Pelayo a story of the Goth |
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 | XI. Pelayo |  |
11. XI.
Hurrying his brother away from the spot, Pelayo led
him through the narrow gorge by which he came, and,
with speed that was justly warranted by the danger, they
fled together from the neighbourhood of Count Julian's
castle. The night gave them present shelter, since it
would have been impossible for that nobleman, with all
his retainers, to discover them among the crowding
hills, unless through some fortunate accident. Julian,
foiled and furious, was yet sufficiently aware of this
truth to forego any hopeless pursuit; and he contented
himself with giving aid to the retainer who had been
stricken down and stunned, but not seriously hurt, by
the prompt blow of Pelayo. Him he recovered after a
little while; and, enjoining secrecy upon him as to the
result of the adventure, the count returned to his castle,
where the maiden, his daughter, awaited him in speechless
apprehension. She feared, but unnecessarily, the
rebukes and reproaches of her father. He gave her
counsel against her misplaced regard for Egiza, but it
was given with parental fondness, and not in severity;
and it may be said, in this place, that the hostility of Julian
to the pretensions of the young prince arose not
from any personal dislike to the unfortunate youth, but
from the duty which, as a good subject, he owed to the
reigning monarch, of whose confidence he was in possession,
and whose armies he even then had in command.
Willingly would he have pardoned the error of
his daughter and permitted the advances of the outlawed
prince, could he have done so and escaped without reproof
and punishment, as a kindred traitor, from the vindictive
Roderick. And now, though compelled to seek,
by all possible means, the arrest of the denounced rebel,
Count Julian forbore the most active measures which
might have been deemed essential to that end, and contented
censure for omission or neglect of duty. This understood,
the escape of Pelayo and Egiza will be readily
conceived. The pursuers despatched by Count Julian
failed to find out their places of retreat; and it was midnight
when the two princes halted for rest, which they
found in a deserted hovel, where they deemed themselves
secure for the time from their enemies. To this
time since their meeting, Pelayo had said but little to his
brother, and that little was in brief sentences, sternly uttered,
and of such matter only as seemed to belong to the
merest circumstances of their flight. But with the belief
that they were now safe from pursuit and beyond
the hearing of others, a change took place in the language
and manner of Pelayo. Stopping short in a little
area formed by the gradual hollowing of the hills
around, the hazy moon giving them a partial light, the
latter turned, and, confronting his brother, thus addressed
him:
“We are now safe, my brother. Our enemy, even
if he have pursued us, which I believe not, has failed to
follow upon our steps. We are alone, and can now
speak to each other, as we might not do if we had other
ears than our own to listen. And now I demand that
you should hear me, Egiza, for I have sought thee out
as brother seldom seeks brother—in a temper that is not
brotherly, and with a feeling of justice in my soul that
cannot be blinded by any ties whether of blood or of
affection.”
“What mean you?” demanded Egiza, somewhat
surprised by this opening and the stern air and solemn
manner of the speaker. “What mean you by this salutation,
my brother? You have just rescued me from
captivity or death, Pelayo—do not lessen the value of
your service by looks and words of such unkindness.”
Had the tones and language of Egiza been more full
of spirit and defiance, they had most probably been more
his reply seemed altogether too feminine for the manly
character required by the times. The address of the
latter was not modified, therefore, when he spoke again.
“I know not that I have done you service by saving
you from Julian. Thou canst better answer that doubt
by thy actions hereafter. I sought you, not to save you
from Julian—I sought you for punishment, Egiza.”
“How! For punishment?”
“Ay, for blows—for death—for shame. Art thou
not—”
“What?” demanded Egiza.
“A traitor to thy pledges—a slave to thy wanton
lusts—a coward—deserting from thy people, having no
heart for thy honour, spiritless in thy shame, and heedless
of the scorn of those whom thou hast prompted to
the danger which thou thyself hast been the first to shrink
from? If thou art not this thing, Egiza, then have I
wronged thee in my fears—then have thy people wronged
thee in their thoughts. If thou art, then have I done
thee unkindness to save thee from the stroke of Julian.”
The unhappy Egiza was no less indignant than thunderstruck
by the speech of his brother. He could only
exclaim, while his lips quivered red with anger and his
hands convulsively twitched at the handle of his sword,
“Go on, go on, Pelayo—thy tongue is free of speech
—thou art rich in dainty language. Spare it not—go
on—to the end, I pray thee.”
“Be sure I will,” replied the other, coolly; “thou shalt
hear the truth, Egiza, spoken without favor and without
fear. Thou art my brother, and for my own honour I will
not spare thee—thou art my prince, and for mine own
and thy people's safety thou shalt hear their complaint.”
“Pause not—thy beginning promises too well for
what is to come. Speak on, and spare not.”
“What didst thou at the dwelling of Julian, piping
and puling with his daughter, when thou hadst pledged
hours in this fashion—hours too precious for such keeping
as thine—when thou hadst other work and nobler
duties to perform?”
“And what is thy right, and whence comes it, Pelayo,”
was the reply, “to challenge me with thy free censure
thus?”
“Thy people's rights are mine. They have a right to
their prince—his life is theirs, and his dishonour is not
only their shame, but their loss. Why camest thou not
to our men when, through me, thou didst solemnly
pledge them? Thou didst ask their service, and they
gave it; thou didst bid them gather to receive thee, and
they came. Where wast thou meanwhile? Had they
seen thee, as I did but late, crouching with curlike fidelity
at the feet of thy mistress, thinkst thou they had put in
to save thee from the blow of Julian? No! they had
shouted to him in applause, and given him all needful
help to thy punishment.”
“Have they set you on this task, Pelayo? Have they
given you commission to play the orator?” said Egiza,
suppressing, though with great effort, his emotions as he
spoke.
“No! Of my own thought I came to save thee.
'Twas my own spirit that moved me, perchance unwisely,
in thy service. I had staked my honour upon
thine. I have sworn to redeem my pledges; and for
this I came; for this have I saved thee. Their messenger
had better been the headsman—they will hold
thee a traitor if thou heedst not. Thou hast proved one.”
“Traitor, indeed!” exclaimed Egiza, scornfully; “I
see not how that can be, since I owe no service to any
but myself.”
“Thou dost—thy thought is idle. Thou owest me service—them
service—service to thy name, to thy father's
memory, to thy country. Thou owest thy sword, strength,
life, to the people who would strike in thy cause, and for
not less by thy birth than thy own spoken resolve. To
this cause thy whole soul—thy courage—thy virtue—
everything—is due. Thou art born the sovereign of thy
people, but thy rights belong to theirs. If thou claimest
from them obedience, they claim from thee protection.
As the superior, thou art bound to the inferior in a thousand
ways—thou must instruct nad guide, advance the
worthy, counsel the ignorant, punish the unworthy, promote
mind to its true condition, and do all these things
with impartial judgment, having nor fear nor favour. In
thy hands lie the scales of decision, the sceptre of resolve,
the sword of justice, the boon for patient service,
and the reward for noble and unexacted achievement.
For thy award thy subjects wait thee, and these are the
duties which thou owest them in return and requital of
those which their obedience yields to thee. And let me
tell thee, my brother, that the treason of the sovereign
to his people is of all treason the worst, since theirs must
ever be the worst loss. Such were thy treason to them
now. Thy neglect and most complete desertion would
deliver them to a tyrant; nay, it has already done so
in part. They are even now his slaves, his victims,
and with a bondage terrible he fills our father's land.
They groan aloud—they call upon thee for succour—
and thou—thou comest to sing amorous ditties to the
moon, while thou lurkest around a nobleman's castle,
striving at a theft, when, as a brave and valiant prince,
at the head of thy people, thou shouldst come boldly,
and receive a gift with honour. Shame on thee, my
brother, that such should be thy performance.”
The reply of Egiza, though feeble, conveyed his firm
resolve.
“Alas, my brother, thou wouldst move me to impossible
things. I have taken counsel upon our purpose,
dwelt upon it in earnest thought, and feel that there is
no hope. It is in vain that we would assert our right.
to move him. We have no soldiers, no strength, no
resources. To lead our few followers into arms were but
to bring them to destruction, and yield ourselves up to
no less. No—I have resolved, my brother—I will strive
no more.”
“Do I hear?” was the passionate exclamation of Pelayo,
as he heard this plain avowal from the lips of his
brother; “do I hear? Let not my father's ghost be nigh
us at this moment; such damned salutation would make
him doubt thou art his son. It is not as thou sayst,
Egiza. Nothing is lost to us if we be not lost to ourselves.
Nothing impossible, if we give no heed to base
fears and womanly weakness. All is ours if we bring
but courage and resolve to our cause, and keep the
pledges which we have made to our people. We have
goodly hope if thou wilt but look upon it. A hundred
gallant leaders are sworn in sacramental blood to our
banner; and they will strike for us to the last, till thou
hast thine own, till Roderick is hurled from his bad station,
and our mother-land purged from the pollution
which he has brought upon it.”
Egiza smiled derisively as he heard the enthusiastic
speech of his brother.
“A hundred men!” he exclaimed; “why, what a jest
is this, Pelayo!—how canst thou talk of hope against
Roderick with thy force of a hundred men?”
The indignant reply of Pelayo was no less prompt
than the sarcastic speech of his brother.
“Talk not of hundreds,” he cried; “what are thousands,
millions—of what avail their number, their skill
in fight, their choice of 'vantage ground, and the consciousness
of right, which is best armour to the true
heart, when the leader to whom they look lacks soul for
battle and grows craven at its approach? I tell thee,
my brother, thy poor spirit affrights me, and makes me
to doubt more of our cause than all the strength of Roderick,
fight, and I count not the foe.”
“And wherefore should I fight, Pelayo?” replied the
other, mournfully. “For fame—for empire? Alas!
my brother, these are nothing to me now!”
“I do not hear thee!” said Pelayo, chokingly. Egiza
proceeded.
“I tell thee, brother, if but to draw my sword upon
these hills, and trace my worthless name upon their sides,
would win for me this empire thou wouldst have me seek,
I would not stoop to do it. No! Pelayo, I have grown
happier in other hopes. In nameless station, rather than
in strife, would I pass the future hours. I have lost all
the spirit for reckless strife, for the shedding of human
blood, for the grasping at power with hands red and
reeking with the miseries of man. Besides, I am forbidden—I
may not contend with Roderick—I am sworn
not to do so.”
“Brother, say not so!” exclaimed Pelayo, hoarsely,
while the tears gathered in his eyes, and his hand convulsively
grasped the wrist of Egiza.
“Say not so. I call you still my brother. I forbear
all rashness of word or action. Hear me, I am calm—
I am gentle. See—my dagger keeps its sheath. I
will not curse thee. I will not strike thee. I will do
nothing which shall stir thee against our holy cause—
thy cause, our father's cause, and mine. But I pray
thee, brother—I pray thee, unsay thy speech. 'Tis not
becoming in thee. 'Tis against thy mother's fame, thy
father's memory, thy own right; I say naught of my
right, Egiza, though it is my right also which thou dost
set aside in thy relaxed purpose.”
Egiza would have spoken here, availing himself of a
pause in the speech of Pelayo, which the latter seemed
to make rather through hoarseness than lack of topic,
but he continued with his wonted impetuousness.
“Nay, hear me out, my brother—hear me out. I
wouldst not, to our people and to thy neglected duties.
I will not chafe thee thus. My words shall have a gentler
meaning. I will implore, entreat, spare nothing of a
softer mood, so thou wilt unsay those foolish—those
base words. Take thy manhood on thee again—let not
the gathering rust upon thy sword reproach thee with
long dishonour. Remember thy father's name, thy own
—once more let us do those deeds which shall keep
them bright with the passage of the years, defying the
effacing breath of time—defying the slanders of our enemies.”
It was for one moment an imposing sight to behold
the big drops gathering in the eye of that otherwise
rough warrior; to see his half-stifled emotion, and the
convulsive clasp of both his hands around the arm
of his brother. But this show of emotion lasted for a
moment only. The reply of Egiza produced another
change no less sudden than those which had already
marked his deportment in this interview.
“I've thought upon this strife, my brother,” said the
elder, “and I see no hope for our cause from the struggle
which we propose. The chances are all against
success. Our men are few, and though they be gallant
all, and well approved in fight, their endeavour were
but fruitless when thousands press upon and bear them
down by the sheer power of numbers.”
“Hear a tale!” exclaimed Pelayo, impatiently, withdrawing
the grasp of his hands upon the arm of his
brother, his eyes flashing the fires of indignation, and
his voice struggling hoarsely in his throat for utterance
like some pent-up mountain torrent—“hear a tale thou
seemst to have forgotten.”
“What tale, my brother?”
“It was a time of terror for the Goth,” resumed Pelayo,
in reply, “when, led by Wallia, he battled first in
the Iberian country. His force diminished to a little
entire race of the Silingi, full ninety thousand—on his
front their allies, the Alani, a beaten but brave people,
themselves superior to the utmost might brought by
Wallia—to these we add the Vandals and Suevi, all
leagued for his destruction. Did he fly? Did he despair?
Did he talk of the force of numbers, and, in a
coward mood, resolve to give up the struggle, to forfeit
the empire he sought, to retire in shepherd's guise from
the strife, seeking a dastard safety, which neither he
nor thou could have ever found? No, no! he did not
—he dared not. Though on his back rolled the impassable
sea, and on his front a host, to which his front
were but a narrow point, which he looked to see swallowed
up by the side closing ranks of his enemy!—did
Wallia tremble? Did he desert the people who had
trusted him, and fly in hope of safety from a fortune
which he yet decreed to them? You may have your
answer from the old crone who, at the evening, when
the bee first sings in summer, tells it to the hinds assembled
beneath the cottage tree. In one night, with a
courage warmed by danger to be deadly, and with a
sword sharpened for a thousand lives, he smote the barbarians
in their tents, slew with his own hand the gigantic
monarch of the Alani, and hewed his way to freedom
and safety—as thou shouldst do—through the hearts of
his crowding enemies!”
“I know the tale, Pelayo,” was the faint response of
Egiza. “'Twas, indeed, a brave action—'twas gallantly
well done.”
“Thou knowst the tale; 'twas gallantly well done!”
exclaimed Pelayo, repeating contemptuously the words
of his brother. “I cannot think you know it, Egiza;
I cannot think you esteem it gallantly well done, else
wherefore need that I should tell it to you now? and
wherefore not strive, with a kindred spirit such as Wallia
cherished, to win as bright and lasting a renown?
when your people, and your own honour, demand that
you do likewise? Satisfied with the word of praise
which you give to Wallia, and which his glory needs
not from any, and, least of all, from you, back you sink
into your soulless and senseless slumbers, making it
double shame for you to have ever awakened.”
“Nay, Pelayo, thou dost me wrong, great wrong,”
replied Egiza. “I do not forget, I would not forget,
the glorious deeds of Wallia—would that they were
mine—”
“Without the danger, eh?” said Pelayo, harshly,
breaking the unfinished speech.
“No—to have them would I brave all the danger,
even now, such as girded in the desperate monarch.
But such hope were idle. Our game were far more
desperate than his. Our people are not one, as was
the people of Wallia. Scattered and far—few, unarmed,
and without money, we should but call them into
sight for their destruction. To cope with Roderick
were to rush on certain fate. Wherefore, and what the
wisdom of such rashness, without any hope such as
counselled the enterprise of Wallia?”
“Oh, wherefore live, and wherefore strive at any fortune,”
replied Pelayo, bitterly, “unless thy captain
comes to thee with a certain count of thy own and thy
enemies' numbers; shows thee by a certain rule, with a
nice computation, the very movement thou shouldst
make for success, ere thou resolvest upon it; and declarest
the cost in men and horses of every onslaught?
Computes for thee after this fashion: `Here lie three
hundred foes, two hundred friends—clear gain one hundred
here. Here, at this point, we lose—a favourite
horse has here been wounded with an ugly gash that
cleft his neck; his rider lies at hand—he lifts no sword
again. Now on this side—behold! Here's an ugly
pile—we have lost here—two Goths and five Iberians
the combat; we have not gained—but our loss is less
than Roderick's.”'
“What is this talk, Pelayo?” demanded Egiza.
“The talk of the captain; his close compt, which thou
needst, of what the fight shall be ere thou goest into it.
It is thus you would have him compute for you the field,
so that you may estimate the game ere you err by rash
battle. By Hercules, brother, but you have grown
marvellous nice upon the sudden. Time was when
you were less prudent, and, men said, more manly; now,
with a keen honour—not keen enough, however, to cut
the hand of its owner—thou art more heedful of thy uncle's
mule than of thy father's kingdom. Thou wouldst
ride his favourite text `Patience' while Roderick rides
thee, and deal in grave homily about life's chances, while
the foe tramples thee with his foot in anger, and spits
upon thy brow in his scorn.”
“Be it so, then. You are too free of speech, Pelayo.”
“Would I could make you free of action.”
“Chafe not, or thou wilt ere thou wishest it,” was
the reply. “Thy words strike ungently—thy speech is
ungracious.”
“My thoughts are no less so at thy weakness—thy
lack of purpose.”
“My purpose is my own, only—you waste your words
by speaking upon it. Since I am your rightful sovereign,
'tis for me that you would war with Roderick. I
yield my right—I will not war with him—'tis I that lose
by this relaxed purpose; not you!”
“Ay, but it is, Egiza. Selfish man, I tell thee thou
dost lose but little. The loss is mine, thy people's, thy
country's. 'Tis the loss of those who have feeling yet
of their country's honour and of their own—of those
who are sore beneath the tyrant, and who demand that
their king shall come to their help and rescue them
from their bondage. What, if thou hast grown heedless
to the disgrace in which thou livest? Shall
thy insensibility be thy excuse from serving them in their
suffering? Are there not many, the subjects of my father
and his friends, who break the bread of poverty and
travel the rude hill-paths of exile? Shall they lose by
your desertion? They have lost all in their service to
us and to our cause; can it be that you will deny them
with a careless word to hope for the restoration to their
homes, to the high and honoured places from which our
enemy has driven them? You are doubly sworn to these,
nor to these alone. You owe vengeance to the slain—
to the many who have perished for King Witiza in prison,
on the battle-field, and scaffold; less prudent and
sparing of their blood than the firstborn son of him for
whom they perished. They have sons too—brave,
fearless, noble sons—shall they strive vainly for their
rights—for their goodly names, once honourable, but
now degraded with the worst reproach to honour, the
shame of treason? These suffer loss by your denial—
these lose all by your fickleness and weakness—the
basest features in a sovereign.”
“And are these all? Methinks there are yet others
to be named who suffer loss, as thou sayst, by my weakness.”
“Doubtless! The whole nation suffers by thy defect,
since the uncurbed tyranny of the usurper is a malady
that in time possesses all.”
“Ay, but such was not my thought, Pelayo. Thou
hast spoken nothing of thy own loss, my noble brother.
Dost thou not share in my conquest if I conquer? if I
perish, dost thou not succeed me?”
The fingers of Pelayo grasped the throat of Egiza the
moment he had spoken. The glance of his eye was
fiercely withering.
“Thou art base of blood!” he exclaimed—“a
wretch most ill-begotten!”
“Take off thy hand, Pelayo,” gasped the half-suffocated
Egiza; “undo thy hold, or thou wilt strangle me.”
The hold of Pelayo was rather tightened than relaxed
as he muttered in reply—
“A base slave, whose trade were worthy of the
Hebrew—”
The struggles of Egiza were fruitless in the iron
grasp of his brother. He was compelled to expostulate
“Pelayo, brother, undo—let go thy hold—I choke!”
“Brother—no!” exclaimed the indignant youth, releasing
his hold, and hurling the other from him. “Brother—no!
I sorrow that we are of kindred, though but
for this my dagger had searched thy slavish bosom.
But—come on with me. Brother or no, sovereign or
slave, come on with me to the cavern. Let us delay
for no more speech. I parley with thee no longer—
I hearken no longer to thy base suspicions—I contend
no more with thy base purpose. To the cave; when
there, I break all bond with thee—I know thee no
longer, whether for brother or comrade. To our friends
declare thyself; they wait us there. Say to them what
thou hast said to me, and let them judge of thee as they
may. For my single self, I give thee up for ever.
Hereafter we hold no interest together, whether of blood
or business. Thou wilt meet with the Iberian nobles
in council; they form the only legitimate council of the
nation. They, doubtless, will receive thy declaration
with heedful judgment, and learn to yield the contest
with the tyrant, as thou wouldst do, or discard the hope
that now looks to thee for good guidance and manful
deed. This—if they regard thee with Pelayo's eyes—
they will surely do, and thou mayst then go free—go
free to dream away the hours in thy silly bondage, puling
to woods and flowers, piping to streams, losing the
consciousness, if thou canst, the while, which tells thee
of thy duties left undone, thy father's memory forgotten,
and his cruel murder unavenged.”
“I will not go with thee, Pelayo,” said Egiza, quickly.
“Thou shalt!” was the no less prompt and more
resolute response.
“Ha! thou darest not think of violence, Pelayo? and
if thou dost, I fear it not. Who's he shall make me?”
“I—thy brother. By Hercules, I swear it. Hear
me, Egiza; my hand was but a moment since upon thy
throat; my weapon is before it now—bare, ready—and
I am resolute. Thou hast trifled long with our men;
thou shalt not so trifle with me. Thou hast made me
promise them falsely; I will die, and thou shalt die, ere
thou dost so dishonour me again. Thou shalt go, though
I bear thy bleeding carcass upon my shoulders. Thou
shalt go and confirm what I have done for thee, and with
thy own lips shall declare that it is thy defection only
which is to give the deathblow to our cause. They shall
hear from thy own lips thy craven resolve—they shall
look thee in the face while thou relatest thy own shame.
May my father's spirit help thee in that moment, Egiza,
and strengthen thee to a better resolve than now; for,
I tell thee, if thou dost not become their king, as they
will claim thee—ready with thy sword to lead them
against the tyrant—so surely will they doom thee to a
fitting punishment. Thy life is at their bidding.”
“I give them no such power. Thy rude assault
makes thee my foe, Pelayo. Lower thy weapon, or I
swear to thee I will forget our kindred, and strike thee
as freely as I would the fiercest warrior in the ranks of
Roderick.”
The threat was lost upon Pelayo.
“Strike as thou wilt—I am too much thy friend to
hearken to thy self-condemning words. I'll hale thee
to the cavern—living or dead, I'm sworn to bring thee
to our friends. They shall hear thy voice, or, in place
of it, they shall behold my reeking dagger, and upon it
I will swear it is thy lifeblood which it has drank.”
Thus speaking, with weapon extended as if for the
on his brother. In an instant the latter was prepared,
and their swords crossed and clashed in conflict.
“I've borne with thee too long,” cried Egiza, as they
began the fight. “Thou hast grown insolent beyond
endurance even of a brother. Strike now, Pelayo, as
if thou wert none; for, I swear to thee, I shall couple
no such idle memory with the blows I give thee.”
A fierce laugh preceded the reply of Pelayo.
“Let the blows speak for us,” he cried, contemptuously;
“mine will remind thee of no kindred, be sure.
Strike thou with thy best skill, thy most reckless courage—it
will glad me that I can yet provoke in thee
some spirit not unworthy of our father.”
Stung by every uttered word of Pelayo, Egiza pressed
closely upon him. His blows fell fast and thick, and
for a brief space they required all the superior adroitness
of Pelayo in defence to ward and turn them aside.
Yet they gave him no disquietude, and the scornful
manner in which he spoke all the while only added to
the vexation of Egiza.
“What! thou hast life yet!” he cried; “thou canst
still feel anger and strike quickly! Well! it is something
gained, that, in thy woful degeneracy of soul, thou
dost not need that I should spit upon thee or turn thee
with my foot. Look, now, with both eyes to thy guard,
for I trifle no longer.”
“Nor I! nor I!” muttered the roused Egiza through
his closed teeth.
The stars looked down with a calm smile upon their
fearful combat, while the affrighted echoes gave back
the clashing strokes of their weapons from the surrounding
hills—which were so recently silent—until there
was no longer any solitude among them.
| XI. Pelayo | |