Si! m'ingannai: scerner dovea, che in petto
Di un traditor mai solo un tradimento
Non entra.
_Alfieri._
Le cruel, helas! il me quitte,
Il me laisse sans nul appui!
_Berquin._
"In the name of Heaven, Don Lope," said Roque; "let me again conjure you
to pause before you finally resolve upon this undertaking: my heart
misgives me strangely."
"Thy heart," replied Gomez Arias, "is a most impertinent monitor. Simple
man! what other course is left me to pursue?--Is it thy wish that I
should relinquish the most glorious prize, at the very moment of its
attainment, from a pusillanimous fear of consequences? Already so far
advanced, must I shrink from an honorable alliance with Leonor? By
heaven! I cannot; I will not. Prudence, consistency, honor, forbid!
"But, saving your displeasure," interposed Roque, "methinks that same
honor of which you appear so tenacious, cannot urge you to betray an
unfortunate girl into the hands of infidel Moors. And although your
present situation is certainly fraught with difficulties, there may yet
be found some other way of proceeding with regard to Theodora, not
altogether so frightful."
"No, Roque, none. We have now no longer time to think; we must act, and
act without wasting a single precious moment.--Go, dispatch, deliver
this letter to Theodora, and conduct her to the place that I have
already pointed out. The night is fast advancing; dispatch; and be
faithful in the discharge of my orders. This step is unavoidable, and to
its necessity even thou thyself wilt be reconciled, though at present it
may awaken in thy bosom a foolish sentiment of pity, or fear, I know not
which."
Roque attempted no farther expostulation, but heaving a sigh, and
casting his eyes to heaven, proceeded to the discharge of his
commission, whilst his master hurried to the solitary spot where he had
decided they should meet. Roque, in that wavering mood so natural to his
character, alike unfit for good or evil, made his way to Don Alonso's
garden, deliberating within himself on the course he ought to follow.
Pity and remorse, at intervals, made him shrink with dismay from the
picture of wretchedness which the unfortunate Theodora presented to his
view. There was something so iniquitous and unmanly in betraying the
unsuspecting and lovely victim, that the feelings of the valet, though
far from being refined, revolted from the participation: once or twice
he had even resolved to acquaint Theodora with the premeditated plot,
but these momentary impulses of his better feelings were soon checked
for want of strength to follow up the generous suggestion. The awe with
which Roque beheld his master, and the dread of the results which his
disclosure might produce in the mind of the victim, powerfully
contributed to silence the voice of conscience. Then he hoped that the
marriage once over, measures might be taken for the security and comfort
of Theodora; and finally he fondly admitted the hope, or rather forced
his rebellious mind to encourage it, that Gomez Arias would relent at
the sight of the unhappy girl, and that he would then fix upon some
other expedient less distressing and criminal.
In this conflict, he arrived at the palace, and entering by a private
gate into the garden, he approached the window of Theodora's apartment.
The anxious girl, who had been all the day on the alert, immediately
descended, and stood by the side of Roque.
"Where is he?" she eagerly cried, upon meeting the valet.
"Prudence," replied Roque, "has obliged him, much against his
inclination, to keep aloof; but here is a letter which will explain his
motives, and the course that you are immediately to adopt."
Theodora ran over the contents of the letter in a trepidation of
anxiety, and closed the perusal of it by imprinting the fervent kisses
of love and devotion on the vile instrument of treachery.
"Let us make haste," she then said, and without waiting for Roque to
lead the way, she hurried through the garden upon the wings of
affection. The valet's heart misgave him, when he beheld her speeding
with such haste to her destruction. He contrasted the devoted confidence
of Theodora, hurrying to the fatal spot, with the duplicity and
heartlessness of Gomez Arias tranquilly awaiting her arrival. Roque led
her towards the place appointed; nor could he suppress a tear, as he
listened to the artless language in which her full heart indulged during
the way, in the fond expectation of being again united to her lover, and
obtaining the forgiveness of her beloved parent. They arrived at length
at the place. It was a beautiful night, unsullied by a breath of wind.
The eager eyes of Theodora were strained to catch as soon as possible a
sight of the dear object of her solicitude. She perceived at the further
extremity a man enveloped in a cloak, and standing beside three horses.
She gazed intensely; her bosom throbbed with emotion,--forward she
hurried--she flew; and in a moment, with all the enthusiasm of her fond
nature, threw herself into the arms of her lover.
Gomez Arias received the tender pressure with feelings hard to be
defined. Distracted with conflicting passions, he appeared unable to act
the part which he had judged necessary in this critical moment, while
the loving Theodora, despite of her infatuation, could not but observe
the coldness and restraint evident in his manner.
"What ails you, Lope?" she said, soothingly "are you not happy?"
"Happy! yes, Theodora, I am happy; but be not astonished at my
disquietude: for alas! in my distracting situation I can feel no
otherwise; the step which I am about to take----"
"Oh! I am sensible!" cried Theodora, earnestly, "of the extent of the
sacrifice; I know the glorious prospects you relinquish by renouncing
the hand of Leonor. Yes, I am indeed, aware of all the distressing
circumstances that may ensue from the resolution you have taken. But,
oh, Lope! will not the unutterable love, the fervid devotion of your
poor Theodora, afford you some requital for the advantages which your
honor obliges you to abandon?"
She looked fondly in his countenance. A tear stood trembling upon her
eye, but in her lover's she beheld no sign of mutual tenderness. He
coldly assisted her to mount, and bidding Roque follow, for some time
they continued their route in silence. Theodora, however, in the
gentleness of her nature, was disposed to deceive herself, and without
hesitation attributed her lover's strange behaviour to the difficult
situation in which he was placed. Nor could she feel hurt when she
considered that it was for her sake that Gomez Arias exhibited this
disquietude. She had secured the most important object of her life, and
was not so selfish or unfeeling as to reproach him with a conduct which
she hoped would soon be changed. But the arguments of reason are not
always in accordance with the suggestions of feeling. Her mind
commanded her to be satisfied, but her heart, in acquiescing with those
dictates, was not entirely at ease, though she sedulously endeavoured to
conceal her emotion from Gomez Arias. Her efforts, however, were not
always successful, and the deep sighs that escaped her bosom, naturally
attracted the notice of her lover. He, therefore, artfully strove, by
bestowing some passing tokens of affection, to reassure the victim he
was leading to the sacrifice. But the art of man, though it may succeed
in imitating the various passions which agitate the human breast, is
rarely successful when he attempts to feign the more tender sentiments
of the heart; for cold must always be the language addressed to one, who
has been the object of a fervid passion, when that passion is unhappily
extinct. No powers of art--not all the force of imagination can call
into life fresh flowers on the barren waste of a heart that no longer
loves.
As they approached _El cerro de los Martires_ Theodora suddenly began to
sob aloud, and Gomez Arias foresaw the dreadful scene he should have to
sustain before he could finally disengage himself from the sorrowing
girl.
"Theodora, why do you weep?" he asked in a tender tone.
"Alas! I know not," she answered. "But my heart is heavy--I feel as
though some misfortune were impending. Whither are we going?--surely
this is not the road to my father's mansion? Lope! Lope! whither are you
leading me?" she inquired, in a thrilling voice of distress.
Steeled as it was against compassion, the heart of Gomez Arias felt
moved at the question. Roque was exceedingly affected, and a groan
escaped him as he piously ejaculated--"Heaven protect her!"
Theodora heard the exclamation; for nothing that bodes ill can evade the
acute sense of misery.
"Thank you, good Roque," she said, mournfully. "But why call on the
protection of heaven? My own Lope, are we in danger?"
Gomez Arias did not answer; for a feeling akin to remorse arose within
him, as he thought on the treacherous duplicity he was about to practice
against one whose very existence seemed to depend upon his love. They
had now crossed _El cerro de los Martires_, and were ascending a little
slope, when suddenly three or four persons sprung from their
concealment, and checked their further advance. The moon shone
brilliantly, so that every object could be plainly distinguished, and
Theodora saw with dismay the forms that were moving towards them, as if
with the express determination of intercepting their passage.
"They are Moors!" she exclaimed. "Oh, heavens! what can they want in
this solitary place at the dead of night? Surely they must be some of
those desperate people, who have been left houseless and forlorn in the
late rebellion. Alas! they will retaliate on us all the horrors which
they have suffered. My dear Lope, if we must die, it will be at least
some consolation to meet death with thee."
She looked earnestly on her lover, but could trace no emotion in his
features; they were composed. The present feelings of Gomez Arias
partook of no alarm, and the unfortunate Theodora felt a fearful
presentiment, as she perceived the unmoved expression of his
countenance; for though the bravery of her lover might not allow him to
dread the approach of death, for his own sake, yet, surely, her own
danger ought to create in his mind some sensation of anxiety. In this
frightful agony of thought, Theodora remained until they came up with
the individuals who had awakened her fears. One of them now detached
himself from the group, and advanced to address Gomez Arias, who had
checked his horse to await his coming. What was the horror of Theodora
when she recognized in the person that stood before them, the dreaded
form of the renegade! She uttered a faint scream; and had not Gomez
Arias prevented her, she would have fallen to the ground.
"So, Don Lope," said the renegade, "you have kept your word: I could
expect no less from the noble Gomez Arias."
"And who are thy companions?" inquired Don Lope.
"There stands," replied Bermudo, pointing to Caneri, "the illustrious
Moor of whom I spoke--so the sooner we proceed to our arrangements, the
better."
The mutual understanding which appeared to subsist between Gomez Arias
and the renegade, and the heartless manner in which the last words were
delivered, left not a doubt in the mind of Theodora, that some
treacherous design was in contemplation. Her fears were soon confirmed;
for Gomez Arias, turning to her, in a tone of pity, began----
"Theodora, I will not attempt to palliate the conduct which necessity
obliges me to pursue; but the circumstances in which I am placed admit
of no alternative. We must part for ever--nor can I for a moment prolong
a scene, which must be so distressing to your feelings. It consoles me,
however, to think that I can place you in the care of those who have
pledged themselves to treat you with every consideration."
Saying this, he threw himself from his horse, and found no difficulty in
bearing to the ground the yielding form of Theodora. She could not
speak; amazement had absorbed all the powers of her mind, and benumbed
the principle of will and action. She stood wildly gazing on vacancy,
like one conscious of labouring under a dreadful dream, and striving to
awake from the painful illusion. But when Caneri advanced, when she
actually saw his hated figure standing before her with a smile of
exulting joy, she seemed suddenly to regain all her powers of
recollection.
"'Tis he!" she cried franticly, "'tis he. Oh! horror!"--She ran wildly
towards her lover.
"Oh, Lope, deliver me from him."
"No, young lady," returned the Moor, "you must now come with me."
"Oh, heaven!" she shrieked, "no, no, he cannot--he will not thus abandon
me!--Oh, Lope!--my dear--my own beloved!--undeceive this barbarous,
this abhorred Moor."
She appealed to her lover in the fervour of deep anguish,--he turned
from her to depart; the moment was bitter; he felt the rankling pangs of
remorse. The wretched girl clung to him,--he made one desperate struggle
to disengage himself.
"Moor, take her," he cried with throbbing emotion, "but oh! deal thou
more kindly by her than I have done. Here," he continued, "receive this,
and see that she is treated with the regard which her beauty merits, and
her misfortunes deserve. Act faithfully to thy pledge, or dread the
worst effects of my vengeance."
He threw a large purse of gold upon the ground, which Malique lost no
time in securing, whilst Caneri, addressing Gomez Arias,--
"Christian," he said, "I fear not thy vengeance, and I value not thy
gifts; the word of a Moor is plighted; I love the beauteous female, and
these considerations will afford the best security for my conduct."
He then advanced to take the hand of Theodora, but she flew from him
with a look of wildness that might have moved the very stones to pity.
"Oh! no, no, never! Gomez Arias, you may be cruel, but cannot be
infamous.--Oh, do not, do not deliver me into the hands of the detested
enemy of our country--the ferocious, the false Caneri."
"What!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, surprised, "is this, then, Caneri, the
rebel chief?"
"The same," replied the renegade, interposing; "will that be an obstacle
to our agreement?"
Gomez Arias remained a few minutes in silence; he felt an inward
disquiet he could not well explain; the name of Caneri had awakened a
new and painful sensation; it recalled to his mind the edicts of the
queen, which he was on the point of violating by holding intercourse
with the rebel; but again he thought that the elevated situation to
which he would be shortly exalted might sufficiently secure him against
any danger, should even this transaction ever come to light, of which he
could not foresee the slightest probability.
Meantime, poor Roque, who perceived the hesitation of his master,
ventured to approach him, and with a voice agitated with fear,--
"Oh, my dear master," he said, "if it is not too late, let us retreat
from this dreaded spot; do not conclude this hellish treaty, for be
assured it will prove the destruction of your fortunes, if there is an
omnipotence above or justice amongst men."
It was too late; the heart that could not yield to the voice of its own
conscience, was not easily to be moved by the expostulation of a
dependant. Gomez Arias had now advanced too far to retrace his steps; it
was a fearful deed, but he relied with implicit confidence on its being
for ever buried in silence. Then, without further delay, he made a sign
to the renegade in token of agreement, and turned towards Granada.
Theodora became frantic; with a desperate effort she flew to her lover;
a dismal, harrowing shriek quivered through the inmost fibres of her
heart; and then she spoke not, but clung to Gomez Arias with the fearful
might arising from despair. Her face was hidden in his bosom, her pulse
beat not, and the spark of life seemed extinct. Gomez Arias gently
endeavoured to extricate himself from her firm embrace; she again became
conscious of his intention, and in the paroxysm of agony she exclaimed--
"Barbarian! have I deserved this from you?"
Roque now sobbed aloud like a child, and Gomez Arias himself was moved;
but the renegade, fearful of the results of the scene, advanced to claim
his victim.
"Oh, my honored master!" cried Roque, "does not this harrowing picture
of despair move the kinder feelings of your heart?--you once loved her
tenderly, and were it only for the remembrance of what she was, spare
her now."
Gomez Arias felt the rebuke; it soured his temper and confirmed him in
his purpose. He was indignant at the freedom of his dependant, and
darted on him a withering look of displeasure. But Roque, who had now
acquired a strength of mind and courage, of which his nature till then
had seemed wholly destitute, in a bold tone began--
"Shame to the man who calls himself noble, and can behave in this manner
towards a helpless woman! Don Lope, this is a fearful deed, and, mark me
well, the time will come at last, the time of terrible retribution."
The brow of Gomez Arias grew black as a storm, and every suggestion of
pity at once vanished.
"Villain!" he cried, in a voice choaked with rage, "is it a base born
varlet like thee, that dare utter such threats to me! Moor--" he added,
turning to the renegade, "take this fellow into your charge, and see
that he does not return to Granada; I will reward thee well."
The renegade gave a token of assent, and made a sign to his companions
to secure him.
"And what right," said Roque, indignantly, "have you to sell me thus? I
am a free born man, and a true Christian."
"Roque," replied Gomez Arias, somewhat more composedly, "I have often
warned thee that thy indiscretion would at length bring thee into
trouble and disgrace. Thy offence merits even a more exemplary
punishment, which I will spare in consideration of thy former services.
Away with him, Moors," he added, "and take him to the distant country
whither you are going, for here he may prove dangerous to me."
"Aye," returned Bermudo, in a voice of import, "we will take him in
charge, for as you say, Don Lope, he may indeed be dangerous to you."
These words, though nothing in themselves, were uttered with a
mysterious meaning that sounded ominous to Gomez Arias. He felt as
though a cloud was darkening over the ambitious prospects which had
seduced his mind and perverted his heart; the voice that spoke rung in
his ear like an awful warning of which he had some strange
recollection. Again he attempted to escape from the scene. One sudden
powerful effort, and he loosened himself from the grasp of Theodora: the
despairing girl fell to the ground, and raved aloud, and pronounced a
curse on her betrayer. Then in the furious impulse of madness, she
snatched at the dagger that glittered in the girdle of Caneri, with the
determination of closing her wretched existence; but her deadly
intention was thwarted by the renegade, who arrested her arm in time to
prevent the fatal deed.
Gomez Arias now sprung upon his horse, and Caneri took the hand of
Theodora; but she furiously darted from him, and sought to fly after her
lover, who was speeding fast away.
"Oh stay!" she continued, crying in a tone of agony; "Oh stay, Lope!
complete your work--in pity kill me. One crime more will not make you
unacceptable to her you love. Return! return! oh Lope, in the name of
heaven!--Not for me, but for the love of Leonor, do not leave me thus!
Oh Lope, do not leave me thus!"
Gomez Arias, as he sped away, heard the piteous appeal dying faintly on
the wind, and he plunged the rowels into his courser's sides, to escape
the harrowing sensation which such accents produced. Soon the mournful
cries were lost in the distance, and the wretched Theodora, at length
exhausted and overpowered, fell senseless on the ground. The Moors
easily succeeded in bearing her away, while poor Roque, who followed
close, seemed, out of pity for her, to be reconciled to his own fate.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
GOMEZ ARIAS;
OR,
THE MOORS OF THE ALPUJARRAS.
A SPANISH HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
BY
DON TELESFORO DE TRUEBA Y COSIO.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
_LONDON_:
HURST, CHANCE, AND CO.
65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD.
1828.
CHAPTER I.
Nul ne sut mieux que lui le grand art de seduire;
Nul sur ses passions n'eut jamais plus d'empire,
Et ne sut mieux cacher, sous des dehors trompeurs,
Des plus vastes desseins les sombres profondeurs.
_Voltaire._
The pathetic and heart-rending lamentations of Theodora rung ominous in
the ears of Gomez Arias long after he had ceased to hear them; but as he
drew near Granada, and beheld its stately edifices, ambition again
dazzled his imagination, and he welcomed the bright images which rose
before his view to dispel the gloomy tendency of his present thoughts.
The stately turrets of the Alhambra enlarging upon his sight, awakened
the most flattering ideas in his ardent mind. Proud of the regard with
which he was honored by his gracious sovereign, and truly estimating the
high connexion he was about to form, he naturally anticipated the most
brilliant and honorable career. The last lingering suggestion of
remorse, which told him of the cruelty and ingratitude by which he had
paved the way to his advancement, now grew less powerful, and
conscience, that terrible monitor of the human heart, hushed her
enfeebled voice, bribed by the rich prize offered for future silence.
Don Lope secretly applauded the dexterity with which he had extricated
himself from all his dilemmas, and rejoiced at having parted with Roque,
who now could only be considered as a witness of his crime. By handing
him over to the custody of the Moors, he was safely rid of a troublesome
servant, whose frowardness in future he must have tolerated as the
reward of secrecy. Besides, there was a further probability that the
loquacious disposition and impertinent sallies of the valet, would
ultimately draw upon him the ill-humour of some sullen Moor, who, not
inclined to relish his jests, might pay with a few inches of a poniard
the freedom of his tongue. With regard to Theodora, Don Lope could
entertain no fear of her escape, being under the guardianship of one who
appeared to be a captive to her charms. Meantime his wedding with Leonor
would be celebrated, all his views accomplished, and then if a decree of
wayward fate interfered with his flourishing honors, he would already
have power to set aside the past, and to make his way clear for the
future.
In this pleasing anticipation, Gomez Arias arrived at Granada, and
awaited impatiently for the auspicious morning that was to terminate his
fears, and crown his fondest desires. Early in the morning, therefore,
he flew to the mansion of the Aguilars without changing his dress, and
bearing in his appearance all the hurry and derangement of a hasty
journey. He found Don Alonso in the apartment of Leonor; but the welcome
he received from the object of his attachment was certainly not given
with the warmth of an affianced bride; nor did the countenance of
Aguilar betoken any very friendly reception. Don Lope felt this
coldness, but he perceived the urgency of sustaining his equality of
character, whatever might be the nature of the peril with which he was
threatened. Affecting, therefore, not to notice the unsocial cast of
their meeting, in a gay and lively tone addressed himself to Leonor--
"My dear Leonor," he said, "in my impatience to greet you, I may appear
guilty of a little indecorum," looking upon his dress; "but you will,
perhaps, on that plea pardon my presenting myself before you in a manner
so irregular."
"Oh, Don Lope," answered Leonor with a sarcastic smile, "I can forgive
you any thing, for my nature has become of late so indulgent, that I
find I could pardon offences much graver than a mere breach of manners."
"Your goodness I never doubted," replied Gomez Arias; "but methinks you
look rather uneasy; surely you are not indisposed?--the noble Don
Alonso too! Nay, has any thing occurred during my short absence to cause
your disquietude?"
"Certainly," returned Leonor coldly, "nothing has happened that _ought_
to cause disquietude. But, surely, Don Lope," she added sarcastically,
"your sudden departure, and the summons of our mutual friend Count de
Urena, might have held us in some little anxiety. Moreover, other small
circumstances have contributed to cause a transient uneasiness."
"But you must not," interposed Don Lope, "suffer yourselves to be
discomposed on account of our friend Urena, for I am happy to say he was
considerably better when I left him."
"Then," cried Aguilar, "it is as I suspected."
And rising from his seat with an expression of dark displeasure, without
further ceremony he quitted the apartment. Gomez Arias was struck at
such strange behaviour; but soon recovering his surprise,--
"What means this, Leonor?" he said in an angry tone: "Why am I treated
thus?"
"Don Lope," returned Leonor, "surely the malady of your friend has
somewhat affected your understanding. We can have no right to interfere
with the actions of my father, particularly as I have already told you
some accidents have occurred lately to ruffle his temper."
"And what accidents are those, in the name of heaven?"
"Are you really, then, so ignorant of the events which have taken place
since you were imperiously summoned to attend your friend?"
"Perfectly ignorant," replied Don Lope.
Leonor looked steadily in his face, and making a sign of impatience
which she was unable to restrain, proceeded--
"It is surprising that the Count has not informed you."
"Of what?" interrupted Gomez Arias, astonished. "In the name of heaven,
explain yourself, Leonor."
"Now, do you not think," continued she, in an affected banter, "it was
highly ridiculous in a man of so grave a deportment as the Count to play
such boyish tricks? Can you really believe that, shortly after your
departure, a message came from him, to announce his intention of
surprising you by his attendance at your wedding."
"Certainly," replied Gomez Arias with visible marks of emotion, "the
Count's conduct is strange; what his intention has been I really cannot
conceive: but at all events, it ought in no manner to entail on me your
noble father's displeasure."
"Why, Don Lope," said Leonor significantly, "you are not such a novice
in knowledge of the world, as to expect that a man's displeasure should
be strictly confined to the object by which it has been caused. Besides,
Don Alonzo has other reasons: our fair guest, who was so sacredly
beholden to him, is gone."
"What fair guest?" demanded Gomez Arias, with feigned curiosity.
"Did you never hear me speak of her?"
"If I did, I really do not remember."
"And what is become of Roque?" abruptly demanded Leonor: "he did not
attend you upon your departure yesterday, and search has been made after
him without effect. Is he ill?"
"Why, to say the truth, his health is rather precarious," answered Don
Lope, "and he has so repeatedly been entreating me to allow him to
retire to Toledo, where I believe he has a brother or sister, that I was
at length obliged to consent to his wishes; which, in sooth, I did the
more willingly, as he was growing of late so careless and impertinent,
that his attendance became more troublesome than serviceable to me."
"Why, Don Lope," returned Leonor, "you must have been strangely
surprised that he should wish to quit your service precisely on the eve
of your wedding day. Moreover, you will be still more amazed when I
inform you that it was this identical Roque that eloped with our guest
Theodora de Monteblanco."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Don Lope, affecting to be thunderstruck.
"Repollo, our old gardener," continued Leonor, "saw them leave the
palace, and instigated by a feeling of curiosity, followed them at a
distance, as well as the speed of their pace would permit. He saw them
at length halt at the public walks, where another person awaited with
horses. But this is the most extraordinary part of the tale, for the
gardener said that the person who was so complaisantly attending upon
the fugitives, appeared so exactly to resemble you, Don Lope, that he
would swear to the identity, were he not certain that you set out in the
morning for the seat of Count de Urena."
Great as was at all times Don Lope's presence of mind, and prepared as
he seemed for all contingencies, this last intelligence somewhat
deranged his composure; a circumstance which did not escape the keen and
scrutinizing eyes of Leonor.
"The insolent rascal," cried Gomez Arias after a pause: "It was for this
then that he appeared so anxious to quit my service; but I told you that
his behaviour had become of late most impertinent, and even arrogant.
The reason is now plainly discovered. But after all, your fair guest, as
you are pleased to call the lady-love of this unseemly knight, is most
to blame. What, in the name of Lucifer, could possess a woman of noble
family to elope with a base menial? Was she devoid of all shame?
"I suppose so," replied Leonor: then, in an expressive tone, she added,
"But shame has been completely set aside in all the turnings of this
iniquitous affair."
She fixed a significant look on Gomez Arias, whilst the astounded
cavalier, aware of the perilous nature of his situation, merely assented
to the truth of her observation. Leonor, eager to pursue her clue in
ascertaining how far Don Lope was implicated in the transaction,
continued,--
"But is it not surprising, Don Lope, that this groom of Roque should in
every respect so much resemble you?"
"My dear Leonor," replied Gomez Arias, laughing loudly, and affecting
good humour, "it is certainly a sad misfortune to have so
unprepossessing a likeness, but we must submit with a good grace to that
which is out of our power to remedy. But I dare say the rascally groom
is not after all so perfect a resemblance of your devoted admirer as the
besotted gardener would make us believe; how could the old dotard
distinguish objects so well, at the distance he confesses, and at night?
It would seem more probable, by his prowling abroad at such an hour,
that a free potation of wine had so far acted upon his senses, that he
saw the marvellous story he has related, in a reverie whilst sleeping
under the friendly shelter of a ditch."
"Nay, Sir," replied Leonor, "we have no reason to doubt the testimony of
an honest and faithful servant, who has no interest in the invention of
a tale to deceive his benefactor."
"Well," returned Gomez Arias, "I will prolong the discussion no further
than to express my concern that you should bestow your affections on one
who has the ill-fortune to resemble a vulgar groom. But I hope this
circumstance will not abate the tender regard with which you have
condescended to honour one who lives but in your smiles."
Here Gomez Arias attempted to pour forth the most ardent protestations
of unalterable attachment; but he was shortly interrupted by Leonor,--
"Nay, Don Lope," she cried, "spare yourself the trouble of uttering a
single word more, either to convince me of the sincerity of your love,
or in extenuation of your conduct, for I can very well imagine
before-hand what you would say."
"That is no miracle," replied Gomez Arias, "your discernment is not too
hardly taxed to perceive the emotion which I scarcely wish to conceal,
and must of necessity easily imagine the expressions that such feelings
must dictate. But pardon, if in a day like the present, my passion
oversteps the bounds of common love; for the delirium of bliss that
possesses me cannot be manifested by the usual demonstrations of
cold-hearted mortals. A day that unites me to the most exalted, as well
as the most lovely, of her sex, is surely--"
"Hold, Don Lope," gravely interrupted Leonor; "I will not now dwell upon
the respective merits of your passion--for I have a favor to ask, and it
is your time to grant a request which, perchance, may sound strangely to
your ear."
"I need not say that the wishes of my charming Leonor can meet with no
opposition from me," politely answered Gomez Arias.
"Yesterday," continued Leonor, "notwithstanding the fervour of your
love, you requested that the wedding should be deferred one day. Now,
you cannot deny me a similar favor, and I have particular reasons for
desiring that it may be further postponed for a month."
"Heavens! what say you? A month! a whole month!"
"Yes, Sir," cried Leonor with emotion, "a month--a year, if
circumstances require a further delay--'tis alike indifferent to me."
Saying this she abruptly left the apartment, leaving Gomez Arias in
indescribable consternation.
"I am ruined!" he cried after a pause: "the forced indifference which
Leonor has imposed upon herself during this interview, and the burst of
feeling that marked her departure, leave me no room to doubt that her
suspicions are excited. But shall I tamely submit to this reverse of
fortune, after the many and cruel measures I have been impelled to adopt
for the success of my designs? No, by heaven! I will not."
He then remained sometime buried in a musing attitude, balancing in his
mind the most prudent course to pursue in so difficult a situation.
"Boldness and indifference," he said at length, "alone can insure
safety. From Theodora and Roque, I have nothing to apprehend. I will
forthwith send instructions to Count de Urena; nay, I will partially
open my heart to him, since his co-operation is now become indispensable
to the furtherance of my plans."
After this, Gomez Arias sought another interview with Leonor, and with a
proud and offended demeanor, informed her that he was perfectly willing
to concede her request. Then, without waiting for an answer, he abruptly
left her presence. He next repaired to Aguilar, and bitterly complained
of the material change he had observed in him as well as in his daughter
Leonor.
"If," he added, "you have reasons to impeach my integrity, speak aloud,
Don Alonso, and give me an opportunity of removing the foul slander. But
if it is a caprice, or a late repentance in her choice, that induces
your daughter to adopt this strange behaviour, let her speak
frankly--Gomez Arias is above the thought of constraining a woman's
inclinations--and she shall be at once released from all engagements."
Don Alonso de Aguilar was struck with the generosity and manliness of
Gomez Arias, and gave credit to the apparent sincerity of his words.
The noble mind of Don Alonso could not conceive it possible that guilt
should assume so perfect a resemblance of candour. The disappearance of
Theodora, and the events which had attended her departure, were
certainly well calculated to awake a suspicion that Gomez Arias was
implicated in that affair; but as nothing positive could be adduced to
prove his participation, Aguilar did not feel inclined to proceed with
inconsiderate hastiness in an affair calculated materially to injure
Gomez Arias in the estimation of the world. Leonor was naturally more
irritated than her father at the least shadow of duplicity in the
conduct of her lover. Thus she had requested the wedding to be deferred
for a month, during which interval a proper investigation might be made.
Gomez Arias did not lose time in calling all his abilities into
requisition, for his case was desperate, and it was necessary that the
remedies should partake of the same character. He continued his visits
to the Aguilars, but not with the same confidence as heretofore; and as
he witnessed the high degree of esteem in which Don Antonio de Leyva was
held, both by Don Alonso and his daughter, he affected to look on Leonor
with offended pride, while he bitterly insinuated that it was a growing
attachment for young de Leyva that had induced her to consider with
suspicion, and treat with coldness, the conduct of a sincere lover.
Leonor, however, continued in the same frame of mind, insensible alike
to his expostulations and bitter sarcasms. Deeply had her pride been
offended, and deeply she had determined to resent the affront; nor could
her sagacity and penetration permit her incautiously to trust the soft
words and blandishments of a man whose notoriety in gallantry, she began
to suspect, did not originate in idle rumour.
Meanwhile the irritated Don Lope spared no efforts to place his own
conduct in a favorable light, and endeavoured to cast the imputation of
caprice on that of the Aguilars. He complained constantly in terms of
acrimony of the ungrateful manner in which his affection had been
requited, and vowed vengeance against de Leyva, whom he accused of most
criminal and ungentlemanly duplicity.
Contending feelings kept him in a continual turmoil, and he earnestly
wished for an opportunity that might divert both the court and himself
from a subject of which he was so disagreeably the hero.
Fortune again favoured his desires, by bringing about an event as
terrible as it was altogether unexpected.
CHAPTER II.
The battle is their pastime; they go forth
Gay in the morn as to the summer's sport:
When evening comes, the glory of the morn,
The youthful warrior, is a clod of clay.
_Home._
The streets and squares of Granada were thronged with a bustling and
confused crowd. Here groups were assembled talking earnestly, and
evincing all the signs of surprise and terror--there others were running
about as if the dreaded event was actually come to pass. A continual hum
was heard in every corner of the city; every tongue was eloquent in
telling, and happy was he who could obtain an attentive listener, where
all were eager to assume the part of orators. Indeed the cause of these
demonstrations was important: several expresses had arrived, announcing
the insurrection of the Sierra Bermeja, with the additional calamity
that the terrible El Feri de Benastepar, whom they all supposed to have
been slain, was not only safe and alive, but with the means of renewing
a desperate warfare, and actually possessed of a force sufficiently
strong to enable him to march upon Granada.
The town of Alhaurin, and several villages in the vicinity of the Sierra
Bermeja were likewise in arms, and the rebellion seemed rapidly to
extend throughout the whole of the surrounding country.
The rage of the Christians on receiving this intelligence was greatly
increased by the insolent carriage of their fellow-citizens of the
Mahomedan creed. Indeed, they evinced, in the triumph of their demeanor,
the workings of smothered hatred, that only waited an opportunity to
explode. Granada itself would have become a scene of tumult and
bloodshed, had not Count de Tendilla speedily resorted to measures of
precaution to insure public tranquillity. Various bands of veteran
soldiers patrolled the streets, where the confused murmur of discontent,
or the whispering group of sedition, was heard on all sides.
The queen was highly incensed at this fresh instance of the refractory
and turbulent disposition of her new subjects. Her former edicts were
again proclaimed through the city, not only against the aiders and
abettors of the rebels, but even against such as should hold communion
with them, howsoever slight or incidental.
The indignation of Alonso de Aguilar was strongly depicted on his noble
and manly features, when in the presence of the assembled court he
grasped the standard of the cross, and in a tone of resolution and
enthusiasm--
"By the holy sign on this banner," he cried, "and by all the honors of
my house, I swear not to return to Granada until this accursed rebellion
is rooted out, and the promoters brought to punishment. Ere this month
be past, El Feri de Benastepar, or Don Alonso de Aguilar, shall be
numbered with the dead."
A shout of enthusiasm answered the noble sentiments of the warrior,
whilst the queen issued orders that the next day all disposable forces
should depart for the Sierra Bermeja, under the command of Aguilar, his
son, Count de Urena and Don Antonio de Leyva. The troops of Jaen and all
Castile were likewise ordered to hold themselves in readiness to march
under the Alcayde de los Donceles and Count de Cifuentes.
Gomez Arias seized with avidity the opportunity which fortune thus
offered him to signalize himself, and found stronger claims to the
esteem and regard of his sovereign, on whose features he had lately
observed a degree of coldness which little accorded with her former
cordiality. He did not regret his being excluded from the number of
chiefs under Aguilar, though his pride might feel a temporary wound. For
he considered that his reputation would not be materially increased
whilst acting in subordination to such a chief as Aguilar. His gigantic
fame would engross almost all the glory, and its splendour would
naturally throw into shade the lesser stars of his unequal rivals. He
rejoiced, therefore, that his exertions were unfettered by a superior,
and his ardent and ambitious mind soon worked out a plan of operations
against a quarter of the revolted territory which had been neglected in
the hasty dispositions already made.
He now boldly sought the presence of the queen, and requested her
authority to embody a division to act under his command, a boon which
his reputation as a soldier fully justified him in demanding. Isabella,
to whom Don Lope's courtly manners and gallant bearing had always been
pleasing, was happy to afford him an opportunity of distinguishing
himself, and the cloud that obscured her brow was soon dispelled by a
gracious smile as she wished him success in his expedition. Indeed,
justice required that the request of Gomez Arias should not be denied,
for while most of the Spanish chiefs, his brothers in arms, were about
to share the dangers and glory of so honorable a war, it would have been
utterly inconsistent that Don Lope, who ranked amongst the foremost in
courage, should remain in obscurity.
Gomez Arias immediately made his arrangements with the usual ardour of
his character, stimulated by ambition and the desire of forcing upon
Leonor a conviction of his superior merits, by adding to his fame
without being indebted to the proud family of the Aguilars. He summoned
to his ranks all the friends over whom he possessed power, and the
retainers of various noble families with whom he was in alliance. But
these being volunteers, whom their zeal or hatred to the Moors had
instigated to take up arms, could not be put in a state to depart from
Granada with the regular army of Don Alonso de Aguilar.
The troops of this noble veteran were prepared to march. Previously,
however, to their departure from the city, they piously bent their
steps towards the cathedral, where divine service was performed with
great pomp, to propitiate heaven in favour of its servants. The
archbishop delivered an eloquent oration inculcating on the Christians
their duty, and the glory of their enterprize; pointing out fame and
honour to the survivors--an eternal crown to those who should fall in
defence of their country and religion. The banners of the army were then
blessed, and the various divisions directed their march towards the
gates of Elvira, by which they were to leave the city.
It was a clear and beautiful morning; no lowering cloud defaced the
serene brilliancy of the sky, and the sunbeams sporting on the polished
helmets and glittering trappings of the army, were reflected in a
thousand curious rays.
The trumpets, clarions, and other martial instruments, poured their
brazen voices in wild and animating strains, while the shouts of the
multitude, assembled to behold the departure of the Christian soldiers,
floated promiscuously along the air. The walls of the city were
thronged with spectators, whilst others, more active or more interested,
followed the army down the Vega. It was a scene at once splendid and
interesting, to behold the army marching gallantly to the field,
followed by a multitude all unanimous in imploring the benedictions of
heaven on their brave countrymen.
Amongst the dense crowd that gazed upon that martial array, what
passions were called forth--how many latent affections kindled--and what
sentiments of glory displayed! The magnificent pomp and the
spirit-stirring dignity of war, at the same time that it elevates the
soul to deeds of heroism, fails not to awaken in the breast a
corresponding sentiment of awe.--Alas! while the warrior, in all the
enthusiasm of courage and self-devotion, marches with eager strides to
the paths of victory, perhaps of death, how many tender hearts swell
high and beat fearfully for the dangers which they themselves cannot
perceive!
Amongst that overpowering multitude might be discerned the venerable
father, a lingering spark of noble fire still lurking in his dim eyes,
and his withering frame receiving new energies as he gazed on the
military display. A sigh of regret escapes him, for the perilous and
glorious scenes in which his age forbids him to bear a part. His
out-stretched palms are clasped in fervent orisons to heaven, not for
the safety of his child, but that his conduct in the field may be worthy
of a man and a Spaniard.
There was also the affectionate spouse contemplating the marching army
in silent sorrow; her eyes swimming in tears are intensely fixed on that
numerous mass of warlike spirits, where _one_, to her dearer than all
the world, was speeding from her side. On one arm some innocent,
perhaps, lay in sweet slumber, whilst another urchin, with years enough
to gaze with delight upon the glorious scene, evinces his pleasure at
the animating prospect, and with infantine exultation looks upwards to
his mother, wondering to see her bathed in sorrow, for to his
unconscious heart no cause is there for grief; and yet his tears flow
because his mother weeps.
Farther, perhaps, more lonely, on some high turret, on some distant
eminence, striving to hide her sorrows from the eye of the world, is
seen the trembling virgin, whose pure heart has received the first
impression of love, and whose charmed ear has listened with fondness to
the soft tale of promised bliss. Now, with restless and agitated glance,
she surveys the numerous host in the vain hope of distinguishing the
dear object of all her tenderest affections, torn from her arms to
exchange her smile for scenes of bloodshed and desolation. Alas! how
numerous and various are the fears that agitate her gentle breast! She
may never more see him: he may sleep his last sleep on the field of
horror; or he may return triumphant but false to his vows, with a proud
heart, to scorn the love of her who mourned for his absence.
But women, likewise, there might be seen more high-minded and more
heroic in their thoughts and feelings; some who, like Leonor de Aguilar,
offered their tears at the shrine of glory and patriotism, and who,
while they trembled for the life of the object of their affections, were
still more anxious for his honor; some, whose passion received a spark
of heavenly fire that elevated them above their kind, and who gloried in
the sight as they beheld their lovers marching onwards to fame and
victory.
Such scenes, such sensations, with others which as powerfully affect the
heart, but which the pen would vainly attempt to portray, are generally
attendant on a departing army. Fear, perhaps, holds its dominion in the
breasts of the many and interesting beings who are left behind; but hope
steals gently forward, and gilds with its bright illusion the most
fearful anticipations.
Meantime the soldier marches on gaily and reckless, and with a light
heart he takes his farewell of those whom he is, perhaps, doomed never
more to behold; and the tears that accompany his departure, tears of
sympathy and affection, will soon, alas! be changed for the bitter drops
of grief and despair.
CHAPTER III.
_Mer._ Ce sont la de mes moindres coups,
De petits souflets ordinaires.
_Sos._ Si j'etois aussi prompt que vous,
Nous ferions de belles affaires.
_Moliere._
No nos rompas la cabeza
Hombre----Pero Ay Dios mio!
Pored un freno a mi lengua;
Y ojala que esta no fuese
La menor de mis flaquezas.
_Cruz._
"_Valga me el cielo!_" exclaimed Roque, "Oh Maria, oh Rufa! Oh Rufa, oh
Maria! nearly a week have I been with you, and yet I cannot, for the
soul of me, believe what I see. There must be witchcraft in this; to
find the old crony of my late mother, _que en paz descanse_![43] to find
Maria Rufa, whom I had supposed dead, and her soul dwelling with the
saints, amongst the rebels--amongst the Moors I mean, and herself a
Moor: well, nothing shall make me wonder for the future."
Such were the words that our reader's friend Roque addressed to dame
Aboukar, as they were advancing toward the town of Alhaurin in a
cavalcade, of which they made a part. The venerable and sour spouse of
the ex-master of the household, was rather nettled at the valet's
impertinent freedom: he had been during the way most assiduous in
favouring her with the benefit of his remarks, which he happened to
convey with such an extraordinary licence of tongue, that the dame's
patience, which it is believed was not of the most enduring kind, at
last became completely exhausted. With much tartness and asperity,
therefore, in a discordant voice, she exclaimed, "Out upon thee, most
saucy and ungracious varlet; curb that licence of tongue, and learn to
behave in a proper manner to thy elders and betters."
"Sweet dame," quoth the valet, "I do not by any means desire to dispute
that first quality; you are certainly my elder by some good thirty
years; but at the same time, most matronly and venerable Marien, I beg
leave to differ in opinion on the second part of your assertion."
Then, as if afraid of being overheard, he muttered, in an under tone, "I
am a good Christian and ever was."
This observation did not escape Marien Rufa, who heaved a deep sigh, and
cast on Roque a look of mingled shame and resentment. She felt sorely
the rebuke, but notwithstanding the valet's impertinence, the friendship
she had entertained for his mother induced her to consider him with some
degree of interest, and prevented her from discharging on him the whole
weight of her indignation.
"Roque, Roque," she observed with sourness of aspect, "methinks you
ought not to be so enamoured of the sound of your own voice, for that
most unfortunate propensity to prating has brought you to the present
pass: remember that it was on account of your growing sententious, that
your master so unceremoniously dispensed with your services."
"Well," pertly cried Roque, "I suffer for having spoken truth, and I
glory in what I have done. By all the saints, since I reflect on the
flagrant injustice of Don Lope's conduct, and am become a martyr to my
rectitude and compassion, I find that I am endowed with a degree of
courage and resolution of which I was far from imagining that I was
possessed. And now," he added, drawing near the dame, "now will you
condescend to favour me with the particulars of your apostacy from our
holy religion. What, in the name of infatuation, could entice you to
take a step so detrimental to the interests of your soul? _Virgen
Santa!_ once no one was to be found more assiduous at the ceremonies of
our religion; you were in very troth the most devout _beata_[44] of the
whole parish, and now here's a change, in the name of _Satanas_! Oh,
Maria Rufa, you have surely been bewitched."
"Alas!" cried the crone, ludicrously rolling her eyes in attempting the
pathetic, "you say right, Roque; I was verily bewitched."
"_Santa Barbara!_" exclaimed Roque crossing himself, "and by whom were
you bewitched?"
"By that most powerful tyrant."
"What tyrant?" demanded Roque, drawing closer, and casting a suspicious
glance around. "What tyrant, Rufa?"
"Guess, Roque, and spare my confusion."
"Spare my guessing," returned the valet, "and with respect to your
confusion, I dare say it will not overwhelm you. Now, tell me the name
of the terrible tyrant."
"Love," replied Marien Rufa, affecting much disorder.
Roque forthwith burst into an immoderate fit of laughter that startled
the cavalcade.
"Love! the Lord defend us!--how could such a guest enter so homely an
habitation! Love! here's a pretty object for Cupid to exercise his
pranks upon. Now, I do verily believe there is witchcraft in the tender
passion. _Miserere! Miserere!_ and who was the happy mortal attracted by
your matured charms?--whence came the man blessed with the good taste
necessary to set a just value on your miraculous attractions? That most
beautiful elongated chin--that capacious mouth--those lack-lustre eyes,
and shrivelled complexion--that most polite and well-educated nose,
which is continually bowing to the neighbouring chin; in fine, those
long shaggy tresses of hair, which, if we must judge by their
consistency, bespeak thee endowed with the strength of Sampson."
Scarcely had Roque made a stop in his harangue, in order to take breath,
than Marien Rufa, exasperated beyond bearing at the caricature he was
drawing, with a wonderful alacrity lifted her clenched hand, and dealt
the facetious valet such a tremendous blow on the ear, that he fell
stunned from the donkey which he bestrode, and lighted on the ground
with such violence that the whole place rung with the noise.
"There," cried the hag, "there's a convincing proof that my hair has not
imposed on your credulity with regard to my strength."
Roque was completely reclaimed from his waggishness by the unexpected
visitation of the Sampsonic fist, and for some time utterly forgot the
use of his tongue. The notice of the whole cavalcade was attracted by
the mishap of the luckless valet, and the energetic exclamation of dame
Aboukar. The Moors that served as escort were seized with a fit of
wondering mirth, and even the renegade, who was the chief of the party,
spite of his habitual sternness, relaxed his rigid features into
something like a smile. The tenant of a litter that was carried in
advance likewise stopped to inquire into the reason of the commotion.
"Roque, what is the matter," demanded Theodora (for she was indeed that
lady), when she perceived the valet rising from the ground in the
greatest confusion.
"Nothing, my lady:" answered Roque, wofully; "the Lord defend us, but
we have in our party a devil incarnate, under the semblance of a woman.
Good heavens! here's such a concert ringing in the side of my head--such
a hissing and whizzing never did I hear. O, Maria Rufa!" he then
proceeded, in a humble tone, "what a flame you have imparted to my poor
face! If it is a sample of your amorous fires, I am amazed you are not
actually reduced to cinders!"
"That will teach you," said Maria Rufa, pacified, "to put a proper
restraint on your froward tongue."
Roque for some time after kept a profound silence, for though he
affected to treat the matter with jocose indifference, yet he was in no
manner satisfied with the mirth and merry sayings which his adventure
had occasioned. At length, however, his curiosity prevailed, and almost
forgetting his recent disgrace, he again in a friendly manner accosted
the Amazon.
"Now, Rufa," he said, "I hope you entertain no rancour against me for
what has passed?"
"By no means, good Roque," answered the hag grinning, "I am perfectly
satisfied, and I hope you are the same."
"Quite," returned the valet, "quite; so let us say no more about it, but
rather tell me, if no ways disagreeable, the origin, progress, and final
results of your passion."
"Alas! Roque," replied the old sybil, "it was unfortunate in its
results."
And she heaved a profound sigh, whilst Roque, in most sympathetic
unison, uttered a dismal groan.
"Console yourself," he said, "with the reflection that your case is
pretty general in this sinful world. But what is the name of the amiable
barbarian, the sweet monster, the bewitching, yet cruel oppressor, that
excited the tender sentiments of your virgin heart, and turned you from
the true faith."
"What! you are yet unacquainted with my husband?"
"Husband!" ejaculated Roque, "so there was a husband in the case! Oh,
then I am not surprised."
"He treats me like a brute, as he is."
"Indeed! that is astonishing," cried Roque, "wonderfully astonishing,
considering the means you have in your power of enforcing proper
behaviour on the unruly. And pray what is the name of your brute?"
"You might have perceived it before: it is Aboukar."
"Aboukar!" exclaimed Roque; "Now, indeed, my wonder ceases--Aboukar! Oh
the sweet creature! with his pretty lobster eyes, and most awful and
portentous proboscis, which seems for all the world like a fine ripe
tomato displayed on a copper platter."
But here Roque thought it prudent to make a retrograde motion, as he
looked at the masculine arm of the dame, and remembered the little
relish she had evinced for his talent of drawing portraits, and the
manner in which she remunerated the artist.
"So Aboukar is your husband!"
"Alas! yes," answered the ancient, "we have been married now these five
years."
"_Valgame San Roque!_" cried his namesake. "What a dull dog have I
been!--five years married--certainly I ought to have discovered that
long ago by his treatment."
"Treatment!" re-echoed Marien Rufa, a little incensed, "What treatment?"
"Oh! I mean no harm," replied Roque, "conjugal treatment, that is all."
"Roque," resumed the crone, modulating her croaking voice to something
like a human sound, "Roque!" and she suddenly stopt, and looked the
valet steadfastly in the face. "Well?" said Roque, surprised at the
pomposity of her manner.
"Roque, my child, are you a kind and compassionate soul--a thorough good
Christian?"
"A very good Christian," responded Roque, "though a humble sinner. But
methinks such a question comes with ill grace from the mouth of a
renegade."
"I will confide in thee, Roque," returned Marien Rufa, "I am an
unfortunate woman, and alas! might I hope that my repentance were not
too late? Roque, thinkest thou that there is truly a hell as terrible as
it is depicted?"
"Worse, worse, a thousand times worse," replied Roque. "All the torments
which you may have suffered in the company of---- But do you allow me to
abuse your husband safely?"
"As much as you please," answered the gentle spouse.
"Well," resumed Roque, "all the torments which that most abominable,
ugly scarecrow of a rascally unbeliever has made you endure, are nothing
in comparison to the tortures you are doomed to suffer when you are
compelled to leave that miserable carcase, and that time you must be
aware cannot be far off. Then consider what a life you will lead in
those dark regions, where, by the bye, you will be eternally tormented
with the sight and company of your ungracious consort."
"I am sensible of my errors, but if I have sought your confidence, it
was with the view of exciting your compassion, not your reproaches."
But Roque had insensibly got into a very oratorical mood, and, without
heeding the hag's remonstrances, proceeded:--
"Now, Rufa, consider for a moment, who but the devil could tempt a
matron full half a century old, without a sound tooth in her head, the
head itself being unsound, to look kindly on the most perfect sample of
ugliness, and a ruffian Moor to boot: this is enough to make you despair
of salvation--But no, the blessed Virgin forbid! I think, and charitably
hope, that by a vigorous course of penance, and wholesome castigation,
properly and soundly administered, by a frequent use of discipline,
constant fasts, devout prayer, donations to the poor, of whom I am one,
and the like pious exercises, I really think your sinful soul may be
snatched from the perdition to which it has been brought by that
infernal Aboukar, your most confounded lord and master; therefore--"
"Roque," interrupted ruefully Marien Rufa, "whether you are in right
earnest or only playing the fool with me, I cannot determine; but my
situation is such as to deserve the pity of every good Christian."
Roque had, indeed, a peculiar inclination to a ludicrous banter, even
when dwelling on the gravest subjects, which might put on his guard a
person of quicker intellects than the dame of Aboukar.
"Rufa," he said, "pardon me if, in my admonitions, I cannot impart to
your troubled spirit that unction which becomes the important subject
that dictates them. Now, provided you will tell me the manner in which
you intend to proceed, perhaps I may be able to help you with my good
advice."
"Well, child," replied Marien Rufa, "I wish heartily to be reconciled to
the church, and for this purpose we must contrive to fly from these
accursed Moors."
"Very well," replied Roque, "so, you are resolved to abandon your
matrimonial misery?"
"Oh, yes, Roque," retorted Rufa, "my conversion is very sincere; I have
so many motives to quit the wretch. Oh, he is indeed a barbarian!
Think, Roque, such a sweet partner as I have been to him, and now to
neglect me for a little Moorish hussey not worth a _maravedi_. Oh, the
faithless Aboukar--the wicked man! Yes, Roque, I wish as soon as
possible to be reconciled to the church."
Roque, though far from being a deep divine, could not but significantly
shake his head, when he perceived the motives that brought about the
conversion of the apostate love-smitten dame. However, the idea of
flying from the Moors very much tickled his fancy, and he was determined
to adopt the step, provided it could be carried into effect without any
great risk to his precious person, and that his mistress Theodora should
be a partner in the flight.
Thus he was indulging in the most agreeable reverie, when his fair
penitent disturbed him by uttering a most discordant sound, which the
valet soon perceived to be a failure in the imitation of a groan. The
eyes of the hag exhibited terrible signs of displeasure, as she turned
round to some object that called her attention, while writhing her
uncouth features into a most diabolical grimace. She thundered out an
oath which made Roque invoke _Santa Maria_; but he was not a little
scandalized when he discovered that the occasion of the hag's
indignation was her frolicsome husband, who, without the least regard to
her presence, was carrying on, in the presence of his wife, a little
coquetry with a Moorish girl.
"There," cried the ill-treated spouse, "there is a traitor--how I could
belabour the barbarian, and pluck that vile creature's eyes out! Oh,
Roque! I have been a sad sinner, and I fervently desire to be reconciled
to the church."
"Well, well," said Roque, "but first tell me on what foundation do you
build hopes of an escape. We are, that is my mistress and myself, so
narrowly watched, that it will be no easy task to evade the vigilance of
our guards. It is true that by the interference of the renegade I am
allowed a free access to Theodora, and the lady herself is treated with
much courtesy; but at the same time I have observed that some cursed
Moor or other is constantly watching our motions. Moreover, good dame, I
must undeceive you, should you have relied on my courage for some
desperate plan. I will not fight a single Moor. My humility will not
permit me to exercise a business for which I consider myself utterly
unfit, both for want of practice and natural inclination."
"No, child," replied the crone with a sneer, "I was never foolish enough
to place any great hopes on your bravery; but I trust we shall find
means to forward our plans without such assistance. To me," she then
added, "all the secrets of the Moors are known, for they consider me too
much interested in their cause to doubt my fidelity. Don Alonso de
Aguilar is rapidly advancing against El Feri and should he succeed in
his expedition against _Sierra Bermeja_, as it is more than probable he
will, Caneri, Mohabed, and the other chiefs will not be able to
withstand the forces which are already sent against them. We must take
advantage of the confusion to escape, lest they should carry us with
them to Africa."
"_Cuerpo de Cristo!_" cried Roque, "and is that all your wise head can
devise? Well, I hope you are not overpowered after such an effort of
imagination; but really I cannot give you credit for the contrivance."
They were now entering Alhaurin, where Caneri had preceded them two or
three days before, and they halted at the entrance of a large mansion,
which appeared, by the guards patrolling in front, to be the abode of
the chief. Meantime the renegade helped Theodora out of her conveyance,
and led her to the apartments allotted to her use. She was no longer a
prey to the frenzied passions that had so long stormed her breast. The
keen intensity of affliction, insulted and indignant pride, were now
lost in the gloomy resignation and cold apathy to which they had given
place. The severe trials she had undergone had impaired the beauties of
her person, and poisoned her warm and generous feelings, but still
Theodora was lovely and interesting. She had lost the brilliant beauty
of a girl blooming with youth and happiness, but she had acquired the
chaste graces and loveliness of sorrow. Alas! even in those sad
memorials of fading beauty, enough yet remained to make her an object of
interest, and keep alive the passion which Caneri had conceived. The
load of grief and despair which had weighed her down at the last proof
of her lover's treachery, was succeeded by a mood of deadened
resignation. This calm, however, appeared presageful of some dire
intent, and accordingly, for the first two or three days, she had not
been left a moment alone, and every instrument of death had been
carefully removed from her reach. The attentive services of Roque partly
reconciled her to her dreadful situation; for it is consoling, even in
the lowest depths of affliction, to meet with _one_ sympathising being,
however humble his station, however weak and limited his means to
afford comfort and redress. In the midst of her barbarous enemies, she
was permitted the attendance of a Christian, and this circumstance,
trifling as it was, imparted some solace to her oppressed spirit.
Besides, Caneri had abstained from importuning her with his loathsome
protestations of love. This forbearance of the Moor arose from the
renegade having stipulated, that in engaging the affections of Theodora,
he should resort to no violence in her present sorrowful condition.
Thus Caneri had limited his addresses to a bare manifestation of
respectful regard, foreign indeed to his nature, and borrowed only from
the necessity of acquiescing with the wishes of the renegade, who had
boldly declared he would oppose any violence employed against Theodora.
This favorable disposition of the renegade was a source of astonishment
to the object of his solicitude, for she could not forget that he had
been the principal agent in the completion of her misery. Did Bermudo
intend by these seeming kind offices to secure the prey to himself? or
was it really a sentiment of pity that impelled him to the
manifestation of this solicitude? Could heavenly pity dwell in that
darksome abode, where the most fiendish passions kept a constant
habitation? How were such opposite guests to be reconciled?
These surmises kept the mind of Theodora in a state of continual
excitement, but as day after day passed, and the renegade, instead of
exhibiting the least mark of enamoured sentiments, seemed to grow more
respectful in his attention, those doubts began to wear away, and
Theodora concluded that some mystery enveloped his proceedings, which
she was unable to unravel, and which time alone could clear up.
In pursuance of the injunctions of El Feri, his brother chief, Caneri,
had established his head quarters at Alhaurin, where his party was daily
increasing by the Moors who came to join his standard. Caneri himself
had arrived three days before, having left to the renegade the charge of
Theodora, who could not be supposed to travel with equal expedition.
Bermudo, therefore, with a few resolute Moors of his band, and the other
personages of whom mention has been made in the former part of this
chapter, constituted the cavalcade that now entered the busy and
thronged streets of Alhaurin, where the ferment occasioned by fresh and
numerous arrivals, plainly manifested the rapid progress of the
insurrection.
CHAPTER IV.
Some good I mean to do,
Despight of my own nature.
_Shakespeare_.
_Ser._ No hay quien socorra, quien valga
A una muger infelice?
_Fel._ Si, que decir muger basta,
Quando infeliz no dixera.
_Calderon_.
The air of dignity and importance which Caneri had resumed with his
change of fortune, was displayed to an extent that might render him
extravagantly ridiculous in the judgment of any sober individual. He
already considered himself a sovereign firmly established on his throne,
and he took no precaution to disguise the impulses of his over-bearing
vanity and despotic character. Thus, while he was apparently serving
the cause of independence, he afforded an opportunity to his enemies of
truly estimating the purity of his intentions.
Caneri paid a visit to Theodora immediately upon her arrival; but,
according to the agreement with the renegade, he limited his attentions
to the mere phrases of gallantry and courtly good nature. This
ostentatious shew of civility, however, did not arise from a generous
disposition, but merely constrained necessity. The renegade was
continually present to his thoughts, and though his superior in command
he was forced involuntarily to yield that tribute of respect, which
resolution and courage are sure to exact from the feeble, however humble
the situation in which their possessor may be placed. Besides this,
though his passion for the fair Christian had not abated, his heart was
now too much engrossed with objects highly gratifying to his vanity and
pride, to suffer the charms of a captive to rule there with undisputed
and despotic sway. His visits, therefore, were short, and he soon left
Theodora to the undisturbed possession of her own thoughts. She no
longer exhibited those signs of exquisite anguish or passionate
delirium. Keen and protracted suffering had rendered her in some measure
callous to the stings of sorrow. Musing melancholy and listlessness as
to her fate disputed alternately the possession of that heart, once so
fruitful in every tender feeling, in all the genuine virtues of female
loveliness and merit. But, alas! the situation of the unhappy Theodora
was, indeed, more distressing than heretofore. Hope now no longer
illumined her heart; amidst the darkness which had over-clouded her
imagination, no cheering light shone upon her path to lead her from
misery. But the dereliction of hope is not the worst enemy of virtuous
woman. No, it is the loss of salutary fear, and Theodora was nearly
sinking into that lamentable state of indifference which generally
succeeds the extinction of youthful hope and affection. Every thing
seemed to conspire against Theodora. The secluded and retired nature of
her education, and the tenderness of her age deprived her of those
auxiliaries to combat her present state, which a woman of greater
knowledge of the world, and more advanced in years, would gather from
these very circumstances.
Roque had, by order of Caneri, a free access to Theodora, and he took
special care frequently to profit by the permission granted. This was
some solace for the unfortunate girl; the interviews with the valet
diverted her thoughts by the lively, though ludicrous, pictures which he
drew of their future release from their present thraldom. The very night
of their arrival at Alhaurin, Roque was giving to his mistress a
circumstantial account of his conversation with Marien Rufa, when the
door of the apartment swung open, and the renegade boldly entered
without any previous announcement. His sudden appearance caused the
greatest perturbation and alarm, both to Roque and his mistress. The
unseasonable hour of the visit, and the interest evinced by the renegade
towards Theodora, were naturally indicative of some sinister intention.
Theodora, however, recovering from her first surprise, involuntarily
drew back as Bermudo advanced. Meanwhile Roque was at a loss what to
think or to do; the flutter of his whole person plainly indicated how
ill at ease he was with himself. He looked at his mistress, and
perceiving her emotion, felt more afraid, though on what account he was
perfectly unconscious. But Roque was not long suffered to remain in
uncertainty with respect to his own feelings. Bermudo, with a most
haughty demeanor, made a sign to the valet to quit the place, and as
Roque deliberated between regard for his mistress and dread for his own
dear self, the renegade, to bring about a final determination, laid his
hand on his weapon, an argument which completely set at rest the valet's
doubts, and convinced him of the necessity of a speedy retreat.
Theodora perceiving how easily Bermudo had succeeded in convincing
Roque, and knowing the obsequious manner in which the valet acted when
such sort of conviction was forced upon him, deeply felt the danger of
her situation, if abandoned by the only being who might interest himself
in her fate.
"Oh! Roque, do not leave me," she pathetically exclaimed; "stay--I
cannot remain alone with this dark, this terrible man."
Roque cast a melancholy look on his mistress; her piteous appeal went to
his heart, but a terrible glance from the renegade seemed to make still
stronger impression, for he quickly resumed his retrograde motion.
"He must be gone," said Bermudo resolutely, waving his hand in a most
expressive manner, which considerably tended to expedite the valet's
exit.
He retired, therefore, and Theodora no sooner found herself deprived of
this last frail protection, than with an assumption of fierce dignity:--
"Renegade!" she cried, "what means this intrusion? Were then all thy
former marks of regard but the insidious means to cover the real
intentions of a miscreant heart? Away!--begone!--I will alarm the
place,--yes, I will call on the protection of Caneri himself, for odious
as he is to my eyes, I can never look upon him with the same degree of
abhorrence and contempt as I do on a renegade to his faith, a traitor to
his country, and the vile minister to a despot's pleasures."
Bermudo heard these bold and severe rebukes without attempting an
interruption. Calm and unmoved he suffered the first ebullition of
resentment to evaporate, and for some time deigned to make no other
reply than a bitter smile of disdain.
At length he broke that dismal pause, and in a slow and deep toned
voice:--
"Woman," he said, "thy taunts I will not resent, for partly they are
just, and the rest I excuse in consideration of thy forlorn state, and
the many sufferings thou hast undergone."
"Oh!" cried Theodora, with a sad smile, "It well becomes you to condole
for misfortunes to which you have so largely contributed;--approach me
not--begone--I cannot trust a traitor; there is guile and malice in the
very proffer of thy kindness;--hence,--or----"
"Hush, lady," interposed the renegade, with indignant pride, "you surely
mistake my character. Threats and fears are strangers to this heart.
Nay, when it is in some weak moments attuned to virtue, a threat, a
solitary threat would banish hence the heavenly inspiration, and the
fiend again triumph in its natural dwelling. Therefore, lady, threat me
not, for the man is inaccessible to fear, who, like myself, is a beggar
in happiness. Rest, lady, rest, and do not by an imprudent act, neglect
the opportunity which fortune affords you of escaping the fate with
which you are threatened."
There was an air of sullen yet dignified composure on the renegade, as
he delivered these words, and Theodora, in spite of her apprehension,
was for some time rivetted to the spot, waiting the disclosures of the
fearful man.
"I do not pretend," he proceeded, "to command your implicit confidence;
I only counsel you to rely on your own judgment and discretion. My
character you have drawn in colours dark and glowing, but, perhaps, too
true. Yet I must correct an erroneous impression under which you labour;
'tis true I am an apostate--a traitor--and if in the catalogue of
accursed crimes, there is a name still more horrid and abhorred, I claim
it; but to be subservient to the pleasure of a despot--no, no, you must
know me better. No," he added with warmth, "my deeds have been dark, but
not dastardly or contemptible; I have drunk deep the cup of crime--yes,
I have quaffed it with avidity, but my palate has always been nice
enough to scorn the dregs. Had any other than a woman dared to give
utterance to the base thought, ere this he would have added one more to
the list of those who have fallen by this arm. You are a woman, and a
woman in distress; the only consideration that could have restrained my
indignation for such an insult."
"What then wouldst thou with me?" demanded Theodora, somewhat reassured
by his words and manner.
"To befriend you, not to harm you, for I war not with women; the
solitary being that showed the feelings of humanity towards Bermudo
belonged to womankind, and the recollection of her virtues and her love
for me, would secure her whole sex from the effects of my wrath."
Theodora was struck with this asseveration. She could not reconcile
these symptoms of feeling with his previous acts, and his acknowledged
character for crime.
"Theodora," resumed the renegade, and his austerity of tone and manner
seemed momentarily to acquire a tint of softness uncongenial with his
habitual nature; "Theodora, I am a man of guilt; yea, one who plays his
part in this detested world without a feeling of remorse--but I cannot
harm a woman--and you less than any other of your sex. _She_, like you,
was innocent and beautiful--like you, unfortunate--like _you_," he
added, with agitation, "like you, the victim of Gomez Arias."
"Heavens!" exclaimed Theodora, "what mystery is this? Oh, speak! I am
already but too low sunk in misery, and yet I fain would learn the full
measure of the crimes of him who has undone me."
"It would be a difficult," replied the renegade, "an endless task, to
satisfy your desire; but you may, perhaps, from your own experience,
draw a just inference of his conduct to others. Beauty, innocence, and
youth, and unlimited affection, could not save you from his barbarous
acts; the rule has been the same for those who like you had charms to
captivate his attention, and an unsuspicious, a genuine heart to inhale
the poison of his persuasive tongue. But still the fate of poor Anselma
surpassed in horror her many rivals in misfortune."
"He loved her once," said Theodora despondingly, "and then forsook her,
like me."
"He loved her," darkly returned Bermudo, "with the affection of one, who
centres his whole bliss only in the enjoyment of his selfish and
degenerate passion. But she spurned him; stratagem and force prevailed.
Madness--despair--must I say it? death ensued. Enough--the circumstances
of the horrid tale 'tis needless to relate: I have said thus much to
convince you of the impossibility of my harming a woman whose fate bears
so strong a resemblance to that of my own unfortunate Anselma. Dispel
then your apprehensions, and look upon me _now_ not as a foe, but as
your sole friend and protector."
Theodora gazed on the renegade with mute amazement; the professions of
her lover, and his base desertion, had taught her mistrust: her heart
was no longer ready to believe any pleasing tale, to welcome every
protestation of regard. It was by trusting too implicitly to her
feelings that her ruin had been accomplished, and even in her present
abandonment she considered those feelings as premeditating another
treason. Yet, when she beheld the composure of the renegade, when she
recalled to mind that not even a word had escaped him that could be
distrusted, she was persuaded to listen to his proposals, if not totally
to abide their results. The renegade perceived the state of her mind,
and hastened to hush the whispers of suspicion.
"Think you," said he with firmness, "think you that I deceive
you?--abandon such a thought; for learn that should I be tempted to harm
you, the only object of my life would be blasted; trust then my
interest, if you cannot trust my honor. I came to render you a service,
which must be reciprocal. Nay, start not; you may well marvel what
affinity there can be between an unfortunate and helpless female, and an
outcast like myself; yet this seeming anomaly exists--we are drawn
together by the most powerful ties that can bind one fellow-creature to
another: for we are linked by those of misfortune, and misfortune
wrought by the same individual."
"And yet," cried Theodora, "despite of your enmity to the barbarous,
unfeeling man, you strenuously seconded his plans; had you not aided
him, I should not have been here."
"Perhaps not," replied the renegade, preserving an unalterable
composure; "but where would you have been? Have you reflected well on
your helpless situation, and the character of the foul betrayer. Ah!
call to your memory the last scene of his desertion, and judge by his
behaviour then, of what he might have been capable, in order to remove
from his path the unfortunate obstacle that impeded his ambitious and
criminal career."