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GOMEZ ARIAS;
OR,
THE MOORS OF THE ALPUJARRAS.
A SPANISH HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
DON TELESFORO DE TRUEBA Y COSIO.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI.,
XII., XIII., XIV.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI.,
XII., XIII., XIV.
VOL. III.
CHAPTER I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI.
CONCLUSION.
NOTES.
_LONDON:_
HURST, CHANCE, AND CO.
65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD.
1828.
GUNNELL AND SHEARMAN, PRINTERS, SALISBURY SQUARE.
VOL. I.
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND.
_My Lord_,
_It is with pleasure I avail myself of your permission to dedicate the
following Work to your name, as a small mark of my respect for your
Lordship's character._
_As a Spaniard, I find an additional motive for addressing it to one who
has uniformly shewn the interest he feels in the prosperity and
literature of my country._
_I have the honor to be_,
_My Lord_,
_Your Lordship's_
_Most obedient and obliged Servant_,
TELESFORO DE TRUEBA Y COSIO.
_London, March 1, 1828._
PREFACE.
Let me intreat the reader not to be alarmed at the hacknied word, which
generally augurs that a person is going to be very egotistical and
prosy. This, at least, it will be my ambition to avoid. Nor is it my
intention to assume its literary prerogatives in any way as a mask for a
sort of mock humility, endeavouring to impose upon good-natured persons
by protestations of demerits, want of experience and talent, with that
long series of et ceteras with which a writer generally opens his first
campaign.
The public has nothing to do with an exculpatory doctrine, which carries
with it the aggravating circumstance of not being sincere; for I am sure
that no man, with a moderate share of common sense, will suppose that an
author really believes the accusation he so humbly utters against
himself. Could he indeed persuade himself that his book was so very
indifferent a performance, he might assuredly more justly accuse himself
of acting the part of an unnatural parent in thus gratuitously exposing
his intellectual offspring to the neglect and compassion of the world.
Besides, when an author presents his readers with this stultifying
catalogue of demerits, he supplies them with the very best reasons to
retort upon him:--"Good heavens; if the man has neither talents nor
information, why does he write at all?" Having thus waved my claims to
any similar indulgence, it only remains for me to say a few words
respecting the origin and the object of the following Romance.
As an enthusiastic admirer of the lofty genius, the delightful and vivid
creations of that great founder of English historical fiction, Sir
Walter Scott, it often struck me, while reading his enchanting novels,
as rather singular that he had never availed himself of the beautiful
and inexhaustible materials for works upon a similar plan to be met
with in Spain. It has, indeed, been generally admitted that Spain was
the classic ground of chivalry and romance. The long dominion of the
Moors--the striking contrast between their religion, their customs and
manners, and those of their Christian enemy--the different petty
kingdoms into which Spain was divided, with the consequent feuds,
intrigues and battles,--all concurred to produce a succession of
extraordinary incidents and character, highly adapted for romantic and
dramatic illustration. Yet, while the less abundant chronicles and
traditions of England, Scotland, Ireland and France, were successively
ransacked by the great magician and his most successful imitators, they
seem almost studiously to have avoided dwelling upon those glowing,
luxuriant productions, replete with such variety of incident and
character, which form the national treasures of Spain.
Conceiving, then, that I had the same right as any one else to spoil, if
I failed to give attraction to a fine subject, I found that my ideas
were further confirmed by the encouragement of some of the most eminent
amongst my fellow-countrymen. I accordingly engaged in the undertaking,
the result of which is the following Romance.
With regard to the hero, I cannot well determine whether he ever existed
or not. In spite of my researches, I have no other authority for his
reality than the well known comedy of the celebrated Calderon de la
Barca, entitled "_La nina de Gomez Arias_." The probability is, that
Calderon took the hint of this comedy, according to a generally
prevailing custom in his time, from some legend or tradition now lost.
Be this as it may, it is enough that such characters as Gomez Arias are
unfortunately within the pale of human nature. I have endeavoured,
however, to soften the character, as it is depicted, from that of an
utterly abandoned libertine into a man of extraordinary ambition; for
great passions, though they cannot palliate crime, are nevertheless not
inconsistent with a dereliction of moral and legal ties.
To conclude my prefatory reasons for not writing a long preface, there
is one point on which I am anxious to appeal to the indulgence of my
readers. It is obvious that the work being written in English by a
Spaniard, must bear some traces of its foreign descent. In extenuation
of these unavoidable faults of style and language, I can only entreat
that the English public will extend the same generous sympathy and
benevolence to the errors of the author, which it has already evinced,
in far more important matters, on behalf of his unfortunate
fellow-countrymen.
GOMEZ ARIAS;
OR,
THE MOORS OF THE ALPUJARRAS.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
The ancient city of Granada has ever proved a source of gratification to
those who have occupied themselves with the investigation of its earlier
history. It abounds with objects curious and interesting; and is no less
celebrated for the conspicuous place which it holds in the page of
Spanish history, than for the more pleasing associations of chivalry
and romance. Situated at the base of the snow-capt mountains of the
_Sierra Nevada_, and extending into the luxuriant plain of the _Vega_,
it seems placed by nature as a barrier between an eternal winter and a
constant spring--
"Not as elsewhere with fervours frosts severe,
Or clouds with calms divide the happy hours,
But heaven than whitest crystal e'en more clear,
A flood of sunshine in all seasons showers;
Nursing to fields their herbs, to herbs their flowers,
To flowers their smell, leaves to th' immortal trees:
Here by its lake the splendid palace towers,
On marble columns rich with golden frieze,
For leagues and leagues around, o'erhanging hills and seas."
_Wiffen's Tasso._
Amongst the many architectural remains which adorn the city, the palace
of the Alhambra is perhaps the most conspicuous. It was originally
founded by one of the Moorish kings, after the conquest of the kingdom
of Granada, and became, in process of time, the favorite residence of a
long line of princes, by whom it was enriched with the spoils of
conquest, and all the embellishments which wealth could supply. Nothing,
indeed, that imagination could devise, or human industry effect, was
omitted, to render it a retreat worthy of the Moorish sovereigns of
Granada.
Ages have gone by since its foundation, kingdoms have been overthrown,
and whole generations have passed away, but the Alhambra still remains a
proud record of the Moslem's power. It is the last monument of their
glory, amidst the changes that have long since taken place, and that
still proclaim their fall.
The city commands an extensive view of the surrounding country, and the
eye wanders with delight over the picturesque and varied scenery which
opens on every side. Far as the eye can reach, a fertile plain teeming
with life exhibits nature in her most lovely and fascinating forms;
large flocks and herds are seen browzing and disporting amongst the
luxuriant herbage, while the distant quiet villages interspersed
throughout the landscape, are thrown out in bold relief by the dark
green foliage in which they are embosomed. Here the orange-flower and
the jasmin of the gardens, decked in all the pride of cultivation, load
the air with their grateful perfume; and sparkling jets of limpid water,
thrown aloft from fountains of alabaster, impart a continual freshness
and beauty to the scene, whilst they contribute to dissipate the languor
which in this luxurious climate softly steals over the senses.
After dwelling with delight upon this living landscape of happiness and
tranquillity, the feelings of the beholder are aroused by the imposing
aspect of the _Sierra Nevada_. The never-varying hue, the sameness of
desolation exhibited by these gigantic mountains, offer a striking
contrast to the glowing and lively tints of the surrounding country. On
their lofty summits the clouds appear to have fixed their abode; and in
their inhospitable regions no living thing can dwell.--Still barren and
dreary they remain, in the very bosom of luxuriance and cheerfulness;
throughout the vicissitudes of climate and season they are for ever the
same.
Granada was the last strong hold of the Moors in Spain. They had for
seven centuries defied the power of different Christian sovereigns, who
by unremitted efforts slowly and progressively regained those
territories which had been suddenly wrested from their ancestors.
Indeed, it required the lapse of ages and a series of successes, wrought
by the exertions of many a distinguished warrior, to recover those
possessions which had been thus lost by the weakness of a king, and the
treason of a prelate.[1]
Ferdinand and Isabella, happily uniting by marriage the crowns of
Arragon and Castile, consolidated the power and gave a new impulse to
the energies of the Christians. After a variety of minor advantages,
they resolved to lay siege to Granada, fortunately at a time when that
city was a prey to civil dissentions, occasioned by the rival families
of the Zegris and Abencerrages. The Moors, gradually weakened by their
domestic broils, offered but an inadequate opposition to the enemy, who
pressed them, on this account, with increasing ardour. After a
protracted siege of eight months, in which a host of warriors
distinguished themselves, Granada, the royal residence of the Moslems
for seven hundred years, surrendered, and the banner of the Cross
streamed triumphantly over the turrets of the Alhambra.
The Moors seemed satisfied with their new masters, and the partial
change of government which ensued; so that King Ferdinand returned to
Seville, leaving the subdued city in apparent tranquillity. This calm
was, however, but of short duration. Strong symptoms of disaffection
were soon observable in the conduct of the vanquished Moors, and the
murmurs of discontent which prevailed in every quarter, shortly
terminated in open revolt.
The Archbishop of Toledo, in his intemperate zeal for the conversion of
the infidels, had adopted measures which tended rather to increase their
natural aversion to the Christian religion, than to wean them from a
creed, the mandates of which were in greater harmony with their habits
and inclination. The prelate seeing his designs thwarted by the
inhabitants of the Albaycin, commissioned one of his officers to arrest
those whom he suspected of promoting the opposition. This last
ill-advised and imprudent step so greatly exasperated the malcontents,
that no sooner did the alguazil proceed to the discharge of his duty,
than he became a victim to their fury. Imprecations were first heaped
upon him; menaces succeeded; and finally a large stone, hurled from a
window, stretched the unfortunate officer lifeless an the ground.
This murder was the signal for open rebellion. The Moors were aware that
so flagrant an act could not escape an adequate punishment, and they
accordingly prepared themselves for a vigorous resistance. Some of the
most daring hurried from street to street, summoning their
fellow-countrymen to arms, and exclaiming that the articles of the
treaty, in virtue of which they had surrendered, were violated, since
they could not continue unmolested in the exercise of their religious
duties.
This untoward event was the occasion of great anxiety to the Count de
Tendilla, who had been entrusted with the government of the city by the
queen. He took active measures to subdue the increasing fury of the
malcontents. But desirous of trying the effect of negociation before he
had recourse to extremes, he set forth to the rebels, in the strongest
light, the criminality and madness of the enterprise in which they had
embarked, and the little probability of their ever again struggling with
success against the Christian power. All his efforts to restore order
proved for some time ineffectual. But the promise of amnesty and redress
of their grievances, the well known integrity of the count, and his
generosity in sending his lady and son as hostages for the fulfilment of
the treaty, induced at length the majority of the rebels to lay down
their arms and accept the proffered pardon.
The forty chiefs, however, who had been chosen by the insurgents,
considered this conduct as pusillanimous, and despised it accordingly.
Dazzled by dreams of ambition, fired with hopes of asserting their
independence, and aware that the wild recesses of the mountains afforded
facilities for conducting the war with greater security and success;
they fled from Granada in the night, and succeeded in instilling their
sentiments into the minds of the Moors who inhabited the adjacent
country. The towns of Guejar, Lanjaron and Andarax soon rose up in arms;
all the mountaineers of the Alpujarras followed the example, and the
Christians were threatened with the loss of those acquisitions, which
their valour and perseverance had so nobly won.
It is at this interesting period that the following romance takes place;
and some of the subsequent events of the rebellion form the historical
portion of its subject.
CHAPTER II.
We are up in arms,
If not to fight with foreign enemies,
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.
_Shakespeare._
Alarming accounts of the resolution taken by the insurgents being
communicated to the queen, she lost no time in adopting measures for the
preservation of her power. She summoned around her all those counsellors
in whose judgment she had ever confided, and those champions on whose
valour, in the hour of danger, she firmly relied.
At the upper end of the hall of audience in which they were now
assembled, was seen the queen seated on a magnificent throne, over
which was suspended a rich canopy of crimson velvet. Isabella could
scarcely be considered at first sight as one born to command; her
stature was not above the middle size; but there was a certain air of
dignity which pervaded her every action. The mildness which beamed in
her bright blue eye seemed rather to act as a persuasive to the
observance of her mandates, than as a command, and her displeasure was
manifested more by reproaches than by threats. Few women could boast of
greater personal attractions--none a better regulated mind; if fault
there were, it might be traced in the cloud which darkened her brow,
when a consciousness of what was due to religion stood most prominently
forward. At such times she became severe and abstracted; and yet her
occasional austerity could hardly be condemned by her subjects, when it
led to that firmness and courage, and that inflexibility in the decrees
of justice, for which she was so remarkable. If the grave historian has
stamped her character with these attributes of heroism, what scope may
not be allowed to the writer of historical fiction? Distinguished by his
noble bearing and his honorable station, on the right hand of the queen
stood the renowned Alonso de Aguilar, the terror of the Moorish name. He
had, like his brother, the heroic Gonzalo de Cordova, particularly
distinguished himself in the wars against Granada, and was honored with
the regard and unlimited confidence of Isabella. Of a lofty and imposing
stature, he united with gigantic strength an air of dignity which well
became the most accomplished warrior of the age. His noble countenance
wore an expression of resolution and intrepidity, blended with openness
and candour, that inspired the beholder with sentiments of awe and
admiration. His fine athletic form was rendered more interesting from
its still retaining the elasticity of ardent youth, unsubdued by the
chill of fifty winters, which he had chiefly spent in the toils of the
camp. His character bore out the impression thus formed in his favor.
The active courage of his earlier days was chastened, not subdued, by
the experience of a more mature age; whilst the furrows on his manly
brow, and the few gray locks that slightly silvered his raven hair,
heightened the feeling of respect and veneration which his many virtues
were so well calculated to inspire.
On the opposite side stood Don Inigo Mendoza, Count de Tendilla,
Governor of Granada, a man who had numerous claims to the gratitude of
Spain.--Nor was it the least, that of being father of a son, who
afterwards served his country in the triple capacities of a valiant
soldier, an enlightened statesman, and a profound scholar.
Near these warriors were seen the Master of the Order of Calatrava, the
Aleayde de los Donceles, Count Urena, and other renowned chiefs. The
rest of the nobles, taking precedence, according to their rank,
completed this imposing assembly.
An universal silence prevailed, and every one seemed impatient to
ascertain the object of the council to which they had been so hastily
summoned, the nature of which they could only conjecture.
But from these noble ranks, a gallant knight was absent--one who, though
young in years, was already a veteran in military achievements, and
whose brilliant abilities had won him the right of sharing with these
distinguished personages the marked favor of his sovereign.--Gomez Arias
was not there, and Alonso de Aguilar, who considered him already as his
son, felt chagrined at his unavoidable absence.
This young nobleman was now a voluntary exile from court, and nowise
anxious to appear at Granada, where his presence would be attended with
danger. Neither his own merits, nor the influence of Aguilar, could
induce Isabella to deviate from the path of justice, loudly demanded by
the family and friends of Don Rodrigo de Cespedes, who, at that time,
was stretched on a bed of sickness, in consequence of a dangerous wound
inflicted by Gomez Arias, his fortunate rival in the affections of
Leonor de Aguilar.
The members of the council, with this solitary exception, being
assembled, the queen rose to address them.--"Noble Christians," she
said, "my friends and brave defenders! You are no doubt already aware of
the important motive which summons you to our presence. Unless a speedy
remedy be applied, we are threatened with the loss of those territories
for which we have so long toiled, and which have been purchased with the
dearest blood in Spain. Again the noble patriotic fire which animates
you must be called forth, and the redoubled strength of your arms be
displayed against the enemies of our faith and native land. Scarcely had
you, by courage and perseverance, reduced this last strong hold of
Granada, and compelled the Moors to surrender the inheritance of our
forefathers, when the seeds of discontent were sown, and sprung into
open rebellion. Whatever may have been the complaints of the inhabitants
of the Albaycin, it was by calm remonstrance, and by applications to
our throne of justice, that they ought to have sought redress; not by
the force of arms, in which they have had but too many occasions to
acknowledge our superiority.--Our officers of justice have been
insulted, and one of them has been murdered in the discharge of his
duty. The prudent and active conduct of the Count de Tendilla succeeded
in putting down the first commotion, but the leaders of the outrage have
sought, in the wild passes of the Alpujarras, to conduct by stratagem a
war which they are not able to sustain against us in the field. Let us
then hasten to chastise their insolence before the evil gain ground. Not
that I entertain any doubts of success, but for the purpose of saving
the valuable lives which such procrastination might endanger. Amongst
the rebel chiefs, who appear to possess in the greatest degree the
confidence of their comrades, and most resolutely to defy our power, are
el Negro,[2] of Lanjaron, and el Feri de Benastepar. The former,
blockaded in the Castle of Lanjaron, will not long brave a siege; but
the latter is a more formidable enemy, and being well acquainted with
the innermost passes of those wild mountains, will offer a greater
resistance. Against this man, therefore, our chief efforts must be
directed."
She then took a banner, on which was splendidly emblazoned the arms of
Castile and Arragon.--"To thee, Don Alonso de Aguilar," she said, "do we
intrust the chief command in this expedition, and to thy care and
keeping do we commit this precious gage, which thou must fix on the
summit of the Alpujarras."
Saying this, she delivered the standard to the veteran warrior. He bowed
on receiving it, and the fire of enthusiasm kindled in his dark eyes as
he knelt, and kissed the hand of the donor; then waving the banner on
high, he exclaimed--"All that human efforts can achieve, will I do. My
Liege, from your hands Alonso de Aguilar receives this pledge of royal
favor, and he will not prove ungrateful for the noble distinction. Yes,
I will punish these accursed infidels, and this sacred standard shall
not be separated from me till it streams in triumph on the summit of the
mountain. Noble warriors," he continued with a burst of exultation--"if
this banner be lost, search for it in the midst of slaughtered
Moors--there you will find it, dyed in the blood, but still in the grasp
of Alonso de Aguilar."
As he uttered these words, he again raised the banner on high, and the
surrounding chiefs sent forth, simultaneously, a shout of approbation.
Isabella then motioning with her hand to command attention, again
addressed the council.--"Listen further to our sovereign decree. From
this time let no one of our subjects hold communion or any intercourse
whatever with the rebels. The least infringement of this order shall be
accounted treason, and the transgressor shall be dealt with according to
the law. Let an edict be proclaimed, that no one may plead ignorance of
its purport."
The chiefs now gradually withdrew; and Don Alonso having made his
obeisance, was likewise about to retire, when his royal mistress
detained him.--"Stay, Aguilar. It grieves me much that the marriage of
thy daughter should be thus deferred, nay, perhaps set aside, by the
unfortunate adventure of her lover with Don Rodrigo de Cespedes. How is
the wounded man?"
"Most gracious Queen"--replied Don Alonso, "I have received intelligence
that he is even now considered almost out of danger. The issue of a few
days will determine, and then if the result be favorable, I may safely
welcome the return of Don Lope Gomez Arias."
"As good a knight as Spain can boast"--returned the queen--"and
possessed of those accomplishments which insure the favor of our sex.
But I hear he has a failing, which, as a woman, I ought rather to call a
grievous fault. I am told he is of a very fickle character. Is not your
Leonor alarmed at the reported inconstancy of her future husband?"
"Is she not the child of Aguilar?"--proudly cried the warrior--"And
where is the man that dared wrong one of that name?"
"Nay," replied Isabella, in the most condescending tone and manner, "I
do not mean that Leonor will repent her choice when once made; she has
attractions to fix the most volatile and inconstant of men; and I
sincerely hope that Gomez Arias will have discernment sufficient to
appreciate them."
"Don Lope is not so fickle as some have wished your Highness to
believe," observed Don Alonso. "Moreover, I use no compulsion; they love
each other well, and I only am concerned that their marriage should not
be celebrated before I march against el Feri de Benastepar. In the face
of danger I would then feel tranquil, from the consciousness that there
was one to protect my child, should aught happen to her father in this
hazardous expedition."
"The daughter of Don Alonso de Aguilar"--replied the queen--"can never
need one to supply her father's place whilst Isabella lives. She shall
remain constantly with me, and I shall be gratified to manifest by my
attention and kindness to Leonor, the high estimation in which I hold
her father. But how does it happen that you are not the _Mantenedor_ of
the lists in the games of to-morrow?"
"One more capable than myself has already assumed the charge. Besides, I
can feel little interested with the display of a tournament, when we are
shortly to meet the enemy in mortal encounter. These sports suit well
with gay young cavaliers, but not with veterans like myself. Those
gallant knights have admiring ladies to look upon their prowess, and
reward their success. But my only ambition is to sustain the laurels
earned in bloody fray against the enemy of my country,--to gain the
approbation of that country, and the favor of its greatest ornament,--my
noble sovereign."
The resolute and manly tone in which Don Alonso spoke, perfectly
accorded with the frankness and generosity of his character. He bent his
knee as he pressed to his lips the extended hand of his queen.
"And well hast thou deserved that favor," she exclaimed, "my best, and
most faithful friend: thy country will pay with gratitude thy long
proved services. Go; prosper in thy brilliant career!"
The remainder of the day was passed in preparations for the games of the
morrow. Gallant knights were busily engaged in preparing their
accoutrements, and examining their armour, whilst many a fair hand was
as anxiously occupied in ornamenting the devices, and arranging the
colours of the favored knight. The city was thronged with visitors, the
inhabitants of the adjacent country having been attracted by the fame of
the reported games, insomuch that Granada could not hold her numerous
guests. For more accommodation, numerous temporary tents had been
pitched along the smiling plain of the Vega. The voices of vacant joy
and revelry were heard on all sides, and the warriors and irregular
groups, moving along in all the recklessness of anticipated pleasure,
presented a gay and lively picture.
CHAPTER III.
Cada uno dellos mientes tiene al so,
Abrazan los escudos delant los corazones:
Abaxan las lauzas abueltas con los pendones;
Enclinaban las caras sobre los arzones:
Batien los cavallos con los espolones,
Tembrar quierie la tierra dod eran movedores.
_Poema del Cid._
The morning arrived, and the entrances to the lists were thronged by the
inhabitants of Granada and their visitors; all anxious to witness a
display which it was expected would surpass in magnificence any thing of
the kind they had ever seen. A large piece of ground, perfectly level
and free from impediment, had been appropriately chosen without the
walls of the city, for the exhibition of the games of strength, valour,
and skill, and a temporary gallery had been constructed, extending on
either side to the extremity of the lists. At the end nearest the city,
was erected a temporary wooden fortress, painted in imitation of
stone-work, curiously fabricated, covered over with canvas, and capable
of containing a number of men-at-arms. On the front turret of this
castle streamed a large banner, on which was emblazoned a red cross
decorated with gold, being the arms of the order of Calatrava, of which
the _Mantenedor_[3] was the grand master. Other smaller banners were
placed around it, and they appertained to the four knights, who had
volunteered to support the _Mantenedor_, and who, in conjunction with
him, were bound to accept the challenge of all knights adventurers
disposed to encounter them. On each side of the castle were two tents,
before which were placed the pennon and shield of the knights to whom
they belonged, and at the entrance stood a squire, ready to meet the
demands of all comers.
Directly facing the castle, at the other extremity of the lists, was
pitched a large and magnificent pavilion, ornamented with little
pennons, and numberless armorial devices curiously interwoven with gold
and silver thread on green silk brocade. Before it were artificially
grouped swords, lances, shields, and every description of armour,
emblematical of the intent to which the pavilion was appropriated, it
being set apart for the use of those knights who were willing to enter
the lists against the _Mantenedor_ and his assistants. About the middle
of the gallery on the right of the castle, a platform had been erected
for the accommodation of the queen and her retinue. It was covered with
scarlet cloth, and shaded by a rich canopy of purple brocade, on the top
of which were seen the royal and united arms of Arragon and Castile
shining in burnished gold. The whole of this platform was occupied by
the maids of honour, and other principal ladies, as well as the
noblemen and gentlemen of the court. In front of the place occupied by
the queen, were stationed the umpires of the tournament, whose duty it
was to decide the merits of the candidates, and award the prizes. Other
places on either side of the throne were allotted to the various
nobility and gentry of Granada, whilst the two extremities of this
gallery and the whole of the other were assigned to the public, without
any claim to precedence, but that of a priority of occupation.
And now the ponderous bells of the cathedral filled the air with their
tolling; and immediately the bands of martial instruments within the
lists, struck up a glorious and enlivening strain, in signal of the
queen's approach.
At length she made her appearance, surrounded by a numerous suite, and
heartily was she welcomed by the multitude, whose joy at the sight of
their beloved sovereign was equal to the anticipated pleasure of the
tournament.
Isabella was sumptuously attired in a rich dress of crimson velvet,
ornamented with pearls. A delicate and costly scarf, of the finest lace,
was attached to the back part of her head, and covered with its graceful
folds her beautiful neck and shoulders. On this splendid scarf were
wrought in gold thread, lions and castles, and other insignia of the
arms of Spain. The queen wore likewise the crosses of the orders of
Santiago and Calatrava, richly studded with diamonds and precious gems
of immense value.
The lists now offered a most dazzling and noble spectacle. On one side
was displayed all the splendour of the court, and the sparkling
jewellery, the costly attire, and the waving plumes indicated the spot
where the rank and beauty of Spain was assembled in all its glory and
magnificence. Indeed towards this part of the lists the attention was
more particularly directed, as in all courteous exhibitions of martial
prowess, the interest is chiefly centered in those objects, to win whose
smile lances are broken and helmets shivered.--Nor was the feeling of
enthusiasm on beholding this scene lessened by the appearance of the
opposite gallery, which, though more humble, nevertheless contributed,
by the variety and gaiety of their costume, together with the cheerful
animation expressed in their countenances, to the general effect of the
picture. Then the proud display of all the panoplies of the court; the
rich waving plumage of the crests; the lustre of the burnished shields
and polished armour, together with the neighing of the spirited charger
that caracolled the lists, and the warlike strains that at intervals
floated on the air, powerfully tended to strike the imagination and
inspire the heart to deeds of chivalry and arms.
A flourish of trumpets and clarions now indicated that the tournament
was about to commence. In a few moments therefore the lists were
cleared, with the exception of the heralds, who, gorgeously equipped in
suits of crimson and gold, and attended by trumpeters, advanced to the
four corners of the lists to proclaim the challenge. It was couched in
the formula of chivalric language, which it would be superfluous here to
transcribe. The meaning, however, was, that the _Mantenedor_ and his
supporters, Don Manuel Ponce de Leon, the Alcayde de los Donceles, Count
Cifuentes, and Don Antonio de Leyva, invited all knights adventurers to
break lances, if they were hardy enough to dispute their right to the
lists. As soon as the challenge had been pronounced, the heralds retired
to their posts; when the trumpets sounded again, the gates of the castle
were thrown open, and the five challengers came forward.
Nothing could surpass the richness of their harness, the splendour of
their armour, and the gallantry of their bearing. The grand master was
attired in a costly suit of steel, the corslet of which was entirely
burnished with silver, and the ornaments chased with the same precious
metal. Over this he wore a short mantle of white velvet, which was the
colour he had adopted. On his shield, upon a field argent, was portrayed
the red cross of Calatrava, which he also bore on his breast, and which
was surrounded with the following device--"_Por esta y por mi Rey._"[4]
Don Manuel Ponce de Leon next fixed the attention of the spectators; his
armour was the same as the _Mantenedor_'s, excepting that the _ropa_[5]
which hung from his shoulder was crimson. On his ample buckler were
emblazoned the bars of the arms of Arragon, granted to his warlike
ancestors by the kings of that country; and likewise quartered thereon,
was a lion rampant, in field argent, a device which, tradition says, was
adopted by the famous Trojan, Hector, from whom the old French
chroniclers assert the Ponces de Leon to be descended. Beneath the arms
was legible in red letters the motto--"_Soy como mi nombre._"[6]
The armour of the other knights was made to correspond with that of the
_Mantenedor_, the only distinguishing mark being the colour of the
_ropas_, and the different device which each bore upon his shield,
either as indicative of his feelings, or from the armorial bearings of
his family. The colour of the spirited chargers of these challengers was
snow white. Nothing could exceed the beauty of their proportions and the
splendour of their trappings. They beat the ground with short quick
tramp, and shook the white foam from their mouths, as they fretted at
the discipline by which their fiery ardour was restrained. They were
caparisoned with long housings of costly brocade, and ornamented with
gold or silver, according to the colour of the rider's dress, and their
manes and tails were decorated with knots of gay ribbons.
The five challengers now advanced at a stately pace, till they arrived
before the queen, when, with a graceful and simultaneous motion, they
made their horses kneel down; and after saluting the courtly retinue
with their lances, they caracolled round the lists, as if to reconnoitre
their dominions. At last, after various martial evolutions, in which
they were accompanied by the animating strains of the music, they
proceeded to the middle of the lists--there they halted, and, throwing
down their gauntlets, retreated to the castle in the same order in which
they had advanced. The trumpets then sounded, and immediately there was
a rush of gallant knights, who pricked into the lists, all eager to take
up these tokens of defiance. So upon retiring, five of their number, who
had succeeded in securing the gage, came forward from the pavilion. The
champions wore fine Spanish shirts of mail, with a polished breast-plate
inlaid with gold, and their pliant barbs of raven black, seemed to have
been chosen to contrast with those of the challengers. The helmets of
the knights were almost hidden in a shadowing plumage of white and red
feathers. The chief of this gallant band declined giving his name,
though he was known to his four companions, who pledged themselves for
him. However, from the superior courage and address which the strange
knight afterwards displayed, it was generally believed that he could be
no other than the renowned Gonzalo de Cordova, who, from a pique in a
momentary fit of passion, had withdrawn from court, and lost the
friendship of the queen. The other four knights were easily
distinguished by their devices and colours. Amongst them, the most
conspicuous, appeared the young Don Pedro, son of Don Alonso de Aguilar.
He carried himself with a bearing far superior to his years, and
inspired a general interest, both on his own account and for that of his
illustrious sire. On his shield he bore a golden eagle, emblematical of
his name, flying towards heaven, and carrying in his claws a bleeding
Moor. Underneath was the motto--
"Le subire hasta el cielo,
Porque de mayor caida."[7]
This shield belonged to Alonso de Aguilar himself, who was no less
pleased than surprised that his son should have chosen such a device for
the occasion. But every one applauded the young Don Pedro for that
unconquerable hatred towards the enemies of his country, which he had
inherited from his ancestors, and which engrossed their thoughts even in
pastimes and games. By the side of Don Pedro, rode Garcilaso de la Vega,
who was proud to bear the brazen shield which he had inherited from his
father, and upon which was displayed the bleeding head of a Moor,
hanging on a black charger's tail, and round which were the words--"_Ave
Maria_"--a device which the Garcilasos wore in commemoration of the
famous single combat which one of their house had sustained against the
fierce Moor Audala, who, with impious insolence, had interwoven the
sacred salutation to the virgin, in token of derision, in his horse's
tail. The two other champions were the Count de Urena and young
Sayavedra, both equally renowned in that age of chivalry, brave and
gallant knights.
They now proceeded to the castle, and after the ceremony of striking
twice the gong which was placed beside it, and selecting their tents,
they again retreated. The five challengers next presented themselves,
and a desperate encounter was anticipated. Indeed ten more valiant
knights were scarcely to be found in all Spain, and their acknowledged
skill promised a display of more than usual interest for the beholders.
At the signal given, they rushed impetuously forward, yet such was their
perfection in horsemanship, and so well trained and disciplined were
their chargers, that they all arrived at the middle of the lists at the
same time, meeting in a shock, the abrupt and fearful clash of which
seemed as if it had been the effect of a single but awful concussion.
The lances were splintered to the very hilts, but the knights resumed
their places amidst the loud applause of the multitude. Again they
darted with the velocity of the wind, and again they met with the same
precision, but not with the same success; for in this encounter the
challengers were considered the victors--the two chiefs alone having
sustained no injury--their lances broke as before, but they remained
firm and erect in their saddle. Not so with the rest--for young Don
Pedro was not able to withstand the superior force of Ponce de Leon's
more manly age. Garcilaso was unhorsed by Don Antonio de Leyva, and the
two others sustained great inconvenience from the Alcayde and Count
Cifuentes.
The shouts of the spectators, and the flourish of instruments,
proclaimed the victory of the _Mantenedor_ and his supporters, who
retired to the castle with their good fortune, ready to meet the demands
of all other adventurers. The chief of the vanquished party who had so
handsomely maintained his ground against the Maestre, now signified his
intention of encountering that champion singly; but in this he was
opposed by the marshals of the games, who declared that after the demand
of his challenge had been acceded to, he could not, according to the
rules, encounter again the same knight on that day. The matter was
referred to the judges, who decided against the stranger chief, and he
was accordingly obliged to desist from his purpose.
Great was the joy of the _Mantenedor_ and his associates, who, having
vanquished the most formidable knights, proudly imagined that all who
might now appear, would afford an easy victory. Indeed this opinion
seemed generally to prevail, as for some time no one shewed himself in
the lists to dispute their supremacy.
Don Pedro, vexed at heart, now mounted a strong charger--rode up to the
castle, and challenged the _Mantenedor_ himself. Don Alonso de Aguilar
saw the noble daring of his son at once with pleasure and dismay; for
although he was overjoyed to perceive him possessed of such undaunted
courage, he yet trembled for the consequences of his temerity.
The gong sounded twice--the Maestre appeared, and was struck at the
presumption of the young adventurer.--They took their places--the
trumpets gave the signal--forward the champions started, and at the
first meeting displayed such an equality that the whole place rung with
acclamations. Indeed this was the most important encounter, and every
one waited its issue in breathless expectation--the ladies in
particular, always interested where youth dares against manhood, waved
their kerchiefs and scarfs to animate the young knight, whose heart in
sooth needed no such stimulus. In the second encounter, however, he was
not equally fortunate; for the _Mantenedor_, jealous of his fame, now
risked against a youth, stood more on his guard, and summoned all his
might and skill to his assistance.--Don Pedro was unable to withstand
the shock; the lance flew unharmed from his grasp, and he was compelled
to leave the field honorably, but still in possession of the
challengers.
The castle now sent forth a blast of clarions, in sign of triumph and
defiance, whilst at the pavilion, no knight evinced any desire of
renewing the engagement. In this state of suspense, some time elapsed,
and the heralds, according to form, proceeded to summon the knights
adventurers, but no one appeared--again ten minutes elapsed, and a
second summons was pronounced, but again it met with no answer. The
triumph of the _Mantenedor_ now seemed certain, and the heralds were
about to utter the third and last proclamation, when, lo! a knight was
seen riding at full speed towards the lists, and, after thundering at
the barrier for admittance, without further ceremony, was directing his
course to the castle, when his career was arrested by the marshals, as
no one could pretend to enter the lists against the challengers, without
previously delivering his name and titles, or at least presenting a
known friend to vouch for his being a true and loyal knight.
The incognito knight was accordingly obliged to give way; but making a
sign to the herald not to proceed to the third summons, he rode up to
Don Pedro and, taking him aside, conferred with him in secret. Young
Aguilar immediately advanced with visible surprise and pleasure, and
pledged himself for his new companion. This circumstance, no less than
the general appearance of the champion in question, commanded universal
interest and attention. He was completely accoutred in a blue steel
armour, over which he wore a short mantle of black velvet, sumptuously
adorned with gold. On his burnished helmet he wore a profusion of white
and sable feathers, and on his lance streamed a pennon of the same
colours. His breast was covered with a ponderous shield, bearing no
device, but the solitary motto--"_Conocelle por sus fechos._"[8] The
incognito knight brought with him neither squire nor page, and there was
an air of mystery about his person that tended considerably to heighten
the interest which his sudden appearance had already excited.
He now rushed impetuously towards the castle, when the charger seemed to
be under no command, and the knight was apparently in peril of being
dashed to pieces;--a simultaneous cry of terror burst from the
surrounding multitude, when the incognito knight on the point of being
hurled against the wall of the castle, and at the distance of scarcely
two feet, suddenly reined up, and both he and his charger appeared
rooted to the ground. A burst of admiration now superseded the terror
which his precipitous career had occasioned, and every one was lost in
conjectures relating to the incognito knight. The noble arrogance of the
motto--"_Conocelle por sus fechos_," made them better appreciate the
feat he had just performed. He advanced to the gong, and sounded a
redoubled and protracted peal, and flourishing his lance in the face of
the castle and tents, indicated his willingness to do battle with all.
This daring act excited a second burst of applause, and the astonished
challengers appeared at the castle in a mood of mixed perplexity and
indignant pride. The incognito knight, however, vaulted on his charger,
and then retreated to await the pleasure of the _Mantenedor_; who,
according to rank, was the first to engage. The flourish of trumpets
acted as a signal, and the champions rushed against each other at full
speed; the shock was tremendous--the lances were shivered, and the
powerful chargers staggered with the violent concussion. The champions
taking new lances, prepared for a second encounter, when the horse of
the _Mantenedor_, either from sudden fright or other cause, swerved in
the middle of its career, and its master, being obliged to deviate from
his intended aim, would have offered an easy victory to his antagonist.
The knight, however, generously refused to take advantage of this
accident, and, making a demi-volte, returned to await the _Mantenedor_'s
leisure. But the latter, overcome by the courteous behaviour of his
adversary, declined a second encounter, and retired to the castle.
Don Manuel Ponce de Leon next advanced, happy in the opportunity which
chance offered him of gathering the laurels, which his principal had
forgone. This knight, in the opinion of many, was the most formidable of
the five challengers--the repeated single combats in which he had
engaged against the Moors, and other feats of arms, having won for him
very great reputation. He came therefore into the lists, as if conscious
of his powers, and fully confident of success. In the first shock,
there was a slight advantage on his part, having succeeded in striking
his lance so forcibly, and directly on the breast-plate of his
adversary, that the incognito knight was observed somewhat to stagger;
while Don Manuel remained immoveable as a rock--however, as no decided
advantage could be claimed, the two champions prepared to renew the
engagement. Again the swift-footed steeds fly over the lists, and again
the combatants meet with a terrific clash. It proved unfortunate for
Ponce de Leon, who was dealt such a severe blow, that had it not been
for the extreme goodness of his armour, the queen would have lost one of
her most gallant warriors. As it was, the saddle girths broke, and the
horse, unable to withstand the shock, staggered backward--tottered, and
rolled over, throwing his rider, with a tremendous fall, into the middle
of the lists. Ponce de Leon with difficulty arose, having received a
sore contusion, and was assisted back to the castle, from whence the
Alcayde de los Donceles soon issued forth, intent upon revenging the
disgrace of his companion. He offered, however, a faint resistance; for
the incognito knight, at every encounter, appeared to acquire new
strength. The opposition afforded by Count de Cifuentes was still
weaker; the unfortunate knight being fairly unhorsed in such a manner,
that he seemed for a moment to be carried on the point of his
antagonist's lance to the ground. The shouts of the spectators, and the
peal of instruments redoubled at every new proof of strength and skill
thus manifested, and the triumph of the incognito knight was hailed as
certain. He had now only to meet the youngest; and, to the opinion of
all, the least renowned of the challengers. Young Don Antonio de Leyva,
however, by the martial and undaunted manner in which he came forward,
showed that he was in no ways intimidated by the repeated and
extraordinary good fortune of the doughty champion.
The trumpets sounded--the lances are couched--the horses started--the
silence is intense--when, with one fearful resounding clash, the
knights meet--the charm is broken, and all is converted into an uproar
of wonder and delight.--The champions, though so unequal in all
appearances, now proved to be fairly matched--both lances descended from
the air in splinters, and the tremendous shock which the combatants had
sustained, appeared to produce no other effect than to check their
steeds in their impetuous course. The knights soon recovered and
regained their stations.--Again the signal is heard--and again they
speed with the swiftness of the arrow--the lances break, and both the
horses recede with the violent shock.--Surprise and delight agitate the
bosom of the spectators.--Hope inspires the drooping spirits of the
_Mantenedor_ and those of the castle.--Disappointment and vexation rage
in the heart of the incognito knight. He made a movement of impatient
anger, as he grasped firmly the lance which was now presented to him,
and poised it as if to ascertain its consistency; then, making a circuit
with his steed, he appeared resolved to put a termination to the hopes
of his adversary in the present encounter.--With a desperate start he
rushed headlong against his opponent, who, aware of the furious attack
he was about to sustain, collected all his might to meet it with a
suitable resistance.--The incognito knight inclined himself more forward
on his horse, and turned his aim full at the breast of his antagonist,
while Don Antonio, who perceived his intention, resolved to direct his
lance towards his adversary's head, which, though a difficult
manoeuvre, would, if successful, insure the advantage.--The incognito
knight, however, broke the tendency of the blow by suddenly inclining
his head forward, while the anger that boiled within his bosom, so
powerfully seconded his efforts, that the gallant Don Antonio fell,
bearing, however, his adversary backwards on his seat, and carrying
away, on the point of his lance, the plumage that adorned his casque.
The victory was now completed, and the whole place resounded with shouts
of admiration. The incognito knight having thus vanquished the
champions, for some time gallantly paraded the lists, making his
obedient and tutored steed perform several graceful evolutions. Then
suddenly advancing before the throne of the queen, he lowered the point
of his lance and made his charger to kneel. Passing onwards to Leonor de
Aguilar, he again made the graceful salute, whilst a shower of
many-colored ribbons, white and highly-scented gloves, flowers, and
other favors, fell profusely from fair hands--a due tribute to bravery
and skill. Having performed this mark of courtesy, without waiting to
receive the guerdon he had so well merited, he applied spurs to his
horse and was soon lost to the sight of the delighted and admiring
multitude.
The incognito knight became the subject of general speculation--he had
overcome five champions to whom the court of Isabella could afford no
equals--only one man perhaps might be capable of such valorous
achievements, but he was now an exile whom the law pursued, and whose
appearance in the lists would be attended with danger. Still the
extraordinary prowess of the knight, and the circumstance of Don Pedro
coming forward to answer for him when he entered the lists, left no room
to doubt that he was that illustrious exile. Indeed the significant
smile which the queen directed to Alonso de Aguilar, when the champion
saluted his daughter, and the blush that mantled on the cheek of that
lady implied a perfect recognition of her lover.
His absence from the lists gave the judges an opportunity of awarding
the principal prize to Don Antonio de Leyva, by whom, according to their
own, as well as the general opinion, it was more justly merited. The
different bands now struck up a martial air; the queen departed with her
numerous and splendid train, and every one retired from the lists,
perfectly satisfied with the sports of the day, to spend the remainder
of it in feasting and discussing the various merits of the knights who
had afforded them so much pleasure.
CHAPTER IV.
Poi la Vittoria da quel canto stia,
Che vorra la divina providenza:
Il cavalier non havra colpa alcuna,
Ma il tutto impulterassi a la fortuna.
_Ariosto._
The following morning shone equally bright as the preceding, and the
expectations of the public were equally sanguine. The same pomp and
ceremony presided in the court; the same precision and gallant
deportment was observable in the knights, the heralds, and all other
persons connected with the sports.
As these, however, as far as concerned the tournament, were but a
repetition of the antecedent day, and more to be enjoyed by being an
active witness than a passive reader of them, we will not dwell on the
subject further than to observe, that those of the castle sustained the
challenge most gallantly. Although many were the fresh arrivals of
adventurers who fearlessly advanced to engage the _Mantenedor_ and his
comrades, none were sufficiently accomplished to bear away the palm.
Indeed, the incognito knight, the most redoubtable of all the
combatants, either from fear of discovery, or from some secret
injunction, had abstained from making a second appearance in the lists.
The signal was now given, and the heralds proclaimed that the games of
valour and strength were ended, and those of skill about to commence.
An interval of two hours was employed in clearing the lists, and
preparing the ground for the _juego de la sortija_,[9] which was
peculiarly gratifying to the queen. This intermediate time was devoted
by the assembled and motley crowd, to the rational, and provident
purpose of a substantial repast.
A tall and slight pine tree, beautifully decorated with ribbons, was
placed in the ground, and a gold ring of proportion suitable to the
occasion, suspended on one of the projecting branches, under which the
candidates were to pass at full career. The queen herself resolved to
reward the victor with her own royal hand. Her portrait, superbly set in
sparkling jewellery, and hanging on a ponderous gold chain of curious
workmanship, was suspended by her side--a meet reward for the successful
competitor. The nature of the guerdon, the quality of the bestower, and
the circumstance that there was but one prize to be obtained, greatly
stimulated the emulation of every knight to deserve an honor the more
desirable from its admitting of no participation.
_Chirimias_, _dulzainas_,[10] and other musical instruments which are
now grown obsolete, but which in those days were in high request, now
filled the air with harmony, while the attention of the gay and motley
concourse was arrested by the sudden arrival of heralds on horseback,
gorgeously apparelled, and preceded by black slaves playing on the
cymbals. These paraded the lists for a short time, and then retiring to
their posts, gave way to beautiful pages, mounted on elegant palfreys,
and attired in costly silken dresses of light blue, bedizened with
ribbons, and bearing a turban of crimson velvet with white feathers.
These pages carried before them the light and slender lances
appropriated for the games, and having deposited them near the queen,
they retired and took their stations opposite to the troop of heralds
and black musicians.
The attention of the public was then simultaneously attracted to the
four corners of the lists, from whence four quadrilles of equestrians
proceeded, all vieing with each other in the richness of their dresses,
the splendor of ornaments, and the gaiety of their bearing. These
quadrilles were distinguished by the different colours which they wore,
and out of each were selected three champions to dispute the prize. At
the signal given, they started severally according to the order of
precedence, which had been obtained by casting lots, and in the first
course seven candidates passed their lances clearly through the ring,
carrying it along in their headlong career.
The music sounded a flourish, and the seven competitors underwent
another trial, in which only two were successful--young Garcilaso, and
Antonio de Leyva. The contest was now to be divided by the two, and pink
and green were the colours that contended for the victory; accordingly
their quadrilles, as well as the spectators of both sexes who had
adopted those colours, awaited the result of the contest, with anxious
suspense. Garcilaso now made a graceful curvet, and spring at once with
the celerity of an arrow, in the middle of his precipitous career he
extended his lance with perfect ease and dexterity, and again carried
away the ring. Don Antonio next advanced; and having indulged for a
short space in several feats of horsemanship, he sped towards the
honored tree on which was suspended victory or defeat. His horsemanship
was so perfect that, excepting the feather on his head which streamed
before the wind, all appeared like the figure of a centaur, flying
meteor-like along the plain. His lance, however, missed the middle of
the ring, and touching one of its edges, such was the rapidity of Don
Antonio's motion that the ring sprung high in the air, when the
dexterous cavalier, to the admiration of the surrounding multitude,
turned short, and before the ring had time to fall, he caught it fairly
with his lance. This extraordinary feat excited universal applause, and
some even vociferated that Don Antonio was deservedly entitled to the
prize. However, as Garcilaso had likewise succeeded in carrying away the
ring, the candidates were obliged to refer to another trial, which was
decided in favor of young de Leyva, who was immediately escorted by the
triumphant party to receive the reward amidst the exhilarating strains
of the music, and the acclamation of the vast concourse.
As soon as the victorious cavalcade arrived near the queen, Don Antonio
and the chief of the quadrille vaulted nimbly from their horses, when
the conqueror knelt at the feet of his gracious sovereign, who, with a
condescending smile, threw the portrait round his neck.
"Wear this," she then said, "in commemoration of thy skill, and the
regard of Isabella. Remember that this gift is a gage of my royal word
to accord to the bearer any boon he may have to demand. Upon the
presentation of this token it shall be granted. My royal word is
passed."
Don Antonio humbly kissed the hand of his queen, and mingling again with
his party, they paraded the place in ceremonial triumph, previous to
their departure. The feats of De Leyva, both in the tourney and the game
of the ring, had secured for him the admiration of all the spectators,
and more particularly amongst the fairer part. Many were the glances
bestowed upon him by sparkling eyes and many a gentle bosom beat high
with emotion as he inclined towards them his handsome figure in graceful
salutations.--Even the proud Leonor could not entirely conceal the
inward satisfaction she felt at the triumph of the young Don Antonio;
for, notwithstanding her efforts, she could but ill disguise a latent
feeling of interest and delight. Certainly it was not love; for,
according to general opinion, she had irretrievably fixed her affections
on another object. But yet she was in that state of mind which is more
easily felt than described; a state too glowing to be called mere
friendship--too cold to be denominated love; it was something between
both--a tender sentiment of regard towards one whom she was taught to
consider her inferior in point of rank and fortune.
Leonor de Aguilar had inherited from her warlike father that pride and
loftiness of spirit which in some measure spurned the softer sensations
of the heart. She scarcely believed in the existence of unbounded,
unconquerable passion; her ideas were too much engrossed in the dazzling
visions of glory and fame to descend to a minute analysis of the various
gradations of tenderness, and the progressive workings of love.--She
seemed to sympathize more with the lofty feelings of her father, than
with those of her woman's heart. She had implicitly trusted to him the
care of her happiness, and upon his slightest intimation she had
consented to receive Gomez Arias as her future husband, and he had too
many brilliant qualities not to meet with her approbation.
Gomez Arias possessed in an eminent degree great military talents, and
an unbounded desire of glory and renown,--qualities which, in the
opinion of Leonor, were paramount to every other consideration.
Accordingly, she loved him, as she thought, in a manner worthy of the
daughter of Don Alonso de Aguilar.
In this state of mind she awaited the marriage, which had only been
retarded by the untoward accident which had unhappily brought the life
of Don Rodrigo de Cespedes into mortal jeopardy.
Meantime the extraordinary valour and address which Gomez Arias had
displayed in the tournament (for Leonor felt conscious that the
incognito knight could be no other), tended considerably to increase her
admiration for him, and to enhance her desire of uniting her fortunes to
those of a man so well calculated to merit by his services the
approbation of his country.
The games being over, various chiefs, such as the Alcayde de los
Donceles, Count Cifuentes, and others of equal merit, departed with the
forces under their command, to act against the rebels, now daily
increasing both in number and strength.
Meantime Don Alonso de Aguilar, on whom devolved the most dangerous part
of the enterprize, that of penetrating into the heart of those terrible
mountains of the Alpujarras, felt scarcely satisfied with his detention
at Granada, as he considered every moment spent in inactivity as lost to
glory and renown.
Great, therefore, was his satisfaction when he communicated to his
daughter the perfect recovery of Don Rodrigo de Cespedes. Nothing now
could prevent the immediate appearance of Gomez Arias at Granada, for
the celebration of the nuptials, or throw any impediment on Don Alonso's
departure against the rebel Moors. Intelligence, therefore, was sent to
Don Lope, who lay concealed at Guadix, that he might repair with the
utmost expedition to Granada,--an invitation which Aguilar entertained
no doubt would be most anxiously welcomed by that cavalier. Under this
impression Don Alonso now turned his thoughts solely to the object that
was ever in his mind, and engrossed his every sentiment. Two or three
days more and he would be marching against the enemies of his country,
and adding new laurels to the flourishing branches that already graced
his glorious name.
Meantime his daughter Leonor evinced an equal anxiety for the return of
her lover, not so much for any selfish gratification of feeling as for
the more noble ambition of claiming the prerogative to call by the
endearing names of father and husband, the two first warriors of the
land.
Thus impressed, both father and daughter awaited with impatience the
following day, which, beyond the possibility of doubt, was to bring
Gomez Arias to the city.
CHAPTER V.
_Sterling._ True, True; and since you only transfer from one
girl to another, it is no more than transferring so much stock,
you know.
_Sir John._ The very thing.
_Sterling._ Odso! I had quite forgot. We are reckoning
without our host here.
_Clandestine Marriage._
"What is to be the wonder now?" asked Gomez Arias, as he observed his
valet and confidant, Roque, approaching, with an unusual expression of
gravity upon his countenance, such indeed as was seldom discernible in
the features of the merry buffoon.
"What is it you want?"
"I wish to leave your service, Senor."
"Leave my service! Surely, Roque, you are not tired of so indulgent a
master?"
"Yes, Sir," answered Roque, "I am; and what is more, I have been so
these three years--may I speak out?"
"Why," said Don Lope, "you never till now asked leave to be
impertinent--but let me hear your complaints."
"In the first place you are not rich--a grievous fault."
"How can I help that?" demanded Gomez Arias.
"Senor, you could have helped it once; but that is passed. Then you
play----"
"Here's the devil preaching morality," exclaimed his master, with a
laugh. "Oh! most conscientious Roque, what are thine objections to this
amusement?"
"To the amusement in itself, none; I am only discontented with the
consequences. If you gain, you very composedly enjoy the whole fruits of
your success; if, on the contrary, you lose, I get more than a
reasonable share of your ill-humours, with which you most liberally
indulge me. Now, Don Lope, I should like fair play, if play you will;
to feel a little more the effect of the first, and not quite so much of
the second."
"Thou art a pleasant sort of a fool, Roque," said Gomez Arias, as he
leisurely twirled round his curling jet-black mustachios, and with much
complacency eyed his fine figure in a mirror.
"Thank you, Sir," replied the valet, with a low bow; "but be pleased to
consider, that the good opinion you entertain of my talents is
unfortunately no adequate compensation for the privations and numberless
perils which I undergo in your service. To continue, then, the list
of----"
"My faults!" interrupted his master.
"I only say of my complaints," returned the valet: "next to your being a
gamester, what I most deprecate is, your military profession, and the
fame which you have acquired by your bravery."
"Good heavens!" cried Gomez Arias, "why thou art precisely complaining
of the qualities that most become a gentleman."
"But I am no gentleman," pertinently observed Roque; "and I cannot
imagine why I should be exposed to the dangers attendant on heroes,
without likewise reaping their rewards."
"I glory in being a soldier," exclaimed Don Lope, a sudden burst of
martial enthusiasm glowing on his manly countenance.--"Yes, I have laid
low many of the enemies of my country; and before I die I hope often to
try my good sword against those accursed and rebellious Moors of the
Alpujarras."
"All that is very fine, certainly," said Roque; "but do you know, Senor,
that I do not consider the country so much indebted to you, as no doubt
you most complacently imagine."
"What!" cried the cavalier, with looks of displeasure.
"Pray be temperate, Don Lope; I do not mean to offend. You have
unquestionably done great services to Spain, by ridding her of many an
unbelieving Moor; but reflect, Sir, that your sword has not been less
fatal to Christian blood. In battle you hew down infidels to your
soul's content, and in the intervals of peace, to keep you in practice,
I suppose, you take no less care to send the bravest of her majesty's
warriors to the grave. Now put this in the balance, and let us consider
whether the country does not suffer more by your duels in peace, than
she actually gains by your courage in war. But now comes the most
terrible of all your peccadilloes--of all my complaints, I mean."
"And which is that, pray?"
"The invincible propensity you have for intrigue, and the no less
unfortunate attendant upon it--inconstancy."
"Inconstancy!" exclaimed Gomez Arias. "How should it be otherwise?
Inconstancy is the very soul of love."
"I will not attempt to argue that point with so great an adept; my
remonstrances are merely limited to the results, and I can truly aver
that my life in time of peace is, if possible, more miserable than in
war; for what with carrying love-letters, bribing servants, attending
serenades, watching the movements of venerable fathers, morose duennas,
and fierce-looking brothers, I cannot enjoy a moment's rest."
"Why, 'tis true," said Don Lope, "my life is solely devoted to love and
war."
"I rather think it a continual war," retorted the valet. "It may be much
to your taste, Sir, but I, that am neither of so amorous a temperament,
nor of so warlike a disposition, cannot enjoy the amusement so well.
Instead of passing the nights quietly in bed, as good Christians should
do, we employ them in parading the silent streets, putting in
requisition all the established signals of love, and singing amorous
songs to the tender cadences of the love-inspiring guitar. Even this I
might endure with Christian resignation, were it not for the
disagreeable results which generally terminate our laudable occupations.
It often happens that whilst you are dying with love, and I with fear
and apprehension, we meet with persons who unfortunately are not such
decided amateurs of music. Some surly ill-disposed brother, or
unsuccessful lover of the beauty, is invariably sure to come and
disturb our harmony; then discord begins--swords are drawn--women
scream--alguazils pounce upon us, and thus the sport goes on, till one
of the _galanes_[11] is dead or wounded, or till the alguazils are so
strong as to render a prudent retreat advisable. Then by some ill
fortune I am sure to be collared by the brother or the alguazils in
question, and without further ceremony, by way of remunerating merit and
encouraging a servant for faithfully serving his master, I am
entertained with sundry hearty cudgellings, liberally bestowed on my
miserable hide. When they have not left a single sound bone in my skin,
they kindly permit me to go, telling me, for consolation, to thank my
stars, and that another time I shall not escape so easily. With this
pleasing assurance, I creep home as well as I can, and then my humane
and grateful master, by way of sympathising with the misfortunes I
suffer on his account, fiercely demands--'Roque! where have you been
loitering, Sir?' Calls me a most negligent rascal, and other names
equally gratifying, and upon the recital of my tragical adventure, very
coolly, and as he thinks very justly, observes--'It serves you
right--'tis all your fault--why did you not watch better?'"
"Roque," said Gomez Arias, "you have told me the same story over and
over again, and I do not see the necessity of your repeating it now."
"I beg your pardon, Don Lope Gomez Arias," responded the valet, with
most ludicrous solemnity, "but I am firmly resolved to quit your service
in good earnest; for I perceive you are bent on getting into new
difficulties, and I feel no inclination to go in search of fresh
adventures. Lately you suddenly disappeared on some mysterious
expedition, and I am sure you have been to Granada, to be a candidate in
the tournament, notwithstanding the perilous nature of such an
undertaking; for had you been discovered!----"
"Enough, Roque--that danger is past."
"Very well, Sir; but there are a thousand others that are not. Will you
be pleased to reply to a few questions?"
Gomez Arias, to spare any superfluous expenditure of words, nodded
assent.
"How long is it since we left Granada?"--asked the valet.
"Two months or so," replied his master.
"We quitted that city," proceeded Roque, "in consequence of the mortal
wounds you inflicted on Don Rodrigo de Cespedes, your rival in the
affections of Leonor de Aguilar."
"True."
"We sought a refuge here in Guadix, to lie concealed until the storm
blow over."
"Right."
"And you are now creditably employed in gaining the affections of a
young and innocent girl, who knows no more of you than she does of his
holiness the pope."
"Well?"
"I don't suppose you intend to marry both these ladies?"
"Certainly not."
"Then it puzzles me to decide how you can reconcile these matters; and
as I foresee that mischief is likely to ensue, you must excuse me if I
prudently think of withdrawing before the evil is unavoidable. If
fortunately both or even one of your mistresses were a plebeian beauty,
I might be persuaded to hush my apprehensions, but as it is I cannot;
two ladies of rank are concerned."
Thus far had Roque proceeded in his eloquent and moral remonstrance,
when Gomez Arias turned round, took up a cane that lay near him, and
walking very deliberately to his valet with the most perfect
composure--"Now, Roque," he said, "you must allow I have listened very
attentively to your prosing. I have had quite enough of your nonsense
for this morning, so I beg you to close your arguments, unless you
really wish that I should honor them with a most unanswerable reply."
Here to illustrate his meaning, he very expressively shook the cane, and
Roque as prudently retreated; for he knew his master strictly adhered to
his word on occasions of this nature.
"With respect to your quitting my service," continued Don Lope, "I have
no sort of objection, provided that when you part with me, you are
likewise disposed to part with your ears, for I have taken such a fancy
to you, my dear Roque, that I cannot possibly allow you to quit me,
without leaving me behind a token of remembrance. And now," he added in
a more serious tone, "withdraw immediately, and mind your business."
Roque made an humble bow and retired. Gomez Arias in this instance, as
well as in many others, took advantage of that uncontrollable authority
which strong minds generally assume over their inferiors. The valet had
indeed resolved several times to leave his master, for it happened that
this same Roque had no particular relish for canings, and other favors
of the kind which were liberally administered to him, as a remuneration
for his master's achievements. Moreover, he had the nicest sense of
justice, and he could not but feel the shocking impropriety of accepting
a reward that was unquestionably due to his superiors. Indeed, it is but
fair to add, he never acquiesced in the obligation, until it was
actually forced upon him.
Roque was moreover blessed with a conscience--that sort of prudential
conscience which must be considered as a most valuable acquisition. He
certainly was not so unreasonable as to expect a spirited nobleman to
lead the life of a sequestered monk, nor could he object to his master's
intrigues, but he nevertheless found it extremely objectionable that
these should not be kept within the bounds of common prudence. Now,
could Gomez Arias have limited his gallantries to the seduction of
farmers' daughters, or debauching trademen's wives, Roque would most
implicitly have approved of the practice, inasmuch as in this case, his
master would only be asserting a sort of hereditary right attached to
those of his class. But to be deceiving two ladies of distinction was
really too much for the delicate feelings of the conscientious menial.
Again, Roque could not urge anything against the courage of his master;
he only objected to the effects of its superabundance; for this
superabundance, together with Don Lope's unusually amorous disposition,
were constantly in opposition with the nicety of Roque's conscience, by
reason of the difficulties they gave rise to, in the fulfilment of the
natural law of self-preservation.
It is an averred fact that Roque never wilfully put himself in the way
of infringing so rational a precept, and most fortunately he was endowed
with a quality highly favorable to the observance thereof. A quality
which other individuals not blessed with the same scruples, would
denominate cowardice.
This is not all: the valet was far from being of a romantic turn of
mind; he evinced no taste whatever for moonlit scenery, and nocturnal
adventure; and he was vulgar enough to prefer the gross advantages of a
sound slumber to all the sentimental beauties of the silvered moon and
its appendages.
These considerations dwelt strongly on the mind of Roque, and he had
accordingly several times resolved to quit his master, but such was the
dominion which Gomez Arias held over him, that the valet's resolutions
fell to the ground, whenever he attempted to put them in practice.
CHAPTER VI.
Ma chi'l vede e non l'ama?
Ardito umano cor, nobil fierezza,
Sublime ingegno--Ah! perche tal ti fero
Natura e il cielo?
_Alfieri._
The bloom of op'ning flowers, unsullied beauty,
Softness and sweetest innocence she wears,
And looks like nature in the world's first spring.
_Rowe._
Don Lope Gomez Arias was a man whose will had seldom been checked, and
he placed the most unbounded confidence in the magnitude of his
resources, physical and intellectual. Nature had indeed been lavished in
conferring on this individual her choicest favors. To the most undaunted
courage and quickness of resolve, he united the greatest powers of mind,
and brilliancy of talent, but he was unfortunately divested of those
genuine feelings of the heart, which alone can render these qualities
desirable.
His courage, talents, and abilities, had rendered him an object of
dread, not only to the enemies of his country, but to the rivals of his
love or ambition. By the men he was generally disliked, feared or
envied. Unfortunately the softer sex entertained for him far different
sentiments.--Alas! they could not discover the void within his heart,
through the dazzling splendour of his outward form, and habitual
allurements of manner. Many had already been the victims of his seducing
arts; were they to blame?--perhaps they were only to be pitied. He
possessed every resource that professed libertines employ, to inveigle
the affections of the innocent maiden, or attract the admiration of the
more experienced woman. Besides his courage and resolution--qualities as
much more prized by females, as they seldom fall to their share, Gomez
Arias was engaging in his deportment and without any alloy of servility
in his address; indeed he seemed rather to command attention, than to
court it, and the general expression of his features was that of pride,
tempered with the polish of gentlemanly bearing.
In his personal appearance he was remarkably handsome, being of tall and
majestic stature, to which his finely turned limbs were in strict
proportion. There was an intelligence in the piercing glance of his dark
eye, and a smile of mixed gaiety and satire sat habitually upon his lip.
To his other attractions he added a set of regular though somewhat large
features, which were shaded by a profusion of black glossy curls, and
the superb mustachios and _pera_[12] that clothed his upper lip and
chin.
Such was the principal hero of this tale. Spite of all the resources of
his mind, Gomez Arias found himself at the present moment involved in
deep perplexity, and much at a loss how to extricate himself therefrom.
He had received a letter from Don Alonso de Aguilar, father of his
future bride, announcing the perfect recovery of his rival, Don Rodrigo,
and urging a speedy return to Granada. But, unluckily, Gomez Arias felt
in no hurry to return. Certainly, Granada was at the time particularly
interesting, and far preferable to Guadix. Again, the beauty of Leonor
was unrivalled at court--a great consideration to Don Lope. She was rich
and of the first rank--greater consideration still; and bearing in mind
the influence that her father, the celebrated Aguilar, enjoyed with the
queen, a marriage with his daughter would open the road to the highest
preferment, and yet our hero felt loath to return to Granada. The
blooming Theodora de Monteblanco was then the reigning idol of the
moment. She had fixed for a time his errant heart, and it was now that
Don Lope perceived the great inconveniency of the unity of man; and
certainly a lover of his description ought to be duplex for the
opportunity of satisfying both duty and inclination.
In this state of irresolution Gomez Arias remained for some time. His
sacred engagement to Leonor, and the brilliant dreams of ambition that
sported before his fancy, could not all chase away the image of
Theodora; for in this lovely girl he found all the perfections of his
former mistresses, with an absolute exemption from their foibles.
Theodora, at the tender age of seventeen, exhibited already the matured
charms of a form voluptuously beautiful, blended with the delightful
innocence of manner characteristic of that early stage of life, when the
heart is yet unacquainted with guile, and unpractised in the deceits of
the world. Her complexion was of a delicate white, without any other
colour than that which occasionally mantled upon her cheek when called
forth by the sensibility of her feelings, or diffused by the influence
of some passing emotion. So lovely and yet so pensive was her
countenance that but for the rapturous expression of her large dark
eyes, partially revealed through their long silken fringes, and the
profusion of sable ringlets which floated with unrestrained luxuriance
over her exquisitely turned neck and shoulders, you might have thought
that she had been a master-piece of some divine sculptor, who had
successfully imitated, in the purest alabaster, the fairest work of
nature.
Theodora loved Gomez Arias with all the enthusiasm of a romantic girl's
first love. She felt the most ardent attachment, and could not,--would
not conceal it from the object of her adoration. She loved him with the
genuine simplicity of a heart incapable of deceit; and, unpractised in
the school of worldly prudence, unacquainted with the arts to which more
experienced women resort for the purpose of enhancing their own charms,
or fixing more firmly the affections of men, she had surrendered her
whole soul to her lover with the most confiding innocence, and an
implicit reliance on his unbounded return to her tenderness.
This complete devotedness flattered the vanity of Gomez Arias. He beheld
an angelic girl who centered all her happiness in his love, and in the
ardour of her feelings was incapable of admitting the least alloy of
cold calculating precaution. He was charmed with a character cast in the
mould of nature, untutored yet by art, and, as amongst his former
mistresses he had never met with one so entirely devoted, he returned
her love with the warmest admiration.
Gomez Arias was fondly indulging in these pleasing reveries, when his
man, Roque, suddenly burst upon him with a look full of information.
"Well, Sirrah!" cried Don Lope, "what means this intrusion?--Do you
still stick to the wise determination of quitting my service? Are you
willing to comply with the conditions?"
"No, Senor," answered Roque, with conscious importance; "I come loaded
with fresh proofs of my inclination to serve you."
"Upon my honor," exclaimed Gomez Arias, "thou art marvellously
complaisant, friend--thou hast seen the duenna, I suppose?"
"Yes, Sir, and I have seen some one else, besides."
"Let us hear first of the duenna."
"We must go to night--her master is engaged with a guest from Granada. I
saw them leave the house myself."
Gomez Arias lost no time in preparing for the interview; and as night
was now coming on, he girded on his sword, and, flinging his cloak
carelessly round him, sallied out accompanied by his valet, on his
nocturnal expedition.
"Art thou sure, good Roque," he demanded, "that you really saw the old
gentleman leave his mansion?"
"Quite sure, Don Lope--my eyes seldom deceive me; indeed I feel
perfectly satisfied with their capability. Never was there a more trusty
pair, in descrying afar off a father, or brother, or any other kind of
unwelcome intruder upon moonlight meetings. Argus, they say, had a
hundred eyes, and yet was found at fault, whereas I have only two
and----"
"They are sometimes as watchful," interrupted Don Lope.
"Seldom," replied Roque--"and when they unfortunately deceive me, I
sorely feel for the deception. I am a man of very tender feelings."
"Argus," observed his master, "was punished for his negligence, and it
is meet thou shouldst experience the same treatment, under similar
circumstances."
"Aye," quoth Roque, "he was changed into a peacock--I wonder into what
animal I shall be changed, since this sort of transformation is the
retribution attendant on negligent scouts--I think the character of a
jackal would suit me best, for I certainly lead the lion to his prey.
But now, Sir, leaving jesting aside, I have a little piece of serious
information for your ear. Do you know whom I saw in close converse with
Don Manuel de Monteblanco when he left his house?"
"No, nor do I care."
"Don't you, indeed?--Well, it is very fortunate, for it happened to be
no other than your rival, Don Rodrigo."
"Now, Roque," cried his master jocosely, "here's a convincing proof of
the failure of thy boasted eye-sight."
"Why I really thought so at first myself, and I made the sign of the
cross accordingly, but I soon perceived it was no delusion. Now it would
be pleasant, should this same Don Rodrigo come upon an expedition
similar to yours--it would seem as tho' the man was born on purpose to
thwart you."
"Well," returned Gomez Arias, with a smile--"and it would seem also that
I am born to chastise his insolence."
To this, Roque made some foolish reply; for in his capacity of
_gracioso_,[13] he freely availed himself of the privilege allowed him
of giving utterance to every thing that came into his head, whether to
the purpose or not.
They proceeded with hasty steps towards the mansion of
Monteblanco;--already they reach the spot, and the moon that sheds a
partial gleam over yonder _reja_,[14] developes to the sight the outline
of a female form. Gomez Arias approaches, and his penetrating glance
discerns through the darkness the figure of his Theodora--her face is
decked in placid smiles, and her frame evinces the soft flutterings of
an anxious heart. The bolt of the entrance gently creeks, and the harsh
sound thrills like the strain of heavenly music to the lover's throbbing
breast--the door opens at length, and a comely matron far stricken in
years welcomes the cavalier. Don Lope is not backward in his advances; a
smile of grateful recognition plays upon his lip. He then seizes the
good duenna's hand, and presses it in kind acknowledgment.
The trusty Martha showed in her dress and manner, all the outward signs
of her state and condition. An imperturbable gravity sat upon those
harsh features which were never known to relax into a smile, and in
whose expression predominated a mixture of religious asperity and pride,
vainly disguised under the cloak of humility. However, Martha was far
from practising the rigid austerities her whole appearance seemed to
indicate. She only assumed this outward demeanor, in the same manner
that a dastard mimics courage, the better to conceal his cowardice.
Martha was dressed in an ample habit of black woollen cloth, girded her
waist with the band of a monkish order, to which was suspended a rosary
of huge black counters. A cap of the whitest linen adorned her head, and
in all the rigour of female modesty, every part of her neck up to the
chin was carefully concealed by a kerchief of the same material.
Gomez Arias rushes forwards, and the next moment finds him at the feet
of his mistress. Theodora is happy in the Elysium of love; a thousand
tender emotions swell that fond bosom, where an ardent flame burns under
the cover of pure snow.--As she gazes on Gomez Arias her melting eye is
lighted up with unusual fire, and her whole frame appears gently
agitated with a delicious tremor. The smile that quivers on her lip
feelingly responds to the ardent glance of her passionate admirer, and
the sudden rush of crimson that overspreads her lily cheek bespeaks the
thrilling transports of genuine love in the first stages of youthful
innocence and delight. Don Lope takes her soft yielding hand, and
tenderly presses it to his bosom, he gazes fervently on her countenance;
in sweet intoxication he inhales her youthful breath. Caressingly his
arm encircles her sylphic waist. She gently inclines her head towards
him, and both seemed overshadowed by the long beautiful tresses which
float in wild luxuriance. From Don Lope's flashing eye the innocent
Theodora drinks large draughts of sweet but deadly poison; a tear of
tenderness starts to overwhelm her eye and falls on the lover's hand; a
deep sigh escapes her bosom, and they meet in a fervent embrace.
Happy!--thrice happy moments!--dear to the genuine sensibility of
humanity, dearly cherished and oft alas! but too dearly purchased! Few
words the lovers spoke, for when the heart is replete with rapture,
there is an eloquence in silence far above the cold trammels of
language. Gomez Arias forgot the dream of future ambition in the reality
of present bliss. He was loved, loved passionately by one who was the
most perfect pattern of innocence and beauty; loved more than he thought
it was in the nature of woman to love. Hope assured its brightest
colours, and Don Lope anticipated all the transports of delight possible
for man to enjoy. He was supremely happy in expectation; for the
expectation of bliss is perhaps even more gratifying than the reality.
Thus the rose in its opening bloom, is sweeter than when its charms are
expanded to the sight, for the hour of maturity is but the signal of
decay. Alas! we eagerly follow the sparkling joy, snatch it with
enthusiasm, and it withers in the grasp!
Time sped; yet the lovers still remained as if entranced in a
delightful reverie of love, in the mutual interchange of soft sighs and
eloquent glances, when suddenly the door burst open, and Roque rushed in
with visible emotion. The faithful Argus came to announce the near
approach of Monteblanco and his guest, Don Rodrigo. Gomez Arias,
however, could not believe the danger to be so imminent, making due
allowance for the valet's timorous disposition; but the good duenna, who
had been unpleasantly disturbed at her devotions, now came forward to
confirm the fearful intelligence.
Though these unpleasant interruptions are far from being of novel
occurrence in the annals of love, and though Gomez Arias was
familiarized with their danger, yet when he looked on the duenna's
countenance, that faithful thermometer of intrigue, he could not but
perceive the impending storm to be more than usually alarming. Deeper
wrinkles furrowed her sallow visage; her eye was haggard, and the rosary
shook in her withered hand.
"Holy Virgin! I am lost," exclaimed the affrighted dame. "Ah! Don Lope,
this comes of my tender-hearted, complying disposition; there's my
reputation sullied with a stain that not all the holy water in Spain
will be able to wash away!"
"But, surely," observed Gomez Arias, "the danger is not so imminent as
to preclude my escape."
"Escape!" quoth the duenna; "it is impossible; they are at this moment
on the stairs."
"Villain!" cried Don Lope, turning fiercely to Roque, "is this the way
you do your duty?"
Roque very prudently kept aloof from the contact of his master's hand;
and, as if anticipating an explosion, began to stammer forth his
excuses. Theodora's countenance was suddenly overspread with a deadly
paleness, and the timid girl wrung her hands in an attitude of despair.
Her critical situation, and the duenna's alarm, at first staggered Gomez
Arias, but with the start of resolution which immediate danger inspires,
he assumed a mastery over his emotion, and instantly bethought himself
of an expedient to ward off the threatened discovery.
"If Don Rodrigo arrives with Monteblanco," said he, "we are safe; we
shall have nothing to fear."
"Nothing to fear!" echoed Roque. "Methinks the danger is doubled when a
man has two enemies to encounter, instead of one."
"Silence, fool!" cried his master. "Martha, be calm; affect not to know
me; make free use of the organ with which nature has so liberally
endowed you, and do not spare your reproaches and abuse. Theodora, keep
up your spirits. Roque, be silent, you rascal."
The door opens--Monteblanco and Don Rodrigo enter, but are fixed to the
ground in mute amazement at the group that presents itself to their
view. The duenna had summoned the courage of despair, and was
overwhelming Gomez Arias with a torrent of abuse. Theodora had receded
from the light to hide her emotion from her father's sight, which
fortunately was so impaired with age, as not to afford any material
impediment to her concealment. Roque assumed an air of saucy assurance,
and his master appeared leaning against the wall with the most perfect
coolness and self-possession. Don Manuel and his guest stared at the
intruders for some time, before either attempted to speak, till at
length Don Rodrigo broke silence, with an ejaculation of surprise.
"Don Lope Gomez Arias!" exclaimed the astonished cavalier.
"Don Lope Gomez Arias!" re-echoed Monteblanco. "It is your rival,
then.--What is the meaning of this, Martha?"
"Your honor may ask the gentleman himself," responded the duenna; "I
know nothing of him, but that he is the most daring and impertinent
man"--(Martha indulged in the privilege granted her by Don Lope); "the
most unceremonious, head-strong, self-sufficient cavalier I ever met
with--Virgen Santa!--What a disturbance he has raised in the house. Then
there's that most impudent rascal of a valet; he is the principal cause
of the commotion, and I humbly crave and hope your honor will give him
ample reason to repent his impudence."
"Repent my impudence!" quoth Roque, "thou accursed _bruja_;[15] it would
be more meritorious to chop off thy slanderous tongue!"
Here the duenna proceeded to pour forth a fresh volley of words, without
any positive explanation, as is generally the practice when people are
anxious to gain time, and collect their senses.
"Peace, woman!" interrupted Gomez Arias, in the middle of her harangue;
"this disturbance, as you term it, is of your own doing; had you behaved
with more courtesy to a stranger, you might have saved the impropriety
my valet has been guilty of towards you; an impropriety for which he
shall most assuredly suffer in due time."--Here he cast a terrible look
on the astonished Roque, who perfectly well knew he was doomed to suffer
for his master's vagaries; and that the failure of his adventures must
recoil invariably on his unfortunate head. Yet he looked sorely puzzled
how to find out the nature of the impropriety he had committed against
the superannuated dame who dealt him such abundance of vilipendiary
epithets.
All this time the good Don Manuel was patiently waiting for an
explanation, and the more the duenna explained the more perplexed he
found himself.
Gomez Arias at last, after several fruitless endeavours to stop Martha's
tongue, availed himself of a momentary pause she made to take
breath.--"Don Manuel de Monteblanco," said he, "is undoubtedly anxious
to learn the object of my visit to his house."
"Visit!" exclaimed the duenna. "Intrusion--a downright taking by
storm.--God bless me! a visit you call it--- a visit!"
"Silence, Martha, silence; let the gentleman proceed," cried Don Manuel,
a little more composed, and feeling an inward dread at the matron's
explanatory talents.
"Don Manuel," continued Gomez Arias, "I am exceedingly concerned for
the confusion created in the mansion of so honorable a cavalier; but
certainly I am not so greatly to blame as that good woman wishes to
imply."
"Good woman, indeed!" ejaculated the duenna. "_Jesus me valga!_ that I
should live to be so called--_soy Cristiana vieja_[16]--and of as good a
family as needs be.--No Jewish puddle in my veins.--Good woman,
forsooth! My dear master, am I to be called a good woman?"
Don Manuel looked very grave, not so much perhaps at the difficulty of
resolving the question, as at the probability of never obtaining a
knowledge of the business so long as the duenna had the free use of her
tongue; to quiet therefore her anger, the complaisant old cavalier
kindly soothed her apparently wounded feelings, by allowing that she by
no means deserved the appellation.
Silence being thus restored, Gomez Arias continued: "The cause of my
apparent intrusion is simply this:--informed by my servant that Don
Rodrigo de Cespedes was in active search after me, and not wishing to
be backward in acknowledging the favor, I thought it incumbent on my
honor to facilitate a meeting with the utmost expedition. I repaired to
this house, from whence my servant had seen that gentleman issue, but
before the nature of my business could be disclosed, that rigid dame
assailed me with a tremendous storm of abuse, when my valet, in his zeal
to serve me, or rather indulging in a propensity to retaliate, retorted
the lady's freedom of tongue with rather too much acrimony."
"Now," thought Roque, "it is really too bad to accuse me of acrimony
when I have not opened my lips."
"I attempted an explanation," continued Gomez Arias, "in the hopes of
meeting with a more courteous reception, when this young lady made her
appearance (turning to Theodora). I was then about to acquaint her with
my intention, when fortunately the object of my search presents himself
in person, a circumstance which I hail with the more pleasure, as I am
assured that Don Rodrigo is particularly anxious we should renew an old
interchange of tokens of our mutual regard."
"Senor Don Lope Gomez Arias," replied Don Rodrigo, sorely incensed at
the tone of levity in which he was addressed by his rival, "I likewise
congratulate myself in thus accidentally meeting with Don Lope sooner
than I was led to expect, and though the mock courtesy of his style
plainly indicates the reliance he places on the constant good fortune
that protects him, yet he shall find me more solicitous than ever for
the immediate interchange of the tokens to which he so facetiously
alludes."
"Senor Don Rodrigo de Cespedes," returned Gomez Arias, "I cannot but
greatly admire that laudable ambition which stimulates you to deeds of
noble daring, and an unworthy individual like myself cannot feel
sufficiently grateful for the honor you wish to confer upon him."
These words and the sarcastic sneer that accompanied them, exasperated
Don Rodrigo to such a degree, that turning to his rival, he pointed to
the door, and without further reply intimated to him to follow. Gomez
Arias was about to comply, when Monteblanco interposing, exclaimed,
"Forbear, _caballeros_, forbear; this is my house, and though I am far
from desiring to withhold any gentlemen from the calls of honor, yet let
it not be said that my mansion was made a scene of violence and
bloodshed."
"_Valgame Dios!_" cried Roque, "Don Manuel speaks like an oracle. Nor do
I think myself, this hour of night the most fit to decide such important
matters. Broad day-light is certainly preferable to the glimmer of the
moon and stars, for business like this."
Theodora was ready to sink with emotion and fear, but the very imminence
of the danger inspired her with a sort of desperate tranquillity. She
knew that her interposition would only increase the perplexities of her
situation, without preventing the accomplishment of their design.
Besides, she placed much confidence in her lover's courage and superior
skill in the management of arms, and ultimately she possessed that
nobleness of mind that shrinks from the imputation of cowardice in the
object of its admiration.
Monteblanco's remonstrances were vain. Don Rodrigo rushed to the door
with desperate haste, and Gomez Arias followed with the coolness of one
to whom such scenes were familiar.
"Follow me," cried Don Rodrigo, as he bounded down the stairs with
fearful alacrity.
"Stay, Don Rodrigo," said Gomez Arias, sarcastically, "not such
precipitation, or you may perchance fall before your time."
This provoking sarcasm entirely overthrew the little remaining temper
which Don Rodrigo possessed. His eyes flashed fire, his whole frame
shook, and unable to restrain himself any longer, he furiously drew his
sword, and fixed on the _Zaguan_[17] for the field of action.
"Defend yourself, Don Lope," exclaimed he, with frenzied rage.
"Look to yourself, fair Sir," returned Don Lope, as, unsheathing his
rapier, he calmly placed himself in a posture of defence.
With impetuous fury Don Rodrigo darted on his antagonist, and commenced
an assault with all the courage and address of a practised swordsman.
Thrust succeeded thrust with mortal rapidity, but the active eye of
Gomez Arias foiled their deadly aim with consummate skill and dexterity.
A demoniac spirit seemed to agitate Don Rodrigo, and he continued for
some minutes wasting his strength in the fruitless attack, and impairing
his own means of resistance. The combat was too fierce to be of long
duration, and a few moments would have brought it to a mortal issue (for
Don Lope was now in his turn about to press hard his weakened
adversary), had not Roque, in that tenderness of conscience for which he
was so noted, very adroitly extinguished the light that hung in the
_Zaguan_, as the most effectual way of suspending hostilities.
The place was thus plunged in utter darkness, and Don Rodrigo, afraid of
being disappointed in his revenge, called out to Gomez Arias.
"I am here," replied Don Lope; "I am here, Don Rodrigo; the light is
superfluous; we shall do perfectly well without it, for a mutual
sympathy will lead our weapons aright."
The swords again met, and short, quick sparks of light, like the
fugitive flash of a summer's exhalation, gave a momentary glimpse of the
combatants' fearful countenances--then a dismal groan is heard, a body
falls heavily on the ground, and a shriek of horror burst from the
household, who had crowded round the entrance of the _Zaguan_.
"He is dead," muttered Don Rodrigo to himself, and sought for safety
with the swiftness of lightning.
"Bring torches," cried Monteblanco; "let us afford the fallen
_caballero_ all the assistance in our power."
The state of Theodora baffles all description. Ignorant as yet who was
the victim, her soul was harrowed up with the most fearful
apprehensions, the reality of which would dash the cup of happiness from
her lips, and embitter her future existence. This petrifying, this
heart-rending suspense was happily but of short continuance. Theodora
herself, with breathless anxiety, was the first to bring a torch, that
might perhaps illume the pale ghastly features of him on whom she had
centered all her felicity. The moment was awful, when the torch throwing
a broad glare around the _Zaguan_, discovered Gomez Arias, tranquil and
erect, in all the assurance of perfect safety. A faint scream escaped
from the bosom of his mistress, for all the feelings which horrifying
suspense had held imprisoned there, now sought relief in a tumult of
sighs and tears. Her emotion, however, was scarcely noticed by her
father, too much occupied at the time in ascertaining which was the
fallen cavalier.
"Don Rodrigo is then the victim," sorrowfully exclaimed the old
cavalier, casting his eyes around; for at this moment he spied a human
body, lying in a dark corner of the _Zaguan_.
"It moves--it moves!" cried Martha, crossing herself.
"Then he is yet alive," returned Don Manuel; "let us hasten to succour
the unfortunate young man; look to his wounds!"
"Aye," responded the duenna; "let us rather attend to his soul, and
behave like true charitable Christians; run, Cacho, run, and call Fray
Bernardo, or Fray Benito--no matter whom--any friar will do at such a
moment."
Monteblanco and all his attendants hurried to the spot in their
eagerness to render assistance to the fallen Don Rodrigo, when, lo! the
body with a sudden spring bounds on its legs, and to the astonished eyes
of every one discovers the person of Roque.
"What's this? Where is Don Rodrigo?" interrogated Monteblanco.
"Why," answered Roque, very unconcernedly; "some fifty leagues from
hence, I should imagine, by his hurry to get away."
"Then he is not dead?"
"Not that I know of."
"Whence came that groan?"
"_De este humilde pecador._"[18]
"_Jesus Maria_," ejaculated the duenna; "how dare this _judio_[19] throw
a noble family into consternation?"
"Now, Senora duenna," quoth the valet, "I rather think I have been
instrumental in preventing the noble family from being thrown into that
consternation."
"Roque," interposed here Gomez Arias, "thou art not wounded I perceive."
"No, thank God!" replied Roque.
"Then thou art a rascal."
"A rascal because I am not wounded! Good Heaven! here's a consequence
with a vengeance!"
"This is an impudent interference," continued Don Lope, "and dearly
shalt thou rue it."
"An impudent interference do you call it? A marvellous good one, in
sooth, for I have saved the fruitless effusion of noble Christian blood,
and I have separated two enraged combatants better than a whole posse of
alguazils: and now, all the reward I am likely to obtain for such an
important service, is threats and abuse. Here is my dear master sorely
exasperated, because I have a greater regard for his safety than he has
himself, and quite disappointed at not being run through the body by
that sanguinary Don Rodrigo."
"Basta, basta," said angrily Don Lope;--then in a gentler tone he
continued, "I am really concerned for Don Rodrigo,--full of anxiety for
my supposed death, I venture to say he is now flying from the abode of
man, to seek a shelter in the wilderness of the Alpujarras.
"It is very Christian-like in you, Senor," interposed Roque, "to show so
much solicitude for the fate of Don Rodrigo. Well, the ways of honorable
gentlemen are to me unaccountable. Here was my honorable master, but a
short while since, eagerly seeking the life of Don Rodrigo at the point
of his rapier, and now he is equally anxious that his adversary should
not be exposed to the inconvenience of a nocturnal ramble into the
mountains of Alpujarras."
Monteblanco could not but inwardly congratulate himself upon the
fortunate termination of an adventure which threatened such serious
results; for he by no means liked the idea of having a corpse in his
house, with all the unpleasant appendages necessarily attendant on such
an inmate. He certainly felt concerned for the safety and comfort of Don
Rodrigo, but he very judiciously opined it was better his dear friend
should suffer the inconvenience of passing a night in the mountains,
than that he himself should be exposed to the unpleasant consequences
which would inevitably attend a fatal result to either party, especially
had the event occurred in his own _Zaguan_; for he would be thus
compelled to take a part in the drama, with which he would very
willingly dispense--that of explaining the catastrophe to the officers
of justice. This consideration induced him to approve in his own mind
the stratagem of Roque, although he would by no means audibly testify
his approbation, thinking very properly that the conduct of inferiors
and dependants should never be lauded, even when they are most
successful in their services.
Acting upon this charitable principle, he would on no account interfere
to prevent the taunts and abuse with which the luckless valet was
assailed on all sides. Thus poor Roque had a fresh opportunity of
discovering the little a man is likely to gain by following the impulse
of a good heart, and the very extraordinary way men have of
acknowledging a service, even when they are internally well pleased
therewith.
"Begone, thou graceless dog!" exclaimed Don Manuel. "Thy impertinence
justly deserves most exemplary punishment from thy master."
Saying this, he took his daughter by the hand, made a slight bow to
Gomez Arias, and was about to retire, when Don Lope stept forward as
though he wished to detain him.
"Stay, Don Manuel," said he; "I cannot leave your house, without again
expressing my regret for the disturbance I have caused. I sincerely
offer you my apologies as an honorable cavalier, and as such I am
confident Don Manuel de Monteblanco will accept them. Moreover, I shall
make all the atonement in my power; and as it is obvious that my servant
is the primary cause of all the mischief, you may rest assured, Sir, the
culprit shall not escape without condign and adequate punishment."
Don Manuel expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the apology of
Gomez Arias, and most graciously accepted the atonement proposed; then
making another bow, not quite so slight as the former, left the _Zaguan_
accompanied by his beautiful daughter, who had already caught the
eloquent parting look of her lover, and treasured in her bosom all the
tender sentiments it conveyed.
Meantime, Don Lope, well contented with himself, haughtily called to
poor Roque--the faithful valet was in a moment ready to lead the way.
His master then very composedly returned to his apartments to muse over
the adventures of the evening, and form plans for the successful
accomplishment of his ulterior projects.
CHAPTER VII.
Pariome a drede mi Madre
Oxala no me pariera!--
_Quevedo._
No ill luck stirring, but what lights on my shoulders.
_Shakespeare._
"_Better be born fortunate than rich_," says an old proverb, and the
correctness of this saying was fully exemplified in the life of Don
Rodrigo de Cespedes. Indeed, his whole existence had been a series of
mischances and unfortunate results; and he appeared especially reserved
as a proper subject on whom the fickle goddess might exercise her
caprice at leisure.
Why Don Rodrigo should belong to this class, is more than can well be
resolved, for he was possessed of all those qualifications which are
calculated to render a man brilliant in society, and amiable in private
life. He enjoyed the advantages of birth and wealth; handsome in his
person, and elegant in his address. A brave soldier in war, and a
courteous cavalier in peace, it appeared natural that his fortune should
be prosperous, and yet all those endowments availed him not. On the
contrary, they only served to render the ill success of his undertakings
the more remarkable.
These anomalies cannot be accounted for on any rational principle; but
may perhaps be attributed to the absence of that requisite
qualification, which sometimes serves a man in lieu of birth or fortune,
and not unfrequently goes further than both these advantages;--it is
that most enviable requisite, known under the appropriate, though
somewhat vulgar, denomination of good-luck.
Don Rodrigo had paid his addresses to three different ladies, with the
moral and highly creditable intention of entering the holy state of
matrimony. Perhaps in strict justice it must be confessed, this idea
crossed his mind after having completely failed in his attempts to
signalize himself as _un homme a bonnes fortunes_, a sort of ambition
which, if not praise-worthy in itself, is nevertheless, when
successfully pursued, conducive to the eclat of a man of rank, as well
as gratifying to his vanity. Indeed it may be rather suspected, without
any great affectation of discernment, that the unlucky Don Rodrigo
bethought himself of marriage as a last resource, when ultimately
convinced of his inability to succeed in his career of gallantry. But
even in this instance, that unrelenting fatality which constantly
followed him, could not be persuaded to spare him even in consideration
of hymen.
Don Rodrigo had first for a rival a man whose stature was rather under
than over four feet, whose features were of the most forbidding kind;
his person distorted, and his fortune by no means superior to that of
the Don; yet with all these disadvantages, this little monster, to the
astonishment of every one, carried off the fair prize.
He next placed his affections on a lady of more humble pretensions, his
inferior both in birth and fortune, and by no means remarkable for
beauty. Don Rodrigo fondly imagined that his rank and affluence would
insure him success; nor did he overlook the advantages nature had given
him in a pair of fine eyes, an aquiline nose, well proportioned limbs, a
carriage that shewed off these qualifications to advantage, and a degree
of personal courage that even his rivals and enemies respected; but his
Angelica must have been an admirer of the opposite qualities, as she
chose for her husband an obscure plebeian, whom the very sight of a
Toledo steel threw into an ague. Disgusted with the bad taste and
vulgarity of those he had already courted, he boldly resolved to prefer
his suit to the very first lady in the land. He accordingly laid siege
to the heart of Leonor, but here his pretensions met with as decided a
repulse as before, and though his vanity could not have been wounded by
having Gomez Arias for his fortunate rival, yet, soured by his repeated
crosses, he determined, if he could not by gentle means succeed in his
object, to kill his rival or fall in the attempt: his success in this
last exploit the reader will perhaps remember.
Nor was the ill-luck of Don Rodrigo confined to his amours; it extended
to all his affairs. If he engaged in a duel, a wound was generally the
result; or if he escaped unhurt, though he might have been the injured
party, yet by some fatality he was sure to be accounted the aggressor.
If he happened to say a good thing, it was invariably attributed to
another person, while, if a piece of scurrility or a foolish remark
circulated, he never failed to have the whole merit to himself.
We need not, however, go further for instances to exemplify the ill-luck
that constantly attended Don Rodrigo. We see him at present a prey to
his evil genius. He left the _Zaguan_ of Monteblanco's dwelling with the
utmost precipitation. Impressed with the idea that he had killed his
rival; and, fully sensible of the necessity of speedy flight, he
hurried to the inn for his horse and valet, anxious to put in practice
his prudential resolution, before any impediment could be thrown in his
way. On his arrival he asked for his man Peregil; but Peregil, as if on
purpose to perplex him, was gone to evening prayers, which Don Rodrigo
very naturally interpreted, to the tavern. So he sent a boy there, with
instructions where he was to meet him out of the town. He then hastened
to the stable, but found, to his unspeakable mortification, that
Peregil, in his abundant care, had taken the key. Time being precious,
Don Rodrigo, afraid of causing a disturbance, was fain to avail himself
of the benefit of an ill-favoured looking mule that stood ready saddled
in an outhouse. He doubted not that Peregil would bring his horse after
him, and render compensation for the mule, which indeed, from the
miserable appearance of the beast, would be no difficult matter.
Accordingly, after making his way to the place appointed, he waited two
whole hours in a state of extreme anxiety and suspense, alarmed at
every noise lest it should be a pursuit, and only consoling himself with
the idea, that when his horse should arrive he could soon place himself
out of the reach of danger.
At length he descried his valet advancing at a most leisurely pace, not
mounted on his own strong horse, and leading a beautiful Arabian, but
bestriding a miserable jackass, which required constant application of
the whip. Of this Peregil was by no means sparing, to induce him to move
at even the slowest pace a jackass is capable of travelling.
"Peregil, thou imp of Satan, where is my horse?" impatiently demanded
Don Rodrigo.
"At the inn," sullenly answered the valet.
"At the inn, thou rascal! why didst thou not bring it, knowing, as you
ought, that my life is in jeopardy?"
"For a very good reason," replied Peregil, "because they would not let
me. You need only blame yourself, Senor, for since your honor scruples
not to make free with the reverend friar's mule, you ought not to be
surprised if his reverence takes the same liberty with your horse."
"By _Santiago de Compostela_,[20] this is past bearing," cried Don
Rodrigo. "How can the rogue of a friar conscientiously take my beautiful
Arabian for this worthless mule? What! has the man of God no
conscience?"
"I did not inquire that, Senor, but I rather think he is not
overburthened by the manner he has dealt with me.--Oh! if I could catch
his reverence by himself, I would so belabour his shaven skull, as not
to leave it in want of razors for the future."
"Well, but how comest thou by that contemptible jackass?" demanded Don
Rodrigo, angrily.
"Gently, Senor, gently; since the master shows such a predilection for
mules, it is not to be wondered if the valet evinces a similar taste for
jackasses."
"Villain! darest thou jest at this time and on such a subject?"
"Aye, 'tis no laughing matter, sure enough," quoth Peregil; "and in
sooth I cannot perceive why I should be facetious on the occasion, for
after all I am the greater loser of the two. Look for a moment at this
vile beast! May the lightning of heaven and the curses of all the saints
fall on him and his former master too;" and so saying he again
belaboured the sides of the unfortunate jackass, regretting that its
former master was not near enough to benefit by the energetic blows he
so liberally dealt out.
"A truce, fellow, with thy profane foolery," said Don Rodrigo; "it is
not seemly when the life of thy master is at stake. Prepare to give me a
full and circumstantial account of this iniquitous business, or by my
sword thou shalt severely rue the day thy master first bestrode a mule."
"Alack a-day," submissively rejoined the valet.--"You must know, Don
Rodrigo, that the mule is the cause of all this. When I returned from
church I was startled to see the inn thrown into the greatest
confusion. The reverend fat friar was running round the place bellowing
like a bull, calling for his noble mule, and vowing vengeance on the
profane thief, which unseemly appellation he was pleased to bestow upon
your honor."
"The friar must have been drunk," said Don Rodrigo, sneeringly; "why!
did he not perceive that I had left my steed in the stable, which I
think was sufficient security, till you could pay him the value of his
beggarly mule!"
"Sure enough he did perceive it, but when I proposed to pay him for his
loss, he demanded such an exorbitant price that it was out of my power
to comply therewith. In his opinion, the steed was no adequate
compensation for his mule; so to make matters even, and adjust the
affair amicably, he proposed that I should give up my horse into the
bargain, and then take this abominable ass as a present."
Peregil accompanied the epithet with another donation of his wonted
favors.
"Thou miserable sinner," said Don Rodrigo, "how couldst thou consent to
this nefarious arrangement?"
"Because I could not help it. Think you, Senor mio, I would have agreed
to such an extortion had it been in my power to avoid it? But your
precipitate flight gave me to understand that you had killed your
adversary. Any delay in the town might have been attended with danger,
backed as his reverence was by all the rabble of the inn."
Don Rodrigo was sensible of the force of this argument, and after
bestowing sundry anathemas on the cheating friar and the inn, in which
he was zealously joined by Peregil, he said in a melancholy tone, "Well,
as there is no remedy, we must put up with this misfortune as well as we
can."
"So we must, Senor," replied Peregil; "and at least there is some
consolation in the reflection that we are already on such familiar terms
with dame Fortune, that this new instance of her good-will ought by no
means to take us by surprise.--But may I ask whither we are going?"
"To seek refuge in the mountains," gloomily answered Don Rodrigo.
"Well, may the help of God be with us!" ejaculated Peregil, "for we
stand marvellously in need of it."
Saying this, they bent their course to the Alpujarras, as melancholy and
slowly as suited the condition and convenience of the animals that bore
them. Indeed, from time to time, the reverend mule actually stood still,
as if pondering what he should do, and it required all Don Rodrigo's
caresses (for he dared employ no other means) to induce her to proceed.
Thus the distressed master and his humble valet continued their march,
for the space of three hours, in a most gloomy night. Observing at
length that his servant made a dead stop, Don Rodrigo determined to
assist him, and accordingly indicated his intention to the mule; but to
his utter dismay he found that she had profited by the good example set
by her companion the ass, and stood stone still. This obstinacy of their
animals proved more than equal to the powers of Don Rodrigo and his
man, who, after exhausting their strength in fruitless chastisement,
prudently resolved to wait the leisure of their more determined
companions. They took shelter, therefore, under the spreading branches
of a large tree, and there they remained in anxious expectation of
day-break, passing the tedious hours in silent and profound reflections
on their miserable condition.
CHAPTER VIII.
O gran contrasto in giovenil pensiero,
Desir di laude ed impeto d'Amore;
Ne chi piu vaglia ancor si trova il vero,
Che resta or questo, or quello superiore.
_Ariosto._
At first a vague suspicion, a blind dread,
Then a quick feeling of the fatal truth
Instinctive flashed across her mind.
_Wiffin's Tasso._
The first rosy tints of morning at length began to appear, and the heavy
clouds of night were gradually rolling away before the splendour of the
approaching sun, when Don Manuel de Monteblanco, who was already on the
alert, received information that a party of horsemen were rapidly
approaching the mansion. The old cavalier hastened to a spot whence he
could descry his visitors, and form a judgment of their quality. The
party consisted of an armed knight, and about half a dozen men-at-arms,
bounding over the elastic turf, with the greatest buoyancy of spirits.
Don Manuel, who stood watching their advance, was soon able to
recognize, in the martial figure and gallant carriage of the knight, his
young friend and kinsman, Don Antonio de Leyva, of whose arrival he had
been in daily expectation. The youthful warrior was clad in a suit of
polished steel armour, inlaid with silver; a quantity of massy and
waving red plumage almost overshaded his shining helmet, and threw a
crimson flush over his manly countenance, in which an expression of
resolute courage was blended with an air of gaiety and frankness. The
colour of his cheek was heightened by exercise, and the brilliancy of
his dark blue eyes expressed an unusual degree of animation, whilst his
blooming age and the gracefulness of his carriage tended to increase the
interest of his commanding appearance. He was mounted on a fiery and
slender barb, decorated with the most costly trappings, which appeared
to participate in the buoyancy of the rider; for he champed the bit and
shook off the white foam, requiring all the dexterity of his master to
restrain the impetuosity of his nature.
The small party which accompanied the youthful warrior were arrayed in
the military costume of the period. They served Don Antonio as an
escort, and belonged to the body of which he was the leader. Upon their
arrival the massy doors of the mansion were thrown open, and the
venerable Monteblanco stood at the entrance ready to receive his noble
visitor. The next moment Don Antonio, springing from his steed, threw
himself into the arms that hospitably invited him to their embrace.
"Welcome, Don Antonio, thrice welcome to the abode of your old friend
and kinsman."
"Save you, noble Don Manuel; it rejoices me to see that the hand of time
has made so little impression upon you; your spirits are still young and
ardent. How does the fair Theodora?"
"Blooming as the rose of summer, fair as the lily of the valley, and
blithesome as the free tenant of the air," replied the fond father; "but
come in," he continued, with joyful accents; "come and refresh yourself.
Pedro," he then added, turning to his major-domo, a long, thin, grave
looking personage, "mind that these cavaliers," pointing to Don
Antonio's attendants, "are well entertained."
Then taking his relative by the hand, he led him into the mansion.
"Theodora," he then resumed, "is as yet at her morning orisons, in the
company of good Martha, but on an occasion like the present, there would
be no great sin in shortening her devotions."
"By no means," replied Don Antonio, smiling; "it is not my maxim to
disturb fair ladies when so laudably occupied."
"Well, my young friend, as you please; but, good heavens!" continued he,
surveying his guest from head to foot, with much complacency, "how you
are altered! It is a goodly and consoling sight to see the improvement
a few years bestow on a young man. You have distinguished yourself at
the games," said Don Manuel; "this is a source of unspeakable joy to me,
the more so, as it appears that the queen has been pleased to reward
your merit. I have heard that you are entrusted with the command of a
party of those gallant men, that are destined to chastise the rebellious
Moors of the Alpujarras."
"In truth," modestly answered Don Antonio, "our great queen has
condescended to honor me far above my deserts; but I trust that my
future conduct will make me worthy of the confidence she has reposed in
me."
"I suppose, then," said Don Manuel, "that your stay at Guadix will be
but short?"
"Very short; as I am only allowed to wait the arrival of my party, and
must then set off immediately to join the army under the command of the
noble Aguilar."
"Then, my dear kinsman," observed Monteblanco, smiling, "the object of
your visit must be accomplished without further delay."
"I shall never complain of too much expedition when the happiness of my
life is so intimately concerned."
At this moment the door of the saloon was thrown open, and Theodora was
ceremoniously ushered in by the stately duenna, who, after making a
stiff and formal courtsey, sunk back, and kept a respectful distance.
"Dear child," said Don Manuel, "here is your kinsman, Don Antonio de
Leyva, with whom you are already acquainted. He appears in our house as
best becomes a gallant knight; his brow adorned with the wreath of
triumph for the skill and prowess he has displayed in the games, a sure
omen of his future glory in the field."
Theodora offered her hand to the salutation of her kinsman, with an
attempt at cordiality; but it was evidently an effort to hide the real
coldness she felt; for an involuntary tremor crept gradually over her,
and her countenance betrayed strong symptoms of emotion, as she began
to suspect the object of Don Antonio's visit. Indeed, the tone of ease
and affection, in which her father and young de Leyva conversed, tended
to confirm those suspicions, the truth of which she so much dreaded to
learn.
As soon as Don Antonio withdrew, Monteblanco requested to speak with his
daughter in his apartment. The trembling girl obeyed with a faltering
step, looking like a criminal about to receive the sentence that is to
seal her fate. The duenna remained somewhat surprised at this mysterious
transaction, in which her family counsel and approbation had been so
unceremoniously dispensed with. Her pride was mortified; in high
dudgeon, she crossed herself with fervour; and then departed, muttering
something between a prayer and a malediction.
A short time after, the conference broke up, and Theodora came forth,
her eyes swimming in tears, and evincing the most lively emotion. She
hied to her own chamber, and fastening the door, she gave a free vent to
her grief.
"Alas!" she exclaimed, "the dreadful suspicion is confirmed, and the
resolute manner in which my father has enforced his commands, affords me
no room to hope for any alteration--any delay. Not a month--not even a
week is allowed me to prepare--the measure of my misfortune is
full--Lost! lost!--Oh! Lope! Lope!----"
She could proceed no further; the tumult of sorrow impeded her
utterance, and she gave loose to her feelings in sighs and tears.
Presently, however, a comforter came to proffer advice and
assistance--in the shape of the duenna. As we have already seen, she was
ruffled by Don Manuel's want of confidence, and proper regard for her
judgment; and she had resolved to tender her assistance to another
quarter. It is to be observed the duenna was of a most obliging
disposition. She bestowed her good advice most liberally, and she had an
inexhaustible fund of pious exclamations and admonitions at the service
of her friends. She could not forego the idea of being serviceable, and
therefore very properly desired to be consulted on all occasions. Yet
with all these amiable qualities, the duenna, in the opinion of most
people, would be entitled to no better appellation for her pains than
that of a busy body.
"_Nina_,[21] how's this?" she cried--"What mean these tears?--Aye! aye!
I see that your father has been guilty of some preposterous and
tyrannical measure; I suspected as much from his carefulness in keeping
the secret from me.--God bless the man!--what is the matter with
him?--he will never be advised, and really I cannot imagine why I remain
in his house. Well, child, unfold your sorrows and grievances to your
kindest friend; you know nothing delights me so much as consoling the
afflicted, and offering service to the unprotected."
"Yes, good Martha," replied the sorrowing girl; "I am fully sensible of
your goodness, and I do trust you will not deny me your compassion.
Alas! without your valuable advice and assistance, I shall never
surmount the difficulties with which I am surrounded. I must see him--I
must see Don Lope this very night!"
She then explained to Martha the nature of her distress, and the duenna,
glad to find an opportunity of being serviceable, readily promised her
co-operation in the accomplishment of her charge's wishes.
CHAPTER IX.
Ye fair!
Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts!
Dare not the infectious sigh; nor in the bower
Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,
While evening draws her crimson curtain round,
Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.
_Thomson._
In the most retired part of Monteblanco's garden, reclining on a rustic
seat, under the fragrant canopy of the myrtle and arbutus, sat a female
form enveloped in a loosely flowing dress of virgin whiteness. The air
was cool and serene, and except the rustling of the surrounding foliage,
when agitated by the breeze, or the soft plaintive voice of the
nightingale, no obtrusive sound disturbed the solemn silence. The blue
vault of heaven, glittering with countless stars, the rich perfume
flung around by the orange flower and jasmine, and a stilly languor that
pervaded the spot, all disposed the mind to gentle and loving thoughts.
Theodora, however, sat absorbed in silent sorrow and abstraction: her
long clustering tresses fell in luxuriance over her white and polished
neck, almost concealing in their profusion the traits of a countenance
overcast with grief and despondency.
But a figure appears on the garden wall, and the sound as of some one
falling is heard on the soft turf. Theodora starts, yet a sudden
recollection seems to check her momentary fear. The nocturnal visitor
was Gomez Arias, who had received a hasty summons from Theodora, and
surmising that some unpleasant intelligence awaited him, he hurried in
breathless expectation to the place of appointment.
What was his amazement, upon his arrival!--He beheld his Theodora, not
in the joyful eagerness of affection springing forward to meet his
embrace, but silent and dejected. Her intelligent countenance no longer
beamed with that charming smile which his appearance never failed to
create. Motionless and unmoved she appeared, amongst the flowery shrubs
and verdant foliage of the garden, like some statue of chaste and
classical beauty, placed to embellish and diversify the sylvan spot.
Gomez Arias is before her, and yet she seems hardly conscious of his
presence. He gazes on her with surprise, and then gently whispers her
dear name. The well known voice recalls her scattered ideas, and its
magic sound awakens her benumbed sensations to fresh warmth and life.
She raised her head, threw aside the rich clusters of her hair, and a
stream of moonlight falling on her countenance revealed to Gomez Arias a
picture of sorrowing love.
Her eye was swollen with grief, and the big tears in quick succession
chased each other down her pallid cheek.
Don Lope approached her tenderly, and folding her in his arms,
endeavoured to calm her emotion, by the most soothing and endearing
expressions.
"Theodora, what means this sorrow? Whatever be the misfortune which
threatens us, do not vainly yield yourself a prey to terror, before you
know the means I may have of averting it." Then, as if struck by a
passing thought, he added--"You surely cannot entertain a distant doubt
of the singleness--the devotedness of my affection?"
"Doubt of your affection! Oh, heavens! do not even mention the appalling
word; there is something more terrible than death in the very idea. No,
no," she continued, with vivid earnestness; "I do not; I cannot; I will
not doubt of your affection. If ever such agonizing----"
She could not proceed, for her imagination was so powerfully acted upon,
even with the remote image of such a misfortune, that she was obliged to
remain some time silent before she could control her emotions.
"No," she resumed; "I cannot doubt your affection. But there is another
calamity in store for me that will assuredly render wretched the rest of
my existence."
She again stopped, and her tears flowed more abundantly than ever.
Gomez Arias felt relieved from a heavy foreboding; for the idea that his
engagement with Leonor de Aguilar had come to the knowledge of Theodora,
had at first filled his mind with apprehensions. He was accordingly more
at ease, feeling an inward conviction that however distressing the
dreaded intelligence might prove, he should still find resources within
himself to avert its dangers.
"Speak, my Theodora; unfold the cause of your extraordinary sorrow, and
do not weep and tremble thus."
"Oh, Lope!" she despondingly cried, "I must renounce you for ever."
"For heaven's sake, calm this agitation, Theodora, and let me know the
worst. But yesterday you were as happy as a heart teeming with genuine
affection, and blessed with a most unbounded return, can make a mortal,
and now----"
"He is come," she fearfully interrupted him; "my destined husband is
come."
Gomez Arias appeared staggered at this unexpected information, but
immediately recovering himself in apparent calmness, demanded the name
of his rival. "Who is it," he cried, "that boldly claims the hand of my
Theodora?--No doubt some noble and distinguished cavalier."
"Alas! your supposition is but too just," replied the weeping girl; "and
it is that circumstance which adds to the poignancy of my grief: were he
a less estimable character, were he divested of those amiable qualities
that render man dear to the eyes of woman, my reasons for refusing his
addresses would be unanswerable. In that case, if I were made a victim
to parental authority, some consolation might be found in the conviction
that the inextinguishable hatred which I bore him was grounded on
justice. But the man that seeks an alliance with our house is one whose
choice would confer the greatest honor on the most exalted of the land.
Brave, generous, of noble birth, and alike distinguished for the
superiority of his mind and person, he is in the highest favor with the
queen, who has intrusted him with the command of one of the divisions
which are now marching against the rebel Moors."
Theodora made these observations in the perfect simplicity of her heart,
but she unconsciously excited an idea of the most galling nature in the
mind of her lover. Not that he felt the pangs of jealousy, for he was
too confident both in his own merit, and the unparalleled affection of
his beloved; but yet he was inwardly mortified at the encomiums bestowed
on another, inasmuch as they gave rise to a comparison which he could
not easily brook. He, therefore, with some asperity of tone, inquired
the name of this accomplished knight; and Theodora, who perceived the
inward workings of his soul, with a faultering voice pronounced the name
of Don Antonio de Leyva. The sound operated like an electric shock on
the mind of Gomez Arias, and despite of his habitual self-command, signs
of uncommon perturbation were discernible in his countenance.
"What!" he cried, "Don Antonio de Leyva,--that presumptuous, that
detested youth!"
Here he checked his emotion; pride resumed the mastery over his
irritated feelings, and with a forced gaiety of manner, he continued,--
"Certainly Don Antonio is a gallant cavalier, and well calculated to
captivate a woman's affections."
He stopped; for his surprise had been too abrupt, and his manner too ill
disguised to continue long in this constrained suppression of his real
feelings. Gomez Arias hated Don Antonio on no other plea, than the fame
he was daily acquiring for his valour and brilliant qualities. Besides,
he could not forget his adventure in the tournament, when Don Antonio
crossed him in his career, and well nigh endangered the reputation he
had that day acquired. He looked on him, therefore, as a dangerous
rival, and felt chagrined at the command with which the queen had
invested him, as it would afford him opportunities of grounding his
claims to her royal favor on the firmest foundation.
Theodora was far from suspecting the cause of her lover's agitation. She
naturally attributed to a feeling of jealousy, what was in fact the
effect of restless emulation. A long pause ensued, during which the
state of Theodora became more distressing, as she perceived her lover's
countenance gradually assuming an unusual expression of sternness.
Various passions seemed to be contending for mastery in his bosom, but
the feeling of wounded pride soon appeared to predominate. His eyes
glistened with indignant fire, his lip curled with a bitter smile, and
the flush of anger mantled on his brow.
"Theodora!" he said, fixing earnestly his eyes on the trembling girl;
"Theodora, you have deceived me!"
"Deceive you, Gomez Arias!" She looked petrified at the bare
supposition. "Deceived you! And can you for a moment harbour such a
cruel, such a degrading suspicion? Oh! Lope, is it possible you can
think thus basely of your Theodora?"
"Why was not I made acquainted with this engagement before?"
"I was ignorant of it myself; the marriage had been settled between my
father and Don Antonio, without consulting my inclination. Alas! the
first intelligence I received, was to bid me prepare for the ceremony,
which is to take place immediately.--My dearest Lope," she added with
tenderness; "Oh! never again harrow up my feelings, with doubts unworthy
of our mutual passion."
She clung to Don Lope's neck, and pressing him with the earnestness of
unbounded confidence and love--"Never," she continued, "had Theodora a
single thought concealed from you; you, the absolute master of my heart,
and the most secret wishes of my soul."
Then in a more composed manner, she proceeded; "It was but this morning
that Don Antonio arrived, when my father immediately proceeded to
announce the purport of his visit. My amazement at first knew no bounds;
I remonstrated on the abruptness of the proposal, and endeavoured, by
gentle expostulation, to ward off the threatening blow. But my
entreaties, and my tears were in vain. My father, strenuously bent on
the accomplishment of his wishes, left me the only option of yielding
implicit obedience to his mandates, or passing the rest of my existence
in the solitary gloom of a convent. My choice is made; I lose you,
Lope;"--and here her anguish almost overpowered her utterance; "I lose
you for ever, but your dear image shall be constantly before me in those
dark abodes of penitence and woe. Thither must I go, and leave all these
dear scenes, and the dearer sight of you, consigned to unrelenting
misery. Not humbly, alas! to pray; not to abjure the world; for ah! I
cannot abjure that world which contains the fondest object that links me
to life. I go not in the humble mood of a repentant sinner, to weep over
a guilty life, but in the desponding resolution of a fond woman, eager
to keep her faith unbroken to him of her heart's first and only
attachment. For you, oh Lope, my tears will flow; you alone will be the
theme of my constant meditations--my fervent prayers. In my hopeless
solitude, I may perhaps feel one glimpse of consolation;--the idea that
you may be happy, and that even in the glittering scenes of ambition,
you will sometimes revert to the cheerless abode of Theodora. This will
afford me some solace in my affliction. And when the hand of death
releases me from my odious chains, your tears will tenderly fall on the
grave of her, whose greatest crime was that of loving you too well."
"Theodora!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, moved by the picture she had drawn;
"and is this then the only remedy you can devise?"
"What!" cried she eagerly, "is there any other to be found?"
She paused, and gazed on Gomez Arias, with anxious expectation,
breathless with hope.
Don Lope, after a momentary lapse, with a chilling coldness,
observed--"You do not love me, Theodora!"
"Oh Heavens!" she cried in the hurried accents of terror--"Never, Lope,
never utter those killing words;--what do you require of me?--Speak,
Gomez Arias, speak: I will do all, to convince you of the sincerity of
my affection, and the cruel injustice of your words."
"You must fly then from the abode of parental oppression," calmly
replied Don Lope; "and in your lover you shall find that tenderness,
which a father denies; nay, start not, these words may perhaps alarm
you, yet consider it is our only resource, and that imperious necessity
is a law to which we must all submit. In a short time you shall be mine
in the face of heaven, and now, you must resolve to follow me."
Theodora started at the proposition. She fixed her eyes on Gomez Arias,
and with a deep but tranquil anguish exclaimed--"Alas, Don Lope! Is
this the remedy you propose? Can you indeed tempt me to abandon my
father in his declining years, to regret and shame?"
"You had already determined to abandon him," observed Gomez Arias.
"No, Lope," she replied; "by that step, I should only disappoint him in
his expectations--not incur his merited hatred and malediction;--his
grief would be tempered by resignation, not corroded with the sting of
shame." "Don Lope," she then continued with dignity, "command my life;
but oh! never, never require of me the commission of a crime, as the
proof of my love."
"Stay, Theodora," interrupted Gomez Arias, with a composure that ill
agreed with the terrific cloud gathering on his brow; "stay, you are
right, and I must retract my words: the offer was dictated in the
transports of sincere and ardent love, and as the only means left us in
the hour of danger. But I perceive that I have mistaken your
sentiments; such actions were only made for souls capable of feeling
and appreciating the extent of a true passion; not for cold and timorous
beings like yourself. I flattered my fond pride, that in you I had met
with a miracle of deep and all-absorbing affection, but I am deceived,
and sorely shall I repent my delusion; I now see you in your true
colours; you are like the rest of your feeble sex, pleased with the
gratification of their vanity, but incapable of a bold and generous
resolution in favor of the man they pretend to love. I will not upbraid
you; but from this moment cast you from me as a piece of inanimate clay,
a painted thing, alike incapable of estimating and sharing my regard."
Saying this he rudely disengaged himself from her arms, whilst the
unfortunate Theodora, affrighted at the violence of his manner, fixed on
him a wild and vacant stare, the intensity of her grief depriving her of
the power of reflection. But when she saw her lover actually receding
from the place, her mind started from its abstraction, and her thoughts
were fixed upon the dreadful desertion that now threatened her. She gave
a frantic shriek, and fell lifeless on the ground.
Alarmed at the effect produced by his passionate and cruel proceeding,
Gomez Arias hurried back to the spot, and raising the lovely victim from
the ground, gazed on her with all the anxiety of returning affection.
Theodora was in his arms, but, alas! her beautiful eyes were closed, her
cheek was colourless, and a cold suffusion bathed her stiffened limbs.
The vital spark had apparently deserted its frail tenement, for no sign
of conscious life was there. Don Lope's angry feelings had given way to
his fears for her safety, and as he wiped the cold dew from her face, he
perceived blood trickling slowly down her marble brow. In the violence
of her fall upon the gravelled walk, a flint had wounded her forehead,
and the crimson drops that issued from it contrasted mournfully with the
frozen paleness of her countenance.
Gomez Arias was moved as he gazed intensely on the angelic creature now
before him. This was no artful fiction, no solemn mockery of woe: a few
words had worked that dreadful revolution in her mind. Perhaps there is
at times an indescribable cruelty in love that prompts a man, in a
certain degree, to enjoy the misery which is wrought by an excess of
affection towards him, and triumph now mingled with compassion in the
abandoned lover's heart. He was, however, soon called to more generous
sentiments. Anxiety and regret took place of vanity, while his passion
for Theodora acquired new intensity as he scanned her beauteous figure
and contemplated the distress he had occasioned. With the most endearing
efforts he endeavoured to reanimate the lifeless form of Theodora. He
ardently pressed the yielding burthen to his heart, placed his glowing
cheek by the cold one of his mistress, fervently kissed the crimson
stain upon her forehead, and then bound it with a scarf.
Theodora, however, for some time gave no sign of life. Don Lope called
her by the most tender names, sprinkled her face with the water of a
neighbouring fountain, and exhausted himself in efforts to revive her.
At last she gently opened her eyes, a scarce perceptible motion shook
her frame, and shortly after she raised her white fingers to her
forehead, as if conscious of sensation. She heaved a deep sigh, and
Gomez Arias watching with anxious gaze the progress of her reviving
senses, strove with soothing fondness to hasten their return. Her eyes
gently opened, and a sad smile played upon her lip, as she acknowledged
the tender solicitude of her lover, unable as yet to express herself by
words.
"Theodora, my dearest, don't you know me?"
Her abstracted senses awoke as if from a horrid dream, and with fearful
and convulsive clasp she hung to Don Lope's neck.
"He is not gone--no, no, I have him here--" The rest of her sentence was
lost in a hysteric laugh.
"No, my love," tenderly said Gomez Arias, "I am not gone, nor ever will.
I am a barbarian to treat you thus. I do not merit such excellence as
thine, and, I crave thy forgiveness for the misery I have inflicted."
Theodora, now perfectly restored, saw the stain of blood on her lover's
lip, then she felt the bandage on her forehead, and when Gomez Arias
explained the nature of her wound, the fond girl rejoiced at a cause
that had called forth her lover's anxiety and caresses.
They remained in profound silence, which they were both afraid to break,
for they trembled to renew a subject which had produced such melancholy
effects.
But time was swiftly flying, and Gomez Arias again urged the necessity
of adopting some resolution.
"Theodora," he said, "the night is wearing fast away, her friendly shade
will but for a short time longer favor us, and the morning must, alas!
throw still darker shadows over our brightest hopes."
Theodora sighed deeply, but was unable to reply.
"What is to be done?" demanded Don Lope. "Is it your wish that we should
part for ever?"
"Part for ever!" cried Theodora; "Oh Heavens! the idea is more than I
can endure."
"There is no other alternative left us," said Gomez Arias, "unless you
feel yourself courageous enough to--" and here he cast an inquiring
glance, and waited her reply; for though the purport of his meaning was
obvious, he felt almost afraid to convey it by language.
Theodora's distress increased, and her fond arms that had till now
encircled her lover's neck, loosened their hold, whilst her head drooped
despondingly upon her bosom.
After a short pause--"My love," continued Gomez Arias, "you must decide,
and instantly, we have but a short time more to remain."
"Don Lope," exclaimed the afflicted girl, with impassioned eagerness,
"pity! oh pity my horrible situation, and do not tempt me with a crime,
to which my own fond woman's heart urges me but too strongly. No, do not
exert that uncontrollable power which you possess over my very soul, to
sink me deeper into the abyss of misery, that must embitter my future
existence. Do not force me to destroy the tranquillity and comfort of a
venerable parent--of that parent, whose greatest fault is his excessive
fondness and solicitude for his child. Though by his last determination
he has completed my misery, he is nevertheless more deserving of pity
than reproach. Alas! while he destroys my felicity and repose, he
cherishes the idea, that he is laying the foundation of the future
happiness of his child."
"Yes!" cried Gomez Arias, smiling bitterly, "by forcing her to waste her
life in a cloister."
"No," exclaimed Theodora, "he does not suppose me capable of such a
terrible resolution; he is ignorant that my affections are
irretrievably bestowed on another, fondly imagining that I shall not
long be insensible to the merits of the husband he has chosen."
She fell on the ground, and clasping the knees of her lover, proceeded
with redoubled emotion--"Oh, Lope, I know but too well my own weakness!
Take, therefore, compassion on my distress, urge me no further, and do
not avail yourself of the tenderness and self-devotion of one who adores
you, to render her a cruel and delinquent daughter."
Gomez Arias was powerfully struck with the earnestness of her manner; he
never imagined he should meet with such opposition from a heart so
enthusiastically devoted. He could not but admire the generosity and
nobleness of feeling which thus voluntarily condemned itself to a life
of solitude and despair, rather than deviate in the smallest degree from
moral rectitude. Yet he was inwardly mortified at her superiority, and
would fain have persuaded himself that her scruples proceeded rather
from a deficiency of passion than from a sense of honor and filial
duty. He looked on her with a mixture of compassion and disappointment
as he endeavoured to raise her from the ground.
"No, never," she cried, "never will I rise till you grant my request."
"Rise, rise, Theodora," said he gloomily, "and listen to me for the last
time.--Since it is your desire, I will no longer, press a sacrifice I
was naturally bound to expect from your repeated, and apparently
sincere, protestations of regard. Since you will have it so, I must
yield. I will begone immediately; but if you are to be for ever lost to
me, think not I will tamely submit to my wrongs. I will seek out the
cause of our misfortunes, and if he is the valiant knight report speaks
him, I shall then find the only solace left me in my desolation, that of
taking ample vengeance or falling nobly by his weapon. And now," he
added after a short pause, "farewell Theodora! Farewell, for we part for
ever!"
"No, you cannot," franticly cried Theodora, "you must not leave me
thus. Oh Lope! you were always tender, and generous, and kind.--Never
did you in the slightest manner wound my heart till this dreadful
night."
"True," replied Don Lope, "and never till the present moment could I
doubt your love."
"Oh Lope! Lope! and is it to your Theodora you speak thus! In pity
recall those dreadful words."
"Silly girl," vehemently exclaimed Gomez Arias, "what do you require of
me? Or what is it that you wish? You have chosen your path, let me now
take mine, unless you force me in my anguish to curse the hour when I
first beheld you."
"Curse the day you saw me!" As she uttered this exclamation an
involuntary chill crept over her, which seemed to have frozen the
springs of her heart.
"Theodora," he now said in a tone of sad reproach, "dry your tears--you
will soon have bitter occasion for them. May you enjoy that repose
which you have for ever destroyed in my heart--Farewell! Farewell!"
As he said this he gently strove to disengage himself from her hold. The
struggle was too powerful for her nature, and like the poor bird when
under the magic influence of the serpent, yields itself to the
destructive charm, Theodora, unable any longer to combat with her
overpowering feelings, threw herself into her lover's arms, and
exclaimed passionately upon his bosom--"No, no, dear Lope, we will not
part. Let it be as you will." She paused, and then added with
solemnity--"It is decreed that I must be wretched, but you at least
shall never have reason to reproach me."
Gomez Arias clasped her fondly to his breast, and in the transports of
his joy, endeavoured to draw a glowing picture of their future
happiness.
"My dearest Theodora, hush your apprehensions and unreasonable fears. At
the first opportunity we marry. Your father will at last relent, and
even if he should prove deaf to the appeal of nature, the love and
gratitude of Gomez Arias will supply the loss."
"Oh that is my only consolation," she interrupted with eagerness. "Love
me, Lope, love me even as I love you. No, no, that is not possible. But,
oh, if thy love should ever decrease--deceive me! in pity deceive me! Do
not let me suspect the dreadful truth--No, let death first conceal from
me so terrible a secret."
Gomez Arias again tenderly essayed to calm her agitation, and then urged
the necessity of quitting the place with the utmost expedition. She made
no longer any resistance, for she had advanced too far now to recede,
and leaning on her lover she was almost carried along the garden.
Gomez Arias quickly made a signal, and a ladder of ropes was thrown from
the other side. At the sight Theodora could scarcely restrain the agony
of her feelings. A crowd of thoughts distracted her mind--a load of
anguish was upon her breast, and had it not been for the support of her
lover, she would have fallen. Gomez Arias bore the trembling girl
across the wall, but as she stood for an instant on the summit, she cast
a long melancholy look on the home of her innocence and childhood--the
now deserted abode, of a venerable parent, and with a heart throbbing
with anguish, she intrusted herself to the protection of her lover.
CHAPTER X.
Where is she?
I wish to see my daughter, shew her me;
* * * *
You have betrayed me; y' have let loose
The jewel of my life: Go, bring her me,
And set her here before me.--
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
The next day arrived--a day of sorrow for the unfortunate Monteblanco.
Seated on a ponderous chair of rude workmanship, the old _caballero_
waited for the appearance of his darling daughter, to pay her morning
devoirs, and receive his blessing. He waited patiently for some time,
but his mind becoming fraught with more than usual anxiety, he called
lustily to the duenna,--he called again, and again, but to no purpose.
The pious old dame was deeply engaged in her orisons, and her mind
occupied with other affairs than appertain to this sinful world. She
appeared at last, her eyes half closed, her lips moving fast in the
fervour of her devotions, and her long skinny fingers employed in a
manner equally devout, as with the most exemplary industry, and solemn
sedateness, she let fall in measured intervals, one by one, the large
black counters of her rosary.
"The Lord be with you!" ejaculated piously the duenna.
"Save you, good Martha," responded Don Manuel.
"And may the blessed Virgin forgive you Senor, for thus disturbing an
humble sinner at her prayers."
"Amen!" answered Don Manuel; "and now Martha tell me where is my
daughter."
"_Ave Maria!_" continued the duenna, as another counter fell.
Monteblanco, who expected quite a different answer, was however kind
enough to give the customary response to the salutation.
"_Santa Maria!_" muttered he with a movement of impatience, raising
nevertheless his eyes to heaven. But it so happened that the devotion of
the old cavalier was obliged to give way to his paternal solicitude.
"Martha," he therefore cried, "put aside your beads, and tell me, in
goodness tell me, if my child is indisposed."
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the duenna, "what brings that into your head,
Don Manuel?"
"If not," demanded the father, "how does it happen she has not yet
appeared?--Where is she?"
"In bed, God help her," replied Martha, "for she very naturally
concluded, that a lady who had spent the night in an amorous colloquy,
could not be expected to rise over early the next morning."
"In bed!" echoed Monteblanco, "in bed! shame, why it is past seven," he
added, somewhat ruffled at the idea. "What! has she passed an
indifferent night?"
"Not that I know of, unless indeed that she may have been a little too
zealous in her midnight devotions: the grace of the Lord be upon her for
a sweet, innocent child. Bless her soul, she could not be otherwise
after the holy counsel which I, a miserable sinner, have endeavoured to
instill into her tender mind."
"Martha, Martha," seriously observed Don Manuel, "I do not entirely
approve of this excess of devotion."
"Ah!" ejaculated the duenna. "That is exactly what I say to her, but she
is very scrupulous in her religious exercises."
"Well Martha, you must moderate her zeal, and make her understand that
the views of heaven will be much better realized, by yielding implicit
obedience to the dictates of a father; and now," he added in a more
familiar tone, "go, and bid her come, for I expect Don Antonio de Leyva
every minute."
The duenna went out muttering a _Gloria Patri_, which was exactly
finished by the time she got at the other side of the door. She then
hastened to the chamber of her charge, by no means pleased with a
somnolency that exposed her to any rebuke, however trifling.
"Oh you sluggish girl," she began. "_Dios me perdone_,[22] what means
this? Are you not ashamed to be in bed at this time in the morning, and
allow a christian matron like me to be disturbed at her prayers on your
account? This comes of your nocturnal meetings; I must put a stop to
them; they may be very refreshing to the heart, but cannot contribute to
the health, nor to the good keeping of the soul; up, up _perezosa_,[23]
and never more expose a kind duenna to your father's rebukes; up,
immediately, Don Manuel is waiting." Receiving no answer, she took it
for granted, being not a little deaf, that Theodora was replying with
the various excuses which were naturally to be expected, under similar
circumstances. She continued, therefore, without troubling herself as to
their import. "Nay, nay, attempt not to exculpate yourself, for it is
very wrong to expose me thus, because I am so amiably inclined as to
overlook your frailties with christian charity. Holy Virgin! I shudder
when I think to what perilous compromises my unsullied reputation is
daily exposed by the tenderness of my disposition. What is it you
say?--Eh?--What?--you are silent then, well child, after all that is the
wisest thing you can do; it pleaseth me to see you thus humble, for
humility, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins." The good duenna
proceeded in this strain for some time, without receiving any check to
her eloquence, till at length, surprised at such an excess of
contrition, she grew impatient, flung the windows wide open, pulled the
bed hangings aside, when to her utter consternation she found the object
of her intended visitation vanished. The surprise of the duenna was
strongly pictured on her shrivelled visage, as the dismal truth obtruded
itself upon her mind. The wrath of Monteblanco, and the blot upon her
own dear reputation, as the natural consequences of this disaster, took
possession of her mind. She first uttered something between a whine and
a discordant cry, meaning thereby to indicate at once her emotions of
anger and sorrow. Then she began busily to invoke the protection of all
the saints in the calendar. But the saints, though very holy personages
in their way, are by no means the proper persons to consult respecting
the discovery of stray damsels. She appeared to place more confidence in
her own exertions than in their assistance. She commenced a scrupulous
search in every part of the chamber, under and round about the bed, and
waddling out of the apartment, she left no corner in the house
unsearched.
Astonished at the duenna's activity, and puzzled to discover the cause,
the servants flocked around her, but to all their inquiries she gave no
other answer but interjections and exclamations, and such harsh guttural
sounds, that they began to suspect that the good dame had fairly lost
her wits.
The garden was now explored, but alas! with no better success, and the
perturbation of poor Martha's mind baffled all description.
It was some time before she could determine what course to pursue,
balancing in her mind whether it would be more prudent to avoid the
impending storm by flight, or boldly and confidently to encounter her
master's ire. Flight certainly is the method preferred on similar
occasions; but then by adopting it she would tacitly confess herself
guilty, and her tender reputation would be sullied with an indelible
stain; by bravely encountering, on the other hand, the irritated father,
she could stoutly deny all cognizance of the affair, and boldly call on
all the saints of Heaven to assert her innocence, witnesses to whose
testimony Martha always confidently appealed, being satisfied they would
have no inclination to contradict her.
Acting upon this idea, she left the garden, instilling into her
parchment features all the surprise and grief that she could muster up
at so short a notice.
In the meantime Monteblanco, heartily tired of sending message after
message, resolved to seek himself the cause of the duenna's protracted
absence.
"Martha--Martha," he cried, as soon as he saw her--"In the name of the
devil, what means this?"
"Hush, Don Manuel!" replied the duenna, with great solemnity of
manner--"Hush, venerated Senor; for sure enough the evil one has been at
work."
"What!" exclaimed the astonished Don Manuel, "explain yourself, and
quickly."
"Holy Virgin!" proceeded the dame, "that such a thing should happen in
my time!"
"In the name of God--Martha," cried again the father, in agony, "tell me
what misfortune has happened."
"Oh!" whined the duenna, struggling hard to force from her old eyes a
couple of rebellious tears, "ask me not, for shame and sorrow will choke
my utterance."
"May all the curses of Heaven choke you! Woman, what have you done with
my daughter? Speak--speak, or by _Santiago de Compostela_, I will so
belabour thy shrivelled form, as to reduce it to atoms in less time
than you can say your _credo_."
The duenna had never before seen her master in so terrible a passion,
and she almost repented not having followed her first impulse to fly.
She inwardly cursed that tenderness for her reputation, which had
brought the more substantial part of her person into the present
quandary. A vigorous defence was the only alternative now left her.
"What have I done with your daughter!" she exclaimed, with a look which
she meant to be expressive of indignant surprise.--"May the Lord help
you!--what should I have done with your daughter?"
"Where is she then?"
A pause ensued.
"Where is she?" demanded again the agitated father, with redoubled
emotion.
"Alas! I know not--she is gone to all appearance--May the light of
Heaven, and her guardian angel conduct her steps!"
"Gone!--my Theodora gone!" cried Don Manuel in the height of
affliction.
"I conclude that to be the case," added the duenna, with assurance, "for
she is nowhere to be found."
The desolate father appeared thunderstruck at this intelligence. He
smote his venerable forehead, and plucked his grey beard in the anguish
of despair. Then he vented the most bitter reproaches against the
ingratitude of his daughter, and cursed the day that gave her birth.
Whilst he was thus vainly indulging in the paroxysm of grief, the duenna
kept crossing herself with such active fervour, that the repeated and
rapid motion of her hand at last caught the attention of the sorrowing
and abstracted father.
"Oh, thou vile hypocrite!" he exclaimed, darting a furious look--"Thou
beldame!--Is this the way thou hast answered the confidence reposed in
thee?--I have nurtured a serpent in my house--I have set the ravenous
wolf to guard the lamb! Accursed beldame! Thou art an accomplice in my
daughter's flight."
"Holy Virgin of the Conception!" ejaculated the offended Martha, "that
such foul aspersions should be thrown on my character, after sixty
years of rigid penitence! May the Lord forgive you, Senor, as I do"--and
she crossed herself with redoubled zeal.
"Forgive me, thou imp of the devil!" thundered Don Manuel, astonished at
her assurance.--"Forgive me!"
"I an imp of the devil!--I, who had an aunt who died in odour of
sanctity, in the convent of Santa Clara--I, who am second cousin to Fray
Domingo, one of the most religious as well as most celebrated preachers
of the day!"
"May the curse of Heaven fall on thee, and him, and all thy race."
"Do not swear," interrupted Martha; "Oh! do not swear--you fright me--I
shall faint."
"Avaunt, thou detested hag!" continued Don Manuel.
"_San Pedro y san Pablo!_" cried the duenna.
"Thou poisonous crocodile!" replied Don Manuel.
"_San Jose bendito!_" responded the duenna.
"Abominable fiend!" returned Don Manuel.
"_Animas benditas!_" answered the duenna.
This extraordinary litany, however, was at length cut short by the
arrival of Don Antonio de Leyva. He was not a little surprised at the
scene which presented itself, and was for some time unable to obtain an
explanation. When he at length arrived at a knowledge of the affair, his
astonishment and sorrow were exhibited in the most lively manner.
"Alas!" he cried, "I could not but suspect from my first interview with
Theodora, that her affections were fixed on another object."
"Oh, no, no," eagerly replied Don Manuel--"you are far from the
mark--she cannot love any one--how could she form an attachment without
my knowledge?"
"Then," said Don Antonio, sighing, "it was to avoid my addresses that
she has sought a refuge in flight."
"_Jesus Maria!_" interposed the duenna--"Do not say so, Don Antonio--how
could she possibly object to so accomplished a cavalier?"
"Good dame," answered he, "it is not difficult to account for her
dislike; and I must acknowledge with painful sensations, that I am
chiefly to blame for this unfortunate occurrence."
"No, no," cried Monteblanco, pointing to Martha; "the person chiefly to
blame in this affair, is that detestable hag.--See how she crosses
herself, and rolls her eyes to impose upon our credulity; but it is all
over--I have been too long the dupe of her affected piety, and seeming
austerity of manners; my eyes are at length open to conviction, and I
see the despicable creature in her true colours."
"What reason," observed de Leyva, "can you assign for Theodora's strange
resolution, unless it be dislike to me, or love for another."
"Alas! I know not what to think," answered Don Manuel; "my mind is
bewildered, and all my conjectures may prove wrong. Perhaps some
hastiness in my way of proceeding may have influenced her
determination. But I do not despair; she may yet be brought to a sense
of her duty; if not," he added despondingly, "the happiness of my
declining age is blasted, and heartily shall I wish to be numbered with
the dead."
Monteblanco by these means sought a medium between accusing his daughter
of downright criminality, and confessing to young de Leyva that his
suspicions concerning Theodora's aversion to the intended wedding were
not entirely groundless.
He was unwilling also to relinquish the thought of having so excellent a
son-in-law, and he believed Don Antonio to be possessed of all those
qualities which are capable of enslaving the affections of women, even
the most fastidious. He, therefore, prudently resolved, in case of his
child's return, to allow her due time to consider the proposal, which he
had been so anxious to carry by parental authority, hoping that she
would at last be brought to acquiesce in his wishes, by the constant
assiduity and numberless accomplishments of her suitor.
Under this impression, he readily accepted the services proffered by Don
Antonio, for the recovery of Theodora, and for speedily concerting the
means.
"Don Manuel," exclaimed the gallant de Leyva, "spite of your kind and
courteous asseverations, I cannot but consider myself the cause of your
daughter's leaving her home. This reflection and that tender sentiment
which Theodora was as capable of inspiring as I am susceptible of
feeling, makes me perhaps a principal in this melancholy event. It is
with heartfelt sincerity, therefore, that I offer my assistance. Let us
first endeavour to restore the lovely fugitive to her deserted home, and
then let not the shadow of compulsion actuate her future determination."
"I shall be happy," replied Don Manuel, "to profit by advice dictated at
once by affection and prudence. Theodora," he added after a short pause,
"cannot have departed from this city, and we shall probably find her
either in a convent, or at the abode of one of her relatives. However,
to insure all precaution, I shall forthwith send despatches to Granada,
and the neighbouring towns."
Saying this, Monteblanco made a movement to retire with his young
friend, and casting a look of anger on the duenna, he said as he
passed--"Thou mayest well tremble, miserable sinner that thou art!"
"Tremble, forsooth!" returned the stately dame, with great dignity of
manner. "Innocence has no occasion to tremble; and now it only remains
for me to quit a place where my virtue and honesty have so unwarrantably
been called in question."
"When thou dost quit my house," said Don Manuel, "it will be to be shut
up for life in a convent, there to do penance for thy sins, and to
profit by the holy example of that good aunt that died in odour of
sanctity."
Left to herself, Martha began seriously to reflect on the unpleasantness
of her situation; the threat of a conventual seclusion sounded harshly
to her ear. She fancied it would be more advantageous to society that
her good offices should continue in requisition, than that they should
be for ever lost by an untimely adoption of a contemplative life.
"Oh, that ungracious Gomez Arias!" she exclaimed, in her perplexity.
"What wouldst thou with Gomez Arias?" said a well known voice.
She turned, and saw before her the object of her exclamation.
"Blessed be the Virgin! It is he, sure enough. What brings you here,
Sir? Where is my young lady?"
"Where is she?" inquired Gomez Arias, with feigned anxiety.
"Nay, nay, your arts are thrown away on me; I know that Theodora, poor
silly thing, has eloped with you. She loves you, in very truth, she
does; and when a woman really loves, it is unaccountable what a number
of fooleries she will be tempted to commit."
"Well," returned Don Lope, "supposing she has intrusted herself to my
protection, she only followed the dictates of pure affection; surely
there could be no harm in so doing."
"Under favour, Don Lope," observed the duenna, "but there is. Not
forsooth in loving you; but yet, there is a crying injustice, an
unpardonable cruelty, in leaving me to suffer for it without a----"
"Reward, wouldst thou say?" interrupted Don Lope.
"_Valgame San Juan!_ But you misapprehend me strangely. I am not
mercenary; heaven knows my only concern is for my safety, threatened as
I am."
"Threatened! in what possible manner?" demanded Gomez Arias.
"With nothing less than a convent."
"A convent," repeated Don Lope, smiling, "to so devout a dame, methinks,
can have no terrors."
"Aye in troth, I am devout," replied the duenna, "and yet I feel nowise
inclined to be immured between four walls. What merit would there be in
the sacrifice of an old, poor, decrepid piece of mortality such as I.
No, it is the voluntary seclusion of young, rich and beautiful virgins
that delights the divinity."
"Most prudent Martha," gaily replied Gomez Arias, "I greatly admire and
applaud your discretion. Never ought so worthy, so valuable a matron to
be lost to the world. No, thou wert born to be the consolation of
gallant knights and amorous damsels; it would be really unpardonable to
permit thy seclusion, whilst thou mayest yet tend thy services to
lovers. No, no, God forbid thou shouldst go to a nunnery."
"The Lord bless you, good Senor," returned Martha with humility; "but
you over-rate my poor deserts."
"By my sword! that modesty becomes thee mightily. But we must lose no
time. Attend vespers this afternoon, there thou shalt find my
conscientious valet, who will give thee proper directions and assistance
to effect thy escape, and ample means to pass the remainder of thy
precious life in some distant city of Spain, free from the blessed idea
of conventual retirement."
"That will I do, most generous Don Lope, and be thankful withal."
"But stay," added Gomez Arias with mock gravity; "there is one objection
to this arrangement."
"_Virgen de las Angustias!_--What is it, Senor?" demanded the duenna, in
visible alarm.
"Why!" answered Gomez Arias, "only that thou must sacrifice somewhat of
that dear, unsullied reputation by following such a course."
"Alas, Senor!" exclaimed she of the nice reputation--"That is too true;
willingly would I preserve it entire, but feeble mortals are not bound
to do more than their strength can compass."
"True," rejoined Gomez Arias; "thine argument, most venerable Martha, is
a very plausible argument, and very consoling withal."
At this moment a noise was heard. The duenna started. "It is my master,
and Don Antonio," cried she. "Hence! begone, Don Lope, they must not see
us together."
"Fear not, most respected dame," said Gomez Arias; "I am no college
gallant, no unskilful tyro in the affairs of love; I depart but to
return in due time."
"Return!" echoed Martha; "to what purpose?"
"To cover thy threadbare reputation," said he laughing; "it appears of
so tender a texture, that it is likely to be torn piece-meal, if not
remedied in time. Besides, I must protect my own, should it be
necessary: a good pilot, even in a calm, must prepare against foul
weather."
"Our Lady's blessing be upon your head!" said Martha, "for a right
prudent _caballero_."
"Well, mind to give thy assistance at vespers."
"Ah, my good Senor; my devotion requires no stimulus."
Gomez Arias made his exit, just in time to prevent a meeting with the
aforesaid gentlemen. They had been busily occupied in devising the most
efficacious means to insure success in their researches. Don Manuel
appeared more composed in his demeanor, for he placed much confidence
in the influence and abilities of his ally. Hope, that with its cheering
ray lights us even on the gloomy borders of the tomb, now in part
dispelled the heavy cloud that overshadowed the deserted father's heart.
Don Antonio took an affectionate leave, and after repeating his cordial
offers of assistance, departed.
Monteblanco, when left by himself, felt his wrath again revived, at the
sight of the duenna; he therefore renewed his threats of a convent.
"Don Manuel!" said the duenna, with a most sanctimonious look, "I am
innocent--innocent, as the child unborn: yet if it so pleaseth Heaven,
that I should be immured in a cloister, the Lord's will be done; a
convent has no terrors for me; alas! a poor humble sinner can desire no
better abode; but think, Senor, how galling it is to be forced by
compulsion to embrace a state, that ought to be embraced out of
spontaneous inclination; allow me at least a few hours to arrange my
worldly concerns, and I shall be ready to obey your commands."
Saying this, the female _tartuffe_ retired to her chamber, to prepare
for her secret departure.
CHAPTER XI.
Tu puoi pensar, se'l padre addolorato
Riman quand'accusar sente la figlia,
Si perche ode di lei quel, che pensato
Mai non avrebbe, e n'ha gran maraviglia.
_Ariosto._
Ben se'crudel, se tu gia non ti duoli
Pensando cio ch'al mio cor s'annunziava:
E se non piangi di che pianger suoli?
_Dante._
Whilst the unhappy father was absorbed in his recent misfortune, and
endeavouring to beguile the tedious hours, by directing researches in
all quarters of the town, where there was any possibility of his
daughter having taken refuge, he was surprised with a visit from Gomez
Arias.
"Pardon my intrusion, Senor," he said with much courtesy; "my anxiety
for the fate of an honorable gentleman, though a rival, will perhaps
hold me excused in the eyes of Don Manuel de Monteblanco."
"Sir," returned Don Manuel, "your visits do much honor to my humble
dwelling, and stand in no need of an apology."
After the long vocabulary of compliments had been exhausted, Gomez Arias
reverted to the adventure in the _Zaguan_, and with apparent anxiety
demanded news of Don Rodrigo.
"I have none, Senor," said Monteblanco; "and alas! I am not likely to
feel much concerned for the inconvenience of another, at a time when I
am myself plunged in deep affliction."
"Perhaps," resumed Gomez Arias, "it may not be altogether right in a
stranger to pry into the secret motives of your sorrows; but if I can by
any means in my power alleviate them, I should esteem myself
particularly honored in meriting your confidence. I but now perceived
signs of alarm in the countenances of your servants, apparently not
without foundation, and it grieves my very soul to see so honorable a
personage in distress. What has happened, noble Senor?"
"Alas! My child--my child!" cried the afflicted father.
"She is not ill?" inquired Don Lope.
"Oh! worse!--worse," replied Don Manuel with emotion.
"Ah!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, feigning surprise. "What?--no--it is not
possible--and yet it may be so."
"Eh?" cried Monteblanco, in an inquiring tone of voice, and opening wide
his eyes in the eagerness of anticipation.
"My valet," continued Don Lope, "brought me information that there was a
rumour circulating about the town, relating to the elopement of a noble
lady. As I am a perfect stranger in the place, I felt no curiosity to
inquire further into the affair, but I could not then imagine that you,
Sir, were the victim of this misfortune."
"Alas! Don Lope! it is but too true!"
Gomez Arias had learnt so well the part he had to perform, that he found
not the slightest difficulty in going through it with the most perfect
ease, and by this means he insensibly won the confidence of the deluded
Don Manuel, who, like many others under similar circumstances, felt a
relief in confiding his sorrows to one, who appeared to sympathise with
him so sincerely.
"For surely," continued Don Lope, "some one must have been acquainted
with this flight. Have you well examined your servants? Depend upon it,
Senor, they are generally the instruments and abettors in the rebellion
of children against their parents."
"You are right, my honored Sir," replied Don Manuel. "Servants are the
sworn enemies of those who give them bread; but though I am disposed to
suspect every one of my dependants of being accessary to this treason, I
am yet at a loss on whom to fix my suspicions with justice. I am
assured, however, that the duenna must have had an active part in
conducting this abominable transaction."
"The duenna!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, darting a look full of wonder and
well feigned surprise--"The duenna! By my sword, that must be our
clue--I had almost forgotten that you had a duenna in your house,
otherwise my astonishment would not have been so lively. Duennas are the
soul of every intrigue, and you may indeed affirm, with a safe
conscience, that yours has not only connived at, but even facilitated
your daughter's escape."
"Of that, alas! I am but too confident," replied the father,
"notwithstanding her solemn asseverations and canting hypocrisy."
"Ah! the cunning beldame," quoth Don Lope sarcastically. "She has all
the arts of her kind, I perceive; but I hope, Senor Don Manuel, that you
are not to be imposed upon by such shallow artifices. We must secure the
duenna, and examine her well; perchance a few threats will not be
altogether unavailing."
"That is precisely the method I have adopted," said Don Manuel.
"And where is the old hag, now?" inquired Don Lope.
"Packing up her trumpery, to depart for the convent."
"Pedro"--then called Don Manuel.
"Your pleasure?" demanded the valet, as he entered.
"Send Martha to me."
Pedro obeyed, but shortly after returned with a most dismal and
elongated visage.
"Well, what is the old dotard staring at?" impatiently cried his master.
"Senor, Martha is flown," replied the dependant.
"Flown!" re-echoed Monteblanco, in consternation; "Flown! And how came
you not to prevent her departure?"
"Save your honor," returned the terrified Pedro, "we all thought she was
quietly shut up in her chamber. She has contrived to escape, the Lord
only knows how--she must have vanished through the chimney, or a key
hole, like a witch that she is, _Jesus me valga_!"
"That she is a witch I am fully aware, and you are all her familiars,"
cried Don Manuel with violence. "But you shall rue the moment the hag
foiled your vigilance."
Gomez Arias, who had observed a perfect silence, now ventured to
remark--
"We need go no further for a positive proof of the duenna's culpability,
since her guilt is rendered sufficiently evident by her flight."
"Yes," observed Don Manuel, "but that circumstance affords me little
consolation. The means of ascertaining the truth are now lost, by the
disappearance of the principal accomplice."
The afflicted old man again gave way to his exasperated feelings; this
last stroke quite overpowered him. His pride was sorely wounded, for he
was one of those old Spanish cavaliers, who, when deprived of every
other satisfaction, took a melancholy pleasure in inflicting his
vengeance on the object of his wrath. But even this solitary consolation
was now denied him, and the idea that he had been so grossly imposed
upon by an old beldame, added to the galling reflections which his
misfortune had inflicted.
Gomez Arias exerted his utmost endeavours to sooth his emotion,
employing for this purpose all the established maxims resorted to under
similar circumstances--maxims profoundly wise no doubt, but which
unluckily are often lost upon their object.
"In order then," said Gomez Arias, "to unravel this mystery, it is of
the first importance to set about the inquiry from the commencement, in
order to discover the authors. We have now the agent of this nefarious
enterprise, but we must seek for the actual culprit. There can be no
doubt that when a young girl is induced to elope from her home, there is
generally a lover who prompts her to so objectionable a measure. Now,
Don Manuel, is there no person on whom suspicion may attach with any
probability?"
Monteblanco pondered for a while, and then replied--"Really, Don Lope,
if there exists such a man, I am totally unacquainted with his person."
"What, are you unable to hazard even a conjecture?"
"I am, Don Lope," sorrowfully answered the father.
"Indeed! this is surprising;--look, Senor, around the circle of your
acquaintance, and perchance you may find a clue to guide your
investigation."
Don Manuel mechanically looked around, and then shook his head
despondingly.
"I would not willingly," continued Gomez Arias, "throw an aspersion on
the reputation of any one, but what are we to surmise from the visit of
Don Rodrigo de Cespedes? Certainly, there was something unaccountable in
his chivalric expedition against me. Besides, why require the assistance
of an aged cavalier, when he might have commanded that of more suitable
agents for that description of undertaking?"
Gomez Arias met with no great difficulty in deceiving the man he had
injured; for one under Don Manuel's distressing situation, is of all
others the most easy to be imposed upon. His own wounded feelings, in
some measure, paved the way to the deception;--as a man who has lost his
purse, is apt to throw the charge on the very first individual who
unfortunately happens to attract his notice.
"In addition to this," proceeded Gomez Arias, "we may remark the visible
alarm which was stamped on the countenance of the young lady, when our
quarrel took place--her anxiety to bring the light--the shriek she
uttered on imagining that my antagonist had fallen;--these, Don Manuel,
are strong indications, which may have escaped your observation in
moments of anger and grief, but which to a cooler judgment amount almost
to certainty. However, it is not my intention to prejudice your mind
against Don Rodrigo; my only desire is to warn you."
By such subtle means, Gomez Arias confirmed Monteblanco's suspicions;
for when once started, nothing tends more powerfully to strengthen them
than a sort of recantation in their author. Accordingly, Don Manuel
felt almost convinced of the treachery of his friend. Certainly there
was ample room to doubt the justice of such an imputation, if he had
chosen to reflect coolly on the subject; but in cases like the present,
the best reasons are unfortunately most unceremoniously set aside.
Thus Don Manuel was at once deceiving himself, and casting a reflection
on the character of a man who had not the remotest connection with the
event, and whose integrity in this instance could still less be
impeached than in the case of his having feloniously taken the old mule
of the friar, instead of his own beautiful horse, for the purpose of
gaining by the exchange.
Monteblanco, after a moment's thought, suddenly grasping the hand of
Gomez Arias--"I owe you much, Don Lope," he said, "and I pray you to be
convinced of the sincerity of my gratitude."
"Nay, honored Sir," replied Gomez Arias, "you labour under a
delusion--you owe me nothing--at least you owe me no favor, and I
solemnly disclaim any title to your acknowledgments."
Many and reciprocal were the compliments that passed from this time
between the two cavaliers; they mutually offered their services to each
other, and Don Lope very prudently afforded to his new friend all the
instructions which might tend to render abortive the pursuit and
recovery of the fugitive. Shortly after he took leave of the unfortunate
cavalier, who was even troublesome in the expression of his gratitude,
and whose hopes now began to assume a brighter hue.
CHAPTER XII.
The intent, and not the deed,
Is in our power; and therefore, who dares greatly
Does greatly.
_Browne's Barbarossa._
E ben degg'io, di libertade amico,
Meno la morte odiar di quella vita,
Che ricever dovrei dal mio nemico.
_Metastasio._
We must now recall the reader's attention to that portion of the history
of the rebellious Moors, which is in some measure connected with our
tale. The forty chiefs, who had been elected in the revolt of the
Albaycin, succeeded, as we have already seen, in disseminating their
sentiments through many towns and villages in the jurisdiction of the
Alpujarras: their efforts, however, were almost invariably unsuccessful.
In most of their encounters, the Moors were either entirely worsted, or
compelled to seek for safety in flight; yet they persevered in their
designs. Defeats and repeated crosses, instead of subduing, tended only
to increase their courage, by adding to the desire of vengeance.
The rebels had already sustained some severe reverses; amongst which the
most prominent was the loss of the town of Guejar, which, after a
protracted and desperate resistance, had been taken by storm by the
combined forces of Count de Tendilla and the famous Gonzalo de Cordova.
Most of the Moors either perished in the defence, or were put to the
sword by the conquerors; whilst the Castle itself was given up to the
flames.
The Count de Lerin next possessed himself of the fortress and town of
Andarax; and, exasperated at the resistance of the inhabitants, who
continued to protract the defence, although without any chance of
success, he at length blew up the Mosque, where a considerable number
had fled for shelter, along with the women and children.
Thus of the three strong holds of the rebels, Lanjaron was the only one
that now remained unconquered, and this indeed appeared to offer a more
formidable resistance, chiefly on account of the garrison having el
Negro for a leader--a man of mean origin, but extraordinary courage and
resolution. These qualities, together with the services which he had
already rendered to the Moorish cause in the wars of Granada, had
acquired for him the confidence of his countrymen, who had accordingly
intrusted him with the command of this important post. He was a man of
severe habits, with a natural ferocity of character, which, although not
calculated to conciliate, nevertheless succeeded in commanding the
respect and obedience of his troops.
The castle of Lanjaron, situated in the vale of Lecrin, was considered a
post of the utmost consequence, not only from the strength of its
defences, but from the circumstance of being a place of secure retreat
to the Moors of the surrounding country. At this moment the fortress
was closely beleaguered by the troops under the command of the Alcayde
de los Donceles and other chiefs, who deprived the rebels of the
smallest communication with their friends of the mountains, and had thus
reduced them to an utter state of destitution.
Under these distressing circumstances, el Negro assembled his men, and
in a short but animated speech endeavoured to make them sensible of the
importance of keeping possession of Lanjaron, till the other leaders had
gained time to organise their means of defence in the Alpujarras. The
words of el Negro were received with a burst of enthusiasm, and for some
time the Moors vied with each other in giving the most heroic proofs of
courage and perseverance. As the fortress, however, was completely
surrounded, and the means of subsistence began to fail them, as a last
hope, they made a desperate sally during the night, but were driven back
with considerable loss. The failure of this attempt damped their
resolution, and some of the less courageous even murmured against an
exploit beset with difficulties, which it appeared next to an
impossibility to surmount.
El Negro beheld these symptoms of discontent with heartfelt sorrow, but
at the same time with a countenance expressive of coolness and undaunted
fortitude. He exerted his utmost endeavour to quell the rising storm,
soothing some with pleasing hopes and promises, and thundering horrible
threats on the most refractory. The following morning three grisly
heads, dripping blood, appeared affixed to poles upon the battlements;
but this salutary punishment did not produce the expected effect, for
though it appalled the discontented, it inspired not a single spark of
valour in their hearts; whilst the Christians, who beheld the ghastly
spectacle, augured favorably from this bloody proof of disaffection.
The numbers of the besieged were daily decreasing, until at length they
came to an open resolution of surrendering at discretion. The principal
men of the garrison, without the knowledge of their chief, had already
sent privately a messenger into the camp of the Spaniards to treat about
the surrender, and the conspirators had assembled in a clandestine
meeting, when el Negro, whom they supposed to be reposing from his
fatigue, suddenly came, and threw them into consternation.
"Traitors! what means this?" he cried, with a voice of thunder; "what
are your intents?"
"To capitulate," answered one more hardy than the rest, "and save our
lives by a timely submission."
"Villain!" exclaimed el Negro, fiercely, "thou at least shall not enjoy
the reward of thy cowardice!" And raising his arm, with a ponderous blow
of his scymitar, he cleaved the head of the traitor down to the very
shoulder, and the body rolled heavily on the ground. His companions
stood aghast in speechless horror, whilst el Negro, his lips curling
with ire, and casting around a glance of defiance and contempt--"Go," he
exclaimed, "go, unworthy Moors, and abandon a cause which you have not
the courage to sustain. Go, and live like slaves, since ye know not how
to die like men. Senseless, pitiful cowards! Was it for this then that
you forced me to be your leader? Was it for this that I abandoned
Granada, leaving there, at the mercy of the Christians, all my dearest
friends, and severing the tenderest ties that bind man to existence? Go,
and accept the proffered pardon. I will remain alone, to shew our
countrymen of the Alpujarras, that at Lanjaron there was at least _one_
true man--one who knew how to die in the execution of his duty."
He said, and snatching the sacred standard, ascended rapidly to the
summit of the battlements, and placed himself by the three heads, which,
from their exposure to the sun and wind, had already begun to decay, and
presented a most ghastly and loathsome spectacle. The revolted garrison
threw open the gates of the castle to their enemies, whilst el Negro,
abandoned by all his companions, continued gloomily pacing the
battlements. The Christians, respecting his resolute conduct, and
willing to save his life, sent a herald to invite him once more to
surrender, declaring he had done his duty, and death alone would be the
consequence of his further resistance. He received the message with a
sneer, in which contempt was blended with sadness and despair; then
taking the presented _adarga_,[24] the acceptation of which was a
signification of peace, he threw it disdainfully on the ground, and
trampled it under his feet.
"Carry this answer to him who sent thee!" and folding his arms, he
resumed his melancholy walk.
The Christians now took possession of the castle, and el Negro
tranquilly beheld their approach. El Alcayde de los Donceles, willing to
make a last effort to save him, cried out as he advanced--"Yield thee,
Moor--yield--and accept thy pardon."
"Never!" exclaimed fiercely el Negro; "the Moor will accept no boon from
his enemies. Death is now my only resource; but, Christians, do not
rejoice; I have been subdued by treachery, not by arms. Do not rejoice,
for our resources are still great, and while el Feri de Benastepar and
Caneri live, your oppression shall not be complete."
He said, and with a sudden spring he hurled himself from the summit of
the tower. His body falling on a rock below, was dashed to pieces.
The surrender of Lanjaron, and the tragical end of el Negro, were an
irretrievable loss to the Moors. They now found it utterly impossible to
oppose the superior and better disciplined troops of the Christians with
any chance of success, either in open battle or in regular sieges. They
therefore resolved to limit their whole means of defence to the
mountains, a description of warfare more suitable to their wandering
habits, and far better calculated to harrass the enemy, without
sustaining risk. Accordingly, el Feri de Benastepar, Andalla, Caneri,
and other chiefs, collected their forces, and assigned to each other a
portion of those mountains which they were at once to govern and defend.
By this means the Christians were likewise obliged to divide their army
into many divisions, and to encounter the rebels in partial struggles.
Don Alonso de Aguilar, who had succeeded in compelling el Feri to
retreat before him, now pursued his advantage, and advanced towards
Gergal, where that rebel chief was collecting his adherents.
In the mean time, Don Antonio de Leyva, whom we have left at Guadix,
condoling with Don Manuel at the flight of his daughter, was compelled
to forego his wishes to serve the afflicted father. His duty now called
him to join the army of Aguilar, and act in conjunction with him against
Caneri and el Feri de Benastepar.
Don Antonio's party had already arrived at Guadix, and the gallant young
knight, unwilling to procrastinate his departure when the path of honor
was open to him, immediately proceeded to take leave of Monteblanco. He
found the unfortunate father plunged in deeper affliction than before.
In the society of Don Antonio he had found a source of relief, and his
departure was productive of the most melancholy sensations. But Don
Manuel felt the necessity of the separation, and he was too generous and
noble minded to signify his wish to cause any delay.
"Go, my friend, go, where honor calls you," he said, as he threw his
arms round de Leyva's neck--"Go, and show by your conduct how worthy you
are of the confidence reposed in you.--When the glory of your deeds
shall be blazoned abroad, my ungrateful child will feel a pang of regret
for the loss of a man so deserving of her affection and esteem."
Here he was overcome with grief, and could proceed no further.
"Senor," said Don Antonio, "do not yield yourself a prey to despondency;
but a short time has yet elapsed since the melancholy occurrence that
afflicts you, and you have no reason to relinquish your hopes. In all
cases be assured, Don Manuel, that you and those who concern you will
always be next my heart, and that unless death deprive me of the power,
I shall at least see your wrongs redressed, if I can bring no other
consolation."
Saying this he hastily disengaged himself from the arms of Don Manuel,
and endeavouring to conceal his own emotion, gave the word of command.
He bounded lightly on his spirited barb, and the martial display of his
men, the glitter of armour, and the seductive prospect of future glory
and renown, powerfully contributed to dispel the cloud that hung over
him. Yet it was a sad parting, for there was something peculiarly
affecting in the sight of a father who, like Monteblanco, found himself
in old age isolated in the midst of the world, and bereft of the last
dear comfort that still bound him to life. Besides, in the short
interviews between Theodora and Don Antonio, both in the last visit and
at former periods, she had left a pleasing recollection in his mind.
Already the cries of those who bade the party of de Leyva farewell were
diminishing on the ear, and the turrets and steeples of Guadix became
more obscurely perceptible in the distance. The warriors began now to
assume a mastery over their feelings, and the tear of sympathy was
brightened in the glow of expectation. Courage and renown took entire
possession of those hearts which but too lately had sympathized with the
weaker and more tender sentiments of humanity.
The absence of Don Antonio was like a death-blow to the hopes of
Monteblanco. Often did he regret the infirmities of age, which now
prevented him from grasping his sword; but his arm was grown nerveless,
and for the first time in his life the helpless cavalier felt bitterly
the recollection that all his brave sons had sacrificed their lives in
the defence of their country, not one now remaining to prop the honor of
his falling house. Don Manuel was a man, and this transitory feeling of
regret was natural to a father under his affliction, who knew not to
whom to turn for consolation and advice.
Gomez Arias, who had insensibly won his favor, departed the next day
for Granada, in which quarter he had no longer any danger to apprehend.
He was anxious to assume his station in the war against the rebel Moors.
Monteblanco considered his intention not only just, but highly
commendable, and a tear coursed down the old man's cheek, as he took
leave of the seducer of his child, and the cause of his present
misfortunes.
CHAPTER XIII.
D'une secrete horreur je me sens frissoner;
Je crains, malgre moi-meme, un malheur que j'ignore.
_Racine._
Senor Gomez Arias
Duelete de mi
Que soy nina y sola
Nunca en tal me vi.
_Calderon._
It was a rich and splendid summer evening. The sun was slowly sinking
behind the giant mountains of the Alpujarras, whose dark fantastic
shadows were gradually lengthening along the plains below. No intruding
sound broke upon the soft stillness of the scene, save when the
feathered tenants of the forest warbled their evening song, or the
tolling of a distant convent bell reverberated through the sombre
recesses of the mountains. A soft languor prevailed over the sylvan
scenery. The fancifully wreathing clouds, streaked with the red and
gold of the lingering sun--the variegated tints of those quiet
solitudes--the warm, chequered streams of light that glanced on the
broad-leafed tree, or fitfully quivered over the straggling
streamlet--the calm repose which reigned over that wide extending
landscape, all tended to raise the mind to contemplation, and to
interest the heart.
At this tranquil hour, a group, consisting of three persons, were seen
slowly ascending a green sloping height, which seemed designed by nature
as a first resting place in the severe ascent of the gigantic mountain.
The first of the party was a knight of most gallant bearing, and mounted
on a shining black steed. Close by his side rode a beautiful damsel,
whose long redundant tresses were with difficulty restrained in a fillet
of silver lace. She wore a long riding habit; a Spanish hat, ornamented
with a plume of black feathers, was hanging gracefully on one side of
her head. Having thrown aside the thick veil which had protected her
from the scorching influence of the sun, she discovered a fair
countenance, to whose delicate cheek the heat and exercise had lent a
gentle tinge of the rose. Yet an expression of pensive sadness pervaded
the features of the lovely traveller.
At a short distance behind these two personages, rode a man who appeared
by his dress and deportment to be their attendant. He sat with perfect
nonchalance on a stout Andalusian horse, but by the looks of suspicious
alertness, which he now and then cast around, it might be inferred that
this apparent ease was not in strict unison with his inward feelings. At
the moment of which we speak, he was singing in a _mezzo tuono_ the
romance of the Marriage of the Cid--
A Ximena y a Rodrigo
Prendio el rey palabraymano
De juntarlos para en uno
En presencia de Layn Calvo.
"Cease thy confounded noise, Roque," cried angrily the knight, who, as
the reader may suppose, was no other than Gomez Arias. "What in the
name of Satan can induce thee to sing, when thou hast neither voice nor
ear? Give over, for thy confounded harmony is anything but pleasing."
"Senor," observed the attendant; "what if I only sing to please myself?"
"Silence, buffoon; or I shall presently raise a discord about thee, by
which all thy future powers of hearing shall be ruefully endangered."
"Pray, Senor, do not deny me this only comfort; I wish particularly to
sing at this moment."
"Thy reasons?"
"Because I always sing when I am afraid; there is nothing so efficacious
as a song to drive away fear."
"In sooth, such singing as thine would drive away the very devil. But
why shouldst thou fear?"
"Under favor, Don Lope," replied the valet, "methinks fear ought to be
the most natural sensation at the present moment."
"Darest thou talk of fear, poltroon!" said Gomez Arias.
"By our Lady of the Pillar," ejaculated Roque, "such talk befits both
time and place. Are we not in hourly danger of encountering a set of
most fierce murderous-looking _ladrones_?"[25]
"Well, and if that were really the case, we have but to defend ourselves
manfully. By the soul of the Cid, I would make very light work of a host
of such ruffians."
"Well, my honored master," returned the valet, "but be pleased to
consider that this is not our only danger, for I trow we are now in the
mountains of Alpujarras, where those accursed and rebellious Moors hold
dominion. A plague on the infidel dogs! Are they not continually on the
watch to spring upon straggling and unwary Christians, and when they do
surprise them--"
"Peace, fool, peace!" impatiently interrupted Gomez Arias, "This is not
the Alpujarras. Forgettest thou that when we left Guadix two days
since, we pursued quite a different route?"
"That I know, Don Lope, but I likewise know that during the night,
either by chance or on purpose, we lost our way. Besides I am not so
ignorant of the country as to mistake these places, and I would wager my
head against two _maravedis_[26] that we are actually ascending the
Alpujarras."
The young lady, who had till now observed a profound silence, with a
faultering voice exclaimed--"Oh, heavens! are we really in those
terrible mountains, and are we indeed in danger?"
"No, my love," answered Gomez Arias; "the danger is not so great as this
fool would make us believe."
"No, my lady," retorted Roque; "the danger is not so great, for after
all, the worst that can befall us is but to be hung upon a tree, there
to dance to the tune of the whistling midnight wind, and to afford a
luscious repast to the ravens, and other carnivorous gentry that hold
tenantry in these wild passes."
"Heavens!" cried Theodora alarmed.
"Nay, gentle lady," interposed Roque, "the hanging system will only be
followed up with respect to my valiant master and his humble servant. As
for yourself, the Moors are men celebrated for their gallantry, and
would place too great a value on your beauty, to subject it to such
rough treatment."
Gomez Arias, greatly exasperated at Roque's insinuations, suddenly
turned, and, riding up to him, interrupted the course of his oratory
with a smart blow.--"Now, rascal," he said, "if thou darest again to
give utterance to any of those ridiculous fears, by _Santiago_, the
Moors shall not be put to the trouble of hanging thee--So be cautious
what thou sayest."
"Say!" humbly muttered the valet, "Blessed Virgin! I have nothing else
to say; your arguments, Don Lope, are unanswerable. But I hope, my good
Senor, I may be allowed to recite my prayers, since singing and rational
conversation are interdicted."
"Pray as much as thou pleasest, sinner, provided thy orisons are
inaudible to us."
Gomez Arias now endeavoured to calm the fears of Theodora, who had been
greatly agitated by the imprudent remarks of Roque, which tended
considerably to increase the depression under which she laboured.
"My Theodora," he said, "is it possible that I cannot remove the
continued dejection that preys upon you?"
"Forgive me, Lope," she answered; "the expression of my grief I know is
painful to thee, but a dismal foreboding obtrudes itself upon my mind,
which I strive in vain to banish. Alas! it is fraught with a most
fearful, but indefinite anticipation; a woeful presage that freezes my
very soul."
"Hush such foolish chimeras," said Gomez Arias; "it is true that, for
greater security of avoiding observation, I have been obliged to seek
studiously the most unfrequented paths, and travel through these wild
and solitary passes; but our journey draws to a conclusion, and all the
appalling images of Moorish ruffians will soon be entirely dispelled."
"Alas! the dreaded sight of those infidels is not the only cause of my
emotion," sadly replied Theodora.
"What else can occasion it?" demanded Gomez Arias, with anxiety.
"Surely, my Theodora repents not the hour she intrusted herself to the
protection of Gomez Arias?"
She spoke not for some time;--a flood of tears relieved her bursting
bosom: then, as if struggling to collect her forces which were almost
overpowered by sad recollections, she exclaimed--"Oh! never mention the
hour of my crime--for crime it was, and a deadly sin, to abandon the
best of parents, in his old age; and yet," she added, sobbing,
"conscious as I am of my guilt, were the sin again to be committed, for
thy sake, Lope, I should again brave the voice of self-reproach.--Gomez
Arias, wert thou to read the hidden pages of my heart, there thou
wouldst find a tale of boundless love and never-ending sorrow, which no
words of mine can describe, but which must embitter the future portion
of my existence, unless we speedily obtain the forgiveness of my injured
parent."
"Nay, Theodora, this weakness is as unreasonable as it is unjust; nor
can I at all imagine why thy future life should be embittered with
grief, united as it is with the very being of Gomez Arias."
"I am sensible," cried Theodora, "both of the tenderness and sincerity
of your love, and you know full well with what fervent devotion it is
requited."
"What, then, can urge your mind to form such desponding anticipations?
Have you seen aught in my conduct,--have you discerned anything in my
words, that can afford even the shadow of justice to your
apprehensions?"
"No, Gomez Arias," she answered; "your conduct to me has always been
kind; your words breathing the same solicitude for my comfort and
happiness: but you must forgive the weakness and fears of a fond woman's
heart. Forgive me, Lope, if these feelings should sometimes create ideas
galling at once to my peace, and derogatory to thy constancy and love. I
have laboured hard to subdue them, but, alas! the exertion has
constantly proved above my strength; I must give them utterance. Oh,
Lope," she added; mournfully, "I fear you are not the same. Pardon
me,--you are not the same, as when I first surrendered to you all my
affections, fondly imagining you were mine for ever."
"Not the same!" ejaculated Gomez Arias; "have my attentions been less
constant than from the first rapturous moment when you allowed me to
call you my own?"
A deep long rending sigh burst from the bosom of Theodora, and her whole
frame seemed to suffer from a painful recollection.
"No," she said, smiling sadly through her tears, "you watch with
solicitude over me, and you are lavish of endearments; but, alas! the
pure and soul-warm part of your affection I fear is flown."
"By my honor," said Gomez Arias, "I could never have expected these
unkind expressions from you."
"Oh! Lope," cried the affrighted girl; "do not heed me; think not of the
remarks to which my foolish fears give rise; I am ashamed of them
myself. I will no more disturb your mind; no, never more shall the
voice of complaint sound in your ears, and call forth the resentment of
your wounded feelings.--Ah! Gomez Arias, compose yourself, and be not
angry with your poor--your helpless Theodora."
As she uttered this affectionate appeal, her beautiful eyes were fixed
on Don Lope, with an expression in which all the tender, all the genuine
feelings of her heart seemed to be collected. Gomez Arias was softened;
his features relaxed from that sudden asperity which had for a moment
usurped the more habitual complacency of his countenance, and he
endeavoured to dispel from the mind of Theodora the impression which
such unkindness might produce.
They had now arrived at the summit of the little hill. It was a most
delightful spot. A sward of short pliant grass carpeted a romantic
little plain, skirted on one side by a portion of a forest, through
which the sun cast short and interrupted glances of his parting
splendour. Above the heads of the travellers, rose in dark grandeur the
majestic form of the Alpujarras; and beneath them, as far as the eye
could reach, was spread an extensive range of sylvan scenery,
intermingled with the habitations of men. Farther, the little quiet
villages lay slumbering in the soft blue shadows. The whole of the scene
was wrapped in an indescribable charm, that well accorded with the
tranquillity of the hour.
Here they halted, and Gomez Arias turning to Theodora said in an
affectionate tone, "My love, your tender frame has already endured a
greater share of fatigue than becomes your strength. Let us then, in
this delightful and sequestered spot, indulge an hour in refreshing and
invigorating repose."
Theodora assented in silence.
"Nay," continued Don Lope, "consult your inclination. I will not press
you to rest, unless you feel its necessity."
"I have no wish but your own," cheerfully answered Theodora; "you appear
inclined to stay in this place--let us tarry then."
Gomez Arias sprung lightly from his steed, and aided his fair companion
to dismount. She threw herself into his arms, but as her feet touched
the ground, she heaved a sigh, and cast a melancholy look around her.
"How you tremble, my love," said Don Lope; "this is the consequence of
that rascally Roque's foolery. I have a good mind to chastise the fellow
for the fears he has conjured in your breast."
Roque, who had followed at some distance in silent mood, no sooner heard
his name pronounced, than he pricked up his ears like an intelligent dog
on the scent for game, and when he heard his master's kind intentions
towards him, he ventured to observe--
"Senor, I would not trespass on your generosity; pray reserve your
intended favor for a future occasion, when I shall have more specially
deserved it."
"Sirrah! be silent; come down, and tie the horses to yonder trees."
The valet obeyed briskly; while Gomez Arias conducted his fair companion
to the entrance of the wood; where, arranging a couch under the
spreading arms of a huge oak, he invited her to lie down and rest. She
was about to accede to his invitation, when they were startled by a
shrill and discordant sound accompanied with a heavy flapping of wings,
and presently a flight of dull ill-omened ravens issued from their
solitary abodes, and hovered about, as if to dispute the possession of
their ancient homes with the intruders.
A fitful and involuntary shudder ran cold over the affrighted girl, as
with a wild and appalled look she gazed on the recluse birds, which
their arrival had disturbed; she clung eagerly to Gomez Arias, as they
both sat down on the spot above-mentioned.
"What ails you, Theodora?" demanded Don Lope. "Is it possible that a few
ravens can inspire with childish terrors a mind like yours?"
Theodora acknowledged her foolish weakness, but she was far from feeling
tranquil and consoled. Indeed when she perceived Roque, with visible
alarm, cross himself fervently three times, it added to the excitement
of her feverish imagination.
Owls, ravens and bats, have always had an indisputable privilege to
excite superstitious fears. Whence they derive this particular claim, it
would be difficult to determine, but they are generally considered the
harbingers of some dismal event, which is more properly, after all, the
result of an over-heated fancy.
Theodora, who since she left the paternal roof had been a prey to that
fixed sorrow which the intoxicating transports of love had not been able
to subdue, now contemplated, in the gloomy croaking of the ravens, the
sad presage of some dire misfortune. She reclined silently with downcast
eyes, while Roque was busy in fastening the horses.
"Gently, gently, Babieca," said the valet, caressing the spirited steed
of his master; then he muttered to himself--"for we have nothing to fear
if we escape safe and sound from this place--So help me God if I did
not count thirteen ravens, as ill-omened in every respect of size, color
and voice, as a Christian might wish to behold--Well, our _Lady de las
Angustias_ send us her grace and protection!"
"What art thou muttering there?" asked Gomez Arias. "Thou graceless
varlet, hast thou a wish that I should fulfil the promise I made thee a
short time since?"
"Senor?" inquired Roque, pretending not to hear.
"No dissembling, thou dog!--What art thou mumbling to thyself?"
"Save you, kind master; sure enough I am only praying, and in so doing I
infringe not your commands, since I have your permission to pray to my
soul's content, provided it is in a tacit capuchin-like manner."
The ravens having practised their cumbrous evolutions, now sought their
rest amidst the deeper gloom of the forest, and all again was hushed, to
the great relief of Roque, who forthwith began to devour alone the
provisions which, like a careful and sagacious forager, he had provided
against the necessities of the journey.
Theodora had laid aside her hat and veil, to enjoy the luxury of repose
with greater convenience, whilst her lover placing himself near her, and
watching her every movement, diffused by his tender anxiety a transient
joy over her features. She soon insensibly sunk into that sweet state of
languor which precedes sleep--her beautiful eyes by fits now entirely
closing, now gently opening, indicated the gradual absorption of her
senses, till at last she fell into a profound slumber. Gomez Arias, who
as we have observed stood watching her, like the tender mother over her
beloved daughter, now knelt close by her side, and softly pronounced her
name--she answered not--he took her yielding hand, gazed over her
anxiously, till he was perfectly assured that a profound sleep had
completely overpowered her faculties.
"Senor," quoth Roque, "methinks it would be a pity to disturb the
slumbers of the poor lady after the journey she has undergone."
"I do not mean to interrupt her rest," said Gomez Arias, in a low voice,
"so we must even retire."
Then he rose up with cautious silence, and drawing near his valet, he
added--
"Rise, rise quickly, and make no noise."
Roque obeyed, and both having retreated to some distance--"Senor,"
observed the valet, who cared not again to disturb the ominous ravens,
for which he felt an instinctive horror--"Senor, no necessity for
retiring further."
"Yes there is an imperious one," replied Gomez Arias, "I can no longer
remain here."
"What say you, my honored master!" demanded Roque, alarmed; "surely you
are not afraid of the Moors? By my conscience, we should come to a
pretty pass if such were really the case."
"Peace, thou wretch!" said Don Lope; "speak not a word, but immediately
untie my horse, and as you expect to live, mind you make not noise
enough to disturb even the leaf of the tree."
"Senor, I do not understand," quoth the bewildered Roque.
"I must begone," impatiently replied his master.
"Gone, Sir! Why I understood you had determined not to break our young
lady's repose."
"Nor is that my intention. She must remain here with thee, till I am out
of sight."
"_Cuerpo de Christo!_ What ails you my dear Senor; what ails you, in the
name of _San Jose bendito_?" exclaimed the astounded Roque, who really
imagined his master was beside himself.
"Listen, Roque," said Gomez Arias, "and mind thou religiously observest
my instructions. Unavoidable circumstances require that I and Theodora
should part; I have been seeking an opportunity of so doing, and
assuredly I shall not find a better than the present. It is necessary I
should return to Granada immediately, and it would be highly imprudent
to hazard the chance of being seen with Theodora, for reasons of which
thou must be well aware. A separation, therefore, becomes at this
moment indispensable. When I am gone, thou shalt awaken yon sleeping
beauty, and accompany her thyself to the said city, where I shall
precede you in order to make arrangements for her reception. There is a
nunnery, of which my cousin Ursula is the Lady Abbess, where she shall
for the present find an asylum. Thou hast only to inform Theodora, that
I thought it most advisable to ride in advance to prepare our retreat.
Upon thy arrival at the _Torre del Aceytuno_ a man will join thee, to
whom thou must look for further instruction, and whose direction thou
art to follow with confidence. Thy reward shall be proportioned to the
magnitude of the service; so now get me my horse, and let me begone ere
she awake."
Roque remained thunderstruck as his master revealed to him his cruel
intentions; the poor fellow drew his hand across his eyes, as if to
ascertain whether or no he was under the delusion of a dream; but as his
master in a more imperative voice repeated his injunctions, the reality
of his barbarous purpose burst upon his mind.
"No, no, Don Lope," he said in a supplicating tone, "such surely cannot
be your intentions; abandon the poor girl! no, you only wish to trifle
with my credulity."
"I must begone," resolutely retorted Gomez Arias.
"Why, Sir, assuredly you loved her?"
"I loved her once, but that is passed."
"_Holy Virgin del tremedal!_ What say you, Senor? What has the poor lady
done? How has she offended you, unless it be in loving you too well?"
"Aye, Roque, thou art a shrewd fellow; she has indeed loved me too
well."
"But consider, my honored master, she is more like an angel than a
woman; never before did I see a being so kind, so tender and devoted."
"Roque, Roque, be not sententious; I have no time to listen to thy
sentimental cant; the qualities which thou praisest in Theodora are
precisely those that withdraw me from her.--Haste thee, I say--What is
the fool staring at?"
"But, Senor Don Lope Gomez Arias," solemnly said Roque, "consider that
common humanity----"
"Humanity!" interrupted his master, "how am I deficient in humanity,
when I place her in the only situation that becomes her, since a
marriage between us is utterly impossible. But enough; a truce with your
remarks; prepare to obey my orders, and take care thou art strict in
their observance as thou valuest my regard, or tremblest at the effects
of my wrath and indignation. However, to remove thy ridiculous and
ill-timed scruples, I must recall to thy mind that I cannot pursue
another course, for thou art aware that I am betrothed to Leonor; I must
not violate the sanctity of my promise, and thereby lose the favor of
the Queen, and incur the resentment of the justly offended Don Alonso de
Aguilar."
This last observation somewhat reconciled Roque to the necessity of the
measure, the more so as he hoped that, when at Granada, another plan
might be devised for Theodora, besides that of conventual reclusion; and
finally, as he knew that all further expostulation would be thrown away
upon his master, he prudently contented himself with shrugging up his
shoulders, and holding the stirrup for Don Lope to mount.
Gomez Arias briskly leaped upon his horse, and was about to depart, when
casting a last look on the victim he was deserting, the better feelings
of his heart seemed for a moment to struggle for predominance.
There is something peculiarly interesting in the sleep of a young and
beautiful woman; the features unruffled by anxiety or care, appear more
soft and attractive. The mind of the gazer scans with nicer accuracy her
charms, and dwells with fonder attention on each beauty of the lovely
sleeper. Besides the consciousness of so gentle, so helpless and so
heavenly a form, sleeping in innocent security, confiding in the
protection of man, and that very helplessness of her nature, awakens a
sentiment of sympathy and tenderness, as undefinable as it is thrilling
and transporting. And such was the sleep of Theodora: she was young and
replete with charms, and, alas! but too helpless and in need of
protection. Her beauteous form was displayed to the greatest advantage;
the sportive breeze now playing amidst her luxuriant hair, which
occasionally concealed a countenance beaming in loveliness, and hushed
in soft repose, imparted a degree of fairy grace and delicate freshness
to her charms. One of her arms was carelessly thrown over her, and with
the other she supported her head, while, unconscious of the fate with
which she was threatened, she slept on in security. And now a tinge of
animation illumined her countenance, or a fascinating smile played upon
her lips, as she dreamed perhaps, like the fond deserted Ariadne, that
her godlike lover was still watching over the slumbers of his beloved.
Gomez Arias still gazed on her--he heard his name in smothered accents
escape her tender bosom, but it awakened in him no feeling of delight,
for his heart had now resumed its cold calculations of worldly pursuits;
perhaps the predominant sentiment of his mind at this moment, was the
necessity of immediate departure, lest the imagination of the
unconscious victim should master the deluded senses, and call them back
to life, before he had time to remove from the spot.
"Lope! my love!" murmured Theodora, and a gentle thrill seemed to
agitate her, as she extended her arm, as though she would assure him
that whether sleeping or awake, Gomez Arias was the object that
predominated over all her thoughts and affections. Yet Gomez Arias stood
calmly for a moment by the victim he was deserting, and bidding her a
long farewell, rode slowly and silently on his way.
CHAPTER XIV.
El honor
Es un fantasma aparante,
Que no esta' en que yo lo tenga,
Sino en que el otro lo piense.
_Calderon._
Honor's a fine imaginary notion.
_Addison._
Honor! thou dazzling and wayward deity, how boundless is thy dominion!
How widely different the nature and pretensions of thy worshippers! All
do thee homage; all gladly and proudly profess themselves thy votaries;
all would resent the supposition of being heretical to thy creed, and
yet how few truly adhere to the purity of thy precepts! How few are
sincere in the expression of their adoration!--nay, how limited the
number of those who really understand the essence of thy doctrine! The
sanguinary ruffian considers himself as zealous in the service of honor,
as the high minded and courageous man who has a sword to avenge the
wrongs of his country, and a heart to sympathise with the picture of
human misery. All are swayed by the magic word, Honor; for even those
who affect to despise virtue, her attractions being of too humble and
plebeian a character, nevertheless pretend to revere the name of
_honor_, as conveying an idea more bright and consonant with worldly
pomp, and at the same time affording a greater latitude for various
interpretations. Alas! this very vagueness has something more flattering
to deluded mortals, than the strict and definite term, the more heroic
nature of virtue.
Honor was the idol of Gomez Arias, who appeared one of the most
scrupulous in the observance of its tenets; he could not brook a word, a
glance, a smile which might seem derogatory to the essence of its
established maxims. Again, his word was sacred and inviolable. The
least equivocation in his promise to man might sully him with an
indelible stain; but then he would calmly and deliberately, without
transgressing his honor, employ all his guile to deceive a weak and
unprotected female. Honor would compel him to acquit the debt of the
gaming table, even when he was almost justified in impeaching the
integrity of the creditor, but as a counterpoise, that same honor,
without any dereliction of principle, allowed him to turn a deaf ear to
the claims of more humble suitors; claims, certainly more just and
sacred, but far less _honorable_.
The rigid adherence of Don Lope to his word, was fully exemplified in
the convenient recollection of his engagement to Leonor de Aguilar. He
had pledged his faith to that lady, and had undoubtedly been a little
too remiss in its fulfilment, but now that he had nothing more to hope
from Theodora, he was alive to the sacredness of his promise, and the
almost dishonorable nature of any delay.
It was by this and the like sophistical reasonings, that he endeavored
to palliate his ingratitude and cruelty towards the hapless victim of
his lawless desires; for hardened as he was in his libertinism, and
unjust as were his sentiments with regard to women, he could not avoid
feeling a pang of conscious remorse at the recollection of Theodora. He
had systematically won the confidence of an unsuspecting girl, and when
she had intrusted him with her heart's best affections, how was the
trust requited? He had despoiled her of her innocence and peace of mind;
seduced her from her home; snatched her from the arms of an indulgent
parent, and now abandoned her, degraded in her own estimation, and a
prey to all the bitterest pangs of shame and remorse, and disappointed
love. He had laid rude hands on the tender flower in its opening bloom,
and prematurely sipped the sweetness from the blossom, and then
unpitying he had cast it by, neglected and forlorn.
It required all the brilliant anticipations of Don Lope's future career,
to stifle the unpleasant reflections that crowded upon his imagination,
and he endeavoured for some time wholly to dispel such unwelcome ideas,
by courting others of a more agreeable nature.
The image of Leonor de Aguilar stood before his sight in all the charms
of ripened beauty, surrounded with the dazzling splendors of rank,
fortune, and a glorious name. Gomez Arias perceived the advantages of
his alliance with Leonor, and the wildest dreams of ambition danced in
rapid succession before his mind. He beheld himself the envied possessor
of the first lady of the land, the near relative of its most respected
warrior, and the honorable expectant of the highest preferment. His
pride would be gratified, and his fondest desires realized. He held the
cup of happiness to his lips, filled even to the brim; he was
bewildered, intoxicated with the sweet beverage, and in the flow of
pleasurable expectations, the thought of _her_ whom he had made wretched
for ever, was soon completely lost.
Alas! the anticipation of the future will always thus overpower the
recollection of the past; beauty, honors, glory, and their sparkling
attendants, were fearful odds against the love, the solitary love, of a
fond and innocent girl--a love which had nothing more to promise,
nothing more to bestow. But to return:
No sooner had Gomez Arias quitted the place, than Roque, struck by the
decision and promptitude of his master, stood silent and motionless,
gazing on the unfortunate and deserted fair. She was tranquilly
sleeping; dreaming perhaps of love and joy, and Roque hesitated to
shorten the sweet illusion by making known to her the dismal reality. He
felt an unconquerable repugnance to be the messenger of such fearful
intelligence; for though the valet was accustomed to the unprincipled
vagaries of his master, he was not entirely divested of humanity, and he
could not but commiserate the utter wretchedness of Theodora's lot.
But now the soft rays of evening were deepening into twilight; darker
shadows stole imperceptibly over the various-tinted and drowsy
landscape, till at last all was enveloped in one calm uninterrupted blue
of night.
The superstitious fears of Roque, as he saw the gloom increasing around,
overcame his feelings of compassion, and he began to think of awakening
Theodora, when the hollow sound of a horn burst suddenly upon his ear,
and momentarily rivetted him to the spot. He looked towards the quarter
from whence the blast proceeded, and with surprise and terror he beheld,
at a short distance above his head, two men, who, as well as he could
distinguish, were arrayed in Moorish attire; presently three or four
others made their appearance, and Roque, now dead to all other
sensations than those of personal danger, sprung eagerly upon his horse,
and fled with the utmost precipitation in the direction that his master
had taken.
The Moors, for such they were, saw his flight with savage
disappointment; but Roque having the advantage of a horse to facilitate
his escape, they considered that a pursuit would be useless. They left
him, therefore, hoping that his capture would be made by some other of
the straggling parties that patrolled those solitudes.
"The base Christian escapes," said one, who appeared to be the leader.
"Yes, Malique," answered another, "but let us look what he leaves
behind."
"By the Prophet's sacred beard," cried Malique, "it bears very much the
resemblance of a woman. But she moves not.--What, is she dead? The
detested ruffian surely has not murdered her. Let us hasten down and
ascertain the truth."
They rapidly descended from the height, and surrounded the unhappy
Theodora, who, quite overcome with fatigue, was still sleeping.
"She is not dead; she is only asleep," quoth one.
"And a pleasant apartment has she chosen for her chamber," cried
another.
"She is a lovely lady, and gentle handmaids will she have to awaken her
withal," observed Malique. "Soft and fair as one of the Houris promised
to the faithful in paradise. By the holy sepulchre of Mecca, such a
morsel as this would not be disagreeable even to the fastidious palate
of our chief Caneri."
He approached, and for a moment stood gazing over the sleeping beauty,
his eyes glistening with savage pleasure; then pulling her gently by the
arm,--
"Awake, fair maiden, awake!" he said, in as soothing a tone as the
roughness of his nature would permit.
With a fitful start Theodora awoke. She opened her eyes. Oh, horror!
horror! Surely she was labouring under the impression of a fearful
delusion. Yes, it must be the wild chimera of her feverish fancy. She
saw herself surrounded by a band of appalling figures, each seeming to
vie with his fellow who should display in his appearance the greatest
terror.
The pale moon that now slowly arose from behind the clouds, threw
around streams of chilling, unearthly light, which served to illumine
countenances still more chilling and unearthly. Strange black eyes,
wildly rolling under their darksome covering, were all intensely gazing
on her; and horrid grins, which were peculiar to those features, served
to increase the natural ferocity of their ruffian aspect. Poorly attired
they were,--outcast and rebellious spirits, who had the caverns of the
forest for their resting place, and the wild mountain for their country.
The tranquil recklessness of their wandering life was depicted in all
their movements; and the cold expression of their bronzed features
betokened a hardihood in the commission of crime, and in the unwearied
pursuit of vengeance.
"Fair Christian, be not afraid," said Malique; "we will not harm thee."
Theodora looked at the speaker and closed her eyes, as if unable to
endure the sight. Words coming from so terrible a source could convey no
confidence; and kindness and assurances of safety, offered by such a
being, seemed a refinement of cruelty, to render dishonor and death
more poignant. A broad face, of swarthy complexion, was rendered
frightful by an enormous mouth, where large white projecting teeth
seemed to be placed more to disfigure than to adorn it. A large scar
extended across the face, dividing the eyebrows, and adding new terrors
to that already repulsive physiognomy.
When Theodora recovered a little from her first emotion, she became a
prey to the most harrowing recollections. Alas! her reason seemed to
return only to augment the poignancy of her distress.
"My love! my own Lope!" she franticly cried, "where art thou? Come, come
and protect thy poor Theodora!"
The hardened Moors raised a laugh at those piteous exclamations, whilst
Malique observed--
"Nay, lady, if that same Lope be thy husband, or lover, call him not;
for I presume he is not within ear-shot, and can afford thee no
assistance; so be composed, and yield submissively to thy fate, since
there is no other alternative left thee."
Theodora heeded him not, for she was absorbed in the ideas that crowded
upon her mind. Terrible was the sight of those mountain ruffians, and
horrid was the anticipation of her destiny, yet only one melancholy,
heart-rending misfortune occupied her every feeling. She was alive to
one only calamity, but in that, alas! all the horrors with which fate
could overwhelm her were at once combined. She saw _him_ not--the man of
her heart--her last protector, and the single link that bound her to
existence. Gomez Arias was not by her side; had he abandoned her? She
could not harbour such a thought in her innocent bosom,--nay, not even
in a transitory flash, was the dreadful truth revealed to her. She was
at least blessed in this ignorance, but yet Gomez Arias was not present.
She thought that her lover had been murdered, but not that he had
abandoned her.
Malique now made a sign, and one of his companions untied the horse
which had been left behind.
"Come, fair maiden," he then said, addressing Theodora, "thou must mount
and follow us."
"Follow you! Oh! heavens, have pity on me!"
"We do pity thee, lady, for we intend to carry thee to a place of
safety, where, if thou knowest how to use to advantage the attractions
of which nature has been so prodigal to thee, thou mayest perchance
experience a lot far more fortunate than a Christian captive has a right
to expect when in the power of the oppressed and injured Moors."
"Alas! where do you lead me?" again tremblingly demanded Theodora.
"Even to our chief Caneri; and we can promise thee that if thy charms
are such as to insure his affections, thou wilt be honored with his
choice, and perhaps rank foremost amongst his wives."
"Oh! horror," cried the wretched girl, in frantic agony. "Kill me, oh!
in pity kill me, before I am overwhelmed with such degradation."
She threw herself on the ground, and fearfully clasped the knees of the
ferocious Moor.
"Kill thee!" re-echoed Malique; "no, no, thou art too beauteous, too
lovely. Thy grief at present for the death of the man thou bewailest,
makes thee call for a fate which some time hence thou wilt thank me to
have spared thee: with Caneri thou wilt learn to forget the lover thou
deplorest, for thou wilt find that a Moor can love even more sincerely
than a Christian."
Theodora entreated in vain. Deaf to her piercing cries, Malique mounted
her palfrey, and forcibly placed her before him to prevent her falling,
as her frame shook convulsively, and he began to fear he would shortly
have to support a lifeless burthen.
Night's sable pall had now overspread the drowsy earth. The moon no
longer afforded her light, and thick darkness hung over those mournful
solitudes. The listless silence was only broken by the tramp of one
solitary horse; while the suppressed gaiety of the Moors, and the deep
sighs that oft escaped from a sorrowing heart, but too plainly told the
tale of violence and distress.
A calm cold tranquillity presided over the place. The screech-owl gave
one gloomy shrill and prolonged note, and all was still again. But that
sound went thrilling to Theodora's heart, like the death-knell on the
mountain blast; while the night wind blew fearfully, and the dismal
howling was rehearsed by the echoes of the wilderness.
But deserted and lonely as were those dark recesses, more lonely and
deserted still was the heart of Theodora. She was a wretched outcast, a
solitary being in the world, and she lived on memory alone. Alas! it is
in the hour of distress and perilous adventure, that the voice of memory
holds more busy converse with the mind. She then tells a long and varied
tale, in which the fortunate portion of our past existence is powerfully
heightened, whilst the gloomy part is rendered lighter by the weight of
actual endurance. In this hour of terror, the remembrance of the happy
home which she should never see again, and the tranquil pastimes of
innocence which she could never more enjoy, passed in rapid succession
before her mind. The first dawning of genuine love--the fervour of
adoration, all were fled. The image of Don Lope, rendered still more
endearing by his untimely loss, filled up the measure of Theodora's woe,
till her heart could no longer support the pressure of so much distress.
She sobbed aloud; and the tears which fell from her eyes in some measure
relieved her bursting heart. She looked around, and saw nothing but the
undisturbed continuance of wild solitudes, clothed in dark shadows; and
she heard nought but mournful sounds to add to the wretchedness of her
already deplorable lot. The ill-omened bird again shrieked, and the wind
howled fitfully; whilst the moon, issuing from behind a cloud, now threw
a cold comfortless light, which imparted a death-like hue to every
object around.
While thus overwhelmed with sensations of terror at her forlorn
situation, she perceived some object of dark appearance hanging upon a
tree almost across their path, and waving to and fro at the will of the
blast. A glimpse of moonlight now falling upon the place, discovered a
human figure: it was indeed the body of a murdered man. Theodora
shuddered at the sight: an icy chill crept over her, and she dreaded,
and yet was eager to learn what she, alas! too well anticipated.
"The sight appears to unnerve you, lady," coolly observed her conductor,
"and I wonder not, for it is a sorry sight for a tender female, and a
Christian withal. Yonder scarecrow was, a short time since, a Christian
knight, and is there placed as a warning to his fellow-countrymen how
they dare provoke the angry lion in his dominions. In each Moor will the
Christian encounter a lion;--nay, something even more terrible than the
king of beasts; for, joined with the mighty strength and fierce
resolution of this animal, we have the reason and wounded feelings of
men."
"By the prophet," said one of the Moors, "that Christian well deserved
his fate; a more desperate man never did I see!"
"Aye," continued another, "he fought bravely, and we bought his life at
the dear price of two comrades."
"I came not till he was dispatched," exclaimed Malique in a haughty
tone, "otherwise the combat would not have been long dubious; but you
are a cowardly set, and had the Christian been seconded, I suspect that
the five who attacked him would have been disgracefully driven back: but
he fought alone, his dastardly servant having fled. Pity we could not
catch the rascal, for he would have made a proper accompaniment to his
master on the next tree."
Theodora listened in frozen suspense, whilst another of the Moors
observed, in an under-tone,--
"'Twas unfortunate though, that love should have brought about his
death: in his last moment he said something concerning love; and who
knows but this young maiden"--
Theodora heard no more,--she uttered a faint smothered scream, and fell
lifeless into the arms of Malique.
"Give help! give help! she faints! poor damsel--Get some water from the
brook."
They halted a moment, and sprinkling the reviving liquid over Theodora's
face, succeeded in recalling her back to life. Malique then endeavoured
to administer words of comfort to the distressed girl, but he was
utterly unsuccessful; a settled gloom pervaded her soul, and she
discarded the very idea of consolation. Thus they continued to travel
during the night, till the first gleams of the dawning day brought to
their view the outline of a village enveloped in the morning mist.--As
they gently advanced, the scene enlarged, and the shade gradually
rolling off, a little quiet town became at length perceptible, shining
in the first rays of the sun, and fresh with silvery drops of the dew.
The sombre aspect of the Alpujarras began to lose its sterner frown in
the loveliness and animation of the morning hour. But alas! it brought
no comfort to the desponding heart of Theodora. Deep and poignant as her
sorrows were, she felt conscious that a yet more dreadful fate awaited
her; she was about to be offered a victim to the lawless desires of a
ruffian, and an infidel. Death alone could release her from so
degrading a destiny; but even death, that last melancholy consolation,
was denied to her. She prayed fervently to heaven, and her
supplications, pronounced in the sincerity of her heart, served only to
console her. No help came: eagerly she cast her eyes around, and clung
with fond endearment to the wildest hopes that ever fancy created.--She
hailed with a fluttering expectation the least sound, for in it she was
willing to fancy a deliverer. The distant tramp of a horse, or the bark
of a dog, failed not to raise hopes which tended only to render her
distress more poignant by disappointment.
Her mind, worn out in this conflict, began to lose its powers of
consciousness, and as they approached the town, she gradually fell into
a state of passive despair. She saw without emotion a group of men
standing at the entrance, who, in conjunction with some ragged children,
as soon as she was perceived, raised an exulting shout.
A Christian captive! a Christian captive!--And presently three or four
armed Moors came forward, to whom Malique related his adventure. They
then proceeded altogether through the principal street of the town of
Alhacen, which was at that time the headquarters of the Moors, who fell
within the jurisdiction of the rebel chief Caneri. The town presented a
most dismal and disconsolate aspect; the inhabitants bearing in their
appearance a proof of their miserable wandering life, and seeming all
prepared to abandon their precarious tenements at the first summons.
Indeed the late losses which they had sustained, and more especially the
surrender of Lanjaron, contributed, to keep them in a state of continual
alarm. This feeling was considerably augmented by the intelligence they
had just now received, that Alonso de Aguilar, the most renowned and the
most redoubtable of their enemies, was rapidly advancing against El Feri
de Benastepar. However, as they had nothing to lose,--no riches to
abandon--no pleasures to relinquish--no comforts to forget, the
expression of their countenances exhibited a cold resignation, blended
with gloomy ferocity.
The party that conducted Theodora having traversed the town, stopt at
its extremity, before a house which appeared somewhat in better order
than the rest, in front of which several armed Moors were pacing to and
fro.
Malique demanded an immediate interview with Caneri, which was denied
him on the plea that the chief was at the moment deeply engaged in a
conference with the most important amongst the Moors. Soon after,
however, a short broad-faced ugly fellow made his appearance, and with
demonstrations of joy welcomed Malique, who was his kinsman.
"By our holy prophet, Malique, I am glad to see thee return with such a
goodly sport:--Caneri is not to be interrupted now, but thou mayest be
sure of a good reward."
Aboukar, for such was the Moor's name, then ushered in his kinsman.
Every one seemed to pay great respect and deference to the little man;
it was with reason, for he acted in no less a capacity than master of
the household to the mountain sovereign of the place. Meantime Theodora
was intrusted to the care of an old hag, wife to Aboukar, and a renegade
Christian. She conducted her ward to a little narrow apartment, where
having placed some refreshments, she recommended Theodora to partake of
them, and retired.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
GOMEZ ARIAS;
OR,
THE MOORS OF THE ALPUJARRAS.
A SPANISH HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
DON TELESFORO DE TRUEBA Y COSIO.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST, CHANCE, AND CO.
65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD.
1828.
CHAPTER I.
Though I had the form
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh;
Nor, 'midst the creatures of clay that girded me,
Was there but one, who----but of her anon.
I said with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead
My joy was in the wilderness; to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build.
_Byron._
Some secret venom preys upon his heart;
A stubborn and unconquerable flame
Creeps in his veins, and drinks the stream of life.
_Rowe._
In the recess of a spacious apartment sat Caneri, indolently reclining
upon a pile of cushions, after the manner of the Moors of distinction.
He was descended from a family related to the old Moorish kings of
Cordova, so that in consequence of his rank, and a certain influence
which it obtained for him, he had been elected by the rebels as one of
the principal leaders chosen to direct their enterprize. Weak, and
vain-glorious, Caneri evinced the utmost solicitude to maintain the
semblance of a splendour which corresponded but indifferently with the
poverty of his present state, and assumed an authority that ill assorted
with the precarious tenure by which he held his power. Anxious to cling
even to the shadow of a Court, he had appointed his officers, and
regulated his household, with all the precision and etiquette of a petty
sovereign. The mansion which he now inhabited had apparently belonged to
some more wealthy person of the town of Alhacen, and had been studiously
decorated with all the tapestry and other ornaments which could be
collected together; but the faded and tattered condition of the
materials, evidently indicated that the days of their splendour had
long since passed.
Caneri was at this moment exhibiting the capricious disposition of a
vain and would-be despot. Some half dozen miserable looking figures, who
surrounded his couch, constituted his whole retinue, and appeared
completely subservient to the ridiculous fancies of their master. But
amongst these desperate ruffians, there was a man whose countenance and
demeanor were calculated more particularly to attract the notice of a
stranger. He sat at the right of Caneri, and seemed, by the freedom of
his language and manner, to possess the unlimited confidence of that
chief. On what plea he could found his claim to such a distinction,
would have been no easy matter to determine; his countenance being
remarkable only for a larger share of calm resolution, deep malignity,
and ill-boding ferocity, than those of his companions. A broad and
strongly built frame, dark and lowering features, black shaggy beard,
and the savage glitter of an eye that scowled gloomily under its heavy
brow, gave to his whole appearance a most forbidding and sinister
expression. Even when his features occasionally relaxed from their
sternness, they only seemed to writhe into a peculiar sneer, which could
not be contemplated without an involuntary shudder of terror and
repugnance. Yet, even amidst this repulsive exterior, at times there
could be traced a few sad remains of noble lines in that countenance,
which spoke of hateful passions, long cherished within the breast. There
was enough to induce the belief that this man had originally been
capable of better feelings, and worthy a more honorable career.
This mysterious being, like the rest of Caneri's train, was apparelled
in a Moorish garb, remarkable only for its poverty and simplicity. But,
though his appearance and attire bespoke the Moor, yet the expression of
his features by no means corresponded with his exterior; and a
penetrating eye could easily discover, that whatever might now be his
profession, he had formerly belonged to other creed and nation than
that of the Moslem.
"Bermudo," said Caneri, addressing himself to the personage in question,
"thou art unusually abstracted to-day, far more than for some time past
I have known thee."
"Bermudo!" exclaimed the other indignantly; "Bermudo! Call me no more by
a name so hateful;--a name that brings to my recollection my miseries
and my crimes. It is an ominous, a detested sound, that rings in my ear,
to tell me that I was once a Christian--an injured man; and that I am
_now_----"
"A valiant Moor," interrupted Caneri.
"A vile renegade!" retorted Bermudo with a sneer. "A renegade; for thou
canst not gild the bitter potion, nor will I attempt to disguise my
character. I am a ruffian; but I have pledged myself to serve the Moors,
and I WILL serve them faithfully, actively, to the last breath of my
loathed existence."
"Thy services, indeed, have been most valuable," said Caneri, "and
grateful are the Moors for the interest thou evincest in their cause."
"Tush," cried the renegade; "thank me not. It is not my love for the
Moors that prompts my services, but my hatred to the Christians. No,
Caneri, I will not admit acknowledgments which I little deserve. You say
that I am brave and active--'tis true. I can endure privations, and
encounter dangers; but in so doing, I look not to advance the interests
of the Moorish cause, but to serve that of my revenge. No, I anticipate
no triumphs; I live merely for the gratification of vengeance for wrongs
long past, but too deeply rooted in this heart to be ever forgotten." As
he pronounced these last words his frame shook with agitation.
"Calm thyself, Alagraf," said Caneri, "since thou hast adopted that
name, and art now----"
"A traitor!" cried the renegade, interrupting him. "I am a traitor to my
faith and country. Nay, do not attempt to palliate a name in which I
glory. I well know the vile thing that I am considered. My career is a
dark one; and the passion which fires my heart, and nerves my arm,
cannot ennoble my deeds of valour, but may at least satisfy my craving:
and that is enough--I am a villain; but woe to the man who made me what
I am. May the curse of despair, may the venom that festers here (and he
forcibly smote his breast) poison and corrode the life of him who
planted it in a heart kind by nature, and designed for virtue; but by
one bad man driven to revolting crime."
"Thy wrongs," interposed Caneri, "shall be avenged; and our cause,
desperate as it seems, may still prosper. 'Tis true, we have lately
sustained many reverses; but el Feri de Benastepar yet lives, and even
now may check the proud course of our enemies, and blight the verdant
laurels of the Christian's brow. Even now, perhaps, Alonso de Aguilar
meets the doom to which his hate to the Moorish name so irresistibly
impels him. We have resources left,--our forces may be less; our courage
greater."
"Hold, Caneri," cried the renegade; "if thou wilt deceive thyself,
deceive not me,--thou canst not. I abhor the Christians, but why should
I deny the melancholy truth that is daily forced upon our conviction?
The Christians are our superiors, and we have to oppose to them, only
the desperate, the frenzied power which springs from a sense of deep
injuries sustained,--of wrongs carefully treasured up for the day of
retribution."
"Alagraf!" returned Caneri, somewhat hurt at the boldness and freedom of
the renegade, "whatever may be the motives that urge thee to second our
enterprise, forget not that mine and those of my companions originate in
a cause more noble and dignified--It is to assert our rights as a free
and independent nation."
"That," sneeringly muttered Bermudo, "may be the pretext; but I will
neither discuss the merits of our undertaking, nor the justice of our
cause. To me, at least, they are just and meritorious. I seek by my own
exertions that redress which my humble station could not procure, when
matched against those to whom chance, not superior worth, gave power
over me."
"Well," returned Caneri; "whatever be thy motives, thy services have
been most acceptable to us, and thy reward shall be proportionate to the
value of thy assistance."
"Reward!" exclaimed the renegade, "I ask for no reward; thinkest thou,
Moor, I would have been tempted to abandon the most sacred ties of
country and religion for a reward?--Thinkest thou that for a bribe I
could be instigated to become an open villain?--a thing despised? for ye
all despise me, and must despise me,--nor can I feel offended."
"Despise thee!" cried Caneri.
"Aye, despise me; for such as I must ever be despised, though their
services may be most welcome. A reward! and what reward? Some paltry
gold, perchance. No, Caneri; I am at least a bold, not a mean ruffian,
and I wish for no other reward save that which I can exact with my own
hands. Ah! let me strew the rankest thorns in the path of my wronger!
Let me throw a deepening cloud over the brilliancy of his hopes, and
envenom all the springs of his affections and happiness! Let me make him
a thing to create abhorrence, and heap upon his head the shame and
degradation that weigh me down; and when he writhes in agony, let me
enjoy his misery and despair, and hear him cry for mercy, and deny it
him, as he denied it _her_! Oh! that I may watch his life as slowly it
ebbs away, and then in that last tumult of anguish,--in that violent
separation of the soul,--let me--let me pour into his afflicted ear my
exulting voice, shrieking aloud _Anselma_!"
Callous as was the nature of Caneri, he could not suppress an
involuntary shudder, when he beheld the horrid picture which the
renegade now exhibited. It was a fearful sight, for that gust of
frenzied passion gave to his whole person the look of a demon: his frame
shook violently, and as he grasped his weapon with nervous convulsion,
those iron features became fraught with indescribable hatred and
revenge. But the storm passed rapidly away, and after a short struggle,
the renegade again resumed his look of dark, imperturbable calmness, and
relapsing into his wonted mood of gloomy abstraction, he recovered the
cold fixed sneer which habit had rendered natural to his countenance.
At this time Malique claimed admittance, and advancing slowly towards
the pile of cushions on which the vain-glorious Caneri languidly
reclined, failed not to present all those marks of reverence which so
much delighted the chief, who conceived them indispensable to the
support of his dignity. Malique, therefore, crossed his arms with the
most abject air, inclined his head until it came nearly in contact with
his knees, and with all the outward signs of humility made three times
the Moorish obeisance. These tokens of submission Caneri received with
the haughtiness of manner peculiar to a despot, accustomed to command
respect and adoration from his herd of slavish dependants.
"Malique," he then cried, "what brings thee here? Why am I disturbed in
my moments of privacy? What can induce thee to commit so daring a
transgression?"
"Pardon me, most potent Caneri," humbly replied Malique. "Pardon the
good intentions of a faithful slave;--I am the bearer of pleasing
tidings, although in my zeal to serve my master, I may perhaps have been
guilty of indiscretion."
"Speak," said Caneri, assuming a look of important gravity. "Alagraf,
remain--I may need thy counsel--let the rest withdraw."
"Most mighty Caneri," continued Malique; "as my party was patrolling the
mountains last night, some of my men surprised a Christian."
"And of course he met his death?" interrupted the Chief.
"He did, after a long struggle, for a more desperate man we have seldom
seen! he now dangles on a tree, like many others of his countrymen, a
fit scarecrow to rambling adventurers."
"Proceed--" said Caneri gravely.
"A moment after," resumed Malique, "chance led us to the spot where
another Christian slept in fancied security."
"And didst thou slay the wretch?" inquired the Chief.
"No, most noble Caneri. It was a female, and therefore I brought her
here, for she is a most bewitching creature--such as seldom meets the
enamoured gaze of an enraptured lover. The rose in its opening bloom
looks not more lovely in the garden of the faithful, than this beauteous
captive. Indeed the fascination of her person is peculiarly striking,
though at present the gloom that preys upon her mind, tends considerably
to diminish the lustre of her charms. Still I thought she might find
favor in the sight of our illustrious Chief, and be honored with his
smile."
"A young Christian maiden," cried Caneri, "sleeping in the
Alpujarras!--'tis strange!--how came she there? Malique, didst thou
learn? Knowest thou the nature of her sorrows?"
"Yes," answered Malique,--"she bitterly deplores the fate of him we
slew. Apparently, he was a husband or a lover. At all events the
Christian people cannot boast of a nobler or braver warrior."
"Knowest thou his name?" demanded Caneri.
"I learnt it," replied Malique, "from the captive herself;--it is Don
Lope Gomez Arias."
"Gomez Arias!" exclaimed the renegade; starting back in amazement.
"Gomez Arias! it cannot be!"
"Such is the name," returned Malique, "that our prisoner gave him, and
there is no reason why she should deceive us. In troth her anguish was
too deep, and her grief but too lively, to leave a doubt of the veracity
of her statement."
"Gomez Arias!" cried again the renegade, "and is he really dead!--dead!
Malique, art thou sure?--did he not escape?"
"Escape!" muttered the Moor, "his soul escaped from his body. That is
all the escape that I wot of."
"Then," continued the renegade, Bermudo, striking his forehead in a
paroxysm of disappointed passion, "my revenge is foiled, my victory
incomplete. I, too, could once have taken his life; but he owed me more
than his base life could pay. Long have I toiled to bring about a day of
retribution, and now my hopes are suddenly crushed, and my vengeance
wrested from my hand."
"What means this, Alagraf?" inquired Caneri, surprised at such uncommon
demonstrations.
"Is this thy acute perception!" cried Bermudo, "that thou canst not
divine the motive that alone brings joy or pain to this blighted heart?
Dost thou forget that there is only one solitary feeling that can affect
it?"
"Yes, revenge!" replied Caneri, "but then this Christian! this Gomez
Arias--"
"Is my accursed enemy," thundered the renegade; "my foul wronger; once
my lord and master; and this captive, this weeping beauty, is perchance
his affianced bride, the proud daughter of our bitterest, our
redoubtable foe. Yes, she must be the daughter of Alonso de Aguilar.
And yet," he added, pondering, "how came she there?"
"What sayest thou?" exclaimed Caneri, with strong marks of pleasure.
"Can it be possible? Thanks, thanks to the holy prophet that vouchsafes
such reward to the faithful. This is indeed a most precious gage, as it
may perhaps be the means of curbing the overbearing insolence of
Aguilar; for, destitute as he is of all sympathy towards the Moors, he
may yet feel the anxiety of parental love when he learns the situation
of his child. Dispatch, quick; Malique, bring forth thy captive, and ask
a meed--'tis granted."
Malique withdrew, leaving the chief reveling in delight at the
unexpected tidings; and the renegade, with a countenance expressive of
deep regret at an occurrence which deprived him of the enjoyment of the
one dark passion that actuated his every feeling, and engrossed every
thought.
Meantime, the unfortunate Theodora was conducted by Malique before the
chief, like a trembling victim for the sacrifice.
"Behold my prize," said the obsequious Moor, pointing to the helpless
girl. "I hope it is deserving the acceptance of the illustrious Caneri."
The gratified Moor made a slight inclination with his head in token of
approval, and then in the most scrutinizing manner proceeded to scan the
beauties of the afflicted fair, who hung down her head in sorrow and
confusion. The renegade made a movement of disappointment, when he
perceived that the captive was not, as he had surmised, the daughter of
Aguilar.
"What!" said Caneri, observing his surprise, "does she not merit thy
approbation? Methinks, Alagraf, thou hast no soul for beauty: look, look
at that lovely countenance; it is certainly bathed in grief, and defaced
with weeping; but that does not detract from its charm."
"Fair Christian," he added, in a condescending tone, "droop not thus
like the humble and neglected flower of the valley, since thou art
called to a brighter destiny; thou shalt flourish like the cultured
lily of the garden, for thou hast found grace in the eyes of Caneri, and
he has the power to render thee happy."
These words of kindness, far from tranquillizing the mind of Theodora,
served but to increase its agitation.
She hastily shrunk back as she perceived the Moor make a motion to take
her hand. Malique, in the meantime, exhibited much satisfaction in
having thus rendered himself useful to the pleasures of Caneri, and thus
acquired indisputable claims to his notice and gratitude; for, with the
petty despot, as with the greater tyrants of whom he was the miserable
copy, the base ministrants to his private gratifications were generally
more abundantly remunerated than those who gloriously served their
country.
"Malique," exclaimed Caneri, his eyes glowing with joy, "I am so well
pleased with thy zeal, that I will assuredly enable thee to hold the
most confidential offices near my person."
Then, turning to the renegade, who was as stubborn in his silence as the
chief appeared eager in lauding the attractions of the captive, "Curse
upon such apathy, Alagraf," he said with affected glee, "thou art a man
of marble, if such a woman is not capable of moving thee."
"Yes," sternly responded the renegade, "I am in sooth a man of marble,
and pity there are so few to resemble me: better it were for the
prosperity of our enterprize. What have I to do with the charms of
woman? they have proved the bane of my existence. Once, indeed, I knew
their value, but that is past, and now they are hateful to my sight:
they recall the unfortunate and innocent cause of the horrors which
surround me. Moor," he then added, "abandon not thyself to such
unreasonable joy; for, learn that the hopes which we conceived from the
possession of our captive are already vanished. She is not the woman we
had supposed."
"What meanest thou?" asked Caneri.
"She is not the daughter of Aguilar," replied Bermudo.
"Well," rejoined the Moor, "we must then submit to the disappointment;
but will this circumstance detract from the charms which you see render
her so lovely?" He cast an enamoured glance, as he delivered these
words, on the subject of his present delight; and then, very well
satisfied with his discretion, he continued--"I can justly appreciate
merit wherever I find it; and although certainly the creed and country
of our fair guest are in direct opposition with mine, yet that shall not
prevent me from paying the tribute which her beauty so justly deserves."
Theodora heard all this with sorrowful resignation; nor was Caneri by
any means satisfied with the success of his eloquence, for he had been
accustomed to meet with a more joyous reception from every female to
whom he had yet condescended to make advances.
"Malique," he said, turning to the officious menial, "lead this
beauteous damsel to one of our best apartments, and see that she wants
for nothing that I can command."
He then favored the afflicted Theodora with a peculiar smile, in which,
somewhat of the ludicrous prevailed over the tender, and dismissed her
from his presence, with a gracious promise of a visit as early as the
importance of his affairs would allow.
While Caneri spoke, Bermudo held his accustomed silence, but he could
not disguise his contempt when he perceived the Moor so completely
engrossed with the pursuit of his selfish gratification, at a time when
affairs of such magnitude were at stake.
"Caneri," he cried sullenly; "it appears to me that our cause is not
likely to derive any great advantage from the possession of that
Christian."
"A mind," replied Caneri, with an assumption of gravity, "a mind
harassed with numerous cares, necessarily requires some relaxation.--To
thee alone, as a friend, do I speak in these terms of confidence; to any
other, I would not condescend to afford the shadow of explanation
regarding what may appear strange in my conduct; my actions must not be
subjected to the scrutiny of any one."
As he said this, he looked around with an air of offended dignity, as
though a signification of his will were sufficient to command respect
and obedience; while the renegade made no other reply than a smile of
derision.
Caneri now summoned around him his principal officers, and happy in the
beggarly retinue that attended him, he paraded the wretched town of
Alhacen, the capital of his scanty dominions. This was more for idle
display, than for the purpose of taking vigorous and efficient measures
to check the course of the Christians. The garrison was drawn out in the
_Plaza_[27] to be reviewed by their commander. They amounted to about
eight hundred men, but exhibited a miserable appearance, both with
regard to arms and equipment. He harangued them upon the glory of their
cause, and exhorted the chiefs to a rigid observance of their duty.
Having thus terminated this singular exhibition to his entire
satisfaction, he returned with the same parade to his humble mansion,
which, in compliment to its illustrious inhabitant, was now dignified
with the title of the palace.