21. XXI.
In a remote corner of the mountain, apart from the
assembled and rejoicing warriors, Melchior sat in hopeless
sorrow, the head of his dying child reposing in his
lap. The light was fast departing from her eyes, and
they unclosed at moments only when she strove to
speak. A joyful and thrice-repeated shout startled her
for an instant from the deepening dream of death, which
was weaving its shadows around her.
“Wherefore is the shouting, my father. Has he not
conquered? Are we not safe?”
“We are safe, my child. The shouting is one of
joy. They crown the Prince Pelayo, my daughter; the
warriors make him their king,” was the reply of Melchior.
The maiden clasped her hands, strove vainly to
raise her head, as if desiring to behold the spectacle,
but the blood gushed in a torrent from her side as she
did so, and she sank back, and, in a moment after,
slept in the immoveable embrace of death. Melchior
had no words when Pelayo approached him.
“She died a Christian, Melchior—look! it is the
holy cross which she bears within her hands!”
True it was, that, in her hands, now for the first time
visible to her father's eyes, lay a small golden cross,
which had probably been dropped by some hurrying
warrior as he went into battle, and which she had unconsciously
picked up on the heights while awaiting the
result of the conflict below.
“She died a pure and blessed child, my prince,” said
the desolate father, “and I heed nothing of her faith, as
I know her heart. Alas! that so few live like her.
Alas! for Melchior! He is now alone—he need not
now seek the desert—it is here! it is here!”
And the hand of the old man smote heavily upon his
heart as he spoke these words, and his head sank down
upon the body of his daughter. The eyes of Pelayo
were full of tears, and he turned away to conceal them.
L'ENVOY.
We have now, gentle reader, who hast borne with us
so long, brought thee to the proposed resting-place in
this our narrative. We trust that we have not journeyed
together thus far unprofitably—that—though some moments
may have hung heavily upon our hands, and something
in our speech may have at times sounded tediously
in thine ears—thou wilt forgive these, our involuntary
transgressions upon thy good taste and good temper,
in consideration of other passages in our progress which
may have amply contributed to the strengthening of the
one and the more perfect sweetening of the other. Ascribe
not this speech to our vanity, but to our hopeful
desire to please thee. At least, let it mar nothing at
our next meeting, when we propose to resume this very
narrative; bringing other actors upon the stage in addition
to some of those with whom we have in part
brought thee acquainted, and to whom we have given
either too little or too much of our regards. We hope
soon to show thee the fearful progress of the usurper
from sin to sin, and finally, as an inevitable consequence,
to destruction. We will depict before thine eyes the
downfall, with him, of the great empire of the Goth, and
the rapid conquests of the wild tribes of Mauritania, the
fate of the lovely Cava, and the unhappy, but not inexcusable,
treason of the valorous Count Julian. But let us
not vex thee now with these imperfect shadowings.
Let it be, we pray thee, an equal hope between us, that
we shall renew these journeyings together through the
wild regions of romance and the wondrous events upon
whose history we have thus begun. For the present,
we give thee our hearty benison, and crave humbly for
thy blessing in return.
The Author.
THE END.
