University of Virginia Library

16. XVI.

There was no hope from Julian. He was firm in
his refusal to take part with those, whose cause, however
rightful at first, was, in truth, unlawful now—inasmuch
as the Goths, according to ancient usage, had duly
elected the usurper Roderick. The usurpation had
been legalized by the strongest faction, and there was
little doubt but that the greater portion of the people
were with the tyrant. In this condition of things, his
rejection of the arguments of the Lord Bishop Oppas
was peremptory, and that ambitious and intriguing
churchman was compelled to forego all hope from the
quarter to which his eyes had been directed far too
much. Leaving the palace of the count, the mood of
each had in it much of disappointment. That of the
archbishop arose, naturally enough, from the refusal of
Julian. Pelayo, only chafed with the delay, as at no
period did he look to have aid against the usurper from
one who consented to hold office under him. The disappointment
of Egiza was soothed by the passages of

love which had taken place between the Lady Cava and
himself, and his regret arose rather from the necessity
compelling him to leave her presence, than from any
great sense of mortification following the refusal of
Julian to take part in the conspiracy. The several
moods of the parties resulted in a falling off from each
other of their usual sympathies, and, with but small
show of cordiality, the two young princes listened to
new suggestions from Oppas.

“Heed it not now, Pelayo. It is a sad chance—but
we have friends left—many, glad to serve us, and not
less willing to bring down the usurper. To-morrow
night we meet. There you will see them—hear their
advice, accept their pledges, and prepare, at all points,
to gain the vantage ground in the commotion which
must come ere long. Think not of the Asturias yet.
The peasants there may be true, but they are too remote.
To bring them here, on his own ground, to fight with
Roderick, it were only to destroy them. We must
strike here, and suddenly. You will come to-night?”

“I will, good uncle, though I look for other defeat
from thy ministry. Thou art too subtle to be certain—
too skeptical of man's honesty properly to believe, and
considerately to serve, the people. With no faith in
others, they will not wisely do to believe in thee; and
it is the nature of thy practice to scorn the direct, in a
fond search after the pathway which is hidden. Go to
—this policy may seize but will not secure—it may
win, but is not worthy to win—it may conquer in battle,
but the strife is without honour, and would tarnish the
spurs of the good knight, though he conquer by it.
Thou wilt say I dream in this, as it is the wont always
with the cunning to say of those who hold man higher
than he holds himself. But, if my thought were the
world's thought, then wouldst thou lose thy bishopric,
for then would men be far more Christian than all thy
teachings could make them, or approve thvself. Of thy

holy practices, good uncle, I speak not—I will not do
thee so much unkindness.”

“Thou art most considerate, Pelayo, but thou endest
thy speech where it were better to have begun. Take
a better mood to thee, and be prudent to be wise. I
forgive thee all thou sayst, for the cause we hold is ours
in common. Thou hast thy venture along with thy
brother's and mine, and I can well understand the rash
words which the peril of its loss may prompt thy lips in
their utterance.” The bishop spoke soothingly, and to
him Pelayo replied without the pause of an instant—

“I have no cause such as thou claimest in this, lord
bishop. Speak not of mine, or of thine, or of my
brother's cause, when the beautiful country of our fathers
is trodden by an accursed tyrant. That is my cause—I
aim at no crown, either for Egiza or myself.”

“This is our cause as well,” promptly responded the
archbishop, who felt the necessity of conciliating one
already renowned for his valour, and possessing a wonderful
influence over the few knights of their party, who
admired his courage and conduct, and were secure in
the knowledge which they possessed of his virtue and
patriotism. “This is our cause, as well as thine, Pelayo,
and the cause of all who feel with us; as thou
shalt see to-night, at thy coming. Thou wilt come?”

“I will.”

“Where goest thou now, Pelayo?” inquired his brother,
seeing him about to depart. The person addressed
turned abruptly upon the speaker, and with eyes that
seemed to pierce him through, after a moment's hesitation,
thus addressed him in reply:

“Thou hast known me long, Egiza. Shall I say to
thee that Pelayo has no thought but of his duty—his
duty to the living—his duty to the dead. The good of
the one—the just homage to the other. I go upon these
duties. I work through all the hours in our labour—
yet think not that I work for thee. My dream by night
—my thought by day—my hope, through all seasons the

same, is, that the creature who has limbs such as mine
should have thoughts such as mine. There was a dream
of freedom among the nobles of ancient Rome, while
they rode over the necks of their barbarian captives.
Thou hast thy dream of freedom too, Egiza, when thou
hast supped plentifully. The dream of Pelayo is not
like thine, nor yet like that of ancient Rome—yet it is
also a dream of freedom. His dream of liberty shows
it all alike—a principle like truth, such as no season
can change, no condition magnify or depress, no rule
subjugate, no soul avoid; whose temple is of universal
adoration, and whose light, like that of the sun, is seen
from all the nations.”

“Why, thou dost dream, surely. What meanest
thou by this freedom?” asked Egiza, wondering.

“The freedom of man.”

“And what is that?”

“The absence of that necessity which imposes a
condition upon man adverse to the nature within him.
He is no slave whose intellect is not beyond his condition.
He is a slave whose ambition, guided by a just
impulse from truth, is restrained by a will hostile to his
own, and defrauding him of his right, while defeating the
purposes of the God who made him.”

“Oh, this is idle, my son; and such words, which
mean nothing or little, are out of place in the mouth of
a noble and a prince. Thou art, indeed, dreaming,
Pelayo,” said the archbishop.

“Thou wilt see—thou wilt see. Oh, would thou
couldst dream with me, Lord Oppas—but it is not for
the sleek churchman to learn how godlike is the sacrifice
which the noble heart can make—how vast the
labour the high mind can compass—how great the trial
the nerved form may overcome and defy, when cheered
by such a vision which that dream affords of the future.
I see what thou canst not. I hear sounds which reach
thee not. Know, my lord bishop, that he who labours
for mankind has already begun his immortality.”

“Very good—but my thoughts are not so foreign,
my son; and such as thou hast were better discarded.
They will profit not thy cause.”

“My cause!—would I could teach it thee. Thou
wouldst use me for thine. I purpose to do the same
with thee—not for my cause, not for thine, save only,
as we both make a part of that condition which can only
be happy when officered by the truth. My cause is not
the cause of to-day, but of time. The labour of to-day
is only useful to my cause, as it belongs to man, and holds
a portion of the hours which are his; and the individuals
who work in it are of no import in its progress, only as
they precede countless generations yet to come, having
their feelings and thoughts, and subject to the same necessities.
The error of all thy thought is, that thou
thinkest only of to-day.”

“Well—and enough too. But then thou wilt be
here to the time?”

“I have said.”

“Shall I go with thee, brother?”

“Stay, and keep counsel with our uncle, Egiza. Win
him to give thee some new homily, which shall serve thee
in lieu of good works, when thou comest to the throne.”

Pelayo left them, and Egiza, with Oppas, proceeded
to the palace of the latter, where arrangements were to
be made for the secret reception of the conspirators.