University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
OSMA AND THE QUADROONE-MOTHER.

The Count of Osma had glutted his appetite for blood
in that of the six councillors, and the vindictive demon
within him, which demanded their lives, sated for the
present with this sacrifice, slumbered; but another was
now awakened scarcely less devilish. This was the
fiend of lawless passion. After the massacre, the
streets were deserted save by the soldiery. A gloom
like that of the tomb hung over the city, and no sounds
but those from armed men met the ear. Osma was in
his cabinet waiting for the twilight. It came, and, attended
by the Moor Sulem, he sought the habitation of
the Quadroone. He was admitted as before, and found
Ninine alone.

“Where is my beautiful Azèlie?” he asked, gayly, as
he entered through the Venetian casement into the
apartment.

“She sleeps, my lord,” she answered, significantly.

“Thou hast given her the sleeping potion I sent
hither by my slave?”

“An hour ago.”

“And she has slept ever since?”

“Some twenty minutes, my lord.”

“It is well done of thee. Lead me to her. I would

feed my love by banqueting on her beauty while she
slumbers. Sleep hath a thousand charms unknown to
waking life. Lead me on, I pray thee, signora.”

The quadroone-mother rose, and led the way to the
chamber of Azèlie. A small silver lamp, suspended
above the couch, shed a soft lustre around. With one
arm pillowing her cheek, her raven hair falling like a
half-drawn veil about her, slept, like an infant, the pure
object of Osma's passion. Her beauty struck him
with increased surprise. He was awed by it, and a
thought of his own daughter crossed his mind as he for
a moment contemplated the virgin loveliness of the fair
child before him. But these thoughts were by no
means welcome, and he banished them, though not
without an effort. He knelt beside her, took her soft,
unconscious hand in his, and admiringly traced the
azure veins that lined it. He watched the gentle rise
and fall of her young bosom with desire, and impressed,
with licentious lips, an impassioned kiss upon her
maiden cheek. Still she slept on, Heaven alone the protector
of her innocence.

“Signora, I knew not till now half the value of thy
treasure! I will bear her privately to my palace while
she sleeps. Ho, Sulem!”

The Moor, who had followed him like his shadow,
stood before him, and made a profound reverence of
submission of his will.

“Nay, my lord,” said the quadroone-mother, quickly;
“ere thou remove her to thine own roof, certain
conditions must be complied with.”

“Ha! a price?”

“Ten thousand crowns.”

“Wouldst thou sell thy daughter like a slave, woman?”

“Nay, have not wedded brides a bridal portion?”

“The bride, but not the bride's mother.”

“Thou seest Azèlie!” she said, artfully pointing to
the slumbering girl, confident in the power of her singular
beauty; “have I demanded too much?”

“No. Sulem! hie thee to my treasury, and forthwith
bring the amount in told gold.”

The slave departed, and, during his absence, Osma
stood gazing upon the lovely sleeper in silence. As
he gazed, an expression of singular thoughtfulness came
upon his features, and, with growing surprise, he seemed
to be tracing some fancied resemblance that disturbed
him.

“How like is the shell-like curve of the pearly eyelid,
and long jetty fringe that turns back from the cheek it
shades!” he said, half aloud; “how like is the smile
that lingers upon the mouth, and how very like the
mouth itself! 'Tis a strange and wonderful resemblance
that cometh upon me, feature by feature! Methinks
I toyed with that dark hair eighteen years ago.
Hath Heaven awakened this likeness to defeat my purpose?
Hence—away, superstitious fears! Shall an
idle memory, a fancied resemblance to the long-buried
dead affright me?”

“What wouldst thou, signor?” asked the quadroone-mother,
hearing him speak.

“Art thou listening? Nothing. Hath he not yet
returned? Ha! Methinks there is a shadow in the
window. Good Heavens! dost see that?”

The quadroone-mother flew to the casement as he
spoke, and beheld a tall figure looking in upon her,
with blazing eyeballs, and one finger lifted warningly
and menacingly. Uttering a shriek of horror and
mortal fear, she fell senseless upon the floor. When
she came to herself a few moments afterward, she looked
wildly about her, as if seeking the object of her
terror.

“What means this fear, signora?” asked the count,
concealing his own alarm at the sight of the sorceress,
lest a confirmation of his terror might defeat his purpose,
which had received a shock, but not a defeat, by
the presence of one his experience told him was no
messenger of good to him.

“Didst see it?” she gasped.

“What?”

“The—spirit—the Moor!”

“He has not returned?”

“Nay—a—a woman!”

“I have seen nothing but branches waving without
in the night-breeze. Cease your alarm.”

“Was it nothing, then, signor?”

“Nothing but an image of thy brain.”

“Could it have been fancy? If the dead do appear,
my lord, it should be at such a time as this!”

“Thou hast seen nothing that is not of this world.
What didst thou fear?” he asked, seeing her calmer,
desirous of learning something of the mysterious being
who had before exercised such an influence over himself,
as well as now over the quadroone-mother.

But she waved her hand, and signified her desire not
to be questioned. In a few minutes afterward Sulem
reappeared, and the gold was told down to the mother,
who, at the sight of it, forgot her late terrors.

“Azèlie is then mine, signora?” asked Osma, approaching
and kneeling on one knee at the couch of
his victim, as Sulem counted the last piece into her
hand.

“Thine, your excellency. But thou wilt have to
keep her in a golden cage, for a young hawk will be
hovering o'er thy palace roof to pounce upon the dove
when once the keeper is away,” she said, with a malicious
feeling which was inherent in her, and would
break out even to a benefactor, if it might be she could
mingle poison in his cup of enjoyment. Osma she
thought was too happy, and her heart was envious.
So from its abundance she spake.

“How meanest thou?”

“That the son of the late Marquis Caronde hath
long sought her—and that thou art his rival.”

“Methinks I heard something of this from Rascas.
He lieth ill at ease, signora, maimed and sore from
disappointments and wounds.”

“The hurt tiger is most ferocious. I warn thee!
Besides, my lord, he hath a claim upon her as a master.”

“Azèlie his slave! Doth he assert this?”

“He doth—listen! I was a slave, and the Marquis
of Caronde purchased me and made me free, but forgot

to record my manumission on the provincial records;
and his son hath revived the question of bondage,
and claims me as his slave, that he may possess the
person of Azèlie.”

“This is new. And, singular enough, the only law
that I have not changed is that of slavery, which I have
sanctioned, and proclaimed shall remain as heretofore.”

“Caronde will claim thy mistress,” she said, coolly.
“He hath a restless and vengeful spirit, and will give
thee no rest, my lord!”

“Wherefore dost thou press this upon my ears,
woman? Hast thou a purpose in't?”

“His death!” she answered, fixing her eyes full
upon his.

“Dost thou hate him?”

“He hath wronged me. Doth a woman ever forgive
a wrong?”

“Wouldst thou have me slay him? This seemeth
to be what thou aimest at.”

“Thou nor Azèlie may live while he lives.”

“Nay, if I slay him, men will call it fear of a rival.”

“Wilt thou brook that thy mistress should be publicly
claimed by thy rival as his slave?”

“No, woman.”

“Then he who alone can claim her as such must
cease to live.”

“Thou hast deeply considered this matter. This
Caronde, then, shall die ere the morrow's sunset.”

“For this promise, see what I place in thy hands!”
she said, with a smile of gratified revenge, taking from
her bosom a small casket, and delivering it to him.

“What is this, signora?” he asked, opening and
drawing from it a small roll of parehment, to which
was affixed the provincial seal.

“It is the instrument of my manumission; a gift
from the Marquis of Caronde to me after the birth of
my son.”

“Wherefore do you now place it in my hands?”

“That the laws may not disturb your possession of
Azèlie, whom this instrument makes your slave, and

that you may make use of it for your own ends if her
haughty spirit should rise superior to the condition to
which her birth has destined her.”

“Thou art a deep and subtle woman. Thy sagacity
shall not go unrewarded. Slave! go to yonder escritoir,
and draw briefly after this model a bill of
manumission in the name of Signora Ninine. Thou
shalt have it as an evidence that thou thyself art free,
while this I retain, to attest, if need be, the bondage
of thy daughter to herself!” he said to her, with a
smile of triumphant power.

The Ethiopian secretary soon completed the instrument
he had been commanded to draw up, and Osma,
affixing to it his signature and seal of state, delivered
it to her. Azèlie, the lovely victim of this diabolical
scheme, still slept, under the influence of the potion the
Count of Osma had sent to be administered to her, unconscious
of the fate to which she had been consigned.

“Now, my gentle Houri,” said he, bending over her,
and feasting his eyes upon her beauty, as a miser gazes
upon a newly-gotten treasure, “thy charms shall
bloom in a palace, and for thy beauty I will return thee
honour. Sulem, the cloak!”

Receiving a large mantle from his slave, and folding
it about her, he lifted her from the couch and placed
her in the Moor's arms.

“Now, slave, see that thou bear her gently. If she
waken by thy roughness, thy head shall answer it.
Proceed! Signora, adiou!”

Thus speaking, the licentious Spaniard, whom guilt
had sunk to such a level as companionship with this
wicked bondwoman, wrapped his cloak about him,
and followed the Moor through the dark avenues of
the garden towards the secret gate in the wall. As
he passed through it, he thought he saw the same
mysterious figure that had appeared at the window of
the boudoir, gliding across from one path to another;
but, after stopping a while and not seeing it again, he
fancied it was his own guilty imagination that offered

to his mind a picture which he was momentarily
dreading would appear openly to his vision.

By the private postern that communicated with the
banquet-room, the Moor re-entered the palace, closely
followed by his master, and bore his sleeping burden
without observation to a small but sumptuous apartment,
richly and luxuriously furnished, that opened
from the cabinet, and which, from appearances, had
been prepared expressly for her reception.

“Place her upon that ottoman. Gently, slave.
Dost thou think thou art letting down a bale of goods?”
he demanded, as they entered unobserved this room.

The Moor obeyed, and then, drawing back a few
paces, stood with his hands folded upon his breast.
The count softly removed the mantle that enveloped
her form, and dwelt upon the expressive face, to which
the motion had given a slight colour, adding to her
beauty. The position in which the slave placed her
was, unintentionally, most graceful. She still slept
profoundly, and with so faint a breathing that Osma,
after watching her a few moments, turned to the Moor,
and said with alarm,

“She sleeps soundly, Sulem, and, methinks, full
long.”

“Lalla Azèlie will wake when the nightingale first
sings to the moon.”

“When will that be, slave? the moon hath risen.”

“When the moon hath been an hour up, the bird
will sing her first song.”

“'Twill be three quarters of an hour yet. This
times with thy saying that her sleep would last but two
hours. If thou hast overdrugged the potion, thine own
cimeter shall serve to sever thy head from its shoulders.”

“Sulem hath skill, and fears not the result,” answered
the Ethiopian, with confidence.

“Be it so,” replied the count, with a menacing
doubt. “Return with me into my cabinet. I will pass
the intervening hour in preparing despatches.”

With these words, after gazing a moment upon her,

during which some painful memory, awakened by a
likeness, seemed to agitate him, he dropped the damask
hangings before the entrance of the boudoir in which
she reposed, and seated himself in his cabinet.

Drawing a sheet of paper before him, he seemed to
be concentrating his thoughts to fix them upon the
subject with which he was to fill it. But he had, within
the few last days, passed through too many and varied
scenes easily to command his ideas to flow into a
given current. The scenes he had been an actor in
rushed irresistibly and painfully upon his mind, and the
images of the murdered councillors, with the contemplation
of his own conduct in the present affair, were
forced upon him by a conscience that seldom played
the monitor in his bosom. He could not conceal from
himself his deep criminality in every feature of the
proceedings, whether against the judges, Don Henrique,
or the lovely and innocent Azèlie. The more
he reflected, the more bitter his censures against himself
became; and when he thought of his own beautiful
Estelle, whose image was mingled with that of
Azèlie in his mind, he felt a shame and contrition that
promised repentance of his purpose. The innocence
and helplessness of Azèlie pleaded loudly for her;
but that very loveliness, as well as her unprotected
state, were only stronger arguments to his passion.
Suddenly, too, the remembrance of her love for Don
Henrique rushed like a torrent upon his senses, and
filled him with resentment and vengeance against both.
This reflection extinguished all the emotions of human
tenderness and sympathy that had been kindled in his
bosom towards her, and inspired him with the determination
to make her the victim, as well of his hatred to
Don Henrique and Renault as of his passion. Thus,
though pity and honour pleaded for her, hatred and
revenge pronounced her condemnation.