15. XV.
Leaving his brother to his own reproachful thoughts,
Pelayo bent his steps to that part of the mountain which
had been assigned to the Jewish leaders. Here he
found none but Abimelech and a few of his under officers.
To Abimelech he detailed his general plan of
attack on the ensuing day, and gave him directions for
his descent with his people from the mountain. He
spoke to him cheeringly and without apprehension as to
the result; but as he saw that Abimelech was a man,
as Melchior had described him, firm of temper, and resolute
to see and not to shrink from the danger, he freely
dwelt upon the severity of the conflict which they had
reason to anticipate. The main force of Pelayo's army
at this period consisted chiefly of the Hebrews; for the
Spanish leaders had assembled their followers in a secure
and more remote spot, not daring to bring them
nigh to Cordova until they could be made compact by
a general assemblage of their party. Pelayo was not
so sure of the courage and conduct of the Hebrews, but
he greatly relied upon the ability of Melchior to make
them fight. Having consulted freely with Abimelech,
that warrior then gave him directions where Melchior
might be found, and Pelayo accordingly proceeded to an
isolated part of the mountain in search of him.
Melchior lay beneath an overhanging mass of the rock,
and his daughter, still dressed in the page habiliments
of Lamech, lay on the ground sleeping, her head softly
resting upon his lap, while his own bent over her, screening
her from the glances of the moon, and his sad eyes
looked down with a mournful sort of happiness into her
face. It was a picture to make one mourn, to think
that one so beautiful, so pure, so full of the true wisdom
which brings humility, and teaches resignation while it
warms and encourages hope—to think that one so highly
endowed should yet be unblessed. Surely love is
earth's bondage, else why should it wrong the innocent
and good? Surely it is the fetter which keeps down
the heart from its true hope, and makes it cling to the
clay as if in scorn of its immortality. Yet surely these
are to be rewarded. The meek and gentle shall not
always suffer. There will come a season of security
and recompense. Yet when—and how? Will that
same love, which they sought and sighed for on earth,
requite them in Heaven? Melchior, as he thought these
thoughts, and in his own mind revolved this doubt, remembered
the sad, hopeless song of his daughter—that
part of it still thrilling through his senses in which she
speaks of her indifference to the wonted enjoyments of
life—to the song of birds, to the sweets of flowers, and
to all those objects of earthly beauty and delight which,
in man's imagination, make up the joys of Heaven—if
in that other home she is still destined to abide
It was a picture upon which the full heart might linger,
even were there no sad story of a defeated hope
imbodied along with it. That old man, his white beard
streaming upon the wind, garbed after the fashion of an
ancient patriarch of the Hebrew, with a full and flowing
vestment, the long wide robes of the Egyptian hanging
loosely about him, and around his head the white and
thickly-wreathed turban, seemed too venerable for earth,
or only designed for its adoration. Yet, in his eye,
mingled with the fond glance which he gave upon his
daughter's face, might be seen an expression of an
earthly ire. The language of approaching battle was
there legibly written—the anxious doubt, the fierce, impatient
hope, the restless resolve of valour. By his side,
emblematic no less of his earthly purpose, lay the heavy
steel maule which he used in battle, glistening in the
moonshine, in spite of the many dark and speaking spots
which former strife had left indelibly impressed upon it.
In the distance, on one hand, lay his clustering tribe, relying
on his valour and well-known wisdom—a timid race,
whom frequent conflicts had weakened and scattered
abroad, and whom the most galling tyranny, unrelaxing
wherever they fled for safety, had in mind almost emasculated.
Opposite and remote from them stood the
gathered warriors of Spain—a small but trusty band, to
whom the cry of battle had always been a pleasure, and
to whom a reappearance in arms, at this moment, in opposition
to the usurper Roderick, for the recovery of
their liberties, brought a joyful hope, which made them
indifferent to the fearful odds which the foe had brought
against them. These several groups were in the eye of
Pelayo, who now, in the transparent and serene moonlight,
looked down upon the venerable Melchior and
his sleeping daughter.
