University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

Motion is the life of the sea: the surge dashes
along in its course, while the watery particles that
gave it bulk and form, remain in their place to renew
and continue the coming billows, heaving to each successive
oscillation, but not departing with it. Thus
the mind,—an ocean more vast and unfathomable
than that which washes our planet,—fluctuates under
the impulses of its stormy nature, and passes not
away, until the last agitation, like that which shall
swallow up the sea, or convert its elements into a
new matter, lifts it from its continent, and introduces
it to a new existence. Emotion is its life, each surge
of which seems to bear it leagues from its resting-place;
and yet it remains passively to abide and figure
forth the influence of new commotions.—Thus passed
the billow through the spirit of Calavar; and when it
had vanished, the spirit ceased from its tumult, subsided,
and lay in tranquillity to await other shocks,—
for others were coming.—When he awoke from his
lethargy, his head was supported on the knee of a
human being, who chafed his temple and hands, and
bowed his body as well as his feeble strength allowed,
to recall the knight to life. Don Gabriel raised his
eyes to this benignant and ministering creature; and
in the disturbed visage, that hung over his own,
thought,—for his mind was yet wandering,—he beheld
the pallid features of the vision.

“I know thee, and I am ready!” cried Don Gabriel.
“Pity me and forgive me;—for I die at thy feet, as
thou didst at mine!”

“Señor mio! I am Jacinto,” exclaimed the page,
(for it was he,) frightened at the distraction of the
knight;—“thy page, thy poor page, Jacinto.”

“Is it so indeed?” said Calavar, surveying him
wildly.—“And the spectre that did but now smite
me to the earth!—hath she left me?”

“Dear master, there is no spectre with us,” said
the Moorish boy. “We are alone among the ruins.”

“God be thanked!” said the knight, vehemently,
“for if I should look on it more, I should die.—
Yet would that I could!—would that I could! for
in death there is peace,—in the grave there is forgetfulness!—This
time, was it no delusion either of
the senses or the brain: mine eye-sight was clear,
my head sane, and I saw it, as I see mine own despair!—Pray
for me, boy!” he continued, falling on
his knees, and dragging the page down beside him;
“pray for me!” he cried, gazing piteously at the
youth; “pray for me! God will listen to thy prayers,
for thou art innocent, and I am miserable. Pray that
God may forgive me, and suffer me to die;—for this
is the day of my sin!”

“Dear master,” said the page, trembling, “let us
return to our friends.”

“Thou wilt not pray? thou wilt not beseech God
for me?” said Calavar, mournfully. “Thou wilt be
merciful, when thou knowest my misery! Heaven
sends thee for mine intercessor. I confess to thee,
as to heaven, for thou art without sin. Manhood
brings guile and impurity, evil deeds and malign
thoughts; but a child is pure in the eyes of God; and
the prayers of his lips will be as incense, when wrath
turns from the beseeching of men. Hear thou my
sin; and then, if heaven bid thee not to curse, then
pray for me, boy!—then pray for me!”

In great perturbation, for he knew not how to
check the knight's distraction, and feared its increasing
violence, Jacinto knelt, staring at him, his hands
fettered in the grasp of his master; who, returning
his gaze with such looks of wo and contrition, as a
penitent may give to heaven, said wildly, yet not incoherently,—

“Deeply dyed with sin am I, and sharply scourged
with retribution! Age comes upon me before its
time, but brings me nothing but memory—nothing
but memory!—Gray hairs and wrinkles, disease and

feebleness, are the portions of my manhood; for my
youth was sinful, and guilt has made me old! Oh that
I might see the days, when I was like to thee!—
when I was like to thee, Jacinto!—when I knew innocence,
and offended not God. But the virtues of
childhood weigh not in the balance against the crimes
of after years: as the child dieth, heaven opens to
him; as the man sinneth, so doth he perish.—Miserere
mei, Deus! and forgive me my day in the Alpujarras!”

As Don Gabriel pronounced the name of those
mountains, wherein, Jacinto knew, his father had
drawn the first breath of life, and around which was
shed, for every Moor, such interest as belongs to
those places where our fathers have fought and bled,
the page began to listen with curiosity, although his
alarm had not altogether subsided.

“Long years have passed; many days of peril and
disaster have come and gone; and yet I have not
forgotten the Alpujarras!” cried Calavar, shivering as
he uttered the word; “for there did joy smile, and hope
sicken, and fury give me to clouds and darkness forever.
Those hills were the haunts of thy forefathers,
Jacinto; and there, after the royal city had fallen,
and Granada was ruled by the monarchs of Spain,
they fled for refuge, all those noble Moriscos, who
were resolute to die in their own mistaken faith, as
well,—in after years,—as many others, who had
truly embraced the religion of Christ, but were suspected
by the bigoted of our people, and persecuted
with rigour. How many wars were declared against
those unhappy fugitives,—now to break down the
last strong hold of the infidel, and now to punish the
suspected Christian,—thou must know, if thy sire be
a true Moor of Granada. In mine early youth, and
in one of the later crusades, that were proclaimed
against those misguided mountaineers, went I, to win
the name and the laurels of a cavalier. Would that
I had never won them, or that they had come to me
dead on the battle-field! Know, then, Jacinto, that

my nineteenth summer had not yet fled from me,
when I first drew my sword in conflict with men;
but if I won me reputation, at that green age, it was
because heaven was minded to show me, that shame
and sorrow could come as early. In those days, the
royal and noble blood of Granada had not been
drawn from every vein; many of the princely descendants
of the Abencerrages, the Aliatars, the Ganzuls,
and the Zegris, still dwelt among the mountains;
and, forgetting their hereditary feuds, united together
in common resistance against the Spaniards. With
such men for enemies, respected alike for their birth
and their valour, the war was not always a history
of rapine and barbarity; and sometimes there happened
such passages of courtesy and magnanimity
between the Christian and Moorish cavaliers, as recalled
the memory of the days of chivalry and
honour. Among others, who made experience of
the heroic greatness of mind of the infidel princes,
was I myself; for, in a battle, wherein the Moors
prevailed against us, I was left wounded and unhorsed,
on the field, to perish, or to remain a prisoner
in their hands. In that melancholy condition, while
I commended my soul to God, as not thinking I could
escape from death, a Moorish warrior of majestic
appearance and a soul still more lofty, approached,
and had pity on my helplessness, instead of slaying me
outright, as I truly expected. `Thou art noble,' said
he, `for I have seen thy deeds; and though, this day,
thou hast shed the blood of a Zegri, thou shalt not
perish like a dog. Mount my horse and fly, lest the
approaching squadrons destroy thee; and in memory
of this deed, be thou sometimes merciful to the people
of Alharef.' Then knew I, that this was Alharefben-Ismail,
the most noble of the Zegris,—a youth
famous, even among the Spaniards, for his courage
and humanity; and in gratitude and love, for he was
a Christian proselyte, I pledged him my faith, and
swore with him the vows of a true friendship. How
I have kept mine oath, Alharef!” he cried, lifting his
eyes to the spangled heaven, “thou knowest;—for
sometimes thou art with my punisher!”

The knight paused an instant, in sorrowful emotion,
while Jacinto, borne by curiosity beyond the
bounds of fear, bent his head to listen; then making
the sign of the cross, and repeating his brief prayer,
the cavalier resumed his narrative.

“As my ingratitude was greater than that of other
men, so is my sin; for another act of benevolence
shall weigh against me for ever!—Why did I not die
with my people, when the smiles of perfidy conducted
us to the hills, and the sword was drawn upon us
sleeping? That night, there was but one escaped the
cruel and bloody stratagem; and I, again, owed my
life to the virtues of a Moor. Pity me, heaven! for
thou didst send me an angel, and I repaid thy mercy
with the thankfulness of a fiend!—Know, then, Jacinto,
that, in the village wherein was devised and accomplished
the murder of my unsuspecting companions,
dwelt one that now liveth in heaven. Miserere mei!
miserere mei! for she was noble and fair, and wept
at the baseness of her kindred!—She covered the
bleeding cavalier with her mantle, concealed him
from the fury that was unrelenting; and when she
had healed his wounds, guided him, in secret, from
the den of devils, and dismissed him in safety near
to the camp of his countrymen. Know thou now,
boy, that this maiden was Zayda, the flower of all
those hills, and the star that made them dearer to me
than the heaven that was above them; and more
thought I of those green peaks and shady valleys
that encompassed my love, than the castle of my sire,
or the church wherein rested the bones of my mother.
Miserere mei! miserere mei! for the faith that was
pledged was broken! my lady slept in the arms of Alharef,
and my heart was turned to blackness!—Now
thou shalt hear me, and pray for me,” continued Don
Gabriel, with a look of the wildest and intensest despair,
“for my sin is greater than I can bear! Now
shalt thou hear how I cursed those whom I had

sworn to love; how I sharpened my sword, and with
vengeance and fury, went against the village of my
betrayers. Oh God! how thou didst harden our
hearts, when we gave their houses to the flames, and
their old men and children to swords and spears!
when we looked not at misery, and listened not to
supplication, but slew! slew! slew! as though we
struck at beasts, and not at human creatures! `Thou
sworest an oath!' cried Alharef. I laughed; for I
knew I should drink his blood! `Be merciful to my
people!' he cried,—and I struck him with my sabre.
Oho!” continued the knight, springing to his feet,
wringing the page's hands, and glaring at him with
the countenance of a demon, “when he fled from me
bleeding, my heart was full of joy, and I followed
him with yells of transport!—This is the day, I tell
thee! this is the day, and the hour! for night could
not hide him!—And Zayda! ay, Zayda! Zayda!—
when she shielded him with her bosom, when she
threw herself before him—Miserere mei, Deus! miserere
mei, Deus!”—

“And Zayda?” cried the page, meeting his gaze
with looks scarcely less expressive of wildness.

“Curse me, or pray for me,” said the knight,—
“for I slew her!”

The boy recoiled: Don Gabriel fell on his knees,
and, with a voice husky and feeble as a child's, cried,

“I know, now, that thou cursest me, for thou lookest
on me with horror! The innocent will not pray for
the guilty! the pure and holy have no pity for devils.
Curse me then, for her kindred vanished from the
earth, and she with them!—curse me, for I left not a
drop of her blood flowing in human veins, and none
in her's!—curse me, for I am her murderer, and I have
not forgot it!—curse me, for God has forsaken me,
and nightly her pale face glitters on me with reproach!
—curse me, for I am miserable!”

While Don Gabriel still grovelled on the earth,
and while the page stood yet regarding him with terror,
suddenly there came to the ears of both, the

shouts of soldiers, mingled with the roar of firelocks;
and, as three or four cross-bow shafts rattled against
the sides of the pyramid, there were visible in the
moonlight as many figures of men running among
the ruins, now leaping over, now darting around the
fragments, as if flying for their lives from a party of
armed men, who were seen rushing after them on the
square. The knight rose, bewildered, and, as if in the
instinct of protection, again grasped the hand of the
page. But now the emotions which had agitated the
master, seemed transferred to his follower; and Jacinto,
trembling and struggling, cried,—

“Señor mio, let me loose! For the sake of heaven,
for the sake of the Zayda whom you slew, let me
go!—for they are murdering my father!”

But Don Gabriel, in the confusion of his mind, still
retained his grasp, and very providentially, as it appeared;
for at that very moment, a voice was heard
exclaiming,—

“Hold! shoot not there: 'tis the Penitent Knight!—
Aim at the fliers. Follow and shoot!—follow and
shoot!”

Immediately the party of pursuers rushed up to the
pair, one of whom paused, while the others, in obedience
to his command, continued the chase, ever
and anon sending a bolt after the fugitives.

“On, and spare not, ye knaves!” cried Sandoval,
for it was this cavalier who now stood at the side of
the knight of Rhodes. “On, and shoot! on and shoot!
and see that ye bring me the head of the Moor! Oho,
my merry little page!” he cried, regarding Jacinto;
“you have been playing Sir Quimichin, Sir Rat and
Sir Spy? A cunning little brat, faith; but we'll catch
thy villain father, notwithstanding!”

The page bowed his head and sobbed, but was
silent; and Don Gabriel, rallying his confused spirits
a little, said,—

“I know not what you mean, señor. We are no
spies, but very miserable penitents.”

“Oh, sir knight, I crave your pardon,” said Sandoval,

without noticing the eccentric portion of his confession,
“I meant not to intrude upon your secrecy,
but to catch Abdalla, the deserter; of whom, and of
whose rogueries, not doubting that this boy has full
knowledge, I must beg your permission to conduct
him to the general.”

“Surely,” said Calavar mildly, “if Jacinto have
offended, I will not strive to screen him from examination,
but only from punishment. I consent you
shall lead him to Cortes; and I will myself accompany
you.”

“It is enough, noble knight, if thou wilt thyself condescend
to conduct him,” said the cavalier; “whereby
I shall be left in freedom to follow a more urgent
duty. God save you, sir knight;—I leave the boy in
your charge.”—So saying, Sandoval pursued hastily
after his companions; and Calavar leading the page,
now no longer unwilling, (for the Almogavar, with
his companions, was long since out of sight,) pursued
his melancholy way to the quarters.