University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
SCENE WITHIN THE PALACE.

Gobin instantly departed through the window, and
gliding along beneath a hedge of altheas, came to a
winding walk terminating at a lattice on the other side
of the casa inhabited by the quadroone-mother. Here,
silent, stern, and plotting, she had been impatiently
waiting since the return of the servant despatched to
seek for Gobin, whose tact and address in any private

mission rendered him the fit instrument of an intriguing
woman.

“Where hast thou loitered, Gobin? The sun hath
been down half an hour, and yet thou didst promise
me to be here with his setting.”

“Wouldst have me slave to my words?” asked Gobin,
as he approached her; “because my tongue hath
said `trot,' must my feet trot, forsooth, unless they
have a mind. A man's tongue hath its own work to
do, and so have his feet, and other corporeal appendages.”

“Hist! I have a message for thee to take.”

“Give it me, maman! I will send it by the king's
trumpeter I have at home, who hath taken service with
me; for I have a banquet on hand myself.”

“Nay, thy voice is too loud! This I would have
thee do demands secrecy. Be trusty, and I will give
thee a gold clasp for thy silver chain. I would have
thee bear this pacquet to the palace, and place it privately
in the hands of the Spanish governor.”

“Never errand chimed better with a man's will, maman!
I am on foot thither, to pay my respects to
cousin Spain, and hob and nob wi' him o'er a flagon
of Oporto. Since I ha' been i' the wars I ha' taken
to Port—it has such a bloody complexion. Ne'er see
a man drink Port but thou mayst safely swear he hath
smelled gunpowder.”

“Out upon thy fool's prate, Gobin. Hie thee with
this to the Governor Osma, and be thou speedy—and
secret as speedy. Go, as thou camest, by the garden
wall.”

“Thou hast the highest wall i' all the town to get
over, maman; thou shouldst ha' a gate cut i' it.”

“There is a gate, Gobin,” she said, smilingly, “but
'tis known to no one save myself.”

“It must be one o' the stone pannels, then; for I
ha' looked it all along for a place to put my toes in,
and thought, if thou wouldst swing one o' the slabs on
a pivot or a brace o' hinges, 'twould be a charity for
the urchins that love oranges and nectarines. An' I

had not learned to climb when I was a boy, I had lost
the eating o' much nice fruit I ha' had the enjoyment
of.”

“Thou art a rogue, and hast already paid thyself
thrice over for thy service, Gobin! But go now, and
be secret, and I will load thee with fruit.”

“Five nectarines, seven sweet oranges, and a pineapple,
with three pounds of grapes, maman, in the
morning, for me! I drink wine to-night, and fruit
hath a pleasant flavour after. I saw a hawk in thy
dovecote but now, maman!” he added, with that singular
want of morale and love of mischief so characteristic
of that class in whom reason and folly are ever
at odds; each alternately holding the supremacy for
a moment, but with such uncertain tenure that they
can at no time be trusted, and are ever as variable and
uncertain as the winds.

He bounded from her with a laugh of cunning and
intelligence as he spoke these mischievous words,
which for an instant seemed to convey to her something
more than his usual jesting way; for her lips
parted, and she bent forward as if to demand an explanation.
But his instant disappearance and the engrossing
subject of her thoughts left no room in her
mind for so slight an external impression; so, giving
full scope to her ambitious fancy, she threw herself
back upon her fauteuil, and was soon lost in the contemplation
of the results of the bold step she had adventured.
Knowing the human heart well, she had
little doubt of the most triumphant issue of her hopes;
and she now began to look complacently to the consummation
of her revenge upon the young Marquis of
Caronde, to the punishment of Renault's pride, and
Azèlie's most singular rebellion. She did not fail, also,
to contemplate the personal consideration she should
receive from her association with the governor; a consideration
which had as deep a seat in her ambitious
soul as any of the other contributary motives. She
was, also, herself a beautiful woman still; and there
was not altogether absent from her mind a secret consciousness

of the power of her own matured charms,
and the probable influence they might have over the
paramour she sought for her child; which influence
she found herself already studying how to use, when
acquired, to promote her own aspiring and covetous
views. Thus did this dangerous and wicked woman
plot the misery of a lovely girl, and in the secret closet
of her heart hatch rife iniquity.

During Gobin's brief absence, Azèlie gave Don
Henrique some insight into his singular character, and
assured him of his devotedness both to herself and Renault,
so far as a creature like him was capable of
having fixed attachments.

“Hast thou a message, Gobin?” he asked, when the
fool reappeared.

“A message in a note—but not a love-billet, gossip,
for there be a gray beard o' the one side, and full two
score o' years on the other,” answered Gobin, showing
the outside of the pacquet that had been intrusted
to him.

“It is to Osma, as I suspected,” said Don Henrique,
with a flush of indignant feeling.

“Heaven now preserve me from evil!” ejaculated
Azèlie, clasping her hands together and prayerfully lifting
her eyes.

“Nay, tremble not, sweetest! Thou hast no cause
for fear.”

“Not for myself alone, but for you also. If this
dreadful Spaniard should exert his power, he will make
you the first sacrifice.”

“Do not, I pray thee, give way to fear, Azèlie.
Osma hath no power to harm me; and my love shall
shelter thee beneath its wing. Go, good fool! bear
the letter as thou art commanded to do,” he said, without
taking the note from Gobin's hand, though questioning
if the circumstances did not authorize him to
read it. But his purpose was sufficiently answered in
noting the superscription, and in satisfying his mind as
to the nature of the quadroone-mother's correspondence.

“Now, sweet Azèlie, let not this trouble thee,” he
continued, after Gobin disappeared in the darkness of
the orangerie, turning and affectionately embracing
her; “neither thou nor I shall come to danger. It
only becomes me to guard the more carefully thy
safety. Prithee is it not time thy brother Renault
were returned?”

“He should have been here at noon.”

“Remain in your room, that I may feel while I
am absent that you are in safety, and await my return.
If he come, say nothing to him of this note—nay, nor
even of our love, dearest! I will myself open it to
him. And bid him wait here, and leave thee not until
I come. I will go out and observe the conduct of the
governor, and learn the issue of this matter between
himself and thy mother. Now bless thee, and let
thy thoughts run only on happiness and me. If thou
art in danger, a thousand swords at my bidding will
leap from their scabbards to defend thee! So content
thee, sweetest! I will not be long away. Hast thou
no cloak and slouching bonnet of thy brother's, for I
would do secretly what I contemplate?”

She soon furnished him with these, nor by word or
look betrayed any doubt, at such a moment, of his
truth and constancy. She measured his love by her
own.

Parting tenderly from her in whom his soul seemed
to be bound up, as hers truly was in him, he entered
the garden, and, traversing the shaded avenue in
which Gobin had disappeared, he came to a high wall,
which he scaled by fastening a cord Azèlie had given
him to a catalpa that grew against it, and lightly descended
into an obscure lane on the other side. Upon
gaining one of the principal streets, the current of the
citizens hastening to the levée indicated the direction
of the palace and the Place d'Armes.

Wrapped in his ample cloak, and with his sombrero
slouched above his eyes, he rapidly glided along by the
wall to shun the light of the moon, which was just rising
and flooding the city with light. Arrived at the

square, he mingled with the banqueters and entered the
hall of audience. Avoiding the sight of Osma, who
sat receiving the homage rather than congratulations
of the citizens, lest he should be haughtily commanded
to come forward and do him honour, he remained in a
distant part of the hall, and silently witnessed the
stirring scene around him. The interview between
the count and the councillors did not escape him, and,
when he retired with them to the private banquet-chamber,
he suspected treachery would come of it.
For a moment he forgot the object that brought him
thither in his anxiety for the safety of those gentlemen;
and, having succeeded in gaining the door just
after they entered it, he was near the president when
he gave the message to the young courreur du bois.
He did not hear its purport, but the president's manner
confirmed the suspicion which he had entertained,
more from his knowledge of the bitter vengeance of
Osma's character than from any open betrayal of his
intentions by his conduct. He was about to speak to
the president and warn him, but his instant return to
the banquet-chamber prevented him.

“At least there is no present danger to be apprehended,”
he said, mentally. “He has now another
passion than love to gratify, and, till his vengeance
against the councillors be satisfied, he will scarce give
himself to intrigue. Methinks I did allow my sense of
honour to go too far in letting that missive pass to him
with the seal unbroken. I must how let watchful sagacity
discover what honour then forbade. I know
Garcia of Osma well, and am assured he hath a determination
to harm these councillors. Dare he poison
them in their cups? I will, at least, try to save them,
and must risk discovery in doing so. Ha! there is
Montejo!”

At this instant his eye rested on a young Spanish
officer, in the uniform of an aiddecamp, lounging with
one or two other cavaliers through the room.

“Montejo!” he said, in a low whisper, and, adroitly
leaving a ring in his hand, he crossed over to the other
side of the room without being regarded by the others.

The young officer started, glanced at the signet, and,
with a look expressive of delighted surprise, left his
companions, and was soon in the shadow of a column
by his side.

“Montejo!” said Don Henrique, lifting his hat a
little way from his face and exposing his features,
“start not; thou seest in me no ghost!”

“It is thyself, then?” he exclaimed, embracing him.
“I knew the signet, but ne'er dreamed thou wert the
bearer. Gracios-a-dios! Osma gave out that you
were lying ill sorely wounded, and even Garcilaso
mourned you dead! This is a miracle.”

“I was stunned rather than wounded, and am now
nearly quite as well as before the affray. How is
brave Garcilaso? A stouter soldier is not in all Spain.
Heaven keep breath in him, and soon give him back to
us, for I do owe my life to him.”

“He hath good attendance, and will soon be in the
saddle again? Where hast thou hid thyself?”

“Montejo!” said Don Henrique, gravely, “I must
give thee my confidence, and have, in return, thy faith.”

“I am thine in all things, my Henrique,” he answered,
with enthusiasm.

“I have reason to remain disguised and concealed,
that I may defend innocence and punish this guilty
Osma. Scarce one sun hath rolled over his head
since he came to the government, ere his restless spirit
began to seek out mischief. There is a fair being in
this town, sister to a citizen who bore me wounded to
his house, whom I love.”

“Love, Don Henrique!”

“Nay, will make my wife, so soon as the obstacles
my careful father hath put in my way shall be removed.
'Till then 'twere dangerous, as thou knowest, to both
of us to have our secret divulged.”

“Ye would both be soon united in Heaven by the
headsman, methinks.”

“I make thee my confidant, Montejo, and may need
thy services. Osma himself hath seen her at mass,
and thou knowest what will be the consequences if he
be not counter-met at every point.”

“May I ask who is this wonderful creature that
hath captivated a heart which the brightest beauties of
Madrid have sought vainly to win?”

“Thou shalt see her anon. Meanwhile, I would
ask thee if thou dost suspect nothing hidden beneath
this banquet, and especially the private entertainment
for the councillors?”

“Verily I did think, when I saw them enter there,
they would scarce come out without Osma's having got
something out of them.”

“Dost thou know him so well—and is this the depth
of thy suspicion?”

“He hath no motive to imprison them now that the
town is his, save in punishment for their resistance,
and in vengeance for his former defeat.”

“There thou hast it! Those men will scarce behold
another sun rise unless we save them. I read
their doom in Osma's eyes.”

“Thy lady-love's father is one of them, by my
beard!”

“Nay, it is for humanity's sake, and that Spain may
have no more blood to answer for than need be shed.
I count upon thy aid. Here now is Loyola,” he added,
as a stout Spanish captain, with bold and pleasing features,
came near. “Speak to him, and let him know I
am here.”

“I and my men are at your service, signor,” said
the captain, coming up and addressing him after Montejo
had spoken a few words with him. “Heaven be
thanked those knaves did not wound thee to the death.”

“To all, save thyself and Montejo, I am still confined
to my couch with my wound. I know your affection
for me, and that you may be trusted.”

“Till death,” answered both in the same voice.

“I have reason to believe Osma meditates a crime
that will bring lasting shame to the Spanish arms. It
must be prevented. Go, select fifty of thy command,
and march them to the court between the palace and
the prison. As I came by, cautiously inspecting the
inlets to the palace, I noticed a small gate which leads

to a dark stairway, and which I am assured, from the
position of this inner banquet-room, has communication
with it. Go! thou wilt find me there to receive thee!”

The captain departed, and Montejo and Don Henrique,
after some farther conference in reference to
the course ultimately to be taken if action should become
necessary, separated, the former going to his duties
as warden of the city guards. It was a few moments
after Montejo left him that Don Henrique so
opportunely aided Estelle in the rude attack made upon
her life by Rascas.

When Don Henrique at length arrived at the postern,
he immediately paced before it, waiting for De
Loyola until the third of an hour had elapsed, when,
being anxious for the safety of the councillors, and to
confirm or remove his suspicions, he entered the passage
and ascended the staircase which he had believed
to communicate with the banquet-room. He listened;
but the door was so solid, and being also curtained on
the inner side, he could detect at first only the indistinct
sound of tongues, and occasionally the louder accents
of Count Osma. Soon he heard the noise of
commotion, the tramp of many feet, and plainly distinguished
the stern voice of Renault. He then attempted
to force the door, but in vain. He, however,
learned enough to be aware that the councillors had
indeed been in danger, and that they had been rescued
by some other hand than his own; and this he knew must
have been that of Renault. He remembered, too, that
the messenger he had seen the president despatch from
the hall wore a uniform similar to the quadroon's.

“Renault hath done this,” he exclaimed, “and Osma
is his prisoner! My presence will be necessary
to prevent revolution or carnage arising out of it!”

Making another effort to force the door, and finding
it unavailing, he descended the stairs with the intention
of gaining the banquet-room by the front of the
palace. As he reached the last step, the door above
suddenly opened, and the councillors appeared. Withdrawing
himself within a dark recess at the foot of the

passage, he there remained until he saw them pass
forth in safety. He then reascended to the half-open
door, and, perforating the intervening arras with the
point of his dagger, witnessed the whole subsequent
scene, prepared to appear in it if his presence should
prove necessary, and, by his influence over Renault,
prevent evil consequences from breaking out of this
angry state of things.

De Loyola had in the mean while arrived, and secreted
his men within the dark shadow of an angle of
the prison wall, ready for action and instant service.
The subsequent events all passed under Don Henrique's
observation; and, while he commended the extraordinary
forbearance of Renault, he felt the strongest
indignation against the thwarted noble.

“Nature hath made Osma a cutthroat, but fortune
hath made him a governor,” he said, as he looked
upon the scene. “Had he done this thing, he should
have answered for it with his head, or justice hath
taken wing and fled from Spain! Ah, love hath had
a hand in it,” he added, as he saw Estelle appear,
half disguised, and throw herself between her father
and Renault. “I thank Heaven I did her such good
service in the hall. She was then, doubtless, seeking
these brave men, whom she hath guided by that secret
way. Providence hath these councillors, or Spain's
honour, or both, under its most marked protection.”

Surprised, astonished, and indignant at all he had
been an unseen observer of, and having, from what
passed before him, got a key to all else connected
with the count's treachery, and the means by which it
had been so signally defeated, he was tempted, after he
saw him left alone with Sulem, to enter and confront
him, and on the spot challenge him to wash out with
his blood the stain he had put upon the knightly honour
of a Spanish noble, as well as the reproach his
country had suffered through his discovered treachery.
But the conversation that followed between him
and the slave, in relation to Azèlie, bound him to the
spot with a burning ear; and when he saw him depart

with the Moor to enter his cabinet, he prepared to
draw aside the hangings and follow, lest he should lose
sight of him, when the presence of Gobin caused him
again to draw back.

He was compelled to amuse himself with the fool's
solitary banquet and soliloquies for a few moments,
trusting he would soon take his departure, or fall overcome
with wine beneath the table. His patience at
length became exhausted, and he was about to discover
himself, when he heard the footsteps of the count
approaching the banquet-room. He was rewarded
for his delay by witnessing his interview with Gobin,
and the delivery of the quadroone-mother's note. Anticipating
the count's movements from the words he
let fall, as well as from the expression of his countenance,
he hastily descended the staircase, and withdrew
in the shadows at the foot of it as Osma himself
appeared at the head. The latter came down, passed
the spot without perceiving him, and pursued his way
towards the dwelling of the quadroone-mother.

An idea, bold as it was congenial to his feelings, was
instantly suggested to Don Henrique's mind. Crossing
the court to where the men were posted, he called
the captain aside.

“Now, my brave De Loyola, doubtless thou wilt be
grieved to know that there will be no fighting to-night.
The occasion for which I called thee out is passed.
But I have yet something for thy love to do for me.”

“Name it, signor, and it shall be done, if it were
to put Osma himself under arrest.”

“Nay, thou traitor! 'tis a love matter. I have
been made captive by a maiden here, and, in revenge,
would make her captive also. Thou knowest the captain
of the brigantine I came in hath a friendship for
me.”

“He would put himself under thy orders to sail to
the moon!” said the captain, divining his intentions.

“I believe thee; I would have thee seek Montejo,
and send him on board, with all secrecy, and tell Captain
Estecheria I will be on board within the hour;

and that, before midnight, he must be ready to weigh
anchor for Cuba, and thence to Spain.”

“Spain—Viva! Would to Heaven thou wouldst
take all thy good friends with thee!” said Loyola, in
the warmth of his feelings at the recollection of his
country.

“Thou shalt come, and also Montejo, and all who
love me better than Osma. Come with me till I
show thee where I would have thee meet me with thy
men, lest I should fall into danger by the way. Then
go on thy errands, and in an hour await me by the
garden wall I will presently show thee.”

De Loyola accompanied him within sight of the
garden, and then parted from him with a promise to
return before the expiration of the hour.

“Be silent and speedy, my brave friend!” he said,
turning from him and hastening forward after the Count
of Osma, whom he saw at the same moment turn into
the lane that bounded the wall, in company with one
who met him there. A troop of cavalry, at the same
instant, came thundering from the quarter of the barracks,
passing him at a round trot in the direction of
the city gates.

Scarcely heeding the circumstance at such a moment,
save that he was detained by its passage a few seconds,
he hastened forward into the lane, and saw Osma and
his companion, who had evidently been waiting for him,
disappear through a gate in the wall. Approaching
the spot, he looked in vain for the same entrance, but
in the whole surface of the wall none was apparent to
his eye. Wondering not a little at the means by which
he had effected an entrance, he flew to the cord by
which he had himself descended, and scaled the wall,
not seeing that he himself was dogged by a third person.
He then cautiously followed the path that he believed
must lead to the apartments of the quadroone-mother,
which, as he suspected, he beheld Osma in the
act of entering. Satisfied with this hasty observation,
he hastened to the boudoir he had left two hours before
to play the spy upon the crafty count. Without

alarming Azèlie with the knowledge of the presence
of the Condé, whom he expected soon enough to appear
in her apartment, he seated himself by her side,
and amused her with light conversation, while, like a
brave man, he prepared himself to receive the guilty
intruder.