University of Virginia Library

10. X.

Even as Pelayo had said, at this moment one of the
persons whose shadows he had seen descending the
gorge and cautiously stealing round the hill, at the foot
of which sat Egiza and the maiden, came forward and
stood suddenly before the two. Well might they start
as they beheld him. The person was Count Julian.

His sword was bared in his hand—his countenance
stern and threatening. He did not pause for speech;
but, ere Egiza had risen to his feet, the count thus addressed
him—Cava, meanwhile, standing apart, trembling
with maiden bashfulness and the consciousness of
having offended—

“How now, sir—wherefore this? Knowst thou
me?”

“Count Julian,” was the reply of Egiza, who answered
fearlessly, though surprised by the sudden appearance
of the count.

“Ay, sir—and this my daughter. What mean you
with her on such terms of secrecy? Who art thou?”

The fierce demand of the count produced no hesitation
in the reply of Egiza; on the contrary, his air became
more resolute and manly with the appearance of a
seeming enemy. His answer was calm, and, but for
the interference of Cava, would have been explicit.

“I am one, Count Julian, who should not be altogether
unknown to you, if justice had its due and I my
rights. I am he, sir, that was—”

The hurried accents of the Lady Cava interposed at
this moment, and silenced those of Egiza.

“Speak it not, my lord—speak it not, I pray thee, if
thou wouldst live—if thou wouldst have me live.”

She paused—she would have said, what she well
knew, that the commission which her father had received
from Roderick directed him to arrest the fugitive princes.
To have said this was to have declared him one. Believing
that, in the dimness of the hour, her lover's
features were undistinguished by, and that he was still
unknown to her father, she fondly thought to prevent
his fatal declaration of the truth. She little dreamed
that all was already well known; that Julian, though
affecting ignorance of the person he addressed, had yet
prepared all things for his capture as a rebel.

Indignantly did her father reproach her for her interference.

“Now down, thou wilful maiden,” he exclaimed;
“thou shouldst be in thy chamber, and at thy prayers,
rather than here in thy shamelessness. Why dost thou
break upon his speech? If it be honest, should he fear
to speak it? and yet it does not beseem honesty to lurk
thus in waiting to steal the boon which a brave soldier
had challenged boldly at my castle entrance.”

“Forgive me—hear me, father,” Cava would have
remonstrated.

“Nay, do not speak to me. Thou hast deceived
me, Cava—cruelly deceived me. I thought thee one
too ignorant for shame like this. To thy chamber, go
—to thy prayers—and let thy sorrow for thy deceit make
thee more worthy of that love which I gave thee without
stint. Away—speak not. Let thy paramour answer;
he will not surely be base enough to desire thee to take
the danger as well as the duty of defence upon thee,
unless he be dastard as dishonest.”

The language of Count Julian, so bitter as it was in
reference to Egiza, gave great satisfaction to his brother.
It was the hope of Pelayo that it would provoke that
spirit into utterance and action which, though sleeping
and sluggish of late, he yet well knew that Egiza possessed.

“I thank you, sir count,” he exclaimed; “these are
words to strike fire from any bosom not utterly base
and worthless. I trust that they shall work upon my
brother. If thou canst move him to lift the idle weapon
which he seems to have forgotten by his side, my labours
were half done, and there were hope. But I fear me!
Ha! he speaks—speaks when he should strike!”

Though mortified that Egiza did not reply with his
sword rather than his lips, the language of the latter was
encouraging to the hope of Pelayo.

“'Twill but need a few words, Count Julian,” was
his reply, “to declare my feelings towards your daughter
and my purpose here. For your scorn,” he proceeded,

and his words grew stern like those of Julian
himself, and his eyes flashed fires of defiance no less
warm than those of the indignation which brightened in
the glance of the latter—“for your scorn, but that you
hold so close a tie with this maiden, I should requite you
with a like scorn, nor limit my anger with such requital.
I should back my speech with steel, and end in punishment
the conference which, with so much insolence, you
have begun.”

“Why, this looks well enough,” said Pelayo, above.
“Now let the other but chafe more loudly and the
maiden but plead more pitifully, and the thing's done.
We shall have blows, and there will be peril, but I'll cry
`cheer' to it.”

The anticipations of Pelayo were not then realized.
The tones and language of Julian were more qualified
than before. He would seem either to temporize with
his adversary in order to gain time, or the boldness of
the latter gave him pleasure. Of the former opinion was
Pelayo.

“Thou wouldst seem brave,” said Julian; “why, then,
hast thou feared to seek my daughter in her proper dwelling?
Why hast thou stolen to her thus, if thy purpose
were honourable? Am I a niggard in my entertainment
to the noble gentlemen who seek me? Who, that is
brave and honest, have I chidden from my board? You
have done me wrong, sir—you have done wrong to the
lady of your love, if such is this damsel. You have
taught her a lesson of error in this deceit which she practises
upon the father who has always but too much loved
her.”

“Oh, not too much, dear father—say not so, I pray
you. Indeed, indeed, I love you. Forgive me if, in
my thoughtlessness, I have been led aside to error.”

“Away, girl, thou hast not loved me as thou shouldst.
Away.”

The commentary of Pelayo upon this part of the interview

proved him more acute here than Egiza, who
was so much more interested. The latter fondly believed
himself to be yet unknown to Julian. Such was
the belief also of Cava. Not so Pelayo.

“'Twould seem he knew not Egiza from this language,”
he exclaimed; “and yet, is it not art rather to
conceal his knowledge until his followers should come
to his aid, making the captivity of my brother certain?
It must be so. It is strategy; for the shadow approaches
unseen behind the silly youth, and will be upon him
in a little while. But I shall foil his succour, and will be
ready.”

“Speak, Cava, since thy knight will not!” exclaimed
Julian, to his drooping daughter. “What is he?—wherefore
does he fear to come with a bold summons to the
gate of thy father? or is he of base peasant blood which
shall shame thee in my sight?”

“Oh, no, no!” were the murmured words of the
maiden, as she denied this imputation upon the birth of
her lover.

“What, then, hast thou to fear?” he demanded.
“Have I denied thee to hold affections—to speak the
feeling at thy heart? Have I been a stern father to
thee, locking thee from freedom, and taking from thee
the hope of that love which is in the heart, the vital principle
of all life? Have I not been a gentle father to
thee ever—always yielding to thy wish—making thy
desire a measure for mine own—taking all heed of what
thou lovest, and loving it because thou didst so? Wherefore,
then, this slight which thou has put upon me?”

“Oh, no slight, my father,” faintly replied the maiden.

“Ay, but it is slight,” replied the other. “Have I
not ever sought to give you fondest nurture; to maintain
every ministry about you which should make you happy;
guiding your mind, guarding your state, and with each
gift of culture and accomplishment seeking to make
your thought fitting to the natural graces of your person?

and do I merit return like this? Thou hast done me
wrong, Cava.”

“Forgive me—hear me, father—”

“No word—thou art ungrateful—”

“And thou no less unjust than stern, sir count,” was
the fearless interruption which, at that moment, fell from
the lips of Egiza. It chafed him more to hear the severe
language which Julian held to the maiden than
the violent and degrading terms in which the father had
spoken of him.

“Hear me, Count Julian,” he continued.

“'Tis you that I would hear,” said the latter, coolly.
“'Tis you, sir, that I have come to hear. Your boldness
should be at no loss to find excuse for this clandestine
meeting with a girl—a mere child—one, of the world
ignorant, and thoughtless, and, as it seems, but too
ready to hearken to its least honoured representative.
What are you, sir?”

“A man!” was the almost fierce answer of the youth,
aroused by the scornful language of the father. The
hands of Cava were lifted imploringly to her lover; but
the same answer which aroused all her apprehensions
only awakened the hopes of Pelayo.

“Now, that was well spoken; the weapon now—the
weapon of the man, Egiza,” he had almost cried aloud.

“A man!” said Julian, “it may be so; but thou hast
not sought my castle like a man. Why camest thou
here? What wouldst thou?”

“Thou knowst,” was the quick and brief reply.
“Why should I tell thee what thou see'st? I came to
thy daughter.”

“Thou lovest her, thou wouldst say?”

“I have said it. I love her as she should be loved,
with all my soul, with all my strength; with a love devoted
to her best regards, and yielding not with life.”

“Thou'st told her this?”

“Ay, sworn it!”

“And she believed thee?”

“I thank her—I bless her that she did believe me.”

The smile of Cava, shining through her tears, rewarded
the enthusiastic lover. A dark scowl gathered
upon the brow of Julian, but, with a tone evidently subdued
to mildness by strong effort, he demanded—

“Dost hold to this?”

“With my whole soul I do!” exclaimed the lover.

“And thou, girl?”

The tears, the smiles, the bowed head, and the tremulous,
unmeaning syllables of the maiden sufficiently answered
for her. Hope rose into her heart anew, joy
into that of Egiza, and both listened impatient for those
words of indulgent blessing from the father's lips which
was to sanction their loves, and which, they nothing
doubted, were soon to be uttered. But if they were
lulled into confidence by the artificial manner of Count
Julian, so was not Pelayo. Made suspicious by the
cautious approach of Julian from the first, and doubly
so from the circuitous course which had been taken by
his follower—who now appeared near at hand—he
readily conceived that the design of Julian was to disarm
the apprehensions of Egiza by gentle and yielding
words until his assistant was within call, when he would
throw off the mask and declare his true purpose.

“This parley,” said he, as he listened from his secluded
perch—“this parley but mocks the ear, and is
most false upon the part of Julian. He waits but for
his comrade, when he will fasten upon the poor youth's
throat, and have him at advantage. Well—well enough,
let him do so. I would have him give the amorous
youth a goodly gripe that shall put dalliance and desire
from his mind. Then will I put in and save him.
What though he may tear the flesh, and take from his
face some of the woman comeliness which it wears, it
will but make him the fitter for the camp, and, perchance,
persuade him of a diminished fitness for a lady's

bower. But a truce, the strife must be sure at hand.
The colleague descends, and now glides behind them.
A word will bring him, and—ha! the tone of Julian
changes. I could swear to it now.”

Even as Pelayo said, the language of Julian, or, at
least, his manner, underwent a change in the very next
words which he uttered.

“And how may I trust thee, sir? I am too old a soldier
to reckon words, or even oaths, by young men,
spoken in the ears of willing damsels, to be such solemn
and creditable things. I do not think to trust thee,
young lord; thou shalt give me better proof of thyself
ere thou depart.”

“What mean you, Count Julian?” demanded Egiza.

“To thy chamber, Cava,” said the father to his
daughter, without heeding the speech of the youth.
The tones of his voice struck a chill into her heart,
which had so recently been elated with hope. She lingered,
looked tearfully into his face; but its expression
increased her apprehensions. A sullen frown overspread
it, and her eye shrank in terror from the glance
of his. “Away!” he exclaimed; and with no other
word, but with uplifted hand, he beckoned her off. One
glance to her lover revealed her apprehensions, but she
spoke nothing, as, with trembling and reluctant footsteps,
she left the scene. Egiza would have remonstrated—he
would have followed her, but Julian intercepted
his advance, and bade him “Stay!” in a voice of
thunder.

“The coast is clear now,” said Pelayo, as he beheld
the departure of Cava, “and the fray may begin. The
poor maiden totters to the castle, looking often behind
her, and dreading the very silence which has followed
all this coil. She is gone now, and it will soon be my
turn to speak in this business. Ha! the count!”

Satisfied that his daughter was out of hearing, and
that his follower was sufficiently nigh for all his purposes,

it was now that Julian gave them that utterance
which a sense of policy and a consideration of the maiden's
feelings had induced him to suppress.

“Traitor and rebel,” he exclaimed to Egiza, “didst
thou think I knew thee not? Yield thee, young man,
as I bid thee—thou art my prisoner.”

His sword was uplifted on the instant; but, as the
moment of trial came, that of Egiza was not less prompt.
The opposing blades were crossed ere he replied,

“Thou'rt base to say so, Count Julian; base, like
the master whom thou servest. But I fear thee not;
thou takest no living prisoner in thy prince. Strike—
double traitor as thou art. I defy thee to the trial.”

Pelayo, sitting above and looking composedly, if not
coolly, upon the strife, seemed to lose all consciousness
of its danger to his brother in the increasing pleasure
which this show of spirit produced within him.

“Good!” he exclaimed. “Well said—well countenanced.
'Tis man to man as yet. Let them go on a
while, and bruise each other. I am not wanted to this
match.”

“Vainly would you strive, young man,” replied Julian
to the defiance of Egiza. “You are my prisoner, though
your life be safe from any blow of mine. The headsman's
axe demands it, and I am forbidden to rob him
of his victim. Yield you then—I would not strike you.”

“You shall not,” replied Egiza; “not while I can
wield weapon in my defence; and thou shalt strike, if it
be only for thine own safety. Lo! my sword is upon
thy bosom—I will provoke thee to the use of thine.”

The quick weapon of Julian parried the thrust of
Egiza, and contenting himself with doing this, he forbore
assault, as he replied, contemptuously—

“Your boy's weapon can do little here, young man,
even against my own; what can it do against a second?
Look—Odo!”

Count Julian, in that last word, had summoned his
follower.

“Now goes the other forth,” said Pelayo; “'twill be
for me to round that party soon, or my brother is but a
lame chicken. But—patience, good uncle Oppas; thy
text were scarcely a pleasant one to Egiza, if he knew
that I used it for my own counsel at this moment.”

With the appearance of Odo, Egiza, still presenting a
ready weapon and a fearless front, gave back, and the
two pressed upon him with bared swords.

“Thou see'st,” exclaimed Julian, “there is no hope
for thee. Two weapons are at thy breast.”

A single bound at that instant brought Pelayo to the
scene. In another instant, with a stunning blow of his
sword, he brought the astonished Odo to the ground;
and, ere Julian or Egiza were either of them recovered
from the surprise which his presence had occasioned, he
confronted the former.

“Thou hast erred, Count of Consuegra,” he exclaimed
to Julian, as his sword glittered in the eyes of the count,
“the two weapons are at thy own breast. It is thou that
hast no hope, save in our mercy.”

“Ha! Thou'rt in season, brother,” said Egiza.

“Ay—for the tares,” cried Pelayo; “thou hast had
the fruit to thyself, as usual. But let us not linger here,
we have other tasks; and—thou wilt now let the youth
depart?” was the concluding and derisive inquiry which
Pelayo made to Julian. The wrath of the latter may
not be spoken; but it was tempered by the necessities
of his situation. Though brave, he yet felt how idle it
would be to attempt anything against two well-appointed
warriors; and he contented himself with maintaining a
posture of readiness for assault. But this was not designed
by Pelayo, and, in spite of the indignity to which
Egiza had been subjected, Julian, as the father of Cava,
was still secure from his animosity.

“You have the fortune, young men,” replied the count,
with a bitter coolness, “and I counsel you to make use
of it. You cannot always escape me; and you shall not

have fled beyond these hills ere my followers shall be
upon you.”

“Let them come,” replied Pelayo, coldly. “Think
you we fear them? Let them pass in pursuit beyond
these hills, and they return not again. Think you,
most valiant count, that I followed this amorous youth
alone? Pursue us but beyond that eminence, and I will
rejoice your eyes with a sight of war which shall even
warm the heart of an old warrior like yourself.”

The cool and prompt assertion of Pelayo fully convinced
Julian of the truth of what he said, and, under
existing circumstances, he was willing to let the two escape
without farther interruption. At this moment Odo,
the follower whom Pelayo had stricken down and stunned,
began to show signs of returning consciousness, and it
became necessary that the fugitives should take heed of
the counsel of Julian, and urge their flight while yet the
time was allowed them. Even then it was difficult to
move Egiza from the spot. He still had hope to influence
the father of the maiden by entreaty; but the haughty
reply which his exhortations met provoked the indignation
of Pelayo, if it did not move his own.

“Why wilt thou care, my brother, to implore him who
denies you with such scornful speech? For shame!
Let us leave the churl's dwelling, and, if thou hast the
feeling of a prince, as thou shouldst have, thou shouldst
rather rejoice that thou art quit of a damsel who would
bring thee to a knowledge of such connexions. Let us
away.”

With a depressed, disconsolate heart, and a slow footstep
which would have lingered still, Egiza was forced
to submit, and sadly turned to follow his brother. The
latter, ere he led the way, thus addressed the mortified
and defeated Julian.

“We have spared you, sir—you are in our power,
but we turn the weapon from your bosom, as our aim is
not your blood. But I warn you not to pursue us.

Provoke us in our flight, and we will turn upon and
rend you even as the wild boar rends the flanks of the
forward hunter.”

“And I warn you, Pelayo, that you speed far and
fast; for, as there is a God in heaven and a power on
earth, so surely will I pursue you with a force far beyond
any in your command. Speed while you may—
you are now safe—you will not be so long.”

“You have caught your hands full, and they burn already,
Count Julian—beware you catch not more than
you can carry by a farther trial,” was the reply of Pelayo,
in the language of an ancient proverb of the Goth.
“We are safe—thanks to the good sword that smote
down your myrmidon. We owe no thanks to you that
we are so. Do what you may, sir, we shall keep safe
still, and so let your pursuit begin. Enough—now,
brother, let us on—our men await us—we have much
to do.”

“Lead on, Pelayo,” said Egiza, as he turned mournfully
upon his path; “lead on, lead on! But my soul
sickens as I depart from these blessed hills.”

“Blessed hills!” exclaimed Pelayo, as he ascended
them; “the good count had like to have given you a
blessed mouthful of them. But come on—we must fly
far to-night.”

A few bounds carried the elastic youth to the top of
the crag over which he came, and in a few moments
more they were both lost to sight in the shadows of a
deep and narrow gorge upon the opposite descent.
Vexed with his disappointment, and not satisfied with
the course which he had taken to effect the commands
of his monarch, Julian turned his attention to the
wounded Odo the moment after they had disappeared.
A feeling of delicacy towards his child had persuaded
him to bring to the capture of Egiza but a single and
confidential follower, and the inefficiency of his force
was the defeat of his object.