wood, when, on breaking into a narrow pathway, he found lying motionless
on the sod and bedabbled with blood, from a wound in her bosom, the
unfortunate of whom he was in search.
"Catalina of Villa Franca! Adored Catalina!" he exclaimed, in accents
of horror and affection, as he tossed his sword from him and sunk down
beside her on his knees; "this--this is all my doing. I have brought
you to destruction by entrusting you, in an evil hour, to a bandit and
matador!"
He had no idea of pursuing the assassin. His whole soul was wrapt up in
the sad spectacle before him, and he thought only of endeavouring to
save her, if possible, before she perished from loss of blood, which was
flowing freely from a deep dagger-wound in her pure and beautiful neck,
evidently from the same weapon which had struck Major Campbell, and
slain the _paisana_ by a blow in the same part of the frame. Her bosom
was exposed and covered with the red current, which stained the moonlit
leaves and petals of the forest-flowers where she lay. Unflinchingly
had Ronald that morning beheld men weltering and wallowing in blood; but
he shrunk in agony at the sight of Catalina's.
"Catalina de Villa Franca! dearest, hear my voice! Speak to me. Never
until this moment of horror and woe did I know how much I loved you."
He rent the silk sash from his shoulder[*] and endeavoured to stanch the
blood, while the unfortunate girl opened her lustrous eyes, and gazed
upon him with a look which, while it told of exquisite pain--of love and
delight, too surely convinced him, by its terrible expression, that she
was--dying.
[*] The crimson sash is worn over the left shoulder in Highland
regiments.
"You have come, Ronald. I expected you many--many months ago," she
whispered in broken accents, while her wild black eyes were fixed on his
with an expression of tenderness. "Hold me up, dearest--hold me up, that
I may look upon you for the last time,--on the face I have loved so
long, and used to dream about in the long nights at Merida and Almarez.
O that my brother, Alvaro, was here too! Holy--holy Mother of God! look
on me--I am dying!"
"Ah, Catalina! speak not thus: every word sinks like a sword into my
heart. Dying! oh, it cannot be! You shall live if the aid of art and
affection can preserve you. You _shall_ live," he added frantickly,
"and for me."
"O no--never--not for you!" she said bitterly, in tones gradually
becoming more hollow, "it may not be. Alas! I am not what I was an
hour ago. I cannot,--I cannot now be yours, even should I escape death,
whose cold hand is passing over my heart."
"Almighty Power, preserve my senses! What is this you say?" he replied,
raising her head upon his knee, and gathering in his hand the soft
dishevelled curls which streamed freely upon the turf. "What mean these
terrible words, Catalina?"
Before she replied, a shudder convulsed her frame, and drops of white
froth fell from her lips. A strange light sparkled in her eyes: there
was something singularly fearful and beautiful in the expression of her
pale countenance at that moment.
"I need not shrink from telling you the dreadful truth,--I need not
deceive you," she added, speaking more fluently as a passionate flow of
tears relieved her. "I feel in my heart a sensation, which announces
that the moment of dissolution is at hand. I hail it with joy,--I wish
not to live. The wretch who deceived us has robbed me of that which is
most precious to a woman, and then with his dagger--"
A moan escaped the lips of Ronald, and he gnashed his teeth with
absolute fury, while big drops, glittering in the moonlight, stood upon
his pale forehead, and his throat became so swollen that he was almost
choked. He snatched up his sword, and with difficulty restrained the
inclination he felt to rush deeper into the wood, in search of
Cifuentes. But how could he leave Catalina, the torn and disordered
condition of whose garments, together with the wounds and bruises on her
delicate hands and arms, bore evidence that a desperate struggle had
taken place before the first outrage was accomplished. Stuart reeled as
if a ball had passed through his brain, and the forest-trees seemed to
rock around him as if shaken by an earthquake. The fierce emotion
passed away, and was succeeded by a horrible calmness,--a feeling of
settled and morbid desperation. He passed his hand once or twice over
his brow, as if to clear his thoughts and arrange them before he again
knelt beside Catalina, who had closed her eyes and lay still, as if in a
deep slumber. He thought that the spirit had passed from her; but the
faint beating of her heart, as he laid his cheek on her soft breast,
convinced him that she yet lived. Raising her from the ground, he
endeavoured to make his way through the wood to where he had left the
aged priest, to the end that some means might be procured to save her
life, if it was yet possible to do so. But he had not borne her a dozen
yards, when the branch of a tree tore off the sash with which he had
hastily bound up the wound, and the blood gushed forth with greater
violence than before.
"Mother Mary, be gracious unto me! and forgive me if I think of aught
else than heaven in this awful moment!" murmured Catalina in a soft and
plaintive voice. "Ah, the pangs, the torments I endure! Oh, _mi
querida_, carry me no further; 'tis useless,--I am dying. Alas!
dishonoured as I am, I would not wish to live. Lay me down here, where
the grass is soft and green. Ronald, here ends our love and my hope
together!"
In Stuart's face there was an expression which pen can never describe,
as he laid her down gently on the turf, and sustaining her head upon his
arm, bent over her in silent sorrow and misery.
"Are you near me still, _mi querida_?" she murmured tremulously.
"Catalina, I am yet with you,--my arm is around you."
"Alas! the light has left my eyes: death is darkening my vision."
"Mercy of Heaven! it cannot be thus,--they are bright as ever; but a
cloud has overshadowed the moon."
"Ronald, it is the hand of death: I see you no longer. Are you near
me?"
"My hands are pressing yours,--alas! they are very cold and clammy."
"I feel them not: the numbness of my limbs will soon extend to my
breast. When I am gone, let twelve masses he said for my soul. Alas,
you will think them of no use! But promise me this, that I may die more
easily and peacefully."
"I do, Catalina, I do."
"O that Alvaro was here, that I might hear the sound of his voice,--that
he might hear mine for the last time, before I pass to the world of
shadows. He will be lonely in the world without me. Alvaro is the last
of his race,--the last of a long line of illustrious hidalgos. Holy
Lady of Majorga,--sweet _San Juan de Dios_, intercede for me! Dearest
Ronald, kiss me--kiss me for the last time, while I have yet feeling,
for death is chilling my whole frame."
In an agony of love and sorrow, he passionately pressed his lips to
those of the dying girl. She never spoke again. It almost seemed as if
he had intercepted her last breath, for at the moment their lips met, a
slight tremour passed over her whole form, and the pure spirit of the
beautiful donna had fled for ever.
*CHAPTER X.*
*EL CONVENTO DE SANTA CRUZ.*
"The abbess was of noble blood,
But early took the veil and hood;
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook."
_Marmion_, canto ii.
Grey daylight was straggling through the mullioned windows of the
nunnery of Santa Cruz de Jarciejo, which stood close on the skirts of
the wood, when the portress was aroused from her straw pallet by a loud
peal at the bell, which hung in the porch. On withdrawing the wooden
cover of the vizzy hole in the outer door, she crossed herself, and
turned up her eyes; and instead of attending to those without, ran to
tell the lady abbess that a British officer on horseback, bearing in his
arms a dead woman, had been led thither by the old padre Ignacio el
Pastor, who was demanding admittance. The abbess, who in the convent
was known as _El Madre Santa Martha_, had many scruples about opening
the gates to them; but another tremendous peal at the bell, seconded by
a blow which Ronald dealt with the basket-hilt of his sword on the
iron-studded door, put an end to the matter, and she desired the
portress to usher them into the _parlatorio_. Entering the gateway in
the massive wall surrounding the gardens of the convent, they were led
through the formal lines of flower-beds and shrubbery to the main
building, where a carved gothic door in a low round archway, on the
key-stone of which appeared a mouldered cross, gave them admittance to
the chamber called the _parlatorio_, where the sisters were allowed to
receive the visits of their friends at the iron gratings in a
stone-screen which crossed the room, completely separating it from the
rest of the convent. These grates were strong bars of iron, crossed and
recrossed with wire, so as to preclude all possibility of touching the
inmates, who now crowded close to them, all gazing with amazement and
vague apprehension at the corpse of the young lady, which the officer
deposited gently on a wooden bench, and seated himself beside it in
apathetic sorrow, unmindful of the many pitying eyes that were fixed
upon him. Meanwhile the lady abbess, a handsome woman about twenty,
with a stately figure, a remarkably fine face, and soft hazel eyes,
entered the apartment, and advanced to where Catalina lay with the
tenderest commiseration strongly marked on her features, which, like
those of the sisterhood, were pale and sallow from confinement.
For an explanation of the scene before her, she turned to the decrepit
old priest Ignacio el Pastor, or _the Shepherd_, a name which he had
gained in consequence of his having become a guardian of Merino sheep
among the mountains of the Lina on the demolition of his monastery,
which had been destroyed by the French troops when Marshal Massena was
devastating the country in his retreat.
Interlarding his narrative with many a Spanish proverb, he related the
tale of Catalina's assassination. The querulous tones of his voice were
interrupted by many a soft expression of pity and pious ejaculation from
the sisters at the grating, gazing with morbid curiosity on the fair
form of the dead, whose high bosom was covered with coagulated blood,
and the long spiral curls of whose ringlets swept the pavement of the
chamber.
The lady abbess, who was far from being one of those sour ancient dames
that the superiors of convents are generally reputed to be, seated
herself by Ronald's side, and seeing that, although his proud dark eyes
were dry and tearless, he was deeply afflicted, she prayed him to be
comforted; but he hid his face among the thick tresses of the dead, and
made no immediate reply.
"She is indeed most beautiful! As she now lies, her features wear a
sublimity which might become an image of Our Lady," observed the abbess,
passing her hand softly over the cold white brow of Catalina. "She
seems only to sleep,--her white eyelids and long black lashes are so
placidly closed! And this is the sister of the noble Cavalier de Villa
Franca, of whom we hear so much? If man can avenge, Don Alvaro will do
it amply."
"Avenge her!" muttered Ronald through his clenched teeth. "Noble
senora, that task shall be mine--"
"Alas! cavalier," interrupted the abbess, "we commit a deadly sin in
talking thus."
"_Echemos pelillos a la mar_, says the proverb; we must forget and
forgive," chimed in El Pastor. "Vengeance belongs not to this
earth,--'tis not ours, miserable reptiles that we are. What sayeth the
holy writ? Lo, you now--"
"Peace, Ignacio; I would speak. You are getting into the burden of some
old sermon of yours, and it is a wonder you put so many words together
without another proverb," said the lady abbess, as she took Ronald's
hand kindly within her own, which indeed was a very soft and white one.
"El Pastor's account of this affair is somewhat confused. Tell me,
senor, how long it is since this dreadful deed was perpetrated?"
"But yesternight--only yesternight. To me it appears as if a thousand
years had elapsed since then, and the events of years ago seem to have
passed but yesterday. All is confusion and chaos in my mind."
"The noble senora was, perhaps, some relation of yours?'
"No. She is of Spain,--I of Scotland."
"Your wife, possibly, senor?"
"My wedded wife indeed she would have been, had she lived; but that
resolve came too late!" he replied in a troubled voice, as he pressed
the hand of Catalina to his lips. "But, senoritas, I must not spend
longer time in childish sorrow," he added, starting up and erecting his
stout and handsome figure before the eyes of the sisterhood, who, in
spite of their veils and hoods knew how to admire a smart young soldier
with a war-worn suit of harness. "It would not become me to do so, and
my duties call me elsewhere. Every means must be taken to bring
retribution on the head of the demon Narvaez, and I trust that the great
Power which suffers no crime to pass unpunished, will aid me in
discovering him one day before I leave Spain. Divine vengeance will
again place him at my mercy as he has been twice before, when, but for
my ill-timed interference, Don Alvaro had slain him, and my heart leaps
within me at the thought of having his base blood upon my weapon. Yes,
senoritas, his blood, shed with my own hands and streaming hot and thick
upon them, can alone avenge the death of Catalina. Some fatality seems
continually to throw this monster in my way, and if ever we cross each
other again, most fully, amply, and fearfully shall this unfortunate be
revenged; for I have sworn a secret oath--an oath which may not be
broken, that wherever I meet Cifuentes within the realm of Spain--on
moor or mountain, in city, camp, or field, there will I slay him, though
the next moment should be my last!"
His form appeared to dilate while he spoke, and his eyes sparkled with a
keen and fiery expression, which attested the firmness of his
determination and the bold recklessness of his heart. The excitement
under which he laboured imparted a new eloquence to his tones and grace
to his gesture; but he panted rather than breathed while he spoke, and
the fierce glitter of his eye, together with the strange ferocity of the
words which his love and sorrow prompted, caused the timid nuns of Santa
Cruz to shrink back from the iron gratings.
"Ah! senor," said the abbess, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "I have
already said vengeance is not ours. But you have spoken gallantly!"
"A noble cavalier! Viva!" cried El Pastor, in a chuckling tone;
"Hernandez de Cordova could not have spoken more bravely. _Bueno como
el pan_, as the old proverb tells us."
But when this burst of passion evaporated, he was again the sad and
sorrowful young man that he had at first appeared. As he refused to
partake of any refreshment, although pressed by the abbess to do so, the
padre El Pastor led him out to the convent garden, while the nuns made
preparations for the entombment of Catalina in their oratory, or chapel.
It was a bright sunshine morning; but Ronald was careless of its beauty
and of the fragrance of the flowers freshly blooming in the morning dew;
the beautiful arrangements of the place, the arbours, the sparkling
fountains, the statues of stone and marble,--he passed them all by
unheeded. Hobbling by his side, El Pastor, instead of endeavouring to
console him for his loss, poured into his unheeding ears, with a string
of old proverbs and wise saws, a tough lecture for the irreverent manner
in which he had treated the name of Madre-Maria the evening before,
until the impatient Highlander strode away, and left him to commune
alone.
That night Catalina was buried in the chapel. The building was
brilliantly illuminated with coloured lamps, the softened lights of
which were reflected from the gilded columns,--from the organ, with its
tall row of silver-trumpet like pipes,--from the rich altars and statues
of polished metal placed in niches, where golden candlesticks bore tall
twinkling tapers, which from their recesses cast a strange light on the
marble tombs of knights and long-departed warriors, whose rusty swords,
spurs, and faded banners were yet in some places hung over them, and
whose deeds were represented on the ancient pieces of mouldy and
moth-eaten tapestry which hung gloomily on the side walls of the chapel,
contrasting strongly with the glittering images and gorgeously coloured
Scripture-pieces, many of them said to be the productions of Alonza
Cano, the Michael Angelo of Spain, who flourished during the seventeenth
century.
Ronald Stuart, the only mourner there, walked by the side of the shell,
or basket of wicker-work, which contained all that remained of Catalina,
and which was borne through the chapel and deposited on the high altar
by six of the youngest nuns,--three on each side, carrying it by handles
projecting from the sides of the frame.
The requiem for the dead was now chanted, and the dulcet notes of the
lofty organ, blending in one delightful strain with the melodious voices
of the nuns, ringing among the pillared aisles, echoing in the hollow
vaults, and dying away in the distant arches of the cloisters, produced
such heavenly sounds as subdued the heart of Stuart, softening and
soothing his sorrow. He listened in a sort of ecstacy, almost deeming
that the thrilling voice of Catalina was mingled with the inspiring
harmony he heard. He was moved to tears, tears of sadness and
enthusiasm, and almost involuntarily he sunk on his knees at the marble
steps of the altar, an attitude which raised him immensely in the
estimation of El Pastor and the sisterhood, while the bright eyes of the
mitred abbess sparkled as she stretched her white hands glittering with
jewels over him, as if welcoming him to that church, the tenets of which
he had never yet inquired into. He had knelt down thus merely from
excess of veneration and a holy feeling, with which the sublime service
of the Roman Catholic church had inspired him. The music arose to its
utmost pitch at that moment; the voices of the nuns and choristers
mounted to the full swell; the trumpets of the organ pealed along the
groined roof, and caused the massive columns and the pavement beneath
them to tremble and vibrate with the soul-stirring grandeur of the
sound.
In the chancel, before the great altar, a pavement stone had been raised
and a deep grave dug, the soil of which lay piled in a gloomy heap on
the lettered stones around its yawning mouth.
On the chant being ended, four priests bore the bier of Catalina to the
side of the grave which was to receive her. The wicker-coffin or shell
had no lid, and Ronald now looked upon her pale and still beautiful
features for the last time. She was not enveloped in a ghastly shroud,
but, after the fashion of her own country, had been arrayed by the nuns
in a dress of the whitest muslin, adorned with the richest lace and
edgings of needle-work. Her fine hair was disposed over her neck and
bosom. A large chaplet of freshly gathered white roses encircled her
forehead, giving her the appearance of a bride dressed for the bridal
rather than a corse for the tomb; and, but for the mortal paleness of
her complexion, one would have supposed that she only slept, so placidly
did her closed eye-lashes repose upon her soft cheek.
While a slow, sad, but exquisitely melancholy dirge arose, the
bare-footed priests proceeded to lower her into the cold damp grave, but
in a manner so peculiar and revolting, that the lover, who had never
witnessed a Spanish interment before, almost sprung forward to stay
their proceeding. Instead of lowering the coffin into the grave, they
took out the body, permitting it to sink gently into its narrow bed
without other covering than the lace and muslin, part of which El Pastor
drew over her face and ringlets, to hide them from mortal eyes for ever.
Each monk now seized a shovel, and rapidly the coffinless remains were
covered up with dry sand, provided for the purpose.
The feelings of poor Ronald were sadly outraged at the barbarous mode of
interment common in Spain for those not of the families of grandees, but
remonstrance would have been unavailing. The scraping and jarring of
the iron shovels on the pavement, as they hurled in decayed bones, damp
red clay, stones, and sand on that fair and unprotected form, grated
horribly on his ears; but how did he shrink and revolt from the
_pummeling_ of the body! A stout padre, seizing a billet of wood, shod
with an iron ferule like a pavier's rammer, began to tread upon the
grave and rapidly beat down the earth into it, so that all that had been
taken out should be again admitted. He had not given a dozen strokes in
this disgusting manner, before Ronald shook off his apathy; and grasping
him by the cope, dragged him fiercely backwards, commanding them at once
to desist from a proceeding so distressing. Two priests, with the aid
of iron levers, deposited a slab of marble above the tomb, and it was
closed for ever. It bore the hastily carved legend,--
_Agui yace Catalina de Villa Franca._
The slab probably remains yet in the chapel, if the convent of Santa
Cruz has escaped the wars of the Carlists and Christinos. As soon as
this sad ceremony was concluded, Ronald retired.
Two-and-thirty years have now elapsed since the tomb closed over
Catalina, but time has not yet effaced from Stuart's memory the emotions
which he felt when hearing the sound of the dull cold earth falling on
her unshrouded bosom! In the _parlatorio_ he composed himself to write
a long letter to Donna Inesella, giving an account of her cousin's
destruction, and bitterly upbraiding himself as being the leading cause
in the affair, although in reality he was not. The reader will
remember, that it was her own desire and determination to confide
herself to the care of the pretended priest at Almarez.
Owing to the tumult in his mind, Ronald found the composition of the
letter no easy task, especially as that garrulous old man, El Pastor,
remained at his elbow, chattering away on unconnected subjects, and
bringing out now and then some musty Spanish proverb.
"Look ye, senor," said he, regardless of the blots and blunders that his
interruptions caused Stuart to make; "do you see that image of our Holy
Lady in the niche yonder?"
"Well, padre?"
"'Tis the work of Alonza Cano."
"Pshaw! what is that to me? I never heard of the gentleman before."
"He was the first of Spanish architects and painters, and with his own
hands adorned many of our finest churches and palaces. He was born at
Grenada in the year 1600, and as the proverb says--"
"Never mind what it says. For Heaven's sake, _mi amigo_, leave me to
write in peace."
"Did you but know that he lost the woman he loved by a dagger-stroke
from a matador, you would probably care more for the story of his
singular misfortunes."
"Pardon me, padre," said Ronald, with a melancholy interest; "what were
they?"
"The full career of Alonza's glory was cut short thus. One evening, on
returning home, he found his wife, a most beautiful woman, lying dead,
with a dagger planted in her heart. His servant, a vile Italian, the
perpetrator of the deed, had fled, and by order of the alcalde Mayor,
Alonza was arrested, and charged with having slain the lady in a fit of
jealousy. The dagger which the assassin used, was known to be that of
Alonza; he was a man naturally of a fierce and jealous temper, and had
kept watchful eyes on the senora, who was the handsomest woman that ever
promenaded on the Prado, or Plaza, at Madrid; and the compliments paid
her by the gay cavaliers and guardsmen of the capital were as molten
lead poured into the heart of her husband, though of course very proud
of her, for she was a fine creature,--_Como un palmito_, as the old
proverb says."
"Is this all the story, Ignacio?"
"The rest is yet to come. The _tail_ is the worst, senor; as the old
saw says,--_Aun lefalta la cola por desollar_."
"The devil take your saws and proverbs! You are as full of them as your
countryman Sancho Panza."