Granada, lately the seat of mourning, was again converted into a scene

of indiscriminate joy. The recent victory obtained by Gomez Arias, and

the defeat of Caneri which had so closely followed that advantage, awoke

the most pleasing sentiments in the minds of the inhabitants. They

almost considered the rebellion as at an end, assured by the late

successes, and awaited with impatience the triumphant entry of Gomez

Arias and his conquering band, now rapidly approaching towards the city.

The court was assembled, and displayed the heroic Isabella in all the

insignia of royalty. Surrounded by all the principal personages in

Spain, she awaited the arrival of the victor, anxious to offer him her

congratulations and to bestow upon him adequate marks of her royal

favor.

The grand saloon of the Alhambra, where formerly the Moorish sovereigns

dictated their laws, now afforded a different, though no less striking

display. The dazzling glitter of armour and the sumptuousness of

official dresses, blended with the gay and richly ornamented attires of

the ladies of the court, presented a picture at once beautiful and

imposing.

At this moment a rumour was heard at the extremity of the long hall. It

proceeded from the guards, who appeared anxious to deny admittance to

some person who, with a feeble though piercing voice, was heard

continually to exclaim--

"Justice! I come to the Queen! Justice! She cannot deny it to an

unfortunate noble!"

The queen was moved by the appeal, and ordered that the supplicant

should be admitted without delay. Scarcely were her commands obeyed,

when a venerable old man, in sable robes, and bearing on his countenance

deep traces of grief, slowly and solemnly advanced towards the throne of

the queen. He supported, or rather was supported, by a young female,

likewise in mourning, and wearing a veil, which reached almost to the

ground, thus concealing her beauties and her sorrows from the curious

gaze of the spectators. Two other figures followed closely, a man of

strong athletic proportions in a Moorish garb, and a thin

curious-looking individual, apparently of inferior station.

Solemn silence prevailed, and every one seemed anxious to learn the

cause of this extraordinary appeal. But when the stranger reached the

throne he was immediately recognised by the queen and several of the

nobles, who could not conceal their astonishment at the sight.

"Monteblanco!" involuntarily and simultaneously escaped from several

voices in the some breath.

"Yes," replied he, kneeling with his daughter at the foot of the throne;

"the wretched Monteblanco comes humbly to crave justice from his

sovereign. Before his grey hairs descend with sorrow into the tomb, he

collects his weak remaining strength to seek redress from the powerful,

and to interest in his behalf the feelings of all the noble and

generous. Pardon, most noble and gracious Queen--" he then added,

addressing Isabella, "Pardon, if I come in a day of glory and jubilee,

to damp with the tale of woe the joy that reigns around. But behold the

picture of an aged father, wounded and insulted in his best

affections--a noble family dishonoured--the only scion of that family

reduced to the lowest state of obloquy and shame. Such a picture may

well call the attention of the just, even from objects of dazzling

interest. Yes, I may be pardoned for intruding my misfortunes on my

Queen--my generous Queen, from whom alone I can expect redress."

"You shall not demand it in vain," replied the queen; "all times are

sacred to the solemn appeal of justice, and in the court of Isabella,

every other consideration shall be postponed to satisfy its demands.

Monteblanco, you have been guilty of no intrusion; speak

confidently--unfold the particulars of your grievances, and trust that

nought on earth shall induce the Queen to deviate a single step from the

sacred path of justice."

"Gracious Queen!" cried Monteblanco, "that hope has been my sole

inducement to prolong my miserable existence. I am injured deeply;

injured in the dearest feeling of a nobleman and a Spaniard. The honors

of my family, gained by a long line of illustrious ancestors, have been

foully tarnished by one who calls himself noble and a Spaniard, but who

is alike unworthy to rank as either. I will not enumerate the services

of the Monteblancos to interest our Queen in behalf of their affronted

house; still, whilst the lustre of their name is on the point of being

extinguished, it may be permitted to the last remaining but withered

branch of that noble tree, once again to speak of those who are alas!

now no more. Oh, Isabella, I had five sons; all--all deserving of the

name they bore. Bravely they fought against the Moors, and gloriously

they fell before the walls of this city, in the sacred cause of their

religion and country. I was left desolate with this only frail but dear

support of my declining age."

He cast a piteous look on Theodora, and then continued. "The fate of my

sons might draw tears from the eyes of a father; but those tears were

unmingled with the bitterness of shame. With pride I remembered that my

boys died for their country. Heaven! could I then surmise that in my

unfortunate daughter all the former glory so dearly earned should be

degraded! Could I ever anticipate that the day should come when the

noble fate of my sons would be to me a subject of regret! I am now

reduced to envy my country those lives which might now stand forward to

avenge the honor of their house. My daughter, blessed with innocence and

beauty, gentle and kind in her nature, was the only solace of my

declining years--the only sweet and blooming flower that still grew

smiling beside the parent stem. Yet of this, my only remaining comfort,

I was treacherously and cruelly deprived. A ruffian, honored far beyond

his deserts, and rich in the plenitude of power, envied me this solitary

consolation. My unfortunate daughter was seduced from her home! Oh

heaven! that a Monteblanco should be reduced to confess his shame! She

was seduced from the fond arms of her parent under the most sacred

promises, and then, in violation of his plighted honor, the miscreant

cast her aside to wither in neglect and obscurity. But it was necessary

that the most atrocious example of barbarity should accompany his base

desertion. In the arms of sleep, the hapless victim was abandoned amidst

the wilderness of the Alpujarras. She fell into the power of the Moors,

from whom she experienced all the terrors which her forlorn situation

was naturally calculated to produce. Fortune threw her again in contact

with her betrayer, when the cold heartless ruffian, under the most

insidious promises of false repentance, drew her from the house of her

protector, that she might be no obstruction to his ambitious career. He

again delivered her to the power of the Moors, the rebels whose heads

were proscribed, and with whom the guilty man scrupled not to hold

communion, in open defiance of the repeated and solemnly promulgated

decree of your highness."

Here Monteblanco stopped, and a suppressed murmur of indignation ran

through the whole assembly.

"Such an example of depravity," continued the old man, "astonishes you,

but your wonder will be increased when you learn that the man who has so

disgracefully added treason to his crimes is one high in rank, great in

military renown, and honored by the favour of his sovereign."

"Those circumstances," cried the queen, "render his conduct doubly

criminal. Monteblanco, your wrongs shall be redressed. Let the guilt be

firmly established, and then, were the culprit the first man in the

kingdom, the support of my throne--nay," she added, rising in her

anger, "were he even of my own blood, he shall not be screened from the

rigour of the law." As she delivered these words a cloud of indignation

mantled on her brow, and her eyes shot the fire of insulted majesty as

she looked proudly on the surrounding nobles and warriors.

A pause ensued, and the splendid train that had assembled to celebrate a

victory, now gazed on each other in blank dismay, expecting to hear in

the name of the criminal one of their own friends or relatives.

"Pronounce the name of the traitor," cried the queen, "and if he be not

here already, he shall be summoned this very moment into our presence,

to answer these charges."

"His name is powerful," replied Monteblanco.

"Not more so than my will," nobly retorted Isabella.

At this moment a burst of popular applause announced the triumphant

entry of the victorious Spaniard, and the name of Gomez Arias, in the

wild strains of a grateful multitude, was repeated by a thousand voices.

"His name?" impatiently demanded the Queen.

_Viva!_ Gomez Arias, _Viva!_ again burst on the ears of the Court, and

Monteblanco, with bitter emphasis, exclaimed:--

"Hear! hear his name honored with the strains of triumph: hear the name

which causes my misery and dishonor, now receiving the glorious reward

of the hero! Oh, shame on my withered arm; where is the strength of my

youth; and where the sons of my name?"

"Gomez Arias!" cried the queen and the courtiers with one simultaneous

cry of amazement--"Gomez Arias!"

"'Tis he!" replied Monteblanco, firmly and indignantly.

A dismal silence then succeeded, and the emotion of the queen became

strongly apparent. She felt that, in the person of a triumphant

conqueror, she was about to receive a criminal, and that the reward due

to his services could not avert the punishment incurred by his guilt.

The surrounding courtiers stood aghast, gazing in wonder on the queen.

They were well assured of the rigid impartiality which had swayed her

conducts through life; and aware that not even all the powerful voices

in the country could successfully plead against the claims of the

unprotected, or stay the decree of justice upon the oppressor and the

criminal.

Meantime Gomez Arias, with all the exultation of a conquering warrior,

entered the hall, attended by his principal adherents, and preceded by

Mohabed and other captive chiefs. He advanced in joyful expectation

towards the throne, when suddenly his course was arrested by a dreadful

vision.

Fixed in mute astonishment, he stood, as he gazed upon the group, at the

foot of the throne; an ashy paleness succeeded the glowing tints of joy

yet visible on his countenance. His confusion became apparent, and was

productive of the most injurious surmises in the minds of all around.

Yet Gomez Arias raised his eyes towards his sovereign, but from her

features he could augur nothing favorable; no encouragement could be

traced in their calm and distant expression.

A consciousness of guilt now mastered all his powers of dissimulation,

and the nature of Gomez Arias seemed, in a few moments, to have

undergone a total and inexplicable revolution. His joyous attendants

were surprised at these unwonted signs of consternation; and the sounds

of pleasure and triumph suddenly ceased. A deadly spell seemed to have

been suddenly cast over the scene, and every one remained in a state of

terrible suspense. At length Gomez Arias, striving to conceal his

agitation with an assumption of boldness and ease that ill consorted

with his manner--"Most gracious Isabella," he cried, "behold the

rebellious Mohabed at your royal feet, and accept the humble

congratulations and devout attachment of your faithful servant."

"Don Lope Gomez Arias," answered the queen, with stern dignity of tone

and demeanor, "before we receive your congratulations, and acknowledge

your services--before we can consider you with the regard due to the

glorious character of a victorious soldier, you must remove certain

accusations which have this day been averred against you by the noble

and respected individual now before the throne. Answer these serious

charges before you claim a title to our gratitude and favor; for not all

the splendor of conquest shall throw a veil over flagrant guilt.

Approach, and behold those whom you have wronged--mark well the

situation to which you have reduced a noble family, and say, what you

can plead in justification."

Don Lope cast a glance on the group; but when he perceived his man,

Roque, whose presence deprived him of the little opportunity left for

prevarication, hope forsook him, and the presence of mind which had

served him on so many occasions proved utterly insufficient at this

critical moment. He foresaw that any attempt at exculpation would be as

fruitless as dangerous. He therefore continued in mute silence, and

appeared to plead guilty to the accusation. His countenance, however,

gradually cleared, as though a cheering ray had suddenly beamed upon

him. He seemed to adopt some resolution so imperiously demanded by

circumstances--he regained his composure; but a deep sigh escaped him;

it was the last testimony of regret that announced the disappointment of

his hopes. No alternative was left; he must relinquish all thoughts of

Leonor; and he accordingly attuned his mind to receive with deference

the commands which he awaited from the queen.

"Gomez Arias," said Isabella after a lapse of time, "that silence

clearly bespeaks thy conviction; the honor of a noble family has been

stained. It now remains for you to make all the reparation in your

power; and that must be done immediately; for I will not leave this

place, nor shall you leave my presence, till I see the victim of your

wantonness and cruelty restored to that honor and happiness of which she

has been deprived."

Gomez Arias heard these words with apparent respect and humility. Foiled

completely in his former hopes, he yet was willing to preserve the

favor of the queen, and to effect this it was necessary to deprecate the

indignation which his conduct had excited. He therefore assumed all the

symptoms of repentance, without any alloy of fear or servility, and

casting himself at the foot of the throne, "It would never," said he,

"be worthy of Gomez Arias to resist in any instance the will of his

sovereign; much less on an occasion when honor induces him to follow her

dictates."

"Pity," answered Isabella sarcastically, "that this consideration did

not sooner induce you to adopt such a course, for much misery had by

these means been prevented. But the evil is already done, and must be

instantly repaired.

"Don Lope Gomez Arias," she then proceeded, "This very moment you must

plight your hand and faith to Theodora de Monteblanco. You appear fully

sensible of the justice of such a measure, and therefore in my presence

let the ceremony be performed."

One of the chaplains of the queen was immediately summoned, and before

the assembled court, whose looks bespoke their astonishment at this

extraordinary scene, the unfortunate Theodora became the wife of Gomez

Arias. With trembling steps, and supported by her father, she advanced

to the foot of the throne. Don Lope approached her, not only without

symptoms of dislike, but even with some appearance of a kindly feeling,

the sincerity of which was however of a doubtful nature, as little trust

could be placed in a conversion so suddenly effected. Nor did Theodora,

blinded as she was by her infatuation, confide entirely in his specious

address; but yet the thought of restoring peace of mind to her father,

and honor to herself, rose paramount to every other consideration.

Amidst the tears that dimmed her eyes, and the lines of sorrow that

marked her countenance, some grateful signs of happiness were

discernible, like the cheering rays of the sun struggling through the

gloom of the clouds.

She received the hand of Gomez Arias tremblingly, with a mixed sensation

of joy and dread. Alas! when she took that hand, once so dear, it

seemed deadly cold, and the touch imparted to her heart a chill she

could not define.

As soon as the ceremony was performed, the queen arose, and with a

stateliness of manner that struck with awe the surrounding train--

"Don Lope," she said, "You have, as far as it lay in your power,

repaired the injury you have done to the daughter of Monteblanco; you

must now answer your Queen, for treason to your country."

Gomez Arias was struck with astonishment, not so much from the

consciousness of guilt, as from the suddenness of such an unexpected

charge. As soon, therefore, as he recovered from his surprise, with

indignant pride he exclaimed: "What! Gomez Arias charged with treason,

when he comes to afford the most incontestable proofs of his love and

devotion to his country? Where--where is the villain who dares affix so

foul a stigma to the name of Gomez Arias? Where is he?--let him appear,

that I may confound and chastise the miscreant;" then looking round with

haughtiness, he added, "who dares charge _me_ with treason?"

"I dare," cried a voice; and presently the renegade, who, till then, had

been concealed from Don Lope, came forward with boldness, and fixing his

eyes steadfastly on Gomez Arias--

"I dare," he repeated, "in the face of Spain, and I will make good my

charge."

Gomez Arias staggered at the sight; the apparition had burst upon him so

unexpectedly, that, unable to contain his emotion,--

"Ah!" he cried, faultering; "what! the Moor here!"

"The Moor!" echoed the queen; "then you know the Moor?"

"I have seen the wretch before," replied Gomez Arias; "but how dares he

throw on me so dark an imputation?"

He cast a look of darkening anger on the renegade, but Bermudo returned

the haughty glance with a cold sneer.

"Proud man," he exclaimed, "your wrath affrights not me, and humility

becomes you better than arrogance. You can as little intimidate me, as

you can effectually contradict the veracity of my accusation. Queen of

Spain," he then cried in a tone of fearless intrepidity, "and you, ye

nobles of Granada, behold in me one of the rebels who has laid down his

arms and accepted the amnesty. An eager desire to unmask that haughty

man, has obliged me to abandon my companions, and appear within the

walls of a Christian city. My motives for proceeding against Don Lope

will shortly come to light; but first his guilt shall be established.

His conviction and punishment will necessarily follow, if the court of

Isabella can boast real claims to that impartial justice, for which the

world gives it credit."

These words were delivered with such firmness of tone and manner, that

the friends of Gomez Arias began to look on him with mingled pity and

amazement. He, however, cast around a glance of indignant contempt;

then he preserved a sullen silence, attempting not to contradict the

statement of his accuser.

"What answer make you to this charge?" demanded the queen, observing the

pertinacity of his silence.

"Answer!" replied Don Lope, with overpowering indignation; "none! Gomez

Arias will not deign to answer the accusations of a vile rebel, nor will

he afford his Queen and brethren in arms the satisfaction of seeing the

established character of a noble Christian put in competition with the

base assertions of a villain."

Hurt as the queen felt at the arrogance and insolence couched in these

words, she forbore manifesting her displeasure.

"No, Don Lope," she said, "your Queen is grateful, but not more than she

is just. You stand accused of treason, but the mere word of that Moor

will not be sufficient in itself to induce your Queen, or your brethren

in arms, to convict of treason one of the first knights in Spain. We

must have proof--evident, irrefragable proofs of the crime alleged

against you, before a decision is pronounced."

"Proofs!" exclaimed the renegade, with a sarcastic sneer--"such a demand

is too just to be denied; and who would be the presumptuous madman, that

dare impeach Gomez Arias without proofs? In the first place, therefore,

the Queen will perhaps not question the validity of this." And saying

this, he took a ring from his finger, and approaching the throne,

added:--

"Your Highness cannot have forgotten this pledge of your regard for

Gomez Arias, though that nobleman seems totally to have overlooked such

a gift, when he speaks in dubious terms of your Highness's gratitude."

A gloomy joy animated the features of the renegade, as he pronounced

these words; a demoniac triumph was visible on his countenance.

The queen felt an involuntary shudder as she received the ring, whilst

Gomez Arias stood in speechless suspense, a transitory, but deadly

paleness driving the flush of anger from his countenance.

"Moor--how camest thou by this ring?" asked the queen.

"It was," answered Bermudo, "a recompence for the services I rendered

Don Lope Gomez Arias. When this gallant knight wished to part with yon

noble lady, I was the agent in the transaction; I procured him the

interview with Caneri."

"Caneri!" exclaimed several voices in consternation.

"Caneri, aye, Caneri," repeated the renegade, unmoved. "Could the noble

Gomez Arias enter into a treaty with a rebel less than a chief. I was

the individual who introduced these personages to each other, and surely

for so considerable a service could I expect less than a ring--a ring

valuable indeed in itself--more valuable from the illustrious personage

to whom it had belonged--more precious still, as I have it in my power

to return it to that elevated owner."

The solemn mockery of this speech was suddenly interrupted by the queen,

while, with looks of anger and displeasure--

"Peace!" she cried. "You came here to make good an accusation, not to

intrude upon our patience with these remarks." Then turning to Gomez

Arias, she continued in a tone of mingled sternness and compassion--

"Don Lope, you gave this ring to the Moor?"

"I did," replied Gomez Arias, gloomily, but dauntless.

"An oath," resumed the renegade, "will surely be held sacred with a

Christian. Let one be taken by that man," he added, pointing to Roque,

who was now endeavouring to effect his escape, as he beheld, with

dismay, the unexpected and serious turn the affair was taking, and felt

repugnant to criminate his former master, for whom he still preserved a

feeling of respect.

"Secure the man," continued Bermudo, "and we will then see how far I am

justified in my assertions."

"Silence!" again exclaimed the queen, inwardly grieved at the evidence

that was pressing against Don Lope. "Silence, Moor: we need not thy

instructions."

A mixture of pity and amazement prevailed throughout the assembly. They

met to congratulate a victor, and they were now to consider him as one

who had not scrupled to outrage the laws of his country, and for the

purpose of accomplishing a detestable crime. So extraordinary and

contradictory a situation appeared to some impossible; yet nothing is

beyond the compass of the passions when unrestrained in their headlong

career.

The feelings of the unfortunate Theodora were such as to beggar

description. There she was obliged to stand and witness the accusation

of her husband, brought by her means into this dreadful situation. But

her dismay was doubly augmented when she observed the queen rise, and in

a solemn manner, address the surrounding train.

"Christians," she said, "I bitterly deplore this melancholy event, which

changes a day of triumph into one of sorrow. Governor of Granada," she

then added, turning to Count de Tendilla, "to you I commit the person of

Don Lope Gomez Arias, accused of treason to the state. See that he be

safely guarded, though respectfully treated--and you, Don Lope, prepare

to stand a trial for your life."

"For his life!" exclaimed Theodora with horror; and she fixed her

imploring eyes on the queen.

Gomez Arias heard the decision of his sovereign with more indignation

than fear, and in the bitterness of his soul, he said, turning to his

adherents--

"My friends, be zealous to serve your country, for you perceive the

recompense and encouragement which await you in a day of triumph."

"Don Lope," cried the queen with warmth, "charge not to your country

what has been the effect of your unrestrained passions and imprudence;

nor carry your insolence so far as to imagine and insinuate that I can

wantonly sport with the life of the meanest of my subjects, much less

with yours. You shall be judged by your peers, who will not neglect any

extenuation in your favor, and it shall be only on irresistible evidence

that the decree of justice shall be pronounced."

She then made a signal for the assembly to disperse, and every one

retired in deep consternation. A deadly silence prevailed as they slowly

left the hall, and to the joyful sounds of popular feeling which had

lately been heard, now succeeded the murmurs of grief and astonishment.

As it was feared that the friends of Gomez Arias might be tempted to

some rash act, proper precautions were taken, that the public

tranquillity should not be disturbed. Mohabed and the other prisoners

were confined in dungeons, and Monteblanco and his wretched daughter, by

the desire of the queen, remained at the palace until the fate of Gomez

Arias should be decided.

CHAPTER X.

A do el favor antiguo? a do la gloria

De mi pasado tiempo y venturoso?

A do tantos despojos y vitoria!

_Herrera._

I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

_Shakespeare._

The fatal day of the trial arrived; the evidence was heard, the facts

fully substantiated. Gomez Arias convicted of treason and condemned to

lose his head on a scaffold! This sentence filled the inhabitants of

Granada with indescribable horror. The man, who a few days before had

been the theme of general admiration; he, who came victorious, borne on

the wings of fortune to the highest pinnacle of honor, was now, by the

same capricious turn of fate, shorn of all his dignity and splendor,

and condemned to the horrors of an ignominious death. He, who had so

long awakened the jealousy of the great, was now the object of general

compassion.

Theodora had been schooled in affliction, and familiarized with

suffering, yet when she was apprised of the result of the trial, many

circumstances conspired to add to the intensity of her grief. She

considered herself as the primary, though innocent cause of her

husband's untimely fate; all his ingratitude and cruelty; all the

treachery of which he had been guilty towards her, were now forgotten,

and her vivid fancy, excited by the extent of the danger, now saw

nothing but his brilliant qualities, and his untimely fate. Doubly dear

was Gomez Arias to Theodora, when she perceived him on the brink of

destruction. Hope, however, did not entirely forsake her, though the

boding voice of grief, which floated on the air, soon dissolved so

enchanting an illusion. If expectation had been great, the

disappointment was now doubly terrible; the sentence had been

pronounced, and the queen alone could mitigate its rigour by virtue of

the royal prerogative. To this last hope Theodora clung with fond

expectation; Isabella was humane and a woman; she had, it was true,

acquired celebrity by the rigid and unimpeachable justice of her

decisions, but could she send to the scaffold, a young and gallant

nobleman, to whom she stood indebted for a brilliant victory, without

infringing the sacred principles of that justice. She was a woman, and

though heroic and high-minded, still nature must have planted in her

bosom the genuine attributes of her sex. Pity, humanity, generosity,

would stifle the sterner voice of duty, and she could not repel from her

throne, the humble, yet noble supplicants for mercy; she would be deeply

moved by the tears of one, whom but lately she had made a bride, and

whom another word would make a widow. Besides, the application of many

intimate friends, and many of the first families in the kingdom, could

not be utterly disregarded by the queen, to whom their services had been

so important.

These soothing ideas in some measure lulled Theodora's apprehensions,

and she successfully combated the idea of losing him for ever.

Unfortunate woman! soon she was doomed to learn the fallacy of her

expectations! Several strong appeals had already been made to the queen;

the first families of Granada had deeply interested themselves in favor

of Gomez Arias, but all applications had met with a disheartening and

absolute repulse. Nor indeed could the queen be taxed with ingratitude

and cruelty, for she adduced powerful reasons in her answer to the

supplicants, to prove her inability to comply with their request,

without at the same time giving her subjects an example of unjustifiable

partiality. A week had not elapsed, since six men had been executed in

the _Plaza de Bivarrambla_, on account of the same offence for which Don

Lope stood condemned. With this melancholy precedent, even the most

sanguine in their expectations began to droop, and the death of Gomez

Arias was looked upon as an inevitable misfortune.

Theodora heard the opinion generally entertained with a feeling of

horror. In vain she cast herself at the feet of the queen, and there

implored the royal clemency with all the fervid eloquence of grief;

Isabella received her with tenderness, but allowed the wretched girl no

room for hope: Theodora's feelings were wrought to the wildest paroxysm

of anguish. She flung herself violently on the ground, and in all the

poignancy of her affliction, prayed, fervently prayed for the life of

her husband, the mere life, though by incurring banishment, she might be

doomed to see him no more; the tears of the unfortunate bride fell

profusely; her hands were franticly clasped, and trembled in the

intensity of her emotion. It was a picture of distress unutterable. The

queen beheld it with compassion--she was astonished at the sight of such

affliction in one so injured as Theodora, but she could not remove her

sorrows without a partiality in the administration of justice, which it

had been the pride of her life to avoid.

Evidently distressed, she kindly bade Theodora rise, but with noble

dignity she pronounced those memorable words:--

"As a woman, I might forgive a treason against love; as a queen, I can

never forget one committed against my country."

The wretched Theodora was then ordered to retire, but she was unable to

obey the mandate. She clung earnestly to the foot of the throne, fondly

imagining that as long as she retained sight of Isabella, she could not

lose every hope. Again she was invited to withdraw, the queen humanely

wishing to spare her feelings another unnecessary shock, but the object

of her solicitude was not conscious of the kindness of her motive. An

officer of the governor now entering, proceeded to deliver a roll of

paper into the hands of the queen. Isabella appeared suddenly agitated

as she received the scroll, whilst a ray of horrible light glancing

across the mind of the wretched supplicant--

"Oh, in mercy do not sign"--she franticly exclaimed. "In the name of

heaven! not yet--do not sign!"

It was too late--the decree which condemned Gomez Arias was signed, and

his unfortunate wife fell senseless to the ground.

In this melancholy state she was carried to her father, who, far from

being able to afford consolation, was himself a prey to the bitterest

woe.

Gloomily the day wore away, and the inhabitants of Granada beheld with

horror the high scaffold which was already prepared at the Plaza de

Bivarrambla. An universal mourning seemed to prevail throughout the

city. Every one felt interested and shocked at the approaching

execution, though no one dared to impugn the justice of the sentence, by

virtue of which the noble culprit was about to suffer.

After the condemnation of Gomez Arias, a strong guard was placed at the

mansion of Count de Tendilla, where he had been confined. He was treated

with the utmost deference and regard, the queen having particularly

commanded that every attention should be lavished on him; and indeed,

until his death warrant was signed, the prisoner had been permitted a

free intercourse with his friends and relatives. Thus his prison bore

rather the resemblance of a levee of a person in power, than the visits

of despairing friends to one in the last stage of mortality. All his

friends and companions in arms had been assiduous in these mournful

visits, and he appeared greatly pleased with this testimony of their

regard. Indeed it was his pride which had brought Gomez Arias into this

dreadful predicament, and he was thus highly gratified at the very

general interest exhibited in his behalf.

It might be easily seen that he had not yet lost every hope; for to him

it seemed impossible that the queen could ever be prevailed on to give

her sanction to the sentence. He fondly recalled to his mind the high

favor in which he had hitherto been held by Isabella--the different

tokens of regard received from her royal hand--the many interviews and

even familiar conversations with which he had been honored. To these

pleasing recollections he added the intercessions of so many powerful

advocates, all eager to solicit the royal clemency in his behalf. Thus,

every thing conspired to buoy up the spirits of the prisoner, and to

prolong an illusion from which he was soon to be rudely awakened. He was

conversing in a tranquil, nay, lively manner, with two or three friends,

when Count de Tendilla, followed by the official attendants, entered,

and in a sad melancholy tone--

"Don Lope," he said, "I deeply lament the necessity to which I am

reduced, of being the messenger of woeful tidings; but part of the pain

I feel in such a disagreeable duty, is removed when I have to

communicate it to such as Gomez Arias, who have fortitude and courage to

know how to sustain misfortune."

"Proceed, Count," answered Don Lope, with a bitter smile, "let me know

the worst, and I dare say I shall have that fortitude which you kindly

suppose me--"

"Don Lope," solemnly said the Count, "your sentence is confirmed, and

you must prepare for death."

"Death!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, with emotion, "death!" Then suddenly

composing himself, he continued in an indignant tone:--"Well, I must

confess that I am somewhat struck with your information, Count.

Certainly, I was not prepared for so much--banishment and confiscation,

I could have expected, but I see that I have most erroneously calculated

on the favor of our Queen--her generosity, indeed, surpasses my most

sanguine ideas."

Count de Tendilla, without seeming to understand this innuendo,

proceeded--

"In consideration of your services, Don Lope, the Queen is willing to

grant any request you may wish to make. It shall be most religiously

observed."

"I am greatly beholden to the Queen," replied Gomez Arias, in the same

bitter manner, "but upon my honor, I am already too much indebted to her

Highness, and I should be loath to trespass on her indulgence."

"Don Lope," cried Tendilla, with warmth, "you wrong the Queen. At this

very moment she deplores the necessity which compels her to sign your

death warrant. Had there been any means, any honorable method to save

you from your fate, she would eagerly have seized the opportunity. She

would willingly forfeit the greatest treasure of her kingdom to save

your life.--Yes, for your existence she would sacrifice all--all but her

duty."

"And when," demanded Gomez Arias, "is this sentence to be carried into

effect?"

"To-morrow;" replied the governor, "but should you like to profit by the

favor, a respite of two days is granted."

"No," proudly returned Gomez Arias, "I should feel exceedingly mortified

to disappoint the expectations of the public, who, no doubt, are by this

time anxiously looking for the preparations of the approaching

spectacle: no, let the ceremony take place to-morrow; I am ready." Then,

turning to young Garcilaso, who had been his companion in the expedition

against Mohabed--

"My young friend," he said, "you are a gallant and most promising

soldier, but be careful how you use the favors of the ladies; for not

all your services rendered to a queen will compensate the most trivial

disregard offered to the woman; and above all, be cautious how you

meddle with rings."

Count de Tendilla did not think proper to resent these remarks, for the

present situation of Gomez Arias precluded the propriety of replying to

the imprudent effusion of his irritated feelings.

"Don Lope," resumed the governor, "I will place your person under no

unnecessary restraint, but you must pardon the disagreeable necessity to

which my responsibility reduces me of stationing a guard within your

apartment."

"The presence of soldiers, Count," replied Don Lope, "was never

unpleasant to Gomez Arias; on the contrary, I shall feel particularly

gratified; they will, perhaps, tend to dispel the cloud that hangs over

my mind by recalling to memory my former glory; besides, they will

acquire a new stimulus to serve their Queen by witnessing the

encouraging reward she has in store for her servants."

He now folded his arms and began to pace the room with an affected

indifference, but his inward feelings baffled even the powers of his

superior mind. No man can feel calm and indifferent under such

circumstances; it is against the principles of his nature; pride and a

due sense of honorable feeling may help him to assume a dignified

composure, or ferocity and callousness may adopt an insolent demeanor or

a gloomy tranquillity; but real philosophic evenness of mind exists more

in theory than in practice. Nevertheless Gomez Arias manifested no

symptoms of weak regret, and his exclamations bespoke more his

resentment against the queen than the dread of relinquishing life in the

midst of a brilliant career. He now seemed to be absorbed in thought and

the governor prepared to take his leave, when--

"Stay," he cried, "upon better reflection, perhaps it will be more

respectful not to refuse the kind offer of my sovereign; I shall

therefore make one request."

"Name it," said Tendilla, kindly; "it shall be granted."

"It is," resumed Don Lope, "that upon my way to the scaffold I may be

allowed to head a party of my own gallant soldiers, mounted on my

charger and attended with all military honors."

Count de Tendilla gave an involuntary start at so strange a demand, and

looked steadfastly on Gomez Arias, as if doubting whether compliance

might not be attended with danger. The request might involve the secret

of some desperate act, or perhaps only bespoke the workings of a noble

pride. However, the governor considered himself justified in granting

the favor.

"Your wish shall be fulfilled," he said. "Whatever may be the feeling

that prompts you, Don Lope, to make such a request, I and my _own_ guard

will likewise accompany you."

He delivered these words with great significancy of tone and manner,

that Gomez Arias might be sure the governor was prepared, should there

be aught in contemplation that might affect the public tranquillity.

"And now," resumed Tendilla, "I must bring you a visitor, Don Lope; one

who earnestly wishes to take a last farewell."

"And who is that charitable being?" inquired Gomez Arias, carelessly;

"for if I mistake not, all my friends and relatives have already

fulfilled that duty."

"It is your lady," replied Tendilla, "the lovely and unfortunate

Theodora."

Gomez Arias made a sign of impatient displeasure, and then, in a cold

and constrained manner--

"I am sensible," he said, "of her kindness and self-devotion, but I

cannot consent; no, I cannot, I will not see her; and I earnestly pray

and hope she may no longer require an interview to which I have already

given an absolute denial."

This was true. Gomez Arias had obstinately refused to see his once

idolized Theodora, nor could all her prayers and entreaties, backed by

the remonstrances of friends, prevail on him to alter so unkind a

resolution. This determination might have sprung from a feeling of

horror for the cause of his death, or of pity for the poignancy of her

anguish: perhaps he wished to avoid a scene which was capable of

producing nothing but terrible or melancholy recollections.

He evinced, however, no reluctance to see his man, Roque. The poor

faithful creature anxiously desired to be admitted; for though the

claims of his master to his gratitude were feeble, yet a lively

sentiment of affliction and a degree of horror for having been, though

unwillingly, one of the instruments to forward the catastrophe, made him

desirous of throwing himself at the feet of Gomez Arias.

Tremblingly the poor valet entered, and as he beheld the noble figure of

Don Lope standing composedly in the middle of the apartment, he could

not refrain from tears.

"Oh! Don Lope," he cried, despondingly, "my dear and honored master,

that it should come to this! That ever I should live to see the most

gallant cavalier in Granada undergo such a sentence!"

He then threw himself at the feet of Gomez Arias, and clasping firmly

both his knees, in a tone of keen anguish continued--

"Alas! my unfortunate master, I will not rise from the ground until you

grant me full pardon for the share I have in your death. Heaven knows

how unwillingly I have acted, and how sadly I repent the untoward

circumstances which reduced me to that fearful alternative."

"Rise, my good Roque," said Gomez Arias. "I freely forgive thee, not

only the melancholy necessity to which thou hast been compelled, but

even all the other transgressions of which thou hast been guilty in my

service, and I dare say they are not a few; however, as I am to

undertake to-morrow so long a journey in which, I suppose, thou hast no

inclination to bear me company----"

"_Virgen de las Angustias_," interrupted Roque, "how can you, Senor,

speak of such dreadful things in so light a manner?"

"Now, Roque," replied Don Lope, "thou must be silent, at least at

present, and allow me thy privilege for a time; listen with attention.

It is high time to settle my accounts. I am thy debtor, Roque."

"_Valgame Dios_!" exclaimed the valet. "Senor Don Lope, why think of

these matters at such a time?"

"The best of times," returned his master, "or you run a fair chance of

not being paid at all."

"But I do not want to be paid," cried Roque, sobbing aloud. "I am sure

you think too meanly of me, if you suppose I came here with such on

intention."

"No, Roque, I well know thy fidelity, and I mean not to offend thee; but

thou must not refuse the last bequest of thy master: here, take this,"

he said, delivering a large purse, which the valet could scarcely be

prevailed upon to accept. "And here," he continued, taking a ring from

his finger, "receive this as a token of remembrance," and as Roque

hesitated to take it, he added, smiling, "Take it, for I can now give

rings away without danger."

"Thank you, my good master, but have you no pledge of affection, no last

remembrance for _her_?"

"Why," answered Gomez Arias, with affected levity, "she will never

forget me. Besides I have nothing worthy of her acceptance--give her my

best wishes, and beseech her to pardon me as freely as I forgive her."

Having said this, he wished to turn away, but Roque again interposed,

and in a most doleful tone--

"Alack! Don Lope," he said, "remember what I told you at Guadix; my

forebodings did not deceive me, for my prognostication has,

unfortunately, been but too truly accomplished. Now, had you then--"

"Gently, my good fellow," interrupted Gomez Arias, "gently; this will

never do; thou camest here in the humble mood of a sinner, to crave my

forgiveness, and now thou hast relapsed into thy former calling by

assuming the preacher. In goodness forbear, and leave that task to those

who claim it in virtue of their office. And now, my faithful Roque,

begone, for I feel drowsy, and an hour's sleep would not come amiss."

Saying this, he bade his servant kindly adieu, and retired to his

closet, followed by two guards.

Roque was bewildered, for though he had already had several occasions of

forming a just estimation of the character and temper of Gomez Arias,

yet he could not comprehend how a man on the eve of death could resign

himself to sleep with the ease and composure which his master evinced.

"_Virgen Santa!_" he ejaculated, "did ever man think of sleep at such a

time? Why _los siete durmientes_[46] would have been at fault at such a

pinch. He is going to sleep; the Lord help him! I am sure I cannot

sleep; nay, I don't know whether I shall ever sleep again."

Saying this, poor Roque withdrew, weeping and wondering, and imploring

the protection of all the saints in the calendar, for his unfortunate

master.

CHAPTER XI.

Voila le precipice ou l'ont enfin jete

Les attraits enchanteurs de la prosperite.

_La Fontaine._

Oh di destino avverso

Fatal possanza! a mie tante sventure

Cio sol mancava.

_Alfieri._

Forget! forgive!--I must indeed forget

When I forgive.

_Southern._

Every hope was now extinct--the fatal morning arrived. Theodora, the

hapless Theodora, against whom fate seemed to have exhausted all her

malice, after a night of restless grief, had left her couch betimes, and

in a gloomy reverie was sitting by the casement, her hands clasped

together, and her eyes vacantly fixed on the moving groups below.

The door opened, and her father entered--the wretched man was in a most

pitiable state.

"My child," he said, tenderly, "my dear child, you must leave this

place."

"Never," cried the melancholy Theodora, "unless it is to be carried to

the grave. Oh! my poor, my dear father, you will soon have to fulfil

that last mournful duty towards your hapless child."

"Theodora, speak not thus; your words are daggers. We must submit to the

will of Providence--raise your streaming eyes to that heaven, my

beloved, and cherish the fond hope that this life of sorrow is to

purchase an eternity of pure uninterrupted bliss. Throw yourself into

the arms of religion, and your evils will appear lighter to bear."

"Yes, my father, now my only friend," replied Theodora, in a tumult of

agony, "I will consider my misfortunes as a just atonement to offended

heaven, for the ingratitude of which I have been guilty towards the

best of parents."

"Heaven bless thee, Theodora," returned the affectionate father, "and

restore to thee peace and tranquillity; and now grant me a request--you

must away with me."

"But whither are we going?" demanded Theodora, "I cannot--I will not

quit Granada until I see _him_ laid in the ground. I am now his wife,

and I shall religiously fulfil the duties of such a character, for cruel

as he was," she added, mournfully, "to refuse me permission to see him

when alive, he cannot prevent me from showing my attachment when he is

dead."

"Theodora," said Monteblanco, "it is not my intention to take you away

from Granada. I merely wish you to accompany me to the dwelling of our

kinsman, Don Antonio de Leyva. He has repeatedly demanded to see you,

but you have always denied his request. You surely cannot dislike him?"

"Father! father!" cried Theodora, in a tone of reproach and sadness;

"why this eagerness to renew an intimacy with a man whom I have

wronged? Think you that Theodora will be able to sustain his reproach?"

"No, Theodora, such thoughts are far from the minds of Don Antonio and

your father. But the gallant young man lies prostrate on the bed of

sickness. The wounds he received at the disastrous affair of the Sierra

Bermeja, have reduced him to the last stage of debility. He has this

very instant earnestly requested to see you; for he has something to

announce which may affect the fate of us all."

Theodora answered not, but rising immediately, signified her readiness

to obey, and supported by her father, she proceeded towards the

residence of Don Antonio. Dismay and confusion reigned throughout the

city. At every step Theodora met with some object to impress her

forcibly with the dreariness of the fate which was at hand. Busily the

moving groups were talking of the melancholy event. She beheld the

troops that were collecting and marching about to insure the public

tranquillity, and this testimony of the hopeless situation of her

husband filled her bursting heart with new terrors. How dismally sounded

the trumpets and clarions! And now the ponderous bell of the cathedral

sent forth its reverberating tones, and it sounded like the summons of

death to Theodora. It struck eight, and in two hours Gomez Arias would

cease to exist. A chill seized on the very soul of Theodora, at each

stroke of the dreadful monitor, and as if its terrors had not been

sufficiently multiplied, a hundred different clocks, with their boding

voices, repeated the same sad tale to the agonizing heart of the

wretched girl.

Next came the sight of the ministers of religion hurrying about; sad

heralds of mortality, in Christian charity, earnestly wishing to offer

their prayers for the departing soul, or holding out the example of the

approaching execution to the young and inexperienced.

Theodora shuddered at every object she saw--at every sound that struck

her ear, and in this state she reached the mansion of Don Antonio de

Leyva, which happily was situated at a short distance. She trembled with

emotion as she found herself before young De Leyva, nor was her

appearance productive of less astonishment to Don Antonio. They were

both much altered--she by intense suffering--he by his wounds and

lingering sickness. Don Antonio, extremely faint, was reclining on a

couch, from which he attempted to rise when he saw his kinsman enter,

but was prevented by Monteblanco. The countenance of the gallant young

man seemed suddenly to brighten up.

"Theodora," he kindly said, "tremble not thus, for you are in the

presence of a friend, a sincere friend; one who bitterly laments having,

though unconsciously, been instrumental in your misfortunes. Alas! dear

lady, had you placed more confidence in me, perchance so much misery had

been prevented. However, this is no time for reproach; the moments speed

swiftly away, and we have none to spare. Had you not at this moment

arrived, weak and wounded as I am, I was about to be carried to your

habitation, though the exertion had proved fatal to my recovery.

Theodora, look upon me as a friend--as a dear valued friend, and receive

the greatest proof a man can give of pure disinterested regard. Here,"

he then added, presenting a little casket to Theodora, "take this

precious gage; look, it is the portrait of our Queen, given by her own

royal hands, when fortune favoured my exertions in the last tournament.

The bearer of this gift is entitled to claim any boon from Isabella.

Dispatch--present her with this beauteous copy of herself. Reclaim the

promise--demand the life of Gomez Arias--it will be granted."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Theodora, overpowered with emotion, "Can it be

possible!" Then falling at the feet of young de

Leyva--"Generous--generous Don Antonio; is this the way that you repay

an injury?"

"I might," replied Don Antonio nobly, "satisfy the cravings of a paltry

revenge, by leaving my rival to perish ignominiously, when I have it in

my power to save him. But no; my heart shudders at such reprisals, and

finds joy in contributing to the happiness of Theodora."

Struck with admiration at such noble and manly conduct, Theodora seized

the hand of the high-minded Don Antonio, and would have imprinted on it

a thousand kisses of gratitude, but he modestly prevented her, urging

her to depart.

"My dear Theodora, begone; you have no time to lose. Think that the

least delay may perhaps prove fatal."

These words acted like magic on the mind of Theodora. The thought of her

husband's danger absorbed every other consideration. She rushed with

impetuous alacrity towards the palace, pressing with convulsive firmness

the valuable pledge on which all her hopes depended. Upon her arrival at

the entrance, the guards, struck with the wildness of her manner, and

sympathising with her misfortunes, expeditiously opened a passage, as

she exclaimed almost incoherently, that she must see the queen.

Meantime the Plaza de Bivarrambla was thronged with a vast multitude,

for the novelty and exemplary justice of such an execution had thrown

the people into a ferment. It was long since a nobleman had suffered

thus, and no instance occurred to their recollection of a conqueror

stepping from the car of victory to the platform of a scaffold.

All lamented the fate of Gomez Arias, and yet most of the lower classes,

amidst the feelings of pity, experienced a kind of satisfaction at the

idea that so great a personage was doomed to suffer, as well as the

meanest of their own class. In the middle of the Plaza rose a high

scaffold, covered with costly black velvet, and most of the houses

around were likewise draperied with mourning symbols of the sorrow of

their owners. A strong body of veterans lined the square, whilst other

detached parties of horse patrolled the neighbouring places to prevent

any obstruction from the multitude. The hurry and agitation of the

people now became extreme; but when at last the tremendous knell from

the cathedral gave the mournful signal for Gomez Arias to set out for

the goal of his mortal career, a simultaneous murmur of horror rose from

the surrounding crowd. The dismal tolling of bells, accompanied at

intervals by the sad and hollow strains of trumpets, announced that the

procession was ready to move.

Gomez Arias had descended from his apartment perfectly composed. Indeed,

no other feeling could be descried in his features but stern pride and

resentment. He walked with a firm step towards the melancholy train that

awaited him. But when about to mount his horse, he perceived the

Countess de Tendilla bathed in tears, approaching to bid him farewell.

He kindly thanked this lady for all the attentions he had experienced at

her house during the time he had remained there, and having bidden her a

last adieu, he bounded on his favorite charger. The spirited animal

began to curvet and rear, as if proud of his burthen.

"Gently, gently, Babieca," said his master, caressing the noble steed:

"be not impatient, for this is the last time thou wilt carry thy

master."

He then looked around, and as he saw a party of his victorious troops,

chosen for his escort according to his desire, all plunged in the

deepest grief, in a soothing tone he bade them be of good cheer.

Don Lope being determined to set at defiance every appearance of

despondency, had assumed an air of martial and dignified composure. His

handsome figure never looked to greater advantage than at this

disastrous moment; he was attired in a most sumptuous suit, while all

the friends and relatives who accompanied him were habited in deep

mourning. The procession moved slowly on amidst the confused murmur of

the multitude, deeply lamenting the fate, and admiring the firmness of

the hero of the dismal tragedy. He was attended by a crowd of the

ministers of religion; but two friars of the order of St. Francis

attached themselves more particularly to his person. The whole presented

a most singularly contrasted scene; for in the same view appeared

mingled all the panoplies of war, stirring the soul to martial deeds,

and the solemn emblems of religion inviting the mind to abandon the pomp

of the world, and turn its thoughts towards eternity. Warriors and

priests, banners and crosses, moved promiscuously along, while the

subdued blast of clarions united their strains to the deep-toned and

gloomy cadences of the chaunting monks.

In this manner the procession reached at length the Plaza de

Bivarrambla. At the sight of the scaffold, Gomez Arias gave an

involuntary start, for he was unable to stifle the impression which the

first view of that dreadful spot made on his mind. He soon, however,

recovered his usual composure, and cast an inquiring and intense look on

the assembled multitude. Sorrow and consternation were every where

visible, but all was tranquil and quiet. The last lingering hope now

vanished from the breast of Gomez Arias, and he seemed resigned to the

fate that awaited him. The murmur of the multitude was hushed into a

deadly silence. Don Lope dismounted, ascended the scaffold, and turning

to his soldiers, he said--

"Farewell, my brave companions; this is the last expedition in which we

shall meet; but in this, as well as in all the former, Gomez Arias will

display the coolness and courage which becomes a soldier." He then with

equal resolution was about to bare his neck for the fatal stroke, when a

piercing scream was heard at a distance in the crowd. Presently a female

form was seen flying towards the scaffold--

"A pardon! a pardon!" shouted various voices; and the multitude joyfully

opened a passage to the unfortunate. She ran with frantic speed, until

she arrived at length, exhausted, at the foot of the scaffold,

exhibiting in the disorder of her person and the wild expression of her

features, all the workings of terror, anxiety, and joy. Every one stood

mute with astonishment when they beheld in this apparition the wretched

Theodora, who flew up the steps of the scaffold, holding aloft in her

trembling hand a paper; then throwing herself into the arms of her

husband--

"Oh it is not too late," she cried eagerly; "I have brought your pardon.

Here! here! You are safe--it is the Queen's signet."

Count de Tendilla took the paper from her hand, and read joyfully aloud

the pardon of Gomez Arias. Theodora looked wildly around, her large

beautiful eyes fraught with terror: she gazed upon the appalling scene,

as though still fearful that the execution would not be suspended.

"Read! read!" she cried vehemently to Count de Tendilla: "it is the

Queen's order. A messenger will soon arrive; but I am here first. I came

to save my husband."

These few electric words were followed by a shout of tumultuous applause

from the assembled throng.

The messenger indeed arrived. Theodora uttered a wild scream of joy, and

her feelings, unable any longer to support the efforts she had made,

overpowered her, and she fainted in the arms of Gomez Arias.

Even Gomez Arias, that man so hardened to all the tender pleadings of

gratitude, was at length overcome. As he beheld her who had returned

his coldness with affection, and repaid his cruelty with kindness--as he

considered that miracle of love and goodness lying lifeless in his arms,

a tear stood trembling in his eye--one solitary tear; but that

testimonial of feeling in Gomez Arias was equivalent to years of sorrow

in other men. He tenderly pressed Theodora to his heart, and the fond

embrace seemed to recall her suspended animation. She opened her languid

eyes and was happy; for she saw the object of all her care and affection

now watching with tender solicitude her returning life.

"Oh Theodora," cried Don Lope, in a voice almost inarticulate with

emotion, "I am unworthy of you. How can I ever atone for so many wrongs?

This is indeed a noble vengeance."

The queen had ordered that Gomez Arias should be conducted to her

presence, and accordingly, accompanied by the happy Theodora, he

proceeded towards the palace, followed by the immense crowd, who rent

the air with joyful acclamations.

When they arrived at the palace, they found the gracious Isabella seated

in the large public hall, ready to receive them. Her countenance was

radiant with delight in the consciousness of having been able to save

Don Lope from an untimely end.

"Gomez Arias," she said, "your life is saved by the most fortunate, as

it was the most unexpected of incidents. Nobles of Granada," she then

added, turning to the surrounding court, "you cannot accuse your Queen

of partiality in the distribution of justice. At the moment when Don

Lope was approaching the end of his mortal career, this gage was brought

to me and the guerdon claimed. It was a pledge of regard given to Don

Antonio de Leyva for his conduct at the tournament, with my sacred

promise that any boon should be granted to the bearer. Theodora produced

it, and I could not resist her just appeal--my royal word had passed.

Gomez Arias, you owe your life to the generous Don Antonio de Leyva and

your wife. Let then your future life show that you are not insensible of

the magnitude of the obligation. To yourself you owe nothing; for had

it not been for this happy circumstance, by this time you would have

been numbered with the dead. Go, and rejoice with your friends over your

fortunate deliverance, and then I will receive you as becomes a victor."

A shout of unfeigned approbation burst from every one. Theodora seemed

intoxicated with happiness. She looked on Gomez Arias, and in those

features which had so successfully enraptured her young heart, again saw

a display of tenderness to recompense her affection. All her sufferings

were forgotten; the cup of misery had been drained, and happiness,

boundless, uninterrupted happiness, was to be hers for ever. Gomez

Arias, moved with kindly and generous feelings which had long been

dormant in his heart, had as yet been unable to give utterance to his

demonstrations of gratitude. He now disengaged himself from the hands of

Theodora, moved forwards, and threw himself at the feet of the queen.

Every eye was joyfully turned on him, when suddenly one of the friars,

who had attended him at the scaffold, broke from the surrounding group.

In his hand gleamed a poniard, and before any arm could arrest the blow,

he buried the fatal weapon in the breast of Gomez Arias, who started on

his feet, reeled, and fell at the foot of the throne. In an instant

every thing was wild confusion. Theodora, with a piercing scream, threw

herself beside her murdered husband, while several leaches hastened to

the assistance of the fallen knight.

The queen alone seemed to preserve her presence of mind amidst the

uproar that prevailed.

"Seize the assassin!" she exclaimed, and the guards immediately secured

his person. He was one of the Franciscans who had accompanied Gomez

Arias to the scaffold. He still held in his sinewy hand the ensanguined

poniard, and with the savage laugh of a fiend exulted over his deed.

"Now, God be thanked!" exclaimed the leach who had examined the wound of

Gomez Arias, "if my skill fail me not, the knight may yet live."

"Never!" cried the friar, in a voice that chilled the reviving hopes of

every one; "Never! your skill is vain--the dagger is poisoned."

A shudder of horror ran through the court.

"Man of darkness," exclaimed Count de Tendilla, "fiend under the holy

garb of religion, what could prompt thee to such a crime? But a short

time since I saw thee attend thy victim to administer to him hope and

consolation."

"Yes," replied the friar, grimly, "yes, I did accompany him to the stage

of his despair and my glory: yes, I was beside my victim, like the

vulture watching for the moment to lacerate his heart. But I went not to

whisper hope into his dying ear, or to bid him rely on the mercies of

Heaven; no, it was to speak the words of horror; to bid him despair, and

point the way to that hell whither soon I was to follow him. My soul was

drunk with joy; my heart was wild with happiness: gladly would I

purchase with a whole existence of misery and crime those few rapturous

moments when I could watch the dreadful workings of his mind, as the

last peal of my ominous voice rung in his ear, ere his soul took its

flight from this world."

"Peace, wretch!" exclaimed the queen. "Leave thy blasphemy; tremble for

the profanation of thy sacred calling; tremble for the punishment which

awaits thy crime."

"I tremble at nought," sternly replied the assassin. "No canting friar

am I; no preaching monk; but a man deeply wronged, and now amply

revenged. Look on me," he continued in a wild tone, throwing off his

disguise, "I am Bermudo, the renegade!"

Every one shrunk back with instinctive horror at the well known name;

but the consternation increased, when in the person of the apostate was

recognised the Moor who had played so principal a part in the

condemnation of Gomez Arias.

"Look on me," proceeded the renegade; "look on me, Gomez Arias; behold

the man by you condemned to misery and shame--I am Bermudo the outcast,

the maddened lover of the unfortunate Anselma. Call back, Don Lope, the

powers of thy fleeting soul, and fix its fading recollection on thy

crimes and my misfortunes: remember Anselma--remember her frightful

fate--your wrongs to me--the despair to which I was driven. But for

thee, proud man, I might have been a hero, and for thee I am a traitor

and a renegade. But, oh! now thou art laid low--no, not even princely

fortune and favour could save thee from the hand of a desperate man.

Die, then, die in despair: it is in the hour of rapturous happiness that

the blow is struck, and think with agony that it is struck by

Bermudo.--Anselma, thou art revenged!"

A wild and savage laugh closed this apostrophe, and the renegade stood

calmly gazing on his victim with an expression of ferocious joy: his

dark features seemed to brighten in the glare of infernal revenge, and

his strong frame shook with the rapture of the fiend that inspired him.

Meantime, Gomez Arias was rapidly approaching his end; the blood flowed

thick and heavy through his veins, and the film of death was fast

dimming his sight: still his noble features shewed no symptoms of

unmanly emotion; but fixing his dying eyes upon the renegade, in a firm

tone he said--

"Bermudo, thy hellish desire is but partially fulfilled; I die not in

despair; despair is the attribute of cowards, not of Gomez Arias: I feel

thy poison burning in my veins, yet my soul takes its flight with

calmness. Wretched man," he then added, "may God forgive thee as I do:

and thou, dear and last object of my solicitude," he said, faintly

addressing himself to the disconsolate Theodora, who, in a paroxysm of

agony, was kneeling beside him, "Theodora, injured and unfortunate girl,

too late I appreciate thy value; too late I deplore my fault. Oh! if I

regret existence, it is because I cannot live to prove my love and

gratitude. Forgive me, Theodora! forgive the repentant Gomez Arias!"

His dim eyes were cast tenderly on her despairing countenance, and

pressing gently her clammy hand, he breathed his last.

The piercing cries and lamentations of Theodora deeply affected the

spectators of this tragic scene: she tore her flowing tresses, and

falling on the bleeding corpse, in a wild incoherent tone poured forth

her anguish. The renegade himself appeared somewhat moved at the

exhibition of her frantic sorrow. The darksome deed was done; his enemy

was dead, and Bermudo seemed no longer to live in this world; stupor and

apathy were overshadowing his countenance, for the principle that fed

his life was now no more.

The soldiers were about to move away with the prisoner, when a minister

of religion addressed him:--

"Sinner," he cried, "behold your deadly crime and repent; repent ere

'tis too late; thy mortal career is short; employ it, then, in calming

the offended justice of heaven."

"Friar," said firmly the renegade, "my conscience is seared; my soul has

no longer sympathy with human feelings; I cannot, will not now repent me

of a deed which has been the sole object of my existence. Lead me to

torture, and when ye tear this flesh, and suffering nature is unable to

sustain the racking pangs, then, even then, my eyes, faithful

interpreters of my soul, will tell you I shrink not from my fate; the

poniard that struck my foe I might have plunged in this breast, but I

disdained to evade the recompense of my deed. Lead me to torture, but

mock me not with words of penitence."

"Oh horror! art thou a man and speakest thus!" exclaimed the priest.

"I was a man; I know not what I am; let me return to my kindred clay,

and hide from the face of the earth the monster at which ye shudder."

He ceased, and his features stiffened into a horrid tranquillity more

appalling to behold than his wildest ebullition of passion. One last

savage look he cast on his prostrate enemy, and then, with a firm step,

he walked away to meet the punishment due to his crimes.

The wretched Theodora could not be torn from the mortal bleeding remains

of her adored Gomez Arias, until the paroxysm of her grief was

succeeded by insensibility. In this melancholy state she was borne from

the fatal spot, while sorrow and compassion swelled the hearts of every

one who had witnessed the events of that disastrous day!

CONCLUSION.

La douleur lentement m'entr'ouve le tombeau,

Salut mon dernier jour! sois mon jour le plus beau!

_Lamartine._

Three months had now elapsed since the death of Gomez Arias, and the

people of Granada were again rejoicing in the success of the Christian

arms. The insurrection of the Moors was now completely quelled; the wise

and prudent conduct of the queen had saved the country from the horrors

attendant on a fanatical war. The individuals admitted to the counsels

of Isabella were in general men of enlightened understanding and

philanthropic dispositions, and though some few voices, swayed by

fanatical zeal and religious intolerance, opposed themselves to liberal

measures, yet, happily for Spain and honorably for her ministers, their

objections were over-ruled, and the more beneficial and milder course

adopted. A full pardon was proclaimed to the rebels. Moreover it was

promised that they should enjoy the same privileges as the Spaniards,

and that no compulsory measures should be adopted to make them embrace

the tenets of the Christian religion. Free permission was given to every

Moor who should prefer passing over to Africa, to remove unmolested, and

with full security to his family and property.

These judicious resolutions answered the desired effect. The Moors

joyfully accepted the offers of the queen, and the greatest part of them

came immediately to lay down their arms at the feet of the Alcayde de

los Donceles, and other chiefs who still were carrying on the war.

However, some Moors of the higher rank, who refused to subject

themselves to the Christian government, retired into Africa, and amongst

this number we must count the magnanimous El Feri de Benastepar; for,

as no account was received of his death, it was supposed he had

abandoned the country.

Thus peace was at length restored, and the city of Granada became again

the center of gaiety and happiness, and this was not a little enhanced

by the anticipation of the union of Leonor de Aguilar with the gallant

Don Antonio de Leyva: the nuptials being only delayed until a due

allowance of time had been devoted to the memory of the noble Don Alonso

de Aguilar.

Meantime Don Manuel de Monteblanco and his unfortunate daughter had

retired to their mansion at Guadix. Shortly after the mortal remains of

Gomez Arias had been consigned to the earth, Don Manuel prevailed on his

unhappy daughter to abandon a city fraught with such dreadful

associations. Theodora submissively obeyed the desires of her solicitous

and kind parent, but alas! the sorrow that slowly consumed her heart was

not to be removed by change of place: the lovely victim carried within

her the deadly poison that was to consign her to an early grave.

Theodora became the prey of a deep-rooted melancholy. The kind attention

of friends, the tender expostulation of her father, might momentarily

withdraw her mind from the subject of her constant meditations; tokens

of regard, and the soft caresses of pity might elicit a transient smile;

but soon, alas! her mind would revert to its mournful occupation; soon

her smile would give way to sadness.

During the day, she wandered about the large mansion like a restless

spirit whose duties in life are fulfilled, and who longs to take its

flight. Sometimes she took her lute, and in wild and plaintive voice she

would sing those romances which Gomez Arias had loved to hear. Then she

would ramble through the garden, and visit those spots endeared by the

recollection of her love. Sometimes, too, in the stillness of night, a

most piercing scream would issue from her chamber, and arouse the

unfortunate Monteblanco from his couch, to hush the fevered imagination

of his daughter, continually haunted by the image of the murdered Gomez

Arias.

Day after day the disconsolate father watched the progress of the

malady. Gradually Theodora was wasting in form, and her intellectual

powers seemed to share in the wreck of her outward appearance. Nothing

could disturb the gloomy monotony of her thoughts. Musing tranquilly,

she would pass the hour, and oft in the night when the moon beams fell

on the garden, she would be seen gliding along its paths like some

fleeting phantom.

In this melancholy state Theodora had continued during some time, when

one morning Monteblanco was agreeably surprised to see his child in

unusually good spirits. The gloom which sat habitually on her brow had

vanished, and a placid smile played upon her lips. Joyfully the

venerable parent beheld the welcome change, and anxiously he wished to

improve those favorable symptoms of returning health. Theodora told her

father that she had dreamed in the night an awful dream. She had seen

her husband, not as heretofore, in the fearful scenes of his desertion

and death, but his eyes beaming with a heavenly light, bidding her be

happy, as he was happy and blessed.

It was the anniversary of the day on which Theodora had left her home.

Night came, and Monteblanco saw not his daughter by his side. He waited

impatiently for some time, and then repaired to the garden, for he knew

Theodora delighted in rambling there.

The faithful Roque, who since the death of his master had attached

himself to the service of Monteblanco, took a torch, and accompanied the

old cavalier to the garden. Don Manuel called aloud upon his daughter,

but his voice was only answered by the sad echoes of the place. He

became alarmed, and hastily proceeded to the bower: there he descried

Theodora lying on the marble seat, apparently asleep. He approached her,

and affectionately chid her for her absence.

"Awake, child, awake," he cried; "surely your delicate health will be

injured by the chilling air of night."

He gently raised her arm.

"Roque, bring closer that torch."

Roque obeyed--Theodora indeed slept, but it was the sleep of death.

Struck with consternation, the wretched old man clasped the lifeless

body in his arms, and called eagerly on his child by the most endearing

of names. Alas! it was too late: the spark of life had fled for ever,

and the dull glare of the torch that fell upon her countenance soon

confirmed the mournful truth. Pale and bloodless was her cheek, and cold

were those beauteous limbs. The angel of death had spread his sable

pinions over her dewy brow, and closed her eyes in eternal sleep. The

despairing father now strove to raise his daughter in his arms, when

something fell from her nerveless grasp. Roque immediately took it

up--he gave a start, and uttered a most piteous moan, as he presented

the object to Don Manuel. It was the portrait of Gomez Arias. That

melancholy testimonial told that the heavenly spirit had lately taken

its flight, for it was yet moist with _her_ tears, the last effort of

her departing soul--the last sad evidence of a _woman's love_.

Non come fiamma, che per forza e spenta,

Ma che per se medesma si consuma,

Se n'ando in pace l'anima contenta.

_Petrarca._

THE END.

GUNNELL AND SHEARMAN, PRINTERS, SALISBURY SQUARE.

* * * * *

NOTES:

[1] The unfortunate passion of Don Rodrigo, the last of the Goths, for

Florinda, surnamed La Cava, was the primary cause of the Moorish

invasion, and the disastrous wars which followed. Count Julian, father

of the frail fair one, highly indignant at the affront he had received,

resolved to take the most signal vengeance. His views were warmly

espoused by Don Oppas, Archbishop of Toledo, who was the most

influential man in the kingdom. These two noblemen betrayed their

country to the Moors, who, invited by them, landed in Spain, under the

command of Tarik and Muza.

[2] The Black.

[3] Champion of the Lists.

[4] For this and for my King.

[5] A kind of small mantle.

[6] I am like my name.

[7]

I will bear him to the skies,

That he may have the greater fall.

[8] Know him by his deeds.

[9] The game of the Ring.

[10] The _Chirimia_ was a musical instrument made of wood, resembling

somewhat a wooden flageolet, though much longer: it contained ten holes;

the wind pipe was thin, and made of reed. _Praecentoria tuba, fistula

musica._ The _Dulzaina_ was an instrument like the _Chirimia_, only upon

a smaller scale, and capable of producing sounds more acute and

sharp.--_Tibia._

[11] Gallants.

[12] Pera. The military term is _imperial_; a small tuft of hair.

[13] Jester.

[14] _Reja_, a small grated window.

[15] _Anglice_, a beldam.

[16] I am an old Christian.

[17] A porch,--the entrance of a building.

[18] From a poor sinner like myself.

[19] Jew.

[20] St. James of Compostela, patron of Spain.

[21] Girl.

[22] God forgive me.

[23] Sluggard.

[24] The _Adarga_ was a peculiar sort of shield or short buckler used by

the Spaniards in those times. The presentation of the _adarga_ was

equivalent to an offer of peace. It was a practice often resorted to by

the persons entrusted with a mission to the enemy.

[25] Thieves.

[26] A _Maravedi_ was a coin of such diminutive value as to answer to

the one-third of an English farthing.

[27] The square.

[28] The Persians, and even the Turks, when speaking of a brave man,

generally compare him to a lion;--their poetry is full of this simile,

and there is nothing more common than to hear them say _aslan_, lion, or

_caplan_, tiger.

[29] The brave man who protects the helpless is a Lion.

[30] New Square.

[31] At the period in which my Romance takes place, the revival of the

art of painting was in its infancy. I am aware, therefore, that some

scrupulous folks will be apt to find fault with me for having introduced

a gallery of pictures with the same confidence as if I were writing a

novel of the present day. Yet this seeming anachronism does not exist.

The Moors, though they certainly could not boast of a Rafael or a

Titian, had exercised themselves in the art, and, according to some

authorities, even excelled in portrait painting. I do not intend to

maintain that either the Moorish or Christian artists of the period had

arrived at any eminence: for my purpose, it is enough that they _did_

exist at the time: let imagination do the rest.

[32] Our lady protect us.

[33] In those times, when war was the only meritorious occupation of the

_gentle_ blood, the Jews, though despised and persecuted, were in some

respects men of great consequence in a state. They were not only, as in

the present day, the most expert and assiduous in money transactions,

but cultivated the science of medicine with much success; when no other

career was deemed compatible with honor and glory but the profession of

arms or the church.

[34] Samaritan--term of reproach.

[35] God defend us.

[36] God bless me.

[37] Satan.

[38] Old Christian.

[39] Accursed.

[40] A kind of ruffle or frill, worn formerly round the neck--a collar.

[41] The Hill of the Martyrs.

[42] On the hill of the Martyrs, so called from the supposed cruelties

that the Moors had exercised against the Christian prisoners who fell

into their hands, Queen Isabella caused a chapel to be erected, which

became the object of many a pious pilgrimage.

[43] May she rest in peace.

[44] A devotee.

[45] History describes Don Alonso de Aguilar as one of the most valiant

and renowned amongst the celebrated warriors of that period. His death

has been the subject of many and some very good ballads or romances, but

it is better known and appreciated among the reading portion of the

Spaniards by the description given by Hurtado de Mendoza in his work

entitled, "_Guerra de Granada_." It is a masterly composition. Indeed

the whole work passes amongst the _literati_ as the most elegant and

classic piece of Spanish history.

[46] The seven Sleepers.

End of Project Gutenberg's Gomez Arias, by Joaquin Telesforo de Trueba y Cosio