True courage, distinguished from that which is called forth
by particular occasions, and the operation of a powerful and
headlong excitement, comprehends not only a contempt for danger,
but self-possession under surprise. To meet an expected peril,
for which we have had time to prepare, is a trial only for the
most ordinary minds; but to retain firmness and judgment under
a shock, attended by circumstances of which we could have no
possible anticipation, and which render the danger more striking
and formidable, undoubtedly requires a brave and intrepid spirit.
Hildebrand, on the entry into his retreat of two armed men, one
of whom he recognised as an individual that he had supposed to be
in England, certainly experienced no small surprise; but, despite
of this, he was perfectly firm and collected. On the other hand,
Inez was quite confounded, and her presence of mind, which she
had hitherto maintained entire, appeared to have utterly deserted
her.
There was no time for hesitation. The two intruders, preparatory
to making an onset, had already unsheathed their rapiers, and,
if the expression of their respective countenances might be
received as evidence, seemed to be stirred and animated by the
most determined hostility. The posture taken up by Hildebrand,
however, and his evident resolution, induced them to pause, and,
after a moment’s interval, to enter on a parley.
“Surrender, Sir!” cried Don Felix. “We have a warrant from the
corregidor, apart from any suit of our own, for thine immediate
apprehension.”
“I cry you mercy, Senhor,” replied Hildebrand, “but, with thy
good leave, I must hold thy warrant in exceeding doubt. Thou art
no alguazil, I know; and, this admitted (and ’tis past dispute),
where be the powers that will put the warrant in force?”
“Thou shalt see them anon,” answered Don Felix. And, raising his
voice, he added, in Spanish, “Without, there!”
He had scarcely uttered his brief summons, when the tread of
feet was heard without, and, the next moment, four alguazils,
armed with their long staves of office, presented themselves at
the doorway. This array, however, did not have that effect on
Hildebrand that the two cavaliers had expected.
“Senhors,” he cried, maintaining his original defensive posture,
“I have done your laws no offence, and I am resolved that
ye shall not take me alive. Look to it, therefore! or your
unprovoked opposition, if ye press it further, may bring on you
serious detriment.”
“Tut, Sir!” cried the cavalier who had not yet spoken,
contemptuously, “dost think to brave out such a power as ours?”
Hildebrand, seeing that nothing was to be gained from parley, was
about to manifest his purpose by action, and, though the opposing
power was so decidedly superior, endeavour to carry his egress by
force. Before he could commence his meditated assault, however,
he was arrested by Inez.
That lady, having for the last few minutes been perfectly
passive, and left to recover from the shock she had sustained,
had by this time somewhat collected herself. The appearance
of the alguazils, indeed, being also unexpected, had slightly
discomposed her again; but as she observed the unshaken attitude
of Hildebrand, and, what surprised her more, that it was not
without effect on his adversaries, her determination revived, and
she acquired firmness and nerve from the disposition of her lover.
There was a flush of anger on her face as she stepped forward,
and, though the cavalier who had last spoken, and who was no
other than Don Gonzalez, her guardian, met her with a smile, his
look sank before her flashing eye.
“There is no need of the corregidor here, Don Gonzalez,” she
cried, “or even of an alcaide, as I know thee to be. This
cavalier is a guest of mine.”
“And there is no need that thou shouldst publish thine own
dishonour,” answered Gonzalez.
“Thou liest, villain!” returned Inez, trembling with passion.
“But beware! beware! I will go bury me in a convent, but I will
be revenged on thee!”
Gonzalez turned pale on hearing this threat; and though, at
first sight, the injury it would invoke against him might seem
but small, he did not shrink without good cause. Whatever way
he might ultimately dispose of Inez, he would be able, by a
little underhand dealing, to secure a large share of her dower
to himself, and, further, avoid all troublesome accounts; but if
Inez should take refuge in a convent, and unite herself with the
church, his views in that respect, however artfully contrived,
would be utterly frustrated. There was a long account of
stewardship to make up, and, if that could be accomplished, years
of administration to report on, which he knew the church would
not overlook; and these reflections gave a weight and importance
to his ward’s threat, that he might well regard with great dismay.
His hesitation was not unobserved. Don Felix, watching him
intently, detected it in a moment, and, seeing that he was
silenced, began to fear that he would suffer Hildebrand
to escape. As he thought that such an issue would be very
unsatisfactory, and might involve him in some difficulty, if not
actual peril, he deemed it advisable to interpose; and, by taking
all blame from Gonzalez, avert any further interference of the
enraged Inez.
“Senhora,” he said, “thy right to receive what guests thou wilt
cannot be questioned. We apprehend the stranger, not because he
is thy guest, but because he is an Englishman, and a spy.”
“This is the second time, Sir Spaniard,” cried Hildebrand, in
Spanish, “that thou hast named me a spy. I spared thy life before;
do thou look to it now!”
Before any one could come between them, he dealt Don Felix a
blow, on his first guard, that knocked his sword out of his hand;
and then made a spring at his throat. He had hardly seized
his collar, however, when he was himself laid hold of by the
alguazils, who, under cover of his attack, had entered the
kitchen unnoticed, and now effected his capture.
But Inez, though the terror and excitement of the scene had
almost overpowered her, was determined not to surrender him
without a struggle. She had observed, with a quickness of
perception that was not unusual in her, that her threat of
retiring into a convent had not fallen on her uncle unheeded; and
at this juncture, the effect of its first appliance emboldened
her to recur to it.
“Don Gonzalez, mind thee what I have threatened,” she said. “Let
the cavalier depart, and I promise thee, afore these witnesses,
to abide myself by thy disposal.”
“Lady,” cried Hildebrand, “if thou wouldst do me a service, let
my state be made known to the English Ambassador.”
Don Felix, who, on being delivered from the grasp of Hildebrand,
had shrunk a pace or two back, here stepped forward again, and
darted at Hildebrand a glance of exultant enmity.
“No need to trouble the lady, Sir,” he said; “we will bear thy
commands to the Ambassador ourselves. But of what avail were
this? The Ambassador, whom thou thinkst will succour thee, is in
prison himself; and his heretic servants have been attached by
the Inquisition.”
“Thou liest again, knave!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “’Tis more than
Spain durst venture on.”
“Spain will venture more anon,” said Don Felix, sneeringly. “Thou
wilt soon find her fleets in London river.”
A light now struck upon Hildebrand, and as he thought of the
large ships of war which he had seen in Cadiz harbour, and which
probably were but a small part of the armament in preparation,
he was inclined to receive this assertion with some degree of
credence. But, whether it were true or not, he could have no
doubt about the danger of his own situation, or of the fact that,
do what he might, resistance would be perfectly fruitless. His
only resource, therefore, at the present moment, was to submit,
and to reserve his efforts to escape till a more favourable
period.
“Ye will have to give an account of your doings, nevertheless,”
he observed. “But I am your prisoner now; bear me whither ye
will.”
“Ye know your orders, alguazils,” cried Don Felix. “Bear him off!”
“Hold!” screamed Inez, “or, by the holy mass, ye shall heartily
rue it! Don Gonzalez! an’ thou wouldst keep me from the Sisters
of Mercy, have the cavalier released.”
“I durst not, Inez,” answered her guardian, in a deprecatory tone.
“Thou shalt! thou shalt!” exclaimed Inez, “or, by sweet Jesu!--”
But the excitement, which she had all along supported with
difficulty, now shook her brain, and, as she was making a step
forward, she reeled back, and broke into an hysterical peal of
laughter. She would have fallen, but, whether from pity, or some
motive of interest, her uncle sprang to her assistance, and
caught her in his arms.
“Away with the prisoner!” he cried to Don Felix. “I will myself
look to my ward.”
The alguazils, on a signal from Don Felix, tightened their hold
of Hildebrand, and drew him forth to the garden. Don Felix
followed them, and, under his direction, they proceeded to the
garden-door, whence they passed into the street. Here, enjoining
them to take good care of their prisoner, Don Felix left them,
and they pushed on with their charge to the city-prison.
The prison, being situate at the other end of the city, towards
the mainland, was some distance from their starting-point, and
stood in a quarter to which Hildebrand was a stranger. But,
walking at a brisk rate, their progress thither did not occupy
them long, and they soon came to a stand before the prison-door.
But a few words of explanation passed between the alguazils and
the gaoler. These rendered, Hildebrand was, without further
ceremony, pushed within the gaol-door, and given over to the
gaoler and his assistants. Two of the last-named functionaries,
by the direction of their principal, instantly secured him,
and hastened to deprive him of his arms. Having effected their
purpose, they hurried him down a flight of steps, at the lower
end of the passage, to a subterraneous dungeon, where they left
him in hopeless captivity.
Solitude and bondage are melancholy companions. Hearts that never
knew the melting influence of pity, or experienced the thrill
of fear, but met every vicissitude with a stern and unbending
front, have been cowed and overwhelmed by their first whispers,
and have been hurried on, by an enlarged and more intimate
fellowship, into distraction and despair. They are a sort of
living death, enclosing the spark of life in a walled grave,
where the air, so sweet and buoyant without, is pestilence, and
one’s breath corruption. Acquainted with these, we seem to be
dead before our time, and yet, though shut out from action, to
live in thought,--to suffer all the terror and captivity of the
grave, and be convulsed with the workings of a restless vitality.
As he heard the fastenings of his dungeon-door secured, a chill
like that of death, if one can form a conception of the last
sensibility of the dying, crept through the bosom of Hildebrand.
He was there alone--without solace, without hope, without even
God.
He durst not pray. The reflection that he had been brought into
this situation by his own imprudence--nay, by a corrupt and
abandoned selfishness, which affected the peace of another--this
reflection was upon him; and, when he thought of imploring the
protection of Heaven, it met his prayer in his throat, and turned
it back with a reproach.
But the image of Inez, though predominant, was not his only
accuser. If, urged by despair, he drove it for a moment from his
mind, a hundred bitter and remorseful recollections rushed into
its place. His imprudence, if so mild a term may be retained, had
not only brought destruction on himself, from which there was no
prospect of escape, but, in its consequences, would entail ruin
on others. He could not think of his ship, lying in an enemy’s
harbour, within the range of the batteries, and every moment
liable to be visited by the local officials, without a thrill of
anguish. Even his benefactor, Sir Walter Raleigh, would not be
exempt from the effects of his folly; and, in the utter failure
of his design on the Mexican fleet, which he had laboured so
diligently to accomplish, and in which he had embarked the chief
part of his fortune, would suffer irreparable detriment. Nor did
Hildebrand forget, while pursuing this train of reflection, to
charge himself with having failed seriously in his duty to his
country. The assertion of Don Felix, on his being arrested, that
the Spanish government contemplated the invasion of England,
and which the martial preparations everywhere in progress amply
corroborated, afforded ground to his conscience for a more
startling accusation, and a more bitter and excruciating reproach.
He had stood upright in his dungeon, within a pace or two of the
door, ever since he had been left alone, without moving a single
step. The darkness around him, like that of Egypt, could almost
be felt; but he was insensible to it, and could only think, at
that moment, of his folly, his imprudence, and his guilt.
It may seem strange, on a superficial view, that a man who had
passed his life in action, and had undergone all manner of
vicissitudes and perils, should be reduced by the first touch
of calamity to such utter prostration. That a sudden blow to an
even and prosperous life should fall with severity, and be met
by dejection, is no more than one might expect; but if it unman
him who has been adversity’s companion, and, in his progress
onward, walked hand in hand with all the accidents of war, it
excites our surprise, and scarcely seems reasonable, or possible.
But, however this may be borne out by ordinary cases, it is no
less true, in the particular instance under consideration, that
Hildebrand did not meet the passing calamity with any degree
of fortitude. On the contrary, indeed, it found him totally
unmanned,--his spirit cowed, his mind foundering, and his once
brave heart, that a sense of rectitude would have nerved against
the heaviest tribulation, burthened and weighed down by an
overwhelming remorse.
It is often at the eleventh hour, when it is too late to
make reparation, that a man becomes alive to the full effect
of a past and irretrievable excess. Even then, however, if
heartily resolved on amendment, it is possible to render the
consequences of his trespass less grievous and severe. A good
intention involves some of the benignant influence of a good
act; and though we should be unable to carry it into effect,
the conviction that it had received our best support, and that
its failure was not owing to any lack of effort, but to causes
beyond our reach, will afford us a savour of that satisfaction
and cheerfulness that attend success. When we conceive a sincere
regret for wrong we have inflicted on others, the heart is
beginning to expand, and, if we may use such a phrase, to develop
its resources; and though we may writhe under the first and
earlier visitings of self-accusation, and feel its continuance
to be torture, it will gradually call up in the heart better
and softer feelings, and, in our compassion for those we have
injured, lend a comfort and strength to ourselves.
Thus did Hildebrand ultimately attain a certain degree of
fortitude and composure. As the reproaches of his conscience
became more familiar, and the terrors of his position, from his
surveying them over and over again, lost their air of novelty,
his manliness seemed to revive, and, though he was still
unutterably miserable, his wretchedness was not without dignity,
and his remorse was no longer despair.
But, notwithstanding the amelioration of his distress, he
remained pensive and restless the whole night. The day--for even
in the gloom of his dungeon, to which perfect light was unknown,
there was a slight distinction in the seasons, and he could tell
the day from the night--found him still awake, and still rapt in
anxious reflections.
The morning was somewhat advanced before he received a visit from
the gaoler; and though, as his remorseful mood was unshaken, the
immediate features of his situation continued to press themselves
on his mind, this circumstance did not escape him. It had hardly
incurred his notice, however, when, not without feeling some
interest in the issue, he heard the fastenings withdrawn from
the dungeon-door; and the door being thereupon pushed open, the
gaoler entered.
The grim functionary was not alone. He was followed, a few
paces in his rear, by a short, broad-built friar, who, from his
hesitating step, appeared to enter the cell with anything but
complacency.
The friar, for whatever reason, had his cowl drawn close, so that
his face was invisible; but, through the small eyelets of the
cowl, one could see a spark of gentleness in his eyes, that at
once recommended him to favour. He carried a lighted lamp in his
hand, and, on passing through the doorway, he held it out before
him, and glanced rapidly round the limits of the dungeon.
Meantime, the gaoler, whom familiarity with dungeons rendered
less curious, advanced to the unhappy prisoner, and, without a
word of greeting, placed before him a repast of bread and water.
Leaving him to regale himself therewith, he turned towards the
door again; and the friar, who had by this time finished his
survey of the dungeon, and fixed his eye so as to meet his, waved
him forth.
“Well, have thy will,” said the gaoler, in reply, “but ’tis only
till thou canst take his confession, mind! I will wait thee
without.”
Thus sulkily complying, the gaoler passed out of the dungeon,
and drew-to the door behind him. The friar, as though he looked
on his movements with suspicion, followed him with his eye;
and, when he had passed out, held up the light, with a fixed
and steady hand, to see if he had closed the door. Apparently
satisfied on this point, he turned away from the door, and
stepped hastily towards Hildebrand.
Hildebrand was in the further corner of the dungeon, seated on
the floor, with his arms, to protect them from the cold, folded
close over his bosom, and his back resting against the wall. The
movements of the friar, though he watched them earnestly, did not
induce him to alter his position, and he waited his approach in
the same posture.
The friar stood right before him. Coming to a halt, he leaned
his head a little forward; and with the hand which he had at
liberty--for he carried the light in his left hand--threw back
his cowl, and disclosed the features of Inez.
Hildebrand, uttering an exclamation of surprise, sprang to his
feet, and caught her by both her hands.
“Hush!” whispered Inez, perceiving that he was about to speak:
“remember, thy surly keeper, though without the door, may be
within ear-shot. Moreover, what I have to say must be told with
despatch.”
“Every word thou sayest,” answered Hildebrand, “is life and blood
to me. Speak on!”
But though he was so anxious to hear what she had to say,
Hildebrand’s attention was not so wholly engrossed by this
object, above every other, that he could look on Inez herself
without emotion. Her appearance was not calculated to encourage
or confirm his reviving fortitude. On throwing back her cowl,
her long black hair, which was wont to be arranged with such
exquisite taste, appeared loose and dishevelled, and had
evidently been pushed behind her small ears with a rude and
careless haste. Her eyes were red with recent weeping, and,
withal, by their quick and furtive glances, betrayed an anxiety
and restlessness, if not terror, that it was distressing to
behold. Her other features, as far as the light rendered them
apparent, looked equally anxious, and her face was pale as death.
A single glance was sufficient to reveal these particulars to
Hildebrand; and by the time Inez was ready to answer him, he was
able, with a slight effort, to give her statement his undivided
attention.
“I have ventured hither,” she said, “not without imminent hazard,
lest thou shouldst think I had deserted thee, and so grow
desperate. There is a young cavalier in this city, right trusty
in his disposition, whom I know well--indeed, he is my cousin;
and, through him, I think I may do thee some service.”
“What may he be?” inquired Hildebrand, eagerly catching at the
slightest prospect of succour.
“Little of himself,” answered Inez; “for he is a mere youth.
Nevertheless, with thy aid, and under thy counsel, he may do thee
great service. I will make it a suit to the corregidor (who is a
bachelor, and will be well content to do me grace) to grant him a
pass to visit thee. When he is here, thou mayst confer with him,
and see how he can help thee!”
A conference with such a person did not promise to be attended
with any material and decided benefit; but, in fortune’s
extremity, we are inclined to look on every change, whatever may
be its aspect, with an eye of favour, and to tender countenance
and welcome to the most flimsy prospect. Incidents that, like the
images that the sun calls up on a reflective lake, become mere
shadows on inspection, originally assume the shape and attitude
of substantial advantages; and when the turbulent flood of life
is rushing mercilessly over us, a very thread of hope, which the
eye can hardly distinguish, appears to be a cable, and we seek to
haul ourselves from the depths by floating straws.
Hildebrand caught at the proposition of Inez as if it had opened
a channel for escape.
“How can I ever requite thee, dearest lady?” he said. “I prithee,
see the cavalier use despatch in coming.”
“Have no fear for that,” answered Inez, with unabated agitation.
“There is one service he might do me ere he come,” pursued
Hildebrand. “Thou knowest now (what I should have told thee
before, but from a fear of thy displeasure) that I am an
Englishman. Sooth to speak, I am captain of an English cruizer,
which lies in the harbour yonder.”
“Jesu shield us!” exclaimed Inez, with lips that would have told
her terror without words. “Durst thou, then, to enter Cadiz
Harbour with a single cruizer?”
“’Twas a perilous deed, certes,” answered Hildebrand, “and
Heaven grant it prove not fatal! But, to the point. My bark is
the outermost one in the harbour, and hath the Scottish flag (St.
Andrew’s cross, red on white) flying at the stern. I would the
cavalier would visit her.”
Inez hesitated a moment.
“It shall be done,” she said, at length.
“He must inquire out my lieutenant,” resumed Hildebrand. And,
taking a ring from his finger, he let it drop in the hand of
Inez, and continued:--“This ring will be my token to him; and
when he knows how I am fast--But, down with thy cowl.”
Inez, however, taken by surprise, turned on his face a glance
of bewilderment, and made no attempt to give his injunction
effect. It was fortunate that Hildebrand immediately perceived
her hesitation, or the gaoler, whom he heard entering, and had
perceived to be alert in his vocation, would have been upon
them before she had resumed her disguise. But observing that
her presence of mind was completely gone, he drew down her cowl
himself; and thus, by a prompt interposition, which surprise
could not arrest, deprived the impending peril of half its terror.
He had hardly drawn down her cowl when the gaoler entered. A
terrible degree of fear had come over Inez; and by one of those
revolutions of the system which it is impossible to account for,
and which are effected in a moment--as though the loose thought
that they must originally spring from, having snapped under the
weight and pressure of the occasion, had shaken and unbraced
every faculty--by one of those strange revolutions, her excited
nerves were left without restraint, and her imagination without
a bridle. A dreadful infatuation fell upon her; and, with this
in her mind, she was prompted to throw off her disguise, and
yield herself a prisoner to the gaoler. Fortunately, however,
her subjection to the morbid influence was but momentary.
Recklessness of herself, though it was supreme for an instant,
was quickly overtaken by affection for Hildebrand, and, with
the magic presence of love, her spirit revived, and her
self-possession was recovered.
The gaoler entered with a dogged look, as if he were determined,
whether Hildebrand had been confessed or no, that he would allow
of no longer conference.
“St. Jago be gracious!” he cried, “hath he not got his shrift
yet, father?”
“I have done,” answered Inez, in a feigned voice. “Let him be
looked to!”
“Ay, ay, he shall be looked to, I’ll warrant thee,” rejoined the
gaoler, with a grin. “That be good, i’faith--very good!”
Inez, who was not disposed to talk, made no reply to his
observations, but proceeded in silence to the door. The gaoler
followed her, and, drawing open the door, they passed into
the passage beyond. Having effected their egress, the gaoler,
lingering behind, drew to and secured the door; and Hildebrand
was again the sole inmate of the dungeon.
Want of rest had rendered his mind less obedient to its helm
than usual; but, for all this, it had derived great solace, and
even strength, from the visit of Inez. It may seem a strange
anomaly, but observation will prove it to be true, that, after
we have been writhing under the pressure of despair, we are most
disposed, by the constitution of our nature, to give free room to
the least inspiration of hope. This singular fact was exemplified
in Hildebrand. He was still unhappy, but, though his prospects
had undergone no sensible amelioration, he was no longer
hopeless. If his interview with Inez should result in no personal
benefit, it at least afforded him an assurance that his situation
would be communicated to his friends, and, whatever might be the
issue, some effort would be made, he was certain, to set him at
liberty.
Revolving these reflections in his mind, the misery of his
situation became considerably alleviated; and though, every now
and then, as he remembered the nature of his connexion with Inez,
and how tenderly she had shown herself to be attached to him, his
breast would be visited by an involuntary pang, his fortitude was
now fixed on a solid and stable foundation. He was not free, it
is true, from the depressing effect of a want of repose; but his
thoughts being no longer swayed by distraction, he was better
able to seek repose, and more open to its approaches.
Sleep stole upon him insensibly. It was late in the night ere he
awoke, and, though not at ease, he felt considerably refreshed.
Rising to stretch his limbs, his foot struck against something on
the floor; and, with more curiosity than the circumstance seemed
to warrant, or his position to admit of, he stooped to ascertain
what it was. It was a large flagon, filled with water; and on
passing his hand round the outside, he found a small loaf also;
and he remembered it was the meal which the gaoler had left him
in the morning.
The provision was far from being unwelcome, and Hildebrand, not
without a good appetite, proceeded to discuss it. Having finished
his meal, and warmed himself by a little exercise, he lay down
again, and with some degree of patience waited the coming of day.
Conformably to his expectations, he was visited in the morning
by the gaoler, who, as on the preceding morning, brought him his
day’s provision. From this time, he was in momentary expectation,
through the whole of the day, of hearing from Inez; but every
succeeding moment brought him only disappointment. The evening
came on, and night; and he was still without intelligence of his
anxiously expected visiter.
His suspense sank into depression as the night advanced, and,
from the unlooked-for delay, he began to fear that Inez had
been unable, by her own unaided efforts, to bring the design
which they had concerted into effect. While, however, he was
yet pondering on his not unreasonable fear, he thought that he
heard footsteps approaching. The matter was not long doubtful;
for, before he could well be said to be listening, he heard the
massy bolts of the dungeon-door shot back; and by the time he had
sprung to his feet (which he did almost instantaneously), the
door was thrown open.
Two persons entered, one of whom, from the light which he carried
in his hand, Hildebrand perceived to be the gaoler; and he
supposed the other to be his expected ally. His supposition was
shortly confirmed; for the cavalier, having taken the lamp from
the gaoler, came more into the light, and, on near inspection,
was seen to wear the guise and appointments of a gentleman.
He was, as Inez had described him, a mere stripling, and seemed
to have scarcely seen his sixteenth year. But it was more by his
face that his youth was apparent, in his present attire, than by
his form. So far as the latter could be seen, through the fall of
his deep-brown cloak, it was round and full, and almost matured.
At the waist, it is true, it was slender in the extreme; but the
broad volume of his chest, and the full and graceful outline
of his shoulders, which could be traced on the outside of his
cloak, showed that he was well proportioned, and, at a little
distance, might be thought to be verging on manhood. His face was
almost too beautiful for a man’s; and its resemblance to that
of Inez, especially about the nose and eyes, was so striking,
that Hildebrand discerned it directly. He wore a light moustache
above his mouth, and under his nether lip, where it fell into the
chin, a subordinate imperial. But it was his movements, more than
anything else, that fixed attention; for his step was like light,
and, in its carriage of his person, displayed a grace and dignity
surpassing man’s.
It will readily be supposed, from this description, that, however
greatly the cavalier might excite Hildebrand’s admiration, his
appearance was not calculated to inspire him with a reasonable
hope that he would be able to afford him any succour. Hildebrand
conceived such an impression of him on the instant. The high
expectations that he had entertained were dissipated, and, now
that he seemed to have reached a crisis, his heart turned cold
with despair.
But he had no time to follow up his gloomy reflections. He had
hardly effected his survey of the stranger’s person, by which
the feeling described had been prompted, when that individual,
without knowing how his thoughts were occupied, drew his
attention to other matters.
“Thou mayst retire,” he said to the gaoler.
“May I, forsooth?” answered the gaoler. “By the holy rood, I take
it mighty kindly of thee to give me such great licence. Howbeit,
I be disposed to stay.”
“How?” rejoined the cavalier. “Did not I give thee the
corregidor’s pass?”
“But that said nought of my leaving thee alone with the
prisoner,” replied the gaoler, who, with the rapacity of his
profession, was looking out for a small _douceur_. “No! no,
Senhor? I’ll even stay, an’ it please thee.”
“Then, shalt thou stay altogether!” cried the cavalier,
vehemently. And, drawing a pistol from under his cloak, he
levelled it at the gaoler’s breast. “Secure him!” he added to
Hildebrand.
It was a happy circumstance that Hildebrand fulfilled this
injunction with promptitude, or the nervous agitation of the
cavalier’s extended arm, not to mention the tremor of his voice,
which, in his utter surprise and consternation, the gaoler did
not observe, would have made it immediately apparent that his
prowess and resolution might be easily overcome. Before the
gaoler could collect himself, however, Hildebrand, favoured by
his bewilderment, sprang boldly on his chest, and grappled him
in both his arms. They struggled for a few moments with fearful
earnestness and energy. Hildebrand’s first assault, while the
gaoler was uncollected, had given him some advantage, and he had
been enabled to secure the gaoler’s arms; but, as the struggle
proceeded, the gaoler gained ground, and got his right arm
free. He had his back planted against the door, and one of his
short, bandy legs, by way of outwork, pushed between the legs
of Hildebrand, so that the latter could not well throw him; and
on obtaining the freedom of his right arm, this enabled him to
maintain his position with the other, and make his right arm the
vehicle of offensive measures. While Hildebrand was striving to
throw him to the ground, he dropped his hand into his girdle,
and, with a sudden jerk, drew forth a long knife. From the
position of Hildebrand, however, he could not use it within, as
he had intended; and he was obliged to draw it forth, and seek to
stab him in the back.
All this time, the young Spanish cavalier, with a singular and
unaccountable indecision, had remained perfectly quiescent. He
seemed, indeed (if the truth must be told), to be overwhelmed
with fear, and to possess neither the will nor the power to
interpose. But his irresolute disposition did not continue. As
he saw the long knife of the gaoler raised above Hildebrand’s
back, on the point of dealing him a deadly wound, his indecision
appeared to vanish, and, whether from the impulse of the moment,
or a more manly agency, his spirit to revive.
“Jesu! he will stab him!” he exclaimed.
With these words, he sprang nimbly forward, and seized the
uplifted arm of the gaoler with both his hands. At the same
moment, Hildebrand, hearing his exclamation, looked up, and
perceived his danger. The incident seemed to nerve him with new
determination, and, throwing all his strength into his grasp,
he seized the gaoler by the shoulders, and threw him bodily to
the ground. As he fell, his head came in contact with the wall
of the dungeon, and the concussion, with the fall, rendered him
senseless.
“’Tis bravely done,” said the young cavalier. “We will now go
forth. But, hist!”
“They are footsteps!” whispered Hildebrand.