University of Virginia Library

23. XXIII.

They reached it, after a while, by the same indirect
route which Pelayo had pursued af first with Lamech,
and the boy awaited him at the door of an inner apartment.
Pelayo looked with surprise and some dissatisfaction
upon the fondness which he showed his father
upon entering. He thought it unbecoming in one who,
however young, might be required, before long, to engage
in strife and bloodshed. But when he saw the
eyes of the boy, the next moment, fixed upon himself,
with a gaze, seemingly, of admiring emulation, while a
fire of unusual expression rushed into and kindled them
up, he did not doubt but that he also possessed a fine
spirit which would sustain him nobly in every form of
trial.

Melchior led the way for the nobles into a gorgeously
decorated chamber. They threw themselves upon
cushions of the richest covering; and Lamech soon
appeared, as they spoke, with a pitcher of the finest
wine. When they were well served and refreshed, the
Hebrew brought forth his gold, in large sacks, and
such a supply as more than met the expectations of
the most voracious of the discontented nobles. Pelayo

alone forbore providing himself with the rest, and having
reminded Melchior of the meeting at the Cave of Wamba,
for a future and appointed day, he took his departure
with his company. Soon as they had gone, and the
doors were secured, the boy Lamech went to his chamber,
and after a brief space returned—a boy no longer
—but a woman—a tall, beautiful, dark-eyed Arabian
maiden—the daughter, and not the son, of the venerable
Hebrew.

“Oh, my father, how I love to return, though but
once in the long day, to the garb of my mother. I feel
so unhappy—so awkward in that foreign dress—when
shall I be released from the task of wearing it?”

“Ay, when, my Thyrza, when? The garment of the
boy is now thy security; and though I love not to see
thee in it, yet, as it keeps thee from harm, I must even
love it too. Perhaps, my child, if the God of our
fathers turn not again from us, the time is but short in
which thy present servitude, and mine, and our people's,
shall continue.”

“Ah! I understand thee, father. Thou art again
about to lift the spear and the sword; and thine eyes
look forward to the fight with an old kindling. Thou
art leagued with the princes of the Goth, who now cry
war against Roderick.”

“It is even as thou say'st it, Thyrza. I am sworn
with the battle of the princes, and, God help me, I
shall strike fairly with them against the bloody ruler of
my people. It cannot be that Jehovah will always look
dark on Israel—it cannot be that Judah will always
be a dweller in the tents of the stranger, beaten with
stripes, and born to do his bidding. So long as this
bondage is his, so long must Melchior battle for him,
and against his oppressor.”

“And yet, my father, what hope is for the Hebrew?
—the despised, the persecuted Hebrew? How wilt thou
confide in him whose pleasure and whose pride it is to
scorn and to abuse thy people? Thou didst league,

having this hope, with the savage Count Generic, and
with Witebrode, yet what was thy fortune? When
came the peril, they shrunk from thee—when came the
triumph, they trampled upon thee, needing thy service
no longer. Ah me, my father, wherefore shouldst thou
strive, when Israel himself lies down like a beaten dog,
and howls only when he should hurt—when the lion of
Judah sleeps under the foot, even as the imaged stone,
at the doorway of his oppressors. Why shouldst thou
toil in battle for such as these? why pray to them,
when they hear thee with but half an ear, and turn to
thee with an unwilling spirit?”

“Thyrza, my child, thou speakest melancholy things
—most sad, as they are most true. But the spirit
which labours for man is a spirit from heaven, and the
sacrifice is not idle, though the victim appears to bleed
in vain. It must be that the prophet shall speak to unheeding
ears—it must be that the patriot will strike for
hearts that merit not freedom. Yet must the prophet
speak on, and the patriot strike. They do not this for
a race, nor for a generation—they do it for God and for
man; and the glorious principle which men flout and
deride to-day, shall, to-morrow, when the blood of the
good hath been poured forth in attestation of its truth,
become a sacred thing which all the world shall delight
to behold and worship. Think, my child, if Melchior,
the wanderer with the Saracen, the beaten slave of the
Roman, the persecuted and hunted outlaw among the
Goths—think what would have been the blessing of life
to him had his spirit lived only for the day of its exercise.
Thou knowest not how high, how stretching were
his thoughts, when his eye counted the blessed stars of
heaven, from the wide and cheerless bosom of the
desert. They taught him that so numerous and so
scattered were the myriad families of man; and even
as he borrowed light from glories so remote as theirs,
so to the immeasurable worlds of man should be his
various thoughts, all coming from the great Jehovah,

and all going forth to bless and illumine his divided
people. Melchior, my child, has had but one selfish
thought since the departure of thy blessed mother, and
that thought has been of thee.”

“My father!” and as she spoke she threw her white
arm around his neck, while her head rested upon his
shoulder.

“Thou wert that thought—and sometimes it has
prompted, even as thou hast counselled; and I would
have given up this struggle for the Hebrew, leaving him
the trampled and beaten dog that I have found him, but
that a spirit, like that which came to Job at midnight,
has filled me with a chill and a trembling, that seemed
a punishment for mine error. I must labour for my
people, let me love them as I may—ay, my child, even
though thou art the sacrifice. I have leagued with the
sons of my enemy Witiza, in a cause full of hope for
the Hebrew.”

“And yet, my father, in what can be thy trust—thou
so much wronged, and so much misguided as thou hast
been before?”

“My trust is in God—he who gave the lion-spirit to
Judah, and whose promise yet stands for my people, in
the thousand prophecies of our fathers. Yet not altogether
do I withhold my confidence from man. I hold
much to the faith in this noble youth, the Prince Pelayo.
Did not my eyes, even when I lay half stunned and insensible
upon the rocks, open into consciousness as he
came? did they not behold, above his head, the thrice
circling wing of the sacred bird the Arabian worships,
with its green glory, promising him a crown? And then,
his speech is noble—his thought is wise, far beyond his
years and people; and he loves truth as a thing for high
spirits, and the becoming language of a God. I believed
him when I saw him first—I believed him when
he spoke—I cannot but believe him.”

“And I believe him too, my father—I do—” and,
with a strange emotion, the cheeks of the Hebrew

maiden glowed like fire, and she buried her face upon
the bosom of her father, while her young heart beat
audibly.

“And now, Thyrza, thy harp, my child. Tell me
of that solemn march of our people from the bondage
of the Egyptian, when the prophet of God led them
through the waters, and the hosts of Pharaoh were buried
in their depths.” And with a slow, sweet accent, the
maiden sang to her harp the story he required.