12. XII.
After a brief pause, during which Urraca, leaning
upon the table with her head resting upon her palm,
seemed utterly unconscious of the objects around her,
while her mind roved away in pursuit of some foreign
thought, she abruptly recovered herself, and thus addressed
her companion:
“Amri, hast thou drank?”
“I have, dearest—my lips have searched the bottom.”
“Fill again, Amri—fill—fill: we are wedded now.”
“How wedded, Urraca?” inquired Amri, who did
not know how to account for the sudden look of exultation
which her features wore.
“Fill thy cup and mine,” was her only reply. He did
as she desired him, repeating his question as he did so.
“How wedded, Urraca? Thou saidst wedded, dearest?”
“Are we not? Hast thou not sworn thyself mine,
Amri, and do I not pledge myself to thee in return?
Does not this wed us most closely?”
“Ay, truly does it, dearest Urraca; but in this fashion
have I been long wedded to thee, and thou to me.
Yet, until now, thou hadst not deemed us wedded.”
“Is't not enough, Amri? Wouldst have a church to
wed us, and a priest?” she demanded, somewhat wildly.
“What church, Urraca?” he asked, gently.
“It should not be thy church, Amri, for that I believe
not; nor yet mine, for that thou deniest; but the church
in which we are wedded, Amri, should yet have sway over
both of us. It should be a universal church, Amri.”
“Where wilt thou find such church, Urraca? What
church is it that thou speakest of?”
Her reply was instantaneous, and her voice rose and
seemed to kindle as she spoke with a sort of enthusiasm
little short of eloquence, and which, as she proceeded,
awakened somewhat the apprehensions of Amri, who
regarded it as a gathering and growing insanity.
“What church is it?” said she. “A goodly, a great
church—thou wilt soon know it, Amri. It is a more
mighty edifice than the mind of man may imagine or
his eye encompass. Its elevation is beyond his art to
rival, as it is beyond the ambitious power of any king
to limit. Its altars may be found in every land, the largest
raised of earth. Its sacrifices do mock and swallow
up all others, or put them all to shame—they are so
humble when noted with its own. And of its incense
I need say nothing. It reeks from every land—up, up
to the pure heaven, assaulting the sweet skies with different
scents from theirs. And for its pillars, they do
stand aloft more firmly heaved than those of Hercules.
They better keep our liberties than these do fence our
borders from the Saracen. Its power is mightier yet—
for, in its pale, the thousand sects of earth—the warring
tribes—the jarring moods of superstition and devotion
—grow reconciled and one. What thinkest thou, Amri,
of a church like this? Bethink thee, hast thou never
heard its name? Hast thou no guess? Is it not clear
to thee?”
“Indeed, I know not, Urraca. Thou speakest that
which is to me a mystery. I know of no such church
as that thou speakest of, nor do I hold faith in it.”
“Thou dost—thou knowest it well—thou shalt know
it better before many days.”
“I cannot think—'tis not the Christian church, for
that has no such powers, though belike it may urge such
pretence. Our King Roderick here, they say, like the
Gothic kings of old, makes but little heed of it; and
our rabbins, though they swell greatly when they tell of
Solomon the Wise, and of the temple of his building,
they rise not to such height as to make me regard that
and this church of thine as one.”
“Thou question'st not its powers, Amri, as I describe
them?”
“No, not I; but 'tis a wondrous church—wondrous
if only as it brings together the warring sects thou
speak'st of. But truly, dear Urraca, I'm lost to know
—I cannot guess thy meaning. Explain—tell me what
church is this—what name it bears.”
“Drink with me to the triumphs of that church—
drink, Amri—thou shalt then know its name.”
“I've drank, Urraca.”
“And I,” she added, immediately; then laying down
the emptied vessel as she spoke, and looking with a triumphant
smile in the face of the Hebrew, she thus proceeded—
“It is the grave!—that church!—the grave!—the
grave!”
“Ha!” he cried, half starting from his seat, and his
cheeks growing pale with a sudden but indescribable apprehension,
while the tankard fell from his hand. “Ha!
What is thy dreadful meaning, my Urraca?”
“It is the grave, my Amri. What! dost thou tremble?
Wherefore shouldst thou tremble? Hast thou
not promised me to share my fate—my fortune?”
“I have, Urraca. Have I not sworn it thee?”
“Wert thou not glad — thou saidst so, dearest Amri
—to give up all thy freedom—to be bound in life and
death, and to make thy lot with mine? Didst thou not
love me to this measure, Amri?”
“Even so, Urraca. I have promised thee, and with
such passionate fervour do I love thee, that I will give
up all in Cordova, my father, friends, brethren—”
“I know thou wilt,” she exclaimed, laughing exultingly.
An acute look of fear overspread the features
of Amri as he beheld the expression, but he continued,
“And within three days I will fly with thee.”
“Before, before, my Amri—thou art laggard—I will
not wait for thee so long.”
“Thou dost forget, Urraca. I have told thee it may
not be before. I am bound to this performance for
Edacer, and much depends upon my execution. But
ere the three days, dearest, I'll be thine—all thine—and
fly with thee to thy own hilly home in Guadarrama.”
“Alas! my Amri, I believe thee not! I do not
think it. Thou wilt not fly with me to Guadarrama.
I know thou wilt not.”
“I swear to thee, Urraca.”
“Thou swearest a lie then, Amri—a base lie—thou
wilt not, canst not—the priest who wed us proclaimed
it should not be.”
“What dost thou mean, Urraca? From thine eyes
glares a terrible wildness—thy brow—”
She interrupted him quickly as she rose from the table,
and replied to him in a manner full of strange solemnity—
“We're wed by a fix'd fate—by one whose word we
may not set aside, nor disavow, nor, in our terror, fly
from. He hath said, and I believe him, Amri, that thou
never wilt leave Cordova—that thou art bound to it by
the strongest links, which thou canst neither bear with thee
nor break. He tells me that, as thou evermore hast
been a traitor to me—to all—thou'lt prove a traitor
still.”
“'Tis false,” he cried; “whoso hath spoken this
hath much belied me. Believe me, dear Urraca, it is
falsehood.”
“'Tis truth!” she responded, lifting her hand to
heaven.
“Who is it tells thee that I will not fly with thee?
What meddling priest is this?” he demanded, anxiously
and angrily.
“Death!” was the hollow answer which she gave
him; and the dreadful minister whose name she had called
at that moment seemed to glare forth from her eyes
in terrible threatening upon his.
