University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
OSMA AND THE SORCERESS.

He turned, and beheld standing before him a tall
figure, wrapped to the mouth in a large gray mantle,
like the haick worn by the Moors, which swept the
ground, its head nearly buried in a deep cowl, through
which glared upon him a pair of glittering eyes, like
the burning orbs of a tigress shining in the dark.

“Sathanas! avoid thee!” he cried, lifting between
himself and the object of his superstitious fear the ruby
cross that hung from his neck.

There was no reply, no voice, no movement from
the mysterious being, who had appeared, as if by supernatural
power, in the very midst of his tent, though
surrounded by a triple guard. There was no answer,
but the steady, fixed, and burning glance, that seemed
to scorch his soul. His own fearless eye quailed as
he strove to return the look; his face became pale, and,
clasping his daughter by the arm, he seemed, for a moment,
as if he would sink into the ground. His fear
was too great and unnatural to be caused wholly by the
supposition that his challenge had been replied to by

the fiend himself. It was, from his looks, evidently
connected with some recognition of, or association
with, the figure.

“Father, my father!” cried the noble girl—who had
no dark and secret crime to answer for, and to whom
innocence gave courage—on witnessing his mental
terror, “be thyself. It is mortal like thyself.”

“Dost thou believe it, child?” he asked, with incredulous
alarm, in a low tone, covering his eyes with his
hands.

“Fear it not: my father, what dreadful thing hath
come over thee?”

“Hath it spoken?” he asked, with terror, without
noticing her words.

“Nay, I will make it speak,” she cried, resolutely.
“'Tis fearful to see thee tremble so like a woman.
Surely Heaven hath suddenly taken from thee thy soldierly
spirit! I will relieve thee or die.”

She seized, as she spoke, the naked sword that lay
upon the escritoire, and, quicker than thought, levelled
it at the heart of the silent and fearful intruder.

“Speak, mysterious being!” she cried, with a sudden
and fearless intrepidity, her soul armed by her father's
pitiable state; “speak! or this steel shall prove whether
thou be flesh or spirit.”

There was no movement of the silent lips; the eyes
were fixed still upon the trembling Condé like a withering
charm.

“Nay, then, if thou art flesh, I will make a spirit of
thee,” she said, and threw herself forward with the
sword; but it struck ringing upon a vest of mail, and
shivered in her grasp. The sound instantly roused
the count from his torpor of fear. Beneath a steel
corslet he knew must beat a mortal heart; and, if hitherto
he had believed he had seen a spirit, all his fear
now at once forsook him, and the stern man and daring
soldier returned.

“Ho, treason! we are beset!” he shouted, drawing
a short dagger from his bosom, and assuming the attitude
of one prepared for attack or defence. “Ho,
guards without there!”

“Spare thy voice, Count of Osma,” said the individual,
with irony; “it will scarce be heeded by those
who permitted me to enter thy tent.”

“Ho, Sulem! Moor! Ha, am I betrayed? Who
art thou? Who hath admitted thee?”

“My own power. Who I am thou wilt know in the
day when they cup of guilt shall be full!” was the stern
and menacing answer.

“What would you with me?” he cried, turning pale
and dropping the point of his dagger, yet looking as if
he would shrink from an interview which he felt he
could not avoid.

“Thou art not alone.”

“Nay, 'tis but my child.”

“Wilt thou, then, I should speak with thee before
her?” asked the stranger, with a significant sneer,
concluding the words with a low laugh that chilled his
blood.

“Lil, leave me,” he said, with an assumed indifference
of tone, observing her look from one to the other
with suspicion and alarm; “I have business with this
stranger, that, it is hinted, will not be fitting for a third
ear. Seek thy couch, and court the sleep that hath
been so untimely chased from thy pillow.”

“Nay, I will stay with thee. I will not leave
thee,” she said, firmly. “Thou wilt speak to the father
in the daughter's presence?” she added, addressing
the extraordinary intruder.

“If the father will,” answered the same cold and
mocking voice.

“It may not be, child,” he said, sternly. “If afterward
it prove of moment or interest to thee, thou shalt
hear it. Leave me.”

The imperative command conveyed in the last words
she felt it would be dangerous to disobey; so, embracing
him, and whispering in his ear a prayer for the victims
of the morrow, she cast a glance of mingled dread and
curiosity upon the silent figure, and retired within the
tent.

For an instant after her departure the Condé kept
his gaze fixed upon the place where she had vanished,

as if fearful to turn and encounter again the power of
that eye which had frozen his blood.

“We are well met, Garcia of Osma,” at length said
the stranger, taking a stride towards him, and placing
a brown, skinny finger upon his wrist.

“Who art thou?” he cried, shrinking from the
touch, “that intrudest at midnight into my tent, and
seekest to alarm my fears with dark words and darker
hints?”

“Thou wilt not know me if I utter the name men
like thee know me by. Thou wilt not know me if I
let thee look upon my features.”

“Who art thou, then, in Heaven's name?”

“Thou didst but now believe me to be the shade of
Don Louis Ramarez, thine elder brother, whom thou
last saw in such a garb!”

“Dost read my thoughts—dost know that deed?” he
cried, in amazement, and with a look of guilty horror.
“Fiend! thou art come from hell to mock me!”

“Nay, Don Garcia, it matters not whence I come.
It is enough if thou acknowledgest my power over
thee; for I have a request to make thou wilt scarce
grant without first fearing me.”

“What wouldst thou have? my soul, dread being?”
he asked, shuddering.

“Nay, but I would control thy guilty mind, and
make it the obedient slave of my will,” was the cool
reply.

“Thou do it!” he repeated, roused by the words to
his former haughty pride and self-possession, and forgetting
his fears in his quick indignation; “thou control
the mind of Garcia of Osma! It should not bend
to the will of Lucifer. By the rood! thou art an impostor,
who hath raked up a buried rumour, and comest
hither to fling it in my ears to frighten me withal!”

“And how did I come hither?” repeated the stranger,
in a quiet tone.

“That is the greatest wonder, and my tent thus
guarded! Ho, Sulem, slave!”

“The Moor hath done his duty, and still lieth with
his huge body across thy tent door.”

“How passed you him, and how that triple guard?”

“By my power.”

The count trembled.

“Art thou supernatural, and is thine errand here
for good or evil?”

“Both for good and evil. Wilt thou acknowledge
my power, proud Spaniard?”

The Condé paced the floor with a bent brow, and
hurried, uncertain step for a few seconds, and then,
looking up, said with firmness,

“I know not thy purpose nor who thou art. Thou
hast appeared before me mysteriously, and outmastered
the sleepless watchfulness of Sulem. Thou hast
shown, too, a knowledge of a secret I thought deposited
in only two bosoms, and thou hast guessed the
thought of my fear when first I beheld thee, enwrapped
in that gray garment, which hath associations, I need
not tell thee, who already knowest so much, I would
not willingly recall. All this is marvellous, and may
be accounted for on natural grounds, and referred to
mortal causes; therefore, most mysterious being, ere
thou canst subdue my spirit to thine, thou must show
deeper knowledge than thou hast done. Thus far I
acknowledge thy wonderful power. Yet it can be
measured by the human mind, and its depths fathomed.
There is one secret of my life, if thou canst tell it, I
will confess thee more than mortal. If thou failest to
do it, thou shalt be cut to pieces for the secret thou
already hast.” The Count of Osma spoke like a man
whom guilt and fear had rendered desperate, and as if
determined to stake all upon a final cast.

“That secret hath a key.”

“Name it.”

“It is the signet by which I passed your guard, and
led captive the will of the submissive Moor.”

Speaking these words, this extraordinary individual
stretched forth a dark, shrivelled arm, from which the
robe had fallen, showing, to his infinite surprise, the
form and garb of a female beneath, and on the finger
of the hand exhibited to his eye a private signet set

in a peculiar fashion, and bearing the arms of the
house of Osma, with a Moor's turban for a crest.

He gazed upon it for an instant with starting eyeballs,
and then, leaping forward and grasping the finger
that bore it with a convulsive hold, surveyed it closely,
with an intensity of astonishment and despair that
language cannot depict. Suddenly he touched a concealed
spring in it, and his own miniature, taken in
youth, met his eyes. He looked up then into the face
of the other, and cried, gasping,

“The name—the name—if thou knowest the
name—”

“Zillah!” she answered, in the deep, guttural voice
that distinguished her.

“Thou hast conquered! Do with me what thou
wilt,” he said, and sank down into his state-chair nearly
lifeless.

The singular being who had shown such wonderful
power over the mind of the boldest and fiercest man
of the age, save that secret guilt and the superstition
of the times enslaved his soul, gazed upon him for a
few moments with a look of triumph mingled with
pity. Then, lifting her eyes heavenward, and crossing
her hands upon her bosom, she said, fervently,

“Now Allah be praised! He hath given my greatest
enemy into my hands!”

Her cowl fell back in this extraordinary act of devotion,
and the lamp cast its rays upon a harsh and
haggard countenance, with a broad yellow forehead
impressed with innumerable minute lines of age;
shaggy white hair, a high, prominent nose, and a
mouth with a nervous strength and stern fierceness of
expression, that gave indication of a wild, implacable
spirit, that knew no master save its own will. Beneath
thick, shaggy brows, which time had whitened, glared
a pair of fiery, bloodshot eyes, like globes of heated
iron; and so unearthly was their piercing lustre that
no human eye could encounter them unblenchingly.
Their expression was that of wakeful vengeance, of
watchful suspicion, and of implacable hatred, which

the act she was for the instant engaged in did not diminish:
it seemed to have been superinduced by some
circumstances of an extraordinary nature, rather than
originally to have belonged to her character, as if deep
wrong, and deferred but ever-sought retribution, had
given to this feature the expression of the passion that
filled her soul. Her hair was white as wool, and,
contrasting strangely with her dark countenance, fell
down over her breast and back in long shining strands,
that gave a singular aspect to her features and majesty
to her person.

When she had ended her brief orison of gratitude,
she dropped the entire robe, and displayed a singularly
thin figure, erect as an arrow, above six feet in height,
and slender as a skeleton. A short tunic of blue cotton,
a green petticoat, a corsage of yellow silk, and
sandals bound upon naked feet, completed her costume.
Her arms were bare and long, and adorned
with broad bracelets of solid brass. Her haggard
neck was encircled by several necklaces of coral and
ebony, to which were appended divers charms and
amulets, one of which, in the shape of a tortoise, was
remarkable for being composed of a single amethyst
of great size and beauty. In her right hand she carried
a small black wand, covered with cabalistic signs
and letters, done in pearl, and ornamented at one end
with a miniature death's head carved from human
bone. At her waist, in a broad blue girdle, on which
were represented, in brilliant colours, the signs of the
zodiac, she wore a long, sharp knife, and a pair of those
small but highly-finished Algerine pistols so celebrated
at that period. From within the folds of her vest appeared
the shining surface of the polished steel corslet
which had resisted the sword of the Condé's spirited
daughter, and which she doubtless found it necessary
to wear in the mode of life she chose to lead.
It will be seen, from this description, that she was no
spirit or supernatural being, and, from what had hitherto
passed between her and the Count of Osma, that
her power was a moral one, and had for its basis her

knowledge, which he now believed to be supernatural,
of certain crimes he had committed, and which he had
thought were known only to Heaven and himself, and
perhaps his slave and confidant Sulem. From the
character of the ornaments of her person, she appeared
to be a chief or priestess of that class of Morisco
necromancers, or worshippers of the Prince of the
Air, who once held such influence over the minds of
the Orientalists, and by their deep sagacity and cunning,
and through their knowledge of men's hearts
and intimate acquaintance with the avenues to their
passions, exerted an influence over even kings and
emperors, enslaving their minds, and receiving the
homage of their souls and the services of their bodies.
But, whatever might be her profession, her power in
the present instance was acknowledged by the object
of it.

If the Count of Osma had reason to believe her to
be a being of another world on account of her knowledge,
he had now, in her present wild and singular
dress as a sorceress, in the extraordinary height and
exility of her remarkably attenuated person, in the
wildness of her air and aspect, and the enthusiastic
malignity of her countenance, which seemed in himself
to have found its object, additional reason to look
upon her with dread and evil apprehension. Like
most Roman Catholics of that day, Garcia Ramarez
was superstitious. He firmly believed, as an article
of his faith, in the infinitude of saints and guardian
angels that mingled familiarly in human affairs, as
well as in troops of evil spirits that went to and fro in
the earth working ill to mankind. The belief in supernatural
agency was rife in the early part of the
last century, and even down to this time, few men,
however elevated their intellects or brave their hearts,
were above its influence. Miracles increased in the
Romish Church, and spirits, both of good and of evil,
were made to appear to the eyes of the people at will,
for the growth and quickening of their faith; menacing
apparitions were said to have made nightly visits

to the couches of wicked kings and cruel lords; while
witches or soceresses, wizards or necromancers, as
England, the south of Europe, or Africa were the
scenes of their work, left mankind little room for rational
judgment, and witchcraft and enchantment,
spells and charms, almost subverted the moral law of
nature. The world itself seemed to lie under a
charm, and the enchanted days of the Persian tales to
have returned. In Great Britain, her colonies, and
other Protestant countries, many a supposed witch
paid the forfeit of her life at the stake; but in Spain
and the south of Europe, as well as in Barbary and
Morocco, where their numbers were far more numerous,
and their pretensions and acts more daring and
marvellous, they were too much feared to be prosecuted,
and habitual religious superstition soon taught
men to convert fear into downright awe. The wand
of these charmers had been broken in England and
America nearly half a century before Spain and the
south of Europe had thrown off their allegiance to
this so wonderful and mysterious a power, which, real
or feigned on the part of its agents, will remain for
ever one of the most extraordinary characteristics of
the century in which it appeared, and stand in all ages
a witness to the darkness of the human intellect, the
nothingness of human learning, and the foolishness of
human wisdom.

Such being the preparation of the mind of a man of
that age for supernatural events, it is not surprising
that the bold yet superstitious Count of Osma should at
first have looked upon his visitant, who seemed to wear
the garb and height of one he believed to be in his grave,
as a visitant from the unseen world; or, when she told
him all that ever he did, he should so readily admit her
spiritual agency, nor wonder, as a man of the present
age would do, that such a thing should be. Now, sober
reason and cooler judgment hold the balance of men's
minds, and all things, however extraordinary the aspect
in which they show themselves, however high may appear
their claim to the supernatural, must be tested by

the even weights of probability, and measured by the
skeptic eye of cause and necessity, ere the claims be
admitted and their empire fully acknowledged. Shakspeare,
writing in this age, would have some other
point d'appui on which to frame his story of Hamlet
than his father's ghost.

The mind of the Count of Osma bowed to the power
that he believed to be supernatural. He was awed by
her knowledge, and his soul shook with the guilty
apprehensions with which awakened memory filled his
bosom. She continued to gaze upon him with mingled
hatred and contempt for a few moments as he sat in
his chair, his head sunk upon his breast, and his forehead
covered by his hand, and then addressed him in
a voice of triumphant scorn, as if she would use the
power she saw she possessed by her secret to its utmost
extent. As he gazed upon her, he thought of the fearful
visit Brutus had received, and the words “I am thy
evil genius, Brutus,” came to his mind, as she said, in
a deep, warning voice,

“Garcia Ramarez, I said we were well met. I
have prayed Allah sixteen long years for this hour, and
it has come. I see thee at my feet, writhing with
guilt and trembling with fear. It is thus thou shouldst
be before those whom thou hast wronged.”

“Wronged, dread sorceress!” he said, looking up,
yet scarce daring to encounter the stern gaze she fixed
upon him. “I have wronged Heaven, but not thee. I
know thee not, save that I believe thou hast commerce
with the unseen world, and bearest in thine eyes hatred
towards me.”

“Thou wilt know me, and wherein thou hast wronged
me, black-hearted Osma, but not to-night. I am a
messenger of vengeance to thee, but thy time has not
yet come. A bloody day in thy life's calendar will
soon fall, and then wilt thou know me.”

“St. Michael's day?”

“So, so! Ha, ha! haughty noble!” and she laughed
derisively; “oh how quick is guilt in a seared conscience.
Thou hast truly named the day's anniversary
I mean.”

“Thou art a fearful woman.”

“Then obey me. I am in thy tent this night not
to play with thy fears nor trifle with thy crimes; thou
art a bad man, and it became needful that thou shouldst
know that there is one more terrible than thou, who
hath thy destiny in her hands, and will watch thy rule
with a jealous scrutiny, for there is one within this
city's gates dear to me as the apple of my eye. In
being her guardian, I am the city's.”

“How mean you?” he demanded, with quickness,
yet with reverence, marking the menacing tone in
which she spoke the last words, and fearing lest she
had known and would step between him and his coveted
vengeance.

“That not a roof shall blaze, nor a head fall on the
morrow for this night's work.”

“By the cross of St. James! woman, thou presumest
too far,” he cried, starting up, his fear of her
power suddenly swallowed up in his resentment at this
broad asseveration. “If thou be linked with devils,
thou art flesh and blood, and good steel will tell in it.
I know and fear thy power, but I will not be its slave.
Speak to me again of this, and I may take mind to be
the sole repository of my own secrets. Thou knowest
too much for thou and I to live in the same elements.
'Fore Heaven! I know not what keepeth my hand
back from slaying thee where thou standest.” His
eyes flashed, and his spirit got the mastery over his
superstitious dread. He held his dagger in a menacing
attitude, and for an instant his eye flashed back the
lightning of her own.

“It is because thou darest not do it,” she said, with
a stern dignity, that suited well her commanding air.
“In thy hand steel is powerless when it would strike
at my life. I am flesh and blood, as thou sayest. My
power over thee is of earth, and the secret of it thy
own guilty conscience. I boast no supernatural knowledge
therein, yet am I not a whit behind, in mine art,
that arch-priestess who bade one of thy prophets rise
from the tomb in the mouldered cerements of the dead,
and stand before living men.”

“Woman, hast thou power over the dead?” he asked,
stepping backward from her with awe.

“Ay; I can make murdered stand a bleeding
ghost before his murderer; walk before his eyes a
fleshless skeleton, clanking his bones; or watch his
midnight pillow with grim visage, chattering his ivory
jaws; or, wrapped in a winding-sheet, cross his lonely
path, with one finger ever pointing to a wound, one
hand to heaven; or, if thou wilt, I can make him appear
as when he lived, tall and stately, with cowl and
long gray cloak, till all should think he lived again—
save for the blazing eyeballs and cold death-touches
of his flesh.”

“Hold! terrible being, my brain is on fire. Cease,
or thou wilt drive me mad! Spare thy power, in the
name of the blessed angels! and I will be thy slave.”

“'Tis well. Art thou prepared to do my will?” she
asked, with the same unbending sternness that characterized
her throughout.

“Name it, and if it be aught that endangereth not
my precious soul's salvation—”

“Thy salvation! Hast thou a soul to be saved,
Count of Osma?” she fiercely demanded, contempt
and irony mingled in her harsh tones.

“Yea, sorceress, unless thou hast robbed me of it
by thy unholy arts,” he answered, with alarm visible
on his features.

“Ha! ha! Thou hast no need to fear me, Garcia
of Osma!” she said, laughing scornfully. “Thy precious
soul is best in thine own keeping till it hath filled
up its measure of wickedness. It is too late for
thee to care for it now.”

“Heaven hath forgiveness for the deepest crime,
woman.”

“On repentance, so says thy Koran.”

“What is repentance? Do I not regret the past?”
he said, sadly.

“That is not the repentance thy prophet hath commanded.
Let thy hand refrain from evil. What wrong
thou hast once done, do thou no more. This is repentance,
and such as thou hast never known, and never

wilt know. Evil will ever be in thy right hand. Thy
soul! Ha! ha! Trouble not thyself, count—it is
cared for.”

“Be it as thou sayest. Holy Church hath indulgences.”

“Which thy ill-gotten gold will scarce purchase.
But fear not! My desire of thee will not endanger
thy soul's welfare. Thou hast given orders to sack
the city at dawn.”

“Ha! has Sulem—”

“Be calm, knight! When I know so much, is it a
strange thing I should know this? Thou hast resolved
to lay the city in ashes. Light a torch, and it shall be
to kindle thine own death-pyre.”

“The command has gone forth, and the day dawns.”

“It becomes thee to be the more speedy. Obey!”

“It shall be done, so I see thy face no more.”

“We must meet once, twice—nay, thrice more!”
she said, solemnly.

“May it not be, mysterious woman?”

“It may not.”

“If I see thee not after St. Michael's day, I will do
thy bidding.”

“Thou shalt not.”

“The city is then safe. Thou that knowest so much,
canst tell me aught of a young Spanish cavalier that
hath disappeared?”

“He is safe.”

“Then shall it be as thou wilt.”

“Write me the order—nay, thy secretary shall do
it for thee! Absulem Hassan!”

The curtain was swept aside, and in an instant the
Ethiopian stood submissively before her, and, without
looking at his lord, fixed his eyes expectantly upon the
face of the sorceress. The expression of his countenance
was that of the deepest awe and reverence.
The count saw this with wonder. Where had the
slave been that he obeyed not his voice! How knew
she a name he himself had not called him by for years!
He gazed in silent surprise.

“Absulem Hassan, write as thy master shall dictate,”
she said, authoritatively, pointing to the escritoire, while
her commanding eye was turned threateningly upon
the noble.

Without a word, the count motioned with his hand
for the slave to kneel at the table.

“Thy secretary waits for thee,” she said to him,
impatiently.

“Write a countermand of the order of twelve
o'clock, in these words,” he said:

“It is enough. Place copies of them in my hand.
I will see that they are delivered to thy captains.”

She received from the Moor the sealed orders, and,
folding them in her mantle, once more gathered it
around her tall, thin person, and drew her cowl over
her eyes.

“I adjure thee, meet not my vision in that shape.
Go, if thou hast done thine errand,” he cried, with a
ghastly countenance, in which shame and indignation
at what he had been compelled to do plainly struggled
to vent themselves; “leave me, and may the depths
of hell receive thy horrid form.”

“Thrice more I will visit thee, Knight of Osma, and
my errand will then be done, vengeance appeased, and
justice satisfied. Till then, remember in all thy acts
of power that mine is greater than thine, and that this
province, for the sake of one in it whom else thy lust
and power might blight, hath a sleepless guardian.”

Thus speaking, she gathered her flowing mantle
about her limbs, and, with a commanding majesty of
aspect and demeanour, stalked across the tent, lifted
the hangings, and disappeared.

The count looked after her a moment, and then
convulsively clinched his hands together, gnashed his

teeth, glared around with demoniac wildness, while
rage and shame filled his soul. He seized the dagger
which had fallen at his feet, and, shaking it aloft, struck
it madly out in the air, where the sorceress had so
lately stood, as if he would vent his impotent rage on
empty space. The prostrate form of Sulem, who had
fallen on his face in profoundest Oriental veneration
of the departing sorceress, met his eyes, and he sent
the weapon towards him with such force that it sunk
into the ground beside him to the hilt.

“Get thee to thy feet, Leviathan!” he cried. “Art
thou become a fool also? Thou deservest death in
permitting this fiend to enter my tent. I will pour my
thwarted vengeance on the false sentinels; so, speak
for thyself.”

“She is a dark woman, cadi!” he answered, with
awe.

“Dost thou fear her?”

“Sulem is her slave.”

“She is thy countrywoman, too?”

“She hath the Moorish tongue, cadi, and spoke
words into my ear with it, when she would enter, that
made my soul tremble. She is a dark woman!”

“What meanest thou?”

“She hath her seat in the sun, and her feet resting
upon the sea. She knoweth the future as if it were
the past, and the past hath no secret that she knows it
not. The spirits of the dead are at her command, and
the living become like dead men in the scorching
glance of her eye. She commanded me, and I
obeyed.”

“And she commanded me too, and I obeyed,” he
repeated, fiercely, while his countenance gleamed with
indignant anger. “I am levelled with my slave. By
the cross of my knighthood, I will not live under it!
This twenty-ninth of September! This accursed St.
Michael's day! Wonderful and damnable is her
knowledge! Not a secret of my soul but what she
knoweth it. Sulem!” he cried, suddenly turning to

the Moor, who now stood before him in his usual attitude,
with his arms folded across his breast.

“Cadi!”

“That sorceress must die!”

The Moor uttered a cry of supernatural terror, and
fell prostrate at his feet, which he clasped imploringly.

“What means this, fool?”

“The lightnings of Allah will consume to ashes the
mortal that lifts hand against one like her.”

“Out upon thee, superstitious idiot!” cried the count,
though not himself free from the fears that filled the
breast of the trembling Ethiopian. “She must die!”
he added, slowly and determinately.

“She hath no life!” he said, with horror.

“No life! She hath veins, and blood in them, and
it must flow. Look well to thy cimeter's edge. If
she live till the morning of St. Michael's day, thy head
shall answer it. To thy post without my tent door.
If but a shadow fall upon its threshold, I will send thee
in chains to thy Moorish master. Ha, you shrink!
Go: I would be alone.”

Left alone, the Count of Osma gave himself up to
long and calm reflection upon the events that had transpired
in his interview with the extraordinary being, who,
by mere moral force, had subdued his haughty will and
bent it to her purpose. At length he cast himself into
his chair, and, summoning the captain of the guard before
him, learned from him that a mysterious individual,
such as the count now described to him, had been permitted
to pass both to and from the pavilion on the faith
of his signet, which had been exhibited to each of the
posts in succession and recognised.

“It is thus far well,” he said. “Henceforward, signor,
obey no signet that is not backed by the countersign
also. To your duty.”

The officer then left the cabinet; and, soon afterward,
worn and wearied both in body and mind, the
count threw himself upon his couch, and sought oblivion
in sleep.