Pelayo: a story of the Goth

University of California • Berkeley

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W. H.TARVER,

fGEWE BUREAU

OLD BOOKS,

CIRGUi-AT! .

'SAVANNAH, GA«

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P E L A Y O:

A STORY OF THE GOTH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"MELLICHAMPE," " THE YEMASSEE," " GUY RIVERA
" f HE PARTISAN," "MARTIN FABER," &c.

' Nor should the narrow spirit chide the toil
Through these old ruins. They have noble spoil
And goodly treasure."

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

NEW-YORK:

HARPER & "BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.

1838.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by

HARPER & BROTHERS,
in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New- York.

JL.

P E L A YO:

STORY OF THE GOTH.

BOOK III.

BOOK III.

I.

WHEN the eyes of the stunned and suffering Amri
^ere opened to the light, he found himself in the -cham-
ber of the heautiful Urraca. She had been, and was
still, bus)* in attendance upon him. Her hand had
dressed his wound, which was rather severe than dan-
gerous ; she had administered the cooling beverage,
and her attentions had been unrelaxing, like those of the
fondest and most devoted wife. The gladness which
shone in her eyes as she beheld his unclosing, was a
rebuke to his spirit, which he understood, if he did not
feel.

" How is it with thee now, Amri ?" she demanded of
him, in a voice of the utmost tenderness, very different
from that aroused and sternly passionate tone which we
have heard her employing to the same person in a pre-
ceding interview. He answered her in a voice of studied
fondness, and with words fitly calculated to gloss over
his falsehood and conceal his indifference.

" Ah, dearest Urraca, how much do I owe to thy
care and watchfulness ! Thou hast saved my life, I
know, and I owe it to thee now if I had not willed it to
thee before. Thou hast been to me all — henceforward
I will be all to thee."

The hypocrite played his part successfully ; and, wil-
A2

^t. ' *^B

•^l^^flffllto confidp* where confidence was happiness, the
• ^^^•tiejftendtnF Onl^^pauee^Jlot ^calmly. ;4o^najyz*1^' in- ^ A J»
quire into the truth of his aecmrcrtrfcmsl >S8e TOok»tnen|i V,

upon trust She did not look to seVif the eye of Amri
met hers with unblenching earnestness as he addressed
her ; she did not remark that the voice was schooled
into effort, and was unbroken and even while he was
uttering words of passionate gratitude and warm affec-
tion. It was enough for her that the sense which they
conveyed was sweet; she did not ask — perhaps she
feared to ask — if they were the words of truth. Alas !
how commonly do we forego the true for the sweet ;
how readily do^we suffer ourselves to be beguiled by the
one into a disregard and forgetfulness of the other;
and how bitterly do we pay, in after days, for the sad
error of such beguiling moments ! She replied to him
with all the fondness of a love which the show of a
proper feeling in him had pleased and satisfied.

" Ah, Amri, thy words are sweet — sweeter to me
than all the gifts and all the worship of the proudest
Goth that ever humbled himself in my train. How glad
would I be to believe thee, Amri. Dost thou not de-
ceive me, dearest ? Art thou not glozing, that I may
not see or suspect thy falsehood ? I fear me thou dost
play me false, and thy words are those of the serpent,
words of guile and of untruth. Yet, be it so, Amri — be
it so. Speak to me falsely, but sweetly — and, if thou
dost me wrong in thy heart, Amri, let the secret be with-
held from my ears, and I forgive thee the wrong."

" Sweet Urraca, thou knowest that I wrong thee not.
How could I wrong a love true, and sweet, and devoted
as is thine ? Were I moved to wrong thee, wanting in
the natural passion which should respond to thine, thy
truth would counsel me that I should do thee justice,
and pay homage to the affection which I yet might never
feel. -I should feign the love for thee which thou de-
eervest, even though my cold heart entertained it not."

PEMYO. . « . 7>

" But thou dost not feign — thou dost feel, my Amri ?"
cried the woman, hastily, and with some symptoms of
apprehension. He put his hand upon his bosom, and
invoked the God of Israel to approve his sincerity.

" Thy God — my God ! They have both heard thee,
Amri !" she exclaimed, laying her hand upon his arm,
and looking for a moment inquiringly into his face ;
, then, with a fond smile, throwing herself upon his bosom,
she cried, passionately and aloud, the satisfaction which
she felt.

"I must — I will believe thee, Amri. I dare not
doubt thee longer, Amri, though many are the doubts
which have come to chide me with the confidence I
have given thee ; and often, even when thou didst seem
most loving and most true, was there something that
whispered in my heart, telling me to believe thee not —
to heed none of thy professions. I will not hear to this
evil tempter — I will believe that thou dost love me."

" I do — I do love thee, Urraca. Thou must believe,
and confide to me always."

" I will — I must — even as thou sayest, Amri !" she
responded ; but with one of those sudden and passionate
transitions which marked her ungovernable and ill-
schooled spirit, her tone changed, even as she said
these words ; and with a fiery glance of the eye, and an
uplifted finger, starting at the same time away from his
embrace, she looked upon him threateningly, while she
spoke the very doubts which she had determined to dis-
miss;1

" Yet, if thou shouldst deceive me — if-— oh, Amri, I
could have slain thee with my own hands but the last
night, when I looked upon thee and esteemed thee a
traitor to my love. My hand was upon this dagger" —
and, while she spoke, she drew it from her bosom and
held it on high — " and, but that thy words were quick,
and warmed with a devotion which was sweet to my
heart, I had driven its biting blade into the very warmest
parts of thine!"

' 8 pEonro.

" Urraca !" was the only word which the lips of
Amri uttered in reply to this passionate exhortation.
She turned a fond woman-glance once more upon him,
while she flung the dagger from her to a distant corner
of the chamber.

" I will not trust myself to hold it again in my hands,
for fear that it should be too ready, in some sad hour,
obedient to my wilful heart. Fear me not, Amri ; I do
now believe thee — I will wrong thee never again."

But he did fear her. He knew too well how tumul.-
tnously the storm of passion in her soul bore along with
it every consideration, every stay of reason, every obsta-
cle which prudence and a calm thought might will to
oppose against feverish impatience and the phrensy of a
jealous mood.

" I do fear thee," he said to himself, even while she
embraced him and while he embraced her — " I do fear
thee, and I were a fool not to provide against this fear.
I will not fear thee long."

Such were the shadows of his thought, passing cloud-
ily* over his mind, and intimating the commission of
other and greater crimes as necessary to his extrication
from the past. But neither by word nor look did he
convey to her mind a solitary suspicion of that which
was passing through his own. He played the part of
the adoring lover — the confiding, fond husband — one
having happiness, and free from disquiet or discontent.
Little did she dream while believing, and happy to be-
lieve, that in his thought he had already, with felon spirit,
resolved to penetrate the sanctuary of her life — to throw
down and trample into dust and darkness the sacred and
sweet, though perhaps impure, fires which were burning
upon its altars.

PBLAYO. 9

II.

THAT night the happiness of Urraca was perfect, if
there can be any perfect happiness for the spirit which
is impure. The sickness of Amri, making him for the
time a dependant upon her, had imposed upon him the
necessity of conciliation to a far greater degree than had
been his wont to show for a long period previously.
With the artfulness of that narrow sagacity which is cun-
ning, and must always result in vice, he could imitate
the virtue which he yet had not the courage to feel or to
desire ; and the eyes of love and confidence never looked
more natural and true than did those of the dishonoura-
ble Amri. Willing to believe, where belief was itself
so great a pleasure, the fond Urraca was readily im-
posed upon. She lay in his arms, and the fountains of
her eyes were opened, and joyous tears, flowing freely
from their deepest sources, relieved her labouring bosom,
and soothed a spirit too easily roused to wrath and sus-
picion to remain soothed long. Vicious still, and pur-
suing still the indulgences of vice, the feelings of Urraca
were, nevertheless, more truly innocent at this moment
than they had ever been at any which she had known
since the hapless hour when, in her maiden fondness
and confiding youth, she had been beguiled from the in-
nocent hope of girlhood, and the quiet dwelling of her
father among the hills of Guadarrama. The child of a
decayed noble, she dwelt amid seclusion, and her eyes
were accustomed to behold no object in the shape of
man more attractive than the surrounding goatherds,
clad in skins as rough and more unsightly than those of
the animals they tended. But, one day, wandering
among those hills, there came a gallant cavalier — a
Gothic noble — who had fled thither for shelter, seeking
safety from the avenger of blood. Her eyes were daz-

10 PELAYO.

zled by his glances and gay apparel, and her heart was
soon enslaved by the sweet persuasion of his beguiling
words. She became his victim ; and when he left her,
as not long afterward he did, she stole away from the
innocent home in which she was no longer innocent, and
sought her despoiler and her future abiding-place in the
dangerous proximity of the court. The transitions of
vice to greater vice are rapid, though perhaps insensible
in their progress, and not often apt to offend, however
they may be to startle ; and the beautiful Urraca sank,
after no very long period, and with little effort at resist-
ance, into the thing we find her. She became accus-
tomed to her degraded calling, and soon grew compara-
tively callous, in an atmosphere so generally vicious as
that of the city, to the debasing shame of her indulgen-
ces. Yet were there moments when the memory of the
past, of the quiet, humble, happy home of her sire among
the mountains of Guadarrama, came over her heart with
irresistible power, filling her bosom with sorrow and her
eyes with tears — when the feeling of self-abasement
shook her form as with the convulsions of a spasmodic
agony, and when she felt how much holier was that hum-
ble home which she had given up for ever, than all the
gaudy trappings and dearly-bought splendours which lust
had accumulated around her.

Such now were her thoughts and feelings, even while
she lay upon the bosom of Amri ; and suddenly, amid
her tears, she exclaimed aloud, as if to herself in mu-
sing—

" The old home — the quiet home among the hills —
the peace — the peace !"

" What home, Urraca 1" was the inquiry of Amri, as
he heard the exclamation.

" The home of my childhood — of my innocence — of
my peace ! My father's home and mine, Amri. Would
we were thereY Amri — would we both were there !"

** Wherefore the wish, dearest Urraca ? Art thou not

PELAYO. 11

happy here — here, in my arms — secure, as thou now art,
of the love of thy own Amri ?"

" Happy — oh yes, very happy, Amri — but yet not at
peace! Give me peace. I would rest now — I would
sleep. I have been striving long, and I feel that a
dreadful fever has been preying upon my heart. I feel
— I fear, Amri — that I have not long to live ! Some-
thing seems to whisper it to all my senses. I hear it —
I see it — I feel it."

" And I wish it !" was the thought of Amri ; but he
gave utterance to a far different sentiment.

" Thou art dreaming, Urraca — and thy dream is no
less idle to thee than it is painful to me. Forbear such
thoughts, and let thy fancy no longer trifle with thee
thus, torturing us both without profit. Now is the sea-
son for our mutual happiness — now, when thou doubtest
me no longer ; and now, when I am assured that the
Jew is no longer despised of the woman he adores.
Give over thy weeping, sweet one, and look the bright
smile from thine eyes which is their natural and becom-
ing expression."

She tried to smile while thus he strove artfully to
sooth her ; but her lips murmured fitfully for some mo-
ments after, as if beyond all her power of prevention —

" The old -home — the brown hills — my father's home
and mine. The peace, the sweet peace and quiet of
that home !"

" Think not of it, Urraca. This is now thy home, as
dear to thee as any which thou hast eVer known before."

" As dear to me ! * Yes, dearer — much dearer, Amri
— for here thou lovest me ; and there — there are none
left now who would, or should, love the outcast Urraca.
This home is dearer than all, Amri ; but oh, it wants the
quiet of those brown hills and those suddenly-sinking
valleys. Would we were there, my Amri! — there is
peace among those hills which I would give this wealth,

12 PELAYO,

these pomps, the world, every thing, dear Amri, but thee,
once more to find — once more to recover !"

" Sleep, dear TJrraca — give thyself up to sleep upon
my bosom, and the peace will surely return to thee
which thou hast lost before, and which thou desirest
now."

" Never — never, while here !" was her energetic re-
sponse to all his entreaties. " I feel that there is no
peace for me in Cordova ! No peace anywhere for
Urraca but among those hills of her innocent girlhood.
It was there that I ceased to be innocent. It is there
only that I can be innocent again, and happy ! Wilt
thou not go with me there, Amri? Wilt thou not?
Thou lovest me — so thou hast sworn to me ! If thou
dost, thou wilt not refuse. Go with me to the moun-
tains of Guadarrama. Let us seek out the valley of
my father. He is no longer there to meet me with his
frown! He is no longer living to curse me with his
dying breath ! The old halls in which he dwelt are si-
lent ; and if they have no words of sympathy to sooth,
they at least have no language of reproach with which
to chide me. Thither let us fly — there let us live —
there, at least, dear Amri — I implore thee as for my life
— there, at least, let me die !"

The spirit of Urraca was again in tumult. Her mind
was ill at ease. It was in vain that Amri strove to si-
lence her complainings, and convince her that her griefs
were idle and imaginary.

" Wherefore dost thou talk of death, my beloved ?
What hast thou to fear? Thou art young — thou art
beautiful — thou art beloved ! Thou hast wealth — thou
livest in luxury — thou hast no want which thou mayst
not gratify."

" Yes — there is one ! There is one sad, sweet want
which here I may not gratify. There only — there, in
Guadarrama."

" What is that want, Urraca ? I will—"

PELAYO- 13

** Peace — I would have peace — I would sleep — and
I feel, Amri, that I shall never sleep at peace till I reach
those mountains. I feel that I am soon to die — "

" No more of that, dearest," said he, interrupting her
with a well-affected fondness of entreaty.

" I feel it — I fear it I cannot help the thought — the
fear ! It comes to me unbidden ! It looks at me — it
whispers in my ears — and I shut it out from one sense
only to have it force its way into another. But whether
it be true or false — whether it be idle or substantial — I
feel that I would rather fly once more to that old home,
if thou, dearest Amri, wilt go thither with me. I am
sick of this life in Cordova. I am sick of the vile asso-
ciates who seek me. Wherefore should I remain longer?
I have wealth, as thou sayest, in abundance. I would
leave the path, and, if possible, the practices, of the vice
by which I live. Go with me to those quiet hills, dear-
est Amri, and let me live, if live I may, in peace, and
for thee ! Wilt thou go with me, Amri ?"

She raised her head from his bosom, where all this
while it had lain, as she put this question, and her dark
eyes looked down penetratingly and imploringly into his
face. He paused for a few seconds, until he saw, from
the changing colour in her cheeks, that a prompt and af-
firmative reply would be the best policy. He gave the
desired assent, and she then threw herself again upon
his bosom, her arms clasping his neck ; and there she
wept freely, until exhausted nature sank down finally into
the arms of a refreshing slumber*

ra.

IT was the lost peace of mind — it was the sleep of a
reproving and feverish conscience, for which the unhappy
woman prayed ; but this she did not Herself so well un-
derstand. It was a fond and natural desire which she

VOL. II — B

14 PELAYO.

felt to return to her home of infancy, and the thought
was no less natural to one in her situation, that there
only could she recover the innocence which she had
there lost. With the purely innocent the heart is never
from its home. The sweet hopes, the pleasant joys, the
cheering affections attend it ever, and cluster around its
steps, and hallow all its emotions. Amri gave Urraca
the promise which she sought, and she was, for the mo-
ment, satisfied. He gave it unwillingly, however, and
without the most distant intention of its fulfilment. He
could do no less than promise. He feared once more
to provoke the paroxysm of her passion, the consequen-
ces and character of which he well knew, and which he
had long since learned how to dread. And even had he
not this fear, a common show of gratitude would have
called for the concession. To have denied her at such
a moment would have been ungracious in the extreme.
Her fond nursing and gentle cares had recovered him
from the stunning, but not serious, injury which he had
received from the blow given by Pelayo ; and, bending
over her as she lay sleeping upon his arm, he half re-
proached himself, at intervals, with the base selfishness
of his own spirit, that would not allow him to estimate as
it deserved the willing devotedness of hers. But these
moods were only momentary — of little strength, and of
no duration. Other thoughts soon filled his mind, and
a succession of dark and criminal purposes expelled from
his bosom the better impulses. These purposes were
many, yet not various in their character. They all bore
the same family likeness, shadowed from his own vile
and malignant soul. At one moment he meditated the
destruction of Melchior, whom he had half sold already
to the mercenary Edacer. A "strange feeling of kindred
— strange in him, though natural enough to others —
alone made him hesitate ; and .when, at the next mo-
ment, he thought of Thyrza, his scruples and hesitation
could not but increase. The thought of the Jewish

PELAYO. 15

maiden soon usurped the place of all other images ; and
as, through the aid of his active imagination, her perfect
and sweetly beautiful features rose before his mind's eye,
he turned away, with instinctive aversion, from the con-
templation of the face of her who lay sleeping beside
him. She too was beautiful ; but oh ! how different her
loveliness from the loveliness of Thyrza ! Where was
that angel purity, that heavenly grace, that sanctified
look, in which no expression ever made its appearance
inconsistent with a heart full of holiness, and a hope full
of innocence and truth ? The face of Urraca, beautiful
though it might appear, was like some rich and decora-
ted casket, in which lay concealed the elements of evil
and of terror — wild, fierce passions, unholy desires, and
any thing but innocence, and every thing but truth ! It
is in the sovereignty of virtue to command even the ad-
miration of that vice which yet does not sufficiently ad-
mire to seek to emulate it ; and the thought of Thyrza
in the mind of Amri, and the comparison, or rather con-
trast, between herself and Urraca which that thought
forced upon him, moved him to detach his arm from the
neck about which it had been wound so fondly ere she
slept, and to withdraw the close embrace, in the seem-
ingly fond folds of which the unhappy woman had given
herself up to a pleasing unconsciousness. His eyes
now looked upon the closed orbs of Urraca as earnestly
as they might ever have done before, but, certainly, with
no such feeling shining within them as had once pos-
sessed his heart, and spoken for it through them. Hate,
scorn, contempt, hostility, now formed the expression of
that look, which, but a little while before, was all love
and adoration ! His mind revolted as he gazed ; and,
rising with the utmost caution from the couch where he
had lain, he resumed the dress which, in part only, 'had
been thrown aside before. A busy and a black thought
in his mind prompted him to rapidity in his movements ;
and, when he had resumed his habit, he went to a recess

16 PELATG.

in the chamber which was hidden from all eyes by the
falling folds of a curtain, and there, undoing the sash
which usually bound his middle, he drew from a little
pocket artfully concealed in its foldings a small enve-
lope of parchment, which he transferred from its former
place to one more convenient of reach in his bosom-
This done, he girded himself with the sash hastily ; then
re-entering the chamber, he approached the couch where
tlrraca layr still wrapped in the deepest, though most un-
quiet, slumbers. She murmured and sighed in her
sleep, and the tears, even then, hung upon the long,
black, and folded eyelashes of her large and lovely
eyes. He gave her but a single glance as still she
slept, and in that glance the murderous design in his bo-
som was* fully apparent. Cautiously then he stole away
from the apartment, and seeking an adjoining chamber,
he summoned one of the female attendants who usually
waited upon the person of Urraca. The intimacy of the
Hebrew with this woman seemed to have been of a na-
ture which rendered much formality unnecessary between
them. He spoke to her as if she had been his creature*
and one whom he could most certainly command.

" Zittar she sleeps. Thou hast so far well performed,,
and here is thy reward."

He gave her money, which she readily received.

" Thou hast promised me, and the time is at length
come when thou must da as thou hast promised. She
will not free thee. She has resolved. Thou must free
thyself — and me ! I have striven for thee until I have
angered her, and she has resolved^ more firmly than
ever, to keep thee in her bondage. She has sworn it.
There is but one course for thee. Art thou ready to da
every thing for thy self-mastery — for the tie which is be-
tween us — and remembering and desiring what I shall
do for thee in Merida when thou shalt be free to go
there?"

The woman promised him, and he then took from his

PELAYO. 17

vest the parchment envelope which he had there hidden
after withdrawing it from his sash. This he placed in
her hands, with these words —

" For the wine she drinks ! It is fatal — but it gives
thee freedom. It gives us both freedom ; and when
thou hast that, I will do for thee, and be to thee, all that
I have promised. Thou wilt do it — thou hast sworn ?"

" I have sworn — I will swear again, Amri," respond-
ed the woman.

" 'Tis well !"

" Thou sayest, Amri, that she has denied you — "

" Utterly, and with anger in her words and looks."

" Yet once she promised that I should be free to seek
my mother in Merida ? Twas thus thou saidst."

" She did — but revoked the promise in her evil mood.
She is now resolved to hold thee with life."

" With life !" exclaimed the woman, bitterly. " And
this," she continued, holding up the packet, " this is fatal
to life, Amri, thou sayest?"

" It is," was the reply. " Drugged with it, the wine-
cup which she drinks is death."

" Then she keeps me not long. Hold it done, Amri,
as I have promised thee before. Again I promise thee."

She extended her hand as she spoke, which he pressed
with a pleasurable grasp. Then, giving her some direc-
tions touching the manner of using the deadly potion with
which he had provided her, he bade her take heed of the
proper moment to administer it. This done, he left her
to proceed to other and not less evil projects.

IV.

WITH the restlessness of a guilty spirit, Amri hurried
away, when his conference with the woman was ended,
to the prosecution of his various purposes. It was ne-
cessary that he should regain lost time ; and, as it was
B2

18 FELATtf,

essential to las projects that he should not for a moment
lose sight of the movements of Melchiorr he was now
solicitous to discover what had been the course of the
outlawed Hebrew during the period in which he had
Been confined by his bruises to the dwelling of Urraca.
A day and night had elapsed since his unsuccessful as-
sault upon the person of the maiden Thyrza. Of her
rescue he could remember little. Upon receiving the
blow of Pelayo his senses had left him, and he saw and
knew nothing after, until he opened his eyes upon the
couch in Urraca's chamber. From her he obtained but
little information ; for, ignorant himself that she had
been his companion in the affray, and feeling, as he did,
the dangerous delicacy of the subject in connexion with
her, he had ventured to ask her no questions, and was
compelled to rest content with the limited information
which she was willing to unfold. This was unimpor-
tant. She had her reasons for concealing from him her
own agency in his rescue, and he was forced to resort
to the attendant of Edacer, from whom he obtained little
intelligence that was more satisfactory than that given
by Urraca — by whom, indeed, the soldier had been
schooled into silence. The Hebrew youth could only
learn from their united testimony what he already, in
great part, knew, or could conjecture, namely — that the
page had been taken from his grasp at the moment when
his possession of her might have been considered cer-
tain ; but by whom remained to him utterly unknown.
One error crept into the soldier's statement ; but whether
in consequence of the instructions of Urraca, or from his
own head, in apologizing and accounting for his imbe-
cility during the affray, it does not rest with us to deter-
mine. According to his account, the rescue of Thyrza
had been effected, not by one man, but by a dozen, all
"good men and true" — "men in buckram." A little
bewildered to account for the appearance of so many
persons so opportunely, and all so well armed, at the

PELAYO. 19

proper moment, Amri was not, however, disposed to
forego his purposes in reference to the maiden thus taken
from his clutches. The privation only added a new
stimulant to his always active passions, and he was now
resolute to obtain her at every hazard. The slight hurt
which he had received had the effect of determining him
to sacrifice Melchior without further scruple ; as, in re-
solving the doubts which came to his mind on the sub-
ject of Thyrza's rescue, he arrived at the conclusion that
the persons by whom it had been effected were the myr-
midons of the outlaw. Acquainted now with the exist-
ence of a conspiracy, and conscious that Melchior was
at the bottom of it, he was at no loss to ascribe to the
direct agency of the latter the injury which he had re-
ceived ; and he now set forth, resolute not only to effect
his object with the daughter, but — dismissing all further
scruples which he might have had, and did have, in sac-
rificing one of his tribe — also to deliver up to the mer-
cenary Edacer, and to the penal terrors of the law, the
person of her venerable father. Thus sharpened in his
resolves, he hurried home with early dawn. The ab-
sence of Adoniakim from home gave him, in some re-
spects, a freer opportunity for prosecuting his designs.
Passing into a secret chamber of his father, which he
was enabled to do by means of a master key which he
had some time previously secured, he opened a massive
safe of iron in which Adoniakim sometimes kept his
treasure ; but, to the annoyance and disappointment of
Amri, there was little in its keeping — too little to permit
of his abstracting any of its contents without detection.
But, as if to compensate him for this disappointment, a
small desk, which lay open upon a table before him, was
covered with papers, over which the eye of Amri, glan-
cing casually, became suddenly fixed in curiosity. He
read with greedy pleasure their contents. They spoke
of various matters connected with the conspiracy, and
the mind of the youth became suddenly wonderfully en-

20 PELAYO,

lightened on the subject of an affair, the importance of
which he had never before conjectured. While he read
he muttered to himself aloud, with a pleasure which he
did not seek to suppress or conceal —

" By the beard of Samuel, but it is all here ! This is
treasure enough, and I sorrow not that the safe is empty.
Thou hast been secret, Adoniakim — Abraham bless
thee, for thou hast slept one moment — Abraham be
blessed, for that moment I awakened. This is a prize
which gives me every thing. I have thy secret, Mel-
chior — I have thee, too, and Thyrza in my clutches.
Thou shalt buy thyself, and I will buy her with thee. It
is good — it is great, this plan. He cannot help but
yield — he will — he must consent. I have his life in my
hands — the life of Adoniakim — the lives of one half the
tribe, and all of its treasure. Let him deny me if he
dare. I have him — I have her. The lovely Thyrza is
mine !"

The youth paced the apartment in his exultation,
speaking to himself all the while as he did so in a vein
similar to that which we have recorded.

" They cannot deny," he continued ; "and if they do,
it is written. That1 ' — and he pointed to the writing in
various places as he spoke — " that is the character of
Adoniakim — that of Melchior ; and it speaks of arms
and warriors, gathering and to gather, under the lead of
Abimelech. Abimelech, too — I am glad to find him
here set down. I like him not, and he keeps not hidden
the scorn which he holds for me. He, too, is in my
power. Thyrza alone shall buy them free ; and I am
fain to think that Abimelech should be except from this
safety. Why should I yield so freely 1 'Tis enough I
give not up their secret — 'tis enough that I spare Mel-
chior and the rest. I must punish the high-browed and
insolent Abimelech for his scorn of me. He shall not
be safe, though I keep terms and make composition with
the rest. It must be as I say. Melchior shall hear a

PELAYO. 21

word as haughty as his own. He shall prescribe no
longer to Adoniakim — he shall no longer deny me. I
am master of his fate — what hinders that I be master of
my own ?M

While thus he freely soliloquized upon the hopes with
which his discovery of the papers of the conspirator had
filled his heart, he heard the sound of approaching foot-
steps ; and, hastily possessing himself of the important
documents, he thrust them into the folds of his bosom.
Then, passing into the adjoining apartment, in which
once before we found him slumbering, he closed the se-
cret panel in time to meet the intruder, who proved to
be Mahlon, one in the service of Adoniakim, but one
who was the entire creature of the son.

" How now, Mahlon — what brings thee ?" demanded
the youth.

" Thy father, Adoniakim, approaches," was the reply.

" Ha 1 that is well. Comes he alone ?" was the fur-
ther inquiry.

" Melchior comes with him," said Mahlon.

" That is better — that is well — I may soon prophesy
for others since I have so well spoken for myself. Away,
Mahlon, and give them entrance ; and say not, if thou
canst help it, that I am here."

The slave retired, as he was bidden, to give admission
to the new-comers ; while Amri, remaining where he
was, prepared his thoughts for their reception according
to the plan which his discovery of the conspiracy had
already suggested to his mind. The reckless and vicious
youth was delighted in the last degree at their approach.
He drew a favourable omen from their coming so oppor-
tunely to hear the secret which he had happened upon,
and while his own resolves respecting it were fresh in
his reflection ; and his exultation, which he could not,
and perhaps did not desire to restrain, found its way to
his lips in language of corresponding delight.

" By the beard of Samuel !" he exclaimed, " but this

22 PELAVO.

is fortunate. We shall lose but little time. They come
opportunely to my wish ; and if Melchior be not utterly
desperate, and madly prone to his own destruction and
the defeat of all his schemes of insurrection, the lovely
Thyrza shall be mine before the sunset. It is written.
I have her securely — I have her here !" he exclaimed,
striking his bosom joyously where the papers of the con-
spirators were concealed — " I have her here ! Melchior
can only remove and possess himself of these — which
contain his life, his fortune, and his hope, all at my mercy
—by placing his lovely daughter in their stead. Beard
of Samuel ! How the day brightens !"

The hum of their approaching voices, and soon the
sound of their footsteps, reached his ears at the entrance
of the chamber. He threw himself back carelessly upon
a long cushion as he heard them, and his insolent eyes
were fixed upon the door through which they were to
enter. As the door opened, and the person of Mel-
chior, in advance of that of his companion, met the
glance of Amri, his face immediately put on an expres-
sion and look of lively indifference almost amounting to
contempt, «nd he made no effort to rise and salute, as
was customary, the venerable man. His father, seeing
this, rebuked him with his neglect. The son then rose
and made way upon the cushion, to which he motioned
Melchior ; but the latter did not seem to heed the mo-
tion. Adoniakim then pressed him to rest himself upon
the cushion which Amri had so ungraciously tendered ;
but Melchior, with much gravity of manner, declined the
courtesy, and begged him that they should proceed to
the business upon which they came as soon and ear-
nestly as possible. It was then that Adoniakim signi-
fied to Amri his desire that he should leave them to-
gether in the possession of the chamber. This he .did
in the gentlest language, saying to him, at the same
time, that the business was private and particular, for the
transaction of which Melchior and himself had come.

PELAYO. 23

But Amri, who exulted in the possession of the secret
which he had so dishonourably obtained, was not willing
to delay to a remote period the utterance of his desires,
and the exhibition and exercise of his newly-acquired
sources of power. Without moving from the place
which he had occupied before, he simply replied as fol-
lows:

" And why should I not remain, and share with thee
this business, my father 1"

" Because it concerns thee not, my son," responded
the old man, quietly.

" But it concerns thee, Adoniakim, and thy interest is
my interest, unless, under the friendly guidance of Mel-
chior, thou art bent to make thy son a stranger, and to
yield to strangers the place in thy regards and confidence
which nature and justice alike require should be given
to thy own flesh and blood."

Adoniakim was astounded at this speech, and spoke
freely out his thought at the youth's insolence ; but Mel-
chior looked upon him gravely, without uttering a sylla-
ble in reply.

" Thy business should be my business, my father,"
persisted the wilful youth, " and I will remain to hear it."

" But thou canst not claim, Amri, that the business of
Melchior and of others is also thine," said Adoniakim,
who, though greatly surprised and grieved at his son's
presumption, yet lacked the proper decision to control it.

" If it concerns thee also — yes," replied Amri, with-
out hesitation ; " and if it did not, it might yet be my
business, as it may be that of the tribe and of the na-
tion."

The two turned upon the speaker in redoubled sur-
prise at this language ; but, conscious of the secret in
his possession, and belie-ving that it gave him power
which enabled him to set them both at defiance, the fool-
ish youth allowed himself no pause in what he had to
say, but proceeded thus —

24 PELAYO*

" Thinkest thou I know not the business that brings
ye here, and which makes ye desirous of the absence of
one whom ye both wrong by your suspicions, and in
whom your true interests, were ye wise, would have ye
confide ? Did I not save ye before from Edacer the
Goth, and his soldiers, when he sought you, Melchior,
at midnight, in the dwelling of Namur ? Was not that
proof of my fidelity enough ? Wherefore did you still
refuse me your confidence ? Wherefore do ye withhold
it now ? I tell you, the business of Adoniakim is mine —
I will remain and share in your conference. Perhaps I
may help you more than you imagine in its progress.
Perhaps I may counsel you with a knowledge that shall
keep equal footing with your own. I can tell you — but
no ! I will spare your business to the last. I have
some of my own, which it is more fitting that I see to
first. Let me speak of that to you, and then, if ye deny
me part in your performances, I will leave ye to them
and to yourselves."

«' What business, my son ?" answered the pliant Ado-
niakim, who had been as much astounded by the auda-
city of Amri as he was wilfully blinded, by his attach-
ment to the youth, to the sad deficiencies and prevail-
ing faults of his character. Melchior only regarded
the two with a grave and melancholy silence.

Throwing himself once more at length upon the cush-
ion from which he had risen at the suggestion of his fa-
ther, and which Melchior had refused to occupy, the
youth, who seemed to have acquired double assurance
from the pliability of Adoniakim, now addressed the for-
mer—

" And now, Melchior, it is with thee — "

The outlaw interrupted him sternly —

"Thy speech should be with thy father, Amri. I
have no business, no concern with thee, that I wot of —
I would have none with thee, at least !"

" But I will have with thee !" was the cool and confi-

PELAYO. 25

dent reply. " I have much concern with thee, and for
thee, Melchior, as thou wilt readily acknowledge when
thou hast heard me through. It is true that much of my
business with thee doth seriously affect myself — with
that I would fain begin, if thou wilt deign to hear me.
May I speak to thee of that ?"

The tone which he employed was somewhat modified
when the youth addressed Melchior, probably because
he felt the obvious difference, which he could not but
see existed, between the differing characters of the out-
law and his own father. To the latter, his mode of
speech was not often respectful, and it was only when he
needed supplies of money, or some special indulgence,
that he condescended to employ the language and man-
ner of conciliation. The superior character of Melchior
awed somewhat the audacity of the youth. The stern,
calm, unruffled brow of the outlaw had in it an expres-
sion which rebuked, if it did not entirely silence, the in-
solent ; and, though flattering himself with the posses-
sion of a secret which he fondly imagined would extort
his own terms and his entire wishes from the apprehen-
sions of Melchior, he did not dare meet directly the
glance of the old man, even when his speech was most
daringly addressed to him. The reply of Melchior was
calmly uttered, and without hesitation —

** Speak out, Amri — I will hear thee, as thou art the
son of thy beloved father ; though what thou canst have
to say concerning thyself and me, which might not wait
for a time of more leisure to us all, I am yet to learn."

" Thou shalt learn," was the ready reply. «» The
matter might wait, indeed, but 'that I am impatient ; and
thou wilt see good reason for my impatience when thou
hearest it."

" Speak on," said the old man, contemplating him
with a sorrowful countenance for a moment, and then
turning his eyes, with a still greater sorrow in them, upon

VOL. IL— C

86 PELAYO.

the face of the venerable and unhappy father of so de-
generate a son.

" Thou hast a daughter, Melchior," said the youth.
Melchior regarded him sternly as he replied —

" And what is my daughter to thee, Amri ?"

" Every thing," was the response. " I have seen
her."

" I know it ! I know that thou didst penetrate un-
bidden to the apartments of my child, where thy pres-
ence was ungrateful, and thy conduct was ungracious,"
said Melchior.

" She has told you, then," replied the youth, nothing
abashed at the manner and words of Melchior.

"She is a child who forgets not her duties — who
shrinks from disobedience as from a deadly sin — painful
in the sight of man, and detestable in that of Heaven.
Would that thou, Adoniakim, had obedience often from
thy child such as I have ever had from mine."

" It were a God's blessing — the dearest to my old
heart were it as thou desirest, my brother," was the re-
sponse of Adoniakim ; but the depraved youth laughed
contemptuously at the prayer of both, as thus he con-
tinued—

" She has told you, then, and that spares me the diffi-
culty of making thee comprehend a thing unknown. She
has told you that I loved — that I love her ! — that I sought
her love, and offered her my affections in marriage."

" Thy affections !" was the involuntary exclamation
of Melchior.

" Ay — my affections ! What wonder is there in that?
Thou dost not doubt that I have affections, Melchior —
thou believest that I love Thyrza ? I — "

" No !" was the almost fierce reply of the old man.
*4 Thou dost not — thou canst not. Thou lovest nothing
but thy own base passions — thy foul lusts — and thy con-
tinual self-indulgences. Thou canst not understand the
nature — the purity — the religion of my child's heart —

PELAYO. 27

and thou canst not, therefore, have a love for her in
thine."

" Thou errest in thy judgment, Melchior, and there-
fore thou dost me a grievous wrong," was the reply of
the youth, somewhat subdued in its tone, as the fierce
manner of the old father seemed to have had its influ-
ence upon him. " I do love Thyrza," he continued,
" as never before did I love woman. I feel that never
again can I fancy woman as my spirit has fancied her.
Wilt thou not let me to see her — to know her — to make
myself an object of thought in her mind, that so she may
come to love me with a regard like mine for her?"

" No I"

" And wherefore 1"

« She is not for thee."

•* What ! thou meanest her, then, for another ?"

" No ! I have no such purpose. Thyrza shall choose
for herself when the choice is to be made. My will
shall in no respect control her. It should guide her
erring judgment, should her heart mislead her ; but this
misfortune I do not fear."

" Yet thou sayest I shall not see her — that I shall not
know her ; how, then, may it be that one may move her
will, or enliven her thought towards him 1"

" Thou shalt not have this chance, Amri, nor any who
may resemble thee. Let the good and the worthy ap-
proach to Thyrza, and the doors of my dwelling shall fly
open of themselves at their approach ; but they shall re-
main fastened at the coming of the base and selfish, even
as if the seal of Solomon lay upon them, pressed with
his own immortal hands."

*' And thou art really thus resolved ?" said the youth,
inquiringly ; and a suspicious smile rested upon his lips,
which was displeasing to Melchior, who instantly replied,
in a manner which was intended to subdue and silence
the impertinent —

«* Ay, Amri — as firmly as if the oath were written on

28 PELAYO.

the eternal register of heaven. Never, with my will,
shalt thou have sight of, or speech with, my beloved
daughter. I will guard her from thy approach as fondly
and sleeplessly as if thou wert the spirit of evil himself."

" Be not hasty in thy resolve, old man !" responded
the youth, with a manner, the insolence of which was
heightened duly in accordance with the provocation
which his spirit had received from the ready and adverse
decision of Melchior. " Be not hasty in thy resolve —
be not rash ! Thy oath broken will have a heavy pen-
alty, and I have that argument with me which will make
thee rejoice in its revocation."

"What argument, Amri V9 demanded Adoniakim.
But Melchior looked on calmly, and seemed to give no
heed either to the threatening remark of Amri, or the
trembling inquiry of his father.

" Think not, Melchior," continued Amri — " think not
that I asked of thee the gift of thy daughter, yet brought
nothing in lieu of what I took from thee. Give me thy
daughter, and I will give a secret into thy keeping which
will more than repay thee for the boon which thou wilt
then bestow upon me."

" What secret ?" asked Adoniakim, in manifest alarm.

" It is one which concerns thee, too, my father," said
Amri, in reply.

"What meanest thou, my sonl" inquired the old
man ; but Amri heeded not the question, and again ad-
dressed himself to Melchior.

" And now come I to thy business, Melchior — thou
wilt give thine ear to that, though thou seemest resolved
to withhold it from all consideration of mine."

Melchior waved his hand to him to speak, but gave
him no further recognition.

" I would have taken thy daughter from thy hands as
a free gift to my affections. Now I propose to buy her
from thee, even as the Goth buys, in the slave-market,
the creature of his lust."

PELAYO. 29

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

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

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

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

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

C 2

30 PELAYO.

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

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

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

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

" I have said," was the simple reply of Melchior.

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

" An equivalent for Thyrza !" exclaimed Melchior.
" What equivalent ?"

*4 Thy own life !" was the unhesitating response.
Before either his father or Melchior could utter any re-
ply to a speech so daring, and which so much astound-
ed them, the youth proceeded —

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

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

PELAYO. 31

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

" Perforce — perforce !" cried the other, bitterly.
" Thou didst not trust me with this because thou wert
glad or willing to trust, but because the trust was una-
voidable."

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

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

" But, my son — Amri — thou wilt not — "

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

32 FELAYO,

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

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

The words of Melchior were artfully mild. He was
an aged politician, and at once understood the necessity
of the utmost coolness. JNothing could have seemed
more quiet and pacific than his spirit in the moment of
his speech. It completely deceived the person he ad-
dressed, who now believed that he was in a fair way to
achieve his purposes, and that he had properly alarmed
the conspirators.

" Dost thou deny it ?" he asked, in answer to the in-
quiry of Melchior.

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

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

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

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

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

PE.LAYO. 33

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

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

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

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

" For nothing less, Melchior," was the reply ; " and,
indeed,1' said the youth, continuing with but a moment's
pause, " I think even to exclude from this guarantee of
safety the insolent and proud Abimelech — "

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

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

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

34 PELAYO.

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

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

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

" G.ood oaths enough, if true. And thou wilt swear
by these ?" said Melchior, with a bitter smile.

" I do swear !"

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

" And what if I consent 1 What if I say to thee that
Thyrza shall be thine if thou wilt keep this secret ? Wilt
thou be free to tell me in what these proofs consist, and
how thou gottest them ? Speak — who is the traitor to
our cause — who hath betrayed us ?"

. The youth simply pointed to his father. The two re-
coiled in horror and astonishment.

'* Thou dost not mean ?" said Melchior.

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

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

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

PELAYO. 36

** But only thine ?" said Melchior, inquiringly.

" Only mine," was the reply of Amri.

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

14 He cannot — I have seen to that."

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

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

36 PELAYO,

V.

AMRI rose as he was commanded, and stood, sullen
and stupified, in silence before the persons to whom he
had purposed so great an injury. His face was full of
shame and humiliation. Not that shame which springs
from the consciousness of, and is followed by the regret
for, error; but that mortified pride which feels disap-
pointment and defeat, and regrets nothing of the medi-
tated crime but its nonperformance. The miserable
youth, who had but a little before exulted in the belief
that Melchior of the Desert was in truth at his mercy,
now dared not look the aged Hebrew in the face. He
felt chagrined that his own weakness and vanity had so
far seduced him from prudence as to allow of his expo-
sure of his secret, and of its place of keeping, to one so
vigilant, 8hd, as it had been shown, one so infinitely su-
perior in sagacity to himself. Had he but placed the
papers in a keeping beyond the reach of Melchior, but
still within his own control, he might — so he now thought
— have succeeded in his desires. Reflections like these,
however, only came to increase his mortification. They
were too late to avail him now ; and, like a base culprit
as he was, he stood in the presence of the men he had
offended so deeply, having no word by which he might
excuse himself to them, and no thought in his mind from
which his own heart could gather the smallest consola-
tion.- The eyes of Melchior rested upon the face of the
youth with an expression of pity and scorn mingled
evenly in their glance. He surveyed him a few mo-
ments in silence ere he spoke —

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

PELAYO. 37

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

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

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

The fire flashed from the eyes of Melchior as he re-
plied—

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

VOL. II.— D

38 PELAYO.

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

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

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

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

" We trust thee not," said the other. " Thou know-
est too much to go forth. Thou wouldsf madden until
thou couldst find some enemy to thy people to whom
thou wouldst give up thy stolen burden. No, no !
Thou hast, of thy own head, made thyself 3 keeper of
our secrets. Thou shalt be taught to keep them safely."

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

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

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

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

'*•! trust thee not now* Amri, no more than Melcbior

PELAYO. 39

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

•• Guide me thither,'* was the brief direction of the
latter. Adoniakim led the way into the secret chamber,
and from thence into a narrow apartment, which was en-
tered through a massive door having a heavy iron bar
across the outside, and holding within but a single win-
dow, grated well with close bars, and looking down upon
a small courtyard, which was formed by the crowding
houses around, many of which were among the very
highest in the Hebrew Quarter. To this chamber Mel-
chior, with strength which was wonderful to Amri, drag-
ged the reluctant and still struggling youth ; and, thrust-
ing him in, they both withdrew, and carefully fastened
the bar upon the outside of the door, which secured it
from every effort made from within.

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

40 PELAYO.

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

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

PELAYO. 41

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

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

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

" Ay, there, Adoniakim : what better place to keep
him securely and without question? There he is be-
yond all hearing of the stranger. He may not alarm
bv his cries the neighbouring dwellings, for the court
D2

42 PELAYO.

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

" It is — it is safe, indeed, my brother ; but, Melchior,
he will die of that constraint. It is a miserable cham-
ber — the cell in which the unanswering debtor was re-
strained."

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

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

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

PELAYO. 43

• f

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

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

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

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

44 PELAYO.

nor with thine," and beware that he practise not cun-
ningly up<ui thee, to thy ruin and his own escape."

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

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

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

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

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

PELAYO. 45

VII.

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

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

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

"The boy must not starve, though sinful," he ex-

46 PELAYO.

%

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

" Melchior, my brother," he exclaimed, after the first
effusion of his sorrow was over, *4 thou art only too
stern of soul — just in thy awards, but too distrustful of
the once guilty. Thou hast counselled me to carry the
deadly weapon against the life of my < hild, and I have
placed it in my bosom, as if his blessed mother had not
lain there for many long and blessed seasons. Was it
her thought, when she reposed there so long and so
happily, that such counsel as thine, Melchior, should be
heeded by me? No! — no! — such a thought had been
a sleepless misery to her, and I cast the cruel weapon
from me now. I will not believe that the child of my
love should so far err and be wilful as to make its use

PELAYO. 47

needful ; and if I confide too greatly to his love and
duty — if the fears of Melchior be sooth, then, indeed, it
will be time for Adoniaktm to die : 1 will then bare my
bosom to the knife."

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

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

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

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

48 PELAYO.

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

PELAYO. 49

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

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

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

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

He dropped the basket through the grating above the

VOL. II.—E

50 PELAYO.

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

" Stay but a moment, Amri — I wouW have thee see
and hear me but for an instant."

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

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

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

He rose from his knees, waved his hands, and ex-
claimed—

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

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

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

PELAYO. 51

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

VIII.

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

52 PELAYO.

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

" Drink, Amri," he cried, as he gave back the half-
emptied bowl to the Hebrew — " drink, and speak
freely. The wine is good — it is a god."

" Thou hast said not more in its behalf, my Lord
Governor, than it well deserves," said Amri, as he fin-
ished the draught ; " the wine is more than a god — it
is a god-maker. We have b<>th frit its power. This is
old, and of a rich flavour and fragrance. It is worthy
of the lips of the Lord of Cordova. May I congratu-

PELAYO. 63

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

" Thou knowest me not, Amri," responded the noble,
with a laugh of peculiar self-complaisance — " thou
knowest me not, my worthy Amri : my principles have
ever been held most unexceptionable, and the most
sanctified priest in all Iberia could never discourse bet-
ter than can I on the vices and ill practices of youth —
with a more holy phraseology, and a more saintlike
horror and aversion. What matters it if my practice do
not accord with the rule of my lips ? The mason will
prescribe to the noble a dwelling, whose vastness and
beauty he himself will never compass, nor seek to com-
pass, in building up his own. The low hovel satisfies
his pride, and he heeds not the lofty symmetry of the
fabric which he designs for his neighbour. It .is thus
with all. We teach others — we thus show that our
hearts are free and liberal, since we give, confessedly,
good principles and wholesome laws to our neighbours
which we appropriate not to our own use. The priest
is thus liberal — the learned doctor, and his reverence
the pope — his decrees are wise and holy ; though 'tis
most certain that he waxes fat, and wealthy, and power-
ful, the more he goes aside from the exercise of his own
teachings. When I counselled and punished the young
citizen, I but followed the practice of our holy father. I
counselled him for his good, and not for my own : my re-
buke was addressed to his necessities, not to those of the
Governor of Cordova. Dost thou conceive me, Amri ?"
E2

54 PELAYO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PELAYO. 55

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

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

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

" There is even more matter in this than thou hast
heard, my Lord Edacer, since there are yet others
linked in this rebellion of Melchior, making it one of
more character and import. What sayst thou if I tell
you that the banished prince Pelayo is one of these
conspirators ? — what if 1 tell thee that he is here, even
now, in Cordova? — and if, farther, I say to thee that
thou mayst, at one grasp, take both the rebels, with
others yet unnamed to thee, and place their heads at the
feet of King Roderick. . This were good service to thee,
my Lord Edacer, and no less good service to thy lord
the king."

" Thou stunnest me, Amri, with thy good tidings.
I can scarce believe what thou sayst, Jew — thou mock-
est me — thou hadst better not !"

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

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

56 PELAYO.

of it. But Amri had some scruples, and perhaps it is
not strange to say that these had i eference to the safety
of his father. He was careful that in what he said
there should be nothing to commit Adoniakirn. Nature
still occupied a spot — a small, a solitary spot — in his
bosom, though driven, in great measure, from that dark
and desecrated abiding-place of guilt.

" I will tell thee, my lord, all that is needful to place
thee in possession of Melchior of the Desert, of Pelayo,
the son of Witiza, of Abirnelech the Hebrew leader,
who comes from Merida, and others worthy to go with
these to punishment — *uch as the Lords Aylor and
Eudon. Will these suffice thee T

" Hast thou not other secrets, Amri ?" demanded
Edacer, fixing upon him a glance which seemed meant
to pierce through the very bosom of the Hebrew.

'* I have !" was the unhesitating and firm reply.

" Thou shalt give me all," said the Gothic noble,
sternly.

'• I will not !" replied the Hebrew, with almost equal
sternness ; ** thou shalt have the truth in the matter
which I speak of, as it concerns the men I have named
to thee. Thou shall know where to rjlace thy hands
upon them, and I will name to thee the very hour of
their assembling;. Thou canst fail in nothing if thou
wilt heed the counsel which I give thee and the con-
ditions which I make : deny me, and delay for more,
and even this shalt thou forfeit "

" Beware, Amri — let not thy confidence in our old
friendship persuade thee into a most unwise audacity.
Remember, I am now no longer the poor Edacer, hav-
ing base wants which thy father's wealth could feed,
arrd which made even thee, at moments, the master of
my will. I have now the power to punish thee — ay, to
tear the secret from thy bosom, and extort the speech
from thy lips, even if thou hadst there locked up the
very life of thy father."

PELAYO. 57

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

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

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

58 PET ro.

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

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

PELAYO. 59

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

" The leaders only will assemble in the Cave, my
lord : their numbers will be few— some fifty at the most.
To take these the force required will be moderate, yet
it must greatly exceed theirs, since, doubtlessly, they
will fight like desperate men. What guard have you in
Cordova V1

"Two hundred men," replied the governor.

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

" 'Twere a jbrave fortune, truly, could I but secure
it — could I but succeed !" was the exclamation of Eda-
cer as he listened to the plan of Amri. The Jew urged
the certainty of his success.

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

60 PELAYO.

" But then their troops, Amri : they have been gath-
ering along the passes — how far, how near, we know
not. They may press down upon Cordova itself, hear-
ing of the fate of their leaders, and endanger the city.
What then T

44 This staggers not, my lord. Have you a trusty
captain in your troop T'

11 Yes, there is one — Balermin — my lieutenant."

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

" Darane — I know the village," said the governor.

44 1 know — what then?"

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

44 Clear enough! Thy plans are excellent, Amri-—
thou sfoouldst have been a warrior, Amri."

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

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

PELAYO. * 61

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

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

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

VOL. IL— F

62 • PELAYO.

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

•* Both slain by thy hands T'xlemanded Amri, while
beholding the scarred bosom which Edacer bared to his
sight.

" Have I not said 1 They both perished by my
hand ; and thou shall see what blows that same hand
will bestow upon the limbs of the rebels to whose hi-
ding-place thou shalt guide me. The strife with Astigia

* will no longer have a place in thy memory, in the thought
of the blows which thou shalt then behold. Thou «halt
see—"

The idle boaster, who, nevertheless, was brave
enough in battle, would have farther gone in his self-
eulogistic strain, had not the apprehensions of the Jew

• here interrupted him —

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

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

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

PELAYO. 63

•

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

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

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

" What sort of boy is he — he is thy blood ?"

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

" This all 1" demanded the governor.

"All, my lord."

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

The Jew shrank from this subject, but he replied
quickly, and wiih as little show of hesitation or annoy-
ance in his manner as possible, for he feared to awaken
suspicion. The consciousness of his purposed crime
was in his mind, and there is no foe like guilt. It pur-
sues us wherever we fly, and, unlike other enemies, it [9

64 PELAYO.

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

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

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

" What, Amri ?"

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

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

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

IX.

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

PELAYO. 65

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

66 PELAYO.

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

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

PELAYO. 67

terly sinewless, hath no purpose, and would seem better
pleased to pipe away, than to command, existence. It
were less than folly to look to him for manly endeavour
in our sharp controversy with Roderick. He can strike
well, but what avails the muscle of the arm when the
heart lacks, when the soul is sluggard ? There he sits
as he were dreaming, with a head that drops upon his
palms — with half shut eye, and words which, when they
flow, break into murmurs that speak for his sad uncon-
sciousness only, and have little meaning else. What a
thing were this to rescue a people from their tyrant, to
revenge the wrong of a sire, to set the times right which
are now so turbulent ! And she, too, the witless damsel
who sits beside him, with a beauty that must blaze only
to be extinguished — bloom only for the blast — its own
worst victim. They deem themselves happy now, as if
they were secure. Could they see the clouds — the storm
that hangs upon the hill — would they dream thus idly 1
'Tis well for them, perchance, that their eyes are with
their thoughts, and either turn within or hang upon each
other. They live, and are conscious only in the mutual
sighs and smiles, which is love's idle barter."

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

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

68 PELAYO.

will he not refuse ? Hath not this woman defrauded
.him of his better purpose 1 is he not already a traitor ?
And what hope is there that he" will be true in time to
come 1 But no ! I will not think it. He will — he shall
go with me, and I will save him yet. A bound will
bring me to his help ; there are but two, I will manage
the one, and he — he hath not surely forgotten the use of
the weapon he would seem to have forsworn — if he
cannot keep the other harmless, he will well deserve
the harm. He will surely battle for his mate, if not
for his people. Soh ! they speak together — their loving
words come up to me at moments with the wincl. They
dream not of the danger while they prate of their delights ;
and — "

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

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

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

Egiza continued —

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

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

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

PELAYO. 69

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

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

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

" Perchance the better for thy lo§s, thou craven !w
was the bitter speech of Pelayo, which broke through
his clinched teeth.

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

" They shall not, sweet lady. I will straight turn it
to a reaping-hook."
s" Ah, but thy pride, my lord — -"

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

TO PELAYO.

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

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

" The girl's no fool," said Pelayo, above.

She continued —

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

" No, sweet lady, no ! JMy hope has been subdued
to suit the desires of my heart, and that lives only in thy
smile. Believe me, I seek no higher throne than thy
bosom ; no sweeter toils than those taken in thy service.
Once more will I resume with thee, in our woodland
home, those labeurs of our nation's father, when he roved
along the hills a fearless peasant, having no greater vic-
tory than to tame the v.ild steed of the desert, or con-
tend with some neighbouring hunter touching the com-
mon spoil."

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

" By Heaven, I swear to thee — "

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

PELAYO. 71

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

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

" Oh, indeed, I wish it, my lord," was the unsophis-
ticated answer of the damsel.

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

" It joys me to believe thee, my lord," replied the un-
tutored damsel ; " and yet I doubt — "

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

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

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

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

72 PELAYO.

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

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

" Patience, good dreamer," he exclaimed, "patience 1
The world, or a portion of it, is not over heedful of your
prayer ; and, if I greatly err not, you are soon to have
more of its heed than is altogether grateful. They
move again. One seeks the western path, the oiher
stoops ; he crawls aside. I see him not — ah ! there he
moves ; he seeks a fissure to the right, through which he
glides. Well, let them come. Meanwhile, I must
beg my uncle's boon of patience, and keep quiet as I
may."

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

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

PEIAYO. 73

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

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

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

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

« Now, had he better die !" he exclaimed ; ".he shall
not have more lavish eulogy if*he liv%a thousand years."

With becoming humility, but increased ^'fondness,
Egiza replied —

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

VOL. II.— G

74 PfiLAYQ.

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

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

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

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

His lips were pressed upon hers as he spoke, and
though she resisted with a maiden's might, he succeeded
in kissing her. Her head1 hung down in a sweet bash-
fulness, and her words trembled as she spoke.

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

*ELAYO. 75

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

" It is no wrong, dearest love.""

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

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

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

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

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

X.

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

76 PEL AT O.

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

"How now, sir — wherefore this? Knowst thou
me?"

«« Count Julian," was the reply of Egiza, who an-
swered fearlessly, though surprised by the sudden ap-
pearance of the count.

"Ay, sir — and this my daughter. What mean you
with her on such terms of secrecy ? Who art thou V9

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

" I am one, Count Julian, who should not be alto-
gether unknown to you, if justice had its due and I my
rights. I am he, sir, that was — "

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

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

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

Indignantly did her father reproach her for her inter*
Terence.

PELAYO. 77

«* Now down, thou wilful maiden," he exclaimed ;
w thou shouldst be in thy chamber, and at thy prayers,
rather than here in thy shamelessness. Why dost thou
break upon his speech ? If it be honest, should he fear
to speak it ? and yet it does not beseem honesty to lurk
thus in waiting to steal the boon which a brave soldier
had challenged boldly at my castle entrance.'r

"Forgive me — hear me, father," Cava would have
remonstrated.

"Nay, do not speak to me. Thou hast deceived
me, Cava — cruelly deceived me. I thought thee one
too ignorant for shame like this. To thy chamber, go
— to thy prayers — and let thy sorrow for thy deceit make
thee more worthy of that love which I gave thee without
stint. Away — speak not. Let thy paramour answer ;
he will not surely be base enough to desire thee to take
the danger as well as the duty of defence upon thee,
unless he be dastard as dishonest."

The language of Count Julian, so bitter as it was in
reference to Egiza, gave great satisfaction to his brother.
It was the hope of Pelayo that it would provoke that
spirit into utterance and action which, though sleeping
and sluggish of late, he yet well knew that Egiza pos-
sessed.

" I thank you, sir count," he exclaimed ; " these are
words to strike fire from any bosom not utterly base
and worthless. I trust that they shall work upon my
brother. If thou canst move him to lift the idle weapon
which he seems to have forgotten by his side, my labours
were half done, and there were hope. But I fear me !
Ha ! he speaks — speaks when he should strike I"

Though mortified that Egiza did not reply with his
sword rather than his lips, the language of the latter was
encouraging to the hope of Pelayo.

" 'Twill but need a few words, Count Julian," was
his reply, " to declare my feelings towards your daugh-
ter and my purpose here. For your scorn," he pro-
G2

78 PELAYO.

ceeded, and his words grew stern like those of Julian
himself, and his eyes flashed fires of defiance no less
warm than those of the indignation which brightened in
the glance of the latter — " for your scorn, but that you
hold so close a tie with this maiden, I should requite you
with a like scorn, nor limit my anger with such requital.
I should back my speech with steel, and end in punish-
ment the conference which, with so much insolence, you
have begun."

" Why, this looks well enough," said Pelayo, above.
"Now let the other but chafe more loudly and the
maiden but plead more pitifully, and the thing's done.
We shall have blows, and there will be peril, but I'll cry
* cheer' to it."

The anticipations of Pelayo were not then realized.
The tones and language of Julian were more qualified
than before. He would seem either to temporize with
his adversary in order to gain time, or the boldness of
the latter gave him pleasure. Of the former opinion was
Pelayo.

'* Thou wouldst seem brave," said Julian ; " why, then,
hast thou feared to seek my daughter in her proper dwell-
ing 1 Why hast thou stolen to her thus, if thy purpose
were honourable ? Am I a niggard in my entertainment
to the noble gentlemen who seek me ? Who, that is
brave and honest, have I chidden from my board ? You
have done me wrong, sir — you have done wrong to the
lady of your love, if such is this damsel. You have
taught her a lesson of error in this deceit which she prac-
tises upon the father who has always but too much loved
her."

" Oh, not too much, dear father — say not so, I pray
you. Indeed, indeed, I love you. Forgive me . if, in
my thoughtlessness, I have been led aside to error."

" Away, girl, thou hast not loved me as thou shouldst.
Away."

The commentary of Pelayo upon this part of the in

PELAYO. 79

terview proved him more acute here than Egiza, who
was so much more interested. The latter fondly be-
lieved himself to be yet unknown to Julian. Such was
the belief also of Cava. Not so Pelayo.

" 'Twould seem he knew not Egiza from this lan-
guage," he exclaimed ; «' and yet, is it not art rather to
conceal his knowledge until his followers should come
to his aid, making the captivity of my brother certain ?
It must be so. It is strategy ; for the shadow approach-
es unseen behind the silly youth, and will be upon him
in a little while. But I shall foil his succour, and will be
ready."

" SpeakrCava, since thy knight will not !" exclaimed
Julian, to his drooping daughter. " What is he ? — where-
fore does he fear to come with a bold summons to the
gate of thy father ? or is he of base peasant blood which
shall shame thee in my sight ?"

" Oh, no, no !" were the murmured words of the
maiden, as she denied this imputation upon the birth of
her lover.

" What, then, hast thou to fear ?" he demanded.
" Have I denied thee to hold affections — to s^eak the
feeling at thy heart ? Have I been a stern father to
thee, locking thee from freedom, and taking from thee
the hope of that love which is in the heart, the vital prin-
ciple of all life ? Have I not been a gentle father to
thee ever — always yielding to thy wish — making thy
desire a measure for mine own — taking all heed of what
thou lovest, and loving it because thou didst so? Where-
fore, then, this slight which thou has put upon me ?"

" Oh, no slight, my father," faintly replied the maiden.

" Ay, but it is slight," replied the other. " Have I
not ever sought to give you fondest nurture ; to maintain
every ministry about you which should make you happy ;
guiding your mind, guarding your state, and with each
gift of culture and accomplishment seeking to make
your thought fitting to the natural graces of your person?

80 PELAYO.

and do I merit return like this 1 Thou hast done mo
wrong, Cava."

" Forgive me — hear me, father — "

" No word — thou art ungrateful — "

44 And thou no less unjust than stern, sir count," was
the fearless interruption which, at that moment, fell from
the Jips of Egiza. It chafed him more to hear the se-
vere language which Julian held to the maiden than
the violent and degrading terms in which the father had
spoken of him.

" Hear me, Count Julian," he continued.

" 'Tis you that I would hear," said the latter, coolly.
M 'Tis you, sir, that I have come to hear. Your bold-
ness should be at no loss to find excuse for this clandes-
tine meeting with a girl — a mere child — one, of the world
ignorant, and thoughtless, and, as it seems, but too
ready to hearken to its least honoured representative.
What are you, sir ?"

" A man !" was the almost fierce answer of the youth,
aroused by the scornful language of the father. The
hands of Cava were lifted imploringly to her lover ; but
the same answer which aroused all her apprehensions
only awakened the hopes of Pelayo.

" Now, that was well spoken ; the weapon now — the
weapon of the man, Egiza," he had almost cried aloud.

" A man !" said Julian, " it may be so ; but thou hast
not sought my castle like a man. Why earnest thou
here ? What wouldst thou ?"

" Thou knowst," was the quick and brief reply.
" Why should I tell thee what thou see'st ? I came to
thy daughter."

" Thou lovest her, thou wouldst say ?"

" I have said it. I love her as she should be loved,
with all my soul, with all my strength ; with a love de*
voted to her best regards, and yielding not with life."

" Thou'st told her this V9

« Ay, sworn it!"

PELAYO. 81

" And she believed thee V

'« I thank her — I bless her that she did believe me."

The smile of Cava, shining through her tears, re-
warded the enthusiastic lover. A dark scowl gathered
upon the brow of Julian, but, with a tone evidently sub-
dued to mildness by strong effort, he demanded —

" Dost hold to this V

" With my whole soul I do !" exclaimed the lover.

" And thou, girl ?"

The tears, the smiles, the bowed head, and the tremu-
lous, unmeaning syllables of the maiden sufficiently an-
swered for her. Hope rose into her heart anew, joy
into that of Egiza, and both listened impatient for those
words of indulgent blessing from the father's lips which
was to sanction their loves, and which, they nothing
doubted, were soon to be uttered. But if they were
lulled into confidence by the artificial manner of Count
Julian, so was not Pelayo. Made suspicious by the
cautious approach of Julian from the first, and doubly
so from the circuitous course which had been taken by
his follower — who now appeared near at hand — he
readily conceived that the design of Julian was to dis-
arm the apprehensions of Egiza by gentle and yielding
words until his assistant was within call, when he would
throw off the mask and declare his true purpose.

" This parley," said he, as he listened from his se-
cluded perch — " this parley but mocks the ear, and is
most false upon the part of Julian. He waits but for
his comrade, when he will fasten upon the poor youth's
throat, and have him at advantage. Well — well enough,
let him do so. I would have him give the amorous
youth a goodly gripe that shall put dalliance and desire
from his mind. Then will I put in and save him.
What though he may tear the flesh, and take from his
face some of the woman comeliness which it wears, it
will but make him the fitter for ^he camp, and, per-
chance, persuade him of a diminished fitness for a lady's

82 PELAYO.

bower. But a truce, the strife must be sure at hand.
The colleague descends, and now glides behind them.
A word will bring him, and — ha ! the tone of Julian
changes. I could swear to it now."

Even as Pelayo said, the language of Julian, or, at
least, his manner, underwent a change in the very next
words which he uttered.

** And how may I trust thee, sir ? I am too old a sol-
dier to reckon words, or even oaths, by young men,
spoken in the ears of willing damsels, to be such solemn
and creditable things. I do not think to trust thee,
young lord ; thou shalt give me better proof of thyself
ere thou depart."

" What mean you, Count Julian ?" demanded Egiza.

" To thy chamber, Qava," said the father to his
daughter, without heeding the speech of the youth.
The tones of his voice struck a chill into her heart,
which had so recently been elated with hope. She lin-
gered, looked tearfully into his face ; but its expression
increased her apprehensions. A sullen frown over-
spread it, and her eye shrank in terror from the glance
of his. " Away !" he exclaimed ; and with no other
word, but with uplifted hand, he beckoned her off. One
glance to her lover revealed her apprehensions, but she
spoke nothing, as, with trembling and reluctant foot-
steps, she left the scene. Egiza would have remon-
strated— he would have followed her, but Julian inter-
cepted his advance, and bade him " Stay !" in a voice of
thunder.

" The coast is clear now," said Pelayo, as he beheld
the departure of Cava, " and the fray may begin. The
poor maiden totters to the castle, looking often behind
her, and dreading the very silence which has followed
all this coil. She is gone now, and it will soTOn be my
turn to speak in this business. Ha*I the count !"

Satisfied that his* daughter was out of hearing, and
that his follower was sufficiently nigh for all his pur»

PELAYO. 88

poses, it was now that Julian gave them that utterance
which a sense of policy and a consideration of the maid-
en's feelings had induced him to suppress.

" Traitor and rebel," he exclaimed to Egiza, " didst
thou think I knew thee not? Yield thee, young man,
as I bid thee — thou art my prisoner."

His sword was uplifted on the instant ; but, as the
moment of trial came, that of Egiza was not less prompt.
The opposing blades were crossed ere he replied,

" Thou'rt base to say so, Count Julian ; base, like
the master whom thou servest. But I fear thee not ;
thou takest no living prisoner in thy prince. Strike —
double traitor as thou art. I defy thee to the trial."

Pelayo, sitting above and looking composedly, if not
coolly, upon the strife, seemed to lose all consciousness
of its danger to his brother in the increasing pleasure
which this show of spirit produced within him.

" Good !" he exclaimed. ** Well said — well counte-
nanced. 'Tis man to man as yet. Let them go on a
while, and bruise each other. I am not wanted to this
match."

" Vainly would you strive, young man," replied Julian
to the defiance of Egiza. " You are my prisoner, though
your life be safe from any blow of mine. The heads-
man's axe demands it, and I am forbidden to rob him
of his victim. Yield you then — I would not strike you."

" You shall not," replied Egiza ; " not while I can
wield weapon in my defence ; and thou shalt strike, if it
be only for thine own safety. Lo ! my sword is upon
thy bosom — I will provoke thee to the use of thine."

The quick weapon of Julian parried the thrust ot
Egiza, and contenting himself with doing this, he for-
bore assault, as he replied, contemptuously — *

" Your boy's weapon can do little here, young man,
even against my own,; what can it do against a second ?
Look— Odo!" i^

Count Julian, in that last word, had summoned his
follower.

84 PELAYO.

" Now goes (he other forth," said Pelayo ; " 'twill be
for me to round that party soon, or my brother is but a
lame chicken.' But — patience, good uncle Oppas ; thy
text were scarcely a pleasant one to Egiza, if he knew
that I used it for my own counsel at this moment."

With the appearance of Odo, Egiza, still presenting a
ready weapon and a fearless front, gave back, and the
two pressed upon him with bared swords.

" Thou see'st," exclaimed Julian, " there is no hope
for thee. Two weapons are at thy breast."

A single bound at that instant brought Pelayo to the
scene. In another instant, with a stunning blow of his
sword, he brought the astonished Odo to the ground ;
and, ere Julian or Egiza were either of them recovered
from the surprise which his presence had occasioned, he
confronted the former.

" Thou hast erred, Count of Consuegra," he exclaimed
to Julian, as his sword glittered in the eyes of the count,
" the two weapons are at thy own breast. It is thou that
hast no hope, save in our mercy."

" Ha ! Thou'rt in season, brother," said Egiza.

" Ay — for the tares," cried Pelayo ; " thou hast had
the fruit to thyself, as usual. But let us not linger here,
we have other tasks ; and — thou wilt now let the youth
depart ?" was the concluding and derisive inquiry which
Pelayo made to Julian. The wrath of the latter may
not be spoken ; but it was tempered by the necessities
of his situation. Though brave, he yet felt how idle it
would be to attempt anything against two well-appointed
warriors ; and he contented himself with maintaining a
posture of readiness for assault. But this was not de-
signed by Pelayo, and, in spite of the indignity to which
Egiza had been subjected, Julian, as the father of Cava,
was still secure from his animosity.

"You have the fortune, young men*" replied the count,
with a bitter coolness, " an4 I counsel you to make use
of it. You cannot always escape me ; and you shall not

PELAYO. 85

have fled beyond these hills ere my followers shall be
upon you."

" Let them come," replied Pelayo, coldly. " Think
you we fear them ? Let them pass in pursuit beyond
these hills, and they return not again. Think you,
most valiant count, that I followed this amorous youth
alone ? Pursue us but beyond that eminence, and I will
rejoice your eyes with a sight of war which shall even
warm the heart of an old warrior like yourself."

The cool and prompt assertion of Pelayo fully con-
vinced Julian of the truth of what he said, and, under
existing circumstances, he was willing to let the two es-
cape without farther interruption. At this moment Odo,
the follower whom Pelayo had stricken down and stunned,
began to show signs of returning consciousness, and it
became necessary that the fugitives should take heed of
the counsel of Julian, and urge their flight while yet the
time was allowed them. Even then it was difficult to
move Egiza from the spot. He still had hope to influ-
ence the father of the maiden by entreaty ; but the haugh-
ty reply which his exhortations met provoked the indig-
nation of Pelayo, if it did not move his own.

" Why wilt thou care, my brother, to implore him who
denies you with such scornful speech ? For shame !
Let us leave the churl's dwelling, and, if thou hast the
feeling of a prince, as thou shouldst have, thou shouldst
rather rejoice that thou art quit of a damsel who would
bring thee to a knowledge of such connexions. Let us
away."

With a depressed, disconsolate heart, and a slow foot-
step which would have lingered still, Egiza was forced
to submit, and sadly turned to follow his brother. The
latter, ere he led the way,' thus addressed the mortified
and defeated Julian.

" We have spared you, sir — you are in our power,
but we turn the weapon from your bosom, as our aim is
not your blood. But I warn you not to pursue us.
VOL. II— H

86 PELAYO.

Provoke us in our flight, and we will turn upon and
rend you even as the wild boar rends the flanks of the
forward hunter*"

44 And I warn you, Pelayo, that you speed far and
fast ; for, as there is a God in heaven and a power on
earth, so surely will I pursue you with a force far be-
yond any in your command. Speed while you may —
you are now safe — you will not be so long."

44 You have caught your hands full, and they burn al-
ready, Count Julian — beware you catch not more than
you can carry by a farther trial," was the reply of Pe-
layo, in the language of an ancient proverb of the Goth.
41 We are safe — thanks to the good sword that smote
down your myrmidon. We owe no thanks to you that
we are so. Do what you may, sir, we shall keep safe
still, and so let your pursuit begin. Enough — now,
brother, let us on — our men await us — we have much
to do."

44 Lead on, Pelayo," said Egiza, as he turned mourn-
fully upon his path ; " lead on, lead on ! But my soul
sickens as I depart from these blessed hills."

44 Blessed hills !" exclaimed Pelayo, as he ascended
them ; " the good count had like to have given you a
blessed mouthful of them. But come on — we must fly
far to-night."

A few bounds carried the elastic youth to the top of
the crag over which he came, and in a few moments
more they were both lost to sight in the shadows of a
deep and narrow gorge upon the opposite descent.
Vexed with his disappointment, and not satisfied with
the course which he had taken to effect the commands
of his monarch, Julian turned his attention to the
Wounded Odo the moment after they had disappeared.
A feeling of delicacy towards his child had persuaded
him to bring to the capture of Egiza but a single and
confidential follower, and the inefficiency of his force
was the defeat of his object.

PELAYO. 87

XI.

HURRYING his brother away from the spot, Pelayo led
him through the narrow gorge by which he came, and,
with speed that was justly warranted by the danger, they
fled together from the neighbourhood of Count Julian's
castle. The night gave them present shelter, since it
would have been impossible for that nobleman, with all
his retainers, to discover them among the crowding
hills, unless through some fortunate accident. Ju-
lian, foiled and furious, was yet sufficiently aware of this
truth to forego any hopeless pursuit ; and he contented
himself with giving aid to the retainer who had been
stricken down and stunned, but not seriously hurt, by
the prompt blow of Pelayo. Him he recovered after a
little while ; and, enjoining secrecy upon him as to the
result of the adventure, the count returned to his castle,
where the maiden, his daughter, awaited him in speech-
less apprehension. She feared, but unnecessarily, the
rebukes and reproaches of her father. He gave her
counsel against her misplaced regard for Egiza, but it
was given with parental fondness, and not in severity ;
and it may be said, in this place, that the hostility of Ju-
lian to the pretensions of the young prince arose not
from any personal dislike to the unfortunate youth, but
from the duty which, as a good subject, he owed to the
reigning monarch, of whose confidence he was in pos-
session, and whose armies he even then had in com-
mand. Willingly would he have pardoned the error of
his daughter and permitted the advances of the outlawed
prince, could he have done so and escaped without re-
proof and punishment, as a kindred traitor, from the vin-
dictive Roderick. And now, though compelled to seek,
by all possible means, the arrest of the denounced rebel,
Count Julian forbore the most active measures which
might have been deemed essential to that end, and con-

88 PELAYO.

tented himself with just enough of effort to escape all
censure for omission or neglect of duty. This under-
stood, the escape of Pelayo and Egiza will be readily
conceived. The pursuers despatched by Count Julian
failed to find out their places of retreat ; and it was mid-
night when the two princes halted for rest, which they
found in a deserted hovel, where they deemed them-
selves secure for the time from their enemies. To this
time since their meeting, Pelayo had said but little to his
brother, and that little was in brief sentences, sternly ut-
tered, and of such matter only as seemed to belong to the
merest circumstances of their flight. But with the be-
lief that they were now safe from pursuit and beyond
the hearing of others, a change took place in the lan-
guage and manner of Pelayo. Stopping short in a lit-
tle area formed by the gradual hollowing of the hills
around, the hazy moon giving them a partial light, the
latter turned, and, confronting his brother, thus address-
ed nun:

'* We are now safe, my brother. Our enemy, even
if he have pursued us, which I believe not, has failed to
follow upon our steps. We are alone, and can now
speak to each other, as we might not do if we had other
ears than our own to listen. And now I demand that
you should hear me, Egiza, for I have sought thee out
as brother seldom seeks brother — in a temper that is not
brotherly, and with a feeling of justice in my soul that
cannot be blinded by any ties whether of blood or of
affection."

"What mean you?" demanded Egiza, somewhat
surprised by this opening and the stern air and solemn
manner of the speaker. " What mean you by this sal-
utation, my brother 1 You have just rescued me from
captivity or death, Pelayo — do not lessen the value of
your service by looks and words of such unkindness."

Had the tones and language of Egiza been more full
of spirit and defiance, they had most probably been more

PELAYO. 89

agreeable to Pelayo. The gentleness and humility of
his reply seemed altogether too feminine for the manly
character required by the times. The address of the
latter was not modified,, therefore, when he spoke again.

" I know not that I have done you service by saving
you from Julian. Thou canst better answer that doubt
by thy actions hereafter. I sought you, not to save you
from Julian — I sought you for punishment, Egiza."

"How! For punishment1?"

" Ay, for blows — for death — for shame. Art thou
not—"

"What?" demanded Egiza.

" A traitor to thy pledges — a slave to thy wanton
lusts — a coward — deserting from thy people, having no
heart for thy honour, spiritless in thy shame, and heed-
less of the scorn of those whom thou hast prompted to
the danger which thou thyself hast been the first to shrink
from ? If thou art not this thing, Egiza, then have I
wronged thee in my fears — then have thy people wronged
thee in their thoughts. If thou art, then have I done
thee unkindness to save thee from the stroke of Julian."

The unhappy Egiza was no less indignant than thun-
derstruck by the speech of his brother. He could only
exclaim, while his lips quivered red with anger and his
hands convulsively twitched at the handle of his sword,

" Go on, go on, Pelayo — thy tongue is free of speech
— thou art rich in dainty language. Spare it not — go
on — to the end, I pray thee."

" Be sure I will," replied the other, coolly ; " thou shalt
hear the truth, Egiza, spoken without favor and without
fear. Thou art my brother, and for my own honour I will
not spare thee — thou art my prince, and for mine own
and thy people's safety thou shalt hear their complaint."

" Pause not — thy beginning promises too well for
what is to come. Speak on, and spare not."

" What didst thou at the dwelling of Julian, piping
and puling with his daughter, when thou hadst pledged
H2

90 PELAYO.

thyself elsewhere1? Why hast thou wasted the precious
hours in this fashion — hours too precious for such keep-
ing as thine — when thou hadst other work and nobler
duties to perform ?"

" And what is thy right, and whence comes it, Pelayo,"
was the reply, " to challenge me with thy free censure
thus ?"

•' Thy people's rights are mine. They have a right to
their prince— his life is theirs, and his dishonour is not
only their shame, but their loss. Why earnest thou not
to our men when, through me, thou didst solemnly
pledge them ? Thou didst ask their service, and they
gave it ; thou didst bid them gather to receive thee, and
they came. Where wast thou meanwhile ? Had they
seen thee, as I did but late, crouching with curlike fidelity
at the feet of thy mistress, thinkst thou they had put in
to save thee from the blow of Julian ? No ! they had
shouted to him in applause, and given him all needful
help to thy punishment."

" Have they set you on this task, Pelayo ? Have they
given you commission to play the orator 1" said Egiza,
suppressing, though with great effort, his emotions as he
spoke.

" No ! Of my own thought I came to save thee.
'Twas my own spirit that moved me, perchance un-
wisely, in thy,, service. I had staked my honour upon
thine. I have sworn to redeem my pledges ; and for
this I came ; for this have J saved thee. Their mes-
senger had better been the headsman — they will hold
thee a traitor if thou heedst not. Thou hast proved one."

" Traitor, indeed !" exclaimed Egiza, scornfully ; " I
see not how that can be, since I owe no service to any
but myself."

*• Thou dost — thy thought is idle. Thou owest me ser-
vice— them service — service to thy name, to thy father's
memory, to thy country. Thou owest thy sword, strength,
life, to the people who would strike in thy cause, and for

••*•

PELAYO. 91

whose rescue from the tyrant thou art doubly pledged,
not less by thy birth than thy own spoken resolve. To
this cause thy whole soul — thy courage — thy virtue —
everything — is due. Thou art born the sovereign of thy
people, but thy rights belong to theirs. If thou claimest
from them obedience, they claim from thee protection.
As the superior, thou art bound to the inferior in a thou-
sand ways — thou must instruct and guide, advance the
worthy, counsel the ignorant, punish the unworthy, pro-
mote mind to its true condition, and do all these things
with impartial judgment, having nor fear nor favour. In
thy hands lie the scales of decision, the sceptre of re-
solve, the sword of justice, the boon for patient service,
and the reward for noble and unexacted achievement.
For thy award thy subjects wait thee, and these are the
duties which thou owest them in return and requital of
those which their obedience yielcfs to thee. And let me
tell thee, my brother, that the treason of the sovereign
to his people is of all treason the worst, since theirs must
ever be the worst loss. Such were thy treason to them
now. Thy neglect and most complete desertion would
deliver them to a tyrant ; nay. it has already done so
in part. They are even now his slaves, his victims,
and with a bondage terrible he fills our father's land.
They groan aloud — they call upon thee for succour —
and thou — thou comest to sing amorous ditties to the
moon, while thou lurkest around a nobleman's castle,
striving at a theft, when, as a brave arid valiant prince,
at the head of thy people*, thou shouldst come boldly,
and receive a gift with honour. Shame on thee, my
brother, that such should be thy performance."

The reply of Egiza, though feeble, conveyed his firm
resolve.

' " Alas, my brother, thou wouldst move me to impos-
sible things. I have taken counsel upon our purpose,*
dwelt upon it in earnest thought, and feel that there is
no hope. It is in vain that we would assert our right.

92 PELAYO.

The nation too fully owns the sway of Roderick for us
to move him. We have no soldiers, no strength, no
resources. To lead our few followers into arms were but
to bring them to destruction, and yield ourselves up to
no less. No — I have resolved, my brother — I will strive
no more."

4 Do I hear ?" was the passionate exclamation of Pe-
layo, as he heard this plain avowal from the lips of his
brother ; " do I hear 1 Let not my father's ghost be nigh
us at this moment ; such damned salutation would make
him doubt thou art his son. It is not as thou sayst,
Egiza. Nothing is lost to us if we be not lost to our-
selves. Nothing impossible, if we give no heed to base
fears and womanly weakness. All is ours if we bring
but courage and resolve to our cause, and keep the
pledges which we have made to our people. We have
goodly hope if thou wilt but look upon it. A hundred
gallant leaders are sworn in sacramental blood to our
banner ; and they will strike for us to the last, till thou
hast thine own, till Roderick is hurled from his bad sta-
tion, and our mother-land purged from the pollution
which he has brought upon it."

Egiza smiled derisively as he heard the enthusiastic
speech of his brother.

" A hundred men !" he exclaimed ; " why, what a jest
is this, Pelayo ! — how canst thou talk of hope against
Roderick with thy force of a hundred men ?"

The indignant reply of Pelayo was no less prompt
than the sarcastic speech of his brother.

" Talk not of hundreds," he cried ; " what are thou-
sands, millions — of what avail their number, their skill
in fight, their choice of 'vantage ground, and the con-
sciousness of right, which is best armour to the true
heart, when the leader to whom they look lacks soul for
battle and grows craven at its approach ? I tell thee,
my brother, thy poor spirit affrights me, and makes me
to doubt more of our cause than all the strength of Rod-

PELAYO. 93

erick, than all our own weakness else. Do thou but
fight, and I count not the foe."

«' And wherefore should I fight, Pelayo ?" replied the
other, mournfully. " For fame — for empire 1 Alas !
my brother, these are nothing to me now !"

" I do not hear thee !" said Pelayo, chokingly. Egiza
proceeded.

" I tell thee, brother, if but to draw my sword upon
these hills, and trace my worthless name upon their sides,
would win for me this empire thou wouldst have me seek,
I would not stoop to do it. No ! Pelayo, I have grown
happier in other hopes. In nameless station, rather than
in strife, would I pass the future hours. I have lost all
the spirit for reckless strife, for the shedding of human
blood, for the grasping at power with hands red and
reeking with the miseries of man. Besides, I am for-
bidden— I may not contend with Roderick — I am sworn
not to do so."

" Brother, say not so !" exclaimed Pelayo, hoarsely,
while the tears gathered in his eyes, and his hand con-
vulsively grasped the wrist of Egiza.

11 Say not so. I call you still my brother. I forbear
all rashness of word or action. Hear me, I am calm —
I am gentle. See — my dagger keeps its sheath. I
will not curse thee. I will not strike thee. I will do
nothing which shall stir thee against our holy cause —
thy cause, our father's cause, and mine. But I pray
thee, brother — I pray thee, unsay thy speech. JTis not
becoming in thee. 'Tis against thy mother's fame, thy
father's memory, thy own right ; I say naught of my
right, Egiza, though it is my right also which thou dost
set aside in thy relaxed purpose."

Egiza would have spoken here, availing himself of a

pause in the speech of Pelayo, which the latter seemed

to make rather through hoarseness than lack of topic,

but he continued with his wonted impetuousness.

" Nay, hear me out, my brother — hear me out. I

94 PELAYO.

came to chide, to curse thee — to drag thee, if thou
wouldst not, to our people and to thy neglected duties.
I will not chafe thee thus. My words shall have a gen-
tler meaning. I will implore, entreat, spare nothing of a
softer mood, so thou wilt unsay those foolish — those
base words. Take thy manhood on thee again — let not
the gathering rust upon thy sword reproach thee with
long dishonour. Remember thy father's name, thy own
•^once more let us do those deeds which shall keep
them bright with the passage of the years, defying the
effacing breath of time — defying the slanders of our en-
emies."

It was for one moment an imposing sight to behold
the big drops gathering in the eye of that otherwise
rough warrior ; to see his half-stifled emotion, and the
convulsive clasp of both his hands around the arm
of his brother. But this show of emotion lasted for a
moment only. The reply of Egiza produced another
change no less sudden than those which had already
marked his deportment in this interview.

" I've thought upon this strife, my brother," said the
elder, *« and I see no hope for our cause from the strug-
gle which we propose. The chances are all against
success. Our men are few, and though they be gal-
lant all, and well approved in fight, their endeavour were
but fruitless when thousands press upon and bear them
down by the sheer power of numbers."

" Hear a tale !" exclaimed Pelayo, impatiently, with-
drawing the grasp of his hands upon the arm of his
brother, his eyes flashing the fires of indignation, and
his voice struggling hoarsely in his throat for utterance
like some pent-up mountain torrent — " hear a tale thou
seemst to have forgotten."

" What tale, my brother ?"

" It was a time of terror for the Goth," resumed Pe-
layo, in reply, " when; led by Wallia, he battled first in
the Iberian country. His force diminished to a little

PELAYO. 95

band the consul of Rome but laughed at-— girt in by the
entire race of the Silingi, full ninety thousand — on his
front their allies, the Alani, a beaten but brave people,
themselves superior to the utmost might brought by
Wallia — to these we add the Vandals and Suevi, all
leagued for his destruction. Did he fly ? Did he de-
spair ? Did he talk of the force of numbers, and, in a
coward mood, resolve to give up the struggle, to forfeit
the empire he sought, to retire in shepherd's guise from
the strife, seeking a dastard safety, which neither he
nor thou could have ever found ? No, no ! he did not
— he dared not. Though on his back rolled the im-
passable sea, and on his front a host, to which his front
were but a narrow point, which he looked to see swal-
lowed up by the side closing ranks of his enemy ! — did
Wallia tremble? Did he desert the people who had
trusted him, and fly in hope of safety from a fortune
which he yet decreed to them ? -You may have your
answer from the old crone who, at the evening, when
the bee first sings in summer, tells it to the hinds as-
sembled beneath the cottage tree. In one night, with a
courage warmed by danger to be deadly, and with a
sword sharpened for a thousand lives, he smote the bar-
barians in their tents, slew with his own hand the gigan-
tic monarch of the Alani, and hewed his way to freedom
and safety — as thou shouldst do — through the hearts of
his crowding enemies !"

" I know the tale, Pelayo," was the faint response of
Egiza. " 'Twas, indeed, a brave action — 'twas gallantly
well done."

" Thou knowst the tale ; 'twas gallantly well done !"
exclaimed Pelayo, repeating contemptuously the words
of his brother. " I cannot think you know it, Egiza ;
I cannot think you esteem it gallantly well done, else
wherefore need that I should tell it to you now? and
wherefore not strive, with a kindred spirit such as Wal-
lia cherished, to win as bright and lasting a renown?

96 PELAYO.

Why wake only to whisper 'it was was well done,*
when your people, and your own honour, demand that
you do likewise? Satisfied with the word of praise
which you give to Wallia, and which his glory needs
not from any, and, least of all, from you, back you sink
into your soulless and senseless slumbers, making it
double shame for you to have ever awakened."

" Nay, Pelayo, thou dost me wrong, great wrong,"
replied Egiza. "I do not forget, I would not forget,
the glorious deeds of Wallia — would that they were
mine—"

*• Without the danger, eh ?" said Pelayo, harshly,
breaking the unfinished speech.

" No — to have them would I brave all the danger,
even now, such as girded in the desperate monarch.
But such hope were idle. Our game were far more
desperate than his. Our people are not one, as was
the people of Wallia. Scattered and far — few, un-
armed, and without money, we should but call them into
sight for their destruction. To cope with Roderick
were to rush on certain fate. Wherefore, and what the
wisdom of such rashness, without any hope such as
counselled the enterprise of Wallia ?"

" Oh, wherefore live, and wherefore strive at any for-
tune," replied Pelayo, bitterly, "unless thy captain
comes to thee with a certain count of thy own and thy
enemies' numbers ; shows thee by a certain rule, with a
nice computation, the very movement thou shouldst
make for success, ere thou resolvest upon it ; and de-
clarest the cost in men and horses of every onslaught 1
Computes for thee after this fashion : « Here lie three
hundred foes, two hundred friends — clear gain one hun-
dred here. Here, at this point, we lose — a favourite
horse has here been wounded with an ugly gash that
cleft his neck ; his rider lies at hand — he lifts no sword
again. Now on this side — behold ! Here's an ugly
pile — we have lost here — two Goths and five Iberians

PELAYO. 97

more than our foe ; but, on the whole, we are better by
the combat ; we have not gained — but our loss is less
than Roderick's.'"

" What is this talk, Pelayo ?" demanded Egiza.

" The talk of the captain ; his close compt, which thou
needst, of what the fight shall be ere thou goest into it.
It is thus you would have him compute for you the field,
so that you may estimate the game ere you err by rash
battle. By Hercules, brother, but you have grown
marvellous nice upon the sudden. Time was when
you were less prudent, and, men said, more manly ; now,
with a keen honour — not keen enough, however, to cut
the hand of its owner — thou art more heedful of thy un-
cle's mule than of thy father's kingdom. Thou wouldst
ride his favourite text * Patience' while Roderick rides
thee, and deal in grave homily about life's chances, while
the foe tramples thee with his foot in anger, and spits
upon thy brow in his scorn."

" Be it so, then. You are too free of speech, Pelayo."

"Would I could make you free of action."

" Chafe not, or thou wilt ere thou wishest it," was
the reply. " Thy words strike ungently — thy speech is
ungracious."

" My thoughts are no less so at thy weakness — thy
lack of purpose."

" My purpose is my own, only — you waste your words
by speaking upon it. Since I am your rightful sover-
eign, His for me that you would war with Roderick. I
yield my right — I will not war with him — 'tis I that lose
by this relaxed purpose ; not you !"

" Ay, but it is, Egiza. Selfish man, I tell thee thou
dost lose but little. The lo>s is mine, thy people's, thy
country's. 'Tis the loss of those who have feeling yet
of their country's honour and of their own — of those
who are sore beneath the tyrant, and who demand that
their king shall come to their help and rescue them
from their bondage. What, if thou hast grown heedless

VOL. II— I

98 PELAYO.

of thy own wrong — blunted to the scorn of others — in-
different to the disgrace in which thou livest 1 Shall
thy insensibility be thy excuse from serving them in their
suffering? Are there not many, the subjects of my fa-
ther and his friends, who break the bread of poverty and
travel the rude hill-paths of exile ? Shall they lose by
your desertion ? They have lost all in their service to
us and to our cause ; can it be that you will deny them
with a careless word to hope for the restoration to their
homes, to the high and honoured places from which our
enemy has driven them ? You are doubly sworn to these,
nor to these alone. You owe vengeance to the slain —
to the many who have perished for King Witiza in pris-
on, on the battle-field, and scaffold ; less prudent and
sparing of their blood than the firstborn son of him for
whom they perished. They have sons too — brave,
fearless, noble sons — shall they strive vainly for their
rights — for their goodly names, once honourable, but
now degraded with the worst reproach to honour, the
shame of treason ? These suffer loss by your denial —
these lose all by your fickleness and weakness — the
basest features in a sovereign."

" And are these all ? Methinks there are yet others
to be named who suffer loss, as thou sayst, by my weak-
ness."

" Doubtless ! The whole nation suffers by thy de-
fect, since the uncurbed tyranny of the usurper is a mal-
ady that in time possesses all."

" Ay, but such was not my thought, Pelayo. Thou
hast spoken nothing of thy own loss, my noble brother.
Dost thou not share in my conquest if I conquer? if I
perish, dost thou not succeed me ?"

The fingers of Pelayo grasped the throat of Egiza the
moment he had spoken. The glance of his eye was
fiercely withering.

** Thou art base of blood !" he exclaimed — " a
wretch most ill-begotten !"

PELAYO. 9

" Take off thy hand, Pelayo," gasped the half-suffo-
cated Egiza ; " undo thy hold, or thou wilt strangle me."

The hold of Pelayo was rather tightened than relaxed
as he muttered in reply —

" A base slave, whose trade were worthy of the
Hebrew — "

The struggles of Egiza were fruitless in the iron
grasp of his brother. He was compelled to expostulate.

" Pelayo, brother, undo — let go thy hold — I choke !"

" Brother — no !" exclaimed the indignant youth, re-
leasing his hold, and hurling the other from him. " Broth-
er— no ! I sorrow that we are of kindred, though but
for this my dagger had searched thy slavish bosom.
But — come on with me. Brother or no, sovereign or
slave, come on with me to the cavern. Let us delay
for no more speech. I parley with thee no longer —
I hearken no longer to thy base suspicions — I contend
no more with thy base purpose. To the cave ; when
there, I break all bond with thee — T know thee no
longer, whether for brother or comrade. To our friends
declare thyself; they wait us there. Say to them what
thou hast said to me, and let them judge of thee as they
may. For my single self, I give thee up for ever.
Hereafter we hold no interest together, whether of blood
or business. Thou wilt meet with the Iberian nobles
in council ; they form the only legitimate council of the
nation. They, doubtless, will receive thy declaration
with heedful judgment, and learn to yield the contest
with the tyrant, as thou wouldst do, or discard the hope
that now looks to thee for good guidance and manful
deed. This — if they regard thee with Pelayo's eyes —
they will surely do, and thou mayst then go free — go
free to dream away the hours in thy silly bondage, pu-
ling to woods and flowers, piping to streams, losing the
consciousness, if thou canst, the while, which tells thee
of thy duties left undone, thy father's memory forgotten,
and his cruel murder unavenged."

100 PELAYO.

" I will not go with thee, Pelayo," said Egiza, quickly.

" Thou shalt !" was the no less prompt and more
resolute response.

" Ha ! thou darest not think of violence, Pelayo ? and
if thou dost, I fear it not. Who's he shall make me ?"

" I — thy brother. By Hercules, I swear it. Hear
me, Egiza ; my hand was but a moment since upon thy
throat ; my weapon is before it now — bare, ready — and
I am resolute. Thou hast trifled long with our men ;
thou shalt not so trifle with me. Thou hast made me
promise them falsely ; I will die, and thou shalt die, ere
thou dost so dishonour me again. Thou shalt go, though
I bear thy bleeding carcass upon my shoulders. Thou
shalt go and confirm what I have done for thee, and with
thy own lips shall declare that it is thy defection only
which is to give the deathblow to our cause. They shall
hear from thy own lips thy craven resolve — they shall
look thee in the face while thou relatest thy own shame.
May my father's spirit help thee in that moment, Egiza,
and strengthen thee to a better resolve than now ; for,
I tell thee, if thou dost not become their king, as they
will claim thee — ready with thy sword to lead them
against the tyrant — so surely will they doom thee to a
fitting punishment. Thy life is at their bidding."

" I give them no such power. Thy rude assault
makes thee my foe, Pelayo. Lower thy weapon, or I
swear to thee I will forget our kindred, and strike thee
as freely as I would the fiercest warrior in the ranks of
Roderick."

The threat was lost upon Pelayo.

" Strike as thou wilt — I am too much thy friend to
hearken to thy self-condemning words. I'll hale thee
to the cavern — living or dead, I'm sworn to bring thee
to our friends. They shall hear thy voice, or, in place
of it, they shall behold my reeking dagger, and upon it
I will swear it is thy lifeblood which it has drank "

Thus speaking, with weapon extended as if for the

PELAYO. 101

fulfilment of his threat, Pelayo rushed without scruple
on his brother. In an instant the latter was prepared,
and their swords crossed and clashed in conflict.

" I've borne with thee too long," cried Egiza, as they
began the fight. " Thou hast grown insolent beyond
endurance even of a brother. Strike now, Pelayo, as
if thou wert none ; for, I swear to thee, I shall couple
no such idle memory with the blows I give thee."

A fierce laugh preceded the reply of Pelayo.

" Let the blows speak for us," he cried, contemptu-
ously ; " mine will remind thee of no kindred, be sure.
Strike thou with thy best skill, thy most reckless cour-
age— it will glad me that I can yet provoke in thee
some spirit not unworthy of our father."

Stung by every uttered word of Pelayo, Egiza pressed
closely upon him. His blows fell fast and thick, and
for a brief space they required all the superior adroit-
ness of Pelayo in defence to ward and turn them aside.
Yet they gave him no disquietude, and the scornful
manner in which he spoke all the while only added to
the vexation of Egiza.

" What ! thou hast life yet !" he cried ; " thou canst
still feel anger and strike quickly ! Well ! it is some-
thing gained, that, in thy woful degeneracy of soul, thou
dost not need that I should spit upon thee or turn thee
with my foot. Look, now, with both eyes to thy guard,
for I trifle no longer."

"Nor I ! nor I !" muttered the roused Egiza through
his closed teeth.

The stars looked down with a calm smile upon their
fearful combat, while the affrighted echoes gave back
the clashing strokes of their weapons from the surround-
ing hills — which were so recently silent — until there
was no longer any solitude among them.
12

102 PELAYO.

XII.

A FEELING of absolute pleasure rose in the bosom
of Pelayo as this conflict proceeded. Yet it was not
that he found a pleasure in the strife itself, or desired
the shedding of a brother's blood ; but, regarding the
mental apathy of Egiza as, in great part, the conse-
quence of his bodily inaction, he supposed it not im-
probable that any circumstances which could bring his
blood into exercise, and prompt a return to the wonted
thoughts of his mind, would necessarily have the effect
of bringing him back to the performance of those du-
ties, his neglect of which he could not but consider as
the foulest treachery and the most bitter dishonour.
This sluggishness, it is true, had been most conspicuous
since his first interview with Cava ; but Pelayo, as yet
insensible to the tender emotion himself, was disposed
to regard the passion into which Egiza had fallen for the
damsel as an effect of his apathy rather than its occasion.
Believing this, it was his confident hope that any strong
provocation, which would stimulate him into unmeasured
anger, would break the chains of that apathy which had
so completely fettered his spirit and enfeebled his re-
solves ; and it was his no less confident hope that the
wily bondage of Cava would also be severed, as a ne-
cessary consequence of the overthrow of that other
domination, which had placed him within her seductive
influence, and made him so susceptible of spells which,
to the mind of Pelayo, were so very urrimposing. Once
fairly aroused, he did not dread that his brother would
readily sink back into the lulling and unmanly slug-
gishness from which he had been so rudely awakened,

PELAYO. 103

and his satisfaction arose much more from this belief
than from any desire to inflict a punishment, however
deserved, upon his brother for his defection and default
hitherto. The night was one of a clear starlight, and
they could behold each other distinctly, and well discern
the movements, not less of their hands and weapons,
than of the muscles of their several faces. That of
Egiza was full of anger : his cheek was flushed with
the glowing and irritated blood ; his eye darted forth the
most angry fires, and his lips were fast riveted together
and bound by his compressing teeth, until the blood
started from their pressure. The countenance of Pe-
layo, on the other hand, wore quite another expression.
An air of pleasantness and satisfaction overspread it ;
and, though full of that decisive character which distin-
guished all his actions, it could yet be seen that its re-
solve was softened by good-humour, and that nothing
of malice, and but little of anger, was at that moment in
his bosom. Egiza could not help perceiving this, and
the discovery, if possible, increased his own indignation.
His blows were seriously given, and with momently in-
creasing rapidity. But Pelayo did not seem to heed
the earnestness of his brother's hostility. No move-
ments could have been more cool and temperate than
those which he made ; and Egiza chafed like a caged
animal when he found all his efforts ineffectual to set
aside the guard of his opponent, and win the opportu-
nity of the stroke. To increase his rage, Pelayo en-
couraged him with humorous language to increase his
efforts, even as a strong man trifles with the anger of a
froward boy, and stimulates, by petty taunts, his feeble
and impotent hostility.

" Wilt go with me, Egiza ?" said he, in the midst of
the sharp controversy ; " 'twere better — the same good
blows which thou expendest most idly upon me would
not fall so harmlessly upon the crest of a soldier of
Roderick."

104 PELAYO.

" They shall not always prove idle or harmless upon
thee, Pelayo," responded the other, as he redoubled his
efforts, and renewed the assault with greater energy.

" Thou art rash, my brother, and the time is come
for thy better teaching," said Pelayo, in reply ; and the
smile passed from his face as he spoke, and his lips
were now closed, and such was the stern, strong glare
that then shot forth from his eyes, that Egiza faltered in
his assault.

" I will teach thee thy feebleness, Egiza," said Pe-
layo, " and will trifle with thee no longer. Look now to
thy guard, for, unless thou makest better play than thou
hast done, I will take thy weapon from thy hands in
spite of thee."

The swords clashed as he spoke, and that of Pelayo
seemed to cling to the opposing blade as if it were
welded upon it. Egiza beheld in an instant the differ-
ence now between his brother's blows and those which
had before been given ; but he had very little time for
reflection, for, in another instant, his weapon was twisted
from his hand, and whirled from him as if by the stroke
of an enchanter. He stood with undefended bosom
beneath the sword-point of Pelayo.

" Strike," he sullenly exclaimed — " thou hast striven
hard to shame me in the eyes of others, ami thou hast,
at length, disgraced me in my own. What more
wouldst thou wish, Pelayo, than my life ? What more
canst thou take ? Strike, and let me suffer no longer
from thy hate and my own humiliation."

He folded his arms as thus he spoke, and looked
with comparative calm upon his brother, expecting his
instant death. But the mood of Pelayo was subdued,
and the uplifted sword-point fell to the ground. With a
voice full of mournfulness and anguish, quite unlike that
which he commonly employed, he thus replied to the
speech of Egiza :

" Egiza — oh Egiza ! wherefore hast thou so far hum-

PELAYO. 105

bled both of us, as to compel me to bestow this so
severe lesson upon thee ? Why hast thou fallen from
thy noble thoughts and from thy sacred duties ? Why
wouldst thou make our father's memory a thing of
scorn and thy own name a word of infamy ? Why de-
grade thy own brother to an executioner ? for" — and he
concluded solemnly — " even upon this errand have I
come."

" Strike !" was the response of the other, still more
sullenly than before — " do thy errand."

" Require me not, Egiza, but go with me. Upon
my knees, my brother and my sovereign, I do implore
thee. Go with me — seek our men. Declare thyself
their king — their true and loyal king — ready to lead
them to the enemy ; forgetting all the errors of the past,
thy weakness, and thy unresolve — forgiving all the rash-
ness of Pelayo."

" What if I tell thee no — and do not go ?"

" Then here thou stay'st for ever — here I slay thee.
I've sworn it, brother. Thou shalt go with me and see
our men, or I will smear my weapon with thy blood, and
show thy fate and my own firm resolve writ on the face
of the same sudden messenger in the same letters."

" If I do go, Pelayo, it will be but to show thy fol-
lowers how idle would be the struggle with Roderick,
and to withdraw myself from a strife so hopeless," said
Egiza.

" I care not what thou tell'st them, so that thou goest,
and will approve all the performances to which, when
thy mood was more valorous and less reluctant, thou
didst set me to. Thy presence before them will acquit
me to them of all that I have said for thee ; and they
may then order it as it may seem best to them or to
thee afterward."

" I will go with thee, Pelayo ; yet think not that I go
because of thy threat to slay me : what I resolve, I re-
solve in proper reason, and not in fear."

106 PELAYO.

" As thou wilt, for whatever reason may seem best
to thee — I care not, so that thou goest. Thou shall do
thy duty, and fulfil thy promises to the men who are
doomed as traitors and ready to die for thee. When
thou hast seen them, thou wilt, I think, be willing to
draw sword and lead them ; and if not — "

" What then, Pelayo ?" demanded the other, finding
that he came to a pause before finishing the sen-
tence.

" Why, then, may God always make thee as ready to
die as I found thee but now, Egiza. Take thy sword,
my brother, it lies before thee."

XIII.

WITH subdued spirits, quieted, and now without any
show of anger, yet more than ever estranged from each
other, the two brothers proceeded upon their way to-
gether until they came within distant view of a misera-
ble and unsheltered cabin of a peasant among the hills.
The scene was wild beyond description. The hovel
stood on the side of a ravine, through which, even then,
a mountain torrent, the consequence of late heavy rains,
was rushing with unexampled rapidity. The exceeding
narrowness of the gorge, its broken bed and circuitous
route, caused the torrent to roar in its passage down
like the voice of a labouring tempest. On one hand
rose a dense but small forest, frowning blackly in
unison with the scene, but the rocks beside were bleak
and bald of vegetation. A stunted tree stood at the
entrance of the cabin, which was wrapped in darkness,
and at the first glance of the two young princes it
seemed to them to be entirely uninhabited. Pelayo
stopped short ere he approached the dwelling, and
pointed out the situation of the gorge and the general
features of the country to his unheeding and regardless
brother.

PELAYO. 107

u Look, Egiza, ere thou movest ! See the rude
cerros, that threaten behind, before us, and on every
side — and among them see how many are the ravines
and winding hollows which make passages for flight —
for freedom ! To the left, behold yon gorge, the bed
of some great torrent now dried up. The path is black
in its exceeding depth, and a brave army might wind
through its bosom, almost in broad daylight, without
startling the browzing goat or the watchful shepherd
upon the cliffs which overhang it. The true soul and
the fearless spirit might brave Roderick in such a place
as this, even as the Lusitanian Viriatus defied of yore,
and defeated the best consuls of imperial Rome. Would
that the brave savage were living now ! Would that we
were worthy of his valour ! Dost thou regard the
scene, my brother? — thine eye seems only to survey
the backward path over which we came."

The melancholy Egiza responded to his brother, but
his words were few and their sense spiritless. His soul
was with his eyes, and they strayed backward ever in
the direction of Count Julian's castle.

" I see the gorge," said he — " 'tis very dark and
deep. 'Twould be a fearful fall from the overhanging
cliff, if the regardless shepherd — "

" 'Twould be a glorious passage for brave men seek-
ing in silence the superior foe. Canst thou not think
with me, Egiza 1 If Roderick lay upon the opposite
hills with his .assembled army, could we not, though
with our hundred knights and their small bands, win on
his camp by night, and, through that gorge to the left,
or even through this that spreads itself before us, smite
them with ruin ? By my soul we could, had we but
souls ! Come on — thou sleepest, brother."

The quick eye of Pelayo belu Id the stupor of his
brother. His own enthusiasm seemed to awaken no
corresponding impulse within Egiza's bosom ; and his
language accordingly became stern as he turned away

108 PELAYO.

from the survey of those prospects, the susceptibilities
of which for the purposes of war he had been labouring
so vainly to describe to him.

" Thus," he muttered, as he led the way, " thus are
we slaves and victims. It is thus that we make the ty-
rant who overcomes and chains us. Tyranny is but the
creature of our need — the scourge that whips us for de-
caying virtue — that chastens to reform us. The tyrant
never yet sprang to life in any land where virtue pre-
sided among the people. It is the foul, fearful progeny
of our vices — the rank disease of our degeneracy —
born of our baseness, and powerful only in our shame.
Our weakness gives it strength ; and he who submits to
injustice but arms tyranny. The slave makes the ty-
rant, the coward creates the oppressor. 'Tis a cruel
thought, that one, born, like Egiza, to sway — to noble
purpose — high destiny — the heir of such a mighty heri-
tage— should so fall off from honour — so forget his
name, his very nature ; and move thus, with a soul min-
gling with the dust upon which he treads, and a step
like that of a beaten cur that dreads a second punish-
ment."

The soliloquy came only in part to the ears of Egiza.
He had been musing of things remote — he had been
dreaming of Cava. Thinking that Pelayo had spoken
to him, he started as from slumber.

" What sayst thou, Pelayo 1 Didst speak to me ?"

" I spoke of thee, my brother," replied Pelayo, con-
tinuing still his forward progress ; " I strove to think
how best to bring thee to life — to put blood into thy heart
— to give wings to thy spirit, action to thy sinews, and
exercise to thy strength. I strove to think how best to
make thee once more a man — to give thee freedom,
and—"

On a sudden the words of the speaker were arrested,
and Egiza, who came behind, heard strange accents
mingling with those of his brother.

PELAYO. 109

XIV.

« STAND back, before I strike thee to my feet and
beat thee into powder !"

It was thus that a fierce voice arrested the progress
and the speech of Pelayo. A gigantic and wild figure
sprang up in his path even at the entrance of the cot-
tage, to the threshold of which they had now come, and
brandished a heavy club before their eyes. The foot
of Pelayo had struck upon the cumbrous body of the
man, who lay sleeping at the door of tfie hovel, and
aroused him into angry consciousness. Egiza started
back, almost in terror, as he beheld the uncouth and
strange figure arising from the earth. But not so Pe-
layo, whom nothing could easily daunt or take by sur-
prise. Yet well might the appearance of the stranger
inspire apprehension, without shame,* in any human
bosom. His figure was Herculean — his features dark
— his hair, which was long and deeply black, streamed
wildly from his shoulders, and the thick beard was mat-
ted above his lips and chin in rugged folds, which did
not seem to be lifted often, even to permit of the free
access of food to his wide and swagging lips. His
gesture well accorded with his outward seeming. It
was blustering and fierce, and the voice was that of
one who would seem to have been struggling to out-
brave the tempest in the piercing strength of its shrieks.

"Stand back !" he cried, as he rose and stood before
the princes — " I will not speak again to thee, but strike."

In an instant the thick short s^vord of Pelayo waved
in his hand, and, despite of all the entreaty of Egiza,
who would have restrained his progress, he advanced
upon the savage.

" Beware !" cried the stranger, in a threatening voice,
yet receding somewhat from his position.

VOL. II.— K

HO PELAYO.

" Urge him not, Pelayo ; he will crush thee with his
mace," cried Egiza.

" Then get thy weapon ready to slay him when he
does so," responded Pelayo, chiding, with a stern tone,
his laggard brother. " But fear nothing, Egiza — I have
no fear. This burly monster can do nothing with me in
so clear a light ; and be sure I shall not deal so ten-
derly with him as I did but a little while ago with thee."

" Back !" cried the savage, seeing the determined
approach of Pelayo — ** back ! I warn thee."

But Pelayo laughed scornfully, still advancing, and
Egiza also drew his weapon and came on closely after
his brother. £The savage swung the heavy mace about
his head, and in another instant it would have come
fatally down upon that of Pelayo, but that the quick-
sighted and fearless warrior suddenly closed in wiih
him, and with the hilt of his sword struck the savage
a blow between his eyes which half stunned him, while
it dazzled his vision with the most stupifying glare.
Without falling, he tottered back against the door of his
hovel, under the overhanging eaves of which, in the
open air, he seemed to have been sleeping. His mace,
still in his hand, fell by his side ; and though he lifted it
a second time, he seemed confused and objectless, and
did not again aim to strike either of the princes. Pe-
layo grasped the huge weapon with a sudden hand,
while Egiza presented his bared weapon at the throat
of its owner.

" Give me room," cried the man, recovering, and
seeking to push away the princes ; but he was checked
as the sharp point of Egiza's weapon pricked his ex-
tended hand.

" Be not foolish, man," said Pelayo, kindly ; " we seek
not to do you harm. We are friends, and would only
crave from thee a place of shelter and quiet for the
night, which is already half gone."

** Who art thou 1" demanded the savage, in reply.

PELAYO. Ill

" Thy master — have I not written my name between
thine eyes ? — thy friend, if them believest in me," was
the calm but authoritative reply of Pelayo.

** I can fight thee still," replied the man, fiercely ; " I
have no master but Ip.sistos — the mightiest God."

•* As thou wilt," £aid Pelayo, " though I care not to
fight thee, for I would sleep — my companion and my-
self are weary. Give us lodging in thy cabin, and I
will fight thee in the morning, and plague thee with
thine own cudgel ; deny us, and I will put my sword
through thee even where thou slandest."

" I like thy speech, and will try thee, as thou sayst,
in the morning," replied the savage, with a laugh that
was harshly pleasant in the deep, melancholy silence of
those midnight and bleak hills. He continued :

** Thou shalt have the lodging thou requirest, stranger ;
and if thou canst strike me 'tween the eyes by daylight,
as thou hast done to-night, I will go with thee for a
season."

" Wilt thou follow me V9 demanded Pelayo, eagerly.

" If thy pursuit shall please me — what is that 1n re-
plied the savage.

"War!"

" Good ! — with whom ?"

" Mine enemy."

" Give me the stroke at morning thou hast given me
to-night, and thy enemy shall be mine," was the promise
of the savage.

" By Hercules the Striker, I will make thy bones
ache !" said Pelayo.

" If thou canst," said the other.

" What art thou ?' asked Pelayo.

" A man — dost doubt me ?"

" No ! The name of thy nation I would know 1"

" Bascone !"

«• Ha! — what dost thou here, then?"

" Live !"

113 PELAYO.

" What brought thee to these parts, I mean 1"

" I was a warrior, but the King Witiza was a better.
I fought against him, and he made me a prisoner, with
many of my people. I was released by the new king,
and then I fled from Toledo."

«' Wherefore, when he released thee V9

" I feared his tyranny."

"Why, what hadst thou to fear? What should
tempt him to thy injury ? What hadst thou to lose ?"

" My freedom !" replied the savage ; and as the re-
ply reached the ears ol'Pelayo, he grasped convulsively
the arm of Egiza while he replied —

" Comrade, I'll blacken thee with bruises on the
morrow, I so resolve to make thee follow me. But let
us into thy dwelling."

" It is open to thee," replied the man — " there's fire,
and thou wilt find acorns upon the hearth. For thy
couch — the dry earth is beneath thee ; the turf makes a
good pillow, but I prefer mine here, where the air keeps
it ever fresh. I will watch at the door while ye are
sleeping."

" Watch well J" said Pelayo — " beware the stranger
does not again strike thee between the eyes."

«* We1!! wait till day for that," replied the other, mer-
rily, while the two young princes, accepting his courte-
sy— such as it was — at once entered the miserable
hovel, where they slept without interruption until the
day had fairly dawned and the red sunlight came gliding
ki through the thousand decayed openings of the hovel.

XV.

PELAYO started to his feet and awakened his brother.
** I must go forth and do battle for my follower,'*
said he, gayly.

" Thou wilt not fight with him, Pelayo 1" said Egiza.
** And wherefore not, if it needs it I" was the reply ;

PELAYO. 113

" such good limbs in a soldier are worth fighting for,
and we are too slack of men in our service to stint the
price we pay for them. 1 will but stand a blow with
the burly Bascone, and I will not shrink from a bruise
or two : he will not do me mwh evil, for I have a trick
of ihe hand which shall blind him, and of which he can-
not know. But I think not to bide the buffet. Speak
lower, for still, he sleeps, as thou mayst hear by the
heavy breathing from without. Let him but sleep on
till I stand above him, and I make him my follower
without strife."

" Thou wilt not strike him as he sleeps, Pelayo ?"
said Egiza.

" What dost thou take me for, Egiza ?" responded
the other, as he turned upon and sternly surveyed his
brother — »» hast thou known rne so long, from youth, to
think me grown base in my manhood ? By Hercules
the Pilot, thy own course must have undergone dread-
ful alteration when thou doubtest so of mine !"

Thus speaking, Pelayo grasped his sword in the
middle, and cautiously moved to the door of the hovel,
which, with like caution, he unfastened. The savage
Bascone still slept, with the whole bulk of his frame
stretched at length before the entrance. Pelayo placed
one of his feet over his body, and, thus bestriding him,
with a light hand he struck the hilt of his sword once
more between the eyes of the sleeper, just where he
had stricken him the night before. The Bascone awa-
kened and gazed round him with astonishment.

"Get up and follow me," cried Pelayo — "I claim
thy promise."

" Thou must fight me first," said the Bascone.

" No !" responded Pelayo, with a laugh, ** I have
already won thee. I pledged myself to strike thee
again between thine eyes where before I struck thee :
was not my sword upon the spot when thou awakened ?"

" Yes, but I slept then," said the Bascone.
K2

114 KELAYO.

" And the warrior is bound who sleeps. I have won
thee, for I awakened before thee, and this gives me the
game. Arise, then, my fullower, and give to me thy
name."

•* Thou art wise not less than strong," said the Bas-
cone, " and hast fairly outwitted me. Thou art worthy
to be a great leader, for thy head and hand agree. Still
would I like to try thee a buffet, if it were only to repay
thee for that which I suffered at thy hands last night."

" Thou canst not if thou wouldst, good Bascone,"
said Pelayo — " thine eyes are swollen too greatly wiih
the blow, and well I know thou couldst not see the
double ends of thy enemy's staff at the same moment.
They would twinkle on both sides of thy crown at once,
and when thou struck'st most heavily at thy foeman's
neck, his legs would be around thine own. Thou art
fairly my follower, good Bascone, and let it content
thee to strike my enemies as thou wouldst have stricken
me. Be satisfied, such desire will more greatly pleas-
ure me. Tell me thy name."

" They call me Britarmin among my brethren the
Basques ; and name me besides, when I am hungry, the
* Seven Teeth ;' and when I am satisfied, the * Nine
Sleepers ;' for when I have not eaten long, and find
wherewithal to requite myself at last, they affirm that I
am equal to any seven of my breihren in the business
of the feast — when it is over, I call for the repose of
nine."

" I shall know how to provide for thy seven teeth,
Britarmin — but this shall be only when the fight with
my foe is over."

'* If I am to follow thee — as I confess it somehow
pleases me to think so, for I like thy valour, and thy
wit, and thy frank spirit — give me thy name also."

*' Surely — like thyself, I too have my by-names ; and
while I have an enemy men call me 4 The Sleepless ;*
and while I have a friend they call me * The Watch-
ful.* »

PELAYO. 115

" Good names, my lord," said Britarmin ; " but what
did they name thee at thy birth ?"

Pelayo put his hand upon the shoulder of the Bas-
cone, and looked him sternly in his face as he replied—

" I tell thee the name of one who is an enemy to all
tyrants, and a doubly sworn foe to that tyrant who is
now upon ihe throne of Iberia — I tell thee this, Britar-
min, as I am willing henceforward to intrust thee with
my life — I am Pelayo."

" Brother, thou shouldst not," whispered Egiza, hur-
riedly, as he came forward.

The Bascone seemed to understand the motive of
interference and the sense of the expostulation ; for,
turning a severe look upon Egiza, he cried f nthusiasti-
cally to Pelayo, while he put the hand of the prince
upon his head —

" Britarmin is no traitor. Thou hast done well to
trust me with ihy secret, Prince Pelayo — henceforward
I am thine. Lead on — I follow thee.'*

XVI.

PRLATO and Egiza led the way, and were closely fol-
lowed by their new companion, wielding his massive
club. Ere they left the hovel, they broke their fast
upon a few dried acorns and chestnuts, which hitherto
had supplied the desires of the ** seven-teeihed" Britar-
min. Upon this simple fare had he lived for weeks
before the arrival of Pelayo ; and such was his savage
and severe love of liberty, that he infinitely preferred it
to all the refinements and delicacies of the cily. There,
as he said, he felt himself still in bondage, though per-
fectly unshackled. The walls of the city, of themselves,
annoyed him, for he could not conceive of their object,
unless to hold men in prison. When Pelayo told him
that their use was to prevent the incursions of the foe,

HO PELAYO.

he replied that men never yet needed such defences
so long as they possessed the desires and the strength
of fit e men.

" Thou shall be at the pulling down of these walls,
Britarmin," said Pelayo. The savage shouted till the
hills echoed again, waved his mace in air, but, uttering
no other an.swer, followed his new guide with all the
thoughtless simplicity and gladness of a child.

XVII.

" EGIZA," said Pelayo, " to-night we are to meet our
friends at the Cave of Wamba."

** To-night?" said Egiza.

"Ay, to-night — our friends — the brave, devoted few,
who now risk the doom and the dungeons of the tyrant
in thy behalf — we meet with them to-night ! Dost thou
hear me — dost thou understand me, Egiza? Think,
my brother, think well ! — to-night (the time is close at
hand) — our friends (can there be a sweeter meeting ?)
— we meet them, rny brother, in thy cause — in our
common cause — to strike against thy enemy, the tyrant
Roderick — the murderer of our father — the usurper of
our throne — the enslaver of our country."

" I understand thee well enough, Pelayo," was the
reply of Ejjjza, who seemed impatient of the earnest
manner of his brother.

" We meet, too — think, my brother — we meet with
them in the Cave of Wamba ! — that cave which was
hallowed as the home of ihe holy man, when he left the
cares of the empire which he had saved to other hands !
What a prince was he — a prince to emulate — to follow
in all practice ! In that cave I think to meet his spirit
with the rest. Let not thine falter there, I pray thee,
brother. The place is holy — haunted. His knees
have pressed its rocks — his prayers have risen from its

PELAYO. 117

encircling gloom, in the deepest and darkest hour of
midnight, in tribute for his country, to his God. It will
need that thou shouldst speak to our people a language
such as his — 'twill need, I say, my brother !"

" Have I not said to thee already, my brother, that I
hold this struggle to be vain, and more like the madness
of the dreamer than the calm reasoning resolve of one
who thinks and knows ?" was the reply of Egiza.

" Let me not answer thee, my brother," said Pelayo,
gently — " I would not be angry with thee now. What
I say to thee this day I would say pleadingly — I would
say humbly — I would bring thee to think and to feel
tKe truth, even as I feel it ; and though my blood bounds
wildly and my heart throbs vexatiously, sometimes,
when thou speakest coldly of these things, the very
thoughts of which do fever me, yet will I so school
blood and heart into subjection this day, as that neither
will have cause to reproach me hereafter when I think
of thee."

*' What meanest thou, Pelayo ?" said Egiza.

" Look down !" said Pelayo, without heeding the in-
quiring looks and language of his brother — " look down,
my brother !"

They stood a few paces from the edge of the preci-
pice, to which, following the road, they had been direct-
ly advancing. It was then that the path suddenly
turned aside, and on one hand it took its way down a
deep gorge, partly the work of art and time, and partly
made by the heavy torrents that worked their way down
from the upper hills to the deep valley that lay below.
Where they then stood, however, the deep and sudden
abyss spread itself before them, and the bosom involun-
tarily shuddered as the eye surveyed the edge of the
precipice. Egiza looked down, agreeably to the sug-
gestion of Pelayo.

" What seest thou 1" demanded the latter.

" I see the cattle grazing, and now a shepherd looks

118 PELAYO.

up, and now moves on, with sluggard step, beside-
them."

" Seest ihou naught else ?" asked Pelayo.

" Nothing — what seest thou, brother ?"

'* 1 do not see the cattle nor the shepherd," said
Pelayo.

" Why, there they are — there by the rivulet, that toils
and tumbles through yon rocks. Dost thou not hear
the brawl 1 — its clamour seeks us here."

" I hear it not," said Pelayo, while he continued to
gazp, " nor do I seek to hear or to behold it."

Egiza turned to him wiih a look of 'inquiry. The
eye of Pelayo met his gaze, and it was full of a proud
meaning, which the former could not understand, but
which he could not help but feel.

" I do not see the cattle nor the shepherd," said Pe-
layo— " it is not these I look for ! but 1 look once more
to see the bands of Viriatus foiling the Roman consul.
Dost thou remember — thou hast not sure forgotten, oh
Egiza, the last time went we with our father forth, he
pointed out the gorge, made glorious then by Yiriatus.
There the Roman came with his dense legions. The
Lusitanian chief stole from behind the hills with a small
band, inviting the assault. The praetor saw, arid fell
into the cunning snare he laid : Vitellius fell, and the
Iberians came, clustering like angry bees on every side,
and hemmed the invaders in. Vainly they fought that
day : they fled at last ; but wrth as swift a wing did
hate pursue as ever helped on fear. Not one had then
escaped, had not Nigidius, colleague of Vitellius, come
to the Roman's aid. 1 think of it, and see once more
the strife begin — there — just below — "

" Why, sure, Pelayo, 'tis a dream thou hast," ex-
claimed Egiza, interrupting his brother, whose eye in-
tently watched the pass below them, while his finger
rigidly pointed to a distant section of the gorge. Pelayo

PELAYO. 119

turned suddenly upon his brother in silence. Egiza
continued —

•* Thou errest in thy speech — it was not here that
Viriatus fought and slew Viteliius ; 'twas in the bloody
defiles near Tribola — "

" 'Tis well thy memory lives," replied Pelayo ; " and
sweet to me, Egiza, to discover that all is not forgotten
from thy mind of what our fathers wrought. Full well
1 kn^w 'twas at Tribola that Viteliius fell — thou didst
not think that, when my eye was stretched as piercing
yon abyss, I looked to see the legions issuing forth ?
JVo, my fair brother — the sight was in the mind. I
called for thine, and would have given it glorious exer-
cise. I would have had ihee from the distant vision
catch a faint hope of glory fur thyself — would ^how thee
Roderick's legions in some pass, bleak, rugged, deep
like this; and in the fearless chief of Lusitania, with lit-
tle band, small chance, but fearless heart, I would have
had thee look upon Egiza, and dare be, what that vision
would have made thee, a patriot and a man ! But let
us on : we'll speak no more of this ; I leave it to thy
thought. Come on, Britarmin — what matter, Bascone
— thou look'st as thou vyei t angered ?"

" Why, so I am, my prince," replied Britarmin, " but
the anger is a pleasant one. Only speak when we are
going into buttle as thou didst just now, and I will leap
into the enemy's throat. Almost I thought that thou
didst behold them coming quickly around the mountains
below us, and I strained my eyes to behold them also
— thy words were so proud, and thine eye so glorious."
In silence they descended the pass, each too much
filled wiih his own thoughts to speak farther for some
time ; but, before the day was half over, Pelayo renewed
the subject most active in his mind to his brother Egiza.
Long and earnestly he strove to awaken him, by every
sort of exhortation and argument, to a proper sense of
the duties which he had hitherto neglected. He repeat-

120 PELAYO.

ed many stories of the olden time — of old Iberian val-
our— of their ancestors, and of their immediate family ;
and in the prosecution of these efforts he strove studi-
ously to forbear harsh comment and ungentle word.
One time he soothed, then solicited, then argued ; and
at moments, when, in his narratives, he elicited some
spirited response from Egiza, his heart would rejoice
with hope that his brother was beginning to awaken
from the apathy which had possessed him. But such
hopes lingered not long ; and he saw with the deepest
sorrow, as, towards nightfall, they reached the neigh-
bourhood of the Cave of Warnba, that his brother main-
tained his former unresolve, and still thought di^coura-
gingly of the enterprise which was before them. Pelayo
said but little after this ; yet one sentence, which he
uttered in a cold and solemn manner when they came
in sight of the cave, fell on the ears of Egiza with a
deathlike emphasis.

•• Here is the place, Egiza — here we meet all our
friends. I have now done with thee. Whatever they
resolve shall be my law. I'll say no word against it —
lift no hand save in support of what they decree.
Beware of what thou dost — thou knowest their power —
they are the National Council of Iberia, sole sovereign
in the land. Let's in to them."

" A moment, brother," said Egiza, in a whisper, while
he grasped the arm of Pelayo, who was about to go
forward.

" What wouldst thou now ?" he asked.

" Such is not their power ?"

" Unless you hold the usurper Roderick to be the
truer sovereign, yes !" was the reply of Pelayo.

" And what if I declare myself against their plans —
if I withhold myself?" demanded Egiza.

" A shaven crown or death ! — the monk's stone cell
and rosary, or else the sharp stroke of the axeman,97 was
the stern reply of Pelayo.

PELAYO. 121

•» I will not enter with thee," was the sudden resolve
of Egiza as he heard these words, and he drew back
from the mouih of the cavern.

" Too late, Egiza, now," replied Pelayo, grasping his
arm and dragging hirn into the throat of the cavern——
** too late ! — show not the coward now, but say out thy
firm resolve, whatever it be, to our people, arid meet thy
fate like a man, whatever they decree it, — follow me
close, Britarmin."

The Bascone did as he was commanded, and Egiza
was forced to advance, for Pelayo and his follower were
now between him and the entrance. With a deep sigh
he went onward, bitterly regretting that he had not pre-
ferred to brave the sword-point of his brother, which
threatened hirn in the night, rather than the tiial and
possible doom which were before him now. When he
had fairly entered within the recess, Pelayo lingered
behind and spoke thus to Britarmin —

*' Keep thou here concealed, Britarmin — hide ihee
behind this ledge of the rock — thou wilt be unseen, and
thy presence unsuspected. Watch well that none leave
the cavern till thou hearest my signal — admit all to
enter that seek to do so ; and show thyself only to those
who would depart before the business of our meeting is
over. Remember — strike down, with a sudden and
sweeping blow, him who would leave us until permis-
sion is given to him to do so. I do not except from
th^s command my own self, nor the person of my broth-
er who but now preceded us. Remember, Bascone, I
trust ihee as my soldier. Be faithful as thou wouldst
have success — do as I bid ihee in this, if thou wouldst
have employment for thy seven teeth."

The Bascone placed the hand of Pelayo upon his
head while he swore —

*» By the god Ipsistos, whose wrath I fear, I swear,
Prince Prlayo, to do even as ihou hast commanded !"

" It is well — I trust thee, Britarmin. Remember, I

VOL. II — L

122 PELAYO.

except not myself from thy blow, should I seek, ere the
proper time, to depart from the cavern. Eg.za, my
brother, who came with us — remember, also, thou wilt
slay him as if he were a stranger and a Saracen, with
as little pause or sorrow, should he seek to fly."

" I will slay him — I will do even as thou command-
est !" was the reply ; and Pelayo then followed his
brother into the recesses of the cavern, leaving the Bas-
cone safely hidden behind the projecting ledge of the
rock which he had shown to him as a place for shelter
and concealment.

END OF BOOK THE THIRD.

BOOK IV.

i.

IN its various workings, how independent mind ever
is of mutter. Not so when the proposition is reversed.
The scheme which is perfected with consummate art in
the silence and seclusion of the closet is made fruitless
when it depends for development upon mere thews and
sinews ; and the genius of the philosopher is hourly
called upon to lament, more and more, the weakness of
humanity, when it beholds its inadequacy to the execu-
tion of those divine conceptions which arise from in-
tense thought and daring imagination. Yet the mind
of man, though mortified with its nonperformance, is
never so well assured of its own immortal destiny as
when it discovers the incapacity of its earthly agents in
the prosecution of its thousand purposes.

How various, too, are the forms of mental independ-
ence ! With what a noble profligacy has the Deity pro-
vided men to be free of each other ! Thought is so
various, that the mind of one man need never encroach
upon the boundaries and the province of another ; and
millions shall so work in their several stores of specula-
tion and invention, yet never penetrate into the empire,
nor disturb the creations, of their neighbours. The
conspirator shall toil in the overthrow of the sovereign,
who, with a thought equally, if not more active, shall
labour, at the same moment, for the eternal bondage of
the conspirator. The rebel and his ruler shall in the

124 PELAYO.

same hour meditate their several schemes of subjection
and revolt, yet no divine irisiinct shall enable the one to
conceive the subject-matler of his enemy's deliberation.
It was thus that, while Pelavo with a proper hold-
ness, and Lord Oppas with his natural and heloved
cunning, toiled together, and framed their plans of revolt
against King Roderick, that monarch, though troubled
in a thousand ways with his cares of empire and his
plans of tyranny, never once suspected the existence of
such a conspiracy. Nor did the conspirators, in turn,
ever once conjecture that a greater power than iheir
own was at work, arraying itself, and arising, by which
Roderick should fall without effnrt of theirs — a power
infinitely beyond their own, and which should, to a great
though still limited extent, control their best efforts for
the restoration of their country's freedom. Still less
did the ever-planning Oppas think that Pelayo, w horn he
only sought to use, should soar in triumph when he
himself should be grovelling in the dust — should live in
glorious memories when his name would be allied only
with shame and degradation And, to descend still
lower, little did the base spirit of the Hebrew Amri
imagine that the hour was so near at hand when the
prayer of his scorned and imprisoned sire would under-
go such direct and fearful realization — when the dread-
ful words which his ears had heard from the lips of
Adoniakim, in the moment of his flight — " Jehovah,
God of Heaven, the just God and the perfect, may the
doom of the ungrateful son be sharp and sudden — may
it be felt, and may it be fatal !" — would so quickly meet
with the accord from above which they desired, and
descend in punishment upon his guilty head in their*
utmost force. His heart hnd become insensible to its
fears : it teemed only with the vicious hopes of his lust-
ful imagination. His fancies only prefigured to his
mind his vengeance upon Melchior, and his possession
of the beautiful daughter, whose beauty was no longer

PELAYO. 125

powerful to buy the devoted life of her sire. And the
miserable woman Urraca — little did she think, while she
was planning the fondest schemes of retirement, and,
possibly, of innocence, with the man upon whom she
had so madly concentrated her affections, that ihe hour
was approaching when all her hopes, like the affections
from which they had sprung into existence, would be
crushed and trampled into dust. Little did she dream
of that fearful mental revolution — that change in head
and heart — in thought and hope — which a few hours
were to bring about. She had lain down in a moment
of repose from sorrow — a short respite from the storms
which vice must ever bring along with it : she awa-
kened to their dreadful renewal — to the defeat of her
hope — to the annihilation of her dream of peace — to
despair of life — to a desire of death! Let us now
return to her.

II.

IT was late when Urraca awakened from her slum-
bers, which had been sweeter and purer than, for a long
season before, she had ever known them. She started
with some surprise, and wondered to find Amri no
longer beside her. Her thoughts and her dreams — her
heart and its hopes, had been, and were still, so full of
his image, that it was now with a feeling of intense dis-
appointment, amounting to pain, that she discovered his
absence. But she was too well assured of the truth of
those pledges which he had just given her, and she
relied too confidently on his vows, to allow any disap-
pointment of this nature to affect her seriously or long.
She had realized, in the few preceding hours which have
been dwelt upon already, that sense of recovered peace,
and of new and reasonable hope, which must ever arise
to the abused and vicious spirit with every backward
L2

126 PELAYO.

step which it takes to those paths of virtue from which
it has so long wandered. VV ith the resolve to lead a
purer life — to discard the ostentatious trappings, and to
reject the base allurements of that lustful sell-abandon-
ment in which she still lived — came a feeling of quiet
peace, which had long been a stranger to her bosom.
She had learned to be weary of those false joys which
must ever end in weariness ; and she was possessed
of a strength of determination and of spirit, not often
given to the debased, which supported her in the resolve
to retrace her steps, and recover whatever might re-
main within her reach of the lost possessions of virtue.
The pure waters of health and untroubled joy seemed to
flow and well in the prospect which her fancy painted to
her eyes, and her heart glowed and her eye kindled
with the desire to obtain them, even as the weary and
thirsting pilgrim of the desert pants for the fountain
which gleams before his fancy in the distance, and toils
with new vigour for its attainment.

While Urraca* looked around her, after her first feel-
ing of disappointment at the absence of Amri was over,
the person of Zitta appeared before her eyes, as she
emerged from a niche in the apartment which had
hitherto been concealed by a falling curtain.

" Zitla," said Urraca to the woman, with a voice of
gentleness. She answered the call, and approached her
mistress ; but the latter saw, at a glance, that s>he was
reluctant, and her looks bespoke more than ordinary
discomposure.

" Come to me, Zitta," said Urraca — " tell me how
long is it since Amri went forth?"

" Since the first hour of day, my lady," was the
answer of the slave, uttered readily enough, but without
any of that softening deference of tone arid manner
which shows a good spirit moving the reply. At an-
other time such a response might have awakened the
anger of the mistress ; but the returning virtue of her

PELAYO. 127

mind was hourly gaining strength, and was beginning to
subdue the quick and jealous pride of the irascible and
imperious temper.

*' Said he aught to thee on going forth? Did he
not say when he would return ? Left he no word with
thee for my ear ?"

" None, my lady," said the slave.
Urraca was silent for a few moments, and turned
away her eyes from the woman, who now proceeded to
her duties in the chamber. But it was not long before
Urraca again addressed her, which she did in the same
gentle and subdued tone which she employed before.

" Come closer to me, Zitta — I have something which
I would say to thee, and I feel too feeble to speak to
thee so far."

The woman did as she was commanded, something
surprised at the singular change which seemed to have
come over her mistress, and which was shown as well
in the indulgent language which she employed as in
the soft, conciliating, and greatly altered tones of her
voice. Conscious as she was of her own evil design
upon the life of the person who addressed her, she ap-
proached the couch to which she was bidden with a feel-
ing of apprehension, which showed itself in the sudden
paleness of her cheek and in the awkwardness of her
movement. But this, though observed by Urraca,
failed to arouse her anger or indignation, as had been
but too frequently the case before. The soothing
dreams which had been present to her mind, and the
hopes and thoughts with which she had dressed up the
promised life before her, seemed to have made her in-
dulgent in the extreme, and to have softened to meek-
ness a spirit only too easily aroused, and too stubborn
to be easily quelled or quieted. This very alteration in
her usual manner was of itself too surprising to Zitta
not to startle her, and in her guilty consciousness of

128 PELAYO.

soul it positively alarmed her with an unaccountable
sort of terror.

" Sit on the couch, Z'tta — thou dost not fear me?
Why dost thou tremble — what is it alarms the« ? Can
it be that I have been so cruel a mistress to thee?
Wherefore thy apprehension — what is 'it that troubles
thee?"

" I — 'tis nothing — a little sickness — I am not well,
my lady — I — " and the woman resorted to falsehood to
account for the singular emotion which she found her-
self unable to conceal.

** Sick — I am sorry, Zitta — thy cheek affirms it — it
is very pale. Thou shouldst. retire — thou shouldst have
rest a while ; and I would despatch thee at once to thy
chamber, Zitta, but that I have something to unfold to
thee which I think will relieve thee of thy sickness."

The surprise of the woman was duly increased by
these words, and her fears now amounted almost to
consternation. She stared, without ability to reply,
upon the face of Urraca, who, with a quiet smile upon
her lips as she witnessed the wonder of her servant,
thus continued her speech —

44 You have a mother, Zitta — she is old ?"

41 Yes, my lady, she is very old."

"You love her, Zitta?"

41 Love her, my lady !"

" You do — you do," said Urraca, hurriedly — "I know
you do — the question was most idle. Your mother —
you must love her. Where does she live now, Zitta ?"

41 At Merida, my lady."

" Do you not wish to see her?"

" Much, my lady. I prayed thee more than once
for this privilege, my lady, which you denied rne."

** Did I deny you ? — are you sure of that ?"

44 Most sure, my lady."

" I do not think it. Yet it must have been," she
said, musingly, and with a deep sigh : " my heart has

PELAYO. 129

been a hard one — stubborn in its weakness ; and no
wonder I should deny thee to seek thy mother, Zitta,
when I fled so wickedly from my own."

«' You did deny me, my lady," said the woman, stu-
diously repeating the words, as if to strengthen her own
resolve, for the unwonted gent'eness of Urraca had also
had its effect in somewhat aoftening her. The strange
sense of her words, too, had greatly surprised and sub-
dued the slave.

" 'Twas wrong in me to do so," said Urraca : " and
you would like to see her again, Zitta — would you not
like lo go to her, and live with her for ever? Say —
would you not!"

The person thus addressed did not answer this ques-
tion ; but her eyes sank upon the floor, and her head
drooped, while her tremulousness returned with in-
creasing force, owing to the complexity of her emotions.
Her disquiet did not escape the searching eyes of her
mistress, who did not think proper farther to remark
upon it, as she ascribed it to any but the proper cause.
She again spoke to her, continuing the topic in part, and
her language was even gentler, and her manner kinder,
than before.

" Thou wouldst joy to leave me, Zitta, and to fly to
thy mother — thou would»t joy to leave me, even hadst
thou no mother to fly to. I see it in thy face, my girl,
and I may not complain : I have been but a hard mis-
tress unto thee."

*' Oh, no, my lady — no !" was the response of the
slave, with something more of genuine earnestness than
she had hitherto shown, for the manner and self-accu-
sing language of Urraca had begun to touch her heart.

" Yes, Zilta, it is but t'>o true. I have made thee
toil overmuch, nor have I often been heedful of thy
proper wants and thy passing wishes. I have some-
times been careless of thy woman feelings, and thou
hast had claims which came with thy feelings, which, in

130 PELAYO.

my evil mood, I have but too much disregarded. Some-
times I have beaten thee wi.h unjust blows when my
passions have been awakened, and not when thou hast
deserved them. Is not this true, Zitta, as 1 declare it?
Hast thou not accused me in thy heart of these things?"

" Oh, my lady — do not, I pray thee — ihou dost thy-
self great wroiiii," said the slave, who began to be very
much moved, and could say nothing more than this in
reply. Her mistress continued —

" Though a slave, Zitta, the purchased creature of
my wealth, yet hadst thou thoughts and capacities which
fitted thee for a higher condition ; and the toils and the
lot of the slave should fall only upon heads and under-
standings which may not repine at tasks to which they
are fitted, but which are so greatly below thee. Thou
hast been improved by thy toils, however, and canst
now much better undertake thine own charge than when
I first took thee into my keeping — canst thou not V

" Yes, my lady."

" Thou wert poor then, and wretched. Dost thou
remember — it was thy own mother who sold thee in her
need ?»

The woman looked down, but spoke not, yet her
tremulousness had utterly passed away.

" I taught thee what thou knowest — I made thee
what thou art. I fear me I have taught thee error, for
I showed it thee, and I practised it myself; but it was
in my ignorance of understanding — in my wilfulness of
heart — in my weakness of resolve, that I have done
this — that I have taught thee these lessons."

The tears filled the eyes of Unaca as she spoke
these words, and Zitta became uneasy as she heard
them. She felt her own eyes tremble, and with this
consciousness, as if vexed that it should be so, she
placed her hand in her bosom, and felt the little pan h-
ment which Amri had given her, containing the deadly
potion through which she was to obtain freedom from

PELAYO. 131

that bondage of which her mistress had just spoken ;
and when she had done this, her eyes became dry, and
her heart grew hard and unyielding, and she heard the
mournful words, and looked upon the tearful cheeks of
her mistress with indifferent scornfulness : she thought
then only of herself.

Urraca, after the pause of a few moments, thus con-
tinued to address her —

" I hav-e been foolish for a long season, Zitta, and
many are the wrongs and errors which 1 have done and
committed in that time, which it is not in my power to
repair, and which I can only, with God's indulgence,
repent. Dost thou hear me, girl V9

The woman did not seem to hear or to heed, for her
eyes wandered away from the couch where her mistress
lay, and hence the concluding inquiry of the latter.

" Yes, my lady, I hear thee."

Urraca proceeded —

" A change has come over me, Zitta — a happy
change ; the blessed Mother of God has softened rny
heart, and awakened my understanding to the knowl-
edge of what is good. Heretofore I have known but
little that was not evil. I have been walking blindly, but
without a consciousness of my blindness, plunging for-
ward, unseeing my path, with all the desperate auda-
city of ignorance and sin. The scales are falling from
my vision ; and though I have opened my eyes to behold
the depth of my bondage, I have opened them also to
see a little path yet left to me through which it is my
hope that I may make my way out. Dost thou not
rejoice with me, Zitta, at this prospect of my release —
of my freedom ?"

The word " freedom" chilled the sympathies of the
slave, which the sweet appeal of her mistress had
begun somewhat to awaken and enkindle. She made
no answer to the inquiry. Urraca remarked her silence,
and simply placed one of her hands upon her wrist, as

132 PELAYO.

it rested upon the bed beside her — the guilty woman
shuddered and shrunk away from the touch, as if it had
been that of a glowing bar of fire.

44 Why, Zitta, thou hatest me !" was the exclamation
of Urraca, greatly shocked at what she conceived to be
only an exhibition of disgust and hate. The woman
sought to remove the impression, which was, indeed, an
unjust one, by a denial couched in tones of proper
warmth and directness. It was, indeed, only because
her mistress had never before seemed in her eyes half
so deserving of her love as at this moment lhat she had
shrunk from contact with her hand, and sought to with-
draw her own. It was with a guilty consciousness, a
feeling of some self- rebuke, that she would have with-
drawn her criminal fingers from the touch of one upon
whose life, at lhat very moment, she meditated as-ault,
and agninst whom her thoughts and feelings were alike
hostile and malicious.

" Do not hate me, Zitta — I pray thee do not," was
the imploring speech of her mistress — "do not think
ill of me because I have been and am ill, and because
thou hast seen so much that was evil in my doings and
my thoughts. For the scorn and the injustice which I
may have done thee, I pray thy forgiveness. Pardon
me my wrong -to thee as thou wouldst have the Blessed
Mother intercede in thy behalf to the Father. For me,
Zitta, it is left only to repent where I may not repair,
and to repair where, perhaps, such is my sin, I may
not be suffered even to repent. I am making up my
accounts in my thought, and the table is black against
me. I have tried to review the claimants upon my
justice, and thy demands, Zitta, have not been forgot-
ten. I have set thee down even before many others ;
and thou shalt not have reason to say, my girl, that I
have forgotten thee."

** Ob, my lady," exclaimed the slave, *4 wherefore

PELAYO. 133

dost thou speak thus to thy slave ? — wherefore this
language — what does it mean, my Jady 1"

" A change possesses me, Zitta, which is almost as
strange to me as it now seems to you. My heart is
altered within me, and I tell ihee that the light has
been let in, for the first time, upon my eyes. Either,
my girl, I am soon about to be made happy, and win the
peace and quiet I have sighed for, or I am about to die."

" To die !" almost shrieked the affrighted slave.

'"Yes — to die! Is death so terrible, Zitta? I do
not think it : I have sometimes thought of it as a blessing,
though now I do not, for I would live in Guadarrama
once more, and think I should be happy there. Hast
thou never ihought of death — of thy death — of mine 1"

'* Me, my lady — thy death, my lady ?" and the tones
of her voice were thick wilh horror and affright.

" Yes, Zitta, my death or thine. Little do we know
how soon we shall be called upon to leave the friends
and the blessings which are about us, and to go — we
know not where. It should be thy thought, my girl ;
of late it has become mine ; and with this thought,
Zitta, I would have thy forgiveness now, while I am
able to ask and thou to bestow it. Dost thou forgive
me for all the wrong I have done to thee V1

The woman trembled like an aspen — her frame
seemed convulsed by her emotions, and her head sank
down upon the couch, in the drapery of which her face
was buried. She could not answer.

" Well, well, thou wilt strive, Zitta — I know thou
wilt, and I will pray God to incline thee to grant the
prayer which I have made thee. Look up, my girl ; I
will oppress thee no more wilh my sad talk ; but 1 would
speak to thee of other matters."

Zitta looked up as she was bidden, but her eyes
dared not encounter with those of her mistress, and her
features were wild with the singular doubts and appro*
hensions in her soul.

VOL. II.— M

134 PELAYO.

44 Hear me now," said Urraca — " I have news for
thee which will surprise thee. I am at last resolved to
retire from Cordova."

The woman started to her feet as she heard this
communication, but again quickly resumed her seat upon
the bedside, and said nothing. Urraca continued —

" In three days, Zitta, with the permission of Heav-
en, I leave Cordova for the mountains of Guadarrama
— for peace and my native mountains I go, Zitta, there
to live the remainder of my days in a blessed quiet with
my own Amri."

" With Amri !" said the woman, with unfeigned as-
tonishment.

" Ay, with Amri ! What is there strange in this 1
Why dost thou start — why dost thou tremble, Zitta?"

" Tremble, my lady !"

41 Yes, tremble. Thy lips are pale — "

44 Leave Cordova, my lady !" said the woman, who
now recovered herself from the momentary and almost
overpowering astonishment which had seized upon her
— " leave Cordova !"

4» Yes, for ever — and hope to leave behind me, Zitta,
the sorrows and the strife that I brought to Cordova and
found in it. Amri has sworn me his : he promises to
go with me to my old dwelling-place among the moun-
tains of Guadarrama ; and there I hope to live in peace
and in truth for him only. I will be virtuous there — I
will break away from the shackles of sin — I will strive
for the peace I have lost, and, with Heaven's blessed
smile, I hope to be happy. Tell me, what dost thou
think of it,' my girl ?"

44 Think, my lady — I know not what to think," was
the response of the woman, with looks of most un-
feigned and dull astonishment.

44 What dost thou feel — how does it please thee, Zit-
ta?" was the farther demand of Urraca.

** I do not know, my lady," the woman rejoined.

PELAYO. 135

"What! does it not rejoice thee?" asked Urraca,
who began to show some little impatience at the cold
and unmeaning countenance with which the slave had
received her intelligence.

" Rejoice me, my lady !" was the grave .and gloomy
response of the person addressed — " why should it re-
joice me ? — what does the slave Zitta know of Guadar-
rama — why should she \vi*h to leave Cordova?"

44 True, Zitta — thou knowest but little of Guadarra-
ma, and the slave will not have need to rejoice with the
joys of the mistress whom she does not love : but
something thou knowest of Merida, and thy mother
there — "

" Oh, my lady — thou wilt not !" were the broken ex-
clamations of the woman, as she began to catch some
glimpses of the determination of her mistress.

"Will it not rejoice thee to go to thy mother? to
make her old age happy ? to — "

" Thou wilt not say it, Urraca — mistress — no !" al-
most screamed the bewildered woman.

" But I will ! Thou art a slave no longer, Zitta — I
give ihee freedom of the earth and of the air — of the
sun and of the sea — of ihe voice and of the hand — as
God gave it thee in his mercy, so I give it thee, Zitta,
having the will from God and the power from man to
do so. To-morrow shall the scribe be with me to put
my resolve on parchment ; and in three days shalt thou
have the proof of thy freedom in thy bosom, with no let
to keep thee from thy mother. Leave me now."

The woman sank down at the bedside in stupor and
silence, but she remained there a few moments only;
with a wild scream, mingled with broken words, in
which her mistress could only distinguish her own and
the name of Amri, the overpowered and guilty woman
rushed headlong from the chamber*

136 FELATO.

III.

BUT the freed slave remained not absent long. Her
guilty bosom, full of self-reproaches, demanded utter-
ance. She was crushed lo the earlh by ihe sudden, the
surprising generosity of her mistress, and the crime
which she had meditated filled her heart with unutterable
horror. She rushed back to the chamber of Urraca.
The convulsive paroxysm of joy had passed away, and
left her features more composed than at first; but the
tears, sweet and bitter, of mingled gladness and reproach,
flowed freely down her cheeks, while her breast heaved
and her lips quivered with her new and strange emo-
tions. The blessing had been too great, the boon too
sudden and unlooked for, not to overwhelm her; and
even when she came back to the chamber and presence
of her mistress, she could only kneel by the side of her
couch, bathe the extended hand with her tears which che
grasped in both her own, and sigh and sob as if her
very heart-strings were breaking with every meditated
utterance of her striving emotions. Humbled, yet hap-
py— shrinking with her shame, still hidden, which she
yet felt she could not long conceal — yet pleased that
she was able thus to abase herself before her whom she
had been about to destroy, Zitta strove vainly to articu-
late some of the strangely mingled and contending
thoughts and feelings which possessed her. Surprised
at these emotions, yet not dreaming of the criminal
complexion of their source in part, the mistress strove
in vain to quiet her. Ascribing her conduct to excess
of joy, she sought to disparage the boon which she had
Conferred, and made light of that freedom which the
other esteemed so great a blessing.

" Thou wilt implore to come back to me, Zitta — let
thy joy not madden thee, for the charge of thyself will

PELAYO. 137

prove to thee a heavy burden when, at times, thou shalt
find thyself alone, and when sickness is pressing son ly
upon thee, and thou lookest around thee in vain for
'tendance and sympathy."

"It is not that, my lady. 'Tis not joy," was the
broken response.

« Not joy — what ! art thou not glad, Zitta ? Whence
is thy sorrow 1 Wouldst thou not be free ln

44 Oh, yes, my lady, yes ! But I am base, ungrate-
ful. I deserve not so great a blessing at thy hands.
Thou shouldst put double service upon me rather — thou
shouldst scourge rather than free me !"

" Why, this is madness, girl ; rise — look on me —
speak calmly to me — what is thy meaning, Zitta ?"

« No — 'tis truth, my lady — 'tis a God's truth, I tell
thee, I am base — forgive — forgive me."

It was thus that, brokenly and wild, her self-accusing
spirit obtained occasional utterance, in reply to the ex-
hortations and inquiries of Urraca, while she sobbed ev-
ermore for forgiveness.

44 Forgive thee, my Zitta — what is thy offence 1 It
calls for no such violence. I do forgive thee."

44 It does, it does ! you know it not, my lady ; but
look not upon me while I tell it thee. Turn thine eyes
from me. I will tell thee all."

Her sobs increased with these words ; a sudden con-
vulsion seemed to come over and to rack her frame ;
and she sank at full length upon the floor by the side of
the couch, and lay moaning arid grovelling in that pos-
ture, but without saying any thing farther. Urraca, with-
out a thought but of the woman's illness, arose quickly
from the couch and strove to uplift her ; but she resist-
ed her efforts and refused her aid. In a few moments,
as she found that, her mistress continued to bestow it,
she arose herself, and now stood with much more of
composure in her manner, though with the look and at-
titude still of a culprit, in the presence of Urraca, who
M2

138 PELAYO.

surveyed her in the deepest astonishment and con-
cern.

'* What does this mean, Zitta — why dost thou look
thus from me — what offends thee — what is thy sorrow ]"

•* I am a guilty — a base, guilty wretch, unworthy, my
dear lady, of thy favour," was ihe reply of the woman,
who now spoke with a resolute air, coherently and
strong, and her eyes, as she replied, now addressed those
of Urraca with a degree of strength which presented a
singular contrast to her show of weakness and self-aban-
donment hitherto.

" Of what dost thou accuse thyself?" demanded Ur-
raca. " What dreadful secret works in thy bosom.
Speak, Zitta ; I will not betray thee."

44 God forgive me. Oh, my lady, every word which
you speak makes my heart more criminal in my eyes.
You know not — you cannot guess — I would have mur-
dered—"

" Murdered— horrible ! who, Zitta ?"

44 Look not on me, Urraca ! This day I had sworn
to murder thee. This day — this day !"

44 Me, Zitta ! murdered me ! This is thy folly, girl ;
thou art but mad to say so."

" I am not mad. I am no longer mad, my lady.
Thank God, I am not ! But what I tell thee is the
truth. In this paper was thy death ; touch it not — it is
poison. With this I had sworn to murder thee."

She drew the paper given her by Amri from her bo-
som as she spoke these words, and held it on high.
Urraca advanced, and took it, after some slight objec-
tion of Zittn, from her trembling hands.

" This is a horrible story," said Urraca, calmly turn-
ing over the little packet, and surveying it on both sides.

44 Horrible !'' exclaimed the woman, with the uncon-
sciousness of an echo.

44 Tell me all, Zitta. Speak out — I am not angry
with thee, and will not harm thee, now that thou repent-

PELAYO. 139

est of thy meditated crime, which I believe not, really.
Unfold to me the truth — what was't possessed thee !"

«• The fiend — the arch fiend— who else V1

" Thou saidst, Zitta, that thou hadst promised and
sworn to murder me : could it be that thou wast prompt-
ed by another 1" was the farther inquiry of Urraca.

" Ay, my lady — yes ! You'd fly with Amri to Gua-
darrama, my lady ; he has vowed you his — Amri has
vowed you his ! You are to be hapny with Amri, and
live with him in the mountains of Guadarrama, my lady
—ha— ha— ha !"

" What meanest thou, woman ?" said Urraca, sternly,
as she heard these words, and the irreverent and uncon-
trollable laugh of scorn which followed them.

" Forgive me, my lady, I would not offend thee,"
replied Zitta, quickly, as she observed the sudden and
stern change which came over the features of Urraca ;
" but thou art deceived — dreadfully deceived, my lady.
I have deceived you frequently and long, hut I deceive
you not now. It is Amri that deceives you ; it is Amri
that would have me murder you ; his hands gave me
the potion now in yours, which he swore me to drug
your cup with. I am perjured, since I have betrayed
my oath ; but I am not guilty of the crime I prom-
ised !"

" Liar and slave !" cried Urraca, in a voice of con-
centrated and ominous thunder ; " liar and slave that thou
art, unsay thy falsehood. Confess thou dost defame
him — say that he is true to me, and that it was an idle
mischief of thy tongue which made thee say otherwise.
The truth— the truth !"

Once more the figure of Urraca was erect. The
subdued spirit was once more awakened into life. The
meekness had gone from her eyes — the smile from her
lips — she stood, lofty, fierce, commanding, before the
trembling slave, her sable hair flying from her neck, and
her arm extended in an attitude of accustomed power,

140 PELAYO.

while through her parted lips the close white teeth gleam-
ed terribly upon her companion.

" It is the truth — I've said but the truth, my lady.'7

" Poison !" exclaimed Urraca, musingly, while again
turning over the packet in her hand and surveying it
curiously, " Poison — it is no poison if it came from Amri.
Speak, woman, did he call it poison ?"

" He did, my lady !"

" And bade thee give it me 2"

" Even so, my lady."

" To drug my cup — and swore thee to it, woman ?"

" He did, my lady — 'tis all true, my lady, as I have
told it thee," replied the slave, falling upon her knees as
she reaffirmed her statement, absolutely quelled and
bowed by the imperial anger of that fierce beauty, whose
passions she well knew, and whom she had been so
long accustomed to fear.

" And swore thee to it ?"

" He did, my lady."

" Swear that ! 'Tis false unless thou swear it!" Ur-
raca almost shouted in the ears of the slave, while she
advanced her foot, and her arm, now freed from the
robes which had been loosely gathered around her, was
extended, white, beautiful, and commandingly, over the
head of the kneeling woman.

*' I will swear !"

"Thou shalt not! Base, black-hearted, damned
slave, thou shalt not ! I will save thee from the hell
thou wouldst plunge headlong into. I will not let thee
put this foul perjury upon thy soul. Thou shall not
swear — it is a deadly sin, beyond all hope of mercy. I
will save thee — I will not let thee, Zitta. Pray — look
up to Heaven and pray. Pray — pray !"

The intensity with which Urraca had spoken these
words, and the excess of feeling working in her at the
time, produced exhaustion, which alone silenced, for the
moment, the infuriated speaker. When she paused,

141

Zitta, humbly but firmly, repeated her assertion, and
again professed her willingness to swear to the truth
of what she had affirmed. With a transition as strange
as it was natural to her, Urraca sank on her knees be-
side the woman, and, clasping her uplifted hand in both
her own, now, in the most gentle and pleading voice,
implored her not to take the oath she proffered.

44 1 know thou thinkest, Zitta, as thou suyst, but
thou errest Thou art deceived, my girl ; thine eye has
blinded thee to confound the person ; thine ear betrayed
thee with some similar sounds ; 'twas not the voice of
Amri — not his hand. They counselled not the crime —
the deadly crime. Say 'twas Edacer — the base Lord
Edacer — the Governor of Cordova — I'll believe thee.
He would not stop at that — "

" 'Twas Amri, dearest lady — none but Amri. Hear
me unfold the tale, even from the first."

44 1 would not hear thee, Zitta — yet I must. If what
thou sayst be true, thou killest rne — killest me, though
thou hast left my cup undrugged."

Never was look more mournful — more imploring
than that which Urraca fixed upon the slave. It plainly
solicited that she might be deceived. But the woman
would not understand the meaning, though she truly felt
the wo which that glance conveyed.

44 Alas ! my lady, what I have to tell — "

44 Is truth, thou suyst."

44 It is — it is, my lady."

44 Go on — I hear thee," said Urraca, coldly, with a
composure as extreme as her former passion was in-
tense. She arose as she spoke this command, and
walked to and fro along the floor, while Zitta proceeded
to unfold the narrative of her long connexion with Amri,
and the various meditated plans of criminality and prac-
tices of improper indulgence which had been carried on
between them.

143 PELAYO.

IV.

THE freed slave had now no secrets from her mis-
tress. She unveiled her bosom freely to the exami-
nation of Urraca. She told of a long and criminal inti-
macy with Amti, and with a closeness and coherence
in the several parts of her narrative — with statements of
circumstances so well mixed up with other circumstan-
ces which Urraca knew to be true, that the unhappy
woman could no longer withhold her credence, or doubt
the truth of what she heard. She listened in gloomy
recklessness, walking about during the narration,
sometimes interrupting it with a word of inquiry or ex-
clamation, but generally receiving the several particulars
in silence, and with an ear that lost not the smallest, por-
tion of what was uttered. When the slave had finished,
having brought up her relation to the events which had
taken place in her last interview with Amri, Urraca
paused before her.

" And thou hast told me nothing but the truth, Zitta I9
she demanded of the slave.
" Only the truth, my lady."
" Thou hast guessed at nothing in thy story 1"
" Nothing, my lady."

" And thou believest, Zitta, that the packet which is
in my hand contains a deadly poison 1"
" Amri said so, my lady."

" And bade thee, in ivords, to drug my cup with it,
that I might perish ?"

** He did, my lady, in words — I do not err !"

"Be sure of what thou sayst, Zitta," .said Uiraca,

gently, but solemnly. " As thou hopest for life, for

peace, for happiness — as thou dreadest eternal torture —

the hate of men — the scorn of angels — the wrath of

PELAYO. 143

God — say nothing by apprehension and conjecture —
say nothing but what thou knowest to be the truth."

" 1 have told thee nothing but the truth, my lady, as
I hope for the mercy of Heaven !" repeated the woman.

" And I believe thee !" exclaimed tlrraca, with a long
and difficult breath ; " I believe thee ; but rather than
this — " putting her hand upon her throbbing temples —
" rather than this pang which I now suffer, Zitta, I would
that thou hadst drugged my cup in silence. Better to
have perished in the dream — the sweet dream of a re-
quited love — than live in its utter hopelessness, and live
only for hate ;" and Urraca buried her face in her hands
as she spoke these words, and threw herself again upon
the couch.

" Alas ! my lady, I am sorry for thee," replied the
woman, as she beheld the anguish of her mistress ; but
the sympathy was unwisely proffered to a spirit which,
though severely tried, was still far from subdued to res-
ignation.

** Sorry ! sorry for me, Zitta," said Urraca, scorn-
fully, rising again from the couch, and looking upon the
slave, her face now freed from the hands which covered
it, and her eyes flashing with new fire upon the woman,
while a smile of contempt passed over her lips ; " thou
errest, Zitta — thou shouldst not be sorry. Go — leave
me now. I will but think a while, and then call thee to
my help."

V.

" BUT one lone hope was left to me through all !" was
the exclamation of sorrow that burst from the lips of the
unhappy woman as the slave left the apartment. «* But
one ! but one — and that is gone for ever !"

The tears gushed forth freely from her eyes, and
poured unrestrainedly down her cheeks. They brought

144 PELAYO.

her relief, and softened the mood which might else have
maddened her.

" To be deceived by him, and so deceited ! My
life, too, would he have ! 'Twas not enough that I would
give him all, and live for him, and serve his will alone !
Monstrous — oh monstrous falsehood ! — and I so loved
him, so lived for him, and so believed him, too — to meet
with such return ! But I will conquer yet ; he shall not
escape me. I will have vengeance on him. He shall
die — ay, die, by his own device !"

She paused with these words, then sank down upon
a chair in deep meditation. Her thoughts seemed to
take a new direction, and, though evidently still intense,
and concentrated entirely upon some one leading pur-
pose of her mind, they had the effect of dissipating and
quieting her frequent paroxysms, and of leaving her in-
finitely more sedate than usual. At length she arose,
and proceeded to the arrangement of her toilet. The
fatal potion she placed upon a table, having first, with
some curiosity, unfolded the paper which contained it,
and surveyed, with unshrinking countenance, the deadly
drug. It was a fine powder, of a dark white or bluish
complexion, and the quantity was exceeding small.
She soliloquized as she surveyed the destructive min-
ister :

" And this is death ! This ! How innocent his shape !
Can this usurp the power that fills my heart, and take
the fire and feeling from mine eye — the glow that warms
my cheek — the hues that shade, and all the thousand
tints and touches of the fa^e that make up human beauty ?
Can it be ? 'Tis wonderful ! — 'tis strange !"

She turned away shudderingly from the powder and
the mirror, upon both of which, while thus soliloquizing,
her eye had alternately and involuntarily been directed.
Moving to the corner of the chamber, she struck the
gong with a single blow, and the now obedient Zitta
made her appearance in the succeeding instant.

PELAVO. 145

w Help me once more to put these robes on, Zitta,
Your term of service will soon be over — but three days
— and you will then be free of this duty, and subject to
no summons of mine, my girl."

** You are too good, my lady," said the now docile
slave.

" Would I were, Zitta."

" Oh* you are, my lady. I care not now to leave
you."

" But you must ! Your mother— the poor woman —
she will want you. I will not need you long."

" What mean you, my dear lady ?"

« HOW r

" Why do you say that you will not need me long ?"

" What should I do with thee in Guadarrama ?" said
Urraca, gayly, but evasively. "Thinkest thou I will
give so much heed to my attire among the mountains,
and the wild, skin-clothed peasantry that dwell there, as
I was fain to do here in Cordova, with the gallant young
nobles of the Goth coming around me ? No, no, my
girl ; I'll be a peasant there, and clothe me like the rest.
This mirror shall be thine, Zitta- — thou shalt have these
jewels — there — set them in thine ears, and round thy
neck — set them, I say."

" But, my dear lady — " expostulated the girl.

" Do as I bid thee, girl — thou art not free yet. Put
on the jewels — let me see them on thee."

With fear, trembling, aijd surprise at/the strange mix-
ture of earnestness and frivolity which seemed to oper-
ate upon her mistress, the slave did as she was bidden,
and, pushing her away tor a Tittle distance, Urraca con-
templated her for some moments with a pleased expres-
sion of countenance.

" I knew they would become thee — thou shalt wear
them ; but not now, Zitta. Thou shalt have them for
thyself three days hence, when thou art leaving me. I
must once more adorn me with them, and take one

VOL. II.— N

146 PELAYO

more view of all the charms and glories which hereto-
fore have gladdened my vain heart, that I may make the
greater sacrifice to Heaven when I throw aside such
vanities for ever. To-night, Zitta, thou knowest I feast
Edacer ; Amri will be here also — he ! — dost hear me,
Zitta r

" Hear thee, my lady ?"

" Ay ; I tell thee of my company — Amri comes
here to-night."

" He does, my lady ?"

" He does ! and hark thee, Zitta — I have a doubt —
a thought — it is a blessed thought ! — a sweetest doubt !
May it not be, my girl, that thou hast erred in thy story
to me ? — that thou hast dreamed something unseemly of
Amri, and, with thy dream to prompt thee, thou hast
vainly imagined all the rest T'

" Alas ! my lady, would it were so ; but I have not
dreamed — if so, whence comes the poison ?"

The slave pointed to the packet, which lay unfolded
upon the toilet, and the eyes of Urraca mournfully fol-
lowed the direction given by her finger.

" True — true — true !" she responded, with the hollow
accents of one from whom the last hope has been un-
gently taken away.

" True, most true !" She folded up the drug as she
spoke, and a painful silence filled the chamber for some
moments afterward. By this time Zitta had fully array-
ed her mistress, and stood in waiting for her farther
commands. Urraca beckoned her to come 'nigh.

" Zitta — " she said, IHW whisper.

" My lady."

" Hear me — I doubt thee not, but I would prove the
truth of what thou hast told me ! Amri comes here to-
night. Thou shalt see him ! Dost hear me ?"

" I do, my lady."

" He will seek thee, I doubt not, if what thou hast
said to me be true — he will seek thee to ask of thee — "

PELAYO. 147

she paused before she concluded the sentence, and a
dreadful shudder passed over her frame — " to ask of
thee why it is that I live !"

" He will, I think, my lady."

« What wilt thou say to him V9

" That the opportunity has failed me."

" Good ; I was not well — hark thee — and drank of
no wine to-day. I will refuse all drink while the day
lasts, that thou mayst no* speak a falsehood in thus
saying. What then ? Thou wilt promise him on the
morrow to be more urgent with me. Thou wilt promise
a better answer on the morrow — or the morrow after
that V

" Yes, my lady."

" Where will he seek thee ? where was it his wont
to seek thee V9

" In my chamber, my lady."

" Ha — ha ! and from my chamber, Zitta, 'twas his
wont to go to thine," said Urraca, laughing wildly, and
putting her finger on the girl's shoulder as she spoke.

The slave hung down her head in shame, and made
no answer to the remark. The gloom came back to
Urraca's features, and the smile passed away as she
continued thus :

«* Well, well, it matters not now, my Zitta ; the
wretch has wronged us both to our shame — if thou hast
spoken truly. But, of this, nothing ! I will also seek
thee in thy chamber. Thou shalt conceal me there be-
fore the feast be ended, for Ijfvill retire in sickness from
Edacer, and leave Amri witPhim. There let him seek
thee, and I will hear his speech ; and if thou hast said
truly, Zitta— if he speak in support of thy story — if — "

" Wrhat, my dear lady ?"

" Nothing ! nothing now ! Go to thy offices ! Let
the wines be set — let the supper-room be got in readi-
ness. Spare no pains — no splendour. Outbrave, out-
b.laze all our former lustres — it is, you know, the Gov-

148 PELAYO.

crnor of Cordova that feasts with us to-night f — tis nol
Edacer — the poor, dissolute Lord Edacer, but the fa-
vourite of King Roderick that comes ; and Amri — our
Amri, you know — comes with him. Have the wines
set ; get ices from Tarracon, and spare no cost for
meats. Amri loves fish — spare nothing to procure
them. Get oysters, the fresh-brought from Africa. Pro-
vide against all stint — against all strait. 'Twill vex me
'gainst your wishes, Zitta, if these lords call for aughfc
we may not give them. Away 1"

VI.

THAT night Urraca was in the highest spirits. She
never looked so beautiful — she never was more witty or
more eloquent before. She had attired her person with
the nicest and most elaborate care ; she had exercised
her mind, anil drilled her thoughts, now made obedient
and docile as the humblest slave's, by the intense will
which she had brought to bear upon them ; and her ut-
terance was clear, unimpeded, and musical, and her
fancy flashed out like a star, which some hidden minister
is continually replenishing with light from an exhaustless
fountain. She was gay and elastic almost to extremity,
but there was a sarcastic seornfulness sometimes in the
glance of her eye, and a tone of bitterness in the utter-
ance of her tongue, which, while they added to the in-
tensity of her grace and eloquence, were not always in-
nocuous in the estimation of her guests. Much did they
wonder at her improved loveliness ; and even the volup-
tuous and gross Edacer, to whom, hitherto, the charms
and enticements of animal passions alone had proved
wooing and attractive, began to awaken, under the ex-
eiting influence of her mind, into a partial consciousness
of his own ; while Amri, who did not, however, abate a
single purpose, hitherto entertained, of crime against her>

PELAYO. 149

could not help admiring the mental resources and the
graceful spirit of that person whom he had learned to
fear, if not to hate, and had determined to destroy.

Nor was it the feast of intellect and female spirit and
vivacity alone which Urraca employed to give pleasure
to her guests. The table was sumptuously spread with
every luxury which could be found in Cordova. The
tastes and appetites which had been transmitted to the
coarser Goths by the voluptuous people of Byzantium,
and which had enervated them in due course of time, as
they had done the nations from which they came, had
been studiously exercised in procuring the various viands
which loaded the table of Urraca. Every refinement of
Greek effeminacy and Roman licentiousness was there ;
and the dulled appetite, surveying the crowded board,
would not long want the necessary provocation to sharp
improvement and free exercise.

Edacer surveyed the table with a complacency which
prompted him to speech, but with a delighted surprise
which, for some moments, kept him silent.

" Truly, Urraca," he exclaimed, at length, " thou hast
gone beyond thy former self — thou hast surpassed all thy
own frequent extravagances heretofore, and hast given
a fitting climax to thy feasts of delightful memory in
seasons overpassed. What new triumph hast thou made
to prompt thee to all this1? What conquest over a thought-
less noble, fresh come from Toledo, with full purse and
empty mind — good treasury, but heedless treasurer?
Say, Urraca, and speak quickly, for great is my amaze."

It was in such language as this that the coarsely-mind-
ed Edacer uttered himself in inquiry respecting the
sumptuous supper which he saw spread before him.
Yet the smile was playful and unresentful which accom-
panied the reply of Urraca.

" Be no longer amazed, my Lord Edacer, nor longer
affect ignorance as to the occasion of my present excess.
Well hast thou called this the climax to my excesses of
N 2

150 FELAYO.

the past. It is the climax ; and what fitter occasion
could I choose for such climax than the entertainment
of the new Lord of Cordova. Is it not enough that I
would do thee honour, my Lord Edacer ? The supper
is provided for thee."

" Thanks, Urraca — many thanks. Thou hast proved
to me that I am valued by thee beyond my own previous
estimation. Thou hast flattered me beyond my thought.
I shall grow vain after this."

•* Grow, indeed, my lord ! wherefore ? you are al-
ready of sufficient height. To change would be to risk
a loss, and thy shadow, now, more than covers one half
the walls of my chamber."

The dull Goth looked round upon the walls as she
uttered these words, and seemed to find pleasure in the
discovery that, in a physical point of view, Urraca had
only spoken the truth. The latent meaning of his mis-
tress was visible to the acuter mind of the Hebrew, who
smiled significantly to Urraca, catching her eye, as he
did so, fixed curiously upon him. As one who had been
detected in a secret watch, she turned away quickly as
the glance of Amri met her own, and spoke in a low
voice to a servant who stood in waiting. By this time
Edacer had turned from the survey of his own cumbrous
person, and addressed Urraca again in compliment to a
splendid cluster of polished steel-reflecting mirrors, that
gave a burning light upon the opposite wall.

" These are new to me, Urraca — have they, too, been
procured to do honour on this occasion to your guests 1n

"They came but to-day from Toledo, my Lord
Edacer, and were procured for the occasion."

" Truly, thou hast spared nothing, Urraca ; I must
chide thee for thy improvidence, though it pleases me
to behold it."

•* Nay* do not chide, my lord — I will bribe thee to in-
dulgence, for I will send the lustres to thy palace on the
morrow, as a gift from Urraca to Cordova's governor."

PELAYO. 151

"Wilt thou?" exclaimed the selfish and delighted
Goth. " Wilt thou indeed bestow them on me ?"

" Thou shall have them," replied Urraca, calmly and
indifferently.

" But they are fitted — they seem almost necessary to
thy walls, Urraca — the spot will seem bare and cold if
thou remove them. I fear me thou dost unwisely to rob
thyself in this disposition of the lustres. I shall not
soon be able to requite thee for so rich a boon."

" I ask for no requital beyond thy graces, my Lord
Edacer ; and, for the walls, I care not how bald they
seem to others — to me they will be nothing ere long ;
they will not often challenge my sight after the lustres
are gone !"

The Goth turned upon her with an inquiring look,
and, after a brief pause, she continued —

" You have yet to know, my Lord Edacer, that I have
another reason for making this feast the climax of my
excesses — that which is to exceed them all, and throw
all of the preceding into shadow. It is the last feast
which I make in Cordova — it is the farewell which I
make at parting from it, my lord, and leaving it for
ever."

The governor was astounded. He replied, breath-
lessly— " At parting from Cordova — at leaving Cordova
for ever. Speak ! how ! what mean you, Urraca?"

" What ! hast thou not heard 1 has not Amri told
thee ?"

The eyes of the Hebrew sought those of Urraca, and
their expression was clearly that of expostulation and
entreaty. She paused — her resolve to declare the truth,
so far as the removal of Amri and herself from Cordova
had been determined upon, was abridged in compliance
with the evident wish for forbearance which was shown
in the face of the former ; and she proceeded only to a
partial development of her intention and the truth.

" In three days, my lord, I leave Cordova for my old

152 PELAYO.

home — my father's home — among the mountains of
Guadarrama. I retire from the city for ever."

" Ha ! — but with whom ? Thou goest not alone, I
know. With whom dost thou fly ? Thou hast not told
me that."

" Nor will I, my lord, until I send thee the lustres.
It is a little secret now, but — "

" Is he rich ? is he noble ? Tell me that, Urraca, or
I will not let thee go. As Governor of Cordova, I will
arrest thee as one suspected of treason to the king, and
will imprison thee in my own palace till I have thy se-
cret."

" Thou shalt not have need to give thyself such un-
worthy trouble, my lord, for I will tell thee freely what
thou desirest to know. He with whom I fly from Cor-
dova is rich as any Jew in Cordova, and, after the fash-
ion of the time, as noble as any Goth. That is my
thought of him, at least, my lord."

" Beware, Urraca — beware that he does not deceive
thee. Be sure of him ere thou confidest, or bitterly wilt
thou weep thy confidence. There are few of our Gothic
nobles in Cordova that have much wealth, and not one
of them who would not lie freely to thee for thine.
Take the truth and my good counsel in payment for thy
lustres."

" What ! dost thou think them all so evil, my lord ?
Is not one reserved from thy suspicion 1" demanded
Urraca.

" Not one ! they are all alike ! Evil is their good,
Urraca. A virtuous Goth is always sure either to be
too poor for indulgence, or too great a fool to be knavish,
and help himself to the wealth of others. I know thee
too well to think that thou couldst regard the fool with a
favourable thought ; and if thou takest up with the other,
I look to see thee back in Cordova after a little month
of absence, in which he will have stripped thee of all thy
wealth, and beaten thee half to death in charity."

PELAYO. 153

•• Verily, my lord, the Goth has need to thank thee."

« Ha— ha — ha !" exclaimed Edacer — " think not I
do them wrong, Urraca ! By my faith, not so. Nor
would they chafe to hear me speak of them in this fash-
ion. 'Tis their own boast, Urraca. 'Tis no shame to
do dishonour here in Cordova, save with the vulgar and
poor citizens. We laugh at shame, and with a fearless
front we brave the exposure which the coward shrinks
from. Having the power, we make the principles ; and
that which fools call virtue, we call shame, by virtue of
this power !"

" A goodly power," said Urraca.

" Of a truth it is — there were no freedom else."

" But wherefore keep the church — maintain the priest
— dress the high altar — make the sacrifice — and clothe
in state the solemn ceremonial 1 Wherefore all these ?
They do abridge the license which you love, and stop
your way to freedom."

" Not with us, Urraca. The church is of our side
—one of our arms, by which we keep the animal man,
who might grow troublesome, in wholesome order. It
teaches him judicious fears of something which he knows
not, and so fears. 'Tis a dull blind we set up by the
wayside, and, in proportion as our virtue stales, we ever-
more put out some shows of it ; for as we all know that
the shadow points some form from which it springs, so
do we toil, building the shadows of a thousand forms,
which all seem goo<j. We thus avoid their substance."

** That is wisdom — is it ?" said Urraca, musingly* in
reply to the Goth, who had not only described the con-
dition of his own time and people, but of other times
and other nations, before and after. There was little
more of this spoken between them, and the conversa-
tion was soon diverted to other subjects of a differ-
ent and less general character. Much merriment suc-
ceeded— the guests drank freely, and Urraca strove, and
strove successfully, to show a pleasant countenance and

154 PELAYO.

a cheerful spirit throughout the feast, even to its conclu-
sion. But her heart toiled dreadfully in this endeavour,
and her thoughts were ill at ease. Her mind at length
began to weary of the unusual restraints which she had
set upon it, and she felt the necessity of retiring soon,
in order to put her plan in execution. Pleading exhaus-
tion, therefore, and a sudden indisposition, she retired
from the apartment, having first signified to Amri, in a
whisper, that she expected him on the ensuing evening.
This was said in a manner too peremptory to be evaded,
and he readily gave her the required promise to attend.

VII.

URRACA immediately retired, first to her own, and
then, by a secret passage, to the chamber of Zitta, who
was there in readiness, awaiting her. Carefully con-
cealing herself in a closet, she impatiently waited for
the coming of Amri. Nor had she long to wait. Be-
fore his departure he came, as had long been his cus-
tom previously, to the chamber of the slave, with whom
he was now more than ever anxious for an opportunity
of speech. Urraca soon had damning confirmation of
all that Zitta had informed her, and £f sufficient over-
throw of her own hopeful doubts in the cruel words
which her ears were now compelled most painfully to
hear, from the lips of one to whom all her hopes had
been too readily confided.

" Thou art slow, Zitta," he said, impatiently. " Hast
thou no desire for thy freedom ?"

" Canst thou ask, Amri ? I long for my liberty even
as the caged bird for the sweet air and the wide forests."

" Wherefore does she live, then ? I know that thou
couldst not have given her the drug, for it is fatal.
Never yet, when it once found its way into the human
frame, has it been known to fail. Thou hast not given
it to Urraca — she lives — she has not been affected?" -^

PELAyO. 155

•* I have not yet prepared it, Amri, for she has re-
fused her cup since I had the poison from thee."

" Ha ! Why has she refused 1 Does she doubt ?
does she suspect thee 1"

" No ! but all the day she has been sick, and she de-
sired not wine, nor took it from any hands. I proffered
it to her at morning, as was my custom^ and she then
declined it."

'* Yet was she free to take wine to-night : and never,
for a while, did her spirits seem more gay, or her looks
more lovely."

" Yes — she grew well as the evening came on," re-
plied Zitta.

" Thou must be better advised against the morrow ;
and, hear me, it is not needful that wine be employed —
thou shalt mix the drug with the bread, with the soup,
with whatsoever her appetite may crave whose colour
may disguise it from her sight. Thou must give it her
to-morrow, Zitta, if thou canst — let there be no delay.
Fear nothing. When it is done, thou art free, and I
will myself take thee to Merida."

" It shall be done, Amri," was the assurance of the
slave, " if she be not again unmindful of the cup or of
food. She retired .for the night, and her pulse was fe-
vered, and she complained much of vexing indisposi-
tion. But 'twill pass away, I doubt not, with her sleep."

" Do what thou canst, Zitta — if thou canst not to-
morrow, let not the third day pass upon thy unperform-
ance. Much depends on thy speedy work in this."

" It does — I know it does, Amri. Hold it done ere
the third day. I promise thee it shall."

" It is well ! I trust to thy assurances, Zitta. I will
come to-morrow night as she commanded me, but I
hope not to find her all-powerful to command either
thee or me again. Remember, Zitta — thy fieedom and
mine thou hast in keeping ! It is in thy strength, thy
courage, thy skill, thy firm resolve for the good which

156 PELAYO.

thou hast promised, and for the performance which thou
hast sworn to do, that thy hope, not less than mine, is
warm and apprehensive — it is upon the.se that I rely !
Let not thy heart fail thee, as thou hopest for its future
joy — and be thy hand strengthened to the task, as thou
wouldst lift it from the shackles of the slave. Thou
hast no hope but in this, for she is stubborn against thy
prayer and mine."

Again she promised him ; and, satisfied that she
would not fail during the day following to execute suc-
cessfully the dreadful commission which he had assign-
ed her, he hurried away for the night. Zitta immediate-
ly ran to the closet where Urraca lay concealed, and in
which she had distinctly heard the whole conversation.

** Give me thy arm, Zitta," said Urraca, " and help
me to seek my chamber."

The woman did as she was commanded, and assisted
her mistress, who seemed no longer to possess the ne-
cessary powers of life, to her apartment, whence Urraca
soon dismissed her, preferring at that time to be alone
with her own sad thoughts and solemn meditations.

VIII.

WHEN, on the ensuing morning, the attendant Zitta
sought the chamber of her mistress, she was already
risen and dressed. At the first glance the slave was
sure that she had not slept during the night ; but this
conjecture was immediately dismissed from her mind as
she beheld the unruffled composure of her countenance.
It was indeed grave and sad, but there 'was no visible
emotion — no proof of unschooled, unsubdued, or irre-
pressible feeling such as she had looked to see, and no
single trace of that feverish grief which cannot have ex-
ercise without leaving its visible impress upon the hag-
gard cheek and the drooping and desponding eye. She

PELAYO. 157

little knew how to judge of that sorrow which passeth
show — which disdains and dreads all ostentation. Yet
was the slave right in the first conjecture which she had
so suddenly dismissed. Urraca had not slept — the
whole night had been passed in thought — in that intense,
self-searching, but not self-satisfying thought, which pro-
duces humiliation if it does not prompt to prayer. That
humiliation had brought her strength — strength enough
for resignation, if not for right. The crisis of her fate
was passed, and she was now calm ! Her resolve was
taken, and she had prepared to die ! She had nothing
now to live for. She was not sufficiently the Christian
to live for repentance, and she had been too narrowly
selfish in her devotion to a single object to live for hope.
She lacked the necessary resources of life — and having
too fondly trusted her fortune to one pilot, in his false-
hood she had lost every thing — she was herself lost.

The nature of Zitta was too humble, and her own
sensibilities too coarse to enable her to conjecture the
mental self-abandonment of her mistress. She saw no-
thing but composure in the seeming calm of her coun-
tenance. Alas ! it was the composure which comes
from despair, like that which follows the storm, and
which, though it speaks only of its own exhaustion, is
not less significant of its former violence. But under
that treacherous surface, with all its treasures and its
precious freight, lie the wrecks and ruins of the goodly
ship. It was thus in the mind, as upon the face of Ur-
raca. There was all the delusive calm, the treacherous
quiet of composure, which, when the hurricane has gone
6y, overspreads the face and extends even to the bosom
of the insidious sea. The storm was overblown, but
the hope with which she had been crowned and charter-
ed, like some rich jewel, had been swept from sight while
it lasted, leaving her destitute — too destitute and too de-
spairing even for complaint.

She had no complaint — she uttered no sigh — no word
VOL. II.— 0

15B PELAYO.

of sorrow in the ear of her attendant. All was calm-
ness and self-reliance. All her accents were gentleness,
and all her looks were peace. Yet she gave herself no
time for repose — indeed, she dared not — she seemed
resolute to hurry through her crowding toils at once, in
order that she might secure the long slumber which she
desired undisturbed. After a slight refreshment, even
more slight than usual, she commanded the attendant*
hastily to perform their several duties, while she de-
spatched Zitta for the proper officer through whom the
emancipation of the slave was to be effected. This
duty was soon performed, but as yet she held the parch-
ment.

" Until to-morrow, Zitta, it must content thee to re-
main with me. Thou wilt serve me until then ? I shall
not need thee much longer."

Zitta professed her willingness to abide the commands
of her mistress with all the warmth and alacrity of one
who has just received so considerable a boon.

44 1 have much meanwhile for you to do," said Urraca.
" These lustres, you will instantly send them to the Lord
Edacer. I promised him last night that they should be
his."

. " And greatly did it delight his mean soul, my lady,
that you did so," exclaimed Zitta.

44 Perhaps !" said Urraca, " perhaps ! I am glad that
I may so easily delight him. He is fortunate indeed if
his soul can very highly esteem a thing of such slight
worth and poor attraction."

"Oh, my lady, I wonder that you can think so meanly
of that which is so beautiful. Sure I am there's no-
thing like it in all Cordova, and the cost — "

Urraca gently interrupted her : " Alas ! my poor girl,
thy error is a sad, but a much too common one for note.
Thou wilt find, when thou hast more experience of thy,
freedom, that few things possess a real value in the es-
timation of the heart which wealth may purchase or flat-

PELAYO. 159

tery procure. Nothing is worth but the true, unyielding
affections — nothing is lastingly secure but truth — no-
thing always beautiful but that which is always good.
Send the lustres to the Lord Edacer ; and let it be said
to him that they come to him from Urraca, with the
single wish that he may soon learn to esteem them as I
do who give them."

" And tha't is nothing," said Zitta.

" True," replied Urraca, " but that need not be said
to him. Despatch them straight, for I have other offices
for thee to execute."

The lustres were soon despatched to the greedy Goth,
who received them with a loud delight ; and the slave,
bringing back his thankful acknowledgments, again stood
in the presence of the mistress, awaiting her commands.
These were few and soon executed.

" Here is money, and there are some jewels in this
casket, Zitta, for thyself. The money will serve thy
own and the wants of thy mother for a season. The
jewels — thou wilt wear them for thy mistress, and think
of he&when thou dost so. In thy want — shouldst thou
suffer want at any time to come, which I pray thou
inayst not — they will provide thee, for their value is great
among men. Take them — they are now thine. I will
not need them again."

" Oh, my lady — I deserve them not at thy hands.
Thou hast already given me but too much — thou hast
been lavish upon me against reason."

" Not so !" said Urraca ; " I give thee a great trust
and a heavy burden when I bestow thy freedom upon
thee, and I should not fix upon thee this burden unless I
provide thee with the ability to bear it. Thou wilt find
that with thy freedom will come new wants and wishes,
which did not belong to the condition of the slave — new
responsibilities will press upon thee, and in thy sickness
or destitution thou wilt know that some difference lies
between the slave whom a watchful interest beyond his

160 PELAYO.

own must provide for, and him who can only compel at-
tention to his need in proportion to his wealth and sub-
stance. Thou wilt need all the money which I give
thce, and more that I may not give thee — the wisdom
from Heaven to guide and direct thee aright in a new
state and progress to which thou hast not been accus-
tomed, and for which thy education has not prepared
thee. Pray that thou mayst soon learn to shape thy
feelings and thy thoughts to thy new condition, else wo
will fall upon thee and upon those around thee. To
have thoughts and desires which are unbecoming thy
place is wrong — he whose mind is below his condition
must be a tyrant, and he whose mind is above it — he
only is the slave."

With such good counsel as this, bestowed without au-
thority, and with a simple and persuasive grace, which
was as strange in the sight of the slave as it was new-
born in the bosom of the mistress, Urraca continued to
direct, and counsel, and employ her. In this manner
she despatched her to bestow sundry presents of money
and of goods upon the various attendants of the house-
hold, all of whom she instructed her to dismiss on the
ensuing morning. This done, she gave special direc-
tions to Zitta for the preparation of a chamber in an up-
per story which had long been disused. The order
awakened some surprise and suspicion in the mind of
the hearer.

" Why, my lady — it is so cold and damp, that cham-
ber— and so gloomy too — with but a single window that
lies free to the street, and all the rest choked from light
by the high houses around. WThy wouldst thou employ
that chambfer ?"

" Is it thy new freedom, Zitta, that thus provokes thee
to question my desire 1" responded Urraca, firmly, but
still mildly and with softness.

" Oh, no, my lady."

** Let the chamber be got in readiness, Zitta, as I bid

'

PELAYO. 161

thee. It is because it is cold and lonesome that I would
employ it. But let it be so prepared that it shall not
seem cold or lonesome. Transfer to the walls and to
the couch the rich hangings of this chamber ; close all
its windows, and see that many lights are there to sup-
ply what else it might seem to lack of cheering and gay
character. When thou hast done this, let a table be
spread with fruits within it — and the wine — fill me a rich
vase of silver with wine, and place it in readiness amid
the fruits — but one vase, Zitta — one will suffice," she
murmured, as the slave disappeared — *• one will suffice
for Amri and me !"

IX.

LET us return for a brief moment to Amri. That
day he condescended to visit his father, whom he still
maintained within the dungeon to which he*had been
himself consigned. He carried him a sufficient supply
of food, but spoke nothing of his release. The old
man simply looked up to the opening above the door,
through which the youth let down the provisions in a
small basket by the use of a string, but he said nothing
to him either in the way of solicitation or complaint.
This taciturnity irritated the youth, who addressed him
somewhat tauntingly with certain inquiries touching his
captivity — demanding to know upon what terms he
would be willing to procure his release. To all of
which the old man deigned him nothing in answer ; but,
with clasped hands, he murmured his repeated prayer
to Heaven, imploring protection from the Most High,
and preferring once more the terrible imprecation which
the ears of Amri had already heard, but which now, un-
happily, went by them unheeded. Secure, as he es-
teemed himself, in his triumphant position, he permitted
himself to speak harsh words to his father in return.
02

162 PELAYO.

His heart was hardened within him, and he had no
fears of overthrow. Confident of Edacer's success
with Melchior, and of his own with the lovely daughter
of the outlaw, he was too buoyant in hope at this mo-
ment either to fear the wrath of Heaven, or to heed the
curse which his father had invoked upon his head. He
bade the old man a scornful defiance, and departed un-
graciously from his presence* To Mahlon, however,
he gave directions for his release on the ensuing morn-
ing, when he imagined that his projects would be fully
executed, and the events fairly over from which he hoped
to derive so much.

" On the morrow, Mahlon," said he, " thou shalt re-
lease Adoniakin — not before. And, hear me — thou shalt
not give entrance through the day to any who may seek
him. Say that he is gone forth to those who ask for
him — he is gone forth on pressing occasion, and will not
return till the night. To-morrow we shall neither of us
care whether his mood be pleasant or angry. For thy-
self, Mahlon, here is the money thou hast demanded —
there is more for thee to-morrow when I return, if thou
hast iruly done as I bid thee."

That day the plans of Amri were perfected with
Edacer — the latter had portioned out his men for the
investment, of the Cave of Wamba, while the former had
received from his hands the desired authority in writing,
by which, in the name of the king, he should obtain ac-
cess into the Dwelling of the Hebrew Samuel, or any
other dwelling in the Hebrew Quarter where the maiden
Thyrza might be concealed. Nor was he altogether
content to await the hour of midnight, which he had
himself set aside for the proposed search, when the
probabilities were so much the greater of finding her in
the dwelling ; but, attended by one of the officers who
had been allotted to him by Edacer, he prowled in a
partial disguise around the neighbourhood in which the
Hebrew Samuel had his abode, and cautiously pointed

PELAYO. 163

out to the soldier the place where they should enter.
His disguise, however, was not equal to his perfect se-
curity from detection, and quick eyes were as watchful
to save the maiden and her sire as his who strove for
their undoing. Elate and satisfied that the hour of his
triumph was at hand, he retired to the palace of Edacer,
with whom he had a farther conference on the subject
of their common pursuits ; and towards nightfall, with
beating heart and impatient spirit, Amri proceeded to
the dwelling of Urraca, anxious to gain the intelligence
which he so much wished for, that she could no longer
be to him an object of fear, as she was no longer an ob-
ject of desire. In this hope, however, he was destined
to be disappointed. The deadly work had not yet been
done ; and, cunningly advised, Zitta framed a story
which satisfied him to await patiently for the events of
the following day. A brief time only was allowed him
for interview with the slave, ere he found it necessary
to ascend to the upper apartment in search of her de-
voted mistress.

X.

A SEVERER trial was at hand for the Hebrew than
any through which he had ever passed before. He was
conscious that Urraca expected from him a speedy re-
solve to fly with her to Guadarrama, as he had already
promised ; and he was only solicitous how best to frame
his promises so as to satisfy and meet her present ex-
actions. Relying on the execution by Zitla of the
crime to which she had pledged herself, he had no hes-
itation in this matter; and he had resolved to promise
freely to his mistress for the future, assured that, ere he
could be called upon for the fulfilment of his pledges,
the lips which had exacted them would have lost all
power of reproach. His misfortune was, as it is the

164 PELAYO.

misfortune too commonly of the young and partially en-
dowed, to be too readily satisfied with his own powers
of persuasion. His vanity misled him into a self-confi-
dence which the circumstances did not justify. But
we shall see in the sequel. That same day, and to-
wards evening, when the coming of Amri was hourly
looked for, the resolve of Urraca began to assume a
more distinct and unequivocal aspect. The chamber
had been prepared by Zitta agreeably to the directions
of her mistress. To this chamber, which was high and
remote from the other apartments, the drapery and dec-
orations belonging to that which she had formerly oc-
cupied had been carefully transferred. The table had
been spread sumptuously with fruits, cates, and many
delicacies brought freshly from the East ; and in the
centre, as she had specially directed, a beautiful foun-
tain-urn of the purest silver was elevated, containing a
full measure of the choicest wine. Brilliantly lighted,
and in every respect ready and complete, the slave
called upon her mistress to survey and to approve her
work. She did approve of it, and a smile of bitter
satisfaction overspread her countenance as she spoke.

" II is well done, Zitta — thou hast omitted nothing —
it is fitly designed for those who shall enjoy it. Leave
me now, Zitta — leave me, and give fit reception when
Amri cometh. Deny me to all other persons, and seek
me no more thyself to-night."

" Should the Lord Edacer come, my lady, he may
seek you to thank you for the lustres ?"

" I can spare his thanks — I can understand them un-
spoken. He cannot see me — I am sick to all but
Amri ; and, Zitta — " The slave returned. There was
a pause before her mistress again spoke. Zitta advanced
a pace inquiringly, and Urraca whispered her thus :

" It may be thou wilt hear noises to-night from my
chamber — heed them not — hear them not !"

PELAYO. 165

•• Oh, my lady — what mean you ?" cried the slave,
beseechingly.

" What matters it to thee, Zitta ? thou art free now."

" But not happy, my lady, to see you thus," replied
the slave.

" Hear me, and be assured. What I do, I do for
my happiness, under the guidance of the only thought
which can promise me the peace I seek. I am not
wild, Zitta, but what I do and contemplate is done and
considered with a deliberate mind, ungoverned by any
passionate mood, such as has but too frequently misled
me into error. Obey me — leave me now ; and — hear
me — whatever cry thou hearest coming from my cham-
ber, whether of my voice or Amri, give it no heed- —
stir not to inquire — suffer no one, not even thyself, to
approach. Think only, and rejoice as thou thinkest,
at such moments, that thou art now free ! It may be that,
even with thy thought, I too shall be free, though after a
dhTe.rent fashion. Leave me !"

" But may I not come, my lady — must I not, if thou
shouldst call or cry out?" demanded the slave.

" No — not even Jf I cry out shall thou come," was
the stern reply.

The slave, immersed in tears, would have lingered ;
but, gently leading her to the door of the chamber, Ur-
raca pushed her from the entrance and carefully fastened
it behind her. Wrhen she had gone, and her steps were
no longer heard, Urraca carefully inspected all the win-
dows, and saw that, in compliance with commands pre-
viously given, they were fastened beyond the strength of
any one man, without fitting instruments, to unclose.
This done, she approached the table, and drawing the
packet of poison from her vest, emptied its contents into
the vase teeming with wine, and then carefully destroyed
the parchment which contained it. She had now little
more to do than to await the arrival of Amri — or, we may
rather say, her fate. Her resolve was taken, and her

166 PELAYO.

nature was of that impetuous and decisive character that
we may regard her determination as unalterable. This
was evident in the coolness which had marked all her
proceedings, her careful consideration of every subject
in her household, however minute or unimportant, which
might seem to challenge her attention, and the temperate
and subdued demeanour with which she had dismissed
and favoured her domestics. Lifting the curtain of her
privacy a moment before the appearance of Amri, we
behold her in an attitude, to her one of the most un-
wonted, but, at the same time, of the most essential hu-
miliation. Upon her knees she strives earnestly, but
oh ! how hopelessly, to pray for that mercy which she
must forfeit for the crime which even then she meditated.
The unspoken supplication dies away in murmurs, and
the murmurs — a vain and broken breathing — are lost in
the unheeding air.

XI.

.

AMRI at length made his appearance. TJrraca her-
self received him at the entrance of the chamber, the
door of which she carefully closed and locked, and, un-
seen by him, the key of which she drew forth from the
ward, and secreted beyond his discovery or reach. Yet
her reception, in all other respects, was not calculated to
awaken in his bosom a solitary apprehension. It had
all the show of that fondness which she was accustomed
to exhibit, and which she had really and passionately felt
for him until that luckless moment when she discovered,
not his falsehood merely, but his hostile intention upon
her life. It was then that, scorning him with a scorn
fully commensurate to the degree of love which she had
formerly entertained for him, she determined upon a,
measure of policy like his own. She resolved to op-
pose artifice to artifice — to meet the false smile and de-

PELAYO. 167

ceptive speech with smile and speech, if possible, -more
deceptive still ; and, under the garb and disguise of that
criminal cunning which, as she borrowed it from him to
employ against him, she deemed herself justified in
using, she meditated a revenge which should be such as
to satisfy her wounded pride, and sooth her bruised and
disappointed spirit. With this object in her mind, de-
ception was easy. Her lip was flexible with smiles —
her tongue moulded into forms of. the softest and most
beguiling language, and her eyes, in which not even de-
spair could altogether quench the glorious and unreserved
fire, were made to reflect and exhibit only the benign
and the beseeching looks of love.

" What means this change of chambers, Urraca ?" was
one of the first questions of Amri after the usual saluta-
tions were over, his eyes looking with some curiosity,
but without anxiety, upon the array of the apartment.
She accounted for it easily and naturally enough by re-
ferring to the confusion below resulting from her prepar-
ations for removal.

" You sent the lustres to Edacer," said he ; " he was
delighted. I saw him but an hour since. He has rea-
son to rejoice in your friendship, and I wondered, and
wonder still, XJrraca, at your extravagant generosity. I
am almost fain to suspect, dearest, that even now you
hold him too favoured in your heart altogether to bestow
its affections upon mine."

The eye of Urraca searched closely, yet without lin-
gering long in the survey, that of the speaker. With
how much earnestness, with what well-acted sincerity
had he spoken these words ! Yet she knew all the
while that they were false — that he himself was false as
hell. At first her reply, and the momentary glance
with which she acknowledged his address, might seem
to have been less than confiding.

" And you doubt me, Amri — you would claim for
your love a warmer return than mine can bestow. Is
it not so, Amri H"

168 PELAYO.

" It is, dearest Urraca — it is. I know how much I
love you, and I only hear your professions. I know
that I do not deceive myself, but I am not sure that you
do not deceive me."

" Be sure I do not, Amri," she said, earnestly, put-
ting her hand upon his arm ; " believe me, Amri, for you
I have lived, for you I am ready to die, such is my love ;
and whatever may be the extent or nature of the feeling
in your heart, be satisfied it is more than requited by that
which is alive and active in mine."

Amri secretly thought with her — he was right — he
knew not the latent signification of her language.

" Yes, Amri," she proceeded, " living or dying, I am
still yours. You will believe me — I will make you be-
lieve me, dearest — ere very long. Do you remember
I told you that I had a sad presentiment that I had not
long to live 1"

'* You said so, dearest — 'twas an idle fear."

*' It was not idle, Amri — I feel, more and more, that
it was not an idle fear. It comes to me at all sea-
sons, and in vain would I fly from its presence. Think
you that it comes to me for no purpose? Think you
that the Christian God, who is your God also, has not
sent this thought to chide me, and to drive me away
from my pursuits, which I now begin to see have been
too sinful for the eye of earth not less than for that of
.heaven ? It is a warning that I should repent and fly
from the wrath which is preparing for me. It is this
thought which prompts and prompted me to fly to Gua-
darrama — to leave the places of temptation and sin — to
fly to the places where I knew of none — the places of
my childhood. Thou hast promised, Amri, that thou
wilt dwell there with me."

" True, dearest Urraca — true ! I will fly with thee
to Guadarrama ; but thou art over quick in thy proceed-
ing. Thou saidst to Edacer that in three days thou
wouldst take thy departure. It will not be possible for

PELAYO. 169

me to go so soon. I have much, dearest, to execute,
and my time is scarcely my own. See this order — I
have it here to seek for a public enemy — this is the wri-
ting of Edacer, and at midnight I am lo search the He-
brew Quarter for one who has a secret business from
the Saracen, and is an outlawed enemy of King Rod-
erick. This is a toil of state, and Edacer hath put
others upon me — "

«« Edacer !" said Urraca ; " let me look upon the
paper."

He gave it her, and she read — ** In the king's name
— Hebrew Quarter — any dwelling — may suspect — a
page — Ha ! a page ! Has this page thy secret, Amri 1"

" Yes — the secret of a great conspiracy against King
Roderick."

" What ! — trusted to a page 1 Nay, thou dost mock
me."

" I do not, Urraca, believe me."

" And when wouldst thou go ?" she asked.

" At midnight."

" What ! — this midnight !" she exclaimed.

" Thou sayest."

" Well, truly, Amri, between thy own, and Edacer's,
and the king's business, Urraca has but little interest in
thy thoughts, and but a shallow portion of thy time.
But it will not be so, Amri, I trust, when we go to dwell
in Guadarrama. There I will bind thee all to myself."

" Thou shalt," he replied ; " I shall be all thine when
we are in Guadarrama, as I shall look then, dear Urra-
ca, to have thee all mine."

" Even as I am now !" she exclaimed. *' Look !
dearest Amri — behold the preparation I have rrtadc here
in secret for our departure."

She carried him to a portion of the chamber which he
had not seen, and pointed out to his eyes three large
earthen jars filled with precious gems — with gold and

VOL. II.— P

PELAYO.

jewels of immense value. The Jew's eye glistened
while he gazed.

" These are thine, Amri," she said, as she unveiled
them before him ; " here is wealth beyond our wants —
beyond your wishes, I believe, as it is beyond mine.
It is for thee I have preserved it — thou art its master
now, as thou art henceforward to be mine. I have
marked these jars with thy name, in proof of the love I
bear thee, and the readiness with which I give thee com-
mand over myself and my possessions."

" Thanks — many thanks, dearest Urraca — my grati-
tude is speechless, and thou mayst not wonder that I
find not words to make fitting acknowledgments."
" Make none, Amri," she said, gravely.
" This wealth is immense, Urraca, and far beyond
what I had thought in thy possession. But what is this
of such curious fabric — is it of gold ?"

He pointed to a thin piece of flattened gold, shaped
like a crescent, inscribed with unknown characters, and
having two holes in the two horns through which a string
had been passed.

" That is a talisman brought from Arabia — it has a
wonderful power to protect the wearer, and until this
day I have ever worn it. 'Twas given me when a child,
and it was said by him who gave it me, that so long as
I wore it would it keep me from wrong and injury."
"Is such its power?" demanded Amri, curiously.
" I know not that," she replied, " but such was the
faith of him who gave it me. 'Twas the old sage Abul-
feda."

" What said he of its properties, Urraca ?"
" Oh, much," was the reply of Urraca to Amri, made
with a show of indifference that proved a perfect foil
to the increasing anxiety which he manifested on the
subject ; " much ! It was, he said," and as she spoke
she took up the talisman and passed it around her neck,
" it was a protection against all evil design of mortal.

PBLAYO. 171

Nothing, he pledged himself, which mortal man could
devise for my injury, could harm me while I wore it."

" Didst thou believe him, TJrraca 1 Didst thou have
faith in its powers 1" asked Arnri.

" Surely not ! I held his speech as idle ; but, as he
prayed me to wear it, I refused not."

" And you have worn it until now, TJrraca?"

" Until this day. I threw it off this morning as a
poor foolery, and as something unbecoming in a Chris-
tian to employ, it being of Pagan workmanship, you see."

" 'Tis beautiful — wilt give it me, Urraca ?"

She smiled as, taking the trinket from about her neck,
where she had placed it but a moment before, she threw
it around his. He seemed pleased, and she led him to
the table where the repast had been set, and motioned
him gayly to a place beside her.

" Thou canst not mean to leave me to-night, Amri t"
she spoke, as he seated himself at the table ; " thou art
unkind to think it. Some other night will answer."

" Not so, dearest. I must depart this night. This
commission is imperative upon me — the outlaw may es-
cape—"

" The page !" said Urraca.

" Yes — 'tis he I mean. He would escape did I not
seek him out to-night."

" I think thou wilt not go — thou dost but trifle with
me, Amri?"

'* Upon my soul, Urraca."

*' Nay, but thou shalt not, Amri. Thou shalt stay
with me this night — leave me at morning on thy secret
quest, but not to-night."

" Not so, my love. To-morrow, early morning, I
will come — to-morrow night I'll stay with thee, and next
day. All other times but this, and I am thine."

" Thou art resolved, then ?"

" Be not vexed, Urraca — I may not choose but leave
thee,"

PELAYO.

" Well, as thou wilt ; but yet, Amri, I do not fear but
I will keep thee still. When thou hast supped thou'lt
linger a while and thou'lt stay." She spoke and looked
in a manner which Amri, in his secret thought, could
not but feel to be most persuasive.

" Till midnight only, dearest ; but let us to the fruit.
What is here, Urraca 1 Where got you these fine Da-
mascenes ? What a rich purple ; and these figs look
fresh as if just fallen from the tree. The finger-date,
too, is full grown and ripe, and larger than is common.
'Tis a tempting repast, and so well ordered — but sit thy-
self, Urraca."

" As thou sayest." She sat down beside him as she
replied, and pointing to the plums, said —

" Thou speakest them so highly, Amri, it puts me in
the mood to take some of the Damascenes. It is a
fruit I love."

** I join you in the preference," he said, as he sup-
plied her. " Wilt have the dates ?"

*' No, T affect them not. Give me some wine."

She handed him a little golden tankard as she spoke,
which he filled from the spacious urn before him — a
second goblet, which she gave him for himself, he filled
in like manner.

" Let us drink, Amri — " She lifted the tankard.
** Let us drink to our future life together! Ah ! Amri,
there will be no strife then — no doubt — no lingering de-
sire for the crowd and the clamour of Cordova. Our
abode henceforward will be peaceful — peaceful — peace-
ful! Will it not, Amri?"

" Ay, and full of pleasure too, Urraca, I trust me,"
he exclaimed, as he emptied the goblet.

" Perhaps !" she replied, as she drank, " perhaps ! —
perhaps !"

PELAYO. 173

XII.

AFTER a brief pause, during which Urraca, leaning
upon the table with her head resting upon her palm,
seemed utterly unconscious of the objects around her,
while her mind roved away in pursuit of some foreign
thought, she abruptly recovered herself, and thus ad-
dressed her companion :
" Amri, hast thou drank ?"

" I have, dearest — my lips have searched the bot-
tom."

" Fill again, Amri — fill — fill : we are wedded now."
" How wedded, Urraca ?" inquired Amri, who did
not know how to account for the sudden look of exulta-
tion which her features wore.

" Fill thy cup and mine," was her only reply. He did
as she desired him, repeating his question as he did so.
" How wedded, Urraca ? Thou saidst wedded, dear-
est ?"

" Are we not ? Hast thou not sworn thyself mine,
Amri, and do I not pledge myself to thee in return?
Does not this wed us most closely ?"

" Ay, truly does it, dearest Urraca ; but in this fash-
ion have I been long wedded to thee, and thou to me.
Yet, until now, thou hadst not deemed us wedded."

" Is't not enough, Amri ? Wouldst have a church to
wed us, and a priest ?" she demanded, somewhat wildly.
" What church, Urraca ?" he asked, gently.
" It should not be thy church, Amri, for that I believe
not ; nor yet mine, for that thou deniest ; but the church
in which we are wedded, Amri, should yet have sway over
both of us. It should be a universal church, Amri."

" Where wilt thou find such church, Urraca ? What
church is it that thou speakest of?"

Her reply was instantaneous, and her voice rose and
eeemed to kindle as she spoke with a sort of enthusiasm
P2

174

PELAYO.

little short of eloquence, and which, as she proceeded,
awakened somewhat the apprehensions of Amri, who
regarded it as a gathering and growing insanity.

" What church is it ?" said she. " A goodly, a great
church — thou wilt soon know it, Amri. It is a more
mighty edifice than the mind of man may imagine or
his eye encompass. Its elevation is beyond his art to
rival, as it is beyond the ambitious power of any king
to limit. Its altars may be found in every land, the lar-
gest raised of earth. Its sacrifices do mock and swal-
low up all others, or put them all to shame — they are so
humble when noted with its own. And of its incense
I need say nothing. It reeks from every land — up, up
to the pure heaven, assaulting the sweet skies with dif-
ferent scents from theirs. And for its pillars, they do
stand aloft more firmly heaved than those of Hercules.
They better keep our liberties than these do fence our
borders from the Saracen. Its power is mightier yet —
for, in its pale, the thousand sects of earth — the waning
tribes — the jarring moods of superstition and devotion
— grow reconciled and one. What thinkest thou, Amri,
of a church like this ? Bethink thee, hast thou never
heard its name ? Hast thou no guess ? Is it not clear
to thee ?"

" Indeed, I know not, Urraca. Thou speakest that
which is to me a mystery. I know of no such church
as that thou speakest of, nor do I hold faith in it."

" Thou dost — thou knowest it well — thou shalt know
it better before many days."

"I cannot think — 'tis not the Christian church, for
that has no such powers, though belike it may urge such
pretence. Our King Roderick here, they say, like the
Gothic kings of old, makes but little heed of it ; and
our rabbins, though they swell greatly when they tell of
Solomon the Wise, and of the temple of his building,
they rise not to such height as to make me regard that
and this church of thine as one."

PELAYO. 175

«* Thou question's! not its powers, Amri, as I describe
them V9

" No, not I ; but 'tis a wondrous church — wondrous
if only as it brings together the warring sects thou
speak'st of. But truly, dear Urraca, I'm lost to know
— I cannot guess thy meaning. Explain — tell me what
church is this — what name it bears."

" Drink with me to the triumphs of that church —
drink, Amri — thou shalt then know its name."

" I've drank, Urraca."

" And I," she added, immediately ; then laying down
the emptied vessel as she spoke, and looking with a tri-
umphant smile in the face of the Hebrew, she thus pro-
ceeded—

" It is the grave ! — that church ! — the grave ! — the
grave !"

" Ha !" he cried, half starting from his seat, and his
cheeks growing pale with a sudden but indescribable ap-
prehension, while the tankard fell from his hand. " Ha !
What is thy dreadful meaning, my Urraca V

" It is the grave, my Amri. What ! dost thou trem-
ble ? Wherefore shouldst thou tremble ? Hast thou
not promised me to share my fate — my fortune ?"

" I have, Urraca. Have I not sworn it ihee ?"

•' Wert thou not glad — thou saidst so, dearest Amri
— to give up all thy freedom — to be bound in life and
death, and to make thy lot with mine ? Didst thou not
love me to this measure, Amri ?'

" Even so, Urraca. I have promised thee, and with
such passionate fervour do I love thee, that I will give
up all in Cordova, my father, friends, brethren — "

" I know thou wilt," she exclaimed, laughing exult-
ingly. An acute look of fear overspread the features
of Amri as he beheld the expression, but he continued,

" And within three days I will fly with thee."

" Before, before, my Amri — thou art laggard — I will
not wait for thee so long."

176 PELAYO.

" Thou dost forget, Urraca. I have told thee it may
not be before. 1 am bound to this performance for
Edacer, and much depends upon my execution. But
ere the three days, dearest, I'll be thine — all thine — and
fly with thee to thy own hilly home in Guadarrama."

" Alas ! my Amri, I believe thee not ! I do not
think it. Thou wilt not fly with me to Guadarrama.
I know thou wilt not."

" I swear to thee, Urraca."

'• Thou swearest a lie then, Amri — a base lie — thou
wilt not, canst not — the priest who wed us proclaimed
it should not be."

" What dost thou mean, Urraca ? From thine eyes
glares a terrible wildness — thy brow — "

She interrupted him quickly as she rose from the ta-
ble, and replied to him in a manner full of strange so-
lemnity—

" We're wed by a fix'd fate — by one whose word we
may not set aside, nor disavow, nor, in our terror, fly
from. He hath said, and I believe him, Amri, that thou
never wilt leave Cordova — that thou art bound to it by
the strongest links, which thou canst neither bear with thee
nor break. He tells me that, as thou evermore hast
been a traitor to me — to all — thou'lt prove a traitor
still."

" 'Tis false," he cried ; " whoso hath spoken this
hath much belied me. Believe me, dear Urraca, it is
falsehood."

" 'Tis truth !" she responded, lifting her hand to
heaven.

" Who is it tells thee that I will not fly with thee ?
What meddling priest is this ?" he demanded, anxiously
and angrily.

" Death !" was the hollow answer which she gave
him ; and the dreadful minister whose name she had call-
ed at that moment seemed to glare forth from her eyes
in terrible threatening upon his.

PELAYO. 1T7

XIII.

THE affrighted Hebrew looked upon her now as one
who had lost her senses. He, too, rose from the table,
but took a position which left it interposed between
them. She did not suffer him, however, to maintain
this position ; but, labouring strongly to preserve or com*
pel a calmness of manner which had entirely left her
during the scene preceding, she pushed aside the table,
and firmly approached him.

*' Hear me, Amri — you deem me distraught — I am
not. But my mind is wrought up to new necessities, a
strange condition, and to the contemplation of a solemn
and singular change, which is in progress not less upon
thee than upon me. When thou knowest all which I
have to tell thee- — when thou knowest what my hope
has been, and know that I feel that utterly gone from me
which late I leaned upon in hope — thou wilt not think it
surprising that my eye is wild, and that my thoughts and
language are like the thoughts and language of one ut-
terly distraught. Hear me, and fear nothing — thou hast
now, indeed, nothing more to fear. Thou hast a better
protection within thee from fear than the talisman about
thy neck. Thou mayst now put Death himself at de-
fiance."

" Thy words are still strange to me, Urraca, and they
sooth me but little. Tell me thy grief quickly, and
say what I may do for thee, Urraca, for I am soon to
leave thee."

" Thou errest, Amri, and hast more time, yet far less
time than even thou, in thy impatience, thinkest of.
Thou canst not leave me to-night — no — nor to-morrow,
Amri."

" How — what mean you ?"

" The door through which thou earnest is shut upon
thee, and the key which secures it my own hand has
flung through a fissure in the wall which thou wilt

178 PELAYO.

see behind yon curtain. It now lies at the foot of the
wall in the court below, and no words of thine — no spell
or power in thy command — will bring it to thy relief."

" But wherefore this ?" demanded Amri, in evident
alarm. She proceeded without heeding him.

" Look with me upon these windows, Amri. I was
resolved to secure thee, and I lodged their fastenings
each with its own rivet, and a strong bolt lies upon all,
keeping them secure from any strength of mine or thine
to undo them. Never was prison more close for crim-
inal in fetters than this chamber is for thee."

The alarm of Amri increased duly with this intelli-
gence, but he strove to conceal it as he replied —

" I fear not thy custody, dear Urraca, for well I know
that thou will not have denied to thyself all chance for
freedom. Thou hast a mode left for escape — that is
enough for me."

" For escape from this chamber I care not, Amri.
It is true, nevertheless, as thou sayest, that I have a
mode of escape."

" I will share it with thee," said Amri, laughing.

" Thou shalt, I well know," replied Urraca, " but that
thou wilt desire to employ such mode I somewhat ques-
tion. Yet, ere thou dost, Amri, I have a something to
disclose to thee. I have a dreadful charge to make
against thee."

" What is that, Urraca ? Speak, dearest, and let me
forth soon, for the time hastens, and by midnight I must
proceed upon the business of Edacer."

" Let the business of Edacer wait, and think rather
upon thine own. Thine is now more necessary to thee
than his. Hear me ; I have it charged upon thee, Amri,
that thou desirest my death."

" Thy death !" he exclaimed, appalled.

" Ay, my death — the death of the feeble and fond
woman who has loved thee. Nor wast thou willing to
$wait for it in the common course of fate, when the de-

PfiLAYO.

Cree of Heaven should demand it also. Thou wert
bent, it is said, to hurry fate, and didst suborn my own
slave to administer a fatal potion unto me. Thou didst
tamper with Zitta to this end."

*' 'Tis false — she doth defame me — 'tis a lie."

" Be not too bold — 'tis true — I did behold the potion."

" I gave it not !"

" Thou didst — there's proof to show the packet came
from thee."

" 'Twas a love potion only that I gave her — it was
no poison."

" What, didst thou doubt my love for thee, Amri ]
Did it need a love potion to make me all thine own ?"

" It did — I thought so — dearest Urraca. I did not
hold thee true to me alone ; I would have had thee fonder.
The powder which I gave Zitta was innocent, and would
have wrought only upon thy affections."

** I glad me that thou sayest so — I glad me much.
Would it, indeed, provoke the cold heart to love more
fervently ?"

" Such was its purpose — such its quality. 'Twas
framed by an Arabian for my mother, who had misgiv-
ings of my father's love, and sought him for a charm.
He gave her that — the potion which to Zitta I delivered.
It could not hurt — its power was only framed to move
the coy affections — to bend the unyielding heart — to
make it warm with a more pliant method."

" I glad me that thou sayest so. Art thou sure VJ

" Most certain, dear Urraca !"

" How I rejoice me ! I do breathe again ! I feel
like one set free from a dark prison, and glorying in the
sunlight."

" Oh, wherefore, dearest ?" She proceeded without
seeming to regard his speech.

"When Zitta brought this tale to me, I maddened."

«• Didst doubt me, then — didst think it true, Urraca ?"

" I did ; and then the world grew black upon me, I

180 PELAYO,

cared no more for life ! I made her free, yet I bade
her give me the fatal potion."

" But she did not," he demanded, anxiously.

" Thou shalt hear all. I then resolved to die P

" I glad me, dearest, that I spoke so soon. Had I
not told thee of the potion's innocence, it might have
been—"

44 Oh, yes — yes ! But hear me out. Be patient
now, I pray thee. I bade thee hither, as thou knowest,
last night, and had this feast of fruits and cates provided.
Believing thou didst mean to murder me, and did pro-
ject my death with that same potion, ere yet thou
earnest — for I was bent on vengeance — I mixed it with
that fountain — "

" The wine — the wine !" he exclaimed, his whole
figure convulsed and trembling, as he bent forward,
making the inquiry.

" Ay, with the wine we drank. Why dost thou
tremble ? Was it not innocent ?"

" Hell's curses seize thee, woman — fiends and snakes
—-'twas poison — deadly poison !"

" Then we are wedded, Amri !" she replied, sternly,
but contemptuously — " in death, if not in life, we are now
wedded. Thou'st drank — we have both drank — and
now — go pray."

44 Let me go forth, Urraca — Jezebel, deny me not.
Give me the key, I bid thee," he cried, furiously, while
his features spoke at once the intensity of his hate and
the extremity of his apprehension. She replied decis-
ively, and with a withering scornfulness of expression —

44 Why, this shows ill in thee, Amri. Thou shouldst
now love me ; having drank the potion made by the Ara-
bian sage to bless thy mother, and to bend thy father to
a due regard with hers, thou shouldst now love me."

44 God curse thee, woman ! — do thou not provoke me !
Undo the door ! — let me go forth, I pray thee. JTis not
too late — there is a medicine — "

PELAYO. 181

*« Thou shalt not go — to-night thou shalt not leave me.
To-morrow — "

"'Twill be too late to-morrow. Let me go now,
Urraca — 'twill save us both — I'll share the medicine
with thee — "

" I seek it not — I would not now live, Amri, since
thou hast denied that I shall live for any thing."

" I will be thine, Urraca, only thine ? I'll fly with
thee to-morrow — ay, to-night. Let me go forth in sea-
son."

" Never, never ! I have resolved upon thy death — for
mine own I care not ! Thou hast deceived me as never
yet has woman been deceived, forgiving her deceiver.
We die together ; I hope not now for any antidote — I
do deny it thee."

" I pray thee, dear Urraca — on my knees."

" Liar ! I know thee. Rise — thou but chaf 'st me
with thy base language."

" Pardon — spare — let me fly !"

He grovelled at her feet, which at length spurned him.

" Hope not to move me by thy prayers and sighs.
Too well I know thy villany to listen. I know all thy
schemes, Amri. To-night thou wert to seek a page, an
enemy of Roderick ! Do I not know the page thou
aimest at is a woman — a lovely woman — one thou
wouldst make thy victim ; but one — I joy to think so —
who doth most rightly scorn thee. Hear a tale I kept
from thee before, in a vain hope to mend thee by my fond
forbearance. I had not then the courage which had
saved me, to pluck thee, as a viper, from the heart which
thou hast stung to madness."

She then told him all the particulars of his attempt
upon Thyrza, and of her rescue by Pelayo, of which we
have already been apprized, but of which Amri knew
nothing. She concluded by the following stern and in-
flexible summary.

" Knowing all this of thee, and more of thy falsehood

VOL. II.— Q.

182 FELAYO.

and base connexion with the woman whom thou couldst
have prompted to the foul crime of murder on her mis-
tress, even at the time when thou wert most professing
love and service, I gave thee up for ever. I then resolv-
ed, with this last knowledge of thy cruel purpose to strike
at my poor life ; at the time, too, when first I had began
truly to live, and when I did bestow upon thee such a
perfect confidence as should have made thee, even if
before thou hadst occasion to be mine enemy, my best
and truest friend — I then resolved to tear thee from my
heart. It was no pain to doom thee to the fate which
thou didst design for me — the pain was in the terrible
conviction that thou didst hate me. After that convic-
tion I did not wish to live."

Amri could no longer doubt her sincerity, though he
might her sanity. He, too, began to madden, for an ag-
onizing pain which passed through his vitals at this mo-
ment more fully impressed him with the terrible con-
sciousness of his situation. The dreadful imprecation
of his father came to his memory with that pain, and
seemed to be thrilling again through his ears — the peti-
tion had indeed been quickly heard, and as Amri well
knew the horrible effects of the poison, he wefl knew
that it was likely to be as severely felt as it was most
certain, unless he could procure the antidote of which
he spoke, to prove certainly fatal. Whether he pos-
sessed, in truth, a remedial medicine, may not be said.
It is possible he simply desired escape from the dwelling,
with the vague hope which comes to the otherwise de-
spairing, and is a hope against hope, that succour might
be had by a quick resort to the men of skill and science
of the time. With this hope he prayed Urraca earnestly
for his release, with every art of persuasion which, of
old, he had seldom exercised in vain. But the convic-
tion of his utter heartlessness had made her inflexible.
The power of the poison had already begun to manifest
its presence upon herself — she writhed under its fearful

PELAYO. 183

pangs, but she also smiled scornfully upon her compan-
ion in suffering. Every word which she uttered in re-
ply to his agonizing entreaties was a word of bitter taunt
and contemptuous derision.

" You would be every thing, Amri, and you are no-
thing. You would win power with Edacer because he
is Lord of Cordova, and find a way, too, even to the fa-
vour of King Roderick. Hadst thou been bold enough
to be true, thou hadst been safe this hour, and in some
of thy schemes successful. But thou wert false where
thy faith was most due, and now, count thy gains !"

" Yet, if thou wouldst forgive me, Urraca — there is
but little time to waste," said the wretch, imploringly.
" I pray thee — on my knees."

" I mean not to forgive — I mean not to forego my
power upon thee. Thou art my prisoner, and when I
release thee it shall be to that greater power which al-
ready hath its hands on me."

He clamoured at the door, and shouted for aid from
without; but she laughed scornfully at the feebleness
of his efforts to shake the bolt or drive the massive tim-
bers with his feet, which he now began furiously to ap-
ply to them.

" Zitta — Zitta !" he cried to his former accomplice,
and his cries were echoed by the increased laughter of
Urraca.

" Take the gold," said she, as she beheld his efforts ;
" this is thy gold, Amri — dost thou not know it ? It is
thine when I die. I bequeath it to none but thee. Buy
her with it to come to thee, and pledge thyself to share
it with her. She will help thee, perhaps."

" Fiend — wretch — cease thy infernal mockeries !" he
cried to Urraca, who had sunk down in pain upon a
couch, while, turning furiously from his ineffectual clan>
ours at the door, he shook his clinched fists in her face.
Her laughter mingled in strange contrast with her insup-
pressible groans, while she continued to taunt him with

184 PELAYO.

his weakness, and to deride him with his ineffectual des-
peration.

" Thy cries are all in vain, Amri, and thou shoutest
the name of one who is commanded and rewarded not
to hear thee. Before thou earnest I had anticipated thy
clamours now. To Zitta I gave orders that she should
heed no cries, of whatever kind ; no appeals, whether of
thy voice or of mine, coming from this chamber."

" Father Abraham — dreadful Jehovah ! shield me —
save me !" cried the despairing and bewildered prisoner.
" What fiend from hell has prompted thee to this — this
horrible malice ? Curse ihee, Urraca — Heaven curse
thee with the plagues of Egypt. It cannot be that I am
doomed to perish thus — it is not true ; thou dost try me
only. Thou hast not drugged the wine — it is thy trick.
Ah— ah !"

The last exclamations were extorted from him by a
keen pang, which sufficiently answered him, and contra-
dicted the hope which he had just expressed. There
needed no answer from her to confirm his fears. The
poison had commenced its work, and, in the momentary
and acute agony of its burning pain, the miserable man
threw himself howling a"hd writhing on the floor. Ur-
raca, too, had ceased to taunt her victim — she now mur-
mured only ; and she strove to bring her thoughts to the
crisis which was fast approaching — she strove to pray. A
picture of the Virgin hung upon the wall, opposite to,
yet at some distance from, the cushion upon which she
had thrown herself. She arose from the cushion as she
gazed upon the picture ; and, though suffering increasing
agony at every movement, she crossed the room) and
sunk down before it upon her knees in prayer. Amri
saw the movement, and at first imagined that she was
about to seize an opportunity for flight, leaving him still
a prisoner. With the thought he hastily leaped from the
floor and hurried after her ; but when he beheld her
kneeling, and from the words which came to his

PELAYO. 185

discovered that she was seeking to deprecate Heaven's
wrath for her misdoings, he rushed furiously upon her.
She heard his footsteps, but turned not once to behold
him; and, utterly unseen, and his purpose unexpected
by her, he drew a dagger suddenly from his vest, and
plunged it deep down over her shoulder into the vital
recesses of her bosom, exclaiming as he did so —

" Thou shalt not pray — thou shalt not find mercy,
but shalt go with all thy sins upon thy head to the kin-
dred fiends that thou fearest, and that now await thee."

She fell upon her face with a convulsion ; the blow
had been fatal, and her words were few and imperfectly
uttered.

" I thank thee — I thank thee, Amri ; thou hast done
me a sweet service. I have no more pain — thy dagger
has disarmed the poison — I am free — free."

Her face was turned upon the floor, and the blood
gushed all around it. A few more brief and muttered
words fell from her lips, but they were indistinguishable.
In a few moments she was silent. He stooped down,
and sought to lift the body, but he soon discovered from
its weight that life had departed. It was then that his
own pangs became more frequent and acute. In his
agony he turned the point of the fatal dagger upon his
own bosom, but just then he heard a noise — he thought
so, at least, and, hurling the bloody instrument from him,
rushed to the door. He imagined that he could detect
the sounds of retreating footsteps, and with this convic-
tion he shouted aloud.

" Ha, there — Zitta — Zitta ! Come to me, Zitta.
Here — come to me quickly. Bring help — bring axes,
and break down the door — let in the air — bring water to
my help — I thirst — I am on fire — I burn — I die !"

He paused for a few moments, as if to learn the effect
of his cries and pleadings ; but he listened in vain, and
his clamours and solicitations were renewed.

" Come to me, Zitta — whoever thou art, I implore —
I command thee. Oh, Zitta, dear Zitta, if thou lovest
Q2

186 PELAYO.

me, come quickly to my help ! Thou shalt have gold
— gold — whatever thou requirest, Zitta ; thou shalt have
all that is here — all that I possess ! Oh, fire — fire —
fire ! I burn — I burn — my heart is on fire ! Ah — oh !
it is at my heart — a dreadful tooth — it bites — it burns
— it is fire — fire — fire ! They come not — they are
gone ! I hear them no more. They hear not me.
They leave me to burn — to perish !"

He paused, and stooped to the floor to listen — to
catch again the sounds which he fancied he had already
heard. The poison even then was tearing and tugging
at his vitals. His own hands, in his dreadful agony,
had grasped his bowels with a fierce gripe and furious
energy, which would seem rather like that of a wolf upon
the flanks of his victim. He listened for several min-
utes, until the increasing pain compelled him to forego
the effort, and drove him from the extreme of attentive
silence into the opposite extreme of wild, demoniac fury.
He writhed deliriously upon the floor, and cursed fruit-
lessly the unconscious woman that lay dead at a little
distance. His shoutings were renewed more furiously
than ever. He beat upon the door with his unconscious
hands — he shrieked, in his various moods of desperation,
hope, agony, and entreaty, to the supposed listener —
proffering his life and countless wealth to the person who
would save it for him. And, when the echoes of his
own voice came back to him unmingled with any fa-
vouring responses, he thrust his furious head against the
wall with repeated effort, which, however, brought him
no pain in addition to that which he endured already.
The conviction that he must perish without prospect of
relief or rescue was at length forced upon his mind by
the disappointment of all his hopes and the failure of
all his supplications. With this conviction he rushed to
the body of Urraca, determined to repossess himself of
the dagger by which he had terminated her sufferings,
and with which he now proposed to end his own. Hav-

PELAYO. 187

ing stricken the fatal blow into her bosom, he had hurled
the dagger from him. But the doom against him was
unyielding — the fate was inflexible, and he had not the
choice of death. In vain did he grope around the cham-
ber for the deadly weapon. His eyes were blinded, and
he failed to see it ; the sensibilities of his fingers seemed
gone, for he failed to touch it ; and the dreadful impre-
cation of his father seemed at once to be realized upon
him, in all the forms of Providential judgment. His
doom was written without mitigation. It was required
not less to be fatal than to be felt ; and he was destined
to endure the most protracted form of human suflering.

" But I will not endure it," he cried, furiously ; " I
will fly from — I will escape it yet !"

From one side of the room he prepared to rush, with
extended head, upon the dead stone wall of the other.
To dash out his desperate brains, and thus terminate his
agony, was his last hope ; and, closing his eyes, he
bounded forward ; but, ere he reached the wall, his heart
sunk within him. A tremour seized upon his knees —
a general weakness overspread his limbs, and he dared
not carry out his more resolute design — indeed, he could
not — the judgment was inexorable, and could only be
endured, not defeated.

44 Oh, Adoniakim — father — father ! that I had heeded
thy commands — thy prayers — thy counsels !"

Groaning and shrieking, he sank down, and crawled
once more to the place of entrance — once more he lis-
tened— once more he fancied that he heard retreating
footstep?, and he again howled with a strong but foolish
hope, praying for the relief which came not. With the
momentarily increasing agony of the poison, his cries
became more and more dreadful, and nature could not
much longer endure the strife. In a dreadful paroxysm,
the miserable wretch thrust his fingers into his now
wolfish e/es, and tore the quivering globes from their
burning sockets. But this brought not the desired ben-

188 PELAYO.

efit, and, howling and suffering still, the now utterly
hopeless victim rolled and writhed along the floor, call-
ing vainly for that death which he had once so much
dreaded to encounter. The doom, though fatal, was
yet according to his father's prayer, to be felt in torments
even greater than those which he had endured already.
He was not yet suffered to die, and the tenacious life
hung on in agony until sensibility was entirely subdued.
Through the night the cries of the sufferer came to the
ears of Zitta, in the distant apartment where she lay.
What was their occasion she knew not, for her mistress
had withheld from her the secret of her intentions ; and
she remembered the injunction which was given her, and
did not seek to inquire. Yet she could not sleep, and
so piercing at length did the shrieks of Amri become,
that she left her apartment, and cautiously, and with as
little noise as possible, approached that where the vic-
tims lay. The demoniac cries alarmed her, and she
fled. It was probable, indeed, that Amri, with the
acuteness of hope, had really heard her footsteps, but
his appeal availed not. She distinguished no particular
sounds — she heard no call upon her name and for relief;
and even if she had, the fastenings of the apartment were
entirely beyond her unassisted strength to remove. She
hurried back to her chamber, and, with an imagination
active with momently accumulating terrors, she buried
her head in the bedclothes, but she did not sleep. The
dreadful shrieks penetrated the thick folds of her couch's
drapery, and when they did not, she could not forbear the
anxiety which prompted her to remove the covering, and
once more listen. Fainter and fainter at every moment
came the cries until towards morning, when they ceased
entirely. The dreadful catastrophe was over, and the
ungrateful son had too soon and too suddenly perished
beneath the dreadful curse invoked upon his head by his
deeply-wronged and justly-irritated sire.

END OF BOOK IV.

BOOK V.

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 des-
tined 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 for-

190 PELAYO.

bearance were duly written upon her heart. Poor maid-
en ! Her heart had been equally tenacious of his vir-
tues in all other respects, and the page was full of rec-
ords. His manly beauty, his bold demeanour, his pa-
triot 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 un-
affected, 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
fro-rn the dwelling of Pelayo the morning after her res-
cue from the attempts of Amri,with a bosom lightened,
it is true, of the heavier fear which had possessed it du-
ring 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, Thyr-
za, 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

PELAYO. 191

pour forth thy heart in music, and to sweeten our soli-
tude with our mutual sighs, when thy wild song was
ended, was thy greatest care, as it was my happiest en-
joyment. 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, gath-
ering 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 devo-
tion. 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 insect-
bird of Cashmere, may spring away from the flower it
has all day sought with a wing lighter and more capri-
cious 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.

192 PELAYO.

They cling but to one altar, and they perish there — they
cannot be torn away."

«4 Alas ! my father, of what is it you speak ?" de-
manded 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 indif-
ferent 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, Thyr-
za, that thou wouldst hide thy heart from my sight: I
have learned to read it. I read it now. It is open be-,
fore me like a book. I read it in thy pale cheek — thy
upturned eye — thy bosom troubled and shaken with con-
vulsive 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 1 When Amri came and approached me — "

" No more, my child — thou dost still deceive me,
though, I trust, only because thou dost still deceive thy-
self. 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 to-
gether. 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

PELAYCX 193

worthy, but whom I would not have thee to love as
thou dost."

41 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 weak-
ness— 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 re-
dressing 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?

VOL. II.— R

194 PELAYO.

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."

11 1 do — I do, my father !" she replied, with broken ac-
cents 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.

II.

WITH a heart filled to overflowing as he thought upon
the unrequited and profitless state of his daughter's af-
fections, 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

PELAYO. 195

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 sacri-
fice 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, indi-
vidually, 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 free-
dom 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 undeserv-
ing, 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 ;

196 PELAYO.

and his own life and the life of his child — ay, the very
existence of his people — were all as nothing in compari-
son with the great aim and principle which nerved and
stimulated his patriotism.

III.

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 Adonia-
kim 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 Adoniakirn 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 Adoniakirn 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,

PELAYO. 197

to gather his force along the neighbouring passes, and,
bringing with him a select body of his men to the meet-
ing 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 al-
lowed 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?

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.

R2

198 PELAYO.

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're—

PELAYO. 199

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. I

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 !

200 PELAYO.

IV.

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 muy 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

PELAYO. 201

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 pos-
session 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 unworthi-
ness. 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 V9

" There are two—"

" Take thou that which leads by the Fountain of the

202 PELAYO.

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 depar-
ture, leaving his now doubly- desolate daughter to her
own sad moods and heart-sorrowing meditations.

V.

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 wher-
ever 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 He-
brews, 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 sad-
ness, 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 return-
ing track towards the Cave of Wamba, where the meet-
ing of the chiefs was to take place. It was early in the

PELAYQ. 203

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 si-
Ifence, 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 behold-
ing 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 rnan," said he, musing to himself,
" will link his brute strength to that of the Goth who en-
slaves 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 un-
occupied. 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

204 PELAYO.

struggles unheeded and without regard. But the sleep-
less water wears away the rock in time, and the spirit
thirsting after the truth will find a passage from its dun-
geons. 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 1 Is it not for this that we shroud our-
selves 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 con-
cluded. 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 fa-
vourable 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.

PELAYO. 205

" 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 contin-
ued his walk in the direction of the fountain.

VL

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 He-
brew maiden, wrapped himself in a disguise which he
deemed to be sufficient for concealment, and, accom-
panied by one of the soldiers of Edacer who was ap-
pointed to attend him, cautiously approached the dwel-
ling of the Hebrew Samuel, and narrowly examined its
several modes of entrance and egress. He was deter-
mined 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 examina-
tion 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 ap-
pointed 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 fre-
quent 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
VOL. II — S

206 PELAYO.

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 in-
mates. 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 up-
lifted 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,
rny 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 con-
spirators— she feared for the life of her father- — she

PELAYO. 207

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 immedi-
ately sought her chamber and proceeded to her prepar-
ations. 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.

VII.

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 im-
provement. It stood as it had stood from the first ; and
it was venerable and beloved in the regards of the peo-
ple, 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

208 PELAYO.

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 2 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 ihou ?"

" Nothing do I know, my father, save that he is free,"
replied the maiden.

" How knowest thou that ?" he demanded.

44 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 V 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?"

PELAYO. 209

" 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 du-
ring 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 1"

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.

Till.

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 im-
mediate attendants of several of the conspirators. A
S3

210 PELAYO.

hundred armed warriors were its occupants, and the re-
flected glare of the fire from their shining weapons and
glittering armour made the spectacle a noble and impo-
sing 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 deg-
radation— 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 jjate 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 per-
ishes ; but the true principle is immortal — though smoth-
ered 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 lan-
guage 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 weak-
ness. Remember thy father, thy name, thy own hope
and character. Let them not degrade thee as a cow-

PELAYO. 211

ard, 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, Pe-
layo," 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.

IX.

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 fre-

212 PELAYO.

quently the name of Pelayo than his own, and his hos-
tile 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 stri-
ving 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 contem-
plation of one having his blood in his veins, yet so un-
worthy 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 ut-
tered 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 for-
ward spirit that craved not slumber in the execution of
his duties. Were it possible for a prince to fulfil his re-
sponsibilities 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 crar
ving rest, moving among his enemies without fear or
precipitation, and devoting every thought and every en-
ergy 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 be-
comes but a shadow, and he who performs his offices

PELAYO. 213

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." .

"My0>rds, you are about to err in two ways," said
Egiza, in reply to this reproachful speech. " You would
assume for me, hi 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 1 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 de-
mand 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. Lean-
ing 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 un-
happily, 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

VOL. II.— S

214 PELAYO.

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 hanJI and the
hands of my brother, from whom it came, all the author-
ity 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 unmind-
ful 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 J 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 prose-
cute 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 &
for you to say with what propriety."

PELAYO. 213

" 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 attend-
ance upon Roderick. He is busy in Roderick's house-
hold, .arid 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 ar-
gument 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 notj 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, t*hough
it would please me better that his word should be more
manful."

" And what hope is there that Count Julian of Con-
suegra 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 ouv

216 PELAYO.

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, anxious-
ly; "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 confi-
dence r

" Given up his wealth ; provided us with means
we had else wanted ; and been a sleepless labourer in
the cause. 1'hese arms, my lords," pointing to the col-
lection which filled a recess of the cave, " are of his pro-
vision 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.

:***

« Prince Egiza, the performances of thy brother,
\vhich 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 1 Doubtless he hath done well."

" This is cold courtesy, prince, for noble service ;
and thy nobles in council assembled are grieved to be-
hold 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 Egi-
za, '* if it were hopeful, my lords ; but it were a need-
less sacrifice of life 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.

u 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«ne," said Egiza, coldlv/ Pe-
layo persisted, however, and approached him. **

" But, brother, when I show you that our fepce, Count
Julian's being absent, will avail — " v**

" Show me nothing. You shall not force me at your
pleasure, Pelay6,'to do what I re|bse." * ^

** 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 ij reached
the ears of the council, particularly the latter sentence

Egiza ^ and Count Aylor, as chief of the council,

jke. ;* .

" We do not change so soon in our purposes, Prince
Egiza, nor are we a people bound to submit to such

VOL. II.—T

% *

' *

• • PELAYO. -

caprice. Do you behold in us, prince, the National

of Spai^t^ *•

llioldyou so, my lords," said Egiza, promptly.
*' 'Tis well ; and now, Prince Egiza, it were better
* ^»i$ to the jpiestion 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 ^ojf her armies. They call upon
thee to help them in this service. Wilt thou, as first of
9 blood, having a claim of lineage from Recared the
Great, assume their lead ? Wilt thou, if so they call,
»* become tiieir sovereign, bound by their old laws and

pledged" to their protection? Art thou ready? Speak!"
A general silence prevailed ift the assembly when
this question was put. The members were all anxious
to hear the reply o£ -Egiza, for it had been already said
among them that he sKruift back from the work which
lie had- been the first to begin, an3 that he was no longer
•0- willing to risk his life in the cause of the common "lib-
erty. 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 tdrned
frojn 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 dif posed to yield jand 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 ;

PELAYO. 219

and, perhaps, the unanimous voice was ready for the
election of Egiza. But the unhappy prirtfee 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, sueh
an event was, perhaps, unavoidable. Birt 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 de-
nounced 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 c^s«
with himself; and, according to his passionate yet nar-
row 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 au-
thority in the country at variance with his. Theyafcad
heajd vague rumours of his attachment to the daughter
of Count Julian, and they were too jealous pfVthose liber-
ties, for which they were^willing to die, to^pferithem* to
be the sport of ^ 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^fevhat he had refused to the
: jpeasoning!Sbf his brother, and the prayers of his brother
and friends alike. Once moro he looked upon Pelayo,
and his jaundiced spirit fancied that he detected a smile

220 PELAYQ;

upon his lips, and the glance of his eye seemed to have
correspondence with that of his questioner, Count Eu-
don. This resolved him. He looked proudly upon the
chief of the council.as he thus replied:

»**Methinks, Count Eu4on, there is little need thai
you should look to rne 1o lead you in these matters.
See I not, in the high thoughts which you all have of the
worth and diligence of my brother, lhat in truth you look
to him. He is your best servant. He hath no scru-
ples 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 ft 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.«proyoke their doom?"

" I/leny not yonr 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 th^Vest. 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 tkjie, 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 tti lead them against Oount Julian."

" Never ! Away — thou hast betrayed me, Pelayo,
and I would not hear thee speak," said Egiza, scorn-
fully interrupting him. But Pelayo continued : —

PELAYO. 221

"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 — His but a word, and a new king-
dom waits thee. A most noble .^kingdom, tQO,fmy
brother — not of the Iberian, not of me 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 baa design among mine
enemies^ Thou wjttldst fcave my blood — thou wouldst
push me from thy wajgr ~ 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.

"sit 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 an-
swer 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 be-
come, when they shall have lifted thee uponuthe 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, aiid 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 Coun-
cil of Spain — hear me : I do pronounce the Prince
*'T 2

*—

222 PELAYO.

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 indiffer-
ent 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 dj$e to thy kin-
dred that thou shouldst boldly^ come forth in defence of
thy brother. I would that he had thus boldly come for-
ward for himself. It had given better hope to his peo-
ple 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, be-
cause 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

PELAYO. 223

heavily make against him ; and, if it do not utterly ac-
quit 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 befaWen 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 fro-
ward 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 trai-
torous to our cause, and is sold to the usurper."

Egiza grasped the hilt of his sword, and his lip quiv-
ered with hi£ anger f 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 ef-
fort, 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 en-
emies. Let me remind you, then, that ihe ban of Rod-
erick is even now upon the head of Egiza. His mer-
cenaries 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

PELAYO.

yield up his throne, by which he should have all that
Roderick could give him, and far more 1 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 i/
the mighty bribe which has bought him to such dishon-
our?"

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 Con-
suegra is the price. of his honour."

Three strides brought Egiza to the place where Ay-
lor stood, and with a keen eye fixed upon the assailant,
and a demeanour which might have terrified a less de-
termined 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 daugh-
ter of the Count of .Consuegra — that I trul^ 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 Corint Julian in d|nial, 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 :

PELAYO. 225

" 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 cluties and of me. Defy not our
love as our hate — beware of such rash defiance. I for-
give 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 re-
proach 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 ?"

226 PELAYO.

" 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 ser-
vice 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 trib-
ute 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 am-
bition, 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 mid-
way between them.

PELAYO. 227

** 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 chil-
dren. 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 readi-
ness to listen. Thus encouraged, Pelayo began as fol-
lows, with an argument in defence of his brother which,
though he urged it with all warmth, it is no disparage-
ment to his honesty to add, he was not himself altogeth-
er satisfied to believe such as would or should be satis-
factory t& 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 in-
surgent 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

228 PELAYO.

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 re-
member 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 con-
viction."

" Nay, be patient," replied Pelayo, " and thou wilt
hear. Dost think that a natural force could so have al-
tered him ? could so have changed valour into coward-
ice, 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 en-
feeble 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 enjoy-
ments 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

PELAYO, 229

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 1 What is the
price of his treachery with which ye reproach him 1 I
see it not, and, I make bold to say, ye see it not. Well
Iknow 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 ty-
rant ; 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 fa-
vour 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, wilh a goodly
dowry and a mighty train to my brother, and he had ta-
ken 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 influ-
ence upon the assembly, but they did not satisfy the
stubborn Aylor.

" WTherefore, then," he demanded, " this sudden
change in his spirit 1 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

YOL. II — U

230 PELAYO.

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 thut the price of his treach-
ery 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 sa-
vour and countenance of one. Wherefore all this,
Piince Pelayo? Unfold to us the mystery of this rea-
son, and leave us to think upon it."

" My Lord Aylor," replied Pelayo, " this matter is
no less a myste.y to me than to you ; but enough, as it
is a mystery, that we should take no precipitate meas-
ures 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 htm honest, I had been led to think h'm
base and treacherous, with a suspicion no less conclu-
sive than your own."

" Thinking thus, Prince Pelayo," responded the oth-
er, ""yet resolving as you do, is a mystery no less great
to me. How name you, then, this disease of which
u have spoken, and which^ according to your thought,
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 per-
mission, 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 infect-
ing 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 prov-
ocation to another who shall destroy him. In such ex-
tremity of fortune do I hold my brother a victim — but

PELATO* 231

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 necessa-
rily 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 de-
based 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 infirm-
ity 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 fa-
ther's memory and to our living liberties."

" Believe it, my lord, believe it all. He is not un-
true, 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 himj^
in the cause of his people and his sire."

" And yet," said the Lord Ayloiy who presided, " sup-
pose we deem your reason good,T*elayo, and spare his
life, and withhold the stroke of justice — which, to speak
truth, we had resolved — upon him, what have we to se-
cure 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 treach-
ery?"

232 PELAYO.

" My life upon it — I pledge you my head in his be-
half," was the unhesitating response of Pelayo.

Egiza, who had heard with momently increasing
ecornfulness, but without a word, the defence which Pe-
layo had made, and the various replies of Eudon, now,
when the former had concluded the dialogue by a sol-
emn offering of his own life as an assurance of his broth-
er'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 1" 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, calm-
ly, " 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 an-
ger me."

Thus speaking, he turned from the really almost in-
sane 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 rny head
at your disposition should he err to your injury. In a
little space I trust that his malady will leave him to him-
self 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

PE1AYO. 233

Come to his help, and expel from his bosom the unfriend-
ly 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, pre-
served him.

" What say ye, noble lords ?" said Eudon. " Ye
have heard the plea of Prince PeJayo 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
stiy you, then 1 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 Pe-
layo for our own, and set Egiza free. Shall we do this,
or obey that sterner rule of the Goth, which dooms to
death (he wilful sovereign or subject who dares dispute
our decree ? Speak, then, my lords. Shall this man
be free, or shall he die ?"

**v

' -',>'*

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 sus-
pense nor his brother should be present. This was sig-
nified to the two, who withdrew, though not together, to-
wards the gorge of the cave, leaving the discussion unim-
peded 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,
U2

234 PELAYO.

but that Pelayo went forward and communed first with
the watchful Bascone. The two brothers kept aloof,
Egizafull of jealousy, and doubtful of the honour of his
brother ; and though Pelayo had no such doubt with ref-
erence 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 delibera-
tions ; the Lord Aylor hotly urging the instant punish-
ment of Egiza, who had dared, contrary to all reasona-
ble expectation, to reject the honour which the council
proposed to bestow upon him. Aylor pointed to innu-
merable 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 de-
cision necessarily left open. Who was to be their sov-
ereign ? Who was to lead their arms in the absence of
their sovereign ? The general voice was at once in fa-
vour 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 stfch 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 feel-
ings. 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

PELAYO. 235

decree of the council was repeated to him, which re-
leased him from his nomination, and which consequent-
ly 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 in-
dulgence which they had shown to his unhappy brother,
and received in return the appointment of generalissi-
mo 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 despe-
rate 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 ha^ve 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 conso-
lation of that morbid sensibility which finds healing in
the hope of vengeance. Upor*4whom could he wreak
his vengeance 1 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 confi-
dence as if he moved in daylight. Already the cavern
of the conspirators was far behind him. In a little while,

\

236 PELAYO.

and he should be beyond the reach of his friends, be-
yond their recall, and, at every moment, increasing the
difficulties which lay in the path of his return. A care-
less 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 pre-
pared 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 T' 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, inter-
nally ; " 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 conceal-
ment, and not, fortunately, for his injury. A divine in-
stinct 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 !

PELAYO. 237

" 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 en-
tered the gloomy cavern, where his judges still sat in ear-
nest deliberation, unconscious of their own approach-
ing danger.

XI.

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, wa-
ving it in air.

" Thou shalt have work for thy teeth, Bascone ! Fol-

238 PELAYO.

low 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 re-
ply, nor did Pelayo deign him any other speech. The
nobles pressed their way forward, and when they reach-
ed 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 fol-
lowed close ; but, before they reached t^e scene of com-
bat, they were encountered by fugitives. A few ques-
tions, briefly answered, soon put Pelayo in possession of
the truth. The force of Edacer had been overtaken by
the venerable but valiant Hebrew, Mclchior, aided by a
band of Hebrews whom he had brought along with him
from the camp of Abimelech. That brave young Jew-
ish 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 Eda-
cer 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 as-
sailed, the advantage for the moment lay with the assail-
ants. 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 assail-
ants. With stentorian voice he arrested the pursuit
which his men were urging after Egiza, and soon rallied

PELAYO. 239

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 him-
self.

" 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 unshrink-
ing muscle of the bands of Edacer. Melchior and Abim-
elech 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, Mel-
chior 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 cav-
ern ; 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

240 PELAYO.

and heavy for him to withstand. He gave back slowly,
but still bravely righting ; and Pelayo, as his foe sank
back, taunted him with a playful scorn.

44 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
pres? thee thou givest me no such press in return as
they say thou bestowest upon the srreeri women of the
city. Am I less worthy of thy ciasp than they, that
thou shrinkest aw ay from my approach 1 Perhaps I am
not so winning. Say — is't not so, Lord Edacer T'

44 Thv arm is fresh, Pelay >, else thou hadst not spo-
ken ihus lightly of the blow from mine. Perchance by
this time thou hadst not jr uken at all."

44 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 gath-
ering point. Pelayo, at the same time, heard other
clamours approaching them from the distance, and
dreaded lest his people, who were now scattered in sev-
eral 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 to-
gether. 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, there-
fore, 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.

44 Thy mood grows warmer, my Lord of Cordova,
bin I cannot spare thee farther play !" said Pelayo, in a
lively voice.

*' Britarmin !" he cried aloud, as he parried with ease

PELAYO. 241

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 ad-
versary, 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 ac-
cents, 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 as-
sailant. When the commands of Pelayo reached the
VOL. II.— X

242 PELAYO.

ears of the Bascone, they found the sturdy follower un-
willing to yield a momentary advantage which he had
gained, and it was only when several of the Gothic sol-
diers 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 pre-
dicament.

" 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 con-
queringly, 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.

PELAYO. 243

XII.

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 de-
signs. 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," re-
plied 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

244 PELAYO.

will deem us too cautious and too few in number to en-
counter 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 ^re 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 infe-
rior officers, that they should keep the field and remain
upon their arms all night, as they well knew the valua-
ble 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 ven-
turous warriors stole down the hill to the edge of Eda-
cer's encampment, and surveyed with impunity the con-
dition 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 at-

PELAYO. 245

tempt, 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 xnot 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 move-
ment, 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 re-
deem 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. En-
camping where he was for the night, he despatched em-
issaries back to Cordova and to other places, calling for
additional troops. A large force under one of the lieu-
tenants 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
X2

246 PELAYO.

daylight, and soon recovered from his anger as he found
hiniself upon certain tracks of the hastily-retreating foe.

XIII.

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 prece-
ding night had only warmed the 'courage of his own peo-
ple 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 he given to certain friends, Spaniards
and Hebrews alike, to join them from the neighbouring
villages and cities. Towards evening the forces of
Edacer cJftme in sight, and his array was much more
formidable than Pelayo ha4 anticipated. The fires of
Edacer that night surrounded the mountain upon which
he had taken shelter, and he saw thlt there was safety
only in complete success. There was no outlet for es-
cape except through the hearts of the enemy. But this
gave no disquiet to Pelayo. On the contrary, his ener-
gies seemed to kindle and his spirits to expand in pro-
portion to the press of difficulties. A cheery and elas-
tic 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."

PELAYO.

247

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 V9 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 1 Have we not put guards on all the passes,
and how can they escape, unless such as thou turn cow-
ard 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 honesfc hope.
Pelayo arrayed and addressed his followers, assigned to
each his station, and had for each chief a%ord meant
for his particular ear, though full of force upon the ears
of others. None who heard him had doubts of the ap-
proaching event pand, 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 mount-
ain, where several overhanging masses of the rock form-
ed a sort of shelter. When there, and free from the pass-
ing 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
<>ne to bring back their thoughts to a sense of justice,

248 PELAYO.

and their late stubborn hearts to a renewal of all (heir
old and sacred affections. Pelayo, having a secret pur-
pose of good towards Egiza in his mind, began the con-
ference thus reproachfully:

" Thou hast wronged me, brother — thou hast deeply
wronged me — hast held me traitorous to thy service, dis-
honest 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 be-
lied me to the ears of base men as one unworthy."

" I gainsay not thy words, Pelayo," was the humble
response of tjie now subdued and repentant Egiza ;
" and if it will do thee right to hearken to prompt con-
fession 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 1 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 dis-
honest to thy right, as I was basely tempted by the per-
ilous 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."

PELAYO. 249

r " 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 Jjiear
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 con-
fession 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 unfor-
giving."

" 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 vin-
dictive. Thou shalt hear my penalties— thou shalt
bend thyself to 4he 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, dishonour-
ing thyself and me I" 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 1"

" '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 1 It was a toil for thy good, for thy great-
ness, for thy true glory, my brother. Did it deserve

250 PELAYO.

such meed as that thou gavest it — them 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 ail wrong when thou saidst to the lords in coun-
cil 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— r-what 'did Pelayo then ?
Performed thy duties — pleaded thy cause with argu-
ments 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 dis-
honest— 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 ser-
vice."

" 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 free-
dom thou hadst not found in court or camp, reproached
thee with thy feebleness."

PELAYO. 251

« Thou didst."

" Nay, more— such was my love for thee and for
thy honour — until thy better sense had taught thee com-
pliance 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 strug-
gle for. Did this seem the labour of a soul given up to
smooth-lipped artifice and cunning ? Bid 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 shall not have ; thou shalt do me right, Egi-
za. It is fos this I speak to thee now. What next,
my brother? Dost thou remember what was the lan-
guage 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 heed-
less 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 1"

" Thou didst not, brother."

" I have done question," said Pelayo. " I have dwelt,
my brother, on these things, that I should not lack jus-
tification for the judgment which I put upon thee. Now
hear me, as I doom thee, my brother, for these injuries."

252 PELAYO.

" 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 ws 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 punish-
ment."

* 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 ven-
geance upon this tyrant who has mantled it with blood."

PELAYO. 253

XIV.

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 self-
sacrifice touched the heart of the already humbled Egiza.

" Stab me rather with thy steel, my brother," he ex-
claimed, " 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
(he 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 re-
flection, 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

VOL. IL— Y

254 PELAYO.

rule is thine by their acclaim — thine to keep — how
canst them give it to another I"

" 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 an-
swer. 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 oth-
er 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 stri-
ving 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."

PELAYO. 255

w 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 de-
spite of the dangerl"

" 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 advan-
tage of the ground is ours, which want of food will hour-
ly lessen. We must descend to them ere noon to-mor-
row, and in desperate valour alone can we hope for suc-
cess. 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 per-
ilous ; 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,

£56 PELAYO.

•• 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 be-
fore 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."

*4 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

PELAYO. 257

another, and no less fervent prayer, that in thy day of
glory thou mayst not think of thy brother's base obscu-
rity, 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 self-
sacrifice 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 an-
guish strive together, and I tremble lest that I madden,
and so far forget myself as to fall into some unhappy vi-
olence. 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 un-
happy 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.
1 feel the heavy shame upon me like a mountain. Oh,
Y2

258 PELAYO.

C/ava ! '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, Pe-
layo — would thou hadst slain me with thy better weapon
when we had battled among these hills. Then none
had known my shame. WouM thou hadst made my
grave in some deep, narrow gorge of the highest mount-
ain, where no curious eyes might remark my fo,rm 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 mo-
ment'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, gli-
ding into the shadow of an overhanging crag, sunk feebly
down upon the flinty rock, whose hard bosom, in the an-
guish of his spirit, gave no disquiet to his form.

PELAYO. 259

XV.

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 offi-
cers. 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 res-
olute 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 se-
cure 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, screen-
ing 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

260 PELAYO.

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 meelt 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, re-
membered 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 lin-
ger, 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, im-
patient 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

PELAYO. 261

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, rely-
ing 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 emas-
culated. 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 op-
position 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 moon-
light, looked down upon the venerable Melchior and
his sleeping daughter.

XV.

" 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 respect^
fully. 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 de-
clared. 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

262

PELAYO.

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, Melehior, 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 prom-
ised 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, Mel-
chior," 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 an-
other claim which thou hast upqn Spain when she is
rescued from her tyrant."

" Speak no more of this matter, Prince Pelayo," re-
plied the old man ; " but say to me as thou didst pur-
pose— what next shall Melchior do — what is the task

PELAYO.

263

thou wouldst assign to the Hebrew 1 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 achieve-
ment? Surely, my prmce, 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 con-
trol 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 length-
ened 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

264 PELAYO.

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 thy-
self 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 peo-
ple thou shall choose separate and strong bands to fol-
low them. Does this disposition please thee, Melchior V9

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 re-
serve and dispose in clefts and places along the mount-
ain, 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 ene-
mies— 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 pres-
sing and immediate danger."

" This was already thought on, my prince/' said Mel-
chior ; " the men are chosen for this duty."

M Thy promptness gives me better assurance of tl*e

PELAYO. 265

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 shall 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, Mel-
chior* 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 bow-
men being stationed along the space of rock lying be-
tween the left and centre. To Abimelech, the right
pass I have assigned already. Upon our time of move-
ment 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 un-
derstood 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,"
VOL. II.— Z

' 266 PELAYO.

" Alas ! my prince, wherefore would I confess what
I may not conceal 1 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 jus-
tice— 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.

XVIL

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

PELAYO. 267

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 1" 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 wa-
ters 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 portions 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 — "

268 PELAYO.

" 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 ac-
cursed 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 gui-
dance, so greatly did they esteem him, the ancient feel-
ings 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 re-
membered old predictions, and they were happy in the
remembrance.

"Let the curs howl to-night while they may," ex-
claimed Edaeer, 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 Edaeer 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.

PELAYO. 269

XVIII.

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 belea-
guered 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 obser-
vation, 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 be-
cause 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
Z2

270 PELAYO.

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. w 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 Naza-
rene 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 can-
not 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 dis-
persed 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

PELAYO. 271

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 Je-
hovah, 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 tem-
per or of education, of sickness or of health, are com-
monly error — God be merciful, and judge of us, not ac-
cording to our thoughts, but according to our perform-
ances."

'* Father, let us pray now, that we may think with be-
coming 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."

272 PBLAYO.

XIX.

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 prepara-
tions, 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 be-
held her father binding his sash around his waist and
preparing his armour ; but she beheld no objects dis-
tinctly. 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 prepara-
tions 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

PELAYO. 273

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
rne 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 sa-
cred 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."

274 PELAYO.

XX.

MELCHIOR was busy in preparing and counselling his
Hebrews for the approaching combat when Peluyo
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 as-
sembled 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 ob-
jects. Heavy clouds still hung about the rising sun,
who thus seemed to look inauspiciously upon their en-
terprise. 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

PELAYO. 275

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 de-
scent 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 ad-
vance of JEdacer's army, which had left its tents, and
was arrayed in force at the foot of each of the sev-
eral passes, ready to encounter those who should de-
scend them, and who must necessarily do so at great
disadvantage, fighting with an irregular footing, and pre-
senting 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 oc-
casion 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 de-
spatched, 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 yow

276 PELAYO.

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 ad-
vance."

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 tumul-
tuous 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 be-
fore him, not merely awaiting his assault, but boldly
marching down in three dense masses upon his scat-
tered troops.

Surprised, but not confounded, Edacer immediately
sought to amend his error. He brought his men quick-
ly together, and advanced to nreet Pelayo. The first
shock was terrific. The spirits of the mountain war-
riors 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

PELAYO. 277

wielded as if it were a part of his own arm, he moved
like a terror and a tower through ev«ry part of the field,
striking here and striking there, seldom twice, encour-
aging his people at every stroke, and showing himself
particularly heedful of the Jewish warriors, whom he
cheered 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 Mel-
chior 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 baf-
fled— 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 Ro-
mans had adopted from the native Iberian, and had pre-
ferred 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

VOL. II —A A

278 PELAYO.

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 daunt-
ing the rage of the pursuit with the terrors of an unex-
pected 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 divis-
ion of Edacer's army, and had obtained like advantages
with those which he had won from Abimelech, now ar-
rived 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 wilh 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 specta-
cle to those around. But though Melchior seemed en-
dowed with the strength of youth, it was not possible for
him to strike long against the vigorous Edacer, particu-
larly, 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 diffi-
cult than ever for the Hebrew to parry and avoid ; until,

PELAYO. 279

at length, aiming to defend himself from a severe blow
meditated by the Goth, he threw up his maule cross-
wise 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, signifi-
cant 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 inter-
changed 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 blo^d, that stood glued
in thick clots upon it, to the thirsting blade of the Gothic
sword. Two strokes had not been made between them

280 PELAYO,

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 arid flight of the
Gothic warriors, the victory of Pelayo was complete.

XXI.

IN a remote corner of the mountain, apart from the
assembled and rejoicing warriors, Melchior sat in hope-
less 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 Mel-
chior. 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 *he
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

PELAYO. 281

warrior as he went into battle, and which she had un-
consciously 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.

L'ENVOY.

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 mo-
ments may have hung heavily upon our hands, and some-
thing 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. As-
cribe 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 ad-
dition to some of those with whom we have in part

282 PELAYO.

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 inexcu-
sable, treason of the valorous Count Julian. But let us
not vex thee now with these imperfect shacjowings.
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.

.

*