 | CHAPTER IX.
SCENE BETWEEN RENAULT AND OSMA. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day |  |
11. CHAPTER IX.
SCENE BETWEEN RENAULT AND OSMA.
Thus speaking, the sorceress strode from him, and,
kneeling reverently, kissed the hand of Azèlie. Then,
gazing into her eyes with singular tenderness, she unobserved
slipped a small locket into her hand, and, with
a pressure of silence and secrecy, rose, and at a slow
pace, with her eyes fixed menacingly upon those of the
count, stalked from the chamber. He followed her
with his glance until she had disappeared, when the
spell under which he had been bound was suddenly
broken.
“Ho, my guards! Sulem! Rascas! Traitors
and treason! Ho, without!” he shouted, drawing his
sword and rushing on Renault, who still held his sister
clasped in his arms. The young courreur chef immediately
released her and drew his sword.
“Thou needst not call thy guards, my Lord of Osma,”
he said, catching the count's sword on his own
blade.
“Traitor, hast thou made me prisoner in my own
palace?” he cried, turning pale.
“Thou art free, and thy satellites are at the gate;
but—”
“Yonder fearful woman, hath she done it?” he asked,
dropping the point of his sword.
“I know not what she may have done, Signor Governor,”
he said, smiling at his fears; “but this I know,
your guard did just now freely admit me and herself
without question.”
“Dost thou know thy head hath a price upon it?”
“I do, your excellency,” he answered, calmly.
“And that thou art under condemnation of death,
with the rebellious president of the provincial council?”
“I have heard this too; but Heaven hath taken the
venerable councillor from the power of thy bloody
hand.”
“Methinks thou art fearless to use such speech, as
well as to stand thus alone in the palace of thy foe.
Dost thou not fear my power and vengeance?”
“I? No, no; I have found Azèlie safe; she has
told me she has escaped thy lust, and I have no other
fear now!” he said, with a haughty smile, embracing
the lovely girl, who continued from the first to hide
her head trustingly in his bosom.
Osma surveyed his bold and ingenuous countenance
for a few moments, as if undecided what face to put
upon the affair. At length he addressed him with a
totally changed bearing, caused by certain motives
which it would be difficult, in such a man, accurately
to determine.
“I have had wrong at thy hands,” he said, “and
yet am disposed to pardon it. Thou knowest that the
councillors thou didst release were condemned in fair
trial by the tribunal of the cabildo?”
“I did hear so, my lord,” said Renault, with a sarcastic
smile.
“Therefore,” continued Osma, without noticing,
though keenly feeling it, “thou seest thou didst do
me wrong in that matter. As governor of a newly-acquired
province, believe me, I seek to make peace
and render justice.”
“Is it justice to steal a sister from a brother's roof?
Is it justice to ruin innocence? Is it justice to wrong
the unprotected? If it is thy desire to protect thy new
subjects, why is thy first act of power exercised in
wronging the defenceless?”
“There need be but few words between us,” answered
Osma, with singular patience; “the destiny of quadroone
maidens I need not remind thee of. I did but
seek to elevate thy sister to—”
“A couch of dishonour, signor!”
“Was it ever called so before with a maiden of thy
blood?”
“Thou hast reason for thy interrogation, signor;
few of the daughters of our race do indeed feel their
degradation.”
“It is, therefore, to them none.”
“If, then, their not feeling it is an evidence of their
degradation, how much deeper must be their degradation
when they do feel it! and who would consign one
such to a fate so dishonourable?”
“Yet by your own laws this sense of virtue may not
have its reward in marriage. It were better it were
corrected in them than suffered to beget misery.”
“This may be thy notion of virtue, Sir Count, but
not mine. Heaven hath given my sister a virtuous
and noble nature; and, as long as she has a brother to
protect her honour, she shall be no man's leman,” answered
Renault, with indignant animation.
“Dost thou reverence the laws of thy province, Signor
Renault?” asked the count, suddenly, and evidently
with some significant purpose couched under his
question.
“I do, signor—all, at least, that thy clemency has
spared.”
“Is there not a law that gives to the owner of a
slave the right of property in that slave?”
“It is a law well known, signor.”
“Oh, Renault, protect me, or I am lost,” cried Azèlie,
clinging to him, at these words of the count, with
wild alarm.
“Thou shalt come to no harm,” firmly said Estelle,
who, during the whole scene, had stood beside her with
one hand clasping hers, ready to interpose her person
bteween her father's sword and the life of Renault, who,
with pain and bitterness, she now, for the first time,
learned was descended of a race slavish and degraded.
“Fear not; I will share thy fate, whatever it be,” she
whispered. Renault heard her, and fixed upon her a
look of gratitude.
“This statute also decrees that the offspring of a
slave-mother shall be the property of the owner of the
mother. Is it not so?” he continued, with that tone of
of Renault.
“Such is the law, signor,” he said, with embarrassment;
for he felt assured that the count meant in some
way to judge him by his words.
“Then, as thou dost reverence the laws, thou wilt
scarce withhold the master from his slave,” he said,
all the gathering and concentrated cruelty of his nature
suddenly expressing itself in his dark countenance.
“How mean you, Sir Count?” demanded Renault,
with a quick rush of hot blood to the brain.
“That thou and thy sister are my slaves!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the young quadroon, with a start
of surprise and inquiry, holding Azèlie yet closer to
his heart, while, with his drawn sword in his hand, he
stood as if to protect her.
“Thy mother and thy mother's offspring are my
bond-slaves. Dost thou weigh well the word? Slaves!”
“I demand the proof?” said Renault, after a moment's
suffocating pause, under this bold and confident
assertion of his foe.
“ 'Tis easy given. Thy mother was a Moorish
slave, and your late governor, the Marquis of Caronde,
became the purchaser, and, after, manumitted her.”
“Well,” cried Estelle, who listened with feverish
eagerness, while Renault stood surveying the governor
with a contemptuous look, that told his fearless
soul laughed at his power, and scorned his base resort
to establish it over Azèlie.
“The laws that this youth so much reverence require
that there should be a record of this manumission
made in the public registry, or that the original
instrument should be there deposited. She is therefore
a slave. Is not this the spirit of thy law?”
“Thou hast well interpreted it, Sir Count,” answered
Renault, while both Estelle and Azèlie turned
pale with apprehension; “but thou hast not yet exhibited
proofs of thy title to the slaves thou wouldst
claim. The young Marquis of Caronde, my brother,
same criminal end,” he added, sternly.
“His claim is based only on the non-existence of
the bill of manumission. No such having been registered
or deposited in the provincial archives, he believes
none exists, and so claims thy lovely sister as
his slave.”
“Thou hast well informed thyself on this matter,
signor,” said Renault, his scornful smile scarcely concealing
the filial affection in his eyes.
“There is a rich treasure pending on it,” answered
Osma, glancing at Azèlie with a look that caused Renault
to grasp more nervously the hilt of his sword;
“now know that that bill of manumission exists, and
was in thy mother's possession until this evening. It
is now in mine!” he cried, with savage exultation,
drawing from his bosom and holding out to view the
parchment he had received from the quadroone-mother
as the price of the young chasseur chief's death.
Azèlie hid her face in her hands, and her young
bosom heaved as if the heart were bursting through;
but there was no shriek, no cry! her wo was without
speech—too deep for language.
“Nay, nay, sweetest, this shall not come upon thee
—it shall not!” said Renault, soothingly.
Estelle looked upon her father with a face in the expression
of which was mingled wonder and disgust,
scorn and grief. But there was no fear, no terror
there! Her eyes shot like lightning; her lips seemed
on fire with the words that rushed to them, but could
not escape; her whole frame was pulsating with the
emotion that threatened to rend it. Thrice she essayed
to give utterance to her feelings; to pour upon
her father's head curses, and tears, and infamy. Her
utterance totally failed her; and thus she stood, leaning
slightly forward towards him, looking to him so
fearful, so awful! as if Heaven had written its own
judgment upon her forehead, touched her lips with the
burning coal of indignant justice, and lighted in her
eyes the intense fires of its consuming vengeance.
parchment dropped from his hands; and, involuntarily
stretching forth his arms towards her, with a look so
humble, so remorseful, that, overcome at seeing him,
whom, notwithstanding his errors, she loved with singular
attachment, becoming a supplicant to her, she
suddenly cried out, “Oh, my father! Heaven, not thy
child, should judge thee;” and, running forward and
throwing herself upon his neck, she burst into tears.
What a wonderful thing is human nature! How
mysterious the workings of the heart! It is a compass
with a thousand needles, and no fixed polar point.
It will never do to steer by while affection applies the
magnet; for, to which ever side it is offered, there
gather the needles of its thousand feelings, and she
magnetizes all! Estelle believed her father's conduct
had hardened her heart against him for ever. She
had desired to love him no more. But she knew not
the strength of natural affection, and that the chords
that bind the heart of a child to a parent are hardly
severed. She wept a moment on his shoulder, and he
smiled inwardly at the victory he had achieved; so
sudden was the transition on his part from the feelings
that had produced this change in her to triumph. He
now felt, because he knew not that the existence of
filial love did not necessarily involve approbation of
parental guilt, that he had gained her to his views, or,
at the least, that she would oppose him no farther. He
released her from his embrace with a kiss, and stooped
to pick up the parchment, of which Renault had not
made a motion to possess himself. Estelle thought
her father was changed in his purpose, and, approaching
Renault, said quickly,
“I pray thee, signor, depart now with thy gentle
sister. In quieter times I will seek her friendship.”
“Sweet lady,” said Renault, “I feel my sister will
ever find in thee both a protector and a friend. My
Lord Count, is it thy pleasure I should depart with my
sister?” he said, fixing his doubtful gaze on the governor,
who had heard his daughter's words.
“This parchment makes me the holder of both your
destinies,” he said, with the look of a man who loves
cruelty for itself, and felt that the exercise of it was
now in his power; “you are my slaves, and will
henceforward be at the pleasure of my will.”
“The possession of that parchment, Sir Count, can
give you no right over our liberties.”
“Thy mother hath conveyed it to me. While she
held it, her liberty, with thine also, was vested in herself.
She had the power to retain or transfer it. She
has transferred it to me. It being in my hands is
therefore evidence that I hold the power to establish
your freedom by placing it in the archives, or perpetuate
your bondage by destroying it.”
“In that case I should be under bondage, not to thee,
but to Jules Caronde,” he answered, with firmness.
“But if this Jules Caronde hath ceased to live?”
asked Osma, with a look of exultation he scarcely
strove to conceal.
“Then God, not thyself, tyrant, shall be our master,”
answered Renault, feeling now assured that the
fate of his sister was sealed, and that there was no escape
for her but through his own daring.
“Then call upon Heaven to aid thee!” shouted Osma,
in a fierce tone, attacking him with his sword with a
degree of fury that exposed Renault to imminent death,
trammelled as he was by the embracing arms of his
sister.
He nevertheless parried several blows with extraordinary
skill and self-possession, and kept him at bay
till Estelle, springing forward, caught her father's
sword-arm, and clung to it, so that he was unable to
use it, and in the act exposed his bosom to the point of
Renault's blade. But he forbore, for the sake of her
who had found such favour in his heart, to take advantage
of his adversary, and turned the point of his weapon
to the ground. At this instant, drawn thither by
the clash of steel, Rascas made his appearance.
“Where hast thou been, villain, when thy presence
was worth thy foul life?” demanded Osma, flinging
his daughter from him.
“Giving the last holy consolation to thy prisoner,”
he said, with a laugh that chilled the current in the
veins of Estelle, whose eyes were fixed upon him with
inquiring surprise as he entered.
“Hast thou dared to—”
“Nay, signor, he is well as yet. I have been but
comforting him with a picture of the pleasantness of
death when it is given by a true and steady hand, the
steel being sharp and three-edged. I did comfort him
with the thought that he would have an executioner
that knew his art, and could hit the large artery of a
man's heart in the dark.”
“Thou art a demon! Wherefore lingers the Moor?”
“He left me in the upper dungeon to return to thee.
Methinks I heard steel ringing. Shall I strike him
down for thee?” he asked, waving the stiletto slowly
before his eyes, as if measuring the distance he should
leap to reach the heart of the young quadroon, plainly
understanding the whole scene.
“Thou art too ready for blood, nor hast more conscience
in shedding it than a wolf. Use thy weapon
only if he resists. Slave,” added the count, sternly,
addressing Renault, “deliver up thy weapon and submit.
Thou seest odds are against thee.”
“Were the whole phalanx of thy myrmidons drawn
up to oppose me, they should not stay my path,” he
cried. Then looking fervently upward and saying,
“Protector of the innocent, nerve my arm!” he clasped
Azèlie in one arm, waved his sword in a wide sweep
above his head, and shouting, in a loud voice, “Stand
aside!” bounded with her towards the door.
Before the count or the assassin could recover from
their surprise, he was through it, and flying along the
passage towards the banquet-room. Estelle caught
her father by the neck to prevent him from pursuing
them; but he cast her violently to the floor and flew
after them, preceded already by Rascas with his uplifted
dagger.
“Harm not the maiden, but strike thy steel into the
slave's heart if thou reach him,” he shouted, as Rascas,
through the door of the inner banquet-chamber.
Renault cleared this room at a bound, and placed his
hand upon the spring of the private postern. It refused
to yield to his touch, for Osma had that morning
replaced it by another, the secret of which was known
only to himself. He uttered a cry of despair, not for
his own danger, but, alas! for that of one dearer to
him than his own life. He turned round just in time
to shiver in pieces the stiletto which was impetuously,
and with deadly aim, levelled at his heart, and with the
same thrust buried his sword to the hilt in the body of
Rascas. With an execration in language most fearful
and appalling, the assassin staggered backward and
fell at the feet of his master.
“What hast thou done, slave?” demanded Osma,
appalled at seeing this.
“Rid the world of a monster,” answered Renault,
menacing his surviving pursuer with his reeking sword.
“Approach thou another step, and even thy daughter,
whose shrieks now ring through the palace, shall not
save thee. I am a desperate man, Sir Count, and
calm and collected as I am desperate. Beware how
thou bringest upon my head thy blood!”
The Count of Osma stood before him trembling
with rage and vengeance, when the sound of advancing
feet, as of armed men hastening along the paved passage,
reached his ear. Renault also heard it, and,
bending his face over the colourless cheek of his sister,
he whispered a few words in her ear, to which she replied
by a look of heavenly resignation, though with a
slight shudder in her whole frame. The sound approached,
and the next instant the entrance was filled
with men-at-arms, and Osma's features lighted up with
the most intense and savage joy. Pointing to Renault,
he cried,
“Ye could come at the shrieks of a wench, but are
deaf to the voice of your chief. Seize him, and bind
him hand and foot! Slave!” he added, triumphantly,
“now is thy sister mine.”
“Tyrant, she is Heaven's!” he answered, sublimely,
elevating his sword, and calmly directing the point of
it towards her bosom.
“Hold, rash youth!” cried a voice that made even
the soldiers give back, as they were advancing to obey
their chief.
It arrested his sword as it was suspended above her
heart. At the same instant the sorceress stood in the
midst.
“Lay not thy hand upon her, Renault; she is under
Heaven's protection, and will come to no harm.”
Then advancing through the men-at-arms, who gave
way before her, and putting authoritatively aside the
sacrificing weapon of the brother, she knelt and kissed
reverently, as before, the hand of Azèlie, who suddenly
felt towards her a degree of confidence and
trust that she could not account for. The mysterious
woman then turned towards the Count of Osma, who,
though startled by her appearance, was much less
moved than he had been hitherto, and seemed to regard
her intrusion with impatience rather than personal apprehension.
She seemed not to notice this; but, coming
near, and standing full before him, said, while her
glittering glance made his own menacing gaze quail,
“Garcia of Osma, what wouldst thou, that I see
thee thus with a drawn sword in thy hand, lust and
anger in thine eyes, and vengeance, like a cloud, darkening
thy brow! armed men at thy back, and a wounded
man at thy feet?”
“Hence, woman! I defy thee. I know thee not.
Thou art an impostor, that by accident hath discovered
the key to my conscience, and hast used it for thine
own ends. Hence! Thou shalt never stand between
me and my pleasure. Depart in peace! Dare to linger
here a moment longer, I will bid my soldiers seize
thee, and have thee burned at the stake.”
“Ha, ha! Garcia Ramarez! Thou fearest me not!
Thou knowest me not! Hast thou forgotten already
the evidences of the power I have over thy soul, shown
thee in thy tent?”
“Avaunt, fiend!” he cried, the recollection suddenly
returning upon him with painful horror.
“Nay, I will show thee that I have still the bondage
of thy soul. Hear! Hast thou forgotten the name
of Zillah? or the olive bower of the private gardens
of Asmil?”
“Who art thou, in the name of all good and holy
spirits?” he exclaimed, recoiling from her with infinitely
more dread than he had yet exhibited in her
presence.
“I am thy evil spirit, and the protector of the maiden
thou pursuest with thy unholy passion. Know that
I have watched over her from the hour thou first beheld
her; have been near her in her greatest peril; but
have permitted thee to do what thou hast hitherto done,
that thy condemnation may be the heavier. Thou
hast had no power to injure her, for my instant presence,
with the hold I have upon thy spirit, would ever
have struck thee powerless.”
“Wherefore, then, hast thou permitted her to be
pursued even to the death, if thou art what thou sayest?
Thy hand could not have stayed the dagger
that was directed by her own hand to her own heart!
Thy speech betrays itself.”
“That dagger is in thy own possession. Let me
see it!” she asked, with a scornful smile.
She took from him the delicate weapon that he had
wrested from Azèlie, and fearlessly struck it against
her own breast. She raised her hand again, and
showed the blade of the stiletto was sheathed in the
handle, and that the blow with it had been harmless.
“How came she by that weapon? There never
was but one like that—”
“And thou didst leave that one in the gardens of
Asmil! And I found it this evening upon her toilet
ere thou didst go to steal her away, and, loosening the
secret spring, replaced it.”
“She knew not of it, then?”
“No; but looked upon the false weapon as her
trusty friend. I foresaw what would follow! I knew
thy soul! I saw you bear her away under the cover
of darkness, and knew the danger she would be subject
to; yet left her not wholly to thy power. For I
did desire thee, for reasons thou wilt soon learn, to
carry out thy wickedness to its top vent, and also to
test her own virtue and resolution. It was for this I
left her to thee in this recent peril, having the power
to help and prevent. Now, Garcia of Osma, the time
approaches for thy judgment! Thy wickedness hath
nearly its fulness! The day, in hope for which I have
passed sleepless nights and weary days, lest mischief
should, meanwhile, befall this gentle maiden, is near at
hand.”
“What meanest thou?” he asked, impressed by the
solemnity and warning tones of her voice.
“On that day my meaning shall be written in thy
soul in letters of fire. Thou claimest this maiden?”
she then said, quickly and abruptly; “methinks thou
claimest this maiden as thy slave?”
“By the laws of the land she is my bondwoman!
She and her haughty brother are my slaves!” answered
Osma, aroused to a sense of his present interests
by her sudden question, and losing, under the returning
influence of it, his emotions of surprise and awe.
“Be it so. Yet, by the same laws, an individual
declared to be a slave has a privilege of demanding a
trial, and, before the highest tribunal of the land, to
challenge the accuser to prove his claim. Is not this
the statute?”
“It is,” he answered, hesitating, and with a look
that betrayed his suspicion of her aim.
“Count of Osma,” she said, addressing him with
commanding severity, “though thou fearest not Heaven
nor regardest man, yet thou hast a guilty conscience
within that makes thee tremble. To this conscience
I hold the key! By thy fear of me and dread
of my power, I command thee to let thy claim to this
maiden be tried before the public tribunal. If she be
be free, let her go free. Challenge trial, maiden!”
“Oh no, no!” shrieked Azèlie, in whose heart hope
had sprung up while the sorceress was speaking;
“never, never! Let me die! Oh, my brother, slay
me with thine own hand!”
Renault, who had also indulged hopes of his sister's
escape through her, now gazed upon this extraordinary
woman with indignation, and cried out fiercely,
“Who art thou, that triflest with the liberty of a
maiden? Thy words were but now awakening confidence
in her breast, only to be followed by deeper despair.
If this tyrant Osma, whom this proposal seems
to gratify, is to be our judge, let the sentence here be
given, and the spirit of this helpless child at once be
released to a better world.”
“Osma sits not as judge where he is to stand as
accuser,” answered the sorceress.
“Then I consent not to it,” replied the count, quickly.
`Thou darest not refuse. It is my command,” she
said, authoritatively.
“Be it as thou wilt; 'twill defer my triumph but a
few hours. The council shall be summoned forthwith.
By the rood! this challenge of trial suits my humour.”
“Summon thy council, but summon them from the
seventh day from this,” she said, sternly. “It is the
Christian feast of St. Michael and All Angels.”
“Wilt thou madden me?” he cried, between rage
and fear at the words.
“Obey!” she responded, solemnly.
“I will, wonderful woman!”
“I then challenge thee, in the name of Renault and
Azèlie, who are called quadroons, and declared by thee
to be thy slaves, to prove thy claim in open tribunal,
or ever after hold thy peace! Dost thou accept the
challenge?”
“I do,” he answered, knowing not that he was herein
sealing his own doom.
“Therefore, until the day of trial, let them both remain
prisoners in their own dwelling, with such a
shall lead thee to place,” she said, with singular authority.
The Count of Osma, whose mind seemed to be directed
by an irresistible fatuity, after a brief hesitation
answered,
“It shall be done. Let there be detached a guard
of twenty faithful men-at-arms,” he said, addressing
the officer who commanded the soldiers present, “to
escort these prisoners to their own house. See that
they are strictly guarded; for every head among you
shall answer for their forthcoming on the day of trial!
Now, Lil,” he said, changing his manner with that
readiness characteristic of him, playfully addressing
his daughter, who had followed the soldiers her shrieks
had brought into the banquet-room, and who all the
while had stood beside her father, listening with the
deepest sympathy and interest to the progress of the
fate of the unfortunate quadroons; “now, my Lil, you
will give me credit for forbearance and leniency.
Thou seest that in the matter of the rebellious councillors,
I did as thou didst desire; and that I condescend,
with the proofs of their bondage in my hands,
that the accused here present shall have fair and honourable
trial.”
Estelle faintly smiled and shook her head; then approaching
Azèlie, to whom all seemed like a dreadful
dream, assured her of her protection, and soothed her
with the confident assurance of her ultimate happiness.
Poor Azèlie! besides her own fate, she wept for that
of Henrique! The uncertainty that hung over him
was more dreadful for her to endure than her own
present misery. The trial held out to her no hope;
and even acquittal she felt would be wretchedness, if
Don Henrique was lost to her for ever. Estelle knew
not all the wo of her young heart, and could not comfort
her. Looking timidly up into the face of the brother,
she sighed as she thought, “Heaven hath given me
love for this noble youth to slay me! I may not
cherish love for one of an accursed race! How proud
be of a race of slaves? Oh, that I had never seen
him, or that, seeing him, the knowledge of his degrading
blood had never come to my ears! I will let my
love die where it sprung up, but I feel that I shall not
survive it! Why hath Heaven made me love where
love is degradation? Love hopelessly! love fatally!”
Such were the thoughts of Estelle, who, before she
knew the slavish lineage (not to be traced in his features,
indeed) of the noble-looking youth, whom she had
first seen in the banquet-room, had let love for him
steal into her heart; but now, from a sense of pride
and natural feeling, with painful and the most bitter
grief at discovering that her affections were placed on
one whom, however worthy, it would be infamy to
love, strove to crush it in its birth, even to her own
sacrifice.
The Count of Osma now gave orders to the captain
to conduct the prisoners from the palace to their temporary
place of confinement.
“Shall I bind them, signor?” he asked, approaching
Renault, who was restrained from farther resistance
by a look from the sorceress.
“Bind them! bind the maiden!” repeated she, on
hearing this, her eyes flashing fire, and her skeleton
finger lifted menacingly to the startled officer. “Guard
them well with a double phalanx, if ye will, but lay no
hand upon her! Lead on! I will go beside her.”
“See to their safety with your lives!” said the count,
as Renault, with his arms haughtily folded and an
erect port, passed him between two men-at-arms, who
guarded him with naked halberds in their hands.
Azèlie, by his order, was then placed in a palanquin
borne by four slaves, also environed by men-at-arms.
He would have approached her with a free lip as she
passed near him; but the eye of the sorceress, with the
strange power it ever had over him, held him to the
spot where he stood.
“Let thy wantonness slumber, Count of Osma, until
the day of trial. Then shalt thou soon enough possess
her, if judgment go against her.”
“I have no fear of the result, and do consent to the
trial, that these provincials may know I honour their
laws, and that I may rivet more firmly this haughty
maid's degradation. I have not forgotten the insult
she offered to me three years ago!”
“Remember the day of St. Michael!” she said, striding
past him as he stood in the midst of the banquet-chamber
alone, following with his eye the receding
palanquin with a lingering, hesitating glance, as if he
would yet recall it.
But fear, irresistible, superstitious fear, of the terrible
woman, and the reflection that, though delayed, his
triumph was sure and his victory certain—added to
which was his confidence in the fidelity of his guards
—prevented him from doing it.
“Virtuous daughter of a wicked father, fear not to
love where thine heart has been given. He is worthy
of all thou canst bestow,” said the sorceress, in a low
voice, as she overtook, in the paved passage, the palanquin,
beside which Estelle walked, clasping a hand
of the nearly senseless Azèlie, for whom, on account
of her beauty and sufferings, she felt a sisterly affection.
“What mean thy words, mother?” asked the conscious
Estelle, feeling her cheek burn and her heart
leap with surprise at this knowledge of a secret she
had not dared to trust to herself.
“I have marked thine eyes, and there is a language
in them that woman can read. Thou lovest, and yet
thou wouldst not love. Thy love is thy greatest grief,
and yet thy greatest joy. Thou wouldst crush it and
trample it; but, the more it is trod upon, the more luxuriantly
it will grow. But fear not to love; he is worthy
of thee.”
“I know he is all worthy, mother, but—” Here, surprised
at her boldness and unintentional acknowledgment
of her love, she hesitated, while the objection she
was about to give utterance to faltered on her tongue.
“But he is a quadroon, thou wouldst say, and his
blood attainted: I bid thee a third time love and fear
not, for he is as noble and free born as thyself!”
Thus speaking, she descended the broad palace
stairs at the extremity of the gallery after the palanquin,
which was already at the foot of it, leaving Estelle
near the door of her chamber, lost in wonder,
hope, and trembling surprise. She paused a moment,
dwelling on her words, and then entered her boundoir,
fearing yet hoping, doubting yet believing. What a
mine of happiness did the few words of the sorceress
open in her heart, which the moment before was so
wretched and heavy with the weight of its forbidden
love! How changed her whole nature! Yet she had
only the vague and mysterious language of this singular
woman to base her joy upon. But this to her was
everything. To the heart of a woman that loves, the
course of a feather on the wind, the song of a bird,
a dream of the night, is revelation! Estelle cherished
a sweet hope in spite of hope, and boldly fed her
love with the image of him she loved.
The Count of Osma also sought his cabinet after
giving orders to his slaves to bear the wounded Rascas
to a bed, and summon the surgeon of his staff to
attend him; he had found him too useful a retainer to
let him die while hope of life remained. In his cabinet
he saw the Moor, whom he had not seen since he
left it to conduct Don Henrique to his cell. The slave
met his master's eye with a look of fear, and a countenance
indicating secret treachery. Osma did not
discover all that it expressed, but saw enough in his
deprecating manner to excite his ever-lively suspicions.
“So thou art here, slave!” he cried, after surveying
the gigantic Ethiop, who at once had cast himself on
his knees before him. “Where hast thou loitered, that
thou hast not been present, nor heard my voice calling
to thee?”
The slave made no reply, but, submissively bending
his neck, offered to his lord his naked cimeter.
“This is ever thy defence, as if I were a Turk, and
my pastime were chopping off turbaned heads. Put
up thy cimeter, and to thy feet! I have no time to
dally with thee. Hie thee after my guard, follow them
me true report of the safeguard thither of this Renault
and his sister, and the disposition of the men-at-arms
about the house. Begone, for I have work for thy
deadly steel anon. Take now these keys which Rascas
hath laid here, and place them in thy belt, for I have
made thee Don Henrique's jailer in his stead.”
The Moor hung in his girdle the keys which Rascas,
after returning from the dungeon of Don Henrique, had
thrown down on hearing the clash of swords in Estelle's
chamber, and then left the cabinet with a rapid
step. The count listened till the echo of his footsteps
along the gallery ceased, and then, closing the door of
his cabinet, gave himself up to reflections upon the recent
events which had transpired, and began to dwell
upon the future with the exulting hopes of a bad man, to
whom wickedness has become so habitual as to be necessary
to his existence. He felt that there was an ill
omen in the day appointed, and laughed as if he would
mock his own fears. But the hollow sound of his laugh
terrified him, and, casting himself upon an ottoman, he
sought to banish in sleep the unpleasant memories
which the words as well as the presence of the sorceress
had awakened in his breast.
| CHAPTER IX.
SCENE BETWEEN RENAULT AND OSMA. The quadroone, or, St. Michael's day | |