 | XIII. Pelayo |  |
13. XIII.
With subdued spirits, quieted, and now without any
show of anger, yet more than ever estranged from each
other, the two brothers proceeded upon their way together
until they came within distant view of a miserable
and unsheltered cabin of a peasant among the hills.
The scene was wild beyond description. The hovel
stood on the side of a ravine, through which, even then,
a mountain torrent, the consequence of late heavy rains,
was rushing with unexampled rapidity. The exceeding
narrowness of the gorge, its broken bed and circuitous
route, caused the torrent to roar in its passage down
like the voice of a labouring tempest. On one hand
rose a dense but small forest, frowning blackly in
unison with the scene, but the rocks beside were bleak
and bald of vegetation. A stunted tree stood at the
entrance of the cabin, which was wrapped in darkness,
and at the first glance of the two young princes it
seemed to them to be entirely uninhabited. Pelayo
stopped short ere he approached the dwelling, and
pointed out the situation of the gorge and the general
features of the country to his unheeding and regardless
brother.
“Look, Egiza, ere thou movest! See the rude
cerros, that threaten behind, before us, and on every
side—and among them see how many are the ravines
and winding hollows which make passages for flight—
for freedom! To the left, behold yon gorge, the bed
of some great torrent now dried up. The path is black
in its exceeding depth, and a brave army might wind
through its bosom, almost in broad daylight, without
startling the browzing goat or the watchful shepherd
upon the cliffs which overhang it. The true soul and
the fearless spirit might brave Roderick in such a place
as this, even as the Lusitanian Viriatus defied of yore,
and defeated the best consuls of imperial Rome. Would
that the brave savage were living now! Would that we
were worthy of his valour! Dost thou regard the
scene, my brother?—thine eye seems only to survey
the backward path over which we came.”
The melancholy Egiza responded to his brother, but
his words were few and their sense spiritless. His soul
was with his eyes, and they strayed backward ever in
the direction of Count Julian's castle.
“I see the gorge,” said he—“'tis very dark and
deep. 'Twould be a fearful fall from the overhanging
cliff, if the regardless shepherd—”
“'Twould be a glorious passage for brave men seeking
in silence the superior foe. Canst thou not think
with me, Egiza? If Roderick lay upon the opposite
hills with his assembled army, could we not, though
with our hundred knights and their small bands, win on
his camp by night, and, through that gorge to the left,
or even through this that spreads itself before us, smite
them with ruin? By my soul we could, had we but
souls! Come on—thou sleepest, brother.”
The quick eye of Pelayo beheld the stupor of his
brother. His own enthusiasm seemed to awaken no
corresponding impulse within Egiza's bosom; and his
language accordingly became stern as he turned away
of which for the purposes of war he had been labouring
so vainly to describe to him.
“Thus,” he muttered, as he led the way, “thus are
we slaves and victims. It is thus that we make the tyrant
who overcomes and chains us. Tyranny is but the
creature of our need—the scourge that whips us for decaying
virtue—that chastens to reform us. The tyrant
never yet sprang to life in any land where virtue presided
among the people. It is the foul, fearful progeny
of our vices—the rank disease of our degeneracy—
born of our baseness, and powerful only in our shame.
Our weakness gives it strength; and he who submits to
injustice but arms tyranny. The slave makes the tyrant,
the coward creates the oppressor. 'Tis a cruel
thought, that one, born, like Egiza, to sway—to noble
purpose—high destiny—the heir of such a mighty heritage—should
so fall off from honour—so forget his
name, his very nature; and move thus, with a soul mingling
with the dust upon which he treads, and a step
like that of a beaten cur that dreads a second punishment.”
The soliloquy came only in part to the ears of Egiza.
He had been musing of things remote—he had been
dreaming of Cava. Thinking that Pelayo had spoken
to him, he started as from slumber.
“What sayst thou, Pelayo? Didst speak to me?”
“I spoke of thee, my brother,” replied Pelayo, continuing
still his forward progress; “I strove to think
how best to bring thee to life—to put blood into thy heart
—to give wings to thy spirit, action to thy sinews, and
exercise to thy strength. I strove to think how best to
make thee once more a man—to give thee freedom,
and—”
On a sudden the words of the speaker were arrested,
and Egiza, who came behind, heard strange accents
mingling with those of his brother.
| XIII. Pelayo | |