University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
ST. MICHAEL'S DAY.—SCENE IN THE JUDGMENT HALL.

The sun rose on the morning of St. Michael's day
with unclouded splendour, kindling a thousand steel
points that bristled in the Place d'Armes, and dying
with deeper red the crimson banners of Spain, which,
bordered with gold, and gay with silken fringes, flaunted
above the heads of squadrons of cuirassiers and lancers,
and long lines of heavy men-at-arms. The
whole Spanish force was under arms, and in battle
array before the hall of council. The Count of Osma,
in the magnificent uniform of commanding-general,

mounted on his sable warhorse, and accompanied by
all his staff and aids save Montejo, rode along their
line with a proud eye and triumphant bearing. It
was near the hour for the sitting of the tribunal; and,
as he galloped across the Place d'Armes, reviewing
his troops with the pride of a soldier, he was weighing
in his mind the chances of an attack upon them from
the citizens, who, as the time of the trial approached,
began to evince a deep and ominous feeling of sympathy
for the prisoners, which he felt was not to be slighted.

All the streets of the city seemed to have disgorged
their throngs into the square. It was on every side
surrounded with a dense multitude of citizens waiting
the hour of trial, and only kept back from the council-chamber
by the presence of the military, and a strong
guard placed at every avenue of approach. It was Osma's
hour of triumph. The calm and settled vindictiveness
of his looks betrayed his consciousness that he
held his own judgment in his own hands, while the
scorn with which he surveyed the imposing display he
had made for the trial told that he felt it was to be but
a masquerade of justice, and that he looked upon the
whole as an amusing pageant, to which he had consented
to gratify his vanity and manifest his power, while
it should make more signal and public the degradation
and infamy both of Renault and Azèlie.

At ten o'clock the roar of artillery announced the
opening of the tribunal; and Osma, with his aids and
chief officers, dismounting from their horses, entered
the government-house and ascended to the Hall of
Council. With a haughty port, he preceded them
through files of men-at-arms; and, entering the chamber
of the tribunal by a side door, advanced towards
the forum where sat the six judges in their sable robes
and badges of office. He took a seat upon a sort of
state chair on the right of it, yet so much lower that
he seemed rather a spectator than an actor in the coming
scene. The Moor stood like a statue behind him,
and Estelle, with anxious solicitude, trembling between

hope and fear, sat by his side. In a few moments after
he was seated, the wide doors of the hall were
thrown open, and the populace, rushing in, soon filled
the vast chamber to overflowing.

Reggio, the alfarez real, and one of the members of
the cabildo, was its president. After a deep and expectant
silence had prevailed over the hall for a few seconds,
he rose, and proclaiming, in a loud voice, the object of
the extraordinary sitting of the tribunal, commanded
the accuser to stand forth and be confronted with the
accused.

The Count of Osma rose from his chair with a derisive
smile of conscious power, and was about to advance
to the front of the tribunal, when his glance rested
on the advancing figure of the sorceress, who, with
her eyes fixed upon him, was making her rapid way
across the space between the tribunal and the door in
the direction of the spot where he stood. Before he
could give utterance to any command in relation to her,
she was already at his side, and had whispered in his
ear, in a low tone,

“There be two Indian warriors without, a chief and
his son, accompanied by a young man, who would witness
the trial, an' it please my Lord of Osma,” she said,
rather imperatively than as if seeking a favour.

“Let them enter and stand near the forum,” he answered,
in a loud voice. “This is no private matter;
'tis not the first trial on record a master hath had to
prove his right to his own slaves. Know, citizens, I
have consented to this from my love of justice and respect
for the laws.”

In a few seconds she reappeared, conducting the
stately warrior Ihuahua, the prince his son, and Charleval,
who, save a sword at his side, was in the dress of
a creole citizen. When the emotion excited by the
sudden appearance of this party had subsided, and they
had taken a place near the tribunal opposite to Osma,
Reggio again called upon the accuser and accused to
stand before the forum. Osma, with dignified ease, advanced
in front of the judgment seat, the eye of the

warrior chief the while fixed upon him with an eagle-like
and searching glance. At the same instant, from
one of the long Venetian windows that opened upon the
corridor, guarded by a file of Spanish soldiers, appeared
Renault, with Azèlie supported upon his arm. His carriage
was haughty and calm, and as he met the eye of
Osma his own flashed back defiance. Azèlie was pale,
yet firm; and from the serene yet devotional aspect of
her countenance, and the repose of her manner, it
would seem she had a hope to sustain her above despair
even in that fearful hour. After a moment's silence,
the judge, turning to the count, asked,

“Dost thou claim the prisoners here arraigned as
thy slaves?”

“I do,” answered he, boldly.

“On what legal ground?” demanded Reggio, looking
at the people while he spoke rather than at the
count, as if he was willing that they should see how
bold justice could be, even with so high a party at its
bar.

“On that of a deed of manumission, signors, given
to their mother by the Marquis of Caronde, which, not
being recorded in the public archives, but placed by
him instead in the freed woman's hands who had been
his slave, gave her the power over her own liberty and
that of her issue. This parchment has been transferred
to me by the mother, and with it the surrender of
her own freedom and that of her children.”

Renault smiled haughtily while the count was speaking,
who, on his part, with malicious pleasure, secretly
marked his confident demeanour, supposing it to be
grounded on his knowledge of the loss of the parchment
to which he alluded, only the lower to sink his
hopes when he should find the equivalent resource he
had at command.

“Produce this instrument, my lord,” said Reggio.

“He may not, Sieur Reggio,” said Renault, taking
a folded parchment from his breast, and holding it unrolled
before the tribunal. “This is the instrument of
my sister's liberty and my own, on which our accuser

would found our servitude; and thus do I make myself
and her for ever free.”

With these energetic words he rent the paper in
fragments and cast them at his feet. A murmur of
surprise and pleasure ran through the multitude, which
Osma, with a voice of thunder, silenced by calling on
the alguazil mayor, who had ushered in the prisoners,
to “lead in Jules, marquis of Caronde.” Renault's
heart leaped to his throat, and Azèlie could scarcely
repress a shriek at this command.

In the midst of breathless expectancy, the chasseur
chief, pale and invalid, with his right arm in a sling,
entered the hall and sat down in a chair to which Osma
conducted him, placed near his own.

“There is yet one other—the quadroone-mother!”
said the count, turning to Reggio; and Ninine, with
looks that showed she had not forgotten her visit from
the sorceress, while she obeyed the command of Osma,
who had summoned her to attend in order to confront
Jules before the tribunal, was led in by the alguazil
mayor.

“Now, signors,” said the count to Reggio and the
judges, “first question this woman of this parchment.”

“Wert thou once the slave of the Marquis of Caronde?”
asked Reggio, with courtesy, playing subtly
his given part in the trial.

“Yes,” she answered, without lifting her eyes, and
with so much embarrassment that Osma glanced towards
her sharply, as if he expected her to commit
herself in some way. But she thought not of him or
his interests now. The fear of what was to follow
from the threats of the sorceress alone occupied her
mind.

“Did he draw, and then sign and seal for thee a bill
of manumission for thyself and children?”

“He did, signor.”

“Did he record it?”

“He gave it to me, signor.”

“Didst thou file it in the archives?”

“No, I kept it, signor.”

“And afterward transferred it to the Count of Osma
—was it not so?”

“I did, signor.”

“Thou and thy children are then his slaves by this
act?”

“My children alone, signor. I have been manumitted
by another instrument under his hand and seal.”

“Thou dost acknowledge, then, thy son Renault and
thy daughter Azèlie to be the slaves of the Lord of
Osma?”

“I do, signor,” she said, at first hesitating, but instantly
answering on meeting the fixed glance of Osma.

“Now, Signor Reggio,” said the count, with a smile,
addressing the judges, “having shown your tribunal
that I had once a clear and lawful right to hold the
prisoners in bondage, and all present having witnessed
the destruction of the instrument on which alone I
founded this right, it remains that the prisoners be acquitted
as freed man and freed woman, unless, by a
claim equally well-grounded, I can a second time prove
my right to their servitude.”

To these words Renault and Azèlie listened, now
with hope when he mentioned acquittal, then with
poignant despair when he alluded to a new ground on
which to base his claim to hold them in bondage.
They instinctively cast their eyes towards the implacable
Jules, in whose fierce countenance they too plainly
read the solution of Osma's words, and divined the instrument
through which he was a second time to aim
at their freedom.

“This argument is conclusive,” said Reggio. “If
you have farther evidence to substantiate your claim,
my lord, may it please you to produce it.”

“I pray you, my lord marquis,” said Osma, addressing
Jules, “present your claim before the tribunal.”

Jules rose, and, supporting himself with his remaining
hand on the arm of the chair, said in a low tone,
that was expressive of the bitter vindictiveness which
had brought him to the hall of judgment,

“Signors, as the only son and heir to the title and

French estates of the late Marquis of Caronde, and in
absence of any evidence to prove the manumission of
the prisoners Renault and Azèlie, I hereby claim them
as my slaves by virtue of my father's purchase of the
mother, and according to the letter and spirit of our
laws. Last night I discovered among his papers this
bill of sale, dated twenty-three years back, of the quadroone
Ninine, properly attested and sealed, which will
prove my claim.”

With these words he presented a paper to Reggio,
who, after examining and returning it to him, said, as
if surprised at this turn of the trial,

“This instrument, my lord marquis, confirms your
right beyond dispute.”

“This right, then,” said Jules, “I here transfer to
the Lord of Osma!”

With these words he placed the paper in the hands
of the count, and turning, with a hideous smile of anticipated
vengeance, his vindictive glance towards Renault,
sat down again, wearied with the effort he had
made.

Renault listened to the statement of his deadly foe
with growing horror, and heard the decision of the
Alfarez real as if a thunderbolt had burst upon his
head. But he felt not for himself. Azèlie had sunk
upon her knees beside him, and was looking pleadingly,
eloquently, and imploringly up into his face. He
knew what she meant. He knew that all hope was
past; yet he could not—he could not strike the blow!
His hand was in his bosom upon a dagger which he
had concealed there—but he could not draw it! Osma
now advanced towards them with the confident and exulting
step of triumphant wickedness. The crisis was
imminent. The weapon was half drawn from its covert,
when the sorceress, who had been seemingly an
unconcerned spectatress of all that had passed, stepped
between the count and his victims.

“Stand there! Garcia Ramarez,” she cried, commandingly.
“Renault, hold thy hand. My lords judges!

I have evidence to bring in this matter. Woman,”
she added, addressing the trembling Ninine, and
speaking in a commanding tone, that filled the house
and thrilled the blood of all who heard it, “now give
thy testimony, in truth, as thou hopest for mercy and
fearest retribution!”

Ninine fell upon her face before the tribunal, and
clasped her hands in despair, yet deprecatingly.

“Is this young man thy son? Speak truth, as thou
hopest for salvation!” cried the sorceress, laying her
hand upon Renault.

“No. He is the son of the Marchioness of Caronde.”

“Is yonder young man thy son?” she demanded,
pointing to Jules, who had already sprung to his feet.

“He is, dread being!”

“And thou didst transpose the one for the other in
their childhood, and thus deceive the Marquis of Caronde?
Speak truth!”

“I did,” answered Ninine, irresistibly, wholly overcome
at this wonderful knowledge of a secret which
she had believed locked in her own bosom, not knowing
that her thoughts were audible as she sat at her
casement the evening before.

“'Tis false!” shouted Jules; and, in the fierceness
of his indignant rage, he bounded towards her, seeking,
with his mutilated arm, the grasp of a sword-hilt
at his side.

Instantly recalled to the loss of his hand, he uttered
a volley of curses; and, maddened even more than by
the disclosure of Ninine, he literally stamped and foamed
with fury at this abortive attempt to grasp his sword.
Even Osma, though at such a moment, could not forbear
giving him a look of malicious pleasure.

“Here's a hand to help thee, gossip Jules!” cried
the shrill voice of Gobin; and, with the words, a withered
human hand fell upon the floor at the phrensied
creole's feet.

He turned deadly pale, and, staggering backward,

was compelled to support himself by the balustrade of
the tribunal.

“What means this, signora?” asked the count of
the quadroone-mother, with stern surprise.

“That I speak the truth, my lord.”

“She but seeks to make her bastard son noble, my
lords and judges,” cried Jules, with deep wrath, turning
to the tribunal. “There is no proof, my lords!”

While he was speaking, there was heard a general
exclamation of surprise from the populace, occasioned
by the entrance of the venerable Father Dagobert,
vicar-general of the province, in his full and flowing
canonical robes, who, with great dignity, slowly advanced
towards the tribunal. The judges rose at his
approach, and even Osma and Jules Caronde felt awed
at his presence. He was accompanied by two Carmelite
monks, in their tawny-coloured scapulars of
serge, with girdles and sandals.

“My lord vicar, I did leave thee in Cuba a month
since,” said Osma, courteously; “I welcome thee
back.”

“My lords and judges,” said the vicar-general, after
the excitement caused by his presence had in a degree
subsided, “I have intruded into this court to bear testimony
to the evidence already delivered by this quadroone
woman, which I have listened to from the anteroom!”

“Does your reverence mean to prove that she hath
spoken truth?” asked Reggio, with astonishment.

“Hear my testimony, and judge! When I was on
the eve of embarking for Cuba, the late Marquis of
Caronde, being on his deathbed, sent for me to confess
and give him absolution. In his confession, be declared,
by his hopes of Divine mercy, that the young man
called Renault the Quadroon was his legitimate son by
the marchioness his wife, and the young man, known
as Jules Caronde, was his son by the quadroone Ninine.”

“'Tis a foul lie, lord vicar!” cried Jules.

There was a general murmur of pious horror at this

impious assertion, while Reggio and the judges started
from their seats with astonishment.

“Nay, son, thou hast forgotten thyself,” said Father
Dagobert, mildly. “This is to thee a bitter
truth!”

“I challenge proof!” demanded the degraded young
man. “St. Peter himself should not prove this damning
charge on his own assertion!”

“I forgive thee, my son, for thou hast reason for bitterness.
The sin be with those who have done this
thing,” said the vicar-general, looking sternly at Ninine,
who knelt in silence and despair before the tribunal.

With these words he drew from the folds of his
vesture a sealed parchment. Then addressing the
judges, he continued,

“In the midst of my lord marquis's confession, respected
signors, he took from his pillow this paper,
sealed with his own private signet, and, saying that it
was a full confession, under his own hand, of his being
a party to such great injustice, desired me to make
such use of it for the advantage of the true heir as,
with reverence for his own memory, I should see fit;
taking from me, at the same time, a most solemn promise
to see his son restored to his hereditary right. The
ship that was to bear me to Cuba was already under
sail, and I hastened on board. I returned but half an
hour since in a barque that hath arrived from the Havanna;
and, hearing of this trial, hastened hither to
save the innocent and confound the guilty.”

Reggio received the pacquet, and, examining the
seals, held it towards Jules, on whose finger was his
father's signet with which the impression on the wax
had been made, and demanded if that was his father's
seal. The young man was silent from conviction;
and Reggio, at the command of the vicar-general,
broke the three seals, and read aloud the confession,
written in his own hand, of the marquis, to the facts
stated by the vicar-general. After accusing Ninine
the Quadroone of the guilty acts charged to her, he

prayed that, although, through a criminal weakness, he
could not bring himself to punish her, he trusted she
would be brought by a just tribunal to the punishment
her crimes merited.

“There remains now,” said Reggio, after the surprise
created by the reading of his confession had subsided,
“two points to be made clear. The first is, the
authenticity of the handwriting; and the second, the
truth of the confession of the accused party, Ninine.
Is this your father's handwriting?” he demanded of
Jules.

The young man made no reply; but its genuineness
was proved by comparison, in addition to the testimony
of the vicar-general, with other authentic instruments
written with his own hand. “Art thou guilty
of the charge of which thy late lord and master hath
charged thee?” he then demanded of Ninine.

“Guilty,” she gasped rather than articulated.

“Dost thou swear, in the presence of Heaven, that
Renault the Quadroon is the son of the Marchioness
Caronde?”

“I swear.”

“Dost thou swear, in the presence of Heaven, that
Jules, known as the Marquis of Caronde, is thine own
son?”

“I do.”

“My Lord of Osma,” said Reggio, with the decision
and coolness he had exhibited to the count throughout,
and whom he had made to feel that himself was
judge there, and not he, “this seems the clearest testimony.
Have you aught to say against it?”

“Nothing, so that it bear not against the maiden,
though by it I lose a slave; and,” he added, ironically,
turning to Jules, “my friend here a marquisate.”

“Dost thou mock me?” demanded Jules, fiercely.

“Nay, being thy mother's son, thou art my slave,
and I cannot mock thee,” answered Osma, with derision,
exulting with the malice of a bad man in the
wretchedness of his late partner in guilt.

“Thy slave, proud count! Neither is thy slave!”

cried the sorceress, sternly. “Jules Caronde, behold
thy master!” she commandingly added, pointing to
Renault.

Jules ground his teeth, and the count, with a laugh,
turned on his heel, while the sorceress, with her withered
finger still stretched towards Renault, kept her
full eye upon the writhing features of the chasseur
chief.

Renault had heard the testimony of the vicar-general,
listened to the reading of the confession and to
the subsequent opinion of the judges, with silent amazement
and incredulity, which each moment gave way to
the full head of proof that met his doubts: doubts not
because the evidence was weak, but that the truth was
too great for his belief. At length he felt the confirmation
of his true position, and with proud and grateful
feelings bent over Azèlie to congratulate her, forgetting,
in the moment of his own triumph and honours,
that she was no longer his sister. Her looks of sorrow
and despair instantly recalled him to the painful
consciousness that she was not included in his change
of condition. She would have withdrawn herself from
his manful and brotherly shelter, but he held her to his
heart and whispered,

“Nay, sweet sister! I am still thy brother—still
Renault to thee.”

“I am thy slave, Renault!”

“Never! no, never!”

At this moment an individual, who had some time
stood within hearing, wrapped in a cloak and wearing
his hat low over his brows, stepped up, and, pressing
Renault's hand, said, in a low tone of voice,

“I congratulate thee, my noble marquis! Thy place
here is now better supplied by me,” he added, receiving
the hand of Azèlie from that of Renault.

“It is the opinion of this tribunal,” now said Reggio,
rising with dignity, “that Renault, lately called the
Quadroon, is the rightful heir of the late Marquis of
Caronde, and can, therefore, be no slave; but, on the
other hand, is a free citizen and a noble-born gentleman.”

At these words Estelle instinctively gave utterance
to a cry of joy, and in the presence of the whole assembly
rushed forward, half way met by Renault, and
was clasped to his true and manly heart.

“S'death! This is a fair scene!” exclaimed the
count, amid the general surprise. “Love hath been
at hide and seek in my palace!”

“If my Lord of Osma,” continued the judge, after
a moment's pause, “presses the claim, Jules, lately
known as the Marquis Caronde, may be clearly proven
to be his slave, inasmuch as he now stands in the position
the most noble Renault, marquis of Caronde,
so lately occupied. Is it your pleasure to urge this
point, my lord?”

Before Osma could give the reply that rose to his
lips, the disgraced Jules, who for the last few moments
had been fixing his eyes upon his kneeling and wretchedly
guilty mother, with an expression in which was
concentrated all his fierce wrath against her, suddenly
leaped forward like a wild beast, and with his left hand
seized her by the throat. His clutch was like that of
the tiger fixed in the flesh of its victim. She became
instantly livid in the face, and her eyes were forced
out. The first joints of his fingers were hid by the
depth and strength of his pressure. Osma caught his
wrist, but the hand was immoveable, and his hold upon
the throat deadly as his vindictive energy.

“By Heaven! loose thy clutch, madman,” cried the
count, “or I will sever thy hand like its fellow with a
blow of my sword.”

The only reply he received was a demoniacal and
glaring stare, that convinced him madness had taken
the seat of reason. He forbore the blow, and with
the assistance of Renault and the alguazil mayor, finally
succeeded in tearing him from his mother.

She was already dead! He had broken her neck.

By the command of Osma, he was instantly dragged
forth from the hall to a place of confinement, while
the body of the unfortunate and guilty woman was removed.
It was followed by the tearful eyes both of

Azèlie and Renault; for to the one she was still a
mother, and to the other she had ever been as one.

The sorceress, to whom the appearance of the vicar-general,
thus controlling the subsequent progress of
events, was an incident unlooked for, now approached
Don Henrique, and said warmly,

“Did I not bid thee keep within the crowd? Leave
the maiden to me. Osma's eye is already arrested
by thy guise!”

The young man obeyed; and, when the count approached
to demand who he was, was already lost in
the throng, while the sorceress remained by Azèlie,
sustaining her with one arm about her waist. Ere
the count spoke to the maiden, as it appeared to be
his intention to do, he suddenly addressed the Father
Dagobert, who was standing near by, now a spectator
only.

“Hast thou, my lord vicar,” asked he, sarcastically,
“any confessions touching this gentle quadroone,
that I may not take her to mine own palace as my
slave?”

“None, my lord, save those I fear thou wilt with
sorrow make in thy death-hour, if thou doest the
wrong thou contemplatest in this matter,” answered
the vicar-general, with fearless reproof.

“I am my own conscience-keeper, priest,” retorted
the count, with haughty displeasure, turning from him
towards Azèlie. “Fiend!” he said, as his eye fell on
the shielding form of the sorceress, “thou art ever
crossing my path like an evil omen. Transfer the
maiden to me, and stand aside!”

“Touch her not, Garcia Ramarez!”

“I will have thee seized.”

“I laugh at thy power.”

“Resign thy charge!”

“Wouldst thou receive her as thy slave or thy mistress,
noble governor?” she scornfully demanded, without
moving.

“Is she not my slave now?”

“Ay, more to thee than thy slave, Garcia of Osma,”

she replied, while the deepest meaning seemed
to speak out at her eyes, as they rested upon his face.

“What is thy meaning, woman,” he demanded, with
the quick suspicion of some covert design.

“Thou shalt soon learn!”

She then waved her hand commandingly towards
the tribunal, to the immediate actors in the scene before
it, and to the whole assembly. Having by this act
drawn the attention of every eye in the vast hall, she
drew herself to her utmost height, and rested her gaze
full upon the face of the Count of Osma, with something
of the expression with which the inquisitor
watches the countenance of his victim while he is inflicting
the torture.

“My Lord of Osma! listen to the story of a Spanish
knight I have to tell thee. 'Tis eighteen years
ago that a youthful noble of Castile was taken prisoner
by the Moors and carried captive to Morocco. The
emperor compelled him to labour in the gardens of his
palace; and his occupation was to draw water from
the marble fountains to wet the plants that grew
around the latticed windows of the harem. The emperor
had an only daughter. I see thou art listening
to me, governor!”

“Go on,” said Osma, with interest.

“She was fair as the lily when the snow-cloud lingers
between it and the sun; as gentle as the dove; as
beautiful in limb as the antelope; and as fleet as the
mountain roe. Her voice was the rival of the nightingale;
and her spirits were gay and happy as the
heart of the morning lark when he mounts upward,
singing, as he goes, to welcome the sun. Her hair
was jetty as night; and from the shadow of the curls
that floated above her brow, her eyes shone out like
twin-stars, inviting to a heaven of love. Dost thou
listen, Count of Osma?”

“I do; I pray thee go on!”

“From her lattice she saw the youthful knight, and
he found favour in her eyes for his beauty and misfortunes.
From day to day she gazed on him unseen,

till love at length stole away her heart. She sought
him in the garden and told her love. Evening after
evening they met in the olive-bower of Asmil; and to
the falling of distant fountains, the music of the nightingale,
and the sighing of zephyrs laden with perfumes,
they loved, and discoursed of love, even until
the tints of the morning tinged the rosy orient. At
length the young princess secretly became the bride
of the young Castilian knight, none save the priest of
Mohammed and her faithful slave being present. She
now proposed his escape, and to fly with him. The
hour came for the midnight flight, and he betrayed her!
The mourning Zillah was left desolate! The husband
of her hand and heart, the idol of her soul, had proved
false and unworthy the pearl of her princely love!
Dost thou listen, count?”

He silently waved his hand for her to proceed, as if
he dared not trust himself to speak, while the most
absorbing and anxious interest was apparent in every
feature.

“From that hour she drooped. Her faithful slave
at length proposed that she should seek him in his own
lordly halls, accuse him of his perfidy, avenge her
wrongs by his presence, and then die at his feet.

“They reached, at length, the shores of Castile, and
came one stormy night to the castle of her treacherous
lord. It beetled over the sea, was crowned with
majestic towers, and encompassed by high and stately
walls. From every window and casement blazed a
light. It was a festal night, and on St. Michael's eve!
They landed weary, yet full of hope, and entered the
wide gates of the castle with a crowd of guests. They
moved on, and came to a vast hall hung with banners
and armour. Knights and nobles, dames and maidens,
were gathered there, and every eye was fixed with
interest upon a group standing before an altar. She
saw that it was a bridal group. The priest was reading
aloud the service, and the bridegroom and bride
were standing before him, with hand clasped in hand.
In the former Zillah beheld him she sought. Rushing

forward, she shrieked, `my husband!' and fell at his
feet senseless. The ceremony ceased; but the bridegroom,
instantly recognising in the princess his wife,
sternly commanded his servants to bear off the mad
woman, and cast her forth into the storm, and then he
calmly bade the rite proceed. Dost thou hear the tale,
my lord?” she asked, fixing upon him her full, dark
gaze.

He was silent; but, with compressed lips and glassy
eyeballs, kept his eyes upon her, as if they were
fixed by a spell.

“Her faithful slave,” continued the sorceress, “bore
her from the outer gate, where the menials had cast
her, to a hut on the forest's edge. There, before
morning, she gave birth to an infant daughter, and left
it her own spirit. The poor peasants dug a grave for
her, and she was buried the next night, alone and unwept,
save by her devoted slave, who then took the
child to the castle of its father, that he might take pity
on it; for she feared the innocent would perish in her
arms. As she approached the gate, he came forth
with horse, and hound, and horn. With the child in her
arms, she stood in his path. He recognised the slave,
and she told him the fate of his wife, and implored
him to cherish her child. The sight of the infant
inflamed him with rage and shame as he rode in
the midst of his friends, and, with a curse upon them
both, he set his hounds upon her to hunt her down.
She escaped from them barely with her life to a lonely
hamlet. There an assassin sent by him found her;
but by her arts and power she escaped, and bound his
soul to fear; and he spared the child. There long she
hid herself, and became as a mother to this hapless
daughter of a Moorish princess, and heiress of a noble
Castilian name. I see thou dost listen to my tale, Sir
Count!

“When the babe was two years old, she took the
long-maturing resolution to avenge its mother's death,
even with the life of its cruel father. She sought him in
his castle, but learned he was on a foreign battle-field.

She followed him from land to land, and from sea to
sea, and at length took ship for Cuba, whither she
heard he had sailed. But she was taken captive by a
pirate ere she reached the island, brought to this port,
and exposed openly for sale in the market-place.
Fearing lest the child should be taken from her, she
called it her own. At length, the mistress of the governor,
Ninine the Quadroone, became her purchaser;
and by-and-by, struck with the child's beauty, attempted
the life of the supposed mother, that she might
make it her own, contemplating the wealth and consideration
her charms would bring her when she should
grow into the bloom of girlhood. Her victim, however,
escaped the death designed for her, and, feeling
secure of the child's safety for the present, returned to
her own country to gather wealth for this beloved
daughter of her deceased mistress. But slavery and
disaster detained her from the beloved child until a
few days before thy arrival hither, Count of Osma,
when she found all her watchful care was necessary to
save her from wicked persecutors, whom her unfolding
beauties had made enemies to her peace and honour.
I have now done. Does the tale interest thee?
Does it please thine ear?”

Osma continued for a moment gazing upon her after
she had ceased speaking; while the Moor Sulem,
no less interested in her tale, showed by his countenance
he had found the key to her mystery. The
count, then starting, as if from a fearful dream, caught
her by both wrists, and cried, with an impetuosity that
was fearful, while his eyes, averted from her, were fixed
upon the beautiful, pale, wondering face of Azèlie,

“Tell me, fearful woman! Is this my child—is
she my daughter? Speak!”

“Behold her mother's picture!” she answered, taking
from Azèlie the locket she had before given to
her, and exhibiting to him the likeness of a lovely Moorish
princess in the richest costume of her country.

He gazed upon it with a look of startling recognition,

and then glanced from it to the face of the maiden.
To every eye the resemblance was perfect.

“Didst thou not once give that miniature to Zillah,
thy Moorish bride?” asked the sorceress, sternly, seeing
that he evidently bore reluctant testimony in his
heart to the truth of her tale.

“If it be the same, it has a miniature of myself
within it.”

“Give it me,” cried the sorceress.

She touched a spring, and the locket opened, exposing
within a likeness of a young cavalier, to which
the Count of Osma still bore a striking resemblance.

He made no reply, but rapidly walked the space in
front of the tribunal in troubled thought, while shame
and disappointment, rather than remorse and paternal
love, kindled his cheek. His troubled eye rested often
on Estelle, pale and almost lifeless in the arms of Renault.
To acknowledge Azèlie as his daughter would
be to repudiate Estelle. His love gave excuse for his
undiminished passion for the Quadroone, and he came
to a characteristic decision.

“Thy story is false, thou Moorish impostor! a stale
invention, begotten by thy ambition to see thy offspring
received among the noble. Ho, guards! Seize her!
Bear her off, and answer for her forthcoming with
your heads! Algauzil mayor! I commit this maiden
to your custody! If thou valuest thy neck, see to
her safety. This masquerade hath lasted full long. I
will now play the governor and judge. Sit back with
thy fellows, Signor Reggio. I will take my seat again,
and, 'fore Heaven! my authority with it!”

“Garcia!” cried a deep voice, that made the count
pause, as if chilled to marble, with one foot resting on
the lower step of the forum to which he was in the
act of ascending.

“Garcia!” again spoke the same voice, in tones of
warning and reproof.

The count trembled.

“Garcia!” a third time menacingly spoke Ihuahua,
to whom all eyes were now turned.

“Who calls?” asked the count, with a deadly paleness
on his cheeks and lips, while he seemed as if he
would sink into the ground.

“Thy brother!” answered the venerable warrior;
and, advancing near, he threw off his loose robes, and
stood before him in the costume of an elderly Spanish
cavalier.

“Does the sea give back its dead?” cried Osma,
with fear.

“Dost thou remember me?”

“Thou art my elder brother, whom I believed dead!”
he cried, with horror and despair.

“Thy will was surely my death, Garcia, but Heaven
gave me escape by the very wickedness of the
means thou didst employ to execute it. More gold
than thou didst promise Rascas bought him from thee.
He saved my life and secured my escape, returning to
thee his own report of the execution of thy commands.”

“'Tis false! I sought not thy death!”

“Behold the instrument of thy intended crime,” cried
the sorceress, directing the attention of all to Rascas,
who leaned upon two men in front of the crowd. “He
hath long since confessed all to me!”

“Ha! Rascas!” cried Osma, with delight, seeing
him present. “Bear truly thy testimony!”

“Thou wilt little like it,” answered Rascas, faintly,
but ironically. “I obeyed thy commands all but the
death, and by chance finding a dead fisherman on the
beach, severed his head and carried it to thee for thy
brother's, for which thou gavest me three hundred golden
moidores—a rare price for a fisherman's head! It
was on St. Michael's Day I brought thee the gory sight.”

“Villain, thou hast destroyed thyself for this treachery,”
cried Osma, fiercely. “Am I bearded? Am I
baited? Are both hell and heaven armed against me,
that I am thus held at bay by ye all?”

“Garcia Ramarez,” said Ihuahua, or rather Don
Louis, count of Osma, as he had shown himself to
be, “thou art bayed at by none save the bloodhounds
of thine own guilty conscience! I am rejoiced to see

thee feel! Yet methinks a brother come to thee after
twenty years' absence should receive a better welcome
than that which sits upon thy dark and turbid brow!
I am indeed thy elder brother Louis! whom, taking advantage
of on a sick bed, thou didst imprison three
years in the lowest dungeons of my own castle, with
yonder assassin for my jailer; at whose hands, when
at length thou wouldst have slain me, I received more
mercy than at thine! From Spain I sailed for the
New World, disgusted with the land that bore upon
its green bosom a monster like thyself! With the
feelings of an anchorite, I buried myself in the wilderness
of America, but from circumstances was at length
induced to throw off my solitary life and unite myself
with its simple inhabitants. I married the daughter of
the prince of the tribe to which I attached myself, and
at his death became its chief. I had quite forgotten
thee and thy crimes, when, three years ago, I heard of
the attempted conquest, by the Spaniards, of this province,
and heard also that Garcia, count of Osma, was
their leader. From that moment I was filled with a
desire to behold thee, resolved, if I found thee a reformed
and penitent man, to leave thee to the possession
of thy wickedly-gotten rank and title; but if the
lapse of years had made thee gray in iniquity, to pluck
thy honours from thy brow, and degrade thee to thy
merited infamy and contempt.”

The voice of Don Louis was elevated at the close
to a stern and indignant tone. Garcia Ramarez listened
to him while he was speaking with a set lip,
bent brow, flashing eyes, a bright red spot on either
cheek, and a nervous contraction of the fingers of his
hands, that betrayed the fearful pitch of emotion to
which he was inwardly moved. When he had ended,
he drew in a long, hard breath, as if he would swallow
down the feeling that swelled in his throat, and said
through his teeth, in a low tone of the most ironical
bitterness and scorn,

“And how has Louis Ramarez found his brother
Garcia?”

“A chief devil in all but power,” answered Don
Louis, in a tone of horror and detestation.

“I will see whether I have power or not,” cried
Osma, bursting into a volcano of irresistible fury and
vehemency, while his inflamed visage and burning
eyes, with the passionate dilation and expansion of his
whole form and figure, made him appear the living
representative of the arch-fiend himself. Every eye
that looked upon him, and witnessed the effect of his
demoniacal phrensy, quailed with wondering dread.
“If I am not the Count of Osma,” continued he, “I
am at least the governor of this province, and have the
power to punish my enemies. Ho! Monterey! La
Torre! my guards! Seize this Count of Osma and
bind him! By the red rood! brother Louis, thou shalt
find I have power here! and no man, save Don Alphonso,
prince of Castile, from whom I received it,
shall deprive me of it. Seize and load him with
chains! How! Do ye hesitate?” he demanded, seeing
the men-at-arms, after advancing a step, stop and
look with surprise and alarm towards the windows
that opened upon the corridor.

His own quick, fierce glance followed theirs, and he
beheld with consternation, entering through every door-like
casement, a file of Indian warriors, armed with
spears and battle-axes, led by the young chief Opelousa,
who, a short while before, had retired from the
hall, and now reappeared dressed like a Spanish noble,
save that the war-eagle's plume still towered above his
head, in honour of the proud maternal blood that mingled
with his no less noble Castilian current. In an
instant of time, ere Osma could speak or move from
the spot where this extraordinary event surprised him,
the hall of judgment was filled with grim and painted
warriors, who ranged themselves by the sides and in
front of the tribunal, in stern and menacing silence,
overawing the Spanish soldiery.

“Garcia,” said Don Louis, with natural fraternal feeling,
after surveying upon his features the effect of this
sudden reverse of power, “I would forgive thee if I believed

contrition could find a home in thy heart. But
Heaven hath doomed thee to destruction, and sent upon
thee madness, the incurable madness of habitual iniquity.
Thy power here, as well as thy name and title,
must now end! Iniquity and crime have prospered with
thee during long years in their pursuit. But because
thou hast been suffered to go on for a time unchecked,
think not the vengeance of Heaven slumbers and will
never waken! Wickedness is sometimes permitted
to exist by infinite wisdom, that the sudden destruction
of its author may not involve the innocent in his punishment.
Thy lovely child has, in thine own case,
been thy guardian angel, and till now arrested the suspended
bolt from thy head! It hath at length fallen
upon thee! but not until Heaven hath provided her
another protector in the noble youth whose manly
arm is sustaining her in this trying hour. It becomes
a mortal like me to imitate Heaven. For her sake,
I will give thee half of my estate if thou choosest
to return to Spain. I will also withhold my attack
upon thy forces here—for are they not all my countrymen?—if
thou wilt now resign thy government.”

“To thee?” demanded Osma, degraded yet still
haughty.

“It is already mine! One thousand warriors, such
as you see here, whose will is my will, and who need
but the sign of a lifted finger to fall upon thy soldiery,
are within thy city's walls! Five hundred Louisianians
also have possession of its gates and barriers!”

“Were the leaves of thy forests warriors, and these
to a man within the town, and filling my palace and
council-chamber, I would not give up my power without
a struggle. It shall never be said Garcia of Osma,
or Garcia Ramarez, if thou wilt have it so, brother,
ever gave up a fortress without striking a blow for
its deliverance. I have lived a warrior, and I will die
with a weapon in my hand! Naught but death or
the command of my prince shall divest me of my authority!”

“Then resign it with what grace thou hast remaining,

tyrant, for thou wilt soon be divested of it,” cried
the gallant Montejo, entering the hall, bearing aloft a
silken banner of the house of Castile, and approaching
the tribunal. Behind him followed a pursuivant, in the
gorgeous apparel and armour of his rank and office.

“Montejo! Traitor!” shouted Osma, as he approached;
and then, seeing the pursuivant, he exclaimed
with surprise, “How is this? the king's herald,
Olivier de Vezin! What brought thee out of Spain?
To witness our disgrace?”

“Know, Count of Osma—” interrupted Montejo.

“My name is Garcia Ramarez,” said the governor,
with irony.

“Know then, Garcia Ramarez,” continued Montejo,
with some surprise, “that, hearing of thy imprisonment
of the prince Don Henrique, who voyaged with
thee hither, his rank disguised to all save thyself and a
few friends, I fled in the yacht which was to have
borne him beyond the reach of thy vindictive power,
to demand of the Governor of Cuba aid against thee.
Ere I had got to sea, our ship fell in with a brigantine
bound hither from Spain, having at Havanna taken on
board his reverence the vicar-general. On board this
vessel also came passenger the noble Olivier de Vezin,
his Catholic majesty's royal herald at arms. He is
present with me here, and will deliver his own message
and proclamation.”

Thus speaking, Montejo drew back a step for the
royal herald to advance, when, recognising beneath his
disguise Don Henrique standing beside Azèlie, who,
with Renault and the sorceress, were deeply intent
upon the development of events, he, with a cry of surprise
and grateful joy, cast himself into his embrace.

The herald, commanding the attention of the assembly
and tribunal, proclaimed, after the usual ceremonial
preliminaries, “That Providence, in its wisdom, having
removed Don Alphonso, prince of Castile and the Asturias,
Infante of Spain, and heir to the throne of Spain
and Castile, by death, without issue, it was the will of
his Catholic majesty that his royal and-beloved son,

the young prince, Don Carlos Henrique, of Aragon,
now Prince of Castile, heir and successor to the throne,
do speedily return to Spain from his voluntary banishment,
incurred,” continued the herald, “in dread of the
church, to which royal wisdom would have consecrated
him, lest by his marriage, the realm, in another generation,
should be torn by civil dissensions between rival
houses! But Heaven, in its inscrutable ways, having
put an end to the elder branch of the royal line, the
commands and statutes relating to the younger brother,
Don Carlos Henrique, are revoked; and he is hereby,
and henceforward ever will be, received and acknowledged
as Prince of Castile, and heir to the throne of
Spain and the Indies. God and Spain! Viva the
royal Prince of Castile!”

Garcia Ramarez heard this proclamation with an
expression on his countenance that was indescribable.
There was a smile just perceptible on his mouth, and
a triumphant expansion of the pupil of the eye as he
looked up and moved it round upon each face separately.
Don Henrique watched him, and, together witl.
Renault and the sorceress, understood what was passing
in his heart. His glance finally settled on Montejo.

“Didst thou not say but now, traitorous Montejo, that
it were a grace to resign my power, lest it should be
taken from me?” he asked, with malignant triumph.

“I did.”

“This proclamation of De Vezin, methinks, doth
not revoke my commission. When this beardless
Prince of Castile, whom Heaven would have on the
throne to make of the realm a royal masquerade—when
this new Infante shall bid me resign the power conferred
on me by his brother Don Alphonso, then will I
obey; but thou, traitor, shalt not live to see it. To
arms, Spaniards! To arms! Sound the battle-cry,”
he shouted, suddenly waving his sword, and sending
his loud voice far into the Place d'Armes. “Lancers!
dragoons! and men-at-arms! Spain and honour calls
on you to do battle for your conquests!”

“Hold, Spaniards!” shouted the voice of Don Henrique,

casting aside his disguise. “Behold in me Don
Carlos, the Prince of Castile! I command your allegiance
and obedience! Garcia of Ramarez! you
may well stand appalled! I am no spirit, but a living
man, whom Heaven hath raised up to be the instrument
of its vengeance. Thy power is ended! Thou
hast filled the measure of thy crimes, and justice and
vengeance wait for their victim!”

“Gobin 'll have to be gov'nor again,” said the fool,
who had crept upon the forum unobserved, and now
stood upon a chair of the tribunal.

“Thus do I mock ye all! Ha, ha, ha!” cried the
count, through his set teeth; and with a devilish and
most horrible laugh of mingled derision and despair,
he threw himself forward upon his sword point, and fell
pierced through the body upon the floor of the council-chamber.

A few words will close the tale.

The love and virtue of Azèlie were rewarded by the
hand of the prince, to whom, as granddaughter to the
Moorish emperor, she was nearly equal in rank.
When afterward, as reigning princess of Castile, she
presided over the court of her capital, she was distinguished
not less for her beauty than for her virtues,
with which she won the hearts of all around her; and
while she lived, Don Henrique never regretted that he
had bestowed his hand and princely coronet where he
had given his heart. But she lived not to reach the
throne; and when, at length, Don Henrique, under the
designation of Carlos IV., seated himself upon it, another
and less lovely sat by his side.

Renault also, after the mourning for her father was
over, became united to Estelle. The gentle and melancholy
beauty of the Marchioness of Caronde, as well
as the noble bearing of the young marquis, were not
forgotten in Paris, even in the early part of the present
generation, by the surviving courtiers of the time
of Louis XIV.

Don Louis, the Count of Osma, having no reason to
dispossess Spain of the province of Louisiana by attacking

her troops, returned with his warriors to the
forests, to which habit and disgust of the world had attached
him, and died in old age, wept and honoured by
his adopted tribe; while his son, whom he had educated
with the object of one day inheriting the home and
titles of his ancestors, sailed for Spain with Don Henrique,
where the castle of Osma received him as its
rightful heir and master. Don Henrique took the
Moor with him, and thence sent him to Morocco.

The sorceress, whom her skill in Moorish astrology,
as well as the knowledge which circumstances, improved
by her own sagacity and subtlety, had enabled
to play such a mysterious and extraordinary part in the
foregoing scenes, and hold such an influence over the
minds, not only of the vicious, but the virtuous, became
the faithful and devoted slave of Azèlie, as she had
been of Zillah, where, at length, she died in Castile.
The grieved princess, her mistress, erected a tablet beside
a mausoleum, which her filial piety had built above
her mother's obscure grave, and long afterward mourned
her death. Rascas recovered from his wounds
through the healing balm administered to him by the
sorceress, and ended his life on the gallows.

Gobin was taken to France under the especial protection
of Renault, and being by him presented at court,
without the aid of his friend Boviedo, was long known
at Versailles as the rarest jester and wittiest fool of his
time. Boviedo expired suddenly on horseback, not long
after the death of his master, while in the act of blowing
his trumpet in honour of the arrival of a new governor;
thus dying, as it were, in harness, as became a
doughty Aragonese trumpeter.

Reggio and his council were left in charge of the
affairs of the province until Don Henrique sent out another
governor. Those whom Osma had imprisoned
were liberated. The remaining five of the Seven Frères
became faithful supporters of the Spanish government,
Charleval himself being made by Don Henrique colonel
of a regiment of creoles, which he formed from the

chasseurs and courreurs du bois, and was also created
a perpetual regidor of the superior council.

“Thus end I this BOKE; for as much as in wrytyng
of the same my penne is worn, myn hande wery, and myn
eyne dimmed with overmoche looking on the whit paper.”