 | CHAPTER V.
SCENE WITHIN THE GARDEN-WALLS. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
SCENE WITHIN THE GARDEN-WALLS.
The individual with whom the Count of Osma stopped
to communicate in the street near the garden was
a confidential slave of Ninine. He led him to one of
the slabs fixed like a pannel in the centre of each section
of the wall, and, having touched it about an inch
from the lower corner, it swung inward, and admitted
them into the garden. The slave then led the way
rapidly towards the casa. With his hand upon his
sword-hilt, as if guarding against treachery, followed
the bold and wicked count, who, in the pursuit of the
object of his passion, was singularly blind or indifferent
to the danger of trusting himself abroad in a hostile
city at such an hour unattended. He was rapidly
conducted through the windings of the thickly-planted
garden, whose trees and plants loaded the atmosphere
with the most delicious odours, while the disturbed
songsters of the fragrant groves flitted from branch to
branch at his advance, emitting tremulous and broken
notes.
When the slave came near the window that opened
from the ground into the luxurious apartment of the
quadroone-mother, he stopped silently and pointed towards
it. Then, crossing his hands upon his breast,
stood in a statue-like attitude. The count passed him,
and proceeded towards the Venetian casement, which,
lighted by shaded lamps of roseate hue, shedding
around a soft and subdued twilight of the richest and
most seductive character. Ottomans, lounges, and
fauteuils of crimson velvet and silk, with carpets from
Turkish looms, met the surprised glance of the Spaniard,
who, not unused to luxury, had scarce beheld in
Spain more splendour than now flashed upon his eyes
through the half-open lattice. On a lounge near the
window, the evening breeze just lifting the raven curls
from her temples, reclined Ninine, the beautiful quadroone-mother.
Her alert ear caught the sound of approaching
footsteps. With a triumphant flush of joy
she rose, and with an air of indolent grace, that became
her voluptuous and languid beauty, threw open
the blind, and beheld her expected visitant.
“A fair eve to thee, noble signor,” she said, in the
easy, self-possessed tone of one who felt that her own
charms as well as the object of his coming placed
them upon an equality.
“And a pleasant one to thee,” he answered, with that
air of finished gallantry which marked him as one of
the most courteous cavaliers of his time; and he kissed
her extended hand ere he seated himself on the
same lounge by her side. “By my knighthood! thy
charms rival thy daughter's!”
“Hast thou come to woo mother or daughter?”
she asked, with a gratified smile, that threatened to
beguile him from his first purpose.
“Nay, tempt me not, sorceress,” he said, smiling,
“I would fain see this Haidée! If I have to answer
for worshipping other than the Blessed Mary this
morning, thou shalt come in for punishment also. By
the rood! thou didst do a sacrilege in taking so much
beauty with thee to prayers.”
“It was that I might offer it on the altar of thy
love.”
“Thou hast full confidence in her charms, and, i'
faith! in my susceptibility. But thou didst send the
bolt truly to the mark. Her loveliness hath captivated
dark style of beauty, I know thee to be of the lovely
race of quadroones, with whom marriage is not lawful.”
“Nor desirable, signor, so that our beauty purchase
for us the hearts and fortunes of men! The
proudest wife can boast no more,” answered the quadroone,
giving utterance to the bold sentiments of her
class.
“But methinks a woman should marry for her honour's
sake.”
“A woman's honour lieth in the constancy of her
love. And love hath ever proved most constant when
'tis free.”
“This is strange doctrine,” said Osma, surprised at
sentiments so extraordinary from the lips of any woman,
to whom marriage is one of the greatest and best
gifts of Heaven, and at a mode of thinking so at variance
with feminine views in other countries.
“Is there no such thing, then, as honour with you?”
“Yes, signor. Never was a quadroone maiden
known to be false to her lord.”
“But what pledge has he of her truth?”
“Her honour.”
“But she hath it no longer.”
“Hath the wife no longer honour when she hath
become a wife?”
“But she is an honourable wife.”
“And education has taught the quadroone what the
laws have taught the wife, that the highest crime she
can be guilty of is to be false to him to whom love has
united her. Love and inbred honour are pledges of
constancy; and to these she is never false. A wife's
honour may be fortified by fear; a quadroone's is by
love.”
“If she do not love?”
“She must obey her mother, if no better choice may
by made.”
“She will then prove false.”
“She will die first, as some have done, signor.”
“Can they not be admitted into convents if they
wish?”
“A quadroone-nun! No, signor!”
“Neither the convent nor matrimony; they have,
then, no alternative but death or splendid misery.
By mine honour, thy words have touched me! I would
not bring unhappiness to thy daughter if she cannot
love me!”
“She is gentle, and her heart is free, signor. Time
and convenience will soon enable thee to win Azèlie's
affections.”
“Azèlie! said you Azèlie?” he demanded, starting
with singular surprise.
“Azèlie! 'Tis an odd Moorish name, but—”
“Speak it no more!” he said, recovering himself.
“Ha! what is this?” he cried, as a pomegranate
struck the floor at his feet.
He looked out through the window, and beheld a
pair of glittering eyes fixed upon him from the shrubbery.
Drawing his sword, he rushed forth, when
Rascas came forward and met him.
“Villain, is it thou? What of the councillors?”
“The troops I ordered out by thy command have
just passed by on their way to the gates at the top of
their speed.”
“And thou—how camest thou hither? Hast dogged
me, traitor?” he demanded, with fierce suspicion.
“Nay, signor; as I rode through yonder street at
their head, I saw and recognised thy form and step,
as well as thy hound, when thou enteredst the garden.
I should have passed on, but saw that a person was
following, and evidently playing the spy upon you.
Drawing rein, I watched his motions, saw him scale
the wall, and descend into the garden after you. I dismounted,
and, getting over the wall by a cord he had
forgotten to draw up after him, tracked him to the
apartment of—”
“Of whom?”
“Azèlie, the beautiful quadroone!” he answered,
with malicious triumph in his eyes as he delivered
count.
“Didst see his face?”
“Not distinctly; but I could swear he is none of
the citizens.”
“Perhaps it is this Renault, her brother?”
“Nay, I know the quadroon's height and air.
'Tis not he! I will show thee, if thou wilt follow me,
signor.”
“Lead on,” said Osma, grasping his weapon with
determined vengeance.
“Softly, signor, for cooing doves are easily alarmed.”
Desiring Ninine, who had not heard this conversation,
to await his return a few moments, he rapidly
followed his subtle guide across the orangerie to the
path that conducted to the maiden's lattice.
Don Henrique was seated at the feet of Azèlie,
with his sword across his knees, and his disguise still
on, recounting the part Renault had taken in the
events of the night, yet with his eye fixed watchfully
and expectingly on the door communicating from the
boudoir with the apartments of the mother. His back
was therefore partly turned to the Count of Osma,
who stealthily approached the window behind his catlike
guide. Azèlie sat with her eyes bent on her lover's,
with a prideful affection which the count could
not mistake. He saw that she loved, with her heart's
deepest passion, the man who kneeled at her feet.
The lamp shed a soft, clear light upon her brow, and
betrayed the loveliness of her features and the graceful
proportions of her bust, which in the Cathedral her
envious veil had half concealed from his gaze. What
a fair, bright creature did he now look upon! how infinitely
exceeding all that he had imagined! The
glorious dark eyes filled with witchery; the ripe lip,
eloquent with love; the beauty of her smile, and the
thousand charms that, like young loves, made their
home in the rich world of her beauty, transfixed him
to the spot in silent wonder and admiration. Yet
gazed, some painful memory, called up by her face,
of which he in vain tried to fix the time, place, or
event. But, baffled, he turned his attention upon the
cavalier, who, in a low, fond tone, was talking to her,
and vainly attempted to obtain a sight of his features,
or catch the full sound of his voice. His attitude and
presence there—his evidently accepted love, maddened
him. The fair jewel of her love he regarded as his
own! his passion had made it of all value to him, and
he determined alone to share it.
“Knowest thou this cavalier, Rascas?” he whispered,
hoarsely.
“No, signor; but every man's blood is red!” he
replied, significantly.
“Nay, I would not shed it in an encounter like
this; I must be secret in what I do.”
“I will pledge my oath your excellency shall never
see him again after he leaves this garden!” he answered,
touching the handle of his stiletto.
“He shall not die, whoever he may be. He shall
live to witness my triumph,” replied the count, with
fierceness.
“There are dungeons in the prison that communicate
with the palace,” insinuated Rascas.
“I understand thee. If thou hast thy steed in the
street, mount him, ride after the troop, and return with
ten horsemen. I will see that they are introduced by
the private way through which I came in. Go! let thy
horse outspeed the eagle!” Rascas promptly disappeared,
and the count turned his attention to his victims.
Suddenly a nightingale from a tree near the lattice
poured forth a flood of melody to the rising moon in
so ravishing a strain, and with such a richness and
variety of notes, that it seemed as if a whole choir of
warblers were at their vespers. Don Henrique looked
round with a delighted ear, and, as he did so, the Count
of Osma started back with a surprised exclamation
that had nearly betrayed his presence.
“This, then, is my rival! This is why he would
keep private, that he might pass his hours in dalliance!
Now, by the red rood! he shall rue this,
were he heir to the throne! I did not think I should
make such a prisoner when I bid Rascas go! It hath
gone abroad that he lieth wounded to the death! It
will be easy hence to bruit about his death from his
wounds, and, if it should become needful to support it,
I will not be backward in making it true. He shall
exchange, within the hour, this luxurious boudoir for
a dungeon, and this maiden's love for a jailer's companionship.
Either he must be put out of the way,
or I must give up my passion for this lovely being.
An Osma hath never yet turned aside when love or
ambition beckoned; and he will scarcely do so now!
This is the secret of his retirement! It is love's arrow,
I see, that hath wounded him. Soon, youthful
wooer, I will take thy place; and if love may not win
thee to love me, fair Azèlie, power shall do it. I will
see this false quadroone-mother the while Rascas is
away. Here, sir! lie there!” he said, to his hound,
pointing first to the ground, and then directing his attention
in at the window. “I would keep a guard
here!”
The obedient dog lay down, and fixed his fiery eyes
upon the young man with a settled and immoveable
glance.
“'Tis well! If he comes forth, bring him to the
earth, but harm him not!” he said, and the intelligent
animal seemed also to understand. Then, returning
to the quadroone-mother, he cried, sternly,
“False woman! didst thou not tell me thy daughter's
heart was free?”
“Yes, signor,” she answered, alarmed by his manner.
“Yet at this moment a cavalier is sitting unreproved
at her feet, and love is going on between them as busily
as if they were married but yesterday.”
Ninine uttered an exclamation of astonishment and
but the count detained her.
“Nay, calm thyself! I see thou knowest it not.
Didst thou not take into thy house a wounded Spaniard
last night?”
“Renault did. It is he that hath done this!”
“Be patient. This cavalier hath won the maiden's
heart. I saw in every look and feature that she loves
him!”
“Then this knife shall cut her image from his bosom,”
she cried, seizing a small stiletto that lay in its
case upon a marble table near her.
“I command thee to be patient, woman. If it have
gone no farther than this, I care not—nay, I like it
well! This cavalier I have little good fellowship for,
and would fain touch him in a point so sensitive. I
have despatched my servant for a guard. Thou shalt
hear no more of him.”
“It is Renault hath done it, signor.”
“If thou wouldst not do injury to thine own interests,
breathe that accursed name no more,” he said, between
his shut teeth, his soul writhing at the remembrance
of the young quadroon's insult in the banquet-chamber,
as well as from his recollection of his disappointed
vengeance against the councillors. “Thou
didst admit me by a secret entrance. Send thy slave
to wait there for the guard I expect.”
The count paced the apartment in stern and silent
thought, occasionally pausing at the window to listen
for the alarm-growl of his bloodhound or the approach
of his guard. At length he heard the sound of galloping
horsemen, which the next moment ceased in
the rear of the garden. Impatient to receive them, he
hastened to the gate. They were already dismounted,
and let in by the slave when he arrived. In a
low tone, he gave a few brief orders to Rascas, who,
followed by eight dragoons, silently advanced in the
direction of the boudoir. The count himself, desirous
of concealing his agency in the arrest, kept so far in
the background, wrapped to the eyes in his cloak, as
his characteristic tact, he had commanded Rascas to
lead the dragoons into the shadow of a group of
orange-trees beyond the range of the window, lest,
either recognising who was to be their prisoner, they
should be reluctant to seize him, or because he wished
no one save himself to know the person of his victim.
In pursuance of this plan, Rascas was to enter his boudoir,
and induce him, by some duplicity, to walk forth
into the garden, and into the snare set before him.
“I have told thee, fair Azèlie,” said Don Henrique,
in the hearing of those without, pursuing the conversation
that had been interrupted by the song of the
nightingale, “that my home is in sunny Spain; and
that I have an elder brother, during whose life I am
forbidden to marry, on penalty of being cast forth penniless.
Such is the cruel law of inheritance in my
family. Wouldst thou wed me poor?”
“Thou dost mock my love, Henrique!” she said,
reprovingly. “Yet my love is so great that I would
not have thee become poor for my sake.”
“Wilt thou, then, lest my love for thee should make
me poor, restore me my heart?”
“Nay, I am perplexed! Love would, and love
would not! But I love thee, and would die for thee.”
“Nay, thou shalt live for me; I will wed, and take
thee with me to Spain. In some little nook, out of
the world's way, will we pass our days, and be happy
without wealth or name.”
“Now that I know how much thou wilt risk by
loving me, I shrink at what I bring upon thee.”
“Nay, sweet, thou art all the world to me; wealth,
honour, and rank are forgotten in loving thee! I look
into thine eyes and am happy! I hear thy voice and
am blessed! Thy smile is sunshine to my heart, and
thy presence to me the purest earthly bliss!” He
kissed the cheek she laid upon his shoulder, and was
silent a moment; then added, with a smile, “I did not
tell thee that my father, lest I should marry, would
have made me a monk! And, to escape holy orders,
brought me to crown my happiness. Ha! was not that
a voice?” he cried, starting up, and looking towards
the door that led into the apartments of the quadroone-mother.
“Nay, it was nothing,” he added, resuming
his place. He had, indeed, heard a low growl from
the hound, but the direction of the sound had deceived
him.
“Why, Henrique, do you keep your eyes fixed so
constantly on the door, disturbed by the rustling of a
leaf?” she asked, with alarm.
“Nay, dost thou not expect Renault soon?” he
inquired, evasively.
“And thou needest not fear Renault; the knowledge
of my happiness would be joy to him. He does indeed
linger! Whither could he have gone from the
palace?”
“Doubtless to look after the safety of the councillors
whom he so nobly rescued. I pray they got safely
beyond the bloodly fangs of Osma. Nay, I surely
heard a footstep approaching,” he said, placing himself
in an attitude to receive an intruder.
“'Twas not within yonder room,” she said, with a
smile; “thou hast listened so towards that door, that
thou dost imagine every noise to proceed from the
point towards which thy ears are turned. It was but
a rustling of the breeze in the foliage without. Pray
tell me what hath moved this suspicion in thee?”
“Listen—for thou must soon learn—but fear nothing
on account of what I am to tell thee. Thy mother
hath sent to confer with Count Osma, and he is
now in her apartment—thyself the subject of their
conference. Nay, dearest, am I not here to defend
thee? I have prepared a vessel to escape with thee to
Spain, this hour to sail if thou wilt say yes! Shortly
my friends will be waiting in the street to receive
us, and bear us on board. Wilt thou fly with me,
dearest?”
“My brother!”
“Thy lover!”
“Wherever thou goest, there will I go. But Renault—”
“Shall follow us. But the time will not now admit
of delay.”
“Wherefore, then, do we linger here? One moment
may destroy both thyself and me. The Count
Osma will soon seek my boudoir, and thou wilt be the
first sacrifice!”
“I wait here that I may meet him. I would have
him be a witness to our love!” he said, with a smile.
“He will slay thee!”
“He will scarce dare lift his weapon against me,
Azèlie. And am I not armed?”
“Then blood will flow! Fly—fly—if not for thy
safety, for mine—for I tremble at his wicked power!”
“Be it so, dearest! for thy fear's sake! But I
had hoped to have met the tyrant here in thy virgin
presence, and looked his villany down his throat!
Yet I will go with thee; but first will I leave some
record behind, that he may know who hath robbed
him of his treasure.”
“Mercy! we are lost—lost!” suddenly shrieked
Azèlie.
The Count of Osma, not desiring to be known to
Don Henrique as an actor in his arrest, had at first
kept back in the shadow of the trees, intending to
leave the conduct of the whole affair in the hands of
Rascas, who, after posting the soldiers in ambush, had
softly approached the window. But observing them,
through the lighted casement, still in conversation,
and fancying, by the motion of Don Henrique's lips,
that his own name was mentioned, he felt a desire to
listen. He immediately stepped forward, and, passing
Rascas, with a sign for him to stay back, stood and
concealed himself in the covert of the thickly-leaved
vine that trellised the lattice, and, unobserved, overheard
all that passed between them: what he said to
her of his native country, of his intended flight, and,
finally, his last words in reference to himself. The
feelings with which he listened may be best imagined!
his guilty purpose should be known to his victim,
whom he saw prepared not only to meet his rage, but
to triumph over him.
“He shall not live to laugh at me, and make me the
scorn of the Spanish Cortez!” he muttered to himself.
“As he now knows that I am here in pursuit of this
amour, I will throw off this disguise and all concealment,
and, by the red rood! he shall live to see his inamorata
bless these arms!” Thus speaking, he dropped
his cloak from his shoulders, and, stepping in
through the window, presented himself before the eyes
of Azèlie just as Don Henrique had pronounced the
word “treasure.”
“Of what treasure dost thou speak, fair signor?
Methinks I did hear this word,” he said, in a sarcastic
tone, leaning upon his naked sword, and eying him
with mingled triumph and hatred.
“Thy knightly pastime at eavesdropping hath not
been fruitless, Sir Garcia of Ramarez,” ironically replied
Don Henrique, unmoved by his sudden presence.
Yet his eyes blazed with his feelings as he confronted
him.
“I do congratulate thee, signor, on thy sudden health!
Thou hast had a skilful leech. Thy hurt had like to
have cost the city its roofs, and some scores of bourgeois
their heads! 'Tis well thou art in condition
again. Doubtless this trembler, who hangs upon thee
as if a lion had come in her path, hath been thy chirurgeon.
She hath made a wound in my heart this
morning, which she must e'en make whole again, if
such be her skill.”
“Ramarez, thou hast given full license to thy
tongue,” said Don Henrique, with manifest surprise at
his ironical words and haughty bearing. “If thou depart
not as thou camest, our respective ranks shall not
deter me from striking thee with my sword!”
“Love and rivalry make all men equal, fair signor,”
he said, in the same taunting tone. “If an eagle and
a falcon pursue the same dove, the captive is to the
bird of the strongest beak.”
“Villain, defend thyself!” cried Don Henrique,
throwing himself upon him with his drawn sword.
Osma was scarcely taken by surprise, though the
assault was somewhat sudden, and received him with
characteristic coolness and skill. For a few moments
their swords flashed fire, so fierce and deadly was the
brief encounter. The count had made one or two
passes, at first, at the breast of his antagonist, and
then, as if changing his purpose of attacking him,
stood for the remainder of the conflict wholly on the
defensive. Don Henrique saw this, and, on his part,
instead of aiming at his life, sought only to disarm him.
This, after one or two trials, he succeeded in doing, by
dexterously changing his sword from his right to his
left hand, and making a sudden counter-pass, the count's
weapon flying from his grasp through the window into
the garden. When Rascas saw this, he leaped through
the casement, and with his dagger was about to strike
the victor to the heart. But his master caught his
hand and hurled him backward, crying,
“Hadst thou slain him, I would have laid thee dead
at my feet. Go, pick up my sword! Thou hast the
best of it, Signor Henrique. Thou art a skilful swordsman
as well as thy sire. But, though victory hath sided
with thee in war, it must side with me in love.”
Don Henrique had remained haughtily and indignantly
standing where he had disarmed his antagonist,
with Azèlie clinging to him in eloquent silence, looking
first in the face of one and then of the other, as if
watching the balance in which her fate was cast. She
looked far lovelier than ever, and Osma drank in her
beauty with intoxicating passion. Each moment his
determination, which had begun to waver, to use violence
towards Don Henrique, grew stronger, strengthened
by the admiration of her charms, which, unless
he removed him, he felt would be lost to him for ever.
“Count Osma of Ramarez,” said Henrique, whose
eyes flashed at his words, and whose blood boiled at
his libertine glances towards the maiden, “I have borne
thy intrusion hitherto! I command thee to leave me.”
“If thou wilt resign to me thy place at this lovely
creature's feet, I will obey thee—after that I have
wooed a while.”
“Demon! I swear to thee, by the cross on my blade,
I will not spare thy life if I cross it with thee once
more! Hath this distance from Spain made a traitor
of thee? Leave me, assassin!”
“Ha! sayest thou!” he cried, fiercely.
“Signor,” said Rascas, hastily returning to him with
his sword, “one of the dragoons left with the horses
hath given word that a company of thy soldiers, under
command of Don Francisco de Loyola, are waiting not
far off in the street.”
“Ha! I had forgotten! Treason? So, Signor Henrique!
thou hast been corrupting my troops. They
are the friends, as I overheard, that were to conduct
thee to thy ship, for they are abroad by no order of
mine. Ho! without there! Seize this traitor!” he cried,
with ill concealed exultation at thus finding the shadow
of a pretence to excuse him for doing what he had resolved
to do at all hazards.
“Dost thou mean this?” exclaimed Don Henrique,
in the utmost surprise, seeing the window filled with
dragoons, two or three of whom advanced within the
room.
“I arrest thee as a traitor to Spain!” answered
Osma, sternly. “Seize him, and drag him to the state
prison!”
“How can I commit treason?”
“That shall be tried by judges.”
“Count Osma, this mockery hath gone full far!” answered
Henrique, as if scarcely realizing the scene:
“your jesting is ill timed, and methinks you should
have chosen a fitter subject.”
“None fitter than thyself. Why do ye hesitate?
Seize the traitor!” he cried to the dragoons.
One of the men and the bloodhound sprang upon
him at the same instant. The man received Don Henrique's
sword through his heart, while the fierce hound
fell dead as he seized him by the throat, from a wound
with a stiletto, which she had long worn as the guardian
of her honour, sprung between her lover and the
savage animal. The death of his favourite enraged
Osma to fury. For an instant Don Henrique stood
like a lion at bay, and, with his reeking sword, menaced
death to whomsoever should lay hands upon him.
Again the Count of Osma called upon them to seize
him; in vain the youth's skill! in vain his lion-like
courage! in vain the sheltering bosom of Azèlie!
Overpowered by numbers, he was secured and bound;
while Osma seized the quadroone maiden, lest, in the
phrensy of the moment, she should use upon her own
person the weapon with which she had defended her
lover.
“Nay, sweet,” he said, confining her in his arms
and wresting it from her, “he is but a traitor! and
thou art too noble to give thy love basely. Bear him
away, Battista,” he cried to the lieutenant of the dragoons,
“and see that he is placed in a secure chamber
of the prison; for thy head will answer for it. Away
with him!” Don Henrique struggled fearfully for
his liberty; and when, at length, he saw Azèlie in Osma's
grasp, he foamed at the mouth, and gnashed his
teeth with mingled grief, rage, and vengeance. But
all was vain. He was dragged violently away from
her presence, but not without receiving a glance that
assured him she would seek death by her own hand
ere she proved false to him.
Alas! how much poignant misery is mingled with
the cup of life! Unfortunate Henrique! Dragged from
the presence of thy heart's idol to become the tenant
of a gloomy dungeon, on a vain charge of treason, that
thy rival may rob thee of thy love and honour. Borne
away, too, leaving thy beloved Azèlie in the licentious
arms of a libertine! Hapless lover! bear thy lot with
patience, for thou shalt be speedily and wonderfully
avenged!
Scarcely had the dragoons disappeared through the
window, bearing away their prisoner and wounded
when Osma despatched Rascas to Loyola with a
message, as coming from Henrique himself, to say that
his services would not be that night required, and that
he might return to the barracks with his men; for he
resolved to reserve till the morrow his punishment of
that officer.
He was now left alone with Azèlie, who, released
from his hold, stood a few paces from him, panting and
breathing like a hunted fawn that has unexpectedly
been stopped by a new foe. Not a tear escaped her
—not a word—not a cry! Her bosom was too full of
feelings for utterance! It would be difficult to analyze
them! Grief, indignation, terror, despair, all crowded
upon her heart, and threatened to crush it! Osma
gazed upon her a few moments in silence; and, perceiving
that this was no time to press his suit, he was
about to call for her mother, when she appeared, full
of the intensest alarm.
“I thank Heaven thou art safe, signor,” she cried,
on seeing him as she entered. “I heard the clash of
arms as if in the eastern street, and hastened to the
court gate, when the porter told me it was in the direction
of Azèlie's chamber. Blood is upon the floor!
The intruder hath been slain?”
“Thou wilt scarce hear of him again, signora,” he
said, quietly. “I was now about to call thee. Thou
seest thy fair child is suddenly converted into a statue
of passion and grief! I leave her in thy charge, and
trust all to thy advice and authority! Thou wilt scarce
regret thy change of lovers, fair Azèlie,” he added,
with a smile of irony. “By Heaven! she stands there
like marble. See to her, signora!” he exclaimed,
with a voice of alarm and wonder.
Azèlie's blood had suddenly rushed back upon her
heart, and left her face indeed like marble, while every
limb became rigid and fixed. She looked like life converted
into stone! Her very breathing was stilled!
“It hath killed her!” shrieked her mother, taking
her icy hand, and letting it fall again powerless at her
side.
“I fear it hath!” repeated Osma, with emotion.
Suddenly a piercing and terrific shriek escaped from
her breaking heart, and she fell at length upon the floor.
“That hath relieved her, signora! Tears will flow
apace, and by the morning she will be calm. I leave
her in thy charge, and remember that thy life will answer
for her safety.”
“Need I say to your excellency that I have no
wish than that she shall be thine!”
“Be this thy mind, and thou shalt be rewarded to
thy heart's wish,” he said, wrapping his cloak about
him. “I came not hither to-night to remove my prize,
but to secure her. See that she have no communication
with her brother Renault, and send me word on
the instant of his return! Poor child! she sobs!
Adieu, Ninine. Pray send thy slave to let me forth!”
Thus speaking, the Count of Osma left the boudoir
of the hapless Azèlie, and, with his breast full of the
passions which the last hour had awakened in it, departed
from the garden, and secretly and swiftly regained
his cabinet. In a quarter of an hour afterward
De Loyola was the inmate of a dungeon, and the soldiers
of his command under arrest for revolt.
| CHAPTER V.
SCENE WITHIN THE GARDEN-WALLS. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |