DONNA ISIDORA.
"She sung of love--while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And played around those lips that sung,
And spoke as flowers would sing and speak,
If love could lend their leaves a tongue."
MOORE.
Unpleasant though his new acquaintances were in many ways, Quentin
felt a certain sense of lofty satisfaction that he was a successful
though humble actor in the great European drama. His mission was
achieved! The junction with the first division would doubtless be
effected by the guerillas, and as he thought of the castle of
Rohallion and those who were there, of gentle Flora Warrender and his
boyish love, he began to hope--indeed to believe--that he was
actually destined for great things after all.
In such a mind as Quentin's there was much of chivalry, nobility, and
enthusiasm that mingled with his deep love for a pure and beautiful
young girl like Flora.
In some respects, the companionship, aspect, equipment, and bearing
of those half-lawless, but wholly patriotic soldiers, seemed a
realization of those day-dreams or imaginary adventures his romance
reading had led him to weave and fashion; but the awful episode of
the night, though fully illustrative of the Spanish character, and of
the mode in which the patriots were disposed to carry on the war, was
a feature in guerilla life never to be forgotten!
"My sister, the Senora Donna Isidora," said Baltasar, assuming much
of the courtly bearing of a true Spanish gentleman, while introducing
Quentin to a very handsome girl; "Donna Ximena, the mother of our
comrade Trevino," he added, with a deeper reverence, on presenting
him to a woman, so old, little, dark, and hideous, that, after
bowing, he hastened to look again at the younger lady.
"The senor will kiss your hand, Isidora," said Don Baltasar.
Quentin did so, just touching with his lip a very lovely little hand,
but, happily for him, the leathern paw of the venerable Trevino was
not presented. Then the party, which consisted of Baltasar, Trevino,
two other Spaniards, whose names are of no consequence, the two
ladies, and their youthful guest, seated themselves at table.
The mother of the ungodly Trevino was a deaf old crone who seldom
spoke, but always crossed herself with great devotion when Quentin
looked her way, having a proper horror of all heretics, whom she
believed to be the children of the devil, and all to be more or less
possessed of the evil eye.
Beauty belongs to no particular country, and is to be found, more or
less, everywhere, yet most travellers now begin to admit that Spanish
beauty is somewhat of a delusion or a dream, which poets and
novelists think it proper or necessary to indulge in and rave about;
and some of the aforesaid travellers begin to assert that, beyond a
pair of dark eyes and a set of regular teeth, it cannot be honestly
said that the women of Spain have much to boast of.
Be that as it may, Isidora de Saldos was a singularly lovely girl, in
somewhere about her eighteenth year, a very ripe age in the sunny
land of Castile. Her eyes indeed were marvellous, they were so soft
and dark, and alternately so sparkling, languishing, and expressive
of earnestness, all the more striking from the pale complexion of her
little face. In their deep setting and with their long thick upper
and lower lashes, those seductive eyes seemed to be black, while, in
reality, they were of the darkest grey. Her dark brown hair was
long, rich in colour, and unrivalled in softness. It was of that
texture which, unhappily, never lasts long, and which often, ere
five-and-twenty comes, has lost alike its length and profusion.
Her Spanish dress became her blooming years, her figure (which was
rather petite), and the piquant character of her beauty. It
consisted of a scarlet velvet corset, and short but ample skirts of
alternate black and scarlet flounces, all very full; slippers of
Cordovan leather, with high heels, and scarlet stockings, clocked
almost to the knee, over the tightest of ankles.
A white muslin handkerchief, prettily disposed over her bosom, a high
comb at the back of her head, round which her magnificent dark hair
was gathered and fastened by a long gold pin, that looked
unpleasantly like a poniard (indeed, it could be used as such), with
silver bracelets on her slender wrists, long pendants that glittered
at her tiny ears, a large medal bearing the image of the Madonna hung
round her neck, and a black lace mantilla, depending from the comb
and flowing over all, completed her attire.
The medal was of pure gold, and bore the inscription, "_O Marie,
concue sans péché, priez pour nous qui avons recours à vous_," and
was, as she afterwards informed Quentin, the gift of the Padre
Trevino, who found it on the body of a Frenchman whom he had shot
near Albuquerque.
"Did you ever taste a real Spanish olla, senor?" asked Baltasar, as
the covers were removed, and the odour of a steaming and savoury dish
pervaded the apartment.
Quentin declared that he had not.
"Then thou shalt taste it to-night. My sister is a famous cook,"
said Baltasar; "an olla she excels in--it was the favourite dish of
our old father, the professor at Salamanca, and is the most noble
dish in the world!"
"If Spanish, it must be," said Quentin, flatteringly.
"True," said Baltasar, gravely, while giving each of his enormous
moustaches an upward twist; "we consider everything Spanish supremely
good."
"We are rather a proud people, you see, senor," said Donna Isidora,
laughing; "and so far is pride carried, that to touch royalty is to
die."
"Manuel Godoy touched royalty pretty often," said Trevino, with a
grim smile, "and we never heard that Her Majesty of Spain resented it
particularly."
"Did you ever hear of the escape of the sister of Philip III., senor?"
"I regret to say, Don Baltasar, that I never heard of Philip
himself," replied Quentin.
"About two hundred years ago our royal family were residing at
Aranjuez," said Baltasar, while filling his own and Quentin's glass
with wine; "it is a country palace twenty miles south of Madrid, and
is remarkable for its size and beauty. One night it caught fire; the
court and all the attendants took to flight, leaving the youngest
sister of Don Philip to perish. She was seen at one of the windows
wringing her hands and imploring the saints to succour her, but a
young arquebusier of the royal guard proved of more avail. He
bravely dashed through the flames, raised her in his arms, and bore
her forth in safety. But Spanish etiquette was shocked that the hand
of a subject--of a man especially--had touched royalty; nay, worse,
that he should have entered her bed-chamber, so the soldier was cast
into a dungeon, chained to a heavy bar, and condemned to _die_! But
the princess graciously pardoned him, and he was sent away to fight
the Flemings under the Duke of Alva. His name was De Saldos, and
from him we are descended."
Spanish etiquette made Donna Isidora rather silent and reserved; she
somewhat uselessly addressed the old crone Donna Ximena from time to
time, and that worthy matron only responded by mutterings, shaking
her palsied head, or signing the cross beneath the table. At other
times Isidora made an occasional remark to Trevino, by whom she was
evidently greatly admired, for his keen stealthy eyes were seldom off
her face, and a malevolent gleam shot from them whenever, in
dispensing the courtesies of the table, she addressed Quentin Kennedy.
The past day's skirmish among the mountains, the capture and
slaughter of the sixteen French prisoners, had appetized Baltasar and
his three companions; and though Spanish cookery is seldom very
excellent, Quentin was quite hungry enough to enjoy the olla podrida
of beef, chicken, and bacon, boiled with sliced gourd, carrots,
beans, red sausages, and heaven knows what more, well peppered and
spiced.
A few strings of rusks, a dish of raisins, with plenty of good
Valdepenas in jolly flasks, closed the repast, after which the
invariable cigars were resorted to, prior to repose.
As the whitewashed room, though scantily furnished, was close and
warm, and as fighting was over for the night, Baltasar and his
comrades unbuttoned their jackets, and each disencumbered himself of
a _peto_ or wadded stuffing, which was supposed to turn a bullet, all
the better that there was pasted thereon a coloured print of some
local saint.
The conversation ran chiefly on the new war about to be waged by the
allies in Spain, the various routes likely to be taken by the several
divisions, the probable points of concentration, and so forth. These
were chiefly discussed by Baltasar and his three companions, all of
whom had already seen much service against the French. The extreme
youth of Quentin, and his total ignorance of the country, made them
somewhat ignore his presence, notwithstanding the important despatch
he had brought, the scarlet coat he wore, and that he was the herald
of that great strife that was not to cease, even at the Hill of
Toulouse!
He sedulously avoided addressing or coming in contact in any way with
the Padre Trevino, of whom he naturally had a proper horror, as an
apostate priest who, exceeding his duty as a guerilla, became an
assassin, and so coolly avowed his deadly design upon the father of
Ribeaupierre.
The youth, the fair complexion, the gentleness of voice and eye the
donna saw in Quentin, together with certain unmistakeable signs of
good breeding, when contrasted with the dark, fierce aspect and
brusque bearing of those about her now, failed not to interest her
deeply.
The solitary mission on which he had come; the distance from his own
country, of the exact situation of which, in her strange Spanish
notions of geography (though passably educated for a Castilian), she
had not the slightest idea, for in those points her countrymen are
not much improved since Vasco de Lobiera wrote of the fair Olinda
taking ship in Norway, and sailing to the King of England's "Island
of Windsor;" the knowledge that Quentin was come to fight, it might
be to _die_, for her beloved Spain, all served to present him in a
most favourable light to her very lovely eyes, which rested on him so
frequently that the sharp-sighted Trevino more than once bit his ugly
nether lip with suppressed irritation, while Quentin felt his pulses
quicken with pleasure, for the dark little beauty, in her picturesque
national costume, was a delightful object to gaze upon; thus, a
longer residence than he intended in that mountain puebla might
perhaps have led we are not prepared to say to what species of
mischief.
As the wine circulated, and the conversation still turned on the war,
Quentin ventured the remark--a perilous one amid such gentry--that he
thought the scene he had recently witnessed was not favourable to the
good success of the Spanish cause.
Every brow loured as he said this, and the gentle donna looked uneasy.
"Madre divina! you don't know what you talk about, senor," said
Baltasar, gravely; "had you seen your countrymen, as I have mine,
shot down in poor defenceless groups of thirty or forty at a time, on
the open Prado of Madrid, you would think less harshly of us."
"And, senor," urged Isidora, in her soft and musical tones, "the poor
people of the city were forced to illuminate their houses in honour
of the sacrifice. Was not such cruelty horrible?"
"Horrible indeed, senora," replied Quentin, feeling that it really
was so, though sooth to say he would have agreed with anything she
might have advanced, for there was no withstanding those earnest eyes
and that seductive voice.
"Light as noonday were the streets on that awful night," said
Baltasar, as the fierce gleam came into his eyes and the pallor of
passion passed over each of his sallow cheeks; "ten thousand lamps
and candles shed their glare upon the heaps of slain, where women
were searching for their husbands, children for parents and parents
for children, while the cannon thundered from the Retiro, and the
volleying musketry rang in many a street and square. What says the
Junta of Seville in its address to the people of Madrid? 'We, all
Spain, exclaim--the Spanish blood shed in Madrid cries aloud for
revenge! Comfort yourselves, we are your brethren: we will fight
like you until the last of us perish in defence of our king and
country!' Senor, the massacres of the 2nd of May were a sight to
shudder at--to treasure in the heart and to remember!"
"And by our holy Lady of Battles and of Covadonga, we are not likely
to forget!" swore Trevino, striking the table with the hilt of his
knife.
"The spirits of the Cid Rodrigo, of Pelayo the Asturian, and all the
loyal and brave men of old, are among us again," said Baltasar, with
enthusiasm, "and we shall crush the slaves of the Corsican to whom
Manuel Godoy betrayed us!"
"Godoy," said a guerilla who had scarcely yet spoken, but who seemed
inspired by the same ferocious spirit; "oh that I may yet some day
despatch him as Pinto Ribiero slew that similar traitor, Vasconcella
the false Portuguese."
"Always blood!" thought Quentin, beginning to fear that from
indulging in bluster and rodomontade, they might fall on him, were it
for nothing more but to keep their hands in practice.
"I perceive you look frequently at my guitar," said Donna Isidora, on
seeing that Quentin evidently disliked the ferocious tone adopted by
her brother and his companions; "do you sing, senor?"
"No, senora."
"Or play?"
"The guitar is scarcely known in my country; but if you would favour
us----"
"With pleasure, senor," said she, with a charming smile.
"Bueno, Dora," said her brother, taking from its peg the guitar and
handing it to her; on which she threw its broad scarlet riband over
her shoulder, ran her white and slender fingers through the strings,
and then a lovely Spanish picture, that Phillips might have doted on,
was complete.
"What shall it be, Baltasar?" she asked; adding with a swift glance
at Quentin's scarlet coat, "'_Mia Madre no caro soldados aqui_'--eh?"
"Nay, Dora, that would scarcely be courteous to our guest, who is a
soldier."
"What then, mi hermano?"
"Give us one of Lope de Vega's songs. There is that ballad which
compliments the English king who came to seek a wife in Spain."
Then with great sweetness she sang Lope's verses, which begin--
"Carlos Stuardo soy,
Qui siendo amor mi guia,
Al cielo de Espana voy,
Por ver mi estrella Maria."
While she sang, Quentin thought of the old Jacobite enthusiasm of
Lady Winifred and Lord Rohallion, and how they would have admired
alike the song and the singer; and while his eyes were fixed on her
soft pale face and thick downcast eyelashes, he neither heard the
accompaniment Baltasar beat with a pair of castanets, or by the Padre
Trevino with the haft of a remarkably ugly knife, which seemed alike
his favourite weapon and plaything.
In a few minutes after this they had all separated for the night, and
Quentin, without undressing, as he proposed to start early on the
following morning, stretched on a hard pallet and muffled in his
great coat, with his sabre and pistols under his head, soon sank into
slumber, the sound, deep slumber induced by intense fatigue; and from
this not even the horrors of the recent massacre, the louring visage
of the suspicious Trevino, the voice, the eyes, of the lovely young
donna, or any other memory, could disturb him.