University of Virginia Library

DONA INEZETTA;
OR, THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER.
A TALE OF SPAIN.

There dwelt in an old-fashioned castle,
not many leagues from Madrid, a certain
nobleman of Spain, called Don Diego, Duke
of Arvalez. Don Diego was descended
from the oldest families of the realm, his ancestors
having been hidalgos since the departure
of the Moors under Boabdil. It was,
moreover, a warlike race, this of the Arvalez,
and Don Diego himself had won a distinguished
name as a soldier. But the wars
ended, and Spain, being at peace, the Duke
returned to his castle to solace himself in the
society of his daughter, the Dona Inezetta.

This maiden was his only child; and, as
her mother having died when the lovely Inezetta
was very young, the bereaved widower
turned the channel of his affections into
the bosom of his daughter. At the age
of seventeen, Dona Inezetta was without exception,
the loveliest maiden in all Spain.
The Duke had lavished upon her every advantage,
and, in person, superintended an
education that was not excelled by that of
the king's daughters. She had the first masters
in the kingdom, in music, painting, riding,
waltzing, in foreign languages, and all
arts and sciences then taught to high-born
ladies. She grew up in great seclusion,
nevertheless, her father suffering her neither
to go abroad nor to visit Madrid. The
fame of her beauty and accomplishments at
length reached the court, and one morning
as the Duke was about to ride forth with his
daughter, and a train of attendants, to hunt,
a courier arrived in sight, when, seeing the
party, he stopped, and sounding his horn
thrice three times, again spurred down the
slope towards the gate.

`Three times three!' cried the Duke, as
he threw his heavy body, for he was the fattest

Duke in Spain, across his saddle. `That
is a king's courier, by Santiago! Hold
rein, Lopez! let us await his coming!'

The courier, who was habited in a green
jacket under a scarlet short cloak, and wore
upon his head a crimson cap, now riding up,
alighted within a few feet of the Duke, and
casting his rein to a page, approached the
Duke, and taking from his pocket a billet,
handed it to him with a low bow.

`From the king!' said the Duke, as he
glanced at the seal. Hath war broke forth
again, sir courier, that the king hath sent
for me?'

`All is at peace, in Madrid, my lord
Duke.'

`Let us see, then, what this purports,'
said the old noble, breaking the seal, and
fixing his eyes upon the contents. `Eh! By
the mass! This is for thee, girl,' he added,
smiling, and turning to Dona Inezetta, who,
in all the pride of beauty, was seated upon
her palfrey near him; beauty which was so
remarkable, that the youthful courier could
scarcely keep his eyes from her.

`For me, mon padre!' she exclaimed,
with delight. O, how rejoiced I am, at last
to get a letter from somebody! It is the
first I ever had in my life!'

`I should hope it was, girl; letters are
dangerous things—very dangerous things
for maidens to have to do with. I should
hope you had never seen a letter in your
life. But I dare say you'd had many a one,
if I had not kept such watch and ward against
the gallants. And now you see what comes
of keeping you away from the world's
eyes! Here is a letter in especial from
the king to me, and I dare say this other
one within it, is from the Queen addressed
to thee!'

`Pray, then, father, let me read it.'

`Nay, hear the king's first. I will read
it. Ye villains round, doff hats while the
king's letter is read out!'

The retainers respectfully lifted their
hats and bonnets, and the Duke began,
Dona Inezetta, leaning forward in her saddle,
peeping over his shoulder:—

Ere the Duke had finished aloud the letter,
the quicker glances of the maiden had
run over the lines, and taken in their sense.
Glowing blushes of pride and pleasure mantled
her cheeks at this good news, for she
had long been sighing to visit the capital, of
which she had heard and read such delightful
accounts.

`'Fore God, daughter,' said the Duke, as
he finished the letter, `this is an honor done
both me and thee. The king must be obeyed.
We must, next Wednesday, start for Madrid.'

`O, I do thank the good king, father!'

`I dare say. Never a maiden yet reached
sixteen—

`I am full seventeen, dear father.'

`Well, seventeen. Never maiden reached
seventeen, who wished not, prayed not, that
she might see Madrid. Well, the king must
be obeyed. I must go to court, and I dare
swear, the king means to look you out a
husband. You shall wed none less than the
Infanta, Don Carlos, who is now two and
twenty, and the handsomest man in Spain,
as well as the bravest prince in Europe.'

Dona Inezetta blushed, and then a shade
of anxiety passed across her beautiful face.
Some thought, it would seem, had suddenly
risen to her mind with her father's words,
and troubled her.

`Pray, father, let me see the letter which
is inscribed to me.'

`It bears the queen's seal, and, from the
delicate writing upon it, must have been
written with her own hand, for she is as fair
a penwoman as any clerk of Cordova.
What says our royal mistress?'

`I will read it, father. It begins:—

`Sweet daughter and gentle friend!—'

`That is like the good queen. She is a
mother to all the maidens in her realm,'
said the Duke, with emotion. `Read.'

`I have heard of your beauty of person
and charms of mind, and have resolved that
the Duke, your father, is doing all Spain
injustice, in converting, as it were, Arvalez'
castle into a nunnery, and himself into an
abbot.'

`I' faith, the queen is merry,' said the
Duke. `But, go on.'

I, therefore, join the king in the request
that you speedily leave your retirement,
and honor our court with your presence.
There is the greatest curiosity to see you,
among the cavaliers, and also, with the ladies,
who, having heard that you will eclipse
them all, desire to have it tested by your appearing.
Please, therefore, sweet daughter,
come to Madrid, that we may behold you
and love you. It shall be our pleasure,
also, to find you a husband worthy your
rank and beauty. `Isabella, Reina.'

`This is great honor to us, daughter,'
said the Duke. `I heartily thank the good
king and queen; but i' faith, it makes me
sad to think of giving you up to a husband.
But, much as I love you, I will not let my
weak fondness step between you and your
happiness; all maids will marry.'

`Nay, father,' said Dona Inezetta, whose
cheeks had lost color since she had done
reading the queen's letter, `I do not wish
to marry. If going to the court cannot be
without a husband given me by the queen,
I never wish to behold Madrid.'

`Thou art a good girl, to love thy father
better than lover or husband.'

`Nay, I—but—' here the maiden stopped,
confused, and looked as if she did not deserve
altogether the praise conveyed in her
father's words.

`But you are a good girl. I will not,
however, stand in the way of a proper husband.
But he must be worthy of you. He
must be of equal rank and wealth, and honorable
in name and descent. By the mass!
I cannot think of one man in all Spain, under
Don Carlos, that I would wed you to.'

`Do not speak of this, dear father,' she
said, sadly. `If you please, I would rather
not ride forth this morning. I am not well,
and will retire awhile to my chamber.'

`If we are to go to Madrid so soon, we
shall have little time for sports. We have
much preparation to make. So we will have
the hunt stayed. Lopez, put up the horses
and hounds, and you, Juan, take care of the
king's courier, and see that he and his horse
lack nothing. Sir courier, by-and-by, when
you are ready to depart, come to me, and
I will give you a billet for the king's majesty.
How odd,' added the Duke, as he returned
slowly and thoughtfully into his hall,
`how odd that such news as this from court
should have produced such an effect upon
the child. Other maids would have gone
mad outright with joy, while Inez looks sad,
and seemed ready to weep. It is, I dare
say, because she fears that we may be separated.
She looks upon a husband (for it was
this word in the queen's letter that paled her
cheek most,) as a sort of monster, who is
to tear her away from my bosom, where she
has nestled since she was an infant. Well,
poor child, she shall not be led to do any
thing she don't wish to do. If she loves me,
I will stand by her. But, surely, these letters
are a great honor, and a father ought to
be proud that his daughter's fame hath
reached so far. But who of the court hath
seen her? Faith, I know not; she hath never
seen a gallant in gold and scarlet that I
know of. I have kept them aloof from my
gates as I would a wolf. Perhaps the rumor
of her beauty had gone from her attendants,
and so from lip to ear, till it hath
reached the king's. Ho, varlets, bestir you
here! Know you not your master is going,
forthwith, to court? I must have new finery,
and my room well furnished, or 'fore
God! these gay popinjays that flutter about
the court will laugh at me, and ask me what
was it o'clock a century ago, when I buckled
on my belt.'

When Dona Inezetta regained her chamber,
she seated herself by her casement,
with the queen's letter in her hand, and a

second time perused it. When she had
ended it, she sighed heavily, and her virgin
bosom heaved with inward emotion. With
her snowy hand she pressed her brow, and
put the raven tresses backward from her
brow and temples, so that they fell upon her
shoulders in a dark cloud. Her glorious
Castilian eyes were brilliant with tears
floating in them.

`Three months ago what joy this letter
would have given me,' she at length said,
sadly. `But now it comes to me laden with
a thousand painful fears. I have, indeed,
wished to go to court. I have panted for
these scenes of life in Madrid; and now,
that I am about to have my wishes realized,
I am unhappy. Oh, my heart, my poor
heart! how it flutters and trembles, lest the
queen should bid it give its love to some
one at her court. Oh, rather than be thus
given to a husband, would I this night fly—
fly even from my father, and hide in some
distant retreat. My heart is already given.
My affections already cling to the only support
about which they can ever entwine.
How, oh, how shall I escape this mandate
of the queen. It must be obeyed. I must
go to her court and be presented to the
world. Little do I care for that world so
long as Don Feliz is not there. He is my
world; I know no other than his noble heart.
Fear not, Feliz, I will be true to thee,
though cavaliers without number kneel at
my feet; though Don Carlos, the king's
son, should sue for my hand. Humble,
poor, unknown, as you are, you are dearer
to me than the homage of all the princes
of Europe.'

This was spoken with that noble and
sweet dignity which true love inspires. And
truly and faithfully did the maiden love,
though her affections were set upon a youth
humble and unknown. She had first met him
three months before the opening of this story.
One evening, just as the sun had descended
behind the snow-capped ridge of the
Sierras, and while twilight was yet shedding
its golden radiance upon the landscape,
Dona Inezetta, after a hawking excursion,
which had led her a league up the valley,
was riding slowly homeward. She was near
the castle gate, when her father, who had
been riding behind her, talking with his
falconer, reined up to speak to two of his
tenants, who, cap in hand, came toward
him. She was attended only by a page, a
youth of fifteen, who carried upon his wrist
her ger-falcon, and rode a little way in the
rear. Dona Inezetta was in all the splendor
of her beauty. The hunting jacket and
flowing skirt she wore, displayed her superb
figure to the highest advantage; while the
green hat, curved back above the brow, like
a shell, and shaded by a white plume, which
mingled with her dark ringlets, increased
the effect of her charming countenance.
Her oriental eyes were sparkling, and her
cheek flashed with success in the chase and
the exhilaration of her ride. She was
mounted upon a white palfrey, limbed like
an antelope, and who, with tossing mane
and champing bit, stepped as featly and
proudly over the road as if he were fully
conscious of the lovely burden he bore.

Not far from the castle was a clump of
orange trees, under which was a fountain,
and around which seats were placed for the
repose of the passing foot-traveler. As the
maiden drew near she saw a young man
seated by the fountain. His dress was plain
and neat, but travel-worn. He had his cap
off, and was bathing his brow in the cool
water of the fountain. Hearing the foot-fall
of the palfrey, he looked up, and coloring,
replaced his cap, but not before the maiden
had discovered that he was a young man of
about twenty-one or two, with a face of singular
beauty and modesty of expression. As
she came nigher, he took up his little bundle
and staff which lay by him, and advancing
towards her with a respectful and deferential
air, said, lifting his bonnet:—

`Lady, may it please thee to permit me
to lodge in the castle to-night. It is late,
and I am told that there are robbers on the
road.'

`Robbers,' repeated the page, pertly, and
with a sneering laugh; `I wonder what robber

would take the pains to stop thee, with
thy beggar's wallet.'

`Hist, Panuelo,' answered Dona Inezetta.
`Have none of thy sauciness. The young
man shall lodge within the castle, for this
thy impertinence, and shall sup with thee at
thy own table.'

`If he does, I'll put henbane into his
wine-cup,' returned the page, in a tone that
his mistress overheard, but, without heeding
him, she turned to the young wayfarer, and
said—

`Sir traveler, you shall remain; go forward
into the gate.'

`Thanks, noble lady. Although I have
not much gold to be robbed of, I have a life,
which I care not to give up to the hands of
banditti. They take men's lives first, and
then search them for money afterwards. I
could tell you, noble Senora, many a tale of
these bandits, and especially one of a cavalier
and a maiden, who were taken captives
by them, and how they escaped, and what
amazing adventures they passed through ere
they reached their own city.'

`He is a troubadour,' said the page.
`But where is thy guitar, fellow?'

`There are guitars in every castle, sir
page.'

`True, and it would seem castles for
every wandering rogue.'

`Panuelo, go to your apartment, and le
me see you no more to night,' said the maiden,
with displeasure. `Sir troubadour, I
will hear your tale of this maiden and her
lover by-and-by. Be ready when I shall
send for you.'

`I will wait you commands, noble and
beautiful lady,' answered the young traveler,
gazing upon her with looks of the profoundest
admiration and respect.

That evening the humble guest recited
before the maiden a tale of love and chivalry,
the hero and heroine of which were a
cavalier and lady of Seville. The Duke was
a listener, and so heartily approved of the
story, that he gave the youth a golden
sequin, and ordered him a cup of his best
wine, and then bade him think of other ro
mances for the entertainment of himself and
his daughter; for the youth was of such
humble exterior and low degree, that Don
Diego thought no more of danger to his
daughter's heart from him than from his
daughter's page, or his own serving man,
who were ever in and out of her presence.
But love knows neither degree nor estate of
rank. Nay, he delights in showing his power
over such distinctions, and to manifest his
sovereignty over the heart. As Dona Inezetta
listened to the rich voice and gentle
words of the reciter, and marked the depth
of expression in his fine eyes, which seemed
afraid of her glance, as they ever drooped
modestly before it, while his cheek reddened,
a sentiment of tender interest in him
pervaded her soul. She listened with eager
attention, and when he discoursed of the
love the knight had for the maiden, and how
she loved him in return, and told of the
deeds he achieved in her behalf, her cheek
glowed and her heart throbbed violently.
Insensibly the young troubadour, through
the medium of his romaunt, stole into her
heart, though she knew it not.

`Come, sir troubadour,' said the Duke, we
will now hear thee sing. Dona Inez, let
him have thy guitar!'

`What shall I sing?' asked the youth, fixing
his deeply impassioned, yet well covered
gaze upon the face of the maiden.'

`Sing what thou wilt, sir stranger,' answered
the maiden, casting down her eyes:
`for I know thou canst sing nothing that
will not be well worth the listening!'

`Thanks, noble lady, for this praise! I
will sing thee a French ballad I learned in
Gascony!'

`My father knows no French. Sing a
Spanish one!'

`Nay, daughter let him on with his French,
as thou understandest it! I have heard
French ballads afore, and though I got not
much wit out o' the words, there was a
right pleasant jingling of music. I liked it
much. Let him sing his French ballad,
and after that you can translate it to me!'

The troubadour then taking up the guitar,

began a song which he called, `The Knight
of France and the Maiden of Castile.' It
recounted how a young knight, having heard
of the beauty of a maiden whom no one was
permitted to see, disguised himself as a forester
or hunter, and placing himself in her
way, when at times she went forth to hunt
with her father, joined the party, and so aided
in saving the maiden from the attack of a
band of robbers who would have carried her
off, but the disguised knight slew the chief,
and bore her unharmed to the castle. There
he was graciously entertained with the retainers
for many days, and his degree not
being suspected, he had opportunities for winning
her hart, ewhich was his object, especially
as he found her beauty, great as it was, surpassed
by the charms of her mind. At
length he won her heart, and by-and-by
took his leave of her, saying he would see
her again. The maiden wept his departure,
and kept the secret of her love from her father,
who she knew would not rest if he discovered
it, until he had slain her lover. At
length there was a tournament given and
the baron and his daughter were present, by
command of the emperor. One knight in
green armor, with his visor down, carried
off the palm in every achievment of the day.
At length the emperor told him that such
valor as he had shown, was ill rewarded by
crowns and wreaths and gold rings, and he
would, therefore, bestow upon him the hand
of the fairest maiden in the land under the
daughters of the throne. The knight then
riding round the lists alighted from, his
horse, and kneeling before the maiden whose
heart he had won, and who loved him, said
in a low voice:—

`Here, then, oh, emperor, do I take my
reward!' The maiden trembled, for she had
no heart for any one but her young forester.
Her surprise, therefore, was only equalled
by her joy, when the knight lifting his visor,
displayed the face that was enshrined upon
her heart.

Such was the subject of the ballad which
the young troubadour sang with much expression,
feeling, and romantic sentiment.
His voice was melody itself, as its cadences
were enriched by the thrilling emotions of
love for Dona Inezetta, she could not but
listen with the most lively feelings.

`It is a rare tune, daughter, a right merry
and sad tune,' said the Duke. Now for the
Spanish of it!'

`I will tell thee some other day, father!
It is late!'

`Marry so it is! Come, sir troubadour,
hie thee to thy bed! Sleep sound and breakfast
roundly; for by the rood, I would have
of thee another ballad and a romaunt or two
ere thou depart!'

Three weeks the young stranger lingered
in the castle, entertaining them with his tales
and ballads, and making himself, by day, so
useful to the Duke by his various talents,
the latter could not let him go. There was
nothing about horses or hounds, or hawking,
fishing or knightly feat of arms that the
young troubadour was not skilled in. The
Duke swore seven times a day, he had never
met such a clever rogue as that story-telling
ballad singer. He offered him the
place of his chief falconer, but the young
man gratefully refused it, saying that his
time was limited and that he must be on his
way; yet he lingered, day-by-day, so long
that it was nearly a month ere he took his
leave; and when he did go he bore away the
heart of Dona Inez, which he had come
like the Gascon Knight in the ballad, to try
and win. He had been gone some weeks,
when the command came from the king for
the Duke to bring his daughter to court.

The reception of the lovely maiden at the
brilliant Spanish court was such as might
have been anticipated. She burst upon
them like a newly arisen star. There was a
constellation of beauty at the palace; but
Dona Inez shone among them like the evening
planet. Her beauty, as she moved
through the hall of festivity, called forth the
admiration and homage of the cavaliers, and
the astonishment and envy of the ladies.
The reigning beauties were neglected, that
men might worship at the new shrine. Yet
all this made no impression upon her. Her

heart was not in it. Her thoughts were
with the troubadour!

The residence of the Duke and his daughter
was at the palace. The queen, charmed
as much with the graces of her mind as by
her matchless loveliness, took her under
her patronage, and this, in connection with
her rank and wealth, made her the most distinguished
person at court. But all this
homage was received by her with indifference.
Men wondered at her coolness and
imperturbability. She seemed to move among
them as if she had been accustomed always
to a world's admiring eye and worshipping
knee.

She had been three weeks at court, when
one evening as she was standing upon the
balcony, which looked towards the mountains,
at the foot of which her castle stood,
and was thinking upon home, and of him
whom there she had first met and last parted
with a foot-fall arrested her ear! She looked
and beheld, within a step of her the young
troubadour! He was habited just as she
had first seen him, and in his hand carried
his bundle and staff. She would have yielded
to the impulse of her loving and true heart,
and rushed into his arms! But he knelt before
her, and looked so sadly upon her, that
she drew back her face suddenly, reflecting
the sorrow of his.

`Lady, pardon my presence here! I have
heard of your fame at court, and that the
best knights in Spain do homage to you.
Among them you will find a lover worthy of
you. I have come, therefore, to restore you
your troth generously plighted to me! You
shall not be bound to one so humble as I am,
when nobles are rivals for your hand! Farewell!
You are free. I shall ever carry
with me wheresoever I wander, the sweet
recollection of the hours we have loved together,
and my heart will be grateful for
your condescension to a poor and nameless
stranger!'

As he spoke he rose up, and looked as if
he would retire.

`Stay, Feliz, stay!' she cried, with emotion.
`This language of yours makes me wild! Am
I to believe that you then cast my heart
away, as worthless! that you can forget me
thus lightly! that you can coolly surrender
me to others! am I not loved then? Have I
not been loved? Have I been deceived?
Cruel, cruel Feliz!'

The young troubadour cast himself at her
feet! His face expressed the most joyful
surprise—the most animated delight.

`No, Inez, no!' he cried, taking her hand;
`you have not been deceived, nor have I! I
did but fear that you would forget me in the
splendor and temptations of a court! I see
that I have wronged you. Forgive me! I
will no more doubt! But I can hardly realize
that you are willing to forget all else for
one like me!'

`One like you, Feliz!' she cried with warmth.
`You are Feliz and I ask no more. I love
you for yourself, not for rank, or title, or
name! I know that you are worthy of me,
or I never should have loved you! The instincts
of my heart are the securities for your
honor. Humble though your birth is, I will
share with you your lot. I would rather be
a wandering troubadour with thee, Feliz, than
sit upon the throne of Spain with another!'

`Sweet, truthful Inez!' he cried, clasping
her to his heart. `But, alas! How can we
ever be happy. The Duke will never consent
to our union!'

`I will fly with you! He will forgive you
afterwards, when he knows how much I love
you and how noble you are. He loves you
now, as the troubadour! Nay, I will first
seek him and tell him all! He may consent!'

`I fear not. But wait until to-morrow
evening at this hour. I will see him, in the
interval, and try and prevail upon him. If
he consents not we fly together!'

The next evening at sunset Dona Inez was
about going to the balcony to meet Feliz,
resolved to fly with him, ere she should be
forced to marry any one of the nobles of the
court, when the Duke entered.

`Ah, girl, you look confused,' he said smiling;
`I have news for you. You remember
the troubadour, Feliz!'

Startled, she could scarcely falter forth a
trembling:

`Si, senor!'

`Don't tremble. I know all. You love
each other. He has been to me and told me
all about it! What a pair of rogues you have
been! Secret as moles, and right under my
eye billing and cooing! Well, I don't blame
you for loving him. He is a noble fellow,
and I dare say will make you a good husband.
Here he comes, already, and the priest and
two other persons as witnesses. I will have
you married on the spot, lest you wont trust
me, you baggage and run away with him!
Come, padre, lead on to the chapel!'

Who shall describe the joy, surprise and
amazement of Inez!

The ceremony took place in the chapel,
and although Inez saw, in the shadows of the
place, many persons as spectators, she did
not regard their presence. She was happy
in the love of Feliz, in the approbation of her
father. What was all the world else to her?

From the chapel the bridegroom led his
bride through into a magnificent hall, which
was lighted by a thousand waxen candles and
panelled with mirrors. It was the throne
room. At the extremity was the throne itself.
Before it was a long line of guards, and
around it was assembled the whole splendor
of the court. Feliz led his trembling bride
towards the throne. She knew not what the
scene could mean; or how one so humble
as her husband could find presence there!
Still she suffered him to lead her passively
on. They reached the foot of the throne,
when two knights came forward and cast upon
the shoulders of Feliz a regal cloak, and
placed a crown upon his head! Two noble
ladies at the same time threw an ermine robe
around Dona Inez, and encircled her brow
with a glittering coronet. Don Feliz then
took the hand of his bride to help her up the
steps of the throne where sat the king and
queen!

`What means this, Feliz? I am bewildered!'

`Keep heart, dear wife!' answered Feliz,
as he drew her gently on.

`Welcome, daughter!' cried the king, rising
and embracing Dona Inez.

`Welcome, sweet Inez, my child,' said the
queen, folding her to her bosom, and seating
her by her side.

`What, oh what is this! Tell me am I in
a dream!' she cried, looking around, and then
clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes upon
Feliz.

`No, gentle Inez,' answered Feliz with the
smile of love triumphant.

`Who then are you, Feliz,' she cried with
tears of mingled joy and fear.

`The Infanta, Don Carlos, Prince of Castile!'

`Let the trumpets sound,' cried the king,
and proclaim the union of Don Carlos the
heir to the throne of Spain and the Indies, to
Dona Inez, daughter of Diego, Duke of
Arvalez!'

The proclamation echoed and reechoed
through the hall, and the lovely bride, whose
truth and fealty had thus been nobly rewarded,
fell upon her husband's neck, and softly
whispered, amid the acclamations and clangor
of trumpets:

`Feliz, as I would have loved and honored
you as your troubadour, even so will I love
and honor you as your princess; nor can I
love you any more as Don Carlos, than I have
loved you as the lowly Feliz! But I will not
conceal from you the fullness of my great
joy! My heart trusted in you and it was not
deceived!'