University of Virginia Library

4. IV.

With the restlessness of a guilty spirit, Amri hurried
away, when his conference with the woman was ended,
to the prosecution of his various purposes. It was necessary
that he should regain lost time; and, as it was

essential to his projects that he should not for a moment
lose sight of the movements of Melchior, he was now
solicitous to discover what had been the course of the
outlawed Hebrew during the period in which he had
been confined by his bruises to the dwelling of Urraca.
A day and night had elapsed since his unsuccessful assault
upon the person of the maiden Thyrza. Of her
rescue he could remember little. Upon receiving the
blow of Pelayo his senses had left him, and he saw and
knew nothing after, until he opened his eyes upon the
couch in Urraca's chamber. From her he obtained but
little information; for, ignorant himself that she had
been his companion in the affray, and feeling, as he did,
the dangerous delicacy of the subject in connexion with
her, he had ventured to ask her no questions, and was
compelled to rest content with the limited information
which she was willing to unfold. This was unimportant.
She had her reasons for concealing from him her
own agency in his rescue, and he was forced to resort
to the attendant of Edacer, from whom he obtained little
intelligence that was more satisfactory than that given
by Urraca—by whom, indeed, the soldier had been
schooled into silence. The Hebrew youth could only
learn from their united testimony what he already, in
great part, knew, or could conjecture, namely—that the
page had been taken from his grasp at the moment when
his possession of her might have been considered certain;
but by whom remained to him utterly unknown.
One error crept into the soldier's statement; but whether
in consequence of the instructions of Urraca, or from his
own head, in apologizing and accounting for his imbecility
during the affray, it does not rest with us to determine.
According to his account, the rescue of Thyrza
had been effected, not by one man, but by a dozen, all
“good men and true”—“men in buckram.” A little
bewildered to account for the appearance of so many
persons so opportunely, and all so well armed, at the
proper moment, Amri was not, however, disposed to
forego his purposes in reference to the maiden thus taken
from his clutches. The privation only added a new
stimulant to his always active passions, and he was now
resolute to obtain her at every hazard. The slight hurt
which he had received had the effect of determining him
to sacrifice Melchior without further scruple; as, in resolving
the doubts which came to his mind on the subject
of Thyrza's rescue, he arrived at the conclusion that
the persons by whom it had been effected were the myrmidons
of the outlaw. Acquainted now with the existence
of a conspiracy, and conscious that Melchior was
at the bottom of it, he was at no loss to ascribe to the
direct agency of the latter the injury which he had received;
and he now set forth, resolute not only to effect
his object with the daughter, but—dismissing all further
scruples which he might have had, and did have, in sacrificing
one of his tribe—also to deliver up to the mercenary
Edacer, and to the penal terrors of the law, the
person of her venerable father. Thus sharpened in his
resolves, he hurried home with early dawn. The absence
of Adoniakim from home gave him, in some respects,
a freer opportunity for prosecuting his designs.
Passing into a secret chamber of his father, which he
was enabled to do by means of a master key which he
had some time previously secured, he opened a massive
safe of iron in which Adoniakim sometimes kept his
treasure; but, to the annoyance and disappointment of
Amri, there was little in its keeping—too little to permit
of his abstracting any of its contents without detection.
But, as if to compensate him for this disappointment, a
small desk, which lay open upon a table before him, was
covered with papers, over which the eye of Amri, glancing
casually, became suddenly fixed in curiosity. He
read with greedy pleasure their contents. They spoke
of various matters connected with the conspiracy, and
the mind of the youth became suddenly wonderfully enlightened
on the subject of an affair, the importance of
which he had never before conjectured. While he read
he muttered to himself aloud, with a pleasure which he
did not seek to suppress or conceal—

“By the beard of Samuel, but it is all here! This is
treasure enough, and I sorrow not that the safe is empty.
Thou hast been secret, Adoniakim—Abraham bless
thee, for thou hast slept one moment—Abraham be
blessed, for that moment I awakened. This is a prize
which gives me every thing. I have thy secret, Melchior—I
have thee, too, and Thyrza in my clutches.
Thou shalt buy thyself, and I will buy her with thee. It
is good—it is great, this plan. He cannot help but
yield—he will—he must consent. I have his life in my
hands—the life of Adoniakim—the lives of one half the
tribe, and all of its treasure. Let him deny me if he
dare. I have him—I have her. The lovely Thyrza is
mine!”

The youth paced the apartment in his exultation,
speaking to himself all the while as he did so in a vein
similar to that which we have recorded.

“They cannot deny,” he continued; “and if they do,
it is written. That”—and he pointed to the writing in
various places as he spoke—“that is the character of
Adoniakim—that of Melchior; and it speaks of arms
and warriors, gathering and to gather, under the lead of
Abimelech. Abimelech, too—I am glad to find him
here set down. I like him not, and he keeps not hidden
the scorn which he holds for me. He, too, is in my
power. Thyrza alone shall buy them free; and I am
fain to think that Abimelech should be except from this
safety. Why should I yield so freely? 'Tis enough I
give not up their secret—'tis enough that I spare Melchior
and the rest. I must punish the high-browed and
insolent Abimelech for his scorn of me. He shall not
be safe, though I keep terms and make composition with
the rest. It must be as I say. Melchior shall hear a

word as haughty as his own. He shall prescribe no
longer to Adoniakim—he shall no longer deny me. I
am master of his fate—what hinders that I be master of
my own?”

While thus he freely soliloquized upon the hopes with
which his discovery of the papers of the conspirator had
filled his heart, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps;
and, hastily possessing himself of the important
documents, he thrust them into the folds of his bosom.
Then, passing into the adjoining apartment, in which
once before we found him slumbering, he closed the secret
panel in time to meet the intruder, who proved to
be Mahlon, one in the service of Adoniakim, but one
who was the entire creature of the son.

“How now, Mahlon—what brings thee?” demanded
the youth.

“Thy father, Adoniakim, approaches,” was the reply.

“Ha! that is well. Comes he alone?” was the further
inquiry.

“Melchior comes with him,” said Mahlon.

“That is better—that is well—I may soon prophesy
for others since I have so well spoken for myself. Away,
Mahlon, and give them entrance; and say not, if thou
canst help it, that I am here.”

The slave retired, as he was bidden, to give admission
to the new-comers; while Amri, remaining where he
was, prepared his thoughts for their reception according
to the plan which his discovery of the conspiracy had
already suggested to his mind. The reckless and vicious
youth was delighted in the last degree at their approach.
He drew a favourable omen from their coming so opportunely
to hear the secret which he had happened upon,
and while his own resolves respecting it were fresh in
his reflection; and his exultation, which he could not,
and perhaps did not desire to restrain, found its way to
his lips in language of corresponding delight.

“By the beard of Samuel!” he exclaimed, “but this

is fortunate. We shall lose but little time. They come
opportunely to my wish; and if Melchior be not utterly
desperate, and madly prone to his own destruction and
the defeat of all his schemes of insurrection, the lovely
Thyrza shall be mine before the sunset. It is written.
I have her securely—I have her here!” he exclaimed,
striking his bosom joyously where the papers of the conspirators
were concealed—“I have her here! Melchior
can only remove and possess himself of these—which
contain his life, his fortune, and his hope, all at my mercy
—by placing his lovely daughter in their stead. Beard
of Samuel! How the day brightens!”

The hum of their approaching voices, and soon the
sound of their footsteps, reached his ears at the entrance
of the chamber. He threw himself back carelessly upon
a long cushion as he heard them, and his insolent eyes
were fixed upon the door through which they were to
enter. As the door opened, and the person of Melchior,
in advance of that of his companion, met the
glance of Amri, his face immediately put on an expression
and look of lively indifference almost amounting to
contempt, and he made no effort to rise and salute, as
was customary, the venerable man. His father, seeing
this, rebuked him with his neglect. The son then rose
and made way upon the cushion, to which he motioned
Melchior; but the latter did not seem to heed the motion.
Adoniakim then pressed him to rest himself upon
the cushion which Amri had so ungraciously tendered;
but Melchior, with much gravity of manner, declined the
courtesy, and begged him that they should proceed to
the business upon which they came as soon and earnestly
as possible. It was then that Adoniakim signified
to Amri his desire that he should leave them together
in the possession of the chamber. This he did
in the gentlest language, saying to him, at the same
time, that the business was private and particular, for the
transaction of which Melchior and himself had come.

But Amri, who exulted in the possession of the secret
which he had so dishonourably obtained, was not willing
to delay to a remote period the utterance of his desires,
and the exhibition and exercise of his newly-acquired
sources of power. Without moving from the place
which he had occupied before, he simply replied as follows:

“And why should I not remain, and share with thee
this business, my father?”

“Because it concerns thee not, my son,” responded
the old man, quietly.

“But it concerns thee, Adoniakim, and thy interest is
my interest, unless, under the friendly guidance of Melchior,
thou art bent to make thy son a stranger, and to
yield to strangers the place in thy regards and confidence
which nature and justice alike require should be given
to thy own flesh and blood.”

Adoniakim was astounded at this speech, and spoke
freely out his thought at the youth's insolence; but Melchior
looked upon him gravely, without uttering a syllable
in reply.

“Thy business should be my business, my father,”
persisted the wilful youth, “and I will remain to hear it.”

“But thou canst not claim, Amri, that the business of
Melchior and of others is also thine,” said Adoniakim,
who, though greatly surprised and grieved at his son's
presumption, yet lacked the proper decision to control it.

“If it concerns thee also—yes,” replied Amri, without
hesitation; “and if it did not, it might yet be my
business, as it may be that of the tribe and of the nation.”

The two turned upon the speaker in redoubled surprise
at this language; but, conscious of the secret in
his possession, and believing that it gave him power
which enabled him to set them both at defiance, the foolish
youth allowed himself no pause in what he had to
say, but proceeded thus—

“Thinkest thou I know not the business that brings
ye here, and which makes ye desirous of the absence of
one whom ye both wrong by your suspicions, and in
whom your true interests, were ye wise, would have ye
confide? Did I not save ye before from Edacer the
Goth, and his soldiers, when he sought you, Melchior,
at midnight, in the dwelling of Namur? Was not that
proof of my fidelity enough? Wherefore did you still
refuse me your confidence? Wherefore do ye withhold
it now? I tell you, the business of Adoniakim is mine—
I will remain and share in your conference. Perhaps I
may help you more than you imagine in its progress.
Perhaps I may counsel you with a knowledge that shall
keep equal footing with your own. I can tell you—but
no! I will spare your business to the last. I have
some of my own, which it is more fitting that I see to
first. Let me speak of that to you, and then, if ye deny
me part in your performances, I will leave ye to them
and to yourselves.”

“What business, my son?” answered the pliant Adoniakim,
who had been as much astounded by the audacity
of Amri as he was wilfully blinded, by his attachment
to the youth, to the sad deficiencies and prevailing
faults of his character. Melchior only regarded
the two with a grave and melancholy silence.

Throwing himself once more at length upon the cushion
from which he had risen at the suggestion of his father,
and which Melchior had refused to occupy, the
youth, who seemed to have acquired double assurance
from the pliability of Adoniakim, now addressed the former—

“And now, Melchior, it is with thee—”

The outlaw interrupted him sternly—

“Thy speech should be with thy father, Amri. I
have no business, no concern with thee, that I wot of—
I would have none with thee, at least!”

“But I will have with thee!” was the cool and confident

reply. “I have much concern with thee, and for
thee, Melchior, as thou wilt readily acknowledge when
thou hast heard me through. It is true that much of my
business with thee doth seriously affect myself—with
that I would fain begin, if thou wilt deign to hear me.
May I speak to thee of that?”

The tone which he employed was somewhat modified
when the youth addressed Melchior, probably because
he felt the obvious difference, which he could not but
see existed, between the differing characters of the outlaw
and his own father. To the latter, his mode of
speech was not often respectful, and it was only when he
needed supplies of money, or some special indulgence,
that he condescended to employ the language and manner
of conciliation. The superior character of Melchior
awed somewhat the audacity of the youth. The stern,
calm, unruffled brow of the outlaw had in it an expression
which rebuked, if it did not entirely silence, the insolent;
and, though flattering himself with the possession
of a secret which he fondly imagined would extort
his own terms and his entire wishes from the apprehensions
of Melchior, he did not dare meet directly the
glance of the old man, even when his speech was most
daringly addressed to him. The reply of Melchior was
calmly uttered, and without hesitation—

“Speak out, Amri—I will hear thee, as thou art the
son of thy beloved father; though what thou canst have
to say concerning thyself and me, which might not wait
for a time of more leisure to us all, I am yet to learn.”

“Thou shalt learn,” was the ready reply. “The
matter might wait, indeed, but that I am impatient; and
thou wilt see good reason for my impatience when thou
hearest it.”

“Speak on,” said the old man, contemplating him
with a sorrowful countenance for a moment, and then
turning his eyes, with a still greater sorrow in them, upon

the face of the venerable and unhappy father of so degenerate
a son.

“Thou hast a daughter, Melchior,” said the youth.
Melchior regarded him sternly as he replied—

“And what is my daughter to thee, Amri?”

“Every thing,” was the response. “I have seen
her.”

“I know it! I know that thou didst penetrate unbidden
to the apartments of my child, where thy presence
was ungrateful, and thy conduct was ungracious,”
said Melchior.

“She has told you, then,” replied the youth, nothing
abashed at the manner and words of Melchior.

“She is a child who forgets not her duties—who
shrinks from disobedience as from a deadly sin—painful
in the sight of man, and detestable in that of Heaven.
Would that thou, Adoniakim, had obedience often from
thy child such as I have ever had from mine.”

“It were a God's blessing—the dearest to my old
heart were it as thou desirest, my brother,” was the response
of Adoniakim; but the depraved youth laughed
contemptuously at the prayer of both, as thus he continued—

“She has told you, then, and that spares me the difficulty
of making thee comprehend a thing unknown. She
has told you that I loved—that I love her!—that I sought
her love, and offered her my affections in marriage.”

“Thy affections!” was the involuntary exclamation
of Melchior.

“Ay—my affections! What wonder is there in that?
Thou dost not doubt that I have affections, Melchior—
thou believest that I love Thyrza? I—”

“No!” was the almost fierce reply of the old man.
“Thou dost not—thou canst not. Thou lovest nothing
but thy own base passions—thy foul lusts—and thy continual
self-indulgences. Thou canst not understand the
nature—the purity—the religion of my child's heart—

and thou canst not, therefore, have a love for her in
thine.”

“Thou errest in thy judgment, Melchior, and therefore
thou dost me a grievous wrong,” was the reply of
the youth, somewhat subdued in its tone, as the fierce
manner of the old father seemed to have had its influence
upon him. “I do love Thyrza,” he continued,
“as never before did I love woman. I feel that never
again can I fancy woman as my spirit has fancied her.
Wilt thou not let me to see her—to know her—to make
myself an object of thought in her mind, that so she may
come to love me with a regard like mine for her?”

“No!”

“And wherefore?”

“She is not for thee.”

“What! thou meanest her, then, for another?”

“No! I have no such purpose. Thyrza shall choose
for herself when the choice is to be made. My will
shall in no respect control her. It should guide her
erring judgment, should her heart mislead her; but this
misfortune I do not fear.”

“Yet thou sayest I shall not see her—that I shall not
know her; how, then, may it be that one may move her
will, or enliven her thought towards him?”

“Thou shalt not have this chance, Amri, nor any who
may resemble thee. Let the good and the worthy approach
to Thyrza, and the doors of my dwelling shall fly
open of themselves at their approach; but they shall remain
fastened at the coming of the base and selfish, even
as if the seal of Solomon lay upon them, pressed with
his own immortal hands.”

“And thou art really thus resolved?” said the youth,
inquiringly; and a suspicious smile rested upon his lips,
which was displeasing to Melchior, who instantly replied,
in a manner which was intended to subdue and silence
the impertinent—

“Ay, Amri—as firmly as if the oath were written on

the eternal register of heaven. Never, with my will,
shalt thou have sight of, or speech with, my beloved
daughter. I will guard her from thy approach as fondly
and sleeplessly as if thou wert the spirit of evil himself.”

“Be not hasty in thy resolve, old man!” responded
the youth, with a manner, the insolence of which was
heightened duly in accordance with the provocation
which his spirit had received from the ready and adverse
decision of Melchior. “Be not hasty in thy resolve—
be not rash! Thy oath broken will have a heavy penalty,
and I have that argument with me which will make
thee rejoice in its revocation.”

“What argument, Amri?” demanded Adoniakim.
But Melchior looked on calmly, and seemed to give no
heed either to the threatening remark of Amri, or the
trembling inquiry of his father.

“Think not, Melchior,” continued Amri—“think not
that I asked of thee the gift of thy daughter, yet brought
nothing in lieu of what I took from thee. Give me thy
daughter, and I will give a secret into thy keeping which
will more than repay thee for the boon which thou wilt
then bestow upon me.”

“What secret?” asked Adoniakim, in manifest alarm.

“It is one which concerns thee, too, my father,” said
Amri, in reply.

“What meanest thou, my son?” inquired the old
man; but Amri heeded not the question, and again addressed
himself to Melchior.

“And now come I to thy business, Melchior—thou
wilt give thine ear to that, though thou seemest resolved
to withhold it from all consideration of mine.”

Melchior waved his hand to him to speak, but gave
him no further recognition.

“I would have taken thy daughter from thy hands as
a free gift to my affections. Now I propose to buy her
from thee, even as the Goth buys, in the slave-market,
the creature of his lust.”

A sudden and startling change came over the hitherto
inflexible countenance of Melchior as he heard these
words.

“Wretch!” exclaimed the fierce old warrior, drawing
a poniard from his girdle as he spoke, and in the same
instant rushing towards the infatuated youth. The aged
Adoniakim, with a cry of entreaty, tottered forward to
arrest the weapon; but, before he could interpose, Melchior
of himself had stayed his hand and progress; yet
the fury in his soul, though checked in its exercise, could
no longer be concealed. His eyes flashed all the fire
of indignation and of youth, and the long white beard
that depended from his chin curled and quivered as if
endued with a spirit and vitality of its own.

“Speak out what thou hast to say!” cried Melchior,
as he contracted his hand and returned his dagger to the
folds of his garment where it had lain concealed—
“speak out the whole of thy foul thoughts and insolent
spirit, and let there be an end of this. But hear me,
Amri, if, in what thou hast to say, thou dost utter word
or thought to which a father's ear might not listen, that
instant will my hand grapple with thy throat. I spare
thee now, not in consideration of thy deservings, but
simply as thou art the son of Adoniakim.”

“Let Adoniakim thank thee as he ought,” was the
insolent reply of the youth; “but, for my part, I fear
thee not. I have thee in my power, Melchior; and,
since thou hast proved thyself so rude and violent, I will
be less heedful of the words which I shall choose out for
thy hearing.”

“Beware!” exclaimed Melchior, and his finger was
uplifted in warning—“beware! Not a word, Amri, that
shall graze upon the purity of my blessed child, or the
presence of Adoniakim, and my own scorn of thee, will
not suffice to save thee from the weapon which thou deservest,
but which thy base blood would most certainly
dishonour.”

“Speak not—say not, Amri—I implore thee, my son
—be silent. Say nothing to offend the father.”

“Peace, Adoniakim—I will say. I have been too
long silent—too long kept in bondage and base subjection
by his teachings and thine. I will be so no longer,
and ye shall both learn to heed what I command, as ye
shall both learn, and quickly, how much ye are in my
power.”

The father would have longer solicited, for he was in
terror lest his son should use more audacity, and well he
knew that Melchior was one ever prompt to strike where
an injury was offered to his honour and his child.
Though affecting to defy his threats, yet, in his farther
speech, Amri adopted the safest policy, and was more
cautious, though still insolent enough, in the language
which he made use of.

“I must have thy daughter, Melchior—I will have
her; and I offer to thee to have her in honour as my
wife,” said Amri, renewing the dialogue.

“I have said,” was the simple reply of Melchior.

“Yet I ask her not as a free gift—I will give thee an
equivalent for the maiden.”

“An equivalent for Thyrza!” exclaimed Melchior.
“What equivalent?”

“Thy own life!” was the unhesitating response.
Before either his father or Melchior could utter any reply
to a speech so daring, and which so much astounded
them, the youth proceeded—

“Thy own life, Melchior—nor thine alone. What
sayest thou to the life of Pelayo, the son of Witiza—
ha! Have I touched thee now—have I not thy secret
—have I not thee, and thine, and Thyrza at my mercy?”

But the countenance of Melchior was unmoved,
though Adoniakim trembled all over with his apprehensions.
The former looked calmly upon the face of
Amri, and his tones and language were milder as he replied
to the audacious youth.

“Thou speakest to me a mystery, Amri,” was his
quiet answer; “I know not what thou meanest. If
thou wouldst say that as Melchior is outlawed by the
Goth, and at the mercy of the base informer who may
happen to fall upon his hiding-place, this is no new thing,
or new thought, or fear with me. I am that outlaw, I
well know; and I am not blind to the dangers which I
risk and encounter during my sojourn in Cordova. Of
this secret thou hast long been in possession—with the
knowledge of this truth I have long since intrusted
thee.”

“Perforce — perforce!” cried the other, bitterly.
“Thou didst not trust me with this because thou wert
glad or willing to trust, but because the trust was unavoidable.”

“Perhaps—perhaps,” said Melchior, calmly. His
inflexibility chafed the insolent Amri into fury.

“Perhaps! perhaps! And dost thou receive what I
say so indifferently? Is it thy own life which thou valuest
so lightly? And hast thou not heard—did I not
tell thee that I had, not thy secret only, but the secret of
the tribe—of Pelayo, the Iberian rebel—he who now
toils, with a foolish hope, against the Gothic monarch,
King Roderick? What! thou knowest not that Abimelech
leads the Hebrew discontents—that they gather
even now along the Pass of Wallia—thy secret, forsooth
—thy secret! It is the secret of the tribe, of the nation,
which I have, Melchior—not thy secret—not thy one
life, but the lives of many, and the hopes of all. Dost
thou wonder now that I am boastful—dost thou marvel
now that Amri claims thy daughter for his bride, and will
not be bought to silence by any smaller or less worthy
boon? Art thou not at my mercy? Wilt thou not
hear—art thou not ready to bargain with me now?”

“But, my son—Amri—thou wilt not—”

The aged Adoniakim was full of trepidation, and
would at once have implored the youth in such a fashion

as would have made him infinitely more insolent in his
language and more extravagant in his demands—but
Melchior interrupted him.

“Thou hast indeed spoken strange and grave matters,
Amri; but I believe not that thou hast any such secret.
Whence comes thy intelligence—who is thy authority?”

The words of Melchior were artfully mild. He was
an aged politician, and at once understood the necessity
of the utmost coolness. Nothing could have seemed
more quiet and pacific than his spirit in the moment of
his speech. It completely deceived the person he addressed,
who now believed that he was in a fair way to
achieve his purposes, and that he had properly alarmed
the conspirators.

“Dost thou deny it?” he asked, in answer to the inquiry
of Melchior.

“If I do, Amri, and defy thee to the proof, will thy
mere declaration, thinkest thou, go to overthrow thy father,
upon whose means and good-will so many powerful
Gothic nobles depend? Will thy word prove his conviction?
Thou art not so mad as to think it.”

“I have the proof—clear, unquestionable, and utterly
apart from my own words. It will not need that I
should speak. It will only be necessary that I should
point with my finger to guide the Gothic Lord Edacer,
who is now governor of Cordova, to the proof which
shall make all that I say a thing to be seen, not heard.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Melchior, with a deep feeling,
which he yet contrived to suppress. “May I believe
what thou sayest, Amri?”

“By the beard of Samuel! It is true—I swear it,”
was the immediate reply of Amri; who saw in the inquiry
of Melchior nothing less than his apprehension of
detection, and a relenting of his determination on the
subject of his daughter.

“And thou knowest—what?” was the further inquiry
of the outlaw.

“Thy plan of meeting at the cave of Wamba three
nights hence, with Abimelech and other Hebrews, where
thou art pledged to join arms with certain Gothic and
Iberian chiefs, the princes Pelayo and Egiza, the lords
Eudon and Aylor, the Count of Garaynos, and certain
others. This, and much more, touching gold, arms, and
movement, is compassed in the secret I propose to barter
with thee for thy daughter.”

“And thou wilt treat for no less an object? Remember,
Amri, thou too art a Hebrew. The aim which is
thy father's and mine is not less thine. It is a blow
for the emancipation of the Hebrew. It is thy freedom
not less than ours.”

“Ha! it is thus, now, that thou art willing to think;
but when I urged to thee this argument in the hope to
bespeak thy confidence, thou didst deny me—thou didst
disdain me. I reject the argument now, as thou didst
reject it then. If I was then unworthy of thy trust, I
am not less so now. We will speak of it no more.”

“And for my daughter only wilt thou be bound to us
in secresy?” said Melchior, in a question, the manner
of which was one rather of intense musing than of direct
inquiry.

“For nothing less, Melchior,” was the reply; “and,
indeed,” said the youth, continuing with but a moment's
pause, “I think even to exclude from this guarantee of
safety the insolent and proud Abimelech—”

“Ah!” was the exclamation of Melchior, and his
thoughts seemed busy elsewhere while he spoke.

“Ay!” continued the youth, whom the manner of
Melchior continued to deceive; “I hate him for his
scorn of me. You shall be safe. To you, and all beside,
I will stand bound; but for Abimelech—you shall
give me counsel where to find him, so that I may prompt
the Lord Edacer—”

“I believe not that you have this proof, Amri,” said
Melchior, quickly, without seeming to regard the last

words of Amri. “I deny—I doubt that you can show
the evidence you speak of. No! You do but boast,
Amri—the thing is not in your power!”

It was in these words that Melchior hastily interrupted
the youth while he was proceeding in his requisitions.
Without reflection, and completely misled by the earnest
manner of the aged man—

“I swear it by the seal of Solomon, by the beard of
Samuel, by the bosom of Abraham, by the shadow and
the pillar, by the burning bush—I swear I have these
proofs!” responded the youth, readily and with solemnity.

“Good oaths enough, if true. And thou wilt swear
by these?” said Melchior, with a bitter smile.

“I do swear!”

Melchior paused for an instant—then, hastily advancing
a few paces towards the youth, proceeded thus—

“And what if I consent? What if I say to thee that
Thyrza shall be thine if thou wilt keep this secret? Wilt
thou be free to tell me in what these proofs consist, and
how thou gottest them? Speak—who is the traitor to
our cause—who hath betrayed us?”

The youth simply pointed to his father. The two recoiled
in horror and astonishment.

“Thou dost not mean?” said Melchior.

“Ay!” and the depraved youth laughed aloud as he
beheld the consternation of Adoniakim.

“Liar and wretch!” exclaimed the indignant old man,
now too much aroused longer to contain himself from
speech, though pliant and indulgent to the youth previously,
until his pliancy became a shameful and dangerous
weakness. He would have exclaimed much further
had not Melchior interrupted him; and Amri himself, at
that moment, explained away his own charge by telling
the truth.

“He was the traitor, though unwittingly. He left his
papers where mine eye beheld them—”

“But only thine?” said Melchior, inquiringly.

“Only mine,” was the reply of Amri.

The old man, his father, when he heard this development,
hastened, as fast as his infirmities would permit,
to the secret chamber in search of the documents; and,
as he went, Melchior cried out to him to destroy them.
The youth laughed aloud as he heard this direction, and,
smiting his bosom unwittingly, exclaimed—

“He cannot—I have seen to that.”

The speech had scarcely left his lips, when, with a
bound that dashed the youth to the floor, Melchior of the
Desert sprang upon his bosom. The suddenness and
severity of his blow would have stunned a much stronger
person than Amri, and it was all in vain that the latter
struggled with his gigantic though aged assailant. He
was but a child in the hands of the venerable Hebrew.
Yet he drew his dagger from his girdle, and aimed a
fierce blow at the bosom of Melchior, which, had he directed
it more cautiously, and at his side or back, must
have proved fatal; but the stroke was aimed full in the
sight of his enemy. Grasping the upraised arm of the
assassin, Melchior easily wrested the weapon from his
hold, and he would, such was his anger, in another moment,
have buried it in the youth's throat, but for the
timely return of Adoniakim, who seized him from behind,
and arrested the down-descending blow.

“Spare him, Melchior, spare him!” was all that the
old man could say, when he sank down, overpowered by
his deep and conflicting emotions, in a fainting fit upon
the floor. Melchior slowly relaxed his hold, and, rising
from the prostrate Amri, he bade him also rise; but not
before he had torn open his sash and vest, and wrested
the stolen documents from the bosom of the felon.