University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.

But it was not now the purpose of Pelayo to retreat
farther from the force led by Edacer, superior though he
knew it to be, in many respects, to that which he himself
led. He knew too well the importance to his cause of
a successful blow at first, and the affair of the preceding
night had only warmed the courage of his own people
and stimulated the sanguine temper of the Jews.
His position was now a good one, and his men were
generally, though poorly, provided with arms. A wall
of rocks surrounded them, and the passes were difficult
of access. The place of gathering had been well chosen
by Abimelech; and Pelayo resolved upon maintaining
it until time could be given to certain friends, Spaniards
and Hebrews alike, to join them from the neighbouring
villages and cities. Towards evening the forces of
Edacer came in sight, and his array was much more
formidable than Pelayo had anticipated. The fires of
Edacer that night surrounded the mountain upon which
he had taken shelter, and he saw that there was safety
only in complete success. There was no outlet for escape
except through the hearts of the enemy. But this
gave no disquiet to Pelayo. On the contrary, his energies
seemed to kindle and his spirits to expand in proportion
to the press of difficulties. A cheery and elastic
courage filled his bosom and warmed the hearts of
those around him.

“To-morrow,” said he, “to-morrow, lords of Spain,
we win the first of our possessions. God keep the
brave men who strike for their liberties—God give them
strength to crush their oppressors, and make themselves
feared of the tyrant who would enslave them.”

His words were received with ready acclamations.
A universal shout rang through the mountain, and found
a thousand echoes in the valleys below.

“Why shout the rebels?” cried Edacer to the chiefs
around him. “What is their hope—for what do they
exult? They are not mad to hope for victory over the
force we bring against them?”

“Perchance they hope for escape by some secret
passage,” said one of his officers in reply.

“Perchance thou art fool or coward but to say so!
Wherefore should they hope, or thou dream, a thing so
impossible? Have we not put guards on all the passes,
and how can they escape, unless such as thou turn coward
and fly when they set on?”

Such was the furious speech of Edacer, whom the
seeming certainty of his success appeared to madden.
The officer thus reproached sank away in silence, and
a general gloom hung over the camp of the assailants,
quite unlike the cheery spirit which pervaded that of
Pelayo. There all was harmony and honest hope.
Pelayo arrayed and addressed his followers, assigned to
each his station, and had for each chief a word meant
for his particular ear, though full of force upon the ears
of others. None who heard him had doubts of the approaching
event; and, if Pelayo himself entertained any,
he guarded himself well against any utterance, by look or
speech, of his apprehension. When the watch was set,
Pelayo led Egiza away to a remote quarter of the mountain,
where several overhanging masses of the rock formed
a sort of shelter. When there, and free from the passing
glance or noteful ear of any intruder, the feelings
of their mutual hearts had utterance without restraint.
The hour had come, not less of danger than of mutual
explanation and atonement. They both had faults to
confess and wrongs to complain of; and the approach
of a trial, in which they might both meet with death, was
one to bring back their thoughts to a sense of justice,

and their late stubborn hearts to a renewal of all their
old and sacred affections. Pelayo, having a secret purpose
of good towards Egiza in his mind, began the conference
thus reproachfully:

“Thou hast wronged me, brother—thou hast deeply
wronged me—hast held me traitorous to thy service, dishonest
in my councils, unfriendly to thy good. And
when my heart was truest to its duty—when I strove
most in thy service, and toiled, without heed of the toil
and danger, to give thee honour and the crown—hast belied
me to the ears of base men as one unworthy.”

“I gainsay not thy words, Pelayo,” was the humble
response of the now subdued and repentant Egiza;
“and if it will do thee right to hearken to prompt confession
of my wrongs to thee, thou hast it.”

“This cannot help me now, Egiza, nor pluck from
my bosom the sting which thy hand, in its wantonness,
hath placed there,” was the gloomy answer of Pelayo.

“I stop not at confession of my wrong, brother—I will
do yet further; I will yield thee free obedience. Thou
art, thou shalt be my sovereign, though the lords of
Iberia forbear to declare thee theirs. What more? If
still unsatisfied, declare what thou wouldst have. My
life? It is in thy hands. I will not murmur even if thou
shouldst lift thy weapon to my breast, commanding me
to instant death.”

Pelayo did not immediately answer to the tenour of
this speech, though his reply was unhesitatingly spoken.

“Thou hast thought, my brother,” he proceeded,
“and freely said thy thoughts to others, that I was dishonest
to thy right, as I was basely tempted by the perilous
glitter of a throne which was thy due; that I strove
to win from thee the good regards of thy people; that I
laboured for the vain honours of this hard command,
which thou hast refused to take upon thee. Thou hast
not forgotten it—thou canst not deny that thou hast
spoken thus.”

“Would I could forget, Pelayo—but I cannot—I do
not. I pray thee to forget—I pray thy mercy. Speak
of this no more.”

“I must speak of it, Egiza; and thou must hear
more, if not for thy good, for my revenge!”

“It is thy right—I may not deny thee,” was the
mournful reply; “and yet, my brother, when I confess
to thee my wrong, thou shouldst spare me. Such confession
should stay the award of justice, and disarm the
hand of punishment.”

“It may with other men; but thou, Egiza, should
better know the nature of Pelayo than to deem him thus
pliable and meek. I tell thee, brother, that I am unforgiving.”

“Thou wert not always so,” was the answer.

“Nor thou thus wilful, Egiza,” promptly responded
Pelayo. “We are both changed, my brother; and, since
thou hast grown fond of injustice, I am sworn to be vindictive.
Thou shalt hear my penalties—thou shalt
bend thyself to the atonement which I demand of thee
to make.”

“Be it so, then,” was the subdued reply; “I owe thee
thus much, my brother.”

“Thy thought of me was a base thought, dishonouring
thyself and me!” said Pelayo.

“Have I not said it—have I not confessed it with
my own lips, in my own shame?” was the melancholy
question. “Wherefore wouldst thou dwell upon it thus
in repeated language?”

“'Tis my humour—'tis part of the penalty, my
brother,” was the reply. “Thou hast confessed it;
but the phrase in which thou makest it known is not
the bitter phrase which I would best speak it in. Hear
me out. In all this long time, when thus an evil spirit
at thy heart was striving in hostility against me, what
was my toil? It was a toil for thy good, for thy greatness,
for thy true glory, my brother. Did it deserve

such meed as that thou gavest it—thou wilt not say so
much?”

“I will not, Pelayo; yet hear me for a moment. I
was blind, weak, foolish; not vicious, not wilful. Thou
wert not all wrong when thou saidst to the lords in council
that a demon had misguided me with erring thoughts.”

Pelayo pursued his course of speech without seeming
to regard the humble acknowledgments made by his
brother.

“Thy subjects clamoured for thee in thy absence—
thy nobles threatened—some bolder lips denounced thee
—thine own ears heard them—what did Pelayo then?
Performed thy duties—pleaded thy cause with arguments
he could not hold himself—and spared no toil of
hand or spirit in thy service.

“Thou didst all this, my brother; thou hast spoken
but truly.”

“Renewed thy pledges, and strengthened them with
my own,” he continued, “until thy madness, making thee
neglectful of thy honour, involved the forfeiture of mine.”

“Oh, my brother, spare me this cruel record,” was
the imploring speech of the defaulter.

“Still, not hopeless of thee altogether,” continued
Pelayo, “though all besides looked on thee as one dishonest—yea,
denounced thee—I sought thee out, and
rescued thee from a peril which had clipped thee from
life and retribution—as thou thyself hadst severed the
ties of honour from thy heart—and decreed thee to a
death of shame, at the hands of the hangman.”

“For all this I thank thee—I thank thee, my brother
—I can requite thee in words only for thy noble service.”

“With a friendly violence I tore thee away from thy
shameful bondage, even as I had saved thee from thy
enemy's weapon; and in thine ear, with an honest freedom
thou hadst not found in court or camp, reproached
thee with thy feebleness.”

“Thou didst.”

“Nay, more—such was my love for thee and for
thy honour—until thy better sense had taught thee compliance
with thy duties, I would have battled with thee
even to my death or thine, so that thou shouldst come
with me where our people awaited thee, having honours
for thy brow which my own heart had scorned to struggle
for. Did this seem the labour of a soul given up to
smooth-lipped artifice and cunning? Did I toil as one
aiming at the better rights of a brother? Do me full
justice, Egiza, and say—did this seem falsehood to
thine eyes? What madness made thee esteem it so?
Speak—tell me.”

“I know not; but it was madness,” said the other.
“I do thee right now, my brother; on my soul, I do.
I have no distrust of thee now.”

“Thou shalt not have; thou shalt do me right, Egiza.
It is for this I speak to thee now. What next,
my brother? Dost thou remember what was the language
of Pelayo, when, in the presence of our angered
people, he stood between thee and the headsman?”

“It was noble, as it had been ever,” was the reply.

“I will say naught of thine,” continued Pelayo.
“They proffered thee—the very people thou didst say
I dealt with by dishonourable arts—they proffered thee
the crown of Spain—the regal prize—all which thou
didst falsely impute to me as striving at through a base
treachery that never moved my soul. Well! Though
I knew that thou hadst wandered, and hadst been heedless
of their rights and thy own duties, said my lips aught
against thee? Did I say aught which might lessen thy
favour or make my own greater in their eyes?”

“Thou didst not, brother.”

“I have done question,” said Pelayo. “I have dwelt,
my brother, on these things, that I should not lack justification
for the judgment which I put upon thee. Now
hear me, as I doom thee, my brother, for these injuries.”

“Forgive me for them, Pelayo.”

“No! I must have vengeance. Hearken to me,
Egiza.”

He laid his hand upon the arm of the latter, looked
steadfastly in his eyes, while his own beamed with an
expression of tenderness which Egiza had not seen in
them before for many days; and, after a brief pause,
thus proceeded.

“Thou shalt take this rule, my brother, which our
people, this night, have put upon me.”

“Pelayo—no!”

“But thou shalt. Become their sovereign—begin
thy duties, even as thou didst swear to us when the first
tidings came of our father's ruin.”

“I must not—I dare not.”

“Cross me not; I am thy master—thy judge; I
must have my vengeance upon thee. Thou hast done
me wrong, and the right is mine to declare thy punishment.”

“Yet not this—”

“Ay, this, or any thing, Egiza. Thou hast struck
most keenly, most cruelly at my heart. Nothing will
heal the blow but such severity of justice as may not be
forgotten while thou livest, and the fruits of which shall
go to thy children, and be known to mine.”

“It must not be—”

“It must; and that the sting may touch thee, Egiza,
until thy guilty heart burns like fire, I bend my knee to
thee; I vow myself thy first subject. I declare thee to
be my sovereign, and demand of thee to give me liberty
from this bondage which is upon all our land, and vengeance
upon this tyrant who has mantled it with blood.”