_RIVALS AT DON PHILIP'S HOUSE._
When Montoro de Diego quitted the palace of Don Alonso his face
betokened an anxiety even greater than that warranted by the
conversation in which he had just taken part. To say truth his secret
belief was, that the deadly decision arrived at by his friends was the
frothy result of recent disappointed hopes, and that with the calming
influence of time bolder and more honourable counsels would prevail. As
he left the palace, therefore, he left also behind him all disquietudes
especially associated with the late discussion, and the settled gravity
of his face now belonged to matters of more private interest.
Don Alonso had declared, that it was easy enough to see that Don
Diego had no friends amongst those looked upon with evil eyes by
the authorities of the Inquisition. But Don Alonso was wrong. The
two friends whom Don Diego valued more highly than any others upon
earth were reputed of the race of Israel. Christians indeed, for two
generations past, but still with a true proud gratitude clinging to
the remembrance that they had the blood in their veins of the "chosen
people of God." They were Don Philip and his daughter Rachel.
Don Miguel had remarked with something of a sneer that it was easy
enough to remember, from his present action, that Don Diego was
unencumbered with family ties. And Don Miguel was so far right that
Montoro de Diego was as yet a bachelor. But he was on the eve of
marriage with Don Philip's daughter, and the words of his fellow-nobles
had rung in his ears as words of evil omen. As he paced along the
streets he tried in vain to shake off his dark forebodings, and it was
with a very careworn countenance that he at length presented himself at
the home of his promised bride.
To his increased disturbance, upon being ushered into the presence of
Don Philip and his daughter, the young nobleman found a stranger with
them; at least, one who was a stranger to him, though apparently not
so to his friends, with whom he appeared to be on terms of familiar
intercourse.
Don Diego at once took a deep aversion to the interloper, for he had
entered with the full determination to press upon Rachel and Don Philip
the expediency of an immediate marriage, in order that both father
and daughter might have the powerful protection of his high position,
and undoubted Spanish descent and orthodoxy. But it was, of course,
impossible to speak on such topics in the presence of a stranger. So
annoyed was he that his greetings to his betrothed bride partook of his
constraint, and the girl appeared relieved when her father called to
her:
"Rachel, my child, the evening is warm; will you not order in some
fruit for the refreshment of our guests?"
As the beautiful young girl left the apartment in gentle obedience to
her father's desire the stranger followed her with his eyes, saying
with studied softness:
"Your daughter is so lovely it were a pity that she had not been
dowered with a fairer name."
The old man sighed before replying: "Perchance, Señor, you are right.
And yet, in my ears the name of Rachel has a sweetness that can
scarcely be surpassed."
"It might sound sweeter in mine," rejoined the stranger still in tones
of studied suavity, "if it were not one of the names favoured by the
accursed race of Israel."
A momentary flash shot from the eyes of Don Philip, but hastily he
dropped his lids over them as he answered with forced quietude:
"Doubtless I should have bestowed another name upon my child had I
foreseen these days, when it is counted for a crime to be descended
from those to whom the Great I Am, in His infinite wisdom, gave the
first Law and the first Covenant."
He ceased with another low, quiet sigh, and a short silence ensued,
during which Don Diego felt rather than saw the sharp, searching
glances being bestowed upon himself by the stranger, who at length
rose, and said coolly:
"Ay, truly, Don Philip, a crime it is in the eyes of Holy Mother Church
to have aught to do, even to the extent of a name, with the accursed
race, and so, to repeat my offer to you for the hand of your fair
daughter. I support my offer now with the promise--not a light one,
permit me to impress upon you--to gain the sanction of the Church that
her old name of Rachel shall be cancelled, and a new and Christian one
bestowed upon her?"
As he finished speaking he turned from Don Philip with a look of
insolent assurance to Don Diego, who in his turn had started from
his seat, and stood with nervous fingers grasping the hilt of his
rapier. As the nobleman met the sinister eyes, full of an impertinent
challenge, he made a hasty step forward with the haughty exclamation:
"And who are you pray, sir, who dare ask for the hand of one who is
promised to Don Montoro de Diego? Know you, sir, that the daughter of
Don Philip is my affianced bride?"
"I have heard something of the sort," was the reply, in a tone of
indescribable cool insolence. "Yes; I have already learnt that you have
had eyesight good enough to discover the fairest beauty in Saragossa.
But you had better leave her to me, noble Señor. She will be--" and
the speaker paused a moment to give greater emphasis to his next
slowly-uttered words--"she will be safer with me than with you--and
her father also." And with a parting look and nod, so full of latent
knowledge and cruel determination that Don Diego's blood seemed to
freeze in his veins as he encountered them, the new aspirant for the
beautiful young heiress took his leave.
As the great iron-bound outer door clanged to, behind him, the head
of the old man sank forward on his breast with a groan. His daughter
re-entered the apartment at the moment, and the smile which had begun
to dawn on her countenance at the departure of the unwelcome guest gave
way to a cry of dismay. Flying across the floor she threw herself on
the ground beside her father with a pitiful little cry.
"Oh! my father, are you ill?--What ails you, my father?"
For some seconds the old man's trembling hand tenderly caressing the
soft hair was the only answer. At last he asked with a choked voice:
"My daughter--couldst thou be content to wed yon Italian?"
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the girl sprang to her
feet, gazing with wild eyes at her questioner.
"Kill me, my father, but give me not to yon awful, hateful man.
Besides--" and with a look of agonized entreaty she turned towards Don
Diego--"besides, am I not already given by you to another?"
"And to another who has both the will and the power to claim the
fulfilment of the promise," exclaimed Montoro de Diego, coming forward,
and clasping the girl's hand in his with an air of iron resolution.
Once again there was a heavy silence in the darkening chamber, and when
it was broken the hearers felt scarcely less oppressed by the sound,
although the words themselves seemed to speak of happiness.
"My son," said the old man in low and urgent tones, "it is true, I have
given you my child--my only one. Fetch the good old priest Bartolo now,
at once, and secretly, and let him within this hour make my gift to you
secure."
A faint protest against this sudden, unexpected haste was made by the
young bride, but Don Diego needed no second bidding to the adoption of
a course he considered to be dictated as much by prudence as affection.
Two hours later Montoro de Diego wended his way to his own palace with
his young wife, Rachel Diego, by his side.
"Do not weep so, my Rachel," entreated the young nobleman as he led his
bride into her new home.
But the tears of the agitated girl flowed as bitterly as ever as she
moaned, "My father--oh! my father! If but my father had come with us!"
"He has promised to take up his abode with us, if possible, within
the next few weeks, my Rachel," returned Montoro de Diego, in the
vain endeavour to give her comfort. But she dwelt upon the words, "if
possible," rather than upon the promise. She guessed but too well the
fears which had dismissed her thus summarily from her father's home.
She had heard but too much of the hideous tragedies of the past two
months, and her husband himself was too oppressed with forebodings to
give her consolation in such a tone of confidence as should secure her
belief.
Don Philip had offered his life for his daughter's happiness, and his
daughter well-nigh divined the fact.
Had the Christianized Jew consented to give his daughter, and his
daughters princely fortune, to the vile informer of the Inquisition, he
would have escaped harm or persecution, at any rate for that season.
But he counted the cost, and taking his life into his hand, for the
sake of his child's happiness, he committed her henceforth to the
loving charge of the noble-hearted Don Diego. The fulfilment of the
sacrifice was not long delayed.
The days went by, and the weeks--one--two--three. The second day of
the fourth week was drawing to its close, since the group of Spanish
noblemen had muttered their passionate resolves to rid their Aragon
of Arbues de Epila. They had not been idle since then. Time had not
quenched their burning indignation, but rather fanned it fiercer as
they gathered fresh adherents, and gold, that ever needful aid in all
enterprises. But the one adherent Don Alonso and Don Miguel most longed
for still held aloof.
The lengthening shadows of that day belonged also, as the reader knows,
to the second day of the fourth week since Don Diego's marriage, and
his new ties made him but increasingly anxious to keep in the most
careful path of rectitude, for the sake of expediency now as much as
honour.
The name of Montoro de Diego was hitherto so unblemished, his rank was
so important, that he might well believe himself a safe protector for
his young bride, and for his new father-in-law, even though it was
not wholly unmixed, pure Spanish blood that flowed in their veins.
And he was firm in his refusal to have any part in schemes of danger.
His wife was safe, hidden up in the recesses of his palace; and his
father-in-law, he trusted, had secured safety in flight.
On the day succeeding that on which Don Philip had refused to purchase
peace at the price of his daughter's welfare, Rachel Diego had received
a few hurried lines of farewell from him, saying that he was going
into exile until safer times for Saragossa, and bidding her be of good
cheer, as all immediately concerning themselves now promised to go well.
Under these circumstances Don Diego might be pardoned, perhaps, if for
a time he forgot the miseries surrounding him--forgot his hopes to
infuse a bolder, nobler spirit of upright resistance to evil, into his
comrades, and rested content with his own happiness.
But there came a dark awakening.
The day had been one of dazzling heat; and as the sun's rays grew more
and more slanting, and the shadows longer, Don Diego bid his gentle
young wife a short adieu, and sauntered forth to draw, if possible, a
freer breath out-of-doors than was possible within.
He had been more impatient in seeking the evening breeze than most of
his fellow-citizens, for the streets were still almost deserted. There
was but one pedestrian besides himself in sight, and Montoro de Diego
was well content to note that that one was a stranger, for he was in no
mood just then for parrying fresh solicitations from his friends by
signs, and half-uttered words, to join their secret counsels. He was
sufficiently annoyed when he perceived at the lapse of a few seconds
that even the stranger was evidently bent on accosting him. Determined
not to have his meditations interrupted he turned short round, and
began to retrace his way towards his own abode.
But not so was he to secure isolation. The rapid pitpat of steps behind
him quickly proved that the stranger was as desirous of a meeting as he
was wishful to avoid it; and scarcely had the Spanish nobleman had time
to entertain thoughts of mingled wonder and annoyance, when he shrank
angrily from a tap on his arm, and faced round to see what manner of
individual it might be who had dared such a familiarity with one of the
grandees of Aragon. The explanation was sudden and complete.
A low, mocking laugh greeted the involuntary widening of his eyes. Don
Diego stood face to face with the man he had seen but once before; but
that was on an occasion never to be forgotten, for it was the evening
of his marriage, and the man before him was the one who had dared try
to deprive him of his bride. For that he bore him no love, nor for the
hinted threats then uttered; but now his blood curdled with instinctive
horror as he gazed at the sinister, cruel face mocking his with an
expression on it of such cool insolence.
Don Diego's most eager impulse was to dash his companion to the ground
and leave him; but for the first time in his life fear had gained
possession of him. Fear, not for himself, but for those whom he held
more precious.
"Why do you stay me? What would you with me?" he questioned at last, in
tones that vainly strove for their customary accent of haughtiness. The
cynical triumph of the Italian grew more visible.
"Meseems, my Señor," he replied with a sneer; "meseems from your
countenance, and your new-found humility of voice, that your heart must
have prophesied to you that matter anent which I have stayed you, that
counsel that I would, for our mutual advantage, hold with you. It is of
Don Philip and his daughter Rachel that I wish to speak with you."
Montoro de Diego inclined his head in silent token of attention, and
the foreigner continued in slow, smooth speech:
"Doubtless, my Señor, you remember that in your presence, some few
weeks ago, I made proposals of marriage for the fair, rich daughter of
Don Philip. The night of the day on which I made these proposals the
birds flew from me, and from my little hints in case of contumacy, out
of Saragossa. That was a foolish step to take, my Señor, was it not?"
He paused for an answer, and the dry lips of Don Diego replied stiffly:
"Don Philip asked me not for counsel in his actions, neither did I give
it."
"Ah!" resumed the Italian with a second sneer, "that may perchance be
a true statement, Don Diego; but I shall be better inclined to accept
it worthily, when you shall now reverse your professed behaviour, and
accept the post of adviser to the obstinate heretic."
"I cannot," was the hasty exclamation. "Don Philip is no heretic, but a
faithful son of the Church, and I have no clue to his retreat."
"Then I can give you one," was the low-spoken answer. "Don Philip has
been tracked, and brought back. But his daughter is not with him. He
refuses to confess her hiding-place, although he is now in the dungeons
of the Holy Inquisition, and can purchase freedom by the information."
"Cruel, black-hearted villain!" exclaimed Don Diego, shocked and
infuriated at length beyond all prudence; "know this, that Rachel,
daughter of Don Philip, is now my bride. And know this yet further,
that the nobles of Aragon are not yet so ground beneath the feet of a
new dominion that they cannot protect their wives, and those belonging
to them, from the perjured baseness of dastards who would destroy them."
Once more the young nobleman turned to quit his abhorred companion, but
once more that hated touch fell upon his arm, and the Italian again
confronted him with a face literally livid with malice as he hissed out:
"The nobles of Aragon are doubtless all-powerful, my Señor, and yet for
your news of your bride I will give you news of her father. Ere this
hour to-morrow the burnt ashes of his body will have been scattered to
the four winds of heaven. Take that news back to your bride to win her
welcome with."
Don Diego was alone. Whether he had been leaning against the walls of
that heavy portico five seconds, five minutes, or five hours, he could
scarcely tell when he became conscious of his own painful reiteration
of the words, "Ere this hour to-morrow--ere this hour to-morrow."
"What is the matter, Montoro? rouse yourself. What about this hour
to-morrow?" asked the voice of Don Alonso at his elbow. And Montoro
shudderingly raised himself from the wall, looked with dazed eyes at
his friend, and repeated:
"Ere this hour to-morrow. Will she know?"
"Will who know?" again questioned Don Alonso, as he passed his arm
through his friend's and drew him on, for the street was no longer
empty. Doors were opening on all sides, and the people pouring forth
to the various entertainments of the evening. Some curious glances had
already been cast at Don Diego, as he leant there stupefied with horror
and anguish for his wife's threatened misery.
In the early part of the evening the Italian tool of the Inquisition
had sought Don Diego. When evening had given way to night, Don Diego
sought the Italian, and as a suppliant.
"It ill suits an Aragonese to sue to the villain of a foreigner," said
the wretch, with malicious sarcasm. "It makes me marvel, my Señor, that
you should deign thus to condescend."
"I marvel also," murmured the Spaniard, rather to himself than to his
unworthy companion. "When the sword of the Moor was at my throat I
disdained to sue for mercy; when I lay spurned by the pirate's foot I
felt no fear; but now--ay now, if you will--I will give you the power
to boast that one of the greatest of the nobles of Aragon has knelt at
your feet to sue for a favour at your hands."
"And you will not deny the humiliating fact if I should publish it?"
demanded the Italian, with a half air of yielding, and Montoro Diego,
with a light of hope springing into his face, exclaimed:
"No, no. I will myself declare the deed, if for its performance you
will obtain me the life and freedom of Don Philip."
Like a drowning man stretching forth to a straw, Montoro had snatched
at a false hope. With that low, mocking laugh that issued freely enough
from his thin, cruel lips, the Italian said slowly:
"Ah! your wish is very great, my Señor, I see that--truly very great to
save a heart-ache to your bride. But--see you--you have hindered Jerome
Tivoli of his desire, and now it is his turn, the turn of the 'base,
black-hearted villain,' Jerome. And he takes your desire into his
ears, he tastes it on his palate, it is sweet to him, sweetened with
the thought of revenge, and then--he spurns it--spits it forth from
him--thus!"
The Aragonese tore his rapier from its sheath, and darted forward, his
fierce southern blood aflame with fury at the insult. But his companion
stood there coolly with folded arms, content to hiss between his teeth:
"We are not unwatched, my Señor. I have plenty to avenge me if you
think Doña Rachel will be gratified to lose husband now as well as
father."
The mention of his wife was opportune. It restored Don Diego to his
self-control. With a mighty effort mastering his pride, he collected
his thoughts for one final attempt on behalf of the good old man doomed
so tyrannically to an awful death.
Before seeking this second interview with the foreigner Montoro de
Diego had schooled himself to bear everything for the sake of his
one great object, and although for a moment he had allowed self to
rise uppermost, he now once more crushed it down, and returned to the
attitude of the humble suppliant.
He did not indeed repeat the offer, so insultingly rejected, to kneel
to the informer, but he appealed earnestly to more sordid instincts.
The man had alluded to Don Philip's daughter as rich as well as
beautiful, and he now offered him the heiress's wealth as compensation
for the loss of the heiress herself.
As he spoke a sudden gleam of satisfaction shot into the Italian's
eyes, and a second time a hope, far greater than the first, rose in
the petitioner's heart; but yet again it was dashed to the ground.
Just as he was prepared to hear that his terms were agreed upon,
his companion's countenance underwent a sudden change. A shadow had
just fallen across the floor, and with a heavy scowl replacing the
expression of greed he bent forward with the hasty mutter:
"Fool of a Spaniard, has that idiot tongue of thine but one tone, that
thou must needs screech thy offers, like a parrot from the Indies, into
all ears that choose to listen?" Then aloud, as though in continuation
of a widely-different theme: "And so, as I tell thee, thy offers go
for nought, for the wealth will of right flow into the coffers of the
Sacred Office when the accursed Jew shall have suffered in the flesh to
save his soul. And now," insolently, "I have no more time to listen to
thy prating, and so go."
Whether he went of his free will, or was turned out, Montoro de
Diego never clearly remembered, but on finding himself beneath the
starry sky, he dashed off to the palace of the dread Arbues himself.
Well-nigh frantic with despair, as he thought of the torments that the
aged prisoner was even then all too probably undergoing, he forced
admittance, late though the hour was, to the presence of the stern
ecclesiastic, who was prudently surrounded by guards even in the
privacy of his own supper-room. Nothing short of the great influence of
Don Diego's high rank would have enabled him to penetrate so far, but
even that did not protect him from the Inquisitor's rebuke, nor gain
him a favourable hearing for his cause.
"It is our blessed office," said the bigoted supporter of Rome's worst
errors, "to purge the Church, to--"
"If Don Philip die, others will die with him," sharply interrupted the
young Spaniard, with fierce significance, and he left the Inquisitor's
palace as abruptly as he had entered it, half determined, in that
bitter hour, to throw in his lot with the conspirators. If there were
none to listen to reason, none to obey the dictates of justice or
mercy, why should he maintain alone his integrity?
So passion and despair tried to argue against his conscience, as he
retraced his steps to his own home and the waiting Rachel. But the
events of that night were not yet over.