Onesinda and Kerim
Kerim-El-Nozier, the Governor of Gijon in Galicia, is a Berber,
infinitely less cultured than the Moors, and the distance from the
capital at Cordoba has made him almost independent of all rule.
Little did the noble-minded Caliph, Abdurraman, guess what was passing
at this moment in the remote peninsula at Gijon, sheltered on one side
by the dark hill of Santa Catalina, on the other exposed to the full
force of the rollers of the Bay of Biscay, and that the governor he had
appointed was a tyrant who knew no law but his own will.
Kerim is not a warrior to please a lady’s eye. The voluminous folds of a
white turban rest on a forehead bare of hair, a rough and matted beard
curls on his chin and reaches to his ears, in which hang two uncut
emeralds. He is low in stature and corpulent in person. His long dark
arms are bare, ornamented with glittering bangles, his body swathed with
a gaudily striped cloth over a rich vest, and full trousers descend to
his feet. Sudden and abrupt in his movements, he sits uneasily on a
raised dais covered with skins, a drapery of Eastern silk over his head.
A strong perfume of attar pervades the recess, lined with divans, at the
extremity of an immense Gothic hall, open at the opposite end, and
divided into separate apartments by Oriental screens and tapestry.
The recent conquests in the North had given the Moors as yet no time to
erect either dwellings, mosques, or baths, those necessities of Eastern
life, and they were fain to accept the rough habitations and castles of
the Goths as they found them.
Terrible is the expression of his eyes, the white against the tawny
sockets, as he turns them full on the slender form before him, wrapped
in an embroidered mantle, held in the strong grasp of a Nubian slave. A
naked scimitar lies on the ground and the shadow of a mute darkens the
curtained entrance.
Of the lady’s face nothing is seen. She holds her hands clasped over her
eyes, as if to shut out the repellent visage of the Berber.
Taking in his hand, from a salver placed on the ground, one of the
jewelled goblets which lay on it, and filling it with sherbet, Kerim
rises to his feet.
“I drink,” he says, in a loud jarring voice, “to the success of the
Goths and of Pelayo. Will you pledge me, Christian lady?”
No answer comes from the veiled figure, but the trembling of the drapery
shows that she is convulsed with fear.
“Unhand the Infanta,” says Kerim to the Nubian, “and retire.”
Between them lay the scimitar, catching the light.
“Onesinda,” and Kerim seizes her passive hand, “listen! Kerim is not the
senseless tyrant you deem him. But before I unfold my projects to your
ear, I warn you to take heed. You are my prisoner, held by the right of
war. A motion of my hand and that fair skin is dyed as crimson as the
petals of the fiery pomegranate expanding in the heat of noon. As yet
you have refused all speech with me. Urge me not too far, I warn you.”
“Alas!” answers Onesinda, speaking with quick breath, as she tears
asunder the drapery which falls upon her face, and displays an ashy
countenance belying her bold words, “I do not fear death, but infamy.
Now, God be gracious to me, for the succour of man is vain.” As she
spoke she drew herself back to the farthest limit of the curtained space
in an attitude, not of resistance, for that was useless, but as one
unwilling to provoke assault, yet if offered, resolved to repel it to
the utmost of her power.
She who, were her brother dead, would be proclaimed by the small remnant
of her people Queen of the Goths, was fair as became her race and of
good proportions. A native loftiness in features and bearing took from
her all notion of the insipidity which attaches itself to that
complexion; her eyes were blue, untouched by the unnatural glitter so
loved by the Moorish women, and her profuse flaxen hair fell in ringlets
about her neck, on which a solid gold chain and heavy medallion rested.
A kirtle over a vest, open at the throat, of blue taffetas worked in
coloured silks, formed a loose robe lined with fur, and a veil of silk,
falling at the back of her neck, concealed the snowy skin of her neck
and bosom and served as a covering to her hair.
“You have no reason to fear me,” cries Kerim, but the base passion which
looked out of his eyes gave to his words a very different
interpretation.
“There can be no peace between us,” answers Onesinda, trembling in every
limb, as she presses closer and closer to the wooden pillars at her
back. “Had your purpose been honest, you would not have captured me
treacherously and kept me here. Pelayo’s sister will never yield to
force. To plant that steel in my breast,” pointing to the richly set
dagger he wore at his waist, “is the only service you can do me.”
“But you must listen,” retorts Kerim, drawing so near his hot breath
fell on her cheek; “for the sake of Pelayo. To further the good of this
growing kingdom of the Moors, I desire to ally myself with the royal
blood of Spain and rally about me those Christians who still gather
round your brother. The throne of Cordoba is too distant, the empire too
vast. Abdurraman needs able lieutenants. Kerim will free him of these
northern provinces and govern them himself. It is a feeble mind which
waits for Fortune’s wheel, the brave must seize it, and turn it for
themselves. Under me the sons of the Goths shall serve, Alonso and
Friula and the rest, Pelayo above all, next to myself, for the fair
Onesinda’s sake! Again I ask you, Christian Princess, will you pledge me
to our success?” And his hand again seizes the goblet, which he holds to
her lips.
Had Onesinda seen the look which accompanied this gesture she would have
sunk insensible to the earth, so revolting was the effect of love in
such a form, so savage and brutal the nature; but her head had fallen on
her bosom, and her closed eyes and deadly pallor disconcerted Kerim,
who, with widely opened eyes, contemplated his victim in doubt if she
were not already dead. A slight trembling of the eyelids and a
convulsive motion about the lips relieved him of this fear. With the
utmost care he placed her on a divan, and pouring into her white lips
some of the sherbet contained in the goblet, anxiously watched the
efforts which Nature made to revive her. As she heaved a deep sigh, she
opened her eyes, then closed them again with a shrill cry at the sight
of the black visage of Kerim bent over her.
“Listen,” he says again, in a much gentler voice. He understood that
excessive fear or a too great repugnance would be fatal, therefore he
curbed his passion.
“If you will consent to be my sultana, Pelayo
[Illustration: THE CHARLEMAGNE OF EPIC.
From the painting by Albrecht Dürer.]
shall be my second in the kingdom of the Asturias. If not”--and, spite
of himself, such a look of ferocity came over his face that Onesinda
shrank from him with inexpressible disgust--“the blood of every knight I
have taken shall water the earth of Gijon, specially that of Pelayo, who
shall expire in unknown torments. Choose, Christian, between life with
me, or certain ruin to your race.”
As he awaits her answer, Kerim seats himself by her side. With a smile
on his dark face he strove to take her hand. In this gentler mood, he
seemed to Onesinda a thousand times more loathsome than in his fiercest
moments.
One glance was enough. Gathering her robes about her, she darts to the
farthest extremity of the vast hall.
“Moor,” she cries, and the horror she felt was expressed in her
features, “for me death has no terrors. For my brother, I do not believe
you. Can the eagle nest with the vulture? the dove with the serpent? It
is but a cruel wile to deceive me.”
“I swear it, lady, by the tomb of the Prophet. Think well before you
take your own life and that of those who are dear to you.” He paused,
and the unhappy Onesinda felt all the agony of her position. To allow
this hideous African to approach her was to her a fate so horrible that
flesh and blood rose up in revolt against it. To open the possible
chance of success to Pelayo and his followers by the sacrifice of
herself is, as a daughter of the Goths, her duty, did she believe his
words to be sincere.
Looking into his dark face, what assurance had she? In his cruel eyes?
In those full red lips, cutting like blood athwart the blackness of his
beard? It is the countenance of a savage. Not a generous quality could
dwell under such a mask. No, there is nothing in the hard nature of this
African on which to form a hope! And yet her brother’s life, if he
speaks truly, hangs on his will. She had no means to prove his words.
Pelayo is absent, some said already dead. Was this dark treachery
towards his Sultan true? Or rather is it not some fiendish scheme to
entrap the last remnant of the Goths and raise himself to power and
favour with Abdurraman?
Bursting into a flood of tears, she casts herself upon the ground and
fixes on him her pale blue eyes.
“Alas! you know not the heart of woman to make such a proposal. To
invoke your pity,” and her voice trembles, “would be as useless as it is
mean. Help the noble sons of the land, but insist not on such a
sacrifice. By the memory of your father, by the bones of your chiefs,
seek not an end so wicked.”
Unmoved, Kerim contemplates her, a smile of triumph on his dark face.
“It is your turn now to supplicate, proud Infanta, mine to deny. Either
you comply, or every Moslem soldier in the citadel of Gijon shall hunt
the Goths in the length and breadth of the Asturias like vermin. Reflect
ere you decide. I swear by the Holy Caaba I speak truth.”
With a menacing gesture he departed, leaving Onesinda prostrate on the
ground and the Moorish slaves returned to bear her into the dark grove
where the harem stood fronting the ever-beating sea that washes the
iron-bound coast which girds the north of Spain.