his subsequent search; he, with old Camaraz, wandered through the vale
of Argyro-Castro, and climbed Mount Trebucci to Korvo. Dmitri had
returned; he had gathered together a score of faithful comrades, and
sallied forth again; various were the reports of his destination, and
the enterprise which he meditated. One of these led our adventurers to
Terpellenè, and hence back towards Yannina; and now chance again
favoured them. They rested one night in the habitation of a priest at
the little village of Mosme, about three leagues to the north of Zitza;
and here they found an Arnaoot who had been disabled by a fall from his
horse; this man was to have made one of Dmitri’s band: they learned from
him that the Arnaoot had tracked Katusthius, following him close, and
forcing him to take refuge in the monastery of the Prophet Elias, which
stands on an elevated peak of the mountains of Sagori, eight leagues
from Yannina. Dmitri had followed him, and demanded the child. The
Caloyers refused to give it up, and the klepht, roused to mad
indignation, was now besieging and battering the monastery, to obtain by
force this object of his newly-awakened affections.
At Yannina, Camaraz and Cyril collected their comrades, and departed to
join their unconscious ally. He, more impetuous than a mountain stream
or ocean’s fiercest waves, struck terror into the hearts of the recluses
by his ceaseless and dauntless attacks. To encourage them to further
resistance, Katusthius, leaving the child behind in the monastery,
departed for the nearest town of Sagori, to entreat its Belouk-Bashee to
come to their aid. The Sagorians are a mild, amiable, social people;
they are gay, frank, clever; their bravery is universally acknowledged,
even by the more uncivilised mountaineers of Zoumerkas; yet robbery,
murder, and other acts of violence are unknown among them. These good
people were not a little indignant when they heard that a band of
Arnaoots was besieging and battering the sacred retreat of their
favourite Caloyers. They assembled in a gallant troop, and, taking
Katusthius with them, hastened to drive the insolent klephts back to
their ruder fastnesses. They came too late. At midnight, while the monks
prayed fervently to be delivered from their enemies, Dmitri and his
followers tore down their iron-plated door and entered the holy
precincts. The Protoklepht strode up to the gates of the sanctuary, and,
placing his hands upon it, swore that he came to save, not to destroy.
Constans saw him. With a cry of delight he disengaged himself from the
Caloyer who held him, and rushed into his arms: this was sufficient
triumph. With assurance of sincere regret for having disturbed them, the
klepht quitted the chapel with his followers, taking his prize with him.
Katusthius returned some hours after, and so well did the traitor plead
his cause with the kind Sagorians, bewailing the fate of his little
nephew among those evil men, that they offered to follow, and, superior
as their numbers were, to rescue the boy from their destructive hands.
Katusthius, delighted with the proposition, urged their immediate
departure. At dawn they began to climb the mountain summits, already
trodden by the Zoumerkians.
Delighted with repossessing his little favourite, Dmitri placed him
before him on his horse, and, followed by his comrades, made his way
over the mountains, clothed with old Dodona’s oaks, or, in higher
summits, by dark gigantic pines. They proceeded for some hours, and at
length dismounted to repose. The spot they chose was the depth of a dark
ravine, whose gloom was increased by the broad shadows of dark ilexes;
an entangled underwood, and a sprinkling of craggy isolated rocks, made
it difficult for the horses to keep their footing. They dismounted, and
sat by the little stream. Their simple fare was spread, and Dmitri
enticed the boy to eat by a thousand caresses. Suddenly one of his men,
set as a guard, brought intelligence that a troop of Sagorians, with
Katusthius as their guide, was advancing from the monastery of St.
Elias; while another man gave the alarm of the approach of six or eight
well-armed Moreots, who were advancing on the road from Yannina; in a
moment every sign of encampment had disappeared. The Arnaoots began to
climb the hills, getting under cover of the rocks, and behind the large
trunks of the forest trees, keeping concealed till their invaders should
be in the very midst of them. Soon the Moreots appeared, turning round
the defile, in a path that only allowed them to proceed two by two; they
were unaware of danger, and walked carelessly, until a shot that whizzed
over the head of one, striking the bough of a tree, recalled them from
their security. The Greeks, accustomed to the same mode of warfare,
betook themselves also to the safeguards of the rocks, firing from
behind them, striving with their adversaries which should get to the
most elevated station; jumping from crag to crag, and dropping down and
firing as quickly as they could load: one old man alone remained on the
pathway. The mariner, Camaraz, had often encountered the enemy on the
deck of his caick, and would still have rushed foremost at a boarding,
but this warfare required too much activity. Cyril called on him to
shelter himself beneath a low, broad stone: the Mainote waved his hand.
“Fear not for me,” he cried; “I know how to die!”
The brave love the brave. Dmitri saw the old man stand, unflinching, a
mark for all the balls, and he started from behind his rocky screen,
calling on his men to cease. Then addressing his enemy, he cried, “Who
art thou? Wherefore art thou here? If ye come in peace, proceed on your
way. Answer, and fear not!”
The old man drew himself up, saying, “I am a Mainote, and cannot fear.
All Hellas trembles before the pirates of Cape Matapan, and I am one of
these! I do not come in peace! Behold! you have in your arms the cause
of our dissension! I am the grandsire of that child—give him to me!”
Dmitri, had he held a snake which he felt awakening in his bosom, could
not so suddenly have changed his cheer;—“the offspring of a Mainote!”—he
relaxed his grasp;—Constans would have fallen had he not clung to his
neck. Meanwhile each party had descended from their rocky station, and
were grouped together in the pathway below. Dmitri tore the child from
his neck—he felt as if he could, with savage delight, dash him down the
precipice; when, as he paused and trembled from excess of passion,
Katusthius, and the foremost Sagorians, came down upon them.
“Stand!” cried the infuriated Arnaoot. “Behold, Katusthius! behold,
friend, whom I, driven by the resistless fates, madly and wickedly
forswore! I now perform thy wish—the Mainote child dies! the son of the
accursed race shall be the victim of my just revenge!”
Cyril, in a transport of fear, rushed up the rock; he levelled his
musket but he feared to sacrifice his child. The old Mainote, less timid
and more desperate, took a steady aim; Dmitri saw the act, and hurled
the dagger, already raised against the child, at him,—it entered his
side,—while Constans, feeling his late protector’s grasp relax, sprang
from it into his father’s arms.
Camaraz had fallen, yet his wound was slight. He saw the Arnaoots and
Sagorians close round him; he saw his own followers made prisoners.
Dmitri and Katusthius had both thrown themselves upon Cyril, struggling
to repossess themselves of the screaming boy. The Mainote raised
himself—he was feeble of limb, but his heart was strong; he threw
himself before the father and child; he caught the upraised arm of
Dmitri. “On me,” he cried, “fall all thy vengeance! I of the evil race!
for the child, he is innocent of such parentage! Maina cannot boast him
for a son!”
“Man of lies!” commenced the infuriated Arnaoot, “this falsehood shall
not stead thee!”
“Nay, by the souls of those you have loved, listen!” continued Camaraz,
“and if I make not good my words, may I and my children die! The boy’s
father is a Corinthian, his mother, a Sciote girl!”
“Scio!” the very word made the blood recede to Dmitri’s heart.
“Villain!” he cried, dashing aside Katusthius’ arm, which was raised
against poor Constans, “I guard this child—dare not to injure him!
Speak, old man, and fear not, so that thou speakest the truth.”
“Fifteen years ago,” said Camaraz, “I hovered with my caick, in search
of prey, on the coast of Scio. A cottage stood on the borders of a
chestnut wood; it was the habitation of the widow of a wealthy
islander—she dwelt in it with her only daughter, married to an Albanian,
then absent;—the good woman was reported to have a concealed treasure in
her house—the girl herself would be rich spoil—it was an adventure worth
the risk. We ran our vessel up a shady creek, and, on the going down of
the moon, landed; stealing under the covert of night towards the lonely
abode of these women.”
Dmitri grasped at his dagger’s hilt—it was no longer there; he half drew
a pistol from his girdle—little Constans, again confiding in his former
friend, stretched out his hands and clung to his arm; the klepht looked
on him, half yielded to his desire to embrace him, half feared to be
deceived; so he turned away, throwing his capote over his face, veiling
his anguish, controlling his emotions, till all should be told. Camaraz
continued:
“It became a worse tragedy than I had contemplated. The girl had a
child—she feared for its life, and struggled with the men like a tigress
defending her young. I was in another room seeking for the hidden store,
when a piercing shriek rent the air—I never knew what compassion was
before—this cry went to my heart; but it was too late, the poor girl had
sunk to the ground, the life-tide oozing from her bosom. I know not why,
but I turned woman in my regret for the slain beauty. I meant to have
carried her and her child on board, to see if aught could be done to
save her, but she died ere we left the shore. I thought she would like
her island grave best, and truly feared that she might turn vampire to
haunt me, did I carry her away; so we left her corpse for the priests to
bury, and carried off the child, then about two years old. She could say
few words except her own name—that was Zella, and she is the mother of
this boy!”
* * * * *
A succession of arrivals in the bay of Kardamyla had kept poor Zella
watching for many nights. Her attendant had, in despair of ever seeing
her sleep again, drugged with opium the few cakes she persuaded her to
eat, but the poor woman did not calculate on the power of mind over
body, of love over every enemy, physical or moral, arrayed against it.
Zella lay on her couch, her spirit somewhat subdued, but her heart
alive, her eyes unclosed. In the night, led by some unexplained impulse,
she crawled to her lattice, and saw a little sacovela enter the bay; it
ran in swiftly, under favour of the wind, and was lost to her sight
under a jutting crag. Lightly she trod the marble floor of her chamber;
she drew a large shawl close round her; she descended the rocky pathway,
and reached, with swift steps, the beach—still the vessel was invisible,
and she was half inclined to think that it was the offspring of her
excited imagination—yet she lingered. She felt a sickness at her very
heart whenever she attempted to move, and her eyelids weighed down in
spite of herself. The desire of sleep at last became irresistible; she
lay down on the shingles, reposed her head on the cold, hard pillow,
folded her shawl still closer, and gave herself up to forgetfulness.
So profoundly did she slumber under the influence of the opiate, that
for many hours she was insensible of any change in her situation. By
degrees only she awoke, by degrees only became aware of the objects
around her; the breeze felt fresh and free—so was it ever on the
wave-beaten coast; the waters rippled near, their dash had been in her
ears as she yielded to repose; but this was not her stony couch, that
canopy, not the dark overhanging cliff. Suddenly she lifted up her
head—she was on the deck of a small vessel, which was skimming swiftly
over the ocean-waves—a cloak of sables pillowed her head; the shores of
Cape Matapan were to her left, and they steered right towards the
noonday sun. Wonder rather than fear possessed her: with a quick hand
she drew aside the sail that veiled her from the crew—the dreaded
Albanian was sitting close at her side, her Constans cradled in his
arms; she uttered a cry—Cyril turned at the sound, and in a moment she
was folded in his embrace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IV.
_THE DREAM._
“Chi dice mal d’amore
Dice una falsità!”
—ITALIAN SONG.
THE time of the occurrence of the little legend about to be narrated,
was that of the commencement of the reign of Henry IV. of France, whose
accession and conversion, while they brought peace to the kingdom whose
throne he ascended, were inadequate to heal the deep wounds mutually
inflicted by the inimical parties. Private feuds, and the memory of
mortal injuries, existed between those now apparently united; and often
did the hands that had clasped each other in seeming friendly greeting,
involuntarily, as the grasp was released, clasp the dagger’s hilt, as
fitter spokesman to their passions than the words of courtesy that had
just fallen from their lips. Many of the fiercer Catholics retreated to
their distant provinces; and while they concealed in solitude their
rankling discontent, not less keenly did they long for the day when they
might show it openly.
In a large and fortified chateau built on a rugged steep overlooking the
Loire, not far from the town of Nantes, dwelt the last of her race, and
the heiress of their fortunes, the young and beautiful Countess de
Villeneuve. She had spent the preceding year in complete solitude in her
secluded abode; and the mourning she wore for a father and two brothers,
the victims of the civil wars, was a graceful and good reason why she
did not appear at court, and mingle with its festivities. But the orphan
countess inherited a high name and broad lands; and it was soon
signified to her that the king, her guardian, desired that she should
bestow them, together with her hand, upon some noble whose birth and
accomplishments should entitle him to the gift. Constance, in reply,
expressed her intention of taking vows, and retiring to a convent. The
king earnestly and resolutely forbade this act, believing such an idea
to be the result of sensibility overwrought by sorrow, and relying on
the hope that, after a time, the genial spirit of youth would break
through this cloud.
A year passed, and still the countess persisted; and at last Henry,
unwilling to exercise compulsion,—desirous, too, of judging for himself
of the motives that led one so beautiful, young, and gifted with
fortune’s favours, to desire to bury herself in a cloister,—announced
his intention, now that the period of her mourning was expired, of
visiting her chateau; and if he brought not with him, the monarch said,
inducement sufficient to change her design, he would yield his consent
to its fulfilment.
Many a sad hour had Constance passed—many a day of tears, and many a
night of restless misery. She had closed her gates against every
visitant; and, like the Lady Olivia in “Twelfth Night,” vowed herself to
loneliness and weeping. Mistress of herself, she easily silenced the
entreaties and remonstrances of underlings, and nursed her grief as it
had been the thing she loved. Yet it was too keen, too bitter, too
burning, to be a favoured guest. In fact, Constance, young, ardent, and
vivacious, battled with it, struggled, and longed to cast it off; but
all that was joyful in itself, or fair in outward show, only served to
renew it; and she could best support the burden of her sorrow with
patience, when, yielding to it, it oppressed but did not torture her.
Constance had left the castle to wander in the neighbouring grounds.
Lofty and extensive as were the apartments of her abode, she felt pent
up within their walls, beneath their fretted roofs. The spreading
uplands and the antique wood, associated to her with every dear
recollection of her past life, enticed her to spend hours and days
beneath their leafy coverts. The motion and change eternally working, as
the wind stirred among the boughs, or the journeying sun rained its
beams through them, soothed and called her out of that dull sorrow which
clutched her heart with so unrelenting a pang beneath her castle roof.
There was one spot on the verge of the well-wooded park, one nook of
ground, whence she could discern the country extended beyond, yet which
was in itself thick set with tall umbrageous trees—a spot which she had
forsworn, yet whither unconsciously her steps for ever tended, and where
now again, for the twentieth time that day, she had unaware found
herself. She sat upon a grassy mound, and looked wistfully on the
flowers she had herself planted to adorn the verdurous recess—to her the
temple of memory and love. She held the letter from the king which was
the parent to her of so much despair. Dejection sat upon her features,
and her gentle heart asked fate why, so young, unprotected, and
forsaken, she should have to struggle with this new form of
wretchedness.
“I but ask,” she thought, “to live in my father’s halls—in the spot
familiar to my infancy—to water with my frequent tears the graves of
those I loved; and here in these woods, where such a mad dream of
happiness was mine, to celebrate for ever the obsequies of Hope!”
A rustling among the boughs now met her ear—her heart beat quick—all
again was still.
“Foolish girl!” she half muttered; “dupe of thine own passionate fancy:
because here we met; because seated here I have expected, and sounds
like these have announced, his dear approach; so now every coney as it
stirs, and every bird as it awakens silence, speaks of him. O
Gaspar!—mine once—never again will this beloved spot be made glad by
thee—never more!”
Again the bushes were stirred, and footsteps were heard in the brake.
She rose; her heart beat high; it must be that silly Manon, with her
impertinent entreaties for her to return. But the steps were firmer and
slower than would be those of her waiting-woman; and now emerging from
the shade, she too plainly discerned the intruder. Her first impulse was
to fly:—but once again to see him—to hear his voice:—once again before
she placed eternal vows between them, to stand together, and find the
wide chasm filled which absence had made, could not injure the dead, and
would soften the fatal sorrow that made her cheek so pale.
And now he was before her, the same beloved one with whom she had
exchanged vows of constancy. He, like her, seemed sad; nor could she
resist the imploring glance that entreated her for one moment to remain.
“I come, lady,” said the young knight, “without a hope to bend your
inflexible will. I come but once again to see you, and to bid you
farewell before I depart for the Holy Land. I come to beseech you not to
immure yourself in the dark cloister to avoid one as hateful as
myself,—one you will never see more. Whether I die or live, France and I
are parted for ever!”
“That were fearful, were it true,” said Constance; “but King Henry will
never so lose his favourite cavalier. The throne you helped to build,
you still will guard. Nay, as I ever had power over thought of thine, go
not to Palestine.”
“One word of yours could detain me—one smile—Constance”—and the youthful
lover knelt before her; but her harsher purpose was recalled by the
image once so dear and familiar, now so strange and so forbidden.
“Linger no longer here!” she cried. “No smile, no word of mine will ever
again be yours. Why are you here—here, where the spirits of the dead
wander, and, claiming these shades as their own, curse the false girl
who permits their murderer to disturb their sacred repose?”
“When love was young and you were kind,” replied the knight, “you taught
me to thread the intricacies of these woods—you welcomed me to this dear
spot, where once you vowed to be my own—even beneath these ancient
trees.”
“A wicked sin it was,” said Constance, “to unbar my father’s doors to
the son of his enemy, and dearly is it punished!”
The young knight gained courage as she spoke; yet he dared not move,
lest she, who, every instant, appeared ready to take flight, should be
startled from her momentary tranquillity; but he slowly replied:—“Those
were happy days, Constance, full of terror and deep joy, when evening
brought me to your feet; and while hate and vengeance were as its
atmosphere to yonder frowning castle, this leafy, starlit bower was the
shrine of love.”
“_Happy?_—miserable days!” echoed Constance; “when I imagined good could
arise from failing in my duty, and that disobedience would be rewarded
of God. Speak not of love, Gaspar!—a sea of blood divides us for ever!
Approach me not! The dead and the beloved stand even now between us:
their pale shadows warn me of my fault, and menace me for listening to
their murderer.”
“That am not I!” exclaimed the youth. “Behold, Constance, we are each
the last of our race. Death has dealt cruelly with us, and we are alone.
It was not so when first we loved—when parent, kinsman, brother, nay, my
own mother breathed curses on the house of Villeneuve; and in spite of
all I blessed it. I saw thee, my lovely one, and blessed it. The God of
peace planted love in our hearts, and with mystery and secrecy we met
during many a summer night in the moonlit dells; and when daylight was
abroad, in this sweet recess we fled to avoid its scrutiny, and here,
even here, where now I kneel in supplication, we both knelt and made our
vows. Shall they be broken?”
Constance wept as her lover recalled the images of happy hours. “Never,”
she exclaimed, “O never! Thou knowest, or wilt soon know, Gaspar, the
faith and resolves of one who dare not be yours. Was it for us to talk
of love and happiness, when war, and hate, and blood were raging around?
The fleeting flowers our young hands strewed were trampled by the deadly
encounter of mortal foes. By your father’s hand mine died; and little
boots it to know whether, as my brother swore, and you deny, your hand
did or did not deal the blow that destroyed him. You fought among those
by whom he died. Say no more—no other word: it is impiety towards the
unreposing dead to hear you. Go, Gaspar; forget me. Under the chivalrous
and gallant Henry your career may be glorious; and some fair girl will
listen, as once I did, to your vows, and be made happy by them.
Farewell! May the Virgin bless you! In my cell and cloister-home I will
not forget the best Christian lesson—to pray for our enemies. Gaspar,
farewell!”
She glided hastily from the bower: with swift steps she threaded the
glade and sought the castle. Once within the seclusion of her own
apartment she gave way to the burst of grief that tore her gentle bosom
like a tempest; for hers was that worst sorrow which taints past joys,
making remorse wait upon the memory of bliss, and linking love and
fancied guilt in such fearful society as that of the tyrant when he
bound a living body to a corpse. Suddenly a thought darted into her
mind. At first she rejected it as puerile and superstitious; but it
would not be driven away. She called hastily for her attendant. “Manon,”
she said, “didst thou ever sleep on St. Catherine’s couch?”
Manon crossed herself. “Heaven forefend! None ever did, since I was
born, but two: one fell into the Loire and was drowned; the other only
looked upon the narrow bed, and returned to her own home without a word.
It is an awful place; and if the votary have not led a pious and good
life, woe betide the hour when she rests her head on the holy stone!”
Constance crossed herself also. “As for our lives, it is only through
our Lord and the blessed saints that we can any of us hope for
righteousness. I will sleep on that couch to-morrow night!”
“Dear, my lady! and the king arrives to-morrow.”
“The more need that I resolve. It cannot be that misery so intense
should dwell in any heart, and no cure be found. I had hoped to be the
bringer of peace to our houses; and is the good work to be for me a
crown of thorns? Heaven shall direct me. I will rest to-morrow night on
St. Catherine’s bed: and if, as I have heard, the saint deigns to direct
her votaries in dreams, I will be guided by her; and, believing that I
act according to the dictates of Heaven, I shall feel resigned even to
the worst.”