University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
TWILIGHT SCENE BETWEEN LOVERS.

After the departure of Renault from the couch of
his sleeping guest, Don Henrique (for back to this period
does the story now return), the senses of the
wounded cavalier, it has been seen, were lulled to
sleep by the soft and distant music of the mandoline
and co-mingling voice of Azèlie. When he awoke,

the golden sunlight of a tropical afternoon shone aslant
into the court, and the atmosphere was of a still, dreamy
character, that seemed to invite to indolent repose all
living things. It was the voluptuous hour of the siesta,
when the dwellers in southern climes resign themselves
to the drowsy influence of the time, and households
and cities are buried in the deep repose of midnight,
until the evening breezes, that stir the lethargic air,
awaken them with renewed life and energies. But
Don Henrique required no sleep. Twelve hours of
undisturbed rest had invigorated him. He felt free
from pain, and all trace of suffering and illness had disappeared.
His spirits were fresh and elastic as his
body; and, save from the remembrance that he had
recently lost blood, he would not have known that the
usual condition of his bodily health had been interrupted.

“How perfectly well I am!” he said, on opening his
eyes. “If it were not that I am here,” added he, looking
around him, “I should believe I had been dreaming
of conflicts and wounds, of illness, and of a lovely
maiden watching my pillow. How my heart bounds
at the recollection of her scarcely earthly beauty! I
am now well, thanks to her tender care, and that of
her brave and gallant brother, and have no farther excuse
for intruding on their hospitality. I must depart,
yet would, methinks, lie wounded here for ever, for
her gentle company; I will see her ere I go, and thank
her for her charity, drinking in the while Love's poison
from the well of her dark eyes. Ha! I have slept
well! There sounds five o'clock, with a thick, muffled
tone, as if it would not wake the slumbering town.
How still is all, save the falling of the water in the
fountain, and the hum of flies that seek the shade to
sport in! It is quiet as midnight! Even the birds,
that last night made the orange groves without eloquent
with song, are now hushed! I will take this
time to loiter about the court and pleasant cloisters of
the mansion; for these Orleannois have a delightful idea
of domestic luxury, and a most perfect taste in the unison

of the useful and ornamental: surely this very
room hath no equal in Spain! Yonder carved and
gilded corridors, with their Venetian blinds and latticed
sides, invite to walk; while the music of falling
water, and, by moonlight, the singing of birds, and the
pleasant groves of orange-trees, are present to delight
the ear and eye. I will go and loiter there until my
lovely hostess or her brother awake; for methinks I
myself am the only one not sleeping in the town!”

He arose when he had thus soliloquized, and, as he
did so, a slave, whom he had not hitherto seen, advanced
from a recess with a bowl and ewer of iced-water
in his hand, and, silently kneeling before him, held them
for his service; another followed, bearing a snowy
napkin, and holding a silver tray, covered with vessels
and instruments for the toilet of the most elegant and
costly description. His surprise at their sudden appearance
did not prevent him from making the intended
use of their services; and having performed his ablutions
and made his toilet, he resumed his weapons.
Then, placing his Spanish bonnet beneath his arm, he
was about to demand of them whether their master
had returned, when, to his surprise, he found he was
alone.

“These slaves appear and disappear like magic,”
he said, vexed at their departure before he could learn
anything of either of his youthful hosts; “but, by'r
lady! they are bearers of sweet odours, and are skilful
at a cavalier's toilet. Jove ne'er had his beard perfumed
with such rich scent as the rogues have laid
upon my mustache withal! If they had ended their
handiwork by leaving me a cup of coffee or a—
Here am I served with a wish on my lip!” he cried,
as two more slaves, bearing salvers with coffee and
delicate refreshments, at this instant appeared. “This
is hospitality indeed, where one no sooner wishes than
his desire is gratified! These ebony gentlemen shall
not escape, like their fellows, unquestioned,” he added,
as he seated himself to the sumptuous repast they
spread before him.

“Now, garçons,” he asked, when he had completed
his grateful meal, to which his long fast enabled him
to do justice, turning to the slaves behind him, “prithee
tell me by whose orders I am thus princely entertained?”

The slaves crossed their hands upon their breasts,
shook their heads, and then touched their lips with a
fore finger.

“Are the rogues dumb, or know they not my speech?”
he asked of himself. “Where is your master? Say
his guest would speak with him!”

They again made a gesture rather of ignorance of
his words than of mysterious silence, as he was disposed
to attribute it to at first, and then, making an
obeisance, silently removed the salvers from before
him and disappeared from the room.

“I clearly see I cannot increase greatly in knowledge
from these speechless slaves of my hospitable entertainer,
and must fain be patient till he choose to
make his appearance in person. I feel in better health
and spirits than I have done since I left Spain. There
is magic in a maiden's nursing, or strange health is in
this southern air! I will forth into the court, where I
see the wind is slightly moving yonder acacia top,
and inspire it. Perchance fortune may favour me also
with a sight of the fair girl, whose image Sleep, with
noiseless burin, has engraven indelibly on my heart.
I certainly am fascinated with her beauty, and most
truly has she impressed me with feelings to which my
heart has been hitherto a stranger. This may be, and
may not be love. Time will determine. Then her
condition! Ha! I had wellnigh forgotten it. A slave
—at least the child of a slave! the offspring of guilt—
and, and—it will out—with Ethiopian blood in her
veins! This, then, is she who has touched thy heart,
Henrique! Can such a one be loved by thee? No,
not if she were guilty of her mother's bondage and of
her slavish descent—No! But is she guilty of these?
Is she not as fair and glorious in virgin beauty as if
descendant from a long line of European kings? Do

I love her, then, or hate her for the acts of the generation
before her, or for the blood of her ancestors, so
long as she bears none of either in her own person,
but appears a creation of all beauty, grace, and purity?
Besides, if I do love her, as I begin to suspect I do, I
love her for herself! Had she risen, all lovely as she
is, from a fountain, or bounded from an opening rosebud
upon the ground (mortal save in birth), would she
not have been worthy to be loved and even adored?
What is it to me if she is now in all else this very
thing, whether she be derived from kings or slaves, or
sprung from a rose or a fountain, without father or
mother? But this is weak sophistry for the test of the
world, and, I must confess, my heart hath more to do in
framing it than my head. Nay, I must see her again,
and either break or more firmly bind the chain her
singular beauty has flung around me.”

Don Henrique then idly lounged from the apartment
which had been the scene of events so interesting to
his heart, sensibly touched by the beauty and condition
of the lovely quadroone, and entered upon a spacious
corridor, that was continued along the four sides of the
quadrangle, and protected from the sun by lattice-work
constructed between the snow-white columns that supported
it.

This lattice was thickly covered with flowing vines,
which, tastefully entwining around the columns to their
capitals, fell gracefully down to the ground again, or,
artfully fashioned into festoons, swung from pillar to
pillar. At intervals were open arches communicating
with the court, which was ornamented on every side
with dark-polished leaved shrubs, growing in gigantic
urns, and bearing magnificent flowers on stately stalks;
while lesser plants, in porcelain or marble vases, formed
everywhere tasteful walks and figures, and orange,
althea, lemon, acacia, and other trees, planted in
groups, cast a cool and almost impervious shade beneath.
In the midst stood a fountain of white marble,
the spray shooting upward from a lion's mouth, and
descending upon a statue of Niobe. The soft, hazy

sunlight fell upon the scene, and gave to the whole a
rich Oriental character, that was in harmony with the
youthful cavalier's feelings. He approached the fountain,
and startled from their sunny slumbers in its basin
troops of gold fishes, while, at his footstep, beautiful
birds, with a quick, musical chirp, flitted from the
branches of a laurel near the fountain, and sought a
retreat in an orange-tree on the farther side of the
court.

“This is indeed a paradise, as I conceived when I
first waked from insensibility after being brought hither,”
he said, seating himself upon an Indian settee
placed beneath the laurel-tree; “how little do we Europeans
know of the voluptuous life of southern climes.
I shall have rare modes of luxury to bear back to Castile!
and, if I could carry with me this houri of my
paradise!—and, pray, what shall hinder me?—if I can
persuade her to fall in love with a wandering cavalier,
as I have certainly done with her. Ay de mi! I will
neither say nor gainsay, but let love take its course.
If Heaven has paired us above, we shall surely be
wedded below. So I will e'en leave it to Heaven, devoutly
trusting it will side with my heart's hopes.”

Thus mused Don Henrique as he sat by the fountain,
and his thoughts continued to flow in this current,
aided by his recollection of all that Renault had related
to him, until, imperceptibly, evening stole over the
spot, and he was aroused from his meditations by the
first notes of the nightingale singing to an early star.
He rose with the intention of returning to the apartment
he had left, but, seeing that the openings to the
corridor between the pillars were alike on every side,
he was at a loss to distinguish that by which he had issued;
after a moment's reflection, he walked towards
the verdant arch by which he believed he must have
entered, and was about to pass through into the corridor,
when he discovered that the door that should have
answered to his own was partly screened by a circular
curtain, and much smaller than the stately folding
leaves that led to his apartment.

He was about to retreat, when a voice within thrilled
to his soul. It was that of Azèlie. It was the first
note of a song, which, in a low, plaintive, and most
touching voice, she sang throughout, while he listened
entranced. It told the story of her fate, and his heart
wept for her. It told that she loved him, and it bounded
with strange joy. It told of despair, and he could
scarcely restrain the impulse to spring forward, cast
himself at her feet, and bid her hope and live. Her
voice accompanied no instrument, but flowed a simple
strain of liquid, vocal melody, natural and warbling,
but of that power which fills the soul with those exquisite
sensations that have caused mankind to place
oral music in the highest order of intellectual and human
efforts. These are the words he listened to:

The voice trembled, and seemed most full of sadness
as she sang the last stanza.

Drawn insensibly nearer the door, lest one sweet
note or accent should escape his entranced ear, Don
Henrique found himself, when the song ended, standing
within a step of the crimson curtain, which, half withdrawn
from across the entrance, exposed a part of the
interior. It was a lady's boudoir he saw at once by
the hundred little delicacies that met his eye.

Silence had followed the music of the plaintive voice.
His heart was touched by its echo still. He felt the
influence, too, of the hour and time. It was twilight;
the soft, rosy light shed a delicate lustre over everything
around him, and touched his feelings with the
subdued harmony that prevailed. It was the hour of
tender thought and gentle feelings: for sadness—for
tears. Who has not experienced the power of eventide?
Who has not loved to sit by the deep-shadowed
casement, through which is faintly reflected the western
red of the just departed sun, and give wing to
thought? How gentle are the images that come then,
whether of memory or of fancy, to the soul! How
sad, how tender—often how full of quiet and pleasing
melancholy! How the heart loves to lose itself in the
misty, dreamy world of its own creations! How often
does religion, like gentle dew from heaven, then fall
upon it, and how naturally do tears then come into the
eyes! Most sacred hour! Sabbath-time of the day!
How the heart loves its still communion with itself
then, save in the bosoms of the dark and guilty. To
such twilight is, indeed, a fearful time. They fly it,
because they tremble to yield to a power which compels
them to hold converse with themselves. With
such, the sun is no sooner set, than the sacredness of
the hour is desecrated by the intrusion of artificial
light. Oh! who that is innocent in heart, or does not

shrink from the knowledge of himself, and knows the
blessed influence of the twilight-time upon his own
feelings, would consent to part with its sweet pleasure,
and deprive himself, in this world, of an enjoyment so
intellectual and spiritual, that it may be termed a foretaste
of that which is to come!

Don Henrique's feelings were in tone with the hour,
and the touching melody of Azèlie's voice filled his
soul with the tenderest sensibility. He desired to
mingle his feelings with hers! To sooth her grief;
and, it must be said, to be once more, if but for a moment,
within the influence of her beauty. Involuntarily
he laid his hand upon the curtain—hesitated—
became irresolute; and then, as if imboldened by his
love and the favouring hour, he gently lifted aside the
drapery.

Within was Azèlie, kneeling before a small household
shrine, her face buried in her dark tresses, which
were dishevelled, and fell with the negligence of grief
about her scarcely veiled neck. She was apparently
in silent prayer. Her whole form was instinct with
life, and heaved with strong emotion. At intervals, a
faint moan reached his ear. On the altar burned a
silver lamp, diffusing an odour of incense throughout
the boudoir. The richness and luxury of the apartment
scarcely arrested his glance; his gaze rested on
a single object, and, save the lovely worshipper, he
saw nothing. He even stilled the beating of his heart,
and, softly approaching her, removed his bonnet, and
kneeled by her side. Oh, love! what limit has thy
power over the heart! For a few moments he knelt
by her, and then, in the softest whisper of tenderest
solicitude and sympathy, breathed her name.

“Dearest brother!” she said, in a tone of grief,
without lifting her head, “you have come to see me
die!”

“Nay, sweet Azèlie, if love hath broken thy heart,
love shall mend it again for thee. Dry up those starry
fountains of tears, and love shall henceforward visit
thee `with smiles,' ” said Don Henrique, speaking in a

tone so frank and generous, so soothing and tender,
that her startled surprise at finding, instead of her
brother, the young Spanish cavalier kneeling by her
side, was in a measure lost in the words he spoke.

She at first lifted her head and looked upon him
with wild alarm; but, as he proceeded, convinced by
his words that he had heard her song, and knew the
state of her heart, this emotion changed to one of
maidenly shame. Her brow and bosom glowed with
crimson; she attempted to say something, but her
voice failed her; the blood rushed back to her heart;
a deadly paleness overspread her face, and she sunk
forward with her forehead upon the altar step. He
thought she had become insensible, and cried with
alarm, catching her in his arms to arrest her fall,

“I have killed her by my imprudence!”

Then, snatching up a flask of eau de vie, he was
about to bathe her forehead and hands freely, when,
finding herself in the arms of the young cavalier, the
fugitive blood hastened again to restore the brightness
to her cheek and lip, and, rising with a dignity most
becoming, she said,

“I thank thee, signor, for thy proffered aid. Pray
leave me! I have permitted a secret that I meant
should have died with me to escape me, and can only
atone for it by the deep maidenly shame that now
burns my brow. Leave me, I pray thee, signor; and
if thou art as good and generous as I believe thee to
be, forget that thou hast ever seen me!”

“Dearest lady,” he cried, in a tone most impassioned.

“Nay, mock me not, signor! I am a quadroone!”

“Heaven is my witness, lovely maid, I meant thee
no mockery. I know thy history, thy condition, and
its penalty.”

“Then why art thou here? Fly and leave me for
ever! It may not be that thou shouldst remain here!”

“Dearest. Azèlie!” he said, with deep feeling, “I
have been the involuntary listener to your confessed

love! Nay, turn not so deadly pale! Here, on my
knees, I swear to thee 'tis requited.”

“I may not listen to thee without guilt; thy love is
shame and infamy! I pray thee leave me.”

“Thy heart swells in thine eyes while thou biddest
me go, dearest Azèlie! Wherefore be so cruel? I
love thee.”

“It is because thou lovest me—because thou art
loved by me,” she said, with fervour, “that I bid thee
go!”

“Dearest and loveliest of women!” he cried, taking
her hand, “let there be no dissimulation between thee
and me. Accident has betrayed our mutual loves.
Let us not mutually fill the cup of each other's misery.
Heaven hath made us for one another, and I beg thee
seek not, to thine own evident pain, to avert its decrees!”

“Nay, signor, Heaven never hath decreed guilt, nor
will it let the strongest love of mortals hide crime
committed under it. Go, I entreat thee! Each moment
thou lingerest here is fatal to my peace.”

“Crime! What mean thy words! Is it guilt to
love?”

“A quadroone,” she answered, with a supernatural
effort at maintaining sufficient firmness.

“That word has given the key to all thy language
and bearing,” he said, with a countenance expressive
of delight. “Thou hast done me wrong, sweet Azèlie.
On such love as I offer, Heaven will smile. Here,
kneeling at thy feet, I ask thee if thou wilt become
my bride?”

“Thy bride!” she repeated, with a voice half
trembling between hope and doubt.

“My honourable wife!” he said, solemnly, taking
her hand and fervently pressing it to his lips.

“Wife—bride! his honourable wife! said he?” she
repeated, unconsciously, aloud, as if lost and stunned
by the strange words that fell on her ear.

“Even so, sweet Azèlie! Nay, look not so wildly!

Keep thy reason to her seat! Wilt thou become my
wife?” and he kissed her brow.

“A wife, and the wife of him my soul loveth!” said
she, with deep joy.

“Yes, be my own sweet wife.”

“'Tis more joy than my heart can hold,” she cried,
with the most exquisite happiness in her voice and
face.

“Then pour out its fulness into my bosom,” he said,
clasping her yielding form in his arms, and imprinting
upon her lips the seal of his pure and honourable love.

Who may truly describe the happiness of two
hearts thus united by the tenderest union of kindred
souls! How perfect had been love's work in those
hours of watching, when, bending over his pillow, she
drank in the delicious poison of her love! Her
touching sorrows and gentle beauty, as she kneeled
by the altar, had sealed for ever the passion that had
entered his bosom when he awoke and beheld her
sleeping beside him! Love had done much, very
much, in a few short hours; but his work can be done
in a day-or in an hour's time, and by a single glance
as well as in years of uninterrupted fellowship. Azèlie
suffered his arms to enfold her for a moment—a
moment so happy that it compensated for all her life's
sorrows; and then lifted to his her tearful face, through
the April clouds of which struggled the sunshine of
her happy heart. He gazed on her with tender rapture,
and again pressed her to his breast.

“My own sweet Azèlie,” he exclaimed, looking
down into her soft, grateful eyes; “if I have made
thee happy, thou hast made me happier still. Many
maidens of many lands have I bowed down before in
wondering adoration of their beauty, but never before
has woman received the homage of my heart!
It has remained for thy retiring and modest beauty—
for thine eyes' witchery and thy voice's fascination—
for the charms of thy mind as well as those of thy
person, to command the worship of my spirit. Thou
knowest me not; yet thy love, as it ever does in woman,

has ennobled its object. But fear not; thou hast
placed thy affections on one who is not unworthy thyself,
or the purity and fervour of thy affections. Thy
eyes, I now see, would ask me who I am. Thou
knowest me to be a Spanish cavalier and gentleman.
Call me Don Henrique—nay, Henrique were sweeter
from thy lips—and thou shalt, ere long, know what, but
for reasons connected with thy safety, and that I may
in secret observe for a time the doubtful conduct of
another, I would now reveal. I pray thee, for the present,
sweetest, let me be to thee Henrique.”

“Love hath no name nor rank! Be mine—love
me still, as thy eyes tell me thou dost—and I seek to
know nothing beyond that thou lovest me!” she said, in
a tone so musical and soft that he rapturously kissed
the lips that distilled such melody.

She withdrew blushingly from his embrace, and a
melancholy expression passed over her features.

“What is this, dearest? If my love hath offended
thy virgin propriety, I pray thee pardon me, for love's
offences should have for excuse its love.”

“Thou hast not offended me, signor,” she answered;
but, without lifting her large black eyes from the
ground, as if sadness sat heavily on the fringed eyelids,
“thou hast scarce offended; but I have thought,”
she added, with artlessness, “that thou wilt not forget
my condition—and despise where now thou lovest.”

“Dost thou believe I love thee, then?” he asked,
with fervour.

“My heart tells me so. Nay, methinks I could not
love thee as I do, didst thou not love me,” she answered,
lifting to him her eyes, that were bright with affection,
and then dropping them again upon the floor.

“Then, if thou believest this,” he answered, with
passionate earnestness, “why fear that my love shall
cease? Thou doest me wrong, dearest,” said he, with
a countenance so full of sorrow that it was apparent
his heart and happiness were bound up in her.

“Nay, then, I will not doubt; yet, if thou wert as
constant and strong in thy love as I, thou couldst never

but love; for methinks, dearest Henrique,” she
said, placing a hand in his, and looking up into his
eyes full of trust and confidence, “if I were a princess,
loving thee as I do, I should not cease to love
thee shouldst thou prove to be a—slave! nay, a bandit
of the forests or a pirate of the seas—thy hand steeped
in blood—thy brow crossed with guilt!”

“Couldst thou love such a one?”

“If he had won my virgin heart—not knowing him
to be other than he seemed—where my heart was given,
there would my love be!”

“Thou art a noble and true-hearted woman! Thou
hast scarce loved a sea-pirate or a chief of Ladrones,
my sweet Azèlie,” he said, smiling; “methinks love
which is so true as thine should have better reward.”

“I need none, save to know each day thou lovest me
more than thou didst the last.”

“Dost thou also wish to have me proved an honest
man?”

“The wish could not be in my breast were it not
the offspring of suspicion.”

“And dost thou not suspect me?”

“No. Wert thou false and guilty, thou couldst
never be so dear to me!”

“This is confiding, trusting, dear woman's reasoning;
it is this with which she stills those unworthy
doubts that may not exist where love is. To her
the bright moon is all light and purity, forgetting that
the portion turned from her eye is dark and all unillumined,”
he said, rather addressing himself than her.
“Now, as thou hast trusted me, dearest, and believest
I will honour thy deep affection with my hand as I
have done with my heart—as all doubts, and fears,
and apprehensions are to be buried under hope and
love, truth and troth, let us banish every thought that
can ruffle the placid bosom of our affections.”

“Thou hast made me happy, my Henrique, by lifting
me to thy heart, and elevating me above that humiliating
consciousness of degradation by birth and
condition which ever, like a chain about my soul,

bowed my spirits to the earth. 'Tis a strange delight
for me to hold equal communion with one whom by
education I have been taught to regard as—”

“Nay,” he said, seeing her blush and hesitate, “I
do not verily believe thou art of this race! Renault
suggested it by a word he let fall! The beauty of that
eye; the delicate damask on that cheek, which the sun,
in ripening, hath just browned, like a rare peach he
would dye with his favourite shade; those coral lips,
and that mouth full of liquid pearls, like the ivory keys
of some rich instrument, giving out music whenever
you speak; those eyes, like the starry, midnight sky;
those lily hands—”

“Nay, nay, Signor Henrique! I prithee stop,” she
cried, laughing, and laying the hand he would have taken
to illustrate his words upon his lips. He imprinted
a kiss upon the fair member as it came in contact
with them, in retaliation, and then continued,

“Truly, my lovely one, I do believe thou art of
other blood than that thou thinkest.”

“But my brother—he is even fairer than I,” she
said, her eyes at first sparkling with the hopes his
words inspired, and then dropping with doubt, showing
that she felt she could not entertain a hope so unexpectedly
and strangely started.

“Fairer than thyself for a man where his bonnet
hath protected his temples from the sun. Yet his father
is known, and he hath told me his quadroone-mother
is scarce darker than he has seen Spanish ladies.”

“She is my mother also. My father may have
been a fair man, even as this Marquis of Caronde.
Do not, I pray thee, excite hopes, signor, that have no
other foundation, alas! than in thy wishes,” she said,
sighing.

“Nay, I could love thee no more wert thou to prove
a Princess of France.”

“I fear thou hast repented thy love for a quadroone,
and wouldst fain defend it by seeking to make
me what I am not, one of thy own race,” she said,
with gentle reproof.

“Thou dost me injustice, dearest Azèlie! I love
thee with all my nature; and it is my great love that
would do this for thee. Wert thou an angel, as almost
thou seemest to me to be, my love would have
thee a seraph, and, being a seraph, I would see thee,
for the love I bear thee, still more than a seraph.
Love, and not my foolish pride, would prove thee to
be more than thou believest thyself to be. Dost thou
believe I speak truly, my little trembler?”

“Forgive me that I doubted thy love for an instant.
If I perchance offend again, let it not be forgotten by
thee that this sudden happiness of thy love hath weakened
my poor heart. Hast thou not seen a weary-winged
bird, who, after a hundred leagues of restless
flight above the wide sea, cometh suddenly o'er the
must of a stately ship, and, for joy at the unlooked-for
resting-place, hovereth long between hope and fear ere
he settle upon it; when, finding it secure, he folds his
long-spread wings, and fearless sleeps upon the rocking
perch. I am this weary bird, and thou my stately
bark! Bear with me a while; I will, ere long, rest in
thy heart, whence nor fear, nor the rocking of the
waves of doubt or of mistrust shall move me!”

“While thou speakest, I think thee each moment
lovelier and more worthy of my love!” he said, folding
her to his heart. “Now, I prithee, sweet, tell me
wherefore I found thee weeping when I came, like a
rude wooer as I am, into thy boudoir.”

“Thou hast all my heart, Henrique, if I may call
thee thus, signor, as my heart prompts me to do, and
thou shouldst know its griefs—now griefs no more!
My mother hath—nay, I know not how to speak of
aught connected with my condition with maidenly
propriety—”

“Thou wouldst speak of the young Marquis Caronde,
doubtless. I then know thy story from Renault.”

“Not of him! Yet, as thou knowest the nature of
his persecution, I may tell thee, without the necessity
of embarrassing detail, that my mother hath taken offence

at him, and is now determined to avenge herself
for her disappointment by surrendering me to the new
Spanish governor,” she said, trembling, as she thought
of the count's looks that morning at mass, of his power,
and her late helplessness.

“To Osma!” he repeated, with astonishment and
indignation. “Hast thou seen him? Hath he belield
thee?” he asked, with the most intense eagerness.

“This morning in the Cathedral,” she answered.
She then briefly informed him of what he was before
ignorant, that the captain-general had gone to mass at
the head of his troops, and that her mother, on hearing
the order for the citizens also to attend, had commanded
her to go with her, without explaining to her
the reason for her wishing it; that, on arriving there,
she sought a conspicuous place to kneel with her, near
the spot reserved for the governor, whose attention
was soon drawn to her, by her mother's obvious desire
to attract it.

“By thy incomparable beauty rather,” he said, gazing
on her with a lover's admiration as she told her
embarrassed story.

“Seeing I became the object of his regards, I trembled
with foreboding of coming evil,” continued Azèlie.
“My mother's voice and manner terrified me.
My veil concealed my tears, and I returned home to
weep and pray. Renault was absent, and my mother
remained with me, threatening, entreating, and commanding
me to submit to the fate she had destined for
me.”

“Poor child! thou hast been persecuted indeed.
Didst thou not, gentle girl, then think of the guest beneath
thy roof?” he asked, with a smile.

“I did, and was tempted to fly to thee and seek
protection, for my mother had threatened I should
soon see my Spanish lord beneath her roof.”

“And wherefore didst thou not, dearest?”

“Because—because—” she blushed and was silent.

“Because thy love held thee back, was't not?” he
asked, tenderly.

“How dost thou so well read my heart ere thou
hast learned its language?”

“Because it is translated in thine eyes. Now I will
tell thee, Azèlie, I had more than suspected mischief
would come to thee from Count Osma, but rather by
his own discovery of the fair treasure his new province
held, than through the unnatural agency of thy
mother; therefore did I determine to remain unknown
here, till I could ensure thee, for thy brother's sake
(for I knew not then I should love thee as I do), protection.
It becomes me more than ever now to preserve
this secrecy, and even from thee to withhold my
name till I can claim thee as my bride. Where is thy
noble brother?”

“He hath not returned since he left after midnight.”

“I would see him, that I may give him a brother's
hand, and, together with him, plot against this scheme
of thy mother's. Hath she had communication with
Osma since mass?”

“No; yet I left her writing half an hour ago, an unusual
occupation with her, and suspect (for fear is ever
active) that I am the cause.”

“And Osma the object of the correspondence, I
doubt not. Hath she sent a messenger away? Ha!
there is a footstep without the window, and yonder
glides a dark figure into the avenue.”

“It must be she—the sorceress,” exclaimed Azèlie,
with surprise.

“And the servant of thy wicked mother?” he demanded.

“Nay, harm her not,” she cried, holding him from
the pursuit to arrest her; “she is no friend of my
mother, but a foe! She must be here for good to me,
and not evil. I have thought several times that I
heard a noise of some one moving without.”

“She has been a listener to our conversation—nay, a
witness of our pledged loves.”

“Fear no evil from her, whoever she may be; she
has taken strange interest in me,” said Azèlie. In a few
words she then related to him all that she knew of her.

“It is very strange; this relation confirms me more
than ever in my opinion that thou art not of the race
thou—”

“Cease, Henrique,” she said, playfully; “I shall
again accuse you of thinking me unworthy of your
love, which, indeed, is too true!”

“Thou art worthy of all love—to share a throne
with me,” he said, with affectionate enthusiasm.

She looked up gratefully into his face, and was about
to reply from the fulness of her heart, when an object
suddenly darkened the window. Both turned quickly,
and beheld, looking in upon them, a broad, laughing,
impudent visage, that seemed infinitely to enjoy their
surprise. The Spaniard laid a hand upon his weapon,
but the risible expression of the intruder's face instantly
excited emotions in him opposite to those of
personal alarm, and, recognising in him Gobin the
First of the council-chamber, he said, gayly,

“Welcome, bon cousin. Have thee grace!”

“Gobin, what do you here?” asked Azèlie, smiling,
yet vexed at the intrusion.

“Gramercy to thee, cousin Spain!” answered Gobin,
leaping into the room, and paying no heed to the
question. “An' I saw not thee killed last night, wi'
seven inches o' steel 'neath thy ribs, may I ne'er drink
a goblet wi' cousin Osma to-night.”

“Thou wilt then go dry; for truly I am alive, as
thou seest, cousin Gobin.”

“Tell me thy secret o' coming to life again wi' a
hole through the body, and I'll teach thee a trick I
know at marbles, cousin Spain! Name thy chirurgeon!
Out wi't, gossip!”

“Thou seest here both the chirurgeon and the
charm,” he said, looking at Azèlie.

“Then will I have her burned for a witch, an' she
do not presently use her witchery to heal my finger-joint.
Dost see? I got it shot off i' the wars! An'
I were not sent for by mother Ninine, I'd recount thee
the exploit. But I ha' a friend at home, a rogue that
hath his valour in his tongue, will tell thee it some

day. He hath a rare wit at a lie, and I have learned
a round way at it from him.”

“Didst thou say my mother had sent for thee?”
asked Azèlie, interrupting him as he rambled from one
subject to another, after his light and wandering
manner.

“Marry, did I, sweet hyacinth! Am I not a messenger
to and from? Goeth a billet save through
Gobin's fingers! Cometh a love-gage that Gobin hath
not the handling o't? Hath a maiden got the love
fever, doth she not send for Doctor Gobin? Doth a
youth pine for love, an' I have not the secret o't? Marry,
Gobin hath been sent for, and what's the world's
matter if he have? Here's matter, indeed, that two
lovers within the town's walls are come together, and
Gobin never the wiser.”

“Thou shalt have little reason to complain that thou
art never the richer,” said Don Henrique, placing a
purse of gold in his hand, at the same time covertly
admiring the confusion of Azèlie at Gobin's free words.

“This hath weight, and needeth no tongue to speak
for it,” said Gobin, weighing the gold in his palm.
“Thou art a cavalier of metal; and, before I saw the
colour o' the coin thou didst carry, I made up my mind
that sweet hyacinth should have my consent to love
thee. Methinks, cousin, next to a woman's bright eye
cometh a broad gold piece.”

“Thou showest thy discretion and taste, mon cousin!”

“And in that thou hast discovered these virtues in
me, thou hast more wit than ordinary. All men have
not wit. The run o' mankind are demi-witted; I will
show you three fools out of every five men you take
me in a crowd. Wherefore do such men call Gobin
a fool, marry? Verily, because, unlike them, he hath
a golden vein o' wit streaking his folly, while what
they have, like a little treacle in gingerbread, is so
thinned by spreading, that I will find you a green
lemon that hath more sweetness in't.”

“Let thy wit, then, manifest itself in thy discretion,
good fool!” said Don Henrique; “thou didst most

truly behold me fall wounded. I am restored by good
nursing to the sound state you see me in; this gentle
maiden hath enemies, and I am now here to protect
her. If, as I think, from thy words and manner towards
her, thou hast a regard for her, I pray thee
keep secret my presence here. I trust to thy honour
and friendship for Azèlie to do this, rather than to the
trifling gift of gold thou hast received from me; for I
am assured mon cousin Gobin will scorn bribery.”

“Verily, cousin Spain, thou art a bueno caballero;
and if I betray thee or my sweet hyacinth, may I not
touch goblet o' wine the night with gossip Osma.”

“Wilt thou see the Spanish governor this night?
Dost thou not fear for thy head, as ex-governor Gobin?”

“Head never sat safer on a pair of shoulders! Hast
thou not heard he giveth a banquet to the bloods o'
wits o' the town! If Gobin stay away, folly would
reign.”

To his surprise, Don Henrique then learned from him
that a proclamation for a public levée had been sent
out, and that all the town were at that moment flocking
thither.

“Go to her who sent thee; when thou hast thine
errand, come this way secretly ere thou deliverest it.”