University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The cavalier pondered, in perplexity, over the
words of Abdalla; and, the longer he reflected, the
more he began to lament his captivity, and doubt the
wisdom of his gage.

“It is apparent to me,” he soliloquized, “that my
countrymen are in greater jeopardy than I before apprehended,
and that it has been the plot of this subtle
Moor, (whom I confess, however, to have something
elevated and noble in his way of thinking, and much
gratitude of heart, though of a mistaken character,)
to keep me out of harm's way, while the Mexicans
are murdering my companions. Heaven forgive me
my rash parole, if this be true; for such safety becomes
dishonour and ignominy. I will talk with
him further on the subject; and if I find he hath thus
schemed to preserve me, at such a price of degradation,
I will straightway revoke my engagement, as
being wrung from me by deceit, and quite impossible
to be fulfilled.—I marvel where loiters the boy, Jacin
to? Methinks I could eat something now, for I know
not how long it is since I have tasted food:—an
orange, or a bunch of grapes, were not amiss.—But,
heaven save me! I have heard oranges do not grow
in this land; and, perhaps these poor Moriscos are
no better off than my friends at the palace. God help

them! for the Mexicans fight like Turks; and, once
or twice, that evening of the conflagration, I thought
I had got me again into the trenches of Rhodes; and
as for those knaves that wounded me, never did I see
more valiant devils. I am glad I left my knight so
possessed of his wits.—That Botello doth seem very
clearly to have apprehended my fate, though the
mishap be not so miserable as death. Truly, there
did, a third time, war come out of peace; and yet, I
assure myself, that, this time, it was brought about
by Don Hernan rushing against that supernatural
creature, that looks on me in the street, and eyes me
even by my bed-side.”

The cavalier was startled from his revery by a
light step, and as the curtain was drawn aside from
the door, he almost thought, for an instant, that he
beheld the visage of the priestess, peering through
its folds. A second glance, however, showed him
the features of the Moorish page, who came in, bearing
a little basket of fruits and Indian confections, as
if anticipating his wants. These Jacinto placed before
him, and then sat down at his feet.

For a few moments, Don Amador, in the satisfaction
of the boy's presence forgot many of his perplexities;
but observing, at last, that Jacinto's smiles
were ever alternating with looks of distress and
alarm, and that, sometimes, he surveyed his imprisoned
master with eyes of great wildness, the cavalier
began again to recur to his condition, to the
mysteries which surrounded him, and especially to
the suspicions, which so often attributed to the page
the possession of magical arts.

“Thou saidst, Jacinto,” he abruptly exclaimed,
after thrusting aside the almost untasted food, and
regarding the boy with a penetrating look, “that thou
wert for the two last nights at my bed-side?—God
be good to me! for 'tis an evil thing to be benighted
so long!”

“Señor, I was.”

“And, during all that time, I was entirely dispossessed
of my wits?”

“Señor mio, yes. But, now, heaven be thanked,
your honour will recover!”

“And, thou art sure, I did not labour more under
enchantment than fever?”

The page smiled, but very faintly, and without
replying.

“To me, it seems no longer possible to doubt,” said
the cavalier, “that I have been, divers times, of late,
entirely bewitched; and that thou hast had some
agency in my delusions.”

Jacinto smiled more pleasantly, and seemed to forget
the secret thoughts which had agitated him.

“Dost thou,” demanded the cavalier, “know aught
of a certain supernatural priestess, that goes about
the streets of this town, in pagan processions, followed
by countless herds of nobles and warriors?”

The page hesitated, while replying—

“I have indeed heard of such a creature, and—I
may say,—I have seen her.”

“Thou hast seen her!—Is she mortal?”

“Surely, I think so, noble señor,” replied Jacinto,
with increasing embarrassment.

“For my part,” said the novice, with a deep sigh
and a troubled aspect, “I am almost quite convinced,
that she is a spectre, and an inhabitant of hell, sent
forth upon the earth to punish me with much affliction,
and, perhaps, with madness. For I think she is the
spirit of Leila; and her appearance in the guise of a
pagan goddess, or pagan priestess,—the one or the
other,—shows me, that she whom I loved, dwells not
with angels, but with devils. This is a thought,” continued
the cavalier, mournfully, “that burns my heart
as with a coal; and if God spare my life, and return
me to mine own land, I will devote my estates to buy
masses for her soul; for surely she cannot have fallen
from sin into irreparable wo, but only into a punishment
for some heresy, the fault of bad instruction,
which may be expiated.”

Jacinto regarded the distressed visage of his patron
with concern, and with indecision, as if impelled, and
yet afraid, to speak what might remove his anguish.
Then, at last, moved by affection, and looking up with
arch confidence to Don Amador, he said,—

“Señor, I can relieve you of this unhappiness.
This is no spirit, but a woman, as I know full well,
for I am in the secret.—I am not sure that it will not
offend my father, to divulge such a secret to any
Spaniard: yet can its revealment prejudice none.
Know, señor, and use not this confession to my
father's injury, that all this interlude of the prophetess,
devised by the Mexican nobles and priests, with my
father's counsel and aid, is a scheme to inflame the
people with fresh devotion and fury against the Spaniards,
your countrymen. For, being very superstitious
and credulous, the common people are easily
persuaded that their gods have sent them a messenger,
to encourage and observe their valour; as, it is
fabled, they have done in former days. The prophetess
is but a puppet in their hands.”

The cavalier eyed the young speaker steadfastly,
until Jacinto cast his looks to the earth.

“Set this woman before me; let me look upon her,”
he said, gravely, and yet with earnestness.

The page returned his gaze with one of confusion,
and even affright.

“Thou wilt not think to deceive me,” continued
his patron, “after confiding to me so much? Know
thou, that it will rejoice me, relieving my mind of
many pangs, to find that thy words are true, and to
look upon this most beauteous, and, to my eyes, this
most supernatural, barbarian. If she be a living
creature, thou hast it in thy power to produce her,
for she dwells in this house. I say this, Jacinto, on
strong persuasion of the fact, for last night I beheld
her, and did almost touch her!”

Señor,” said the boy, briskly, “that was one of the
fancies of thy delirium. It was my poor self thou
wert looking on. Twenty times, or more, didst thou

call to me, as being the prophetess; and as often
didst thou see in me some other strange creature.
Now, I was my lord Don Gabriel, your worship's
kinsman; now, some lady that your honour loved;
now, an angel, bringing you succour in battle; now,
my lord's little brother; now, his enemy;—and, twice
or thrice, I was my own poor self, only that I was
killing my lord with a dagger,—as if I could do any
wrong to my master!”

“Is this the truth, indeed?” said the cavalier, dolorously.
“I could have sworn, that I saw that woman,
and that I was very sane, when I saw her. As
for the after-visions, I can well believe, that they
were the phantasms of fever, being very extravagant,
and but vaguely remembered.—Thou deniest, then,
that thou hast the power of casting spells?”

The page smiled merrily, for he perceived his
patron was relieved of one irrational distress, and,
banteringly, replied,—

“I will not say that;—I can do many things my
lord would not think, and I know many he would
not dream.”

The cavalier was too sad and too simple-minded
to jest.

“I believe thee,” he said, seriously; “for, in every
thing, thou art a miracle and mystery. Why is it,
that thou hast obtained such a command over my
affections? Why is it, that I have come to regard
thee, not as a boy, young and foolish, but as one ripe
in years and wisdom? It must needs be, because
thou derivest thy power and thy knowledge from
those astral and magical arts, which I once esteemed
so vain; for I remember me, that, at thy years, I
was, myself, not half so much advanced in intelligence
and art, but was, on the contrary, quite a dull and
foolish boy.”

“It all comes of my music,” said the page: “for that
is a talent which matures faster than any other, and
drags others along with it; besides giving one great
skill in touching hearts. Your worship remembers,

how soon young David gained the love of the Jewish
king, and how he would have cured him of his melancholy,
but that Saul had a bad heart. Now, my lord
seems, to me, to have, like this king, an evil spirit
troubling him; and perhaps, if he will let me, I can
sing it away, with the ballad of the Knight and the
Page; for my lord's heart is good.”

“The Knight and the Page? I have never heard
thee sing that,” said Don Amador, somewhat indifferently.
“What is it about?”

“It is about a brave cavalier, that loved a noble
lady, who loved him; but being made to believe her
false to her vows, he went to the wars to die, followed
by a little page, whom he thought the only true friend
he had left in the world.”

“By my faith,” said Don Amador, regarding the
boy kindly, “in this respect, methinks, I am, at present,
somewhat like that knight; for thou, that art,
likewise, a little page, seemest to be the only friend
I have left in the world—that is, in this city,—that is
to say, in this part of it; for I have much confidence
in the love of several at the palace, notwithstanding
that I think some others were a little backward in
supporting me, when beset, that evil day, by the barbarians.—Was
he a Spanish knight? and of what
parts?”

“Of the Sierra Morena, at some place where the
Jucar washes its foot.”

“In good truth!” cried the cavalier, “that is the
very river that rolls by Cuenza; and herein, again,
is there another parallel.—But I should inform thee,
that, when the mountain reaches so far as the Jucar,
and runs up along its course, it is then called the
Sierra of Cuenza, and not Morena. But this is a
small matter. I shall be as glad to hear of the knight
of Jucar, as of one of my ancestors.”

“He resembled my lord still more,” said the page,
“for he had fallen, fighting the infidel, very grievously
wounded; and his little page remained at his side, to
share his fate.”

“That I have, in a manner, fallen, and, as I may
say, fighting the infidel, is true; but by no means can
it be said, that I am grievously wounded. These
cuts, that I have on my body, are but such scratches
as one might make with a thorn; and, were it not
for my head, which doth ever and anon ring much
like to a bell, and ache somewhat immoderately, I
should think myself well able to go out fighting again;
not at all regarding my feebleness, which is not much,
and my stiff joints, which a little exercise would
greatly reduce into suppleness.”

“It was the resemblance of my lord's situation to
the knight of Jucar's, that reminded me of the roundelay,”
said Jacinto, taking up his lute, and stringing
it into accord; “and now your worship shall represent
the wounded knight, and I the young page that
followed him.—But your worship should suppose me,
instead of being a boy, to be a woman in disguise.”

“A woman in disguise!” said the cavalier: “Is
the page, then, the false mistress? There should be
very good cause to put a woman in disguise; for,
besides that it robs her, to appearance, if not absolutely,
of the natural delicacy of her sex, it forces her
to be a hypocrite. A deceitful woman is still more
odious than a double-faced man.”

“But this lady had great cause,” said Jacinto,
“seeing that love and sorrow, together, forced her
into the henchman's habit, as my lord will presently
see.”

So saying, with a pleasant smile, the minstrel struck
the lute, and sang the following little

ROMANCE
OF
THE KNIGHT AND THE PAGE.

“Is that all?” said the cavalier, when Jacinto had
warbled out the last line. “There should have been
another stanza, to explain what was the cause of separation,
as well as how it happened that the lady came

to follow the knight, as a servant; neither of which
circumstances is very manifest.”

“Señor,” said Jacinto, “if all the story had been
told, it would have made a book. It is clear, that an
evil destiny separated the pair, and that love sent the
lady after her lord.”

“Be thou a conjuror or not,” said Don Amador,
musingly, “thou hast the knack ever to hit upon
subjects, as well in thy songs as in thy stories, which
both provoke my curiosity, and revive my melancholy.
My castle, as I may say, doth `lie on Morena's
top,'—that is to say, on the ridge of Cuenza;—
and Jucar is, indeed, `far away;' but heaven hath
left me no lady-love, either to die with me among the
infidels, by whom I am made to bleed, or to lament
me at home. An evil destiny (how evil I know not,
and yet do I dread, more dark than that which prevails
with a jealous heart,) hath separated me from
one whom I loved,—and, doubtless, hath separated
me for ever.” The cavalier sighed deeply, bent his
eyes for a moment on the ground, and then raising
them, with a solemn look, to the page, said abruptly,
“I have come to be persuaded, altogether beyond
the contradiction of my reason, that thou hast, somehow,
and, perhaps, by magical arts, obtained a knowledge
of the history of my past life. If thou knowest
aught of the fate of Leila, the lamented maid of
Almeria, I adjure thee to reveal thy knowledge, and
without delay! Thou shakest thy head.—Wherefore
didst thou refuse to finish the story of her who bore
her name, and who dwelt in the same city?”

“My lord will be angry with me,” said the page,
rising in some perturbation,—“I have deceived him!”

“I am sorry to know thou couldst be, in any way,
guilty of deceit, though I do readily forgive thee;
charging thee, however, at all times, to remember,
that any deceitfulness is but a form of mendacity, and
therefore as mean and degrading as it is sinful.—In
what hast thou deceived me?”

“When I told my lord the story of Leila, and perceived

how it disturbed him,” said Jacinto, with a
faltering voice, “I repented me, and told him a thing
that was not true, to appease him. The Leila of
whom I spoke, had dwelt in Almeria within a year
past; and, perhaps, she was the maid that my lord
remembered.”

As the page made this confession, Don Amador
sprang eagerly to his feet, and, as he seized the
speaker's arm, cried, with much agitation,—

“Dost thou tell me the truth? and does she live?
God be praised for ever! doth the maiden live?”

“She lived, when my father brought me from
Barbary—”

“Heaven be thanked! I will ransom her from the
infidels, though I give myself up to captivity as the
price!”

“Señor,” said the page, sorrowfully, “you forget
that you are now a prisoner in another world.”

The cavalier smote his breast, crying, “It is true!
and the revealment comes too late!—Silly boy!” he
continued, reproachfully, “why didst thou delay telling
me this, until this time, when it can only add to
my griefs? Why didst thou not speak it, at Tlascala,
that I might have departed forthwith from the land,
to her rescue?”

“My lord would not have deserted his kinsman,
Don Gabriel?”

“True again!” exclaimed Don Amador, with a
pang. “I could not have left my knight, even at the
call of Leila. But now will I go to Don Gabriel, and
confessing to him my sorrow, will prevail upon him
straightway to depart with me; for here, it must be
plain to him, as it is to me, that God is not with us.”

“Alas! señor,” said the page, “it is not possible
that you should go to Don Gabriel, nor that you should
ever more leave this heathen land.”

“Dost thou confess, then,” demanded the novice,
“that Abdalla has deceived me, and that I am held
to perpetual captivity?”

“Señor,” said the boy, clasping his hands, and

weeping bitterly, “we shall never more see Spain,
nor any land but this. The fate of Don Hernan, and
of all his men, is written; they are in a net from
which they cannot escape; and we, who are spared,
obtain our lives only at the price of expatriation. My
father remembered his protector,—my lord is saved;
but he shares our exile!”

At this confirmation of his worst suspicions, the
countenance of Don Amador darkened with despair
and horror.

“And Abdalla, thy father, has plotted this foul,
traitorous, and most bloody catastrophe? And he
thinks, that, for my life's sake, I will divide with him
the dishonour and guilt of my preservation?”

“My lord knows not the wrongs of my father,”
said Jacinto, mournfully, “or he would not speak
of him so harshly.”

“Thy father is a most traitor-like and backsliding
villain,” said Don Amador, “and this baseness in him
should entirely cancel in thee the bonds of affection
and duty; for thou art not of his nature. Hark thee,
then, boy: it is my purpose straightway to depart
from this house, and this durance. I desire to save
thee from the fate of a pagan's slave. Better will it
be for thee, if thou shouldst die with me, in the attempt
to reach the palace, (and I swear to thee, I will protect
thee to the last moment of my life,) than remain
in Tenochtitlan, after thy Christian friends have left
it, or after they are slain. It is my hope, and, indeed,
my belief, that, when the valiant general, Don Hernan,
comes to be persuaded of his true condition, he
will, immediately, and at any cost, cut his way out
of this most accursed city. In this manner will we
escape, and thou shalt find, in me, a father who will
love thee not less truly, and more in fashion of a
Christian, than the apostate Zegri.”

“If my lord could but protect my father from the
anger of Don Hernan, and prevail upon him to return
with my lord!” said Jacinto, eagerly.

“I have already proposed this to him, and, in his
fury, he denies me.”

“Heaven help us then!” cried Jacinto, “for there
is no other hope; and we must dwell with the barbarians!”

“Dost thou think, that I will rest here, when they
are murdering Don Gabriel?—Hark thee! what knave
has stolen away my sword?—Know, that I will
straightway make my escape, and carry thee along
with me; for God would not forgive me, did I leave
thee abandoned to barbarians, to the eternal loss and
perdition of thy soul. I say to thee again, thou shalt
accompany me.”

“I will remain with my father!” said the boy,
stepping back, and assuming some of that dignity
and decision, which the neophyte had so lately witnessed
in Abdalla; “and so will my lord, likewise;
for my lord has given him a pledge, which he cannot
forfeit.”

“Miserable wretch that I am!” said the cavalier;
—“in either case, I am overwhelmed with dishonour.
My gage was sinful, and the infraction of it will be
shame. Bring me hither Abdalla; I will revoke my
promise to him in person; and, after that, I can depart,
without disgrace.”

“Thou canst not escape, without shedding blood,
at least,” said the boy, with a pale and yet determined
countenance, “for, first, thou must slay my
father, who saved thee from the death of sacrifice.
If thou goest, in his absence, then must my lord
strike down the son;—for with what strength I have,
I will prevent him!”

The amazement with which the warlike cavalier
heard these words, and beheld the stripling throw
himself manfully before the door of the apartment,
entirely disconcerted him for a moment. Before he
could find words to express his anger, or perhaps
derision, the page, with a sudden revulsion of feeling,
ran from the door, and flinging himself at his

patron's feet, embraced his knees, weeping and exclaiming,
with much passion,

“O my dear master! be not incensed with me;
for I am but weak and silly, and I have no friends
but my father and thee! If thou takest me from my
father, then shall he be left childless, to live and to die
alone; if thou goest without us, we shall be deserted
to perish without a friend; for no one has smiled on
us but my lord; and if thou goest while my father is
absent, he will curse me, and I will curse myself,—
for thou must needs die in the streets!”

The novice was touched, not so much by the last
and undeniable assurance, as by the pathetic appeal
of the Morisco.

“Be comforted, Jacinto,” he cried; “for now, indeed,
it appears to me, that, whether I had passed
my gage or not, I could not take advantage of the
weakness of such a jailor, and fly, without the greatest
shame. And, in addition, it seems to me inhuman
and unjust, that I should think of escaping, without
doing my best to snatch thee and thy father also,
(whose sinfulness does, in this case, at least, spring
from affection,) out of thraldom. Be thou therefore
content: I will remain thy patient prisoner, until such
time as Abdalla returns; hoping that I can, then, advance
such remonstrance and argument, as shall
convert him from his purpose, and cause him to repent
what wrongs he has already done Don Hernan,
and to accept his mercy, which I do again avow myself
ready to secure with my life, and even with my
honour. But I warn thee, that I can by no means
remain a captive, while my friends are given up to
destruction.”

“Señor,” said Jacinto, rising, “there is a hope
they will be spared, if the king should recover; for
greatly have the Mexicans mourned the rage which
wounded their monarch. If he live, and again command
peace, there will be peace; and all of us may
yet be happy.”

“God grant that this may be so!” said the cavalier,

catching at the hope. “I will therefore remain
with thee a little; for if my friends be not starved
outright, I have no fear but that they can easily maintain
themselves a week in the palace.”

“And besides, señor,” said the page, returning to
his playful manner, “if you were to leave me, how
should you hear more of the maid of Almeria?”

“Of Leila?” cried the cavalier, forgetting at once
his honour and his friends; “now do I remember me,
that you have not yet told me how you acquired your
most blessed and blissful knowledge. Heaven forgive
me! I did not think it possible,—but, I believe, I had
entirely forgotten her! How comest thou to know
aught of her? Answer me quickly, and be still more
quick to tell me all you know.”

“Will not my lord be satisfied with my knowledge,
without seeking after the means of acquiring it?”
demanded the page, hesitatingly.

“If, indeed,” said Don Amador, solemnly, “thou
hast obtained it by the practice of that kind of magic
which is forbidden, though my curiosity will not permit
me to eschew its revelations, yet must I caution
thee, from this time henceforth, to employ it no more;
for, herein, dost thou peril thy soul. But, if it be by
those arts, which are not in themselves sinful, thou
shouldst not be ashamed to confess them; for the
habit of concealment is the first step in the path of
deception; and I have already assured thee, that a
deceiver is, as one may say, a lie in the face of his
Maker. But of this I will instruct thee more fully
hereaftor: at present, I burn with an unconquerable
desire to hear thee speak of Leila.”

“But how know I,” said the page, again hesitating,
“that she of whom I speak, is the Leila after whom
it pleases my lord to inquire?—And why indeed, now
that I think of it, should my lord inquire at all after
one of a persecuted and despised race?”

“Wilt thou still torment me? Have I not told thee
that I forgot her origin, and loved her?”

“And did she love my lord back again?”

“Thou askest me what I cannot with certainty
answer,” replied the cavalier, “for she was snatched
away from me, before I had yet overcome the natural
scruples of my pride to discourse of love to one who
seemed so much beneath the dignity of my birth and
fortunes.”

“And my lord gave her no cause to think she had
obtained favour in his eyes?”

“In this thou dost not err; for, saving some gifts,
which were, indeed, more the boons of a patron than
the tribute of a lover, I did nothing to address me to
her affections. In all things, as I may say, I did
rather assume the character of one who would befriend
and protect her from wrong, than of a man
seeking after her love.”

“But, if she accepted my lord's gifts, she must have
loved him,” said Jacinto.

“They were very trifles,” rejoined the cavalier,
“saving only one, indeed, which, as she must have
perceived, could not have been more properly bestowed
than upon one so innocent and friendless as
herself. This was a very antique and blessed jewel,
—a cross of rubies,—fetched by mine ancestor, Don
Rodrigo of Arragon, more than three hundred years
ago, from the Holy Land, after having been consecrated
upon the Sepulchre itself. It was thought to
be a talisman of such heavenly efficacy, in the hands
of an unspotted virgin, that no harm could ever come
to her, who wore it upon her neck. For mine own
part, though I could tell thee divers stories of its virtue,
recorded in our house, yet was I ever inclined
to think, that a natural purity of heart was, in all
cases, a much better protection of innocence than
even a holy talisman. Nevertheless, when I beheld
this orphan Moor, I bethought me of the imputed
virtues of those rubies; and I put them upon her
neck, as thinking her friendless condition gave her
the strongest claim to all such blessed protection.”

“A cross of rubies!” cried the page; “it is she!”

“And thou canst tell me of her resting-place? and

of her present condition?” cried the overjoyed cavalier.
“I remember, that, at the temple of Tlascala,
thou didst aver, that, notwithstanding the apparent
baseness of her origin, it had been discovered that
she was descended of very noble parentage!”

“What I can tell thee, and what I will,” said Jacinto,
gravely, “will depend upon thine own actions.
If thou leavest this place, without my father's consent,
hope not that thou shalt know any thing more
than has been spoken. If thou art content to remain
a little time in captivity, and to yield me the obedience
which I demand, thou shalt find, that a child
of a contemned race may possess wisdom unknown
to men of happier degrees. Thou hast acknowledged
thyself the captive of my father; wilt thou promise
obedience to me?”

Don Amador surveyed the boy with a bewildered
stare:

“It is possible,” said he, “that I am yet dreaming;
for it seemeth to me very absurd, that thou, who art
a boy, and wert but yesterday a servant, shouldst
make such a demand of subjection to a man and a
cavalier, and, as I may say, also, thy master.”

“My lord will not think I would have him become
a servant,” said Jacinto. “The subjection I require,
is for the purpose of securing him that gratification
of his curiosity, which he has sought,—and thus only
can he obtain it. In all other respects, I remain myself
the slave of my lord.”

“Provided thou wilt demand me nothing dishonourable
nor irreligious, (and now, that I know, from
thy father's confession, that thou art of noble descent,
I can scarcely apprehend in thee any meanness,) I
will make thee such a promise,” said Don Amador.
“But I must beseech thee, not to torment me with
delay.”

“My lord shall not repent his goodness,” said the
page, with a happy countenance; “for when he
thinks not of it, his wishes shall be gratified. But,
at present, let him be at peace, and sleep; for the

time has not yet come. I claim, now, the first proof
of my lord's obedience. Let him eat of this medicinal
confection, and, by a little rest, dispel the heats
of fever, which are again returning to him.”

“I declare to thee,” said Don Amador, “I am
very well; and this fever is caused by suspense, and
not disease.”

“Thou must obey,” said the page. “While thou
art sleeping, I will inquire for thee the fate of Leila;
for it is yet wrapped in darkness, and it cannot be
discovered but by great efforts.”

The cavalier obeyed the injunctions of his young
jailer, ate of the confection, and, Jacinto leaving the
apartment, he yielded to exhaustion and drowsiness,
and notwithstanding his eager and tormenting
curiosity, soon fell fast asleep.