Cordoba--Pelistes--Don Julian--Florinda
Again we are at Cordoba! Under the protection of its river-girt walls
the flying Goths draw breath. From Cordoba the king has started his
great army, spreading like waves over the Andalusian plains. To Cordoba,
Pelistes and a few terrified fugitives return, bringing tidings of the
catastrophe.
The men of Cordoba crowd round them with terror in their looks. Pelistes
shakes his aged head, tears gather in his eyes.
“Roderich is fallen,” they cry. “Your silence reveals it. Be to us a
king, O Pelistes, and defend us from the Moors.”
He listens in silence. He neither refuses the offer, nor gives consent.
His heart is dead within him. Then he lifts his eyes to the green
mountains of the Sierra Morena, which give so pleasant an aspect to the
great Plaza where he stands, and the long-suppressed tears well over and
run down his furrowed cheeks, at the thought that these fair lands and
the white city, so jocund in the sun, with avenues of spreading palms,
and plane-trees, and jasmine-planted gardens, shall fall.
“Citizens,” he says, turning to the hundreds whose eager eyes are fixed
on him as shipwrecked mariners note the advance of a raft in a stormy
sea, “I swear to stand by you to the end. I will undertake the defence
of your city.”
A solemn oath is registered there on the Plaza (still planted with palms
and called now _del gran Capitan_, in memory of another great leader,
Gonsalo de Cordoba), a solemn oath, and as a sign of accepting all held
up their right hands.
But, shameful to relate, so soon as the scouts bring word of the advance
of the victorious Moors, every wealthy burgher within Cordoba packs up
his goods and flees to the deepest recesses of the Sierra. The monks
abandon their convents, the women follow, and only the poor and
destitute are left to the mercy of the invaders.
To the sound of drums and cymbals the Moors march in. In front rides the
Christian renegade, Maguel, his turbaned head decorated with the
crescent of command, his war-horse carrying strings of Christian heads,
dropping blood upon the stones. Next is Julian, a dark scowl upon his
face, as of a man carrying a load of care. How well he knows each tree
and _huerta_ and tower along the march--the little creek in the
Guadalquivir, where the boats are moored; a lone castle of defence,
looking towards the hills (now called “of Almodar”), he often has
defended against the wild forays of the Arabs; the Sierra broken into
cliffs and precipices, with groves and gardens, and silvery streams,
studded by _quintas_ and hamlets. There, in a green retreat among the
wooded hills, he and Frandina had lived when Florinda was a child. Here,
in the Alcazar, he had met Don Roderich; and the remembrance fills him
with such sudden rage, he digs his spurs into the smooth flanks of his
Arab charger, an uncalled-for violence, resenting which, the fiery
animal rears, and half unseats him.
Yes, it was at Cordoba that he consigned Florinda to his care, the
fair-faced profligate. There he parted from her, guileless as a babe,
and now, through the length and breadth of Spain, she is known by the
name of _La Cava_. He himself is but a vile renegade. Already the poison
of jealousy is working at his heart. The Moors distrust him, though they
owe all to him. Where would “the one-eyed” have been but for him? And
Mousa, and Maguel, and the rest? And such an uncontrollable burst of
wrath passes over him that he curses aloud. At least _he_ was the first
in the court of Roderich, and now, who knows when Andalusia is conquered
and the Moors need him no more, what form their suspicion may assume?
Then came to his mind uneasy thoughts of Frandina and of his son. For
himself he cares not. A dagger thrust can settle all his fate--but the
boy! his only son! Is he safe under his mother’s care? May he not be
made a hostage by Tháryk?
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN TOWER, SEVILLE.]
Already the scent of treason is in the air!
Here a wild clamour breaks in upon his thoughts. The white walls of
Cordoba are in front, and a mighty shout of “Allah! there is no God but
Allah, and Mahomet is his Prophet,” rises from a thousand throats of
swarthy Africans, careering wildly over the grass, Numidians, with
fringed bands and armlets on elbow and ankle, sun-dried sheikhs and
wandering Kalenders and Fakirs in the front of the great army, mounted
on camels and mules.
* * * * *
For three long months Pelistes, well-named the “Father of the Goths,”
defended the battered Convent of St. George, within which he barricaded
himself. Hope of succour supports his courage. Teodomir may come, or
young Pelayo, from Asturia or Leon.
But day follows day, and night passes on to night, under the lustre of
the southern stars, and no help comes. Eager eyes hail every cloud of
dust that sweeps the plain, and interpret dark shadows of the clouds,
which summer tempests cast, into troops of Christian knights
approaching. Alas! no human form is visible, save now and then an Arab
horseman, riding with light rein, charged with some mission from Mousa
in the south.
Famine, too, comes to try them with its ghastly face. One by one they
kill the horses, which had carried them so gallantly from the Guadalete
(to a trooper an act as repulsive as the murdering of his child), and
strive with divers ills which hunger brings.
Pelistes, unable to bear the sight of the sufferings of his friends,
assembles what remains of the miserable garrison, and thus speaks his
mind:
“Comrades,” he cries, in a voice which he endeavours to make cheerful,
“it is needless to conceal danger from brave men; our case is desperate.
One by one we shall die and leave no sign. There is but one chance, and
I shall brave it. To-morrow, before break of day, I will ride forth
disguised as one of these base renegades of whom there are so many in
Cordoba, and, God willing, spur on to Toledo. If my errand prosper, I
shall be back in twenty days. If not, at least I shall return to die
with you. Keep a sharp lookout! Five beacon fires blazing on the lowest
line of hills mean success. If not, the blackness of despair engulfs
me.”
And so it was. As the faint streaks of light tipped the craggy tops of
the Sierra with points of gold, warning the shepherds to rise and tend
their sheep, and the birds flew low, waiting for further light to wing
their course into the upper regions of the air, Pelistes rode forth, a
turban on his head, along the silent streets of Cordoba, to which the
shadows of long lines of wall give such an Eastern aspect. He passed the
gate, but lazily guarded at that early hour, unchallenged, in company
with droves of cattle and mules laden with sacks. Then, pricking the
sides of his willing horse, he galloped at full speed along the tracks
which mount upwards, and, ere the sun rose, had gained the lower spurs
of the Sierra.
At the gateway of a _quinta_ he draws rein, willing to rest his panting
steed. But alas! while he tarries the sound of horses’ hoofs, riding at
topmost speed over the rocky path he has just traversed, smites his ear.
In an instant he is again in the saddle, and straining upwards to
conceal himself in a rugged hollow beside the dried-up course of a
mountain torrent.
His tired horse, wind-blown and trembling, falters at the edge and
falls, rolling with Pelistes to the bottom. Greatly shaken and bleeding,
Pelistes extricates himself with difficulty and strives to raise his
horse, but when the generous beast, rising with a groan to his master’s
call, stands up, it falls again on the hard stones, unable to keep its
feet.
Meanwhile, on comes the horseman through the falling stones, and a face
he knows too well looks over the brink of the ravine, and a voice calls
out, “Well met, brave Pelistes, even in a hole. You have ridden bravely
from Cordoba, and are well mounted. We followed you ill, but here we are
in time.”
The voice is that of Maguel. For all reply, Pelistes, standing by his
horse, draws his sword.
“Do you bandy words with me as a coward!” he thunders, brandishing his
weapon. “Stand forth! If you are a man, tie your horse to a tree and
come down on foot. We will see who is the better man, a Christian
renegade or a Gothic knight.”
And fight they did, and desperately, as if each held a nation’s ransom
at his sword’s point. Better matched warriors never clashed steel.
Fragments of shields flew around; then casques were split, and blood
flowed freely. Still they fought. At length Pelistes, who had been much
injured by his fall, began to show signs of weakness, and Maguel
perceiving this, pressed on him the more, until Pelistes, summoning all
his remaining strength to strike a final blow, failed in his aim and
fell prostrate on the earth.
“This is a brave foe,” quoted Maguel to his followers, who, renegade
though he was, we must allow had generous qualities or he would have run
Pelistes through. “Let us save his life, such a knight will honour our
triumph.” So, unlacing his buckler, they throw water on his face, and
raise him upright against a barrier of rock.
Though plunged in a deep swoon, Pelistes lived, and strapped to a stout
palfrey reached Cordoba.
* * * * *
When the imprisoned captives, straining their eyes for any sign, see him
surrounded by dusky Africans, to their eyes a bleeding corpse, their
very souls seem dead within them. Pelistes gone, no help can come. To
sell their lives dear, they sally forth, but are soon driven back into
the convent, each noble Goth dying sword in hand. The convent is
immediately occupied by the Moors, and from that time is known as “St.
George of the Captives.”
Meanwhile, Pelistes found friends among his foes. Slowly his wounds
healed, and until he was restored to health the Arabs carefully tended
him. At length, when he was able to walk, Maguel (who frankly gloried in
his apostasy) bade him to a banquet within the Alcazar. It was a sore
trial to the feelings of the old warrior, but they were generous foes.
As a prisoner, he could not refuse the hospitality of his hosts, but the
woes of his country lay heavy at his heart. The grass was still green
over the graves of his comrades, and to his fancy the weapons of the
Moors were crimsoned with their blood.
Pelistes occupied the seat of honour on the right hand of Maguel, and
with that exquisite courtesy, for which the Moors were famous, his host
turned the talk on the valour displayed by the Christians, and extolled
their gallant defence of Cordoba, specially remembering that devoted
little band who had perished in the convent.
“Could I have saved their lives,” added Maguel, “it would have done me
honour. Such enemies ennoble victory. Had those brave knights consented
to surrender when I sent in a flag of truce I should have cherished them
as brothers.”
Pelistes silently acknowledged the enlightened chivalry of these words,
but his heart smote him so sorely that he could not speak for some
moments. But for his final charge to them “not to surrender” they might
be with him now! At length words came to him.
“Happy are the dead,” was his reply, in a voice that vibrated with
emotion. “They rest in peace after the hard-fought struggle. My
companions in arms have fallen with honour, while I live to see fair
Spain the prey of strangers. My son is dead, cut down by my side in
battle. My friends are gone, I have reason to weep for them. But one
there is”--and he raised his voice and a dark fire came into his pale
eye--“one for whom I shall never cease to mourn; of all my brothers in
arms he was the dearest. Of all the Gothic knights he was the bravest.
Alas! where is he? I know not. There is no record of his death in
battle, or I would seek for him in the waters of the Guadalete, or on
the plains of Xerez; or if, like so many others, he is doomed to slavery
in a foreign land, I would join him in exile, and we would mourn our
country’s loss together.”
So pathetic was the tone of Pelistes, so thrilling, that Maguel and the
emirs who sat round asked anxiously, “Who is he?”
“His name,” answered Pelistes, with lowered voice, glancing round the
table as he spoke, “was Don Julian, Conde Espatorios of Spain.”
“How,” cried Maguel, “my honoured guest, are you smitten with sudden
blindness? Behold your friend. Do you not see him? He is seated there,”
pointing to Julian, at some distance down the board, attired in the
turban and long embroidered caftan of a Moor.
Pelistes paused, slowly raised his eyes, then sternly fixed them on
Julian. “In the name of God, stranger, answer me,” he said, “how dare
you presume to personate the Conde Espatorios?”
Stung to the quick, Julian rose, flinging a furious glance on the calm,
cold eyes riveted upon him. “Pelistes,” he cried, “what means this
mockery? You know me well. I am Julian.”
“I know you for a base apostate,” thundered Pelistes, the great wrath
within him finding sudden vent, “an apostate and a traitor. Julian, my
friend, was a Christian knight, devoted, true, and valiant, but _you_,
you have no name. Infidel, renegade, and traitor, the earth you tread
abhors you. The men you lead curse you, for you have betrayed Spain and
your king. Therefore, I repeat, O man unknown, if you declare you are
Don Julian, you lie. He, alas! is dead, and you are some fiend from hell
who wears his semblance. No longer can I brook the sight.”
So, rising from the table, Pelistes departed, turning his back on
Julian, overwhelmed with confusion, amid the scornful smiles of the
Moslem knights, who used while they despised him.
As yet, however, all had gone well with him. If a traitor, his treason
was successful. He held high command among the Arabs under Tháryk and
Mousa, and amassed great wealth by his country’s spoil, but he loathed
himself more and more. He knew that all men despised him. Too old and
too serious for the sensual life of the Moors, and as a warrior little
caring to be delicately fed and housed, he sought solace in the company
of his masculine but faithful wife, Florinda, and his little son.
Florinda, alas! how changed! Her sweet, soft eyes were wild. The
delicate bloom upon her cheek had deepened into a fixed red; her mouth
made for kisses, lined and hard, her whole face strangely haggard. No
words can paint the anguish she suffered at returning into Spain with
her mother. Julian would have folded her in his arms, but she turned
from him:
“Touch me not, my father,” she cried, shuddering. “Your hand pollutes
me. Why have you brought me here?”
“But, my daughter,” answered the unhappy parent, averting his face, not
to catch the reproachful anguish of her eyes, “surely it is not for you
to accuse me? All I have done was to avenge you.”
“Ah!” she answered with a wild laugh. “That is false. I called for you
in my trouble to take me from the court, and the reproachful eyes of
Egilona. But never, never, did I bid you visit the wrong I had suffered
upon the land. What had Spain to do with me? No, not Florinda, but your
own ambition prompted you. To wear the crown of Roderich was your aim. I
was but the instrument of your ambition. Let me go,” she
[Illustration: Torre del Mihrab and Granada.]
[Illustration]
shrieked, struggling to rush out. “Do you see”--and she pointed upwards
to the chain of heights shutting in the city--“the hills of the Sierra
take strange shapes--I dare not look on the green valleys! See the
flying Goths curse me. They come! They come! showing their gaping
wounds. Look, look, the plains run with blood. The figure of the king
rides by! I know him! He is fair. It is Roderich, but sick to death.
See, his horse falters. He falls. On, on they come, the Gothic host, but
with the faces of corpses. Surely they did not ride thus to battle? Do
you hear the voices in the air? Death, death to Florinda! And I will
die, as they bid me!”
With a wild cry that rang round the perfumed groves of the Alcazar,
before Julian could stop her, she had rushed to the entrance of a tower
which jutted from the walls into the garden, and, bounding up the
stairs, barred the upper door.
Her father, speechless with horror, stood rooted to the spot; a moment
more, and her slight form leaned over the battlements. “Now, now, I
come,” she shouted. “No ghost can haunt me there,” and from the topmost
parapet she flung herself!
Hapless Florinda! Thus she passed; but still in that garden, it is said,
the spiked palm-leaves rustle in the breeze, like souls in pain; the
canes and the reeds bow their heads over the fountains, the frogs croak
sadly in the cisterns, and a Moorish cascade, rushing down a flight of
marble steps, sings in voiceless melodies her name.