 | III. Pelayo |  |
3. III.
But the freed slave remained not absent long. Her
guilty bosom, full of self-reproaches, demanded utterance.
She was crushed to the earth by the sudden, the
surprising generosity of her mistress, and the crime
which she had meditated filled her heart with unutterable
horror. She rushed back to the chamber of Urraca.
The convulsive paroxysm of joy had passed away, and
left her features more composed than at first; but the
tears, sweet and bitter, of mingled gladness and reproach,
flowed freely down her cheeks, while her breast heaved
and her lips quivered with her new and strange emotions.
The blessing had been too great, the boon too
sudden and unlooked for, not to overwhelm her; and
even when she came back to the chamber and presence
of her mistress, she could only kneel by the side of her
couch, bathe the extended hand with her tears which she
grasped in both her own, and sigh and sob as if her
very heart-strings were breaking with every meditated
utterance of her striving emotions. Humbled, yet happy—shrinking
with her shame, still hidden, which she
yet felt she could not long conceal—yet pleased that
she was able thus to abase herself before her whom she
had been about to destroy, Zitta strove vainly to articulate
some of the strangely mingled and contending
thoughts and feelings which possessed her. Surprised
at these emotions, yet not dreaming of the criminal
complexion of their source in part, the mistress strove
in vain to quiet her. Ascribing her conduct to excess
of joy, she sought to disparage the boon which she had
conferred, and made light of that freedom which the
other esteemed so great a blessing.
“Thou wilt implore to come back to me, Zitta—let
thy joy not madden thee, for the charge of thyself will
find thyself alone, and when sickness is pressing sorely
upon thee, and thou lookest around thee in vain for
'tendance and sympathy.”
“It is not that, my lady. 'Tis not joy,” was the
broken response.
“Not joy—what! art thou not glad, Zitta? Whence
is thy sorrow? Wouldst thou not be free?”
“Oh, yes, my lady, yes! But I am base, ungrateful.
I deserve not so great a blessing at thy hands.
Thou shouldst put double service upon me rather—thou
shouldst scourge rather than free me!”
“Why, this is madness, girl; rise—look on me—
speak calmly to me—what is thy meaning, Zitta?”
“No—'tis truth, my lady—'tis a God's truth, I tell
thee, I am base—forgive—forgive me.”
It was thus that, brokenly and wild, her self-accusing
spirit obtained occasional utterance, in reply to the exhortations
and inquiries of Urraca, while she sobbed evermore
for forgiveness.
“Forgive thee, my Zitta—what is thy offence? It
calls for no such violence. I do forgive thee.”
“It does, it does! you know it not, my lady; but
look not upon me while I tell it thee. Turn thine eyes
from me. I will tell thee all.”
Her sobs increased with these words; a sudden convulsion
seemed to come over and to rack her frame;
and she sank at full length upon the floor by the side of
the couch, and lay moaning and grovelling in that posture,
but without saying any thing farther. Urraca, without
a thought but of the woman's illness, arose quickly
from the couch and strove to uplift her; but she resisted
her efforts and refused her aid. In a few moments,
as she found that her mistress continued to bestow it,
she arose herself, and now stood with much more of
composure in her manner, though with the look and attitude
still of a culprit, in the presence of Urraca, who
“What does this mean, Zitta—why dost thou look
thus from me—what offends thee—what is thy sorrow?”
“I am a guilty—a base, guilty wretch, unworthy, my
dear lady, of thy favour,” was the reply of the woman,
who now spoke with a resolute air, coherently and
strong, and her eyes, as she replied, now addressed those
of Urraca with a degree of strength which presented a
singular contrast to her show of weakness and self-abandonment
hitherto.
“Of what dost thou accuse thyself?” demanded Urraca.
“What dreadful secret works in thy bosom.
Speak, Zitta; I will not betray thee.”
“God forgive me. Oh, my lady, every word which
you speak makes my heart more criminal in my eyes.
You know not—you cannot guess—I would have murdered—”
“Murdered—horrible! who, Zitta?”
“Look not on me, Urraca! This day I had sworn
to murder thee. This day—this day!”
“Me, Zitta! murdered me! This is thy folly, girl;
thou art but mad to say so.”
“I am not mad. I am no longer mad, my lady.
Thank God, I am not! But what I tell thee is the
truth. In this paper was thy death; touch it not—it is
poison. With this I had sworn to murder thee.”
She drew the paper given her by Amri from her bosom
as she spoke these words, and held it on high.
Urraca advanced, and took it, after some slight objection
of Zitta, from her trembling hands.
“This is a horrible story,” said Urraca, calmly turning
over the little packet, and surveying it on both sides.
“Horrible!” exclaimed the woman, with the unconsciousness
of an echo.
“Tell me all, Zitta. Speak out—I am not angry
with thee, and will not harm thee, now that thou repentest
Unfold to me the truth—what was't possessed thee!”
“The fiend—the arch fiend—who else?”
“Thou saidst, Zitta, that thou hadst promised and
sworn to murder me: could it be that thou wast prompted
by another?” was the farther inquiry of Urraca.
“Ay, my lady—yes! You'd fly with Amri to Guadarrama,
my lady; he has vowed you his—Amri has
vowed you his! You are to be happy with Amri, and
live with him in the mountains of Guadarrama, my lady
—ha—ha—ha!”
“What mean'st thou, woman?” said Urraca, sternly,
as she heard these words, and the irreverent and uncontrollable
laugh of scorn which followed them.
“Forgive me, my lady, I would not offend thee,”
replied Zitta, quickly, as she observed the sudden and
stern change which came over the features of Urraca;
“but thou art deceived—dreadfully deceived, my lady.
I have deceived you frequently and long, but I deceive
you not now. It is Amri that deceives you; it is Amri
that would have me murder you; his hands gave me
the potion now in yours, which he swore me to drug
your cup with. I am perjured, since I have betrayed
my oath; but I am not guilty of the crime I promised!”
“Liar and slave!” cried Urraca, in a voice of concentrated
and ominous thunder; “liar and slave that thou
art, unsay thy falsehood. Confess thou dost defame
him—say that he is true to me, and that it was an idle
mischief of thy tongue which made thee say otherwise.
The truth—the truth!”
Once more the figure of Urraca was erect. The
subdued spirit was once more awakened into life. The
meekness had gone from her eyes—the smile from her
lips—she stood, lofty, fierce, commanding, before the
trembling slave, her sable hair flying from her neck, and
her arm extended in an attitude of accustomed power,
terribly upon her companion.
“It is the truth—I've said but the truth, my lady.”
“Poison!” exclaimed Urraca, musingly, while again
turning over the packet in her hand and surveying it
curiously, “Poison—it is no poison if it came from Amri.
Speak, woman, did he call it poison?”
“He did, my lady!”
“And bade thee give it me?”
“Even so, my lady.”
“To drug my cup—and swore thee to it, woman?”
“He did, my lady—'tis all true, my lady, as I have
told it thee,” replied the slave, falling upon her knees as
she reaffirmed her statement, absolutely quelled and
bowed by the imperial anger of that fierce beauty, whose
passions she well knew, and whom she had been so
long accustomed to fear.
“And swore thee to it?”
“He did, my lady.”
“Swear that! 'Tis false unless thou swear it!” Urraca
almost shouted in the ears of the slave, while she
advanced her foot, and her arm, now freed from the
robes which had been loosely gathered around her, was
extended, white, beautiful, and commandingly, over the
head of the kneeling woman.
“I will swear!”
“Thou shalt not! Base, black-hearted, damned
slave, thou shalt not! I will save thee from the hell
thou wouldst plunge headlong into. I will not let thee
put this foul perjury upon thy soul. Thou shalt not
swear—it is a deadly sin, beyond all hope of mercy. I
will save thee—I will not let thee, Zitta. Pray—look
up to Heaven and pray. Pray—pray!”
The intensity with which Urraca had spoken these
words, and the excess of feeling working in her at the
time, produced exhaustion, which alone silenced, for the
moment, the infuriated speaker. When she paused,
again professed her willingness to swear to the truth
of what she had affirmed. With a transition as strange
as it was natural to her, Urraca sank on her knees beside
the woman, and, clasping her uplifted hand in both
her own, now, in the most gentle and pleading voice,
implored her not to take the oath she proffered.
“I know thou thinkest, Zitta, as thou sayst, but
thou errest. Thou art deceived, my girl; thine eye has
blinded thee to confound the person; thine ear betrayed
thee with some similar sounds; 'twas not the voice of
Amri—not his hand. They counselled not the crime—
the deadly crime. Say 'twas Edacer—the base Lord
Edacer—the Governor of Cordova—I'll believe thee.
He would not stop at that—”
“'Twas Amri, dearest lady—none but Amri. Hear
me unfold the tale, even from the first.”
“I would not hear thee, Zitta—yet I must. If what
thou sayst be true, thou killest me—killest me, though
thou hast left my cup undrugged.”
Never was look more mournful—more imploring
than that which Urraca fixed upon the slave. It plainly
solicited that she might be deceived. But the woman
would not understand the meaning, though she truly felt
the wo which that glance conveyed.
“Alas! my lady, what I have to tell—”
“Is truth, thou sayst.”
“It is—it is, my lady.”
“Go on—I hear thee,” said Urraca, coldly, with a
composure as extreme as her former passion was intense.
She arose as she spoke this command, and
walked to and fro along the floor, while Zitta proceeded
to unfold the narrative of her long connexion with Amri,
and the various meditated plans of criminality and practices
of improper indulgence which had been carried on
between them.
| III. Pelayo | |