 | CHAPTER IV. Tales of the Spanish seas |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
The cabin into which, with the break of
day Ringwood descended, was, according to
invariable custom, situate in the extreme after
the advantage afforded by the stern lights for
cheerfulness and ventilation. In its other
arrangements, however, it differed not a little
from the similar apartments in ships of war
of that, or indeed any other day. All the
guns, which were carried by the low light
picaroon, were on her upper deck; which,
somewhat in advance of the marine architecture
of the times, was perfectly flush from
stem to stern—by this arrangement the whole
interior of the vessel was reserved, free from
the incumbrance of the batteries, for the accommodation
of the numerous crew, and for
the needful stores of food and war munitions,
and as its sub-divisions were not, as has been
said above, conformable to ordinary practice,
it will not be superfluous to give a brief
description of their fashion and appliances.
In the first place, then, be it observed, that
the cabin companion, instead of being situate
abaft the mizen, was placed about half way
betwixt that spar and the mainmast—the stairway
which it contained opening into a narrow
space, between two musket-proof bulkheads,
perforated with loopholes and crenelles for shot
of arquebuse or carbine. In the forward of
these partitions, which ran entirely across the
vessel, there was no aperture whatever, except
the shot-holes above mentioned—in the
centre of the other, however, was a low steel-clenched
door-way, before which a sentinel
stood on duty with his firelock loaded night
and day; while a second, similarly armed,
kept guard on deck by the companion hatch.
This portal, framed like the bulkheads, of
timber so thick as to be musket proof, gave
entrance to a narrow passage, running fore and
aft, between the armorer's and gunner's store
rooms, and through another strong door to the
ward-room or apartment of the officers, under
which general term were included all the classes
superior to the private marines, with no
distinction as to warrant or commission. This
was a large, low space, occupying the whole
width, and about twenty feet of the length of
the vessel, fitted with a long table in the centre,
above which there swung from the ceiling
a compass, and several lamps. The sides
were occupied by berths sufficiently commodious;
while a range of lockers, covered with
cushions of rich velvet, so as to wear the
semblance of a superb divan, ran round the
whole apartment. The light was admitted,
not, as is usual, through a skylight, but by a
range of small glazed apertures pierced
through the sides like port-holes, and like
them provided with massive shutters, which
might be battened down in rough and stormy
weather, or in time of action. When it is
added to this, that the deck which formed
the floor was covered by a splendid carpet from
the Turkish loom—that the curtains of the
berths were of the richest arras tapestry—that
two large beaufets of some costly Indian
wood were decked with gorgeous plate, flagons,
and goblets, covers, and cups, and tankards, of
gold and silver, carved and embossed with the
best art of Italy's best sculptors—and that, in
wondrous contrast to the luxurious decoration
of the room, offensive weapons of every shape
and every construction, were disposed ready to
meet the hand, wherever any vacant space
was left for their arrangement—a very fair
idea may be formed of the wild blending there
displayed of almost regal pomp with warlike
preparation. Thus round the mainmast was
suspended, in a fair gilded rack, a stand of
partisans with shafts of ebony, and blades,
two feet in length, of brightly polished steel.
Upon the bulkheads, at each end of the apartment,
pistols and carbines, loaded and primed,
and ready for immediate service, and Turkish
yatagans, Damascus cimiters, blades of Bilboa
and Toledo, with Malay creases, Scottish
dirks, and poniards of Italian fabric, all glittering
with golden chasings and bright gems,
were placed in fantastical devices, of stars, and
suns, and crescents, reflecting every beam of
light, and almost rivalling in splendor the
luminaries in whose forms they had been
modelled. Besides this common stock, to every
column parting the sleeping berths, was attached
a complete panoply—with fascinet, cuirass,
and buckler, pistols and boarding axe, and
broadsword of the most choice material and
construction. It was apparent at a glance,
that this, the quarter of the officers, must also
be regarded as the stronghold, the citadel as it
were, of the ship. It might perhaps be conjectured
likewise, from the arrangements, that
the occupants of this magnificent apartment
were not entirely free from some touch of
jealousy, if not apprehension, as regarded the
good faith of their subordinates. The upper
bulkhead, parting the captain's cabin from the
ward-room of his officers, was, like the lower
one, ball proof, and looped for musketry—
the door-way, as before, gave access to a
narrow vestibule or passage, arranged in this
case as the Rover's private armory, and communicating
by a hatch in the floor with the
ship's magazine and larger arm-room. From
the ceiling of this vestibule, which was not
more than a yard in width, was slung a lamp
of silver with two burners; beneath the clear
broad glare of which a negro, of gigantic
stature, and features singularly handsome for
his race, stalked to and fro with shouldered
carbine, and a whole armory of knives and
pistols in the broad belt that girded his white
linen caftan about his thin and sinewy flanks.
Another African, who both for bulk and comeliness,
might well have been twin-brother to
the sentinel, lay buried in deep sleep upon a
velvet-covered pallet, which occupied the
with all his weapons round him. And never
by day or by night did those two grim life-guardsmen
leave their appointed post together
—and singly but at rare and distant intervals—one
sleeping while the other watched—
one feasting while the other fasted—but both
continually at hand, and ready on the slightest
signal to do their chieftain's bidding, whether
for good or evil.
On entering the last door-way, a scene of
singular beauty was presented to the eye of the
spectator. The cabin was perhaps twenty feet
in width, by half that depth, except that in the
centre a recess of about ten feet square was
formed by the projection of two state rooms,
one on each hand, into the chamber—this
alcove, raised one step higher than the cabin
floor, was lighted by two of the stern windows
occupying its whole breath, and reaching almost
from the ceiling to the deck—the other
two lights being cut off by the state-rooms
above mentioned. The alcove was carpeted
with a thick soft Persian rug, and hung with
seagreen velvet, fringed with broad arabesques
of gold; a divan covered with the same
stuff ran round it, while the centre was occupied
by a circular table of dark wood inlaid
with ivory and brass. Against the state-room
partitions there hung, on the one side, a set of
shelves filled with about a hundred books in
costly bindings; and on the other, a portrait of
a young girl seemingly not over seventeen years
old—a master-piece of the world's master
painter, Antonio Vandyk—with a long two-edged
gold-hilted broadsword, and a brace of
large horseman's pistols, of workmanship to
match the rapier, fixed to the panel under it,
as if to guard the lovely treasure. Upon the
circular table there stood a crucifix of gold,
and a small vase of the same precious metal,
containing some choice flowers of that tropical
clime, while near them lay an open volume of
Italian poetry, a Spanish gittern, and some
manuscript music, partially covered by an embroidered
kerchief of white silk and gold.
The larger and lower portion of the cabin was
carpeted and decked with hangings of the same
color and material with those in the alcove.
A large square table filled the centre, on
which lay maps and charts, with books and
instruments of navigation. An antique cabinet
of oak, with massive ornaments of brass,
a beaufet covered with vessels of wrought
gold and goblets of rock crystal, another bookcase,
with perhaps two hundred volumes, and
several huge arm-chairs of oak, with velvet
cushions, completed the furniture. It must
not, however, be forgotten that here, as in the
outer rooms, the walls were further decorated
by a superb collection of arms, offensive and
defensive, of every age and nation; the most
costly and most prominent of which was a
complete suit of tilting armor of blue Milan
steel, all damascened with gold, such as was
worn in the fourteenth century by every knight
of name, and by the most unhappy of the
Stuarts, and some few of his leaders even so
late as the war of the English Revolution.
Such was the form and fashion of the cabin
into which, his long night-watch concluded,
Ringwood descended.
In the ward-room, as he passed, his second
officer—a young and handsome Englishman
with a fair skin, where it had not been bronzed
by long exposure to a tropical sky, laughing
blue eyes, and a profusion of light curly hair—
was seated at the table, busily engaged, with
several fine looking lads of various ages, from
fourteen to twenty, in discussing a morning
meal as sumptuous as a ship's store might furnish,
with the addition of fresh fish of several
kinds, and a tureen of turtle; which, though
concocted only by the untaught skill of the
bright-skinned and clear mulatto, who waited
by the beaufet, resplendent in cap, hose, and
jerkin, of unsullied whiteness, was even thus
no despicable fare; as was attested by the frequent
applications to its dispenser, who seemed
to be in no small danger, while ministering to
the appetites of others, of losing his own breakfast.
At a smaller board, and a little way
apart, the armorer and gunner, two thick-set
sturdy-looking Britons of the Saxon race, contemning
the effeminate luxuries of potted game,
broiled fish, and turtle-soup, diluted by champagne
and bordeaux, were revelling in what
they deemed the manlier enjoyment of toasted
cheese, black puddings, and fat ale. With a
gay smile and some light jest, the Rover declined
the invitation of his officers to join them at
their festive board; and bowing with an air of
easy dignity passed onward, showing no haste
or agitation in his measured tread, and closing
the door gently after him, as he entered the
small vestibule which led to his own cabin.
“You might as well have spared yourself
the trouble of that invitation, good master Falconer,”
said one of the juniors, who filled
the place of midshipman in a more regular
service—“a likely thing it were that he should
tarry here, for such a poor temptation as meat
and drink may offer, with such a feast of
charms wooing him yonder. By St. George,
well might the loveliness of that pale, black-browed
beauty overcome the virtue of an anchorite!”
“Hold hard, there, Anson”—cried another—“covet
not thou, that which is sacred
to thy betters.”
“Tush, man—tush!” answered the first
speaker, “I covet her not, by St. George; I
love not your delicate, coy damsels—better one
Ariadne fresh from the arms of the blithe wine
god, than twenty tearful Niobes. We shall
have, by-and-by, a goodly chorus of shrieks,
how he prospers in his wooings.”
But though a general burst of merriment
hailed this prophetic speech, and although
every ear was for a time on the alert to catch
some indication of the progress of events between
the Rover and his lovely captive, not a
sound reached them, that afforded any clue to
their excited curiosity.
Closing the door, as has been said, gently behind
him as he left the wardroom, the Rover
turned the key, and dropped a massive bar further
to guard against intruders.
“Let none disturb me, Pluto,” he said to
the sentinel, “on any pretext whatever—I
am o'erdone with watching, and shall betake
me to my cot till noon. And hark thee, sirrah;
whatever thou mayst hear within, HEAR IT NOT,
if thou wouldst have ears afterward, to hear
withal!—Hear nothing thou, unless I call on
thee—nor thy twin devil yonder, either!”
The sable functionary grinned, till he showed
his ivory teeth almost from ear to ear, as
Ringwood tutored him; and, when he had done
speaking, laid his broad hand upon his chest,
and bowed in silent acquiescence to his master's
will.
Satisfied, apparently, that his attendants comprehended
and would implicitly obey his bidding,
the captain paused no longer, but entered
his apartment without further waste of
words, with every sinew of his body strung,
and every energy of his strong mind resolved
upon his savage purpose. No clothing had
been given to the hapless prisoners, beyond
the miserable relics of their torn garments,
which had been spared in the first moment of
their capture; nor indeed, save for the wants
of delicacy, was any more required; for the
weather was extremely hot and sultry, and the
air of the small cabin, though all the windows
were thrown open to catch the favoring breeze,
was confined and oppressive. Little, therefore,
had it been in the power of those wretched
girls to do in aid of their offended modesty—
little, however, as it was, all, that the utmost
delicacy with their small means could have
effected, was performed. Teresa's hair had
been replaced, folded in massive wreaths about
her classic temples, decently ordered, but devoid
of the most simple ornament. Her single
robe, of thin and half transparent linen, had
been arranged; and the huge rent, which had
displayed all the voluptuous charms of her
young bosom and round ivory shoulders, repaired
by such devices as woman can alone
contrive; so that the beauties of her unrivalled
form, though not concealed—for how could
one light fold of cambric conceal the swelling
outlines, the luxuriant roundness, the unmatched
symmetry of that shape, delicately
full, yet slight withal and sylphlike?—were
veiled at least from the too bold intrusion of an
unchaste eye. The stains, however, were still
there—the frightful stains of recent massacre—
the plain print of ensanguined fingers upon
the sullied surface of that virgin robe—and her
small and slender ankles, which might not be
concealed beneath her scanty draperies, were
still encrusted thickly with the unnatural taint
of human slaughter.
With the dark fringe of her long downcast
lashes drawn in distinct relief against a cheek
as colorless and cold as monumental marble—
without one ray of hope, one gleam of intellect,
to lighten up the dull and soulless gloom
which brooded over those glorious features,
like a grey storm-cloud overshadowing a lovely
landscape—her brow, too much oppressed
to feel the agony of its own inward aching,
propped on one snowy hand; while with the
azure veins painted in fearful vividness upon
its deadly whiteness, the other hung down by
her side, motionless, lifeless, and unconscious
—with scarce more sense of sorrow or of pain
than Niobe, when the last shaft had flown and
her last child lay dead before that stony effigy
which had but a moment since writhed with
the anguish of a mother's grief—silent, and
cold, and rigid, save when a quick convulsive
shiver, the only sign of life she had displayed
for hours, ran through her palsied form shaking
it for an instant, and then leaving it still as
the grave and nearly as insensible—tearless,
and mute in her exceeding agony, Teresa sat
erect in a huge oaken chair placed almost in
the centre of the cabin; with the black girl, her
sole attendant, lately her slave, but now at
least her equal—for in their common misery
all past distinctions were abolished—crouching
on the rich carpet at her feet, and clinging to
the knees of her, in whom, so deep set was
her half-idolatrous veneration, she could not
but imagine some power must still reside, some
magic of authority that must compel respect
even from the world's outcast—the proud, pitiless
corsair.
Such was the picture that met Ringwood's
eye as his foot crossed the threshold—a picture
that might well have called up sentiments of
pity from the most iron bosom! But in the
breast of the wild Rover pity, which spite his
merciless trade oft found a dwelling there, was
for the time overpowered; crushed as it were,
and silenced by the vast flood of fierce and
fiery passions, which swept across his soul,
withering up and searing every kind sentiment,
as the hot lava scathes the innocent flowers,
when he beheld the child—the heart, as it were,
the more than heart—of his detested foe, helpless,
and courting, as it seemed, the blow that
should heap tenfold ruin on the object of his
undying hatred. The voice of memory spoke
trumpet-tongued within him—memory, fresh
from other days and distant climes!—memory,
busy with confidence unwillingly bestowed,
and woes, and agony, and degradation! The
voice of memory spoke within him; spoke with
a thousand thunderous voices, whose every
whisper was of vengeance!—vengeance, delayed
for long, long years, but never for one hour
forgotten!—vengeance, which should exceed a
thousand fold the injury that woke it!—vengeance,
with which the universe should ring,
and which the page of history should hand
down, as unrivalled, to the appalled and shuddering
ears of countless generations! With
such a prompter at his heart's core, how
should he pause to think of Ruth or of forgiveness!
He paused not!—an exulting smile
curled his lip!—curled it with an expression of
pride, malice, scorn, and triumph, that no word
but FIENDISH could convey, however faintly,
to the mind!—his breast swelled with an ecstasy
almost convulsive; his eye positively
lightened with excitement—the terrible excitement
of ungovernable passions, o'er-mastering
every obstacle—fierce, furious excitement! ripe
with the concentrated fire of every evil, every
unholy impulse implanted by the hand of nature
in the breast of man, bursting the bonds of
reason, wild, remorseless, and untamable.
One glance he cast towards the miserable pair,
and cheering himself as if by a sudden impulse—
“Without there”—he cried—“Ho! without!”
On the instant the door was opened, and
the black woolly head of the gigantic negro
was thrust into the cabin. At the first sound,
however, of the Rover's voice, the Spanish
lady, whose senses, overpowered by the dull
torpor of despair, had not informed her of his
entrance, started upon her feet, turning her
clear cold gaze full on the splendid person of
the pirate chief; while down to her knees clung
the black maiden, with the whites of her eyes
dilated into glassy circles by the intensity of
her dismay.
“Take hence the slave girl—bestow her in
the hatch beside the greater arm room; keep
her close prisoner—but, as you love your life,
do her no wrong—not by a word, or look, if
you would 'scape my vengeance!—gently—
away with her!”
A fearful spasm crossed the pale features of
Teresa, as the huge black drew nigh; and it
seemed as though her terrors would have found
vent in a piercing scream, but by a mighty
effort she restrained herself.
“Let go my robe, Cassandra,” she said at
length, in tones which, though they faltered,
no terrors could deprive of their almost unearthly
sweetness—“Let go my robe, girl—seest
thou not that no present harm is meant thee?—
and if there were it would boot naught to struggle?
Let go—I say! minion, unloose thy
grasp”—she cried with increased agitation, as
the pirate's minister drew nearer—“wouldst
have thy mistress's person polluted by the
touch of you foul villain?—nay! tremble not,
thou silly one”—she added, kindly, as the
terrified creature, relaxing the firm clasp which
she had fastened on her lady's dress, fell prostrate
and almost insensible before her feet—
“they can but kill us—the longest torments—
the direst crnelties—can only lead to that—can
only inflict DEATH!”
As she spoke, gaining courage herself from
the effort she made to cheer her fellow-sufferer's
spirits, Pluto had raised the half-inanimate
and shuddering girl in his strong
arms, and was already bearing her towards the
vestibule; when by a sudden jerk she almost
extricated herself from his embrace, and followed
up the first attempt by a succession of
fierce rapid struggles and contortions, panting
and sobbing till it seemed that her heart would
have burst from her bosom, glaring with her
disturbed eyes, and foaming at the mouth like
a demoniac—till finding all her efforts fruitless,
exhausted even more by the violence of her
feelings, than by her terrible though vain exertions,
she sank into a deep swoon; and with her
head hanging upon the massive shoulder of the
negro, and all her shapely limbs collapsed and
nerveless, was carried off insensible and unresisting.
Alone in that luxurious cabin, surrounded
with all that is most beautiful to the eye, alone
the Spanish maiden stood in the presence—in
the power of the merciless Rover. Both young
—both beautiful—but oh! how different in their
beauty! She, pale and woe-begone, and cold
as the white marble which alone could vie with
the pure splendor of her skin—hopeless, yet
firm—wretched, yet tearless in her misery!
He, flushed with fiery passions, burning with
high hot hopes, instinct with all the ardent
energies, the quenchless vigor, the indomitable
power of animal existence! She, the very
image and ideal of perfect and most lovely
death! He, the unequalled type of glorious
and majestic life! With a slow step, as if
half doubtful of his purpose, the Rover neared
his captive—still she stood firm and motionless,
with her large bright eyes shining out, intensely
black and lustrous, from her fixed and hueless
features—fixed upon his with a cold,
steady, and unblenching gaze, like that by
which the leech is said to awe his maniac
patient, or man, the monarch of creation, to
quell the fiercest savage of the wild. It seemed
as if that frail and slender girl had listened
and believed the tale, “that a lion will turn
and flee from a maid in the pride of her purity,”
and had resolved to try the virtue of the spell,
but on a fiercer and more tameless being. And
in good truth for a second's space it showed as
though the charm were not all powerless—the
haughtyspirit did—did for a moment quail before
that firm and fearless gaze!—the strong brave
man did hesitate, before the timorous weak
as to approach, with hostile purpose, one who
opposes calm and passive fortitude to threatened
violence—one who shows naught of fear,
meditates nothing of resistance—who neither
courts nor shuns the peril. Man will hew
down the trembling fugitive, from the same
natural impulse which prompts the dog to
tear whatever flies from him—he will assault
with all the pride of defied valor and insulted
strength the strong one who resists him—but
he will rarely—rarely nerve himself to the attack
of one who fears not nor defies the outrage.
At length, with a half start—a start at
his own unwonted hesitation—he advanced,
and laid his hand upon her shoulder, while
she still, moving not, nor speaking, maintained
that steadfast gaze, as if she would peruse his
soul; nor did the slightest change in her deportment
give any token that she had felt his
lawless touch, save that a bright flush darted
over brow, face, and bosom, brilliant as the
electric flash, and scarce less rapid in its
passage.
“This is well, fair one,” he said with a
strange sneer, curling his chiselled lip—“this
is well. I had looked for tears and outcries!—
but you are wise, my beauty; wiser in your
generation, as the scripture hath it, than the
children of light!—but why so mute, Teresa?
—speak, girl, know you the fortune that awaits
you?” and he shook her gently as he spoke, as
if to force an answer.
“The lamb in the wolf's lair,” replied the
maiden, “requires no prophet to foretell her
doom.”
“You know it, then?—'fore God I had not
looked for such most sweet compliance!—you
know it, then, and deem it perchance a rare
fortune. I knew erewhile you Spanish dames
were gamesome, and something light of love;
but I deemed not—the more fool I to fancy
woman could be at all, and not be wanton—
but I deemed not a Spanish damsel of thy
blood and lineage should know herself, and
knowing rest content to be the paramour of a
robber—murderer—pirate!”
“Nor do you know it now,” replied she, by
a violent effort maintaining that composure
which she deemed the most likely to procure
forbearance—“nor do you know it now—ten
thousand deaths would I die sooner—nor will
I be the thing thou sayest!”
“How wilt thou help it, sweet one?” he
asked sneeringly.
“By not consenting—and by dying!—force
me you may to your vile will by bratal and
unmanly violence—bow me you may, for the
brief space that is permitted you, to your dire
passions—but wrong is not dishonor, nor outrage
disgrace! But for a little time—a little
time can you torment me—the Lord hath given
you the power, and you must use it as you list
—but only for a time.”
“Believe it not,” he answered; not unimpressed
by the cool majesty of her demeanor—
“Believe it not, my power upon you is for
ever—for ever at least here on earth? That
which I make thee, wilt thou remain till death
deliver thee—hearest thou, girl? I say, till
death?”
“And I reply, not long!”
“To die, thou wouldst say, aye! to die by
the sudden sword-stroke is not difficult, nor
long, nor painful, worth the counting! Nor
is the poison cup, though slower and more torturing,
too tedious or too difficult for high and
resolved spirits—and such I do believe is thine,
Teresa. Nor in good truth, as thou didst say
but now, are the most cruel, most protracted
means by which the flesh can be compelled to
quiver through a living death—too much to be
endured—to be endured so long as they may
last. But mark me, mark me, maiden: to die
is not so easy! an eye shall be on you for ever
—no means vouchsafed while thy fit lasts—
and trust me use will reconcile thee to that
life, which thou deemest it no dishonor to enter
on compulsion—to die is not so easy!”
“Nothing is more so,” she replied, forcing
herself to go through the task she had imposed
upon her energies. “Nothing is more so. The
strongest frame may not endure a fortnight
without sustenance—and neither thou, with all
thy boasted might, nor all thy mailed myrmidons,
can force one feeble girl to swallow one
small mouthful, save at her own good pleasure!”
“Brave words!” he answered, still with a
sneer—“Brave words, Teresa! but behold!
here on the walls around you hang fifty
sheathless poniards, fifty well-loaded pistols!—
had the one feeble girl been so resolved on
death, she might have died these three hours
gone, and none the wiser! Tush, girl, thou
cheatest me not so!”
“Hear me,” she said, with an imploring
gesture, drawing herself a little back from him
—“Here me at least, as thou dost hope for
mercy—as thou dost trust in God!”
“I do not hope for mercy—I do not trust in
God!” he answered. “Why should I? Mercy
was not for me or mine, when I implored it on
my knees with adjurations, unto which thy
feeble prayers are but as whispers to the sovereign
thunder! God heard not me when I
called on him at my most extreme need. Why
should I, girl—why should I? I do not hope
for mercy—I do not trust in God, yet will I
hear thee—hear thee, for that thou art a woman!”
“Hear me then, and believe my words—
nor think that I feel not, because I shudder
not—that I dread not, loathe not the infamy,
will, and speak of that most coolly which I
will not endure and live. When I first entered
here, the thought did cross my soul that freedom
was at hand—the blade was bared to win
it—but suicide is deadly sin—or if not deadly,
allowable but in extremity. There was a hope!
one lingering, last hope then—nor hath it quite
flown now!—a hope that one so strong, so
mighty, and so brave as thou, wouldst
shame to harm a woman!—a woman whom
all men are bound to shelter and defend for
that same weakness which makes it easy—
makes it most base and sordid to assail their
frailty. Till this one hope is gone, I dare
not rush unbidden on eternity. I have thought
much—thought coolly on this matter!—the
more, and the more coolly I have thought, the
more I am resolved, and the more certain
mayest thou be that my resolve is changeless.
Injure me, and I die! For some brief days
thou mayest—thou mayest riot, if such be thy
savage will, in the possession, the unmanly
forceful brute possession of frail resisting innocence—for
some brief days of agony to me—
of infamy to thee and of remorse hereafter!
With these brief days—thanks to the mighty
Maker, who made the subtle and immortal
soul so separable from the gross mortal body!
—with those brief days thy power for good or
ill—and mine for agonized endurance, are at
an end for ever! Cries, tears, and lamentations
I know vain—therefore I use them not!
—but deem not thou shalt win one favor of
my weakness, till that by utmost force and
violence you have overpowered my most true
resistance!”
“One word—one whisper from my lips—
and thou wouldst fly as eagerly to my embrace,
Teresa, as now thou shunnest it,” he again
answered, with the same sneer upon his lip—
and she observed that his voice sounded calmly,
and no longer with the hoarse broken intonation
of overwhelming passions; and that the
flush which had lighted up his features with a
light so unnatural and appalling, had given
place to the wonted tints of his complexion.
“Not though that word would raise me into
paradise—that whisper plunge thee to the
abyss of hell!”
“What if I were to yield thee to the license
of my crew—to the lewd pleasure of yon
loathsome blackamoor!”
“'Tis sin—vice—degradation—that is loathsome!
naught else—naught else. Compelled
to my dishonor, I may writhe hopelessly in
anguish—I may die here on earth, and dying
live for ever in light and bliss, and glory everlasting!
Complying I should loathe my very
self—should die each day I lived! and perish,
body and soul—perish now, and for ever!
But thou wilt not—thou canst not—thou art a
man—a feeling, a fiery, passionate, and it may
be a vicious—yet a MAN! Born of a woman,
cradled upon a woman's bosom, nursed from a
breast! thou hast grown fair, and strong, and
noble, reared by the ministerings of a woman's
love! thou didst learn from a woman's tongue
the very accents which give voice to thy fell
threatenings against a woman's peace! thou
hast—thou must have loved, have sighed for,
striven for, done gallant deeds to win a woman!
and wilt thou—wilt thou now? wilt
thou? no! no! thou wilt not—canst not wrong
one so weak in her frailty—so strong in her
virtue—in her resolve as I! no! no! thine eye
is mild, and thy lip quivers—and—and—and
—thou wilt—wilt spare, protect—oh God! oh
God—thou wilt not wrong me,” and as she
spoke, she flung herself down at his feet;
clasped his knees tight, tight as the serpent's
coil, with her entwining arms; and turning up
her pale wan face, with those dark glorious eyes
swimming, yet overflowing not in outworn nature's
agony, towards the stern, observant, but
no longer fierce or inflamed visage of the Rover—“thou
wilt not—for thy mother's soul!
for the sweet memory of her whom you first
loved! thou wilt not wrong me!”
“Not now! not now, at least, Teresa!
But I have heard thee—hear thou now me. I
have a tale to tell thee—of one as innocent—
as beautiful as thou, who prayed, as thou hast
prayed, for pity—who found it not, and died!
This thou must hear—and then thyself shalt say,
if it can be that I—I, the Rover—the world's
scorn and hate and terror—I, Reginald Ringwood,
can pity, much more spare Teresa de
Aviles.”
| CHAPTER IV. Tales of the Spanish seas | |