to reward him? We see
no proof against this. We only know that he deserts
our cause, dishonours his own pledges, and, if he be no
traitor, plays a mad game, which gives him all the savour
and countenance of one. Wherefore all this,
Prince Pelayo? Unfold to us the mystery of this reason,
and leave us to think upon it.”
“My Lord Aylor,” replied Pelayo, “this matter is
no less a mystery to me than to you; but enough, as it
is a mystery, that we should take no precipitate measures
upon it which shall mislead our judgment into
wrong. Truth to say, but that I have seen him brave,
his late remissness had moved me to hold him coward;
but that I know him honest, I had been led to think him
base and treacherous, with a suspicion no less conclusive
than your own.”
“Thinking thus, Prince Pelayo,” responded the other,
“yet resolving as you do, is a mystery no less great
to me. How name you, then, this disease of which
you have spoken, and which, according to your thought,
so enfeebles his soul and defeats his present action?”
“Truly, my lord, I have no name for it; but I regard
it as none other than an evil power wrought upon him
by some malignant enemy. We all do know that there
are spirits of evil, which do work, even by Divine permission,
for strange ends, upon the minds and bodies of
men; usurping, in their thoughts, the place which had
else been occupied with wisdom's councils, and infecting
them with unfriendly and peevish moods, which
make their victim no less desperate than erring; till, in
season, he perishes by his own hand, or else gives provocation
to another who shall destroy him. In such extremity
of fortune do I hold my brother a victim—but
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not wilful—that, were we to practice on him, we should
but help the cunning purpose of the subtle fiend which
hath so grievously possessed him.”
In a time teeming with superstition, such as necessarily
belonged to that period in the moral world when a
fresher and purer religion is struggling for its place in the
minds of men with those degrading ones which have debased
and kept them down, a faith such as that professed
by Pelayo in this particular was not only not uncommon,
but was, indeed, of very general acceptance even among
the better classes of mankind. The reply of the Lord
Eudon spoke, therefore, the sentiments of all around.
“It may be, Pelayo,” he said, “that such is the cruel
misfortune of the Prince Egiza; and loath, indeed, were
we to execute upon him a decree due more to his infirmity
than to the unhappy victim upon whom it preys. It
better pleases me to believe that such is his misfortune—
though it gives me pain still that he should suffer from
it—than to believe him base, unfriendly to our purposes,
and untrue to the sacred pledges given to his dead father's
memory and to our living liberties.”
“Believe it, my lord, believe it all. He is not untrue,
save as he is for the time the victim to untruth.
He will recover—he will shake the demon from his hold,
and ye shall see him strike, as before ye have seen him,
in the cause of his people and his sire.”
“And yet,” said the Lord Aylor, who presided, “suppose
we deem your reason good, Pelayo, and spare his
life, and withhold the stroke of justice—which, to speak
truth, we had resolved—upon him, what have we to secure
us, that, in his infirmity, under this evil influence as
in his wilfulness, he may not yet undo us by some bad
practice, some unhappy treachery, some wild, perverse
defection? This disease, which has led him thus far,
may yet lead him farther. What pledge canst thou
give us for his truth—for his forbearance of all treachery?”
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“My life upon it—I pledge you my head in his behalf,”
was the unhesitating response of Pelayo.
Egiza, who had heard with momently increasing
scornfulness, but without a word, the defence which Pelayo
had made, and the various replies of Eudon, now,
when the former had concluded the dialogue by a solemn
offering of his own life as an assurance of his brother's
truth, could forbear no longer. With an imperious
voice and manner, he advanced from the rock against
which he had leaned the while, and thus interposed:
“I need no pledge for my honour, my lord, and, least
of all, the pledge of one who, to my thinking, has not
always been heedful of his own.”
“I pity thee!” was the involuntary reply of Pelayo.
“And thee I hate!” exclaimed the other, while the
white foam was driven through his gnashing teeth, and
gathered upon his lips, almost stifling their utterance.
“Thy wilful speech, Egiza,” continued Pelayo, calmly,
“and the insane direction of thy mood, do more
than ever confirm me in the thought that thou art the
victim of some unhappy malady. Thou shalt not anger
me.”
Thus speaking, he turned from the really almost insane
youth, and, with a dignified firmness, addressed the
assembly.
“My lords, ye have heard me. If ye deem a pledge
wanting in Egiza's favour, ye have mine. I know him
honest, fear not his treachery, and freely place my head
at your disposition should he err to your injury. In a
little space I trust that his malady will leave him to himself
and to you. You shall then behold his sword
among the foremost, piercing to the core of the usurper's
battle—piercing, Heaven grant it, to his own! Now,
spare him, I pray you, to his own bitter waywardness.
It will give him more sorrow and shame than it will ever
bring suffering to you. Let him go free till it shall
please the good angel which should be his guardian to
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come to his help, and expel from his bosom the unfriendly
power which hath possessed it.”
The appeal was made to them with a manner doubly
touching, when it was remembered how unkindly Egiza
had treated the noble brother who had, in truth, preserved
him.
“What say ye, noble lords?” said Eudon. “Ye
have heard the plea of Prince Pelayo for his brother.
Methinks it is a good one. Wil't please you to give it
your sanction, and grant the prayer which he makes
in his behalf? Our indulgence will, in seasoning time,
bring fit chastisement to the evil mood that preys upon
him, and we may yet have him at our head, as he should
be now, leading us upon the foe, and striking like a
brave prince for the deliverance of his people. What
say you, then? We are strong, and ready to execute,
with rigorous hand, the power lodged within our hands,
and may promptly perform whatever ye resolve on. My
own persuasion would take the argument of Prince Pelayo
for our own, and set Egiza free. Shall we do this,
or obey that sterner rule of the Goth, which dooms to
death the wilful sovereign or subject who dares dispute
our decree? Speak, then, my lords. Shall this man
be free, or shall he die?”
This solemn question propounded to the council
called for serious deliberation, at which it was thought
advisable that neither the person whose fate was in suspense
nor his brother should be present. This was signified
to the two, who withdrew, though not together, towards
the gorge of the cave, leaving the discussion unimpeded
by their presence. There, the sturdy Britarmin,
the follower of Pelayo, held the watch, and the advance
of Egiza might have been perilous to that unhappy prince,
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but that Pelayo went forward and communed first with
the watchful Bascone. The two brothers kept aloof,
Egiza full of jealousy, and doubtful of the honour of his
brother; and though Pelayo had no such doubt with reference
to him, yet the latter could not so readily forget,
though he might forgive, the unkind words which the
other had spoken.
Meanwhile the council proceeded with its deliberations;
the Lord Aylor hotly urging the instant punishment
of Egiza, who had dared, contrary to all reasonable
expectation, to reject the honour which the council
proposed to bestow upon him. Aylor pointed to innumerable
precedents in the Gothic history to show the
punishments, whether of death or of degradation, which
had been inflicted upon the refractory in such cases;
but his wishes were overruled, and it was finally resolved
that Egiza should be free to depart, in compliance with
his own demand and the solicitations of Pelayo.
But there was yet another question which this decision
necessarily left open. Who was to be their sovereign?
Who was to lead their arms in the absence of
their sovereign? The general voice was at once in favour
of Pelayo in both capacities; but, as much time was
consumed in the discussion, it was deemed proper to give
Egiza at once the freedom which he sought for. It was
argued by Lord Aylor that, though excused from the
penalties accruing to such an offence as his, he was no
longer eligible as their monarch; and his voice was the
first to speak of Pelayo as the proper choice of the
council. This matter was suspended, however, and
orders were given for the princes to reappear. They
came before the assembly with mixed and differing feelings.
The eye of Pelayo was sad and doubtful, while
his face was full of anxiety; but Egiza had resumed all
the dignified bearing of one having the blood royal in
his veins. A calm, cold, haughty countenance he wore,
and his form was raised to its fullest height. When the
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decree of the council was repeated to him, which released
him from his nomination, and which consequently
discharged him from all the penalties incurred by his
refusal of it, he made no manner of acknowledgment,
but, with a smile of bitterness upon his brother, he passed
from the cavern even as a gliding shadow. The eyes
of Pelayo watched sadly his retreating form until it was
lost from sight, but his lips uttered not a syllable. He
turned then to the assembly, thanked them for the indulgence
which they had shown to his unhappy brother,
and received in return the appointment of generalissimo
of the forces of Spain, raised or to be raised against
the rebel who had usurped the royal authority.
Meanwhile Egiza made his way from the cavern, and
sprang with a blind fury up the mountains. A desperate
feeling drove him onward, for he felt that he was a
degraded man. He had not suffered look, speech, or
action to denote his agony while in the presence of that
proud assembly. He would have met pride with greater
pride, would have encountered hostility with defiance.
But he had not been permitted this; and, conscious of
his weakness and unresolve, conscious that he fully
merited the award which his brother had averted, he had
not yet the courage to go forward and redeem his error,
and return to his duties. He had not even the consolation
of that morbid sensibility which finds healing in
the hope of vengeance. Upon whom could he wreak
his vengeance? Pelayo? His brother? He was not
mad enough for so criminal a desire; nor could he, in his
secret conscience, be certain that Pelayo was guilty of
the baseness which he yet charged upon him. Still less
satisfied with himself at every moment of thought, he
strove to forbear reflection by the precipitancy of his
flight. In the dimness of the evening light he leaped
forward along the mountain-paths with as much confidence
as if he moved in daylight. Already the cavern
of the conspirators was far behind him. In a little while,
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and he should be beyond the reach of his friends, beyond
their recall, and, at every moment, increasing the
difficulties which lay in the path of his return. A careless
desperation impelled him onward; and though the
scalding tears blinded his eyes, with a desperate haste he
rushed to the top of the hill he was ascending, and prepared
in another instant to hurry downward into the vale
below; but he was not so permitted. A spear-point
was upon his breast, and the rude challenge of a soldier
followed.
“Stand! in the king's name.”
“Ha! who's here?” demanded the prince.
“No words!” cried the hoarse voice of Edacer, the
governor of Cordova, “be silent, or you perish. Guide
us instantly and without noise to the cavern, and name
your reward.”
A sudden joy rushed into the heart of Egiza; and
the convictions of his mind and its resolves were equally
instant.
“They shall know me better!” he murmured, internally;
“they shall see that I am true to them, though I
will not lead them.”
He dashed aside the spear of the soldier, and, in the
same moment, wheeled backward upon the path over
which he came, and leaped down into the gorge that lay
in darkness beside it. It was deep enough for concealment,
and not, fortunately, for his injury. A divine instinct
seemed to prompt his movements and to guide
his footsteps, and he hurried onward, unheeding the
search of the soldiers, who were now scattered in hot
pursuit over the hills around him. Their cries were
loud in his ears, their tramplings close behind him; but
he fled onward with a spirit which this new danger had
lightened of some of its most serious afflictions. It gave
him an opportunity of relieving himself of the suspicion—
the worst to the soul of honourable sensibility—of
unfaithfulness to his friends; and this, in that night of
degradation, was a triumph to Egiza!
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“I will prepare them for the coming of the enemy,
and, if need be, perish along with them.”
The sounds of his pursuers' footsteps now ceased,
but he heard their increasing cries in the distance. Had
they lost the tracks of his flight? Did they pursue him
no longer? These questions came to him as he fled,
but they did not delay his speed. Once more he entered
the gloomy cavern, where his judges still sat in earnest
deliberation, unconscious of their own approaching
danger.
The unlooked-for reappearance of the fugitive startled
the grave assembly, and brought a new and unmixed
delight to the brother. It was his hope that Egiza now
came, with a returning sense of duty, to redeem his
pledges to the people; but the words of the fugitive
soon undeceived him as he related the true cause of his
return. The warriors sprang instantly to arms.
“We are betrayed!” cried Eudon; “it is the Jew who
has betrayed us.”
Pelayo was silent; he could make no answer, for
the absence of Melchior was no less matter of surprise
to him than it was of fear to them. But, though he said
nothing, he drew his good sword, and led the way to
the entrance, the nobles following. He found Egiza
beside him, and in that moment the brothers exchanged
a glance of mutual sorrow and of mutual forgiveness.
They went forward together.
“Britarmin!” said Pelayo to the Bascone, as they
reached the spot where the sentinel was stationed, “thou
hast thy maule, Britarmin?”
“Ay!” said the Bascone, with a hoarse laugh, waving
it in air.
“Thou shalt have work for thy teeth, Bascone!
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Follow me closely, and strike, as I show thee, against my
enemies and thine.”
The Bascone gnashed his teeth together until the
foam gathered about his lips, but he made no other reply,
nor did Pelayo deign him any other speech. The
nobles pressed their way forward, and when they reached
the entrance of the cavern they heard war-cries, and
the clang and clash of a battle in the distance.
“By Hercules! but this is strange. What may this
mean?” said Pelayo. “If there be a foe, my lords,
there is also a friend; or it may be that the enemy has
quarrelled among themselves, failing to compass us.
Let us set on, and help the game to an ending. It hath
manfully enough begun.”
Thus speaking, Pelayo hurried forward, Egiza still
beside him, and the fierce Bascone champing with his
teeth at every stride in his progress. The nobles followed
close; but, before they reached the scene of combat,
they were encountered by fugitives. A few questions,
briefly answered, soon put Pelayo in possession of
the truth. The force of Edacer had been overtaken by
the venerable but valiant Hebrew, Melchior, aided by a
band of Hebrews whom he had brought along with him
from the camp of Abimelech. That brave young Jewish
warrior came with him; and, though few in numbers
and wanting in arms—for the great body of the Hebrews
were still to be provided—yet, with a chosen band, he
had hastened on to the rescue of the chiefs whom Edacer
would have environed in the cave. While the latter
pursued Egiza, his scattered force was set upon by the
advancing troop of Melchior and Abimelech. Thus assailed,
the advantage for the moment lay with the assailants.
But Edacer had not overrated his own courage
and prowess when he uttered his vain boast to Amri.
He was not confounded, though surprised by his assailants.
With stentorian voice he arrested the pursuit
which his men were urging after Egiza, and soon rallied
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them around him. With his heavy anlace wielded above
his head, he uttered the war-cry of the city, and
“Cordova, Cordova!” was echoed in a voice that
struck terror into the hearts of many tried warriors
among the Hebrew; for then they knew that they were
now to encounter the entire force of that city. But the
cry gave no apprehension to Melchior and Abimelech.
The latter spoke cheeringly to his men, many of whom
he addressed by name; while, wielding his heavy steel
maule as if it were a reed, the former bore forward
through the press, to encounter the fierce Edacer himself.
“The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” cried the
patriarch—“for the Lion of Judah—my people—for
the Temple and the City. Strike down the oppressor—
strike for the lost freedom—for the pride and the power—
for the home and the glory long departed!”
And bravely did the Jews fight; but their arms were
wanting to the martial practices of the time, and they
stood not long before the close array and the unshrinking
muscle of the bands of Edacer. Melchior and Abimelech
were almost fighting alone, when the war-cry of
Pelayo rang above the vale in which they battled like
the sudden clang of a trumpet from the hill-tops.
“Pelayo—a Pelayo to the rescue!” was the cry;
and, in an instant after, the warlike prince drove his
heavy weapon between the two contending chiefs, Melchior
and Edacer, and opposed a fresh arm to that of
the Gothic governor. The wrath of Edacer knew no
bounds when he found himself opposed by the man
whom he had hoped to entrap, without fighting, in the cavern;
particularly, too, as, from the increasing weight of
blows around him, he discovered that the strife was now
one of greater peril than it had been when none but the
unpractised Hebrews were arrayed against him. But
his wrath and his blows were equally ineffectual against
his new opponent, and the strokes of Pelayo fell too thick
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and heavy for him to withstand. He gave back slowly,
but still bravely fighting; and Pelayo, as his foe sank
back, taunted him with a playful scorn.
“Thou art slow, my Lord of Cordova, thou art slow;
thou canst guard ably, but thou dost not strike. My
arm is not yet warmed by thy fury, and when I would
press thee thou givest me no such press in return as
they say thou bestowest upon the green women of the
city. Am I less worthy of thy clasp than they, that
thou shrinkest away from my approach? Perhaps I am
not so winning. Say—is't not so, Lord Edacer?”
“Thy arm is fresh, Pelayo, else thou hadst not spoken
thus lightly of the blows from mine. Perchance by
this time thou hadst not spoken at all.”
“Ha! ha! Thy song is but a sad one, Cordova!”
exclaimed Pelayo, as he forbore to press farther upon
Edacer, who defended himself stoutly, and was now
supported by his soldiers, who made his person a gathering
point. Pelayo, at the same time, heard other
clamours approaching them from the distance, and
dreaded lest his people, who were now scattered in several
and desultory combats, might be cut off by newly-advancing
enemies. He forbore, therefore, the pursuit
of his particular foe, and commanded his own men together.
But Edacer, who saw his object, and whose
quick ears had also heard the sounds of approaching
succour, resolved not to let his prey so easily escape.
He thought, if he could keep Pelayo at bay until the
succour which he looked for could reach him, that he
should then be sure to overcome him. When, therefore,
the prince forbore to press him, and sought to direct
his attention to the lords who were contending on every
hand with individual foes, Edacer advanced upon him.
“Thy mood grows warmer, my Lord of Cordova,
but I cannot spare thee farther play!” said Pelayo, in a
lively voice.
“Britarmin!” he cried aloud, as he parried with ease
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the now repeated strokes of Edacer. The Bascone,
who had that moment crushed a Gothic soldier with
his maule, replied at the elbow of Pelayo. The prince
adroitly pressed his weapon blade against that of his adversary,
until Edacer, following the inclination of the
elastic steel, was brought round full in the face of the
Bascone. Pelayo then springing aside, left the two new
opponents confronted, exclaiming, as he did so, to his
follower,
“Now, Britarmin, use thy teeth upon thy enemy.
He is the governor of a city, and thy maule cannot too
freely play about his head for thy safety or his own
honour.”
The Bascone grinned and struck. Edacer, chafed
and doubly angered to lose his particular prey, and to
be left contending with a hind, shouted indignantly to
Pelayo, but the prince gave him little heed.
“Speak to thy Hebrews, Melchior—the foe gather
around us. We must strike boldly, and upon a single
point, or they hem us in.”
Pelayo then gave his commands, in quick stern accents,
to the men around him, his friends and followers.
“Forbear to press upon them, my lords—we have
brief space of time even for victory. Back there, Egiza;
would you lose us all, my brother, in your rashness?—
back there, and follow me. Melchior, to the left—I
know the path. Forbear, Britarmin, let thy teeth have
rest.”
Thus rapidly commanding, Pelayo surveyed the field,
and was as promptly obeyed by his followers. But the
fierce Edacer was not willing that he should so escape.
His succour was rapidly approaching, and he encouraged
the men around him to new efforts. He would have
led them, but the dogged Britarmin clung to him with
bulldog tenacity; and, though Edacer was fully a match
for him, yet he could not shake himself free from the assailant.
When the commands of Pelayo reached the
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ears of the Bascone, they found the sturdy follower unwilling
to yield a momentary advantage which he had
gained, and it was only when several of the Gothic soldiers
gathered to the assistance of Edacer that he was
made to obey his master's orders. But his desire was
not now so easy of execution, and the blows of many
assailants rang about his ears, preventing the possibility
of escape by his own valour. Pelayo beheld his predicament.
“One blow more, men—one shout, one stroke, and
we are safe—we must save our teeth—we must save
our sleeper. Ho! Pelayo, Pelayo, and close ranks for
Spain!”
Thus shouting, Pelayo led the way. The charge was
like the first rush of a tempest. The foe gave back
before it, and but a single man confronted Britarmin.
The Bascone turned all his fury upon that one, but he
was Edacer, and the maule of the Bascone swung idly
in the empty air. Pelayo thrust the rude warrior aside.
“Ho! Cordova, thou hast too long lingered—Ho!
for Spain—Ho! for victory—Pelayo strikes, Edacer—
one, two—thou shalt know the blows of Pelayo.”
And with every word the swift strokes came so fast,
that they proved beyond the skill of Edacer effectually
to ward. One blow, stunning, but not deadly, took
effect upon the head of the Gothic governor, and he
sunk heavily to the ground just as the re-enforcement
was ascending up the hill to his relief. Coolly and conqueringly,
even as he fled, Pelayo directed the retreat of
his little and desultory band, ready for the foe the while,
and defying his pursuit. They descended the valley,
and ascended to a higher hill, which looked upon the
scene of the recent combat. There they halted, having
the advantage of position, in order to deliberate upon
their next movements.
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But there needed little time for consultation. The
leading spirit of Pelayo at once became conspicuous
beyond all the rest. He boldly took upon himself the
full command, and the rest readily yielded him obedience
as they beheld his promptness and efficiency.
“Make no fires,” cried he, to those around him who
were preparing to do so; “make no fires which shall
guide our enemy. Let us first see what are his designs.
If he builds fires, we will build them also; not
that we would use them, for we must leave them soon,
but that by them we may lead him to believe that we
shall encamp here to-night. If he would assail us now,
he must do so at disadvantage, which our fires would
only lessen. We can hold council without their aid.”
He was obeyed, and in the dim and imperfect light of
the stars the chiefs deliberated together.
“Where are your Hebrews, Melchior?” demanded
Pelayo of the venerable man.
“They wait us at the rocky pass beyond Abela,” replied
Melchior.
“Their number?”
“Near a thousand,” replied Abimelech; “but they
lack weapons of war.”
“They must have them, Melchior,” said Pelayo,
promptly. “Let us now divide our weapons with the
Hebrews who are with you, and of whom you shall take
command. We will maintain the post here against the
force of Edacer, while you shall pass, making a goodly
circuit, to the Cave of Wamba. The course is free if
you move with caution. Your men can bring with them
all the weapons in the cave if they are not forced to
fight, and in such event they may readily throw them
aside. But I trust you will not need to do so. Edacer
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will deem us too cautious and too few in number to encounter
new risk by a division of our band; and, if he
moves at all to-night, he will move on us who remain.
To meet this chance you will ply your way with all
speed. We wait you with open eyes, for we must arm
your Jews ere the day dawns upon us.”
Melchior was soon prepared and in motion. The
movement was fitly assigned to a people accustomed to
secret and wily operations. The outlaw was one well
able to direct their course and counsel their designs,
and Pelayo saw him depart with a full confidence in
his success, which he might not so readily have felt had
any of his own rash chiefs been appointed to the duty.
Meanwhile the re-enforcement of Edacer came quickly
to his aid; but they were in no mood to pursue their
enemies when they beheld the condition of their leader.
He had been stunned by the blow of Pelayo, and his
men, though not beaten, were disheartened by his fall,
and by the death of several of their stoutest warriors.
The stupor of Edacer continued for some hours after,
and it was resolved, during this period, among his inferior
officers, that they should keep the field and remain
upon their arms all night, as they well knew the valuable
estimate which Edacer had placed upon the prey
before them. Their fires were accordingly lighted up,
and they strove for the recovery of their leader, on the
spot where he had fallen, as they readily saw that his
injuries were too slight to require his removal.
The lighting up of their fires at once kindled those of
Pelayo, and some few of his more light-heeled and venturous
warriors stole down the hill to the edge of Edacer's
encampment, and surveyed with impunity the condition
of things in that quarter. The camp was not
closely guarded, but sufficiently so to make surprise
difficult, if not dangerous, with a force so small and so
partially armed as that led by Pelayo. They came
back to him with loud arguments in favour of the
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attempt, but the game was too deep, the risk too great, to
permit of his adoption of their counsels.
Meanwhile Edacer recovered from his stupor. His
first words, with returning consciousness, were those of
anger, which was duly increased when he discovered
that his re-enforcement had arrived, yet had done nothing
towards the capture of his foe.
“Knaves!” he cried, to the inferior officers, “why
did ye not pursue? Ye were enough—what more?
Are ye cowards; and could ye do naught unless I led,
and bade, and showed you where to strike? But it is
not yet too late. Their fires are lighted—they will
stand us, will they? We shall see! Set on, knaves,
as ye would escape the lash—set on—surround the hill
on which they rest, and wait for no word from me.
Cry `Cordova,' and strike well.”
Though weary and suffering pain with every movement,
Edacer yet boldly led the way. He too well
knew the value of his victims in promoting him to the
further favour of Roderick, and nothing short of absolute
incapacity could have kept him back from the pursuit.
His men followed with a fierce war-cry, anxious to redeem
themselves in the estimation of their captain; but
they sought their enemies in vain. The hill on which
Pelayo had built his fires was deserted—the foe was
gone; already at some distance on their way, with arms
in their hands, to join the assembled Hebrews gathered
together by Abimelech.
The fury of Edacer knew no bounds. The game
was to be begun anew; but he did not despair. Encamping
where he was for the night, he despatched emissaries
back to Cordova and to other places, calling for
additional troops. A large force under one of the lieutenants
of Roderick, which he had summoned to his aid
before leaving the city, he expected to reach him before
the morning. With this force, which arrived during the
night, he pressed forward with the earliest glances of
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daylight, and soon recovered from his anger as he found
himself upon certain tracks of the hastily-retreating foe.
But it was not now the purpose of Pelayo to retreat
farther from the force led by Edacer, superior though he
knew it to be, in many respects, to that which he himself
led. He knew too well the importance to his cause of
a successful blow at first, and the affair of the preceding
night had only warmed the courage of his own people
and stimulated the sanguine temper of the Jews.
His position was now a good one, and his men were
generally, though poorly, provided with arms. A wall
of rocks surrounded them, and the passes were difficult
of access. The place of gathering had been well chosen
by Abimelech; and Pelayo resolved upon maintaining
it until time could be given to certain friends, Spaniards
and Hebrews alike, to join them from the neighbouring
villages and cities. Towards evening the forces of
Edacer came in sight, and his array was much more
formidable than Pelayo had anticipated. The fires of
Edacer that night surrounded the mountain upon which
he had taken shelter, and he saw that there was safety
only in complete success. There was no outlet for escape
except through the hearts of the enemy. But this
gave no disquiet to Pelayo. On the contrary, his energies
seemed to kindle and his spirits to expand in proportion
to the press of difficulties. A cheery and elastic
courage filled his bosom and warmed the hearts of
those around him.
“To-morrow,” said he, “to-morrow, lords of Spain,
we win the first of our possessions. God keep the
brave men who strike for their liberties—God give them
strength to crush their oppressors, and make themselves
feared of the tyrant who would enslave them.”
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His words were received with ready acclamations.
A universal shout rang through the mountain, and found
a thousand echoes in the valleys below.
“Why shout the rebels?” cried Edacer to the chiefs
around him. “What is their hope—for what do they
exult? They are not mad to hope for victory over the
force we bring against them?”
“Perchance they hope for escape by some secret
passage,” said one of his officers in reply.
“Perchance thou art fool or coward but to say so!
Wherefore should they hope, or thou dream, a thing so
impossible? Have we not put guards on all the passes,
and how can they escape, unless such as thou turn coward
and fly when they set on?”
Such was the furious speech of Edacer, whom the
seeming certainty of his success appeared to madden.
The officer thus reproached sank away in silence, and
a general gloom hung over the camp of the assailants,
quite unlike the cheery spirit which pervaded that of
Pelayo. There all was harmony and honest hope.
Pelayo arrayed and addressed his followers, assigned to
each his station, and had for each chief a word meant
for his particular ear, though full of force upon the ears
of others. None who heard him had doubts of the approaching
event; and, if Pelayo himself entertained any,
he guarded himself well against any utterance, by look or
speech, of his apprehension. When the watch was set,
Pelayo led Egiza away to a remote quarter of the mountain,
where several overhanging masses of the rock formed
a sort of shelter. When there, and free from the passing
glance or noteful ear of any intruder, the feelings
of their mutual hearts had utterance without restraint.
The hour had come, not less of danger than of mutual
explanation and atonement. They both had faults to
confess and wrongs to complain of; and the approach
of a trial, in which they might both meet with death, was
one to bring back their thoughts to a sense of justice,
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and their late stubborn hearts to a renewal of all their
old and sacred affections. Pelayo, having a secret purpose
of good towards Egiza in his mind, began the conference
thus reproachfully:
“Thou hast wronged me, brother—thou hast deeply
wronged me—hast held me traitorous to thy service, dishonest
in my councils, unfriendly to thy good. And
when my heart was truest to its duty—when I strove
most in thy service, and toiled, without heed of the toil
and danger, to give thee honour and the crown—hast belied
me to the ears of base men as one unworthy.”
“I gainsay not thy words, Pelayo,” was the humble
response of the now subdued and repentant Egiza;
“and if it will do thee right to hearken to prompt confession
of my wrongs to thee, thou hast it.”
“This cannot help me now, Egiza, nor pluck from
my bosom the sting which thy hand, in its wantonness,
hath placed there,” was the gloomy answer of Pelayo.
“I stop not at confession of my wrong, brother—I will
do yet further; I will yield thee free obedience. Thou
art, thou shalt be my sovereign, though the lords of
Iberia forbear to declare thee theirs. What more? If
still unsatisfied, declare what thou wouldst have. My
life? It is in thy hands. I will not murmur even if thou
shouldst lift thy weapon to my breast, commanding me
to instant death.”
Pelayo did not immediately answer to the tenour of
this speech, though his reply was unhesitatingly spoken.
“Thou hast thought, my brother,” he proceeded,
“and freely said thy thoughts to others, that I was dishonest
to thy right, as I was basely tempted by the perilous
glitter of a throne which was thy due; that I strove
to win from thee the good regards of thy people; that I
laboured for the vain honours of this hard command,
which thou hast refused to take upon thee. Thou hast
not forgotten it—thou canst not deny that thou hast
spoken thus.”
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“Would I could forget, Pelayo—but I cannot—I do
not. I pray thee to forget—I pray thy mercy. Speak
of this no more.”
“I must speak of it, Egiza; and thou must hear
more, if not for thy good, for my revenge!”
“It is thy right—I may not deny thee,” was the
mournful reply; “and yet, my brother, when I confess
to thee my wrong, thou shouldst spare me. Such confession
should stay the award of justice, and disarm the
hand of punishment.”
“It may with other men; but thou, Egiza, should
better know the nature of Pelayo than to deem him thus
pliable and meek. I tell thee, brother, that I am unforgiving.”
“Thou wert not always so,” was the answer.
“Nor thou thus wilful, Egiza,” promptly responded
Pelayo. “We are both changed, my brother; and, since
thou hast grown fond of injustice, I am sworn to be vindictive.
Thou shalt hear my penalties—thou shalt
bend thyself to the atonement which I demand of thee
to make.”
“Be it so, then,” was the subdued reply; “I owe thee
thus much, my brother.”
“Thy thought of me was a base thought, dishonouring
thyself and me!” said Pelayo.
“Have I not said it—have I not confessed it with
my own lips, in my own shame?” was the melancholy
question. “Wherefore wouldst thou dwell upon it thus
in repeated language?”
“'Tis my humour—'tis part of the penalty, my
brother,” was the reply. “Thou hast confessed it;
but the phrase in which thou makest it known is not
the bitter phrase which I would best speak it in. Hear
me out. In all this long time, when thus an evil spirit
at thy heart was striving in hostility against me, what
was my toil? It was a toil for thy good, for thy greatness,
for thy true glory, my brother. Did it deserve
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such meed as that thou gavest it—thou wilt not say so
much?”
“I will not, Pelayo; yet hear me for a moment. I
was blind, weak, foolish; not vicious, not wilful. Thou
wert not all wrong when thou saidst to the lords in council
that a demon had misguided me with erring thoughts.”
Pelayo pursued his course of speech without seeming
to regard the humble acknowledgments made by his
brother.
“Thy subjects clamoured for thee in thy absence—
thy nobles threatened—some bolder lips denounced thee—
thine own ears heard them—what did Pelayo then?
Performed thy duties—pleaded thy cause with arguments
he could not hold himself—and spared no toil of
hand or spirit in thy service.
“Thou didst all this, my brother; thou hast spoken
but truly.”
“Renewed thy pledges, and strengthened them with
my own,” he continued, “until thy madness, making thee
neglectful of thy honour, involved the forfeiture of mine.”
“Oh, my brother, spare me this cruel record,” was
the imploring speech of the defaulter.
“Still, not hopeless of thee altogether,” continued
Pelayo, “though all besides looked on thee as one dishonest—
yea, denounced thee—I sought thee out, and
rescued thee from a peril which had clipped thee from
life and retribution—as thou thyself hadst severed the
ties of honour from thy heart—and decreed thee to a
death of shame, at the hands of the hangman.”
“For all this I thank thee—I thank thee, my brother—
I can requite thee in words only for thy noble service.”
“With a friendly violence I tore thee away from thy
shameful bondage, even as I had saved thee from thy
enemy's weapon; and in thine ear, with an honest freedom
thou hadst not found in court or camp, reproached
thee with thy feebleness.”
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“Thou didst.”
“Nay, more—such was my love for thee and for
thy honour—until thy better sense had taught thee compliance
with thy duties, I would have battled with thee
even to my death or thine, so that thou shouldst come
with me where our people awaited thee, having honours
for thy brow which my own heart had scorned to struggle
for. Did this seem the labour of a soul given up to
smooth-lipped artifice and cunning? Did I toil as one
aiming at the better rights of a brother? Do me full
justice, Egiza, and say—did this seem falsehood to
thine eyes? What madness made thee esteem it so?
Speak—tell me.”
“I know not; but it was madness,” said the other.
“I do thee right now, my brother; on my soul, I do.
I have no distrust of thee now.”
“Thou shalt not have; thou shalt do me right, Egiza.
It is for this I speak to thee now. What next,
my brother? Dost thou remember what was the language
of Pelayo, when, in the presence of our angered
people, he stood between thee and the headsman?”
“It was noble, as it had been ever,” was the reply.
“I will say naught of thine,” continued Pelayo.
“They proffered thee—the very people thou didst say
I dealt with by dishonourable arts—they proffered thee
the crown of Spain—the regal prize—all which thou
didst falsely impute to me as striving at through a base
treachery that never moved my soul. Well! Though
I knew that thou hadst wandered, and hadst been heedless
of their rights and thy own duties, said my lips aught
against thee? Did I say aught which might lessen thy
favour or make my own greater in their eyes?”
“Thou didst not, brother.”
“I have done question,” said Pelayo. “I have dwelt,
my brother, on these things, that I should not lack justification
for the judgment which I put upon thee. Now
hear me, as I doom thee, my brother, for these injuries.”
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“Forgive me for them, Pelayo.”
“No! I must have vengeance. Hearken to me,
Egiza.”
He laid his hand upon the arm of the latter, looked
steadfastly in his eyes, while his own beamed with an
expression of tenderness which Egiza had not seen in
them before for many days; and, after a brief pause,
thus proceeded.
“Thou shalt take this rule, my brother, which our
people, this night, have put upon me.”
“Pelayo—no!”
“But thou shalt. Become their sovereign—begin
thy duties, even as thou didst swear to us when the first
tidings came of our father's ruin.”
“I must not—I dare not.”
“Cross me not; I am thy master—thy judge; I
must have my vengeance upon thee. Thou hast done
me wrong, and the right is mine to declare thy punishment.”
“Yet not this—”
“Ay, this, or any thing, Egiza. Thou hast struck
most keenly, most cruelly at my heart. Nothing will
heal the blow but such severity of justice as may not be
forgotten while thou livest, and the fruits of which shall
go to thy children, and be known to mine.”
“It must not be—”
“It must; and that the sting may touch thee, Egiza,
until thy guilty heart burns like fire, I bend my knee to
thee; I vow myself thy first subject. I declare thee to
be my sovereign, and demand of thee to give me liberty
from this bondage which is upon all our land, and vengeance
upon this tyrant who has mantled it with blood.”
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With these words the gigantic yet graceful figure of
Pelayo was bent to the earth in prostration before the
brother whom he had chastened but to improve—whom
he had striven with but to strengthen. His noble selfsacrifice
touched the heart of the already humbled Egiza.
“Stab me rather with thy steel, my brother,” he exclaimed,
“for thy words pierce me to the heart, and I
am crushed by thy noble spirit. I feel how greatly I
have wronged thee; I feel that I am unworthy of thy
communion, and have but too little within me of the
blood which our father gave us.”
“Thou shalt grow worthy if thou art not yet,” was
the reply. “Take thy royal honours upon thee with thy
duties. Cast out from thy soul the unruly devil which
hath so far misled thee to thy undoing. Rise once
more to thy dignity, as well of soul as of station, and be
the monarch in all things which our lips proclaim and
our hearts would have thee.”
After a brief pause, given to feeling rather than reflection,
in all which time Pelayo continued kneeling,
Egiza answered him thus—
“Rise, my brother—rise, Pelayo, to thy proper and
brave posture. Thy action shames me, and thy words
but mock mine ear. I cannot be thy sovereign; I am
not born for it. I feel that I lack in the qualities which
would make me one; and all thy wish, and all the words
of our people, would fail to endow me with the necessary
ingredients of mood and mind, when God himself hath
denied them. Besides, I will not have thee, to thy own
loss, bestow upon me such noble justice.”
“It is no loss; I lose not in thy gain,” was the reply.
“Thou hast loss. The people who have made thee
their leader must declare thee soon their king. The
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rule is thine by their acclaim—thine to keep—how
canst thou give it to another?”
“Let not that move thee to deny me. Our people
will confirm my gift so thou but promise to receive it,”
said Pelayo.
“Thanks, my brother—thanks! But hear my answer.
Thou hast dealt nobly with me; thou hast dealt
ever nobly, even when thy language was most harsh, and
thy mood most angry; while I have wronged thee with
dishonouring thoughts, as much unworthy me as they
were foully unjust to thee. Let me acquit thee of all
crooked practice; let me pray for thy forgiveness.
More than this; let me acknowledge my weakness in
thy ear, though I would not have thee unfold it to other
ears. I have not the soul for the toils of empire;
I lack the spirit. Other desires have possessed me,
and I pray but to be forgotten by the ambitious and striving
world, as I would forget and fly from strife myself.
Thou hast the temper which I lack—the quick spirit,
sudden and true resolve, which should make thee achieve
greatness as a leader. Thou wilt achieve it, and thou
canst not but lead. Were I to accept thy proffer, and
take the rule of this people upon me, I should not keep
it long. Thy greatness would obscure me, and when
men saw and wondered at thy deeds, they would smile
and speak scornfully of mine. Keep thy honours, my
brother, and wear them, as I know thou must, with grace
and greatness hourly growing with their use. Thou
hast won them valiantly—wherefore should I rob thee
of them?”
“Thou dost not, my brother. Indeed, I love them
not—I wish them not. 'Twill glad me to give them
into your proper hands, and quit me of their burden.”
“No, Pelayo; thy spirit calls thee to thy work not
less than thy people. Thou dost wrong to thy own
nature and high ambition. These duties better fit thee
than me.”
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“How can this be? Thou dost not shrink from our
battle. Thou wilt fight with us to-morrow, even as thou
hast fought with us to-night, against our beleaguering
foe. Why, then, shouldst thou shrink to be sovereign
in the war, which, as a subject, thou must strive in despite
of the danger?”
“It is a war I would not seek, Pelayo, and therefore
I would not lead in it. To-night I fought because of
thine own, and the close emergency of our friends.”
“For the same reason,” replied Pelayo, “wilt thou
fight again. There will be yet more peril to-morrow,
if I mistake not the signs of battle below, and thou wilt
strike then with a better appetite for blows. See the
array of Edacer; hear the clamours of his brawling
warriors—how they shout in their security—how they
howl in their confident hope of the coming triumph.
They hem us in with thrice our numbers. They have
more practice in the war, more courage, and better skill
than these timid Hebrews; and theirs is the better choice
of arms. In much of these we lack, and but the advantage
of the ground is ours, which want of food will hourly
lessen. We must descend to them ere noon to-morrow,
and in desperate valour alone can we hope for success.
Judge, then, of our hope, and what is there of
escape. Thou must fight, Egiza—fight with full soul!
'Tis death, my brother—death or a great victory.”
“I feel—I know it, Pelayo. The strife will be perilous;
and, if thou conquerest, the greater will be thy
glory.”
“Ay, and thine! Thou wilt fight, even as a king
should fight. Thou canst not choose but fight thus;
nor to-morrow only—thou wilt have to strike day after
day, until we perish or escape.”
“Fear me not—I will do it. 'Till thou art free from
thy leaguer in death or in victory, my brother, so long
will Egiza strike for thee.”
“Then 'twere better, my brother,” replied Pelayo,
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“that thou shouldst perish or conquer as a king than
as a common soldier. If the doom be writ that we
must perish, then be thy death becoming—let thy people
behold thee leading them as thou shouldst—first in the
foremost rank. 'Twere shame to die with others before
thee—a shame no less to thy father than to thee
and me, my brother.”
“No matter how I die, Pelayo, so that I fear not
death. Thou dost plead to me vainly, my brother,
though thou pleadest warmly. Thy prayer touches me
not—”
“But, sure, the argument, Egiza,” replied Pelayo,
impatiently interrupting him. The answer of Egiza
was instant.
“Thy argument, though it may seem to thee full of
crowning and conclusive reason, I do not heed, Pelayo.
It is all profitless to me, and unconsidered. Hear me,
and say no more. I have pledged myself—I have an
oath—to lead no battle, such as now moves our people.”
“Thou darest not give such pledge! Hast thou not
one already to that people—one more sacred to the son
of Witiza than any other? Thy oath is false, no less
than base—it cannot bind thee.”
“But it must, Pelayo. Be no longer cruel, my brother.
Pierce me no longer with thy keen language and heavy
censures. It may be that I have done evil, but urge
me not, if thou hast pity. Look to me among the first to-morrow
in the fight—believe me fearless and true to the
last—'till thou art safe from thy present extremity, or
hast nothing more to dread from human foe. Hold me
sworn to this pledge, though I forget all other to our
people.”
“But if we 'scape?” demanded Pelayo.
“Then are my toils ended with thee, my brother. I
leave thee and our people. I leave thee to the sole
sway over them, not forgetting thee in my blight, Pelayo,
but hopeful of thy fame—praying for it ever—and with
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another, and no less fervent prayer, that in thy day of
glory thou mayst not think of thy brother's base obscurity,
nor summon from the grave of his defeated promises
a single thought to chill thy own triumph to stifle the
gladness at thy heart.”
As he spoke these words in a manner which, while
it sufficiently showed him firm in his present resolution,
at the same time indicated a wish that the conference on
this subject should have an end, the countenance of
Pelayo underwent sundry ominous changes; and for a
few moments, striving with his conflicting emotions, he
dared not trust himself to reply. Composing himself at
last, he regarded Egiza with a look of sorrow, such as a
fond parent might express at beholding the wilful selfsacrifice
of a beloved and only son, and spoke then as
follows:
“Alas! my brother, I know not how to regard thee.
The thoughts are strange and sad which fill my bosom.
I know not whether to slay thee in thy shame, and with
a feeling of my own, or to spurn thee with a scorn due
to thy base and womanly spirit. My anger and my anguish
strive together, and I tremble lest that I madden,
and so far forget myself as to fall into some unhappy violence.
Let us part a while, I pray thee. I would not
do thee wrong, or myself wrong; and better that I should
leave thee than linger where my mood may move me to
both. Go, take thy rest, my brother—sleep, if thou
canst. If thou feel'st with me, it will not be an easy
labour. Thy sad defection will drive slumber from my
eyes, as it has driven all hope of thee from my heart.”
“Brother—Pelayo—stay—hear me!” cried the unhappy
prince, who had so resolutely, yet weakly, chosen
his own doom; but Pelayo proceeded on his way as if
he had heard him not. Bitter, then, were the lonely
thoughts and mournful the sad tones of Egiza's soliloquy.
“I am most wretched. I am crushed to the earth.
I feel the heavy shame upon me like a mountain. Oh,
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Cava! 'tis thou—'tis thy fatal beauty that has done all
this. Thou hast destroyed me; thou hast sapped my
soul of its good spirit; thou hast robbed me of life and
substance; enthralled me in a bondage that checks all
enterprise; taken from me the glory of good deeds, and
the pride of honourable name; torn from me a generous
and noble brother; reft me of a thousand friends. Yet
I cannot reproach thee—I can love thee only. Oh, Pelayo—
would thou hadst slain me with thy better weapon
when we had battled among these hills. Then none
had known my shame. Would thou hadst made my
grave in some deep, narrow gorge of the highest mountain,
where no curious eyes might remark my form lying
in the base sleep of death—sleep far less base than that
which thou hast doomed me to this night.”
He threw himself upon his face as he said these
words, and moaned audibly in his mental anguish to the
unpitying rocks which sustained him; but, after a moment's
pause, he rose again.
“Yet I must sleep!” he exclaimed; “I would not be
backward to-morrow, and must sleep to-night for strength.
It is long since I have slept. I must not be the last to
meet the foe—I must be the first. Oh! Cava, give me
no thought when I meet with the enemy in combat. If
thou thinkest of me then, I will turn woman like thyself,
and shrink from the bloody work. Spare me that shame.
Let me not think of thee, lest I sink into a cowardice
which shall make me shrink from that death which looks
doubly terrible when it threatens me with loss of thee!”
With slow step and heavy heart he walked gloomily
to a distant and dark section of the mountain, and, gliding
into the shadow of an overhanging crag, sunk feebly
down upon the flinty rock, whose hard bosom, in the anguish
of his spirit, gave no disquiet to his form.
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Leaving his brother to his own reproachful thoughts,
Pelayo bent his steps to that part of the mountain which
had been assigned to the Jewish leaders. Here he
found none but Abimelech and a few of his under officers.
To Abimelech he detailed his general plan of
attack on the ensuing day, and gave him directions for
his descent with his people from the mountain. He
spoke to him cheeringly and without apprehension as to
the result; but as he saw that Abimelech was a man,
as Melchior had described him, firm of temper, and resolute
to see and not to shrink from the danger, he freely
dwelt upon the severity of the conflict which they had
reason to anticipate. The main force of Pelayo's army
at this period consisted chiefly of the Hebrews; for the
Spanish leaders had assembled their followers in a secure
and more remote spot, not daring to bring them
nigh to Cordova until they could be made compact by
a general assemblage of their party. Pelayo was not
so sure of the courage and conduct of the Hebrews, but
he greatly relied upon the ability of Melchior to make
them fight. Having consulted freely with Abimelech,
that warrior then gave him directions where Melchior
might be found, and Pelayo accordingly proceeded to an
isolated part of the mountain in search of him.
Melchior lay beneath an overhanging mass of the rock,
and his daughter, still dressed in the page habiliments
of Lamech, lay on the ground sleeping, her head softly
resting upon his lap, while his own bent over her, screening
her from the glances of the moon, and his sad eyes
looked down with a mournful sort of happiness into her
face. It was a picture to make one mourn, to think
that one so beautiful, so pure, so full of the true wisdom
which brings humility, and teaches resignation while it
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warms and encourages hope—to think that one so highly
endowed should yet be unblessed. Surely love is
earth's bondage, else why should it wrong the innocent
and good? Surely it is the fetter which keeps down
the heart from its true hope, and makes it cling to the
clay as if in scorn of its immortality. Yet surely these
are to be rewarded. The meek and gentle shall not
always suffer. There will come a season of security
and recompense. Yet when—and how? Will that
same love, which they sought and sighed for on earth,
requite them in Heaven? Melchior, as he thought these
thoughts, and in his own mind revolved this doubt, remembered
the sad, hopeless song of his daughter—that
part of it still thrilling through his senses in which she
speaks of her indifference to the wonted enjoyments of
life—to the song of birds, to the sweets of flowers, and
to all those objects of earthly beauty and delight which,
in man's imagination, make up the joys of Heaven—if
in that other home she is still destined to abide
“A worshipper denied!”
It was a picture upon which the full heart might linger,
even were there no sad story of a defeated hope
imbodied along with it. That old man, his white beard
streaming upon the wind, garbed after the fashion of an
ancient patriarch of the Hebrew, with a full and flowing
vestment, the long wide robes of the Egyptian hanging
loosely about him, and around his head the white and
thickly-wreathed turban, seemed too venerable for earth,
or only designed for its adoration. Yet, in his eye,
mingled with the fond glance which he gave upon his
daughter's face, might be seen an expression of an
earthly ire. The language of approaching battle was
there legibly written—the anxious doubt, the fierce, impatient
hope, the restless resolve of valour. By his side,
emblematic no less of his earthly purpose, lay the heavy
steel maule which he used in battle, glistening in the
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moonshine, in spite of the many dark and speaking spots
which former strife had left indelibly impressed upon it.
In the distance, on one hand, lay his clustering tribe, relying
on his valour and well-known wisdom—a timid race,
whom frequent conflicts had weakened and scattered
abroad, and whom the most galling tyranny, unrelaxing
wherever they fled for safety, had in mind almost emasculated.
Opposite and remote from them stood the
gathered warriors of Spain—a small but trusty band, to
whom the cry of battle had always been a pleasure, and
to whom a reappearance in arms, at this moment, in opposition
to the usurper Roderick, for the recovery of
their liberties, brought a joyful hope, which made them
indifferent to the fearful odds which the foe had brought
against them. These several groups were in the eye of
Pelayo, who now, in the transparent and serene moonlight,
looked down upon the venerable Melchior and
his sleeping daughter.
“Melchior,” said Pelayo, as he stood before him.
The maiden trembled even while she slept, for the voice
thrilled through her, but she opened not her eyes nor
gave any sign of consciousness.
“My prince!” said the old man, sadly, but respectfully.
He had felt the sudden shiver of his daughter's
frame, and well did he conceive the spell of power which
had occasioned it.
“At length, Melchior,” said Pelayo, “the war is declared.
We no longer combat our enemy by stealth
and in disguises. The arms are in our hands, the war-cry
of liberty is raised, and nothing now is left us but
to do our duty as becomes brave men fighting for their
rights. We have nothing to hope from the justice or
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the indulgence of our foe—we must only look now to
our good weapons and to the God of battles.”
“It is a prayer granted by Jehovah—we have both
prayed for this hour, Prince Pelayo,” said Melchior.
“Yet is the peril great, Melchior, and the odds are
heavy against our cause. It is not a season when mere
ordinary valour will avail us. We must do more than
we might think to do were the trial not so pressing. We
must address our souls to it, and put them into our swords.
Nor into our swords only, Melchior; our men must feel
with us, and strike after our example, or we can gain
little by combat with the practised soldiers of Edacer.
It was touching this last necessity that I came to thee,
Melchior.”
“Speak thy desires, Prince Pelayo—as I have promised
thee will I perform. I have sworn myself thy
subject, as I believe thee to be one chosen of Jehovah
for the saving of thy country, of thy people, and of
mine. I am ready to do thy will.”
“It is thy daughter who sleeps within thy arms, Melchior,”
said Pelayo, glancing from the topic between
them. The maiden shivered once more when she heard
this inquiry. She could not sleep with Pelayo speaking
beside her. With a sort of instinct, himself trembling
with suppressed emotion, Melchior half drew her form
up to his bosom ere he replied—
“It is, my lord. It was she who brought me tidings
that prompted me to bring up the band which arrested
the progress of Edacer to the cave—”
“And to which ready service we owe our safety,
Melchior. I had not remembered to give thee thanks
for thy good conduct and thoughtful valour. It is another
claim which thou hast upon Spain when she is
rescued from her tyrant.”
“Speak no more of this matter, Prince Pelayo,” replied
the old man; “but say to me as thou didst purpose—
what next shall Melchior do—what is the task
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thou wouldst assign to the Hebrew? Speak freely—he
shall do it.”
“I would not do thy people wrong, Melchior, but
thou knowest that for a long season their hands have
been unweaponed—the sway of the Gothic princes has
denied them arms.”
“It was because Israel was still feared, though beaten
as a dog, and a captive held to base services,” replied
the old man, somewhat proudly.
“Whatever was the motive of the denial, Melchior,
its effects are still the same,” replied Pelayo, calmly.
“Thy people ceased to be warlike—they ceased to desire
arms, and lost the noble exercises which make a warrior
confident in his hand and weapon. It is this lack of
confidence which I fear to-morrow. Hast thou no fears
of this sort, Melchior?”
“Alas! my prince, what shall Melchior say to thee?
Shall he speak, now that the beard of seventy winters
is white upon his breast, of his own prowess and achievement?
Surely, my prince, thou knowest that, even as
the sower sows, so shall he reap—that the valour of the
soldier is but a thriving plant from the good seed which
the chief has first put to grow; and as the leader does,
so will the soldiers, unless Jehovah wills it otherwise;
and this I look not to see to-morrow. I will lead one
half of the Hebrew warriors, and Abimelech will take
direction of the other, if it pleases thee, my prince, that
we shall do so; and we, in turn, shall be under the control
and guidance of thyself in chief, and such other brave
men as thou shalt put over us. The Jews will follow
me, I trust, into the battle; and I will not shrink, my
prince, to preserve a life that Jehovah has already lengthened
beyond the ordinary limit, as if he designed it for
this very service. It will not be unfitting that I yield it
up as a sacrifice for my people, at a season when the
promise is so fair that they will no longer need it.”
Thyrza still seemed to sleep; but when she heard
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these words, she turned her face to the bosom of her
father, where it was now hidden. It was to conceal the
big tears which gathered thickly in her eyes.
“Thy purpose pleases me, Melchior; it had been my
thought before to have divided the Hebrews under thyself
and Abimelech, though I would not have divided
them equally. I would have assigned the greater force
to thee, as I rely more upon thy words, and the general
regard which thy people bear thee, to make their valour
even and unshaken. One third of thy people will I give
to Abimelech, who shall also have with him, to lead,
though not to control, two Spanish nobles of tried
valour, the Lords Eudon and Aylor—to thee would I
give sole charge of the force remaining, but that thou
mightst fall in the conflict, and leave them disheartened,
lacking any other leader. Two other Spanish nobles
will I appoint to lead with thee, and from among thy people
thou shalt choose separate and strong bands to follow
them. Does this disposition please thee, Melchior?”
The old man avowed himself satisfied, and Pelayo
proceeded.
“Ere the night be over, I would have thee select from
thy people some fifty bowmen—such as are slight of
make and of least certain courage. These will I reserve
and dispose in clefts and places along the mountain,
free from the press of battle, yet ready to give aid
to their brethren below by a close watch and a timely
employment of their bows upon the more pressing of
the foe. They must be counselled to select their enemies—
to waste no shafts upon the followers, but only
to shoot the plumed and bold chieftains. They will be
the more collected to note their men, and perform this
duty truly, as they shall be themselves free from all pressing
and immediate danger.”
“This was already thought on, my prince,” said Melchior;
“the men are chosen for this duty.”
“Thy promptness gives me better assurance of the
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end, Melchior, and I grow more confident as we devise
together,” replied Pelayo; “there is but one point more.
There are three passes to the mountain—so I learn
from Abimelech. By these three only can we descend
into the plain for combat. The centre shall be mine—
thou shalt give me from thy force some fifty warriors—
a less number will I take from Abimelech—these, with
our Spanish nobles, will I myself lead down to battle,
and I trust that they will not miss thy command, Melchior,
in the example I shall put before them.”
“They will not—I fear not that, my prince,” said
Melchior.
“With thy force, Melchior, as the largest, thou wilt
descend the main passage to the left—thy chosen bowmen
being stationed along the space of rock lying between
the left and centre. To Abimelech, the right
pass I have assigned already. Upon our time of movement
will I confer with thee ere the dawn opens upon
us. There is no more to-night—yet, Melchior, I would
that thy daughter were not here.”
The old man pressed his finger to his lips, and looked
down into the face of the seeming sleeper. Pelayo understood
him, and spoke none of the apprehensions
which were in his bosom. The conference was now
brief between them, and given almost entirely to matters
connected with the strife which was at hand. These
will all have full development as we proceed. At
length Pelayo prepared to depart.
“I must leave thee now, Melchior—I hear a signal
that reminds me of a solemn duty which the Christian
warrior must perform before he goes to battle, in which
thy faith forbids thee to share. We administer to each
other the holy sacrament, and make confession of our
mutual and unexpiated sins. In thy way, and after the
fashion of thy church, thou too wilt make thy confession
before God, and prepare thyself, I doubt not, Melchior,
for the approach of death to-morrow.”
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“Alas! my prince, wherefore would I confess what
I may not conceal? Jehovah knows my heart, and
keeps watch over its deepest recesses. For what says
the Psalmist—`Whither shall I go from thy spirit—
whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up
into heaven, thou art there; if I make my bed in the
earth, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of
the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand
shall hold me.' I have no thought hidden from his justice—
I have no thoughts which I would not he should
examine; for I yield all things into his hands, and but
strive, as, in my poor understanding, his judgment would
seem to approve.”
Pelayo, taught in other schools, could have found
points of objection in the words of the Hebrew; but
he had too much good sense for such controversy, and
too many duties to perform requiring his thought and
presence elsewhere. He left Melchior, therefore, to
his sole communion with his God, and with the sweet
maiden, who, whatever might have been her faith, was
pure enough for any communion.
It was a curious and a solemn sight in the eye of
Thyrza to see those fierce Christian warriors shriving
one another before battle, and confessing their several
sins. She looked on, at a distance, with a maidenlike
wonder, which was, at the same time, greatly rebuked by
the solemn earnestness of the proceeding. It brought
more terribly to her mind the dreadful consciousness
of the approaching battle. She began already to realize
in her thought, and almost to behold with her eyes, the
thousand grim and fearful aspects which she well knew
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the fight would put on, when she beheld those fearless
and steel-clad warriors preparing, as it were, for death.
“Oh, my father!” she exclaimed, “is the danger so
very great, and is there no hope that we may escape
from the leaguer of the Goth?”
“None, my child; the danger is great, for the foe is
numerous and well appointed, but we fear nothing, for
the cause is holy. Jehovah will not turn from us in
anger, and the clouds will scatter, and the storm will
pass us by, and we shall behold it sweeping along the
fierce array of the Goth, even as the vengeance of God
smote of old the mighty Assyrian with the fiery blast
from his nostrils.”
“But, dear father, is not the Lord Edacer a famous
captain among the Goth?” demanded the maiden.
“There is a mightier than he. If Jehovah be our
captain, what fear we Edacer? He is the mightiest—
he is the man of war—his right hand dashes the foe into
pieces. What says the song of Miriam the prophetess,
when she sung of the triumph of Israel by the bitter waters
of Marah? I trust in the Lord. I fear not the Goth.
Let the battle come in its terror. My heart will not
quail, my hand will not tremble, my blows will be heavy
for my people.”
The maiden murmured by his side in song, while she
repeated protions of one of David's most beautiful
psalms, imploring safety from his enemies, and the old
father looked up to heaven and beat time with his hand
upon the side of the rock while she sang—
“Plead my cause, oh Lord! with them that strive
with me—fight against them that fight against me.
“Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for
my help.
“Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against
them that persecute me; say unto my soul, I am thy
salvation.
“Let them be confounded—”
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“Ay, they will be confounded, my child. The Lord
hath spoken in thy song—they must be confounded.
The prayer of the Christian and the Hebrew unite
against the oppressor. The oppressor is neither Jew
nor Christian, but he comes of the Midianite, the accursed
of God. Set thy heart at rest, my child—fear
nothing—with Jehovah is the shield of safety, and he
comes with rushing wings to our help. He comes with
the rush of wings and the force of spears, and he brings
with him the breath of the whirlwind.”
The religious devotions of the Christians had become
contagious, and, even while they spoke together, the
whole force of the Jews raised a universal song of
deliverance, showing a spirit kindred to that which had
seized upon the venerable Melchior. Under his guidance,
so greatly did they esteem him, the ancient feelings
of national veneration had grown once more alive
and active in their bosoms, and wild, sweet fancies once
more warmed their thoughts with images of the pride
and the power of the ancient Jerusalem. They remembered
old predictions, and they were happy in the
remembrance.
“Let the curs howl to-night while they may,” exclaimed
Edacer, as their wild song came down to his
ears in echoes from the mountain—“they will cry aloud
to-morrow in another voice!”
But silence reigned not in the camp of Edacer any
more than in that of Pelayo; yet the stillness there was
broken by very different sounds and other emotions.
Revelry, such as the Goth in his degeneracy exulted in;
debauchery, such as debased him to a beastliness which
only did not disgust as it was too universal to offend,
followed him from the city to the camp, and in wine and
licentious indulgences the night was half consumed
among the leaguers, when rest was required, and other
no less needful means of preparation for the trials of the
ensuing day.
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The solemn religious rites of both Jew and Christian
were ended, and the great body of both parties had
thrown themselves down among the rocks to snatch a
few hours of refreshing sleep before the dawning of that
day of trial. But there were some among that beleaguered
people that closed not their eyes, but kept watch
throughout the long and weary hours of that night. Of
this number was Egiza, whom a sense of degradation
kept awake. Pelayo slept fitfully, but with his body
only. Severe labours, continued without indulgence of
sleep, had brought exhaustion of frame, but his mind
addressed itself too earnestly to the task before him to
allow of much indulgence now. He rose at intervals
from the rocky ledge on which he had thrown himself
for slumber, and perambulated the encampment. He
saw that his sentries kept good watch, and the clamour
of carousal from the tents of Edacer below relieved
him from any apprehension of attack while the night
lasted. The stillness of design and preparation was
wanting to the enemy, and their heedless indulgence
called for little precaution on the part of the beleaguered.
But Pelayo relaxed not his diligence and watch, and
throughout the night he made a frequent tour of observation,
which kept his own men to their duties, and
would have set at naught any enterprise of the foe.
He was too good a warrior to suspend his caution because
he saw that his enemy was deficient in adventure.
Not less sleepless were Melchior and his daughter.
The conversation was long and sad between them.
She had a thousand questions to ask of her deceased
mother, of whom she knew but little, and of whom her
father had always seemed most unwilling to speak.
Her story had been one of many sorrows to herself and
him. But now he spoke more freely. He recounted
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their wanderings of the desert for twenty years, their
toils and troubles, and of her final and violent death.
It seemed as if their present extremity gave Thyrza a
right to hear, which he had always before denied her.
At length, by little and little, the subject of the Christian
rites which they had just witnessed was glanced at by
Melchior, who compared them with the awful pomp
and measured ceremonials of the ancient Hebrew
church, or, as he fondly styled it, the Church of God.
“Yet, my father,” said the maiden, “if the doctrine
of the Christian should be true—if the Nazarene were,
in truth, a god!”
“It avails not that we should speak of this,” said the
old man. “Can a god die? No! He perished, my
daughter, and though I would not that he had been slain,
for he was a pure and blessed spirit, yet I cannot think
the prophecy accomplished in his coming. It was a
narrow policy in the Jewish people to seek his death,
for, of a certainty, he strove for the rescue of Israel from
the tyrannic sway of the Roman; yet was it not so
much the deed of our people as of the selfish priesthood
who led them. They feared the rise of another faith,
which should swallow up their authority; and the Nazarene
died, not because of the doctrine which he taught,
but because he himself was a teacher. He was a good
man, and his deeds and designs were holy; but I cannot
think, my child, that he was a god, as the Christians
regard him.”
“But we do not know, my father—I would that we
did—the Christians are men of wisdom not less than of
valour, and the fortunes of the Jew—scattered and dispersed
abroad over the nations—the outcast, as it were,
of Heaven—would seem to uphold their opinion of us,
that we are thus outcast from Heaven's favour because
of our assault upon Heaven's King. If we could think
like these Christians, my father, methinks our state
would be more hopeful.”
“Think, my child, as thou mayst. Thought is no
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slave, that thou shouldst send it hither and thither. Thou
hast no command upon thy thought save as thou shalt
strive to know and to esteem the truth. It is for thee
to know the truth, and from thy knowledge comes thy
thought. If, after thou hast striven after the truth with
all thy soul and with all thy strength, thou shouldst then
think as the Christian or as the Jew, thou art equally
good with either, and equally worthy in the sight of the
Father; for it is religion no less than wisdom to labour
only after the truth. The labour makes the religion.
This done, thou hast done all. Thy mere opinions, in
the end, whether they be right or wrong, I hold to be of
little import in the making up of thy great accounts with
Heaven. What matters it, in the sight of the great Jehovah,
what is the thought of so frail a creature as man?
He needs not his opinions for his justification, for he is
just; he needs not his arguments for his state, for he is
kingly beyond all the kings of the earth. He needs but
his proper performance, that his obedience may be made
manifest, and that the prediction shall be accomplished
which is to bring all the tribes of men, and all the ends
of the earth, in meekness and communion together.
The thoughts of man and his opinions—made up of
his narrow experience, and subject to his moods of temper
or of education, of sickness or of health, are commonly
error—God be merciful, and judge of us, not according
to our thoughts, but according to our performances.”
“Father, let us pray now, that we may think with becoming
wisdom, and know those things only which are
true.”
“Thou art the truth, my child, the blessed truth—
thy heart is on thy duties ever, and thou errest not from
the path in which it is fitting thou shouldst go. Thy
life to me hath been like some blessed star shining out
ever from its appointed place, and looking always most
lovely when the hour grew darkest. As thou sayest,
let us pray.”
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The day dawned in clouds upon the combatants.
Ere the first glance of light the warriors of Pelayo were
in motion. He himself was busied with his preparations,
devising and directing in matters which he deemed
essential to his success. Melchior sprang from his
slumbers as he heard the clang of steel about him.
Thyrza, who had slept with her head upon his arm, was
aroused by his rising, and started to her feet. She beheld
her father binding his sash around his waist and
preparing his armour; but she beheld no objects distinctly.
Heavy clouds were hanging in the firmament,
and but a single and sad star in the western heavens
looked forth upon them in encouragement, like hope.
Light gray streaks veined the foggy summits in the east,
and gave indistinct promise of the day. She started
with a hurried exclamation as she beheld the preparations
of her father.
“It is not yet day, my father—thou art not now to
leave me.”
“The warriors of the prince are busy, my child.
Remember, thy father leads the Hebrew people, and
they are this day to strike for the honour of Judah, not
to speak of their own lives and liberties. I may not
sleep longer.”
“Alas! my father, that I may not give thee service in
this strife. Would that I could help thee.”
“My daughter, thou hast thy dagger?”
She put her hand upon her girdle, and detached the
weapon so as to exhibit to his eyes the small rich hilt
within her hand.
“It is well,” said he. “Hear me, my child, my
best beloved, life of my life, and more than any joy in
life to me. Ere long I will leave thee—the strife will
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be deadly and dangerous, and I may leave thee for ever.
Let not thy weapon be far from thy hand—remember
thy mother!”
The maiden wept bitterly. He continued—
“If the foe prevail—if the fight go against us—thou
wilt see me no more. The sacrifice which I have
vowed to my people will have been offered, and the toils
of Melchior for their deliverance will be ended.”
She moaned aloud, and clung to him, with her head
upon his bosom, but said nothing.
“The foe will ascend these heights, and then—my
child, thou knowest the brutal nature of the Goth—as
a man, he will slay thee, but as a woman—! My child,
my child, there is hope for thee while thou hast a
weapon, and thy death will save thee from wrong when
my arm will no longer be able to help thee. Swear to
me that thou will not tremble to use upon thy bosom the
steel which has drank the life blood of thy mother.”
“I swear, my father,” cried the maiden, with uplifted
hands.
“Swear by her—by her pure blood—swear!”
“By her blood—by her pure blood, I swear to thee,
my father, to perish by my own hands, and by this sacred
steel, ere the Goth shall set his foot as a conqueror
upon this mountain.”
“God's blessing be upon thee, my child—I leave
thee now. Yet heed thou, my child! look not down
upon the fight when it rages. It is terrible and full of
danger. Lie in safety behind this rock, where the shaft
may not reach thee. I leave thee, Thyrza—I leave
thee.”
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Melchior was busy in preparing and counselling his
Hebrews for the approaching combat when Pelayo
sought him for conference.
“You are ready, Melchior?” said the prince.
“Ay, my prince, we are all ready. We wait but the
signal,” was the immediate reply of Melchior.
“The trumpet will sound thrice before we move.
At the first summons, set your men in motion; at the
second, have them in readiness to descend the pass
which has been assigned you; at the third, move down
upon the foe, and the rest I leave to your own good
conduct, and the guardian care of the Great Father of
mankind.”
“I feel, my prince, as if our battle were his battle,
and this feeling gives me confidence and strength.”
Pelayo smiled only, pressed the hand of the aged
warrior in silence, and then departed, without further
word, to the station held by Abimelech. To him he
gave similar commands, and having satisfied himself
that he had done all that could be done by him towards
ensuring success, he departed for the central passage,
which he had reserved for his own lead, and where his
chiefs, and the detachment of Hebrews which had been
given him by Melchior and Abimelech, were already assembled
and prepared to follow him.
The dawn came on rapidly, and day was diffused
around the mountain where they were gathered without
yielding them much light for the discovery of distant objects.
Heavy clouds still hung about the rising sun,
who thus seemed to look inauspiciously upon their enterprise.
But such omens troubled not Pelayo. He
prepared to avail himself of the first light which would
enable him to descend upon his foes, and he ordered
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the first signal trumpet to sound. With the sound the
several leaders completed their arrangements, which
were, indeed, already more than half finished. But,
though all ready with the second blast of the trumpet,
Pelayo departed not from his original instructions, as
he was resolute that the descent should be a concerted
movement of the three divisions. He greatly feared the
concentration of the force of Edacer at some one single
passage, upon the party which might first make its descent
in advance of the others which were intended to
support it. Before the third trumpet was sounded, some
of the bowmen, who were distributed along the intervals
of rock between the passages, discovered the silent advance
of Edacer's army, which had left its tents, and
was arrayed in force at the foot of each of the several
passes, ready to encounter those who should descend
them, and who must necessarily do so at great
disadvantage, fighting with an irregular footing, and presenting
a narrow front, which could be assailed on three
hands while emerging from the gorge, and which could
be defended only on one. This movement of Edacer
produced some anxiety and alarm among the people on
the mountain, until the words of Pelayo reassured
them.
“Now am I glad,” said he, “that Edacer hath thus
advanced. We have him at disadvantage, and can occasion
disorder in his array which he will find it difficult
to amend. Ho, there,” he cried, to some of those
whom he had employed as attendants, “go you to
Melchior and to Abimelech.”
He gave fitting directions to the couriers thus despatched,
and then gave like instructions to his own
people.
“Do as you see me do, brave chiefs and valiant men—
one and all, to the rocks. Detach we these masses
from the sides of the mountain, and send them down
to Edacer as a token that we are coming. Ply your
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spears, men, and the path will soon be free, I warrant ye.
Speed, warriors, to the work—and ye shall see these
Goths fly with even more haste than I look for ye to advance.”
Thus speaking, Pelayo seized a spear from the hands
of a soldier, and thrusting it under a heavy and detached
rock that lay on the edge of the mountain, and just
above the gorge which formed his passage-way down,
with the strength of a giant he heaved it from the bed
where it had lain for ages, and for a moment it vibrated
and trembled upon a point ere it went bounding and
thundering, without impediment, to the valley below.
From side to side of the mountain it leaped with fearful
concussions, tearing the earth from before its path, and
detaching, in its downward progress, other masses of
rock scarcely less weighty than itself, which joined it,
without resistance, in its fearful flight. The example
of Pelayo was followed on every side; and while the
scattered bands of Edacer fled backward to their tents
before this unlooked-for assault, Pelayo, under cover of
the clouding dust which had been raised by the tumultuous
rocks in their unresisted passage, led his warriors
after them into the plain. When the cloud was lifted,
what was the surprise of Edacer to behold his foe before
him, not merely awaiting his assault, but boldly
marching down in three dense masses upon his scattered
troops.
Surprised, but not confounded, Edacer immediately
sought to amend his error. He brought his men quickly
together, and advanced to meet Pelayo. The first
shock was terrific. The spirits of the mountain warriors
had been duly heightened, and their confidence
strengthened as they had seen the bands of Edacer
scattering before the descending rocks. They rushed
to the battle with a fierce cry, and closed in a warm
fury with their enemy. Pelayo drew not his sword, but,
armed with a curtal or short-handled axe, which he
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wielded as if it were a part of his own arm, he moved
like a terror and a tower through every part of the field,
striking here and striking there, seldom twice, encouraging
his people at every stroke, and showing himself
particularly heedful of the Jewish warriors, whom he
checred by frequent words addressed only to themselves.
With the first encounter, the auspices of which were
thus favourable to Pelayo, his troops drove back those
of Edacer. The religious enthusiasm with which Melchior
had inspired his people had impelled them forward
with a zealous rage, that seemed more like the heedless
indifference of madness than the practised sense and
spirit of a tried courage. Their first shock had been
irresistible, but that first shock was to be sustained by
enduring hardihood; for though it gave them a decided
advantage, yet, as the foe still held his ground, it called
for new efforts of like character, to which the untried
Hebrew warriors were not equal. The fierce Edacer—
doubly furious, as, so far, he seemed to have been baffled—
having rallied his men, rushed forward with a picked
body upon his foe, and was encountered by Abimelech,
whose troop was comparatively fresh, as it had been
more remote from the tug and trial attending the first
collision of the two armies. Success did not attend the
onset of Abimelech. His followers recoiled from the
heavy and close press of the Gothic spearmen; and that
warrior himself, having the ill-fortune to encounter with
Edacer, was thrust through and through with a spear,
and fell dead on the spot. The spear of Edacer was
broken with the fall of the enemy he had transfixed,
and he now drew his thick Spanish sword, a massive,
double-edged weapon, short and broad, which the Romans
had adopted from the native Iberian, and had preferred
to use before their sinews had been relaxed by
the effeminacies into which they afterward fell. The
overthrow of Abimelech dispirited his followers, while it
gave encouragement to the Gothic soldiers. They gave
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back before their enemy, who pressed hardly upon them,
until the panic became a flight, the flight a rout, and
they fled in utter confusion to the rocks from which
they had descended. They were hotly pursued by the
force with which they had engaged, and it was then that
the bowmen whom Pelayo had stationed along the
mountain side rendered good service to the fugitives.
Their arrows fell fast and thick among the pursuers,
singling out their several and leading victims, and daunting
the rage of the pursuit with the terrors of an unexpected
foe; but this slight service could not long have
saved the warriors of Abimelech, had not the troops of
Melchior, which had been engaged with the right division
of Edacer's army, and had obtained like advantages
with those which he had won from Abimelech, now arrived
to their aid and rescue. The battle was begun
anew, and with new terrors. Melchior, with a vigour
that came from the resolution and sacred strength in
his mind, and which seemed to imbue him with all the
spirit, and strengthen him with all the muscles of youth,
led his men into the thickest of the enemy's array, and
ploughed to the heart of Edacer's force with shaft and
steel, until that fierce warrior himself was encountered.
The heavy maule of Melchior clashed with the thick,
short sword of Edacer. The fierce Goth opposed the
venerable Hebrew, and terrible indeed was the spectacle
to those around. But though Melchior seemed endowed
with the strength of youth, it was not possible for
him to strike long against the vigorous Edacer, particularly,
too, as the weapon which he employed, though
dreadful to strike, was not readily available, from its
great weight, for the purposes of defence. Edacer
pressed the venerable leader closely, and, chafed and
mortified, Melchior gave back before him. The strokes
of Edacer fell faster than ever as he found that he had
gained this advantage, and they became now more difficult
than ever for the Hebrew to parry and avoid; until,
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at length, aiming to defend himself from a severe blow
meditated by the Goth, he threw up his maule crosswise
above his head, and the well-tempered steel of
Toledo, drawn down by the muscular arm of Edacer
with all its force, cut through the iron maule as if it
had been a reed, and the head of Melchior lay bare to
his blows. The force with which Edacer had struck
carried him forward, and, falling upon Melchior, they
both came heavily to the ground together. But the
Goth instantly regained his feet, and stood with his heel
upon his foe and his weapon uplifted. At this sight the
whole array of the Israelites cried aloud as with one
voice of unspeakable horror. The dreadful cry, significant
as it was of the general wo of her people, reached
the ears of the weeping and praying Thyrza, as she
lay anxious and apprehensive behind the rock where
her father had left her in safety. She started to her
feet as she heard this dreadful clamour, and, rushing
forward, beheld the white beard of Melchior upon the
earth, and saw the fierce Goth bestriding his body.
With a shriek of wo more piercing than the united
cry of the host, she bounded away; and, without a
consciousness of aught save of his danger, rushed
down the mountain just as a flight of arrows was interchanged
between those from below and those who still
kept their places as bowmen upon the heights. One
shaft penetrated her side, but she still went forward,
shrieking all the while, and calling upon Pelayo, in
whom she seemed to confide altogether and alone, for
the rescue of her father. Nor did the call seem to have
been made in vain. Before the blow of Edacer could
descend upon the head of his hoary victim, the Iberian
chief had dashed him away from the prostrate body of
Melchior, and he now opposed his dreadful battle-axe,
its edge smeared with hair and blood, that stood glued
in thick clots upon it, to the thirsting blade of the Gothic
sword. Two strokes had not been made between them
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when the axe of Pelayo hewed down the shoulder of his
foe—a second blow, and its dripping edge was buried
deeply in his brain, and without a groan the Gothic
warrior fell prostrate to the earth. The cry of Pelayo's
warriors was that of victory. The Hebrews rallied as
they beheld the sight. The bowmen rushed down from
the mountain heights to the warm, close feast of the
sword below; and, in the entire rout and flight of the
Gothic warriors, the victory of Pelayo was complete.
In a remote corner of the mountain, apart from the
assembled and rejoicing warriors, Melchior sat in hopeless
sorrow, the head of his dying child reposing in his
lap. The light was fast departing from her eyes, and
they unclosed at moments only when she strove to
speak. A joyful and thrice-repeated shout startled her
for an instant from the deepening dream of death, which
was weaving its shadows around her.
“Wherefore is the shouting, my father. Has he not
conquered? Are we not safe?”
“We are safe, my child. The shouting is one of
joy. They crown the Prince Pelayo, my daughter; the
warriors make him their king,” was the reply of Melchior.
The maiden clasped her hands, strove vainly to
raise her head, as if desiring to behold the spectacle,
but the blood gushed in a torrent from her side as she
did so, and she sank back, and, in a moment after,
slept in the immoveable embrace of death. Melchior
had no words when Pelayo approached him.
“She died a Christian, Melchior—look! it is the
holy cross which she bears within her hands!”
True it was, that, in her hands, now for the first time
visible to her father's eyes, lay a small golden cross,
which had probably been dropped by some hurrying
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warrior as he went into battle, and which she had unconsciously
picked up on the heights while awaiting the
result of the conflict below.
“She died a pure and blessed child, my prince,” said
the desolate father, “and I heed nothing of her faith, as
I know her heart. Alas! that so few live like her.
Alas! for Melchior! He is now alone—he need not
now seek the desert—it is here! it is here!”
And the hand of the old man smote heavily upon his
heart as he spoke these words, and his head sank down
upon the body of his daughter. The eyes of Pelayo
were full of tears, and he turned away to conceal them.
We have now, gentle reader, who hast borne with us
so long, brought thee to the proposed resting-place in
this our narrative. We trust that we have not journeyed
together thus far unprofitably—that—though some moments
may have hung heavily upon our hands, and something
in our speech may have at times sounded tediously
in thine ears—thou wilt forgive these, our involuntary
transgressions upon thy good taste and good temper,
in consideration of other passages in our progress which
may have amply contributed to the strengthening of the
one and the more perfect sweetening of the other. Ascribe
not this speech to our vanity, but to our hopeful
desire to please thee. At least, let it mar nothing at
our next meeting, when we propose to resume this very
narrative; bringing other actors upon the stage in addition
to some of those with whom we have in part
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brought thee acquainted, and to whom we have given
either too little or too much of our regards. We hope
soon to show thee the fearful progress of the usurper
from sin to sin, and finally, as an inevitable consequence,
to destruction. We will depict before thine eyes the
downfall, with him, of the great empire of the Goth, and
the rapid conquests of the wild tribes of Mauritania, the
fate of the lovely Cava, and the unhappy, but not inexcusable,
treason of the valorous Count Julian. But let us
not vex thee now with these imperfect shadowings.
Let it be, we pray thee, an equal hope between us, that
we shall renew these journeyings together through the
wild regions of romance and the wondrous events upon
whose history we have thus begun. For the present,
we give thee our hearty benison, and crave humbly for
thy blessing in return.
The Author.
THE END.
