University of Virginia Library

27. XXVII.

In the quiet chambers of the lowly dwelling in which
Pelayo found temporary security, he at length arrived
with his precious burden. He laid her down upon his
own humble couch, and watched her, as slowly she recovered
her consciousness. She started up as she beheld
the earnestness of his gaze—a deep blush overspread
her cheek, and with averted eyes she rose from
the couch, and was about to move away from the apartment,
though evidently without any distinct purpose in
her mind, when Pelayo restrained her.

“Where am I?” she demanded. “My father—prince
—I must go now—I must go to my father.”

These were the hurried and brief words which fell
from her lips when she came to a full consciousness of
her situation. She looked round upon the bare walls
of the mean and cheerless apartment as she spoke, and
wondered where she found herself. Could so base a
dwelling be the place of safety and retreat of one so noble,
and so highly-born and nurtured, as Pelayo? The
dwelling of the persecuted Hebrew was superior. It was
usually proudly furnished, though the exterior was low
and uninviting. She was confused by her thoughts,
which yet dwelt earnestly on the objects around her.

“Be no longer apprehensive, Lamech,” said Pelayo,
soothingly, as he laid his hand upon the arm of the maiden,
and gently restrained her movement. “Be no
longer apprehensive. There is now no danger. You
are here safe with me, and the villains who had seized
upon you have forborne to pursue us.”

But the maiden trembled more than ever, even after
his assurances. The slight pressure of his hand upon
her arm had been electrical in its consequences. A
thrill of flame seemed to rush at that moment through

all her veins, and, as his dark and searching eye was
riveted upon her face, her cheek glowed with all the intensity
of fire. Yet, as he still addressed her by the
name of Lamech, she was happy to believe that her secret—the
secret of her sex—was yet safe hidden from
his knowledge. That belief restored her. She felt how
dreadful it would be if Pelayo should know the truth.
But, though something strengthened with this conviction,
she did not readily trust her lips to reply. She felt that
he must falter in her speech. Her heart was full, and
she trembled with the rush of its tumultuous and conflicting
feelings. He beheld her emotion, and ascribed
it to any but the proper cause.

“Fear nothing, Lamech. The danger is now over.
Thou art yet but a child. I warned thee that thou didst
too greatly overtask thy strength; and, though I would
not pain thee, boy, by such a thought, yet I very much
fear thou dost overrate thy courage. Thou wert not
made for strife,—thy nation is enfeebled by its petty toils,
and hath been too long restrained from all free and noble
exercises. They know not, and thou hast not often
shared in, warlike arts, though thou sayest that thou hast
dwelt in a land, and moved among the incidents of a
time of peril. Thou hast not the soul for strife; and, if
thy father will heed my counsel, he will keep thee in a
quiet spot, and afar from his own toils, which are full of
danger. After this night, Lamech, thou wilt seek me
out no more. I will not suffer thee to harm thyself by
exposure of thy youth to such rude assaults as that to
which thou hast been subjected, and to which neither thy
heart nor thy strength is equal. After this night thou
shalt forego these labours.”

“But—I must return now, Prince Pelayo, to my father.
Let me go, my prince, since there is no more
danger. Let me return, I pray thee.”

“There is no danger here, Lamech—but there is
danger in the paths of the city. There were cries of

alarm even as I fled with thee upon my shoulders, and
the soldiers of the governor parade all the public passages.”

The answer of Pelayo seemed only to inspire her
with a new resolution and strength. She rose in spite
of his restraints, though he still stood in the way of her
progress.

“I must go, my prince. There is no danger to me.
I can pass through the passages unseen.”

“This was thy thought, Lamech, when leaving me
at the Gate of the Tribune,—and the thought is idle,
Lamech, and thou wert rash and wrong then to go, and
I were not less rash and wrong to suffer it. Thou shalt
not go—”

“My father—my father—prince; I must fly to him.
He will sorrow after me as if I had come to some
dreadful evil.”

“And better that he should sorrow thus, without reason,
than that thou shouldst go forth to danger and give
him good occasion for such sorrows.”

“I must go, my prince,” she said, doggedly; “I dare
not remain longer.”

“Go to, boy—am I a child, that thou shouldst lesson
me after this fashion? Thou shalt not go! I am resolved
thou shalt not! I were no friend to thy father,
and still less a friend to thee, if I suffered thee to go
forth at this hour, when the slaves and soldiers of the
tyrant traverse all the paths of the city.”

She wrung her hands, and sank upon her knee, imploring
permission to depart. Pelayo frowned heavily
upon the seeming boy as he looked upon this weakness.

“Go to, boy;—though I had deemed thee to be
weak, I had not thought thee wilful. What dost thou
fear with me? What hast thou to fear? This apprehension
shows basely in thee, even beyond the reproach
which speaks of the cowardice of thy people. I held
thee better taught. I looked upon thee as one possessed

of more courage and heart than thy present wilfulness
approves to be in thee.”

How had he mistaken her! It was only because of
her possessing so much heart and courage that she exhibited
so much seeming weakness. But of this Pelayo
dreamed not. He continued—

“Thou shalt not leave me till dawning, Lamech.
Thou art safe with me.”

She almost shrieked aloud, as she cried out in her
terror—

“But I must, my lord, although I perish for it!
Alas! alas! my father,—I must go to him at once, my
lord.”

“Why this is wilful madness, boy. What dost thou
mean?—am I thine enemy?”

“Oh, no—no! But I must go, my prince. Upon
my knees I pray thee, let me go! I will risk all the
danger—all, all—and will not deem it such. Let me
but go. There is no danger—”

“There is danger, Lamech—great danger,—and I
will not suffer thee to depart till early dawning. Then
thou mayst go to thy father, not before.”

She buried her face in her hands while she entreated
him, but he remained inflexible; and, though evidently
chafed by what he deemed the perverse weakness of the
boy, he yet spoke him kindly while denying him his
prayer.

“No, Lamech—thou shalt stay with me this night,—
thou shalt share with me my couch, and I will protect
thee from every harm until the morning, when thou shalt
go home to Melchior.”

“Kill me rather, my lord,” she cried aloud, in seeming
desperation. “Kill me rather, or let me go this night
to my father.”

“Thou art but a foolish boy Lamech, and sinfully
wilful, when I but deemed thee childishly weak. I am
no boy like thee, and thou hast much mistaken me if

thou thinkest I will let thee go forth at this mad hour of
the night. I have said, and thou pleadest and prayest
vainly! I am resolute. Here shalt thou keep till morning—here,
in this chamber. Thou dost not fear to
sleep with me—with thy prince, Lamech?”

Her head was prone to the ground, and she replied
not. He stooped to lift her from his feet. His arm encircled
her slender waist—but she clung to the ground
as if she sought for it to conceal and cover her.

“What means this strange passion, Lamech?” he
cried, as with a strong arm he lifted her to her feet. She
averted her head, and wept in a paroxysm of tears;—
then desperately seeking release from his firm hold, she
cried—

“Thou art a Christian, my prince,—it will shame
thee that one of my race should linger long in thy
dwelling.”

“I heed not of thy race, Lamech. Thou art a sweet
and a good youth; though this night thou hast erred
grievously in the weakness which thou hast shown to
me, and in the wilfulness to which thou still keepest most
strangely.”

“Pardon me, oh gracious prince—pardon me, I pray
thee, that I have so offended, but let me depart from thee
at once to my father. I will not again offend thee. I
will pray for thee to the God of Israel. I will—”

“When thou knowest me better, Lamech,” said Pelayo,
sternly, “thou wilt know that I trifle not with my
resolves. I have declared that, as it would be danger,
and may be death, for thee to go forth this night, thou
shalt here remain and partake of my couch with me—”

“My lord, I cannot—I dare not—I will not! I must
go, though I perish.”

“Thou shalt not, Lamech.”

“Hear me, my prince—I am not the son of Melchior.”

He released her from his grasp as she spoke these

words. Her eyes were uplifted for an instant; and, as
they encountered the intense gaze of his, she sank again
upon her knees before him.

“Not the son of Melchior!—who art thou?” he demanded.

“The child of Melchior. The child, but not the
son,” was the desperate answer. “Look!—behold, my
prince.”

And, as she spoke, undoing a nice piece of network
which was artfully wound in with, and secured her hair,
she let the thick, glossy, and beautiful volume fall down
upon her shoulders. In the next instant she herself fell
prostrate along the floor, and her long tresses swept the
dark pavement even to the feet of Pelayo.