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.
