University of Virginia Library

21. XXI.

Rising quickly from her cushions after the departure
of Edacer, she carefully fastened the door behind him.
She then turned, and slowly approached her companion.
He had risen, meanwhile, from the stool on which he
had first been seated, and now stood in the centre of the
apartment, awaiting her speech. She approached—she
stood before him. Her eye was fixed upon him as if it
would look him through, and the heavy muscular folds
of her brow lay, one upon another, like piled clouds full
of storm and thunder. Her finger was uplifted as she
addressed him in low, half-suppressed tones.

“Thou art false to me, Amri!”

He was about to speak, but she interrupted him.

“Speak not! I know it—thou art false to me—thou
canst not deceive me. I see through thee. I know thy
heart.”

“It is thine, Urraca.”

“Thou liest! I am no longer sought of thee—thou

carest for me no longer—thou art indifferent to me now,
and thy indifference is worse far than thy hate! Thou
hast deceived me—thou, only, hast deceived me. I
have trusted thee only.”

“Thy words have a dread meaning in my ears, Urraca,
and they do me a sad injustice! Tell me by what
thou judgest so unkindly of thine own Amri.”

She looked on him with scornful countenance as she
replied—

“Thou seekest me not now,—thine eye no longer
dwells upon me in fondness—and thou heedest not now
that Edacer should be with me for long hours alone.
Why is this now? Once it was not so. There was a
time when thou wouldst chafe and madden, Amri, to find
another with me in secret.”

“It pains me now, dear Urraca.”

“Dear me not, Amri—for again thou liest! Hear me.
Once, when I did rebuke thee, thou cam'st to me
with fond words and devoted looks—thou wert then all
fondness—all devotion,—thy very heart seemed flowing
like some full stream into my own, and thine eyes—they
took their light, their very life, from mine! For this I
loved thee, Amri. What else? Was't for thy gold,
thy jewels, that I let thee—a Jew—one of a people
whom my own hold accursed—was it for these that I let
thee to my love?—I, the proud, the beautiful, the
sought Urraca—the sought of nobles and of princes!
Did thy gold tempt me to this kindness to thee? No!
'Twas that I thought thou lovedst me—'twas with that
lie in thy mouth thou camest to me,—'twas for thy love,
Amri—not for thy gold and gifts. Gold and gifts I had
from mine own people in profusion—they bought my
smiles with them—not my heart. I gave thee that,—
not for such gifts as theirs, Amri, but for that which
none of them could give me—for thy love!”

“Thou hadst it, sweet Urraca.”

“Hadst it, dost thou say? Hadst it!” Her whole

frame was in convulsion, and she darted towards
him.

“And hast it still, Urraca,” he replied quickly, shrinking
back at her approach.

“That I believe not. Thou canst not now deceive
me. Thou art false—ay, false as hell, Amri!”

“Wherefore thinkest thou so?” he asked. “Who
hath belied me to thee?”

“No one. Thou thyself hast told me. Hear me,”
she continued, impetuously; “when we met first, if
then I chided thee for coldness or neglect, thou didst
persuade me to believe thee then, with fond words—with
constant devotion—with unwearied efforts to behold and
seek me—”

“Do I not now?” he asked.

“No! thou dost not. Break not my speech till I
have said it all. It is soon said. Now, when I chide
thee for thy absence or indifference, thou strivest to bribe
me with a pauper-boon. Thou bringest me gold and
jewels. Need I these? Is not my state most rich?
Have I not wealth and splendour? What are these
chambers?—are they beggarly?—seem they not well
provided? Thou givest me what I lack not—what I
ask not—what I require not from thee. I would have
thy love, which thou deniest me.”

Her whole features seemed now to be convulsed—
her breast heaved with passion—and Amri, who had all
the time preserved his composure, perceived that the moment
of exhaustion was at hand, and that tears must relieve
the excited bosom of the voluptuous woman. He
led her unresistingly once more to the cushions where
she had lain, and seated himself beside her.

“Thou dost wrong me, Urraca—dear Urraca,—I
take from thee no love,—thou hast it all.”

“I should have it, Amri, but I believe not thy words.”
She turned from him and gazed upon the wall—her paroxysm
seemed almost subdued.

“Thou must believe—thou hast my heart.”

“I've let thee to my embraces,” she spoke incoherently;
“thy lip hath pressed my own—thou hast lain
close to this heart, till thou hast known all its beatings—
and I let thee to all this because I thought thou lovedst
me.”

Amri could not forbear a sarcasm, or something that
sounded to her ears like one.

“But others fared as well, Urraca. Edacer—”

“No!” she exclaimed, almost fiercely, and the words
of Amri seemed once more to arouse her fury in all its
strength—“they bought my embraces with gold. But
thou hadst more. I thought I had thy love, and, thinking
so, I swear I gave thee mine. I joyed in thy embrace—theirs
I but suffered. But no more of this. I
feel thou lovest me not. Away!”

The tears now flowed freely from her eyes, and she
sank back upon the cushions exhausted. He leaned over
her, and employed those arts of soothing which he had
previously practised with no little success, but which he
had quite too much neglected of late, not properly to
create in her bosom a doubt of his continued regard.
He bent over her, and—first symptom of returning regard—she
submitted for a moment to his attentions.
But for a moment, however. She started in another instant
from his contact—she thrust him from her with all
her strength, and the sternest expression of her scorn.

“Take thy hands from my neck!” she cried, almost
fiercely. “Thy embrace is like that of the serpent; it
is to deceive and sting.”

“Urraca!”

“Ay, Amri, it is spoken—it is true. Why should
I—a Gothic lady—erring, but desired—sought by the
proudest,—honoured, too, in spite of mine own life of
dishonour,—why should I care for thee?”

“For my love, Urraca.”

“Ay—but for that—for nothing else, I swear. And

wherefore should I value that from thee, but that I was
destitute of all love? The nobles seeking me brought
wealth; but none brought love. My poverty in that,
and not thy worth, made me to seek thy love as something
worthy; and thus I learned to love thee in return.
Why should I else have suffered thee, thou so degraded
in thy sect,—so much the slave even of the vile associates
that thou bringest me here?”

“Art thou now done, Urraca? Wilt thou hear me?”

“Take off thy hands from my neck!” He obeyed
her quietly, as he asked—

“May I speak to thee in answer?”

“Speak on, I hear thee,—but bend not over me.”

“I've loved thee but too well, Urraca. I have forfeited
much for thee:—the friendship of my people,—
the affection of my father,—his esteem. Does the Jew
love gold beyond life?—I've brought thee gold. Had
I aught by which to show thee that I loved thee?—I
brought thee all. Shall it be strange to thee that, when
I beheld others winning thy favour by such gifts, I
should bring thee like gifts to win like favour too?
'Twere strange if I had not done so.”

“Accursed be thy gifts!—thy gold!—thy jewels!
I ask them not. It was not gold from thee that I desired!”

“They were but gifts of my heart. I gave thee
love.”

“Thou sayest it.”

“I mean it. But, when I suffered in the displeasure
of my father,—the outcast from his favour,—could I be
fond, Urraca? Could I come to thee, and look happy,
and be devoted, an exile from the heart and the home
of my sire?”

“Thou didst not tell me that. I knew not this.”

“No, I did not deem it well to vex thee with my sorrows,
and—”

Edacer came to the door at this moment, and demanded

admission. When he entered he called Amri
aside.

“Mahlon awaits thee,—he has tidings for thee,—
something, I deem, of Melchior—though he speaks
not.”