University of Virginia Library

1. PELAYO:
A STORY OF THE GOTH. BOOK I.

1. I.

There is, after all, only a certain quantity of power
in the world, and the loss of it from one spot simply announces
its transfer to another. Our plaints for the
decayed town or the ruined empire, grateful enough to
the spirit of poetry, are not often called for in reality.
These events usually result from some leading necessity,
which, deplorable enough at the time, the foresight of a
benevolent Providence designs for some lasting and
general benefit. Our regrets are most usually precipitate:
our sorrows, in half the number of cases,
in advance of their occasion, and imagination, in this
way, too frequently usurps the province of experience.
Change is the subject of lament, for ever, with the men
who are themselves stationary—the men who receive,
but never transmit, opinions. Innovation, sometimes
ruinous, is always of good import, since it indicates
mental activity—the lack of which is the worst feature in
the history of men and nations. Even revolutions, the
horrors of which are lamentable, are injurious to places
rather than to people. The great bulk of mankind grow
wiser upon them, and the discovery of a new abiding-place,
like the discovery of a new truth, must always
afford an added empire to thought, and a wider realm to
the wing of liberty.

2. II.

With the decay of Rome arose the stupendous genius
of the Gothic empire, happily imaged by Hercules, its
tutelar divinity. Auxiliaries first, then allies, the Visigoths
became at last, under Euric, protectors of the
Romans. The power of this monarch was prodigious.
In the language of history, as well as of the poet, the
North was excited or appeased by his nod; and Rome,
the proud and terrible, was content to receive the aid
and recognise the law, of a race it still continued to
consider as barbarian. At this period the Visigoths
were dreaded among the mightiest nations, even so remote
as Persia; and the oracle of history here pauses
to demand, to what magnitude would their power
have risen had Euric, under whom it grew, survived
till the maturity of his son Alaric, and had not the national
adversary been Clovis, the valiant and ambitious
genius, raised up, we may suppose as an especial agent,
for its control. France took rank with the death of
Euric. Alaric ascended the throne of the Visigoths
when a mere boy, and the circumstance stimulated the
bigoted Franks into hostile activity. They were orthodox
Catholics, the Visigoths were Arians. “It grieves
me,” cried Clovis to his warriors, “it grieves me to see
the Arians in possession of the fairest part of Gaul.
Let us march against them, and, with the aid of God,
vanquish these heretics, and divide their provinces.”
Bigotry and spoil, the common stimulants of war, had
their due influence. The proposition was received
with a unanimous shout of assent, and Clovis marched
upon his enemy. The two monarchs met near Poictiers;
a decisive battle took place,—the Visigoths were
defeated, and Alaric slain. The provinces were divided,
and the honours of the Catholic faith restored by the
strong arm in all those portions of Gaul from which the
Arian Goths had hitherto expelled it.

3. III.

Sixty years after this event, Leovogild ascended the
throne of the Goths. He rolled back the tide of war
upon his enemies, sustained and reinvigorated his drooping
people, and by mixed valour and prudence effectually
restored the confidence and stability of the kingdom.
From his time to that of Witiza, a space of a hundred
years, this prosperity continued, and the Goths were still
powerful by sea and land. The reign of Witiza at the
outset promised a like increase of glory with that of his
predecessors. Brave and equitable at first, he gave to
the choice of the people the fullest sanction, while maintaining
for a long period the same elevated character.
Justice and moderation, so far, marked the progress of
his rule; and the best evidence, perhaps, of the correctness
of history in its estimate of his virtues, may be
gathered from the fact that, for the first time in a long
series of years, a liberal and independent spirit began to
prevail throughout the nation, adorning, with a show of
moral beauty, that name which was soon to be blotted
out for ever. Powerful and seemingly united at home,
feared, or at least respected, among the neighbouring
nations, the empire of the Goths, at this time, was not
unworthy of the high-flown pretension with which it
claimed and challenged a comparison with Rome. Almost
arrogant in its boldness, we may yet estimate
highly its firm resolve and elevated character, when,
under the sway of the present monarch, we find the
National Council of Toledo firmly and successfully resisting
the demand then urged by the Pope, as successor
to St. Peter, of absolute dominion in and over the
Christian states of Europe. Such was the nation then;
but, in one sense, the evidence of character is defective.
The nation was never nigher than at that moment,
to its overthrow. The independence and improved

mental character of the people were the deadliest foes
possessed by the existing government. Their affections
were not with their rulers—there was no community
of feeling between them. A new truth had gotten
abroad among men. Veneration, the bearded despot,
was tottering upon his ancient towers. Implicit obedience
had given way to doubt—doubt had brought inquiry
into exercise, and the scales of superstition and a
blind obedience had fallen, in consequence, from a
thousand eyes. Once seeing, it saw all—it never slept
again. The very power which had bidden defiance to the
chains of Rome was of itself fatal to the old tyrannies
which had made a serf of the subject, and degraded the
neck of manhood to a collar. Power was embraced by
change, and the issue was revolution.

4. IV.

Moderate tyrannies are of all others the most dangerous
and deadly, and it is therefore fortunate for
mankind that it is the very essence of misrule to glide or
leap into excess. Excess provokes resistance, and the
tyranny is overthrown. To Witiza himself, the reigning
prince, is ascribed the activity of innovation and thought
among the people. Though, at first, rather remarkable
for the equity and moderation of his rule, the possession
of power beyond the legitimate grasp of his own intellect,
as in the case of Nero, is said to have corrupted his
heart: it certainly changed his character. His reign, in
progress of time, became unpopular—with a part of the
nation at least; and some harsh proceedings against the
Jews, who continued to draw out a miserable existence,
under every sort of privation, among a people whose
laws denied them toleration and decreed their expulsion,
at length prompted this oppressed and wretched people
to an intrigue with the neighbouring Saracens—even
then, to the Goths, a frequent and formidable enemy.

Such an event threatened the empire, at the same moment,
with foreign and intestine war. But the aim of
the Jews miscarried—their plans were discovered in
time for prevention, the insurrectionists were put down;
and, as a necessary consequence, their bonds grew
heavier and their penalties less endurable than ever.

5. V.

But though the insurrectionists were quelled, or
quieted, the general discontent following internal strife
and unaccustomed privation was not so readily subdued.
War and disaffection had brought their own troubles
along with them; and, as in the old condition of all the
European states there never could have been any sympathy
between the ruler and the great body of the ruled,
the intrigues of the oppressed Jews had opened the eyes
of thousands, in other classes, to their own oppression.
In the general ferment, the Gothic nobles, who were
luxurious and sensual, had their sufficient share; and
by their arts the people were stimulated to that fever
which was to be their own death. They were no longer
the brave barbarians who, under Euric, had vanquished
the martial nobles of the Tarragonese provinces, had
penetrated to the heart of Lusitania, and, when Odoacer
usurped the sovereignty of Italy, compelled him to yield
up, as far as the Rhine and the ocean, all the Roman
conquests beyond the Alps. They were no longer the
people whose dauntless valour overcame the hardy discipline
of the Roman legion. They too had soon fallen
into all the degeneracies and the tastes of Rome. Like
her, and with far greater rapidity, they had sunk from all
the attributes of that forward valour and manly simplicity
of character which had made them, like her, the sovereigns
of the world and period. To a people so deteriorated,
the consequences of unaccustomed warfare may
readily be told. Discontent among the people grew with

increasing expenditure on the part of the nobles. The
latter, under oppressions not sanctioned by popular sympathy,
had occasioned expenditures which that people
were yet to satisfy. This taught them the difference of
interest which, once known, must overthrow every rule
—the difference between the people and their rulers—
the consciousness of a dissimilarity of purpose and
position, at once provoking discontent and demanding
hostility. Nor was this spirit of dissatisfaction entirely
confined to the people. The inferior nobles had their
discontents also; discontents which continued to increase
as they surveyed the excesses in which the more
wealthy of their order engaged. They craved equally
their indulgences, but they lacked the necessary resources.
To oppress the inferior, therefore—to imitate
the exactions of those above them—was the resort of this
latter division. The Jews, for whom, after their late
intrigue, there was little sympathy, were the first and
legitimate victims. Their goods were the common spoil,
and what they could not withhold or secrete, became, in
great part, the prey of their oppressors. After these,
the inferior orders of the Christians—for religion does
not hold ground against misrule—succeeded to their fate,
and a reckless and rash spirit of provocation throughout
the land paved the way for a downfall of that power in
which the sway of the government seemed to be deposited.
Nothing could limit the excesses of this petty
nobility, which did not content itself with the possessions
of the inferior, but, in the end, proceeded to subject to
its unrefined desires the wives and daughters of the
classes most unprivileged, or seeming least secure.

6. VI.

With a re-awakening of the early spirit of virtue
which was said to have distinguished the outset of his
reign, and from which he had himself lamentably fallen,

the king, Witiza, determined to make head against these
excesses. In aid of this determination, it so happened
that Theodofred, an old and decayed noble, was
guilty of a gross outrage upon a woman of the lower
orders. The rabble took up the cause of justice, and
pursued the offender into the very court of the palace of
Toledo. Theodofred, secure as he thought of the protection
of the king, no less than of his caste, looked to
be defended against the rabble which pursued him;
but he was mistaken. Whether it was that a sentiment
of right in reality gave the monarch a spur to justice,
or whether, as is more probable, he hoped by a timely
and severe act of authority to win back some of those
golden opinions from the people which he had but too
obviously neglected, may now only be conjectured; but
his proceeding was marked with all the decision, even if
it lacked the impulse and the intention of justice. He
met the crowd—assured them of his sympathy, and
promised them the adequate punishment of the criminal.
They were pacified, and he kept his word. Theodofred
was immediately deprived of his sight—a favourite punishment
with the Goths—and, in despite of the prayers
and murmurs of the nobles, was immured, under the
doom of imprisonment for life, in a dungeon at Cordova.

7. VII.

This terrible, but strictly just, punishment was the
signal for a greater rebellion than that which had been
recently put down. The nobles made common cause
in defence of their order, the privileges of which they
asserted to have been invaded. Witiza refused to make
any concessions, and they raised the standard of insurrection
throughout the kingdom. The common people
themselves, though truly without motive for coalition
with the nobles, joined with them against the sovereign,
in whose person they saw only the imbodied form of

that domination which had oppressed them. To these,
the Jews, glad of any chances for that commotion which
they had themselves laboured to provoke in vain, at once
gave all their assistance. Thus, welded into one, the
extreme castes of the nation stood up, a solid and headlong
power, in array against their common ruler. It
was Roderick, the son of Theodofred, that led them.
His wrong was that most present to their eyes, and his
valour and known recklessness, at the same time, lent
force to the suggestion that proposed him as their leader.
His first stroke against the sovereign was made in the
city of Cordova. The dungeon which enclosed his
sightless father was assaulted and stormed—the son
stood before the sire, and was unseen.

“Who is it that approaches?—what new danger awaits
me? Must Theodofred look now for death from the
hands of Witiza? Lo! I am ready,” was the speech
of the captive.

“Not death!—not death! but freedom!” exclaimed
the son.

“Who speaks?—that voice—” cried the victim, as
he tottered forward at the well-known sounds.

“Is thy son's—is Roderick's. He brings thee freedom
and vengeance. Father! I stand before thee.”

“I hear thee, but I see thee not, my son!”

“That is a word for strife and a fierce vengeance, and
thou shalt have it! I swear it on my sword, the tyrant
shall perish, even as thy sight.”

“Approach—let my hand press thy head—let me
feel, for I know thee not, my son.”

The son knelt to the blind old sire, and the guided
hands rested upon the uncovered head in benediction.
The warriors around hailed the auspices with a shout
of fierce enthusiasm, and they daringly began the war
which was destined to shake the kingdom of the Goths
to its centre. Three armies, at the same moment,
traversed the empire. One of these was led by Witiza,
who, lacking nothing of the valour come from his ancestors

in direct lineage, at once went forth against the
insurgents. Another, and the most numerous, was
that of Roderick. The third, infinitely inferior in every
respect to both of these, was led, in support of the reigning
monarch, by his two sons, Egiza and Pelayo; but
at too great a distance from the scene of war to co-operate
with their sire against the approaching power of his
enemy.

8. VIII.

The respective armies of the sovereign and the rebel,
after several skirmishes, indecisive and only stimulating
a wish for a closer struggle, met, at length, under the
walls of the capital city of Toledo. The close strife
of the sword, the spear, and the cleaving battle-axe,
came terribly on, after the manner of the time, and with
a revival of much of that sanguinary valour long suspended
in their history, but which, at one time, had made
even the Imperial Queen of Cities, the mighty Rome,
cower and give back before the Gothic arms. Then
rose the shout and the hurrah—the cry of conquest and
the shriek of pain—the concentrated hate and malignity
so naturally the result of a strife in which people of the
same land and origin stand up in arms against each
other. The insolent hope of rebellion rose into a desperate
halloo, mingled with the confident cry of legitimate
power. Both were anxious, prompted by leading, but
different motives. Never were the arms of opposing
arrays more equally balanced. The battle was protracted
from sunrise to sunset; now approaching, and now receding
from beneath, the walls of Toledo. The citizens
thronged upon the towers and the battlements, looking
forth in anxious doubt upon the progress of the strife.
Twice did the insurrectionists fall back in panic before the
well-ordered array of the sovereign. Twice did Witiza,
with the golden horns of royalty upon his brow, and

mounted upon a car blazing with jewels, such as was common
to all the luxurious monarchs of the Goths, rush
forward upon the retreating thousands of Roderick, crying,
“Victory!—victory! gallant nobles and fair gentlemen
of Spain—one more blow—one more blow, and a
rich prize for the head of the traitor.” But such was
not the destiny of the insurgent chief. He threw
himself into the thick of battle. He stood in the path
of his retreating troops—his own sword cleft the neck
of the foremost fugitive, and his voice rang, like a clear
note from the full-throated trumpet, in a peal more full
of terror than any shock of the foe. He cheered them
with a new hope—he led them forward with a fresh
strength and better decision, and, for the third time, the
armies clashed spears in opposing battle. How close
was that struggle—how doubtful the result! What then
were the hopes of insurrection—what then the doubts
of legitimacy! The stake was great alike, to the
sovereign and the rebel; and the efforts of both were
worthy of the adventure. For a long time the battle
hung in suspense—a feather's weight, a word more or
less, on either side, had determined the issue; and, duly
conscious of this truth, Roderick determined to single
out, and by opposing manfully the danger in its very
head, if possible, to make it less. Through the thick
masses he pressed forward on his way. Amid the
crowd and the dust, defying the hostile spear, and dashing
aside the friendly, the strong-armed rebel rushed
daringly to grapple with his king. Witiza beheld his approach,
and readily conceived his object. He shrank
not from the encounter, but, leaping from his car of
battle, armed only with battle-axe and sword, he stood
upon a small eminence, and waved his hand in signal to
his enemy. His nobles gave back at his bidding, and,
as if by tacit consent, the two armies threw up their
crossed spears and suspended their strokes, in breathless
anticipation of the single combat of the chiefs.

“I have thee, tyrant!—I have thee now, for vengeance!”

cried Roderick as he came; and he lifted his battle-axe
to his shoulder, and rushed fearlessly up the hill.

“Thou comest for justice, and thou shalt have it,
traitor!” cried the monarch, who knew how much he
might rely on his ancient prowess.

And then came the stroke and the clash—the affronting
thrust of the sword and the resolute parry, the keen
eye guiding it in the true direction, so that it touched
not. The king gave back before the rebel, and then
rose, with a thrilling joy, the shout from the force of the
insurgents; then trembled the ranks of the sovereign,
and they would have rushed forward to his aid; but
when they looked again, it was Roderick who had shrunk
—Witiza pressing upon him, and the rebel partly upon his
knee. Once more did he recover to the attack, and so
stoutly plied he his blows that the weary arm of the
monarch might well have failed to meet them with corresponding
vivacity. But Witiza had an old renown.
Had he not met the insurgent Basques, and overthrown
the Tarragonese nobles, and driven back the invading
Franks, until his name became a terror to each foreign
power? Should he now give back before rebellion?
He did not; he knew the strength of his arm—the
superiority of his skill—and his soul was fearless as his
steel was true. He put aside his enemy's blows, and
dreadful and thick were his own. It was Roderick's
turn to shrink—to give way—to flee. He yielded to
what seemed his destiny, and the brave monarch pressed
hard upon the rebel, as, fighting and facing to the last,
he descended, still battling, from the eminence where, in
the sight of both armies, the combat had been going on.
At that instant a voice arose from the crowd of insurgent
chiefs—a solemn, deep voice of inquiry. It came
from the lips of the blind Theodofred.

“Speak!” cried he to the warriors around him—
“speak! tell me how the fight goes; for I hear not the
shouts of our people, and my eyes see not the form of
my son.”

Roderick heard—and shame and a new fury grew
active in his bosom.

“I fight still, my father. Thou shalt have vengeance,
though thine eyes behold it not. Ho! Witiza, I
cross swords with thee again!” and he resolutely rushed
up the hill. The monarch met him, unrelaxing, with his
ancient spirit.

“Thou art not stronger, nor I weaker, thou traitor,
than when I struck with thee before. Thy hope shall
be the same.”

And they renewed the strife; but scarcely had it begun,
when an arrow—a single arrow—perfidiously shot
from the insurgent ranks, with deadly aim, penetrated
the eye of Witiza. The monarch reeled beneath the
shaft, and his lifted battle-axe struck wide of the head
of his enemy, upon which it was otherwise unerringly
descending. In that moment he cried—

“Ha! slave, thou hast slain thy king! It is over.”

Dizzy and dazzled, he reeled about like one drunk
with wine, and the steel of Roderick's weapon then
penetrated his bosom. He clasped the weapon-blade
in his hands, and fell heavily to the earth. The star of
rebellion was triumphant and in the ascendant, while
that of Witiza went down in blood. The king of the
Goths lay prostrate beneath his conqueror, the foot of
the rebel was upon his breast, and the cry of horror
from the one array, and the shout of exultation from the
other, went up in a fierce diapason, as thus, bestriding
his victim, his sharp blade smote the neck of the sovereign,
till the gray head rolled from it along the hill.
That event determined the conflict—the courage of
Witiza's army fell with its leader; and, now a confusion,
and now a rout, they fled before their enemy. The
streets of the neighbouring city of Toledo, to which they
retreated for shelter, ran thick with their blood, as,
without offering resistance, they sunk under the swords
of their pursuers. In that hour, while yet the conqueror
stood over the body of his sovereign, and on the spot

where he had slain him, three of his bravest warriors
seized upon him, and pinioned him to the earth. A
dozen crossed their spears over his body, while in his
sight waved as many swords.

“Swear!” cried the chiefs.

“Swear!” cried the people.

“Swear as a Gothic noble!” cried the nobles.

“Swear as a Goth!” cried the common soldiery.

“I swear as a Goth—I swear as a noble!” was the
response of Roderick.

“Swear to be honourable!” cried one of the former.

“Swear to be merciful!” cried one of the latter.

“Swear to be true!” cried the noble.

“Swear to be just!” cried the soldier.

“In the name of the great God of heaven and earth
—the friend of man—the protector of the Goths—the
father of the most holy faith, I, Roderick, son of Theodofred,
and true descendant from Chindaswind the Goth,
I swear to you, nobles of the Goths—I swear to be honourable
and true. I swear to you, people of the Goth—
I swear to be just and merciful. God sees, God hears!
I have sworn!”

“Bring the buckler—he has sworn,” was the cry
of those around him. The buckler was brought, and,
raising the successful rebel from the earth, they placed
him upon it, pronouncing him their king, and the king
of the Goths. As with one voice, the vast multitude
then swore allegiance to one destined to be the last
monarch of their once mighty empire.

9. IX.

A few leagues off from the scene of battle, but
rapidly advancing along the Tagus with levies hastily
gathered among the neighbouring towns and provinces,
came the two young princes, Egiza and Pelayo, sons
of the monarch whose death we have just witnessed.

They had been aiming at a junction with their father,
but though they had hurried with all due diligence with
this object, they were still at some distance when the
battle joined. It was in a narrow valley, about seven
miles from Toledo, that they paused at nightfall for a
brief rest. Their troops had been greatly wearied by
the rapid and continued travel of the long day, and such
a pause became absolutely necessary to enable them to
commence their march again that night. It was then
that they gained the first intelligence of Witiza's defeat.
Fugitive after fugitive, each confirming, with some new
disaster, the story of the preceding, made his appearance
in the camp of the young princes, until the narrative of
misfortune was finally complete, in the appalling communication,
to them, of the murder of their father.
Then the elder brother burst into tears and lamentations
before his whole army, and his heart sunk within him at
the tidings; but Pelayo, who was a brave and fearless
spirit, rebuked this weakness, and spoke boldly to the
messengers.

“Now, tell ye forth your story, ye that have run
so fleetly with its burthen. Halt ye not in what ye
came for, but impart the manner of the fight. Say out
the whole—where stood the king—what force brought
Roderick on—who was the traitor lord that led the
flight, and had no thought for vengeance. Speak it all.”

The fugitives then told him what he sought, dwelling
with closeness upon all the events, until he came to the
death of the old monarch, when the sorrows of Egiza,
the elder brother, burst forth afresh.

“Now shame on thy woman heart!” cried the sterner
Pelayo; “thy tears were fitting were they those of the
man, which are blood, and not those of the woman,
which are water. Go to—are we the sons of Witiza,
and shall we borrow a thought from the child and weep?
No, Egiza—I have for thee a better counsel. We shall
fight. Let not thy tears damp the brave hearts of the
warriors that follow us. Look battle, and send out a

fierce cry, that we may all gather strength for vengeance.”
Thus saying, he strove to fill the soul of his
elder brother with his own brave spirit; but Egiza took
greatly to heart the news which he had heard.

“I hope my father is in heaven,” cried Pelayo to the
troops. “Mine is a true charity, my friends, since I
would despatch after him the traitor Roderick, who sent
him there. So make fitting your weapons, and let us
at once go forward to avenge our friends. Let us
pluck down the rebel and do justice upon him, showing
ourselves worthy in the sight of our country.”

And faintly the soldiers cheered at the speech of Pelayo.
They had been depressed by the intelligence
brought by the fugitives and looked not with their former
spirit. When Pelayo saw this, he rebuked his brother.

“This it is to be a woman; thy weakness has dashed
the spirits of thy men, and they have grown feeble like
thyself. Speak thou to them, and put on the show of
a valour which thou seem'st not now to have. Let
them hear thee, and, if thou canst, teach them to have
souls fit for their swords, which are of Toledo.”

Thus, nobly encouraging both his brother and the
army, did Pelayo speak. Moved by his rebuke, Egiza
threw aside his sorrows, and addressed the warriors
manfully, as became the good stock from which he
sprang. But their depression had been too great from
the news brought by the fugitives, and, in addition to
this, the emissaries of the rebel lurked even among
themselves. The young prince spoke to men who
were blinded or staggering. Conscious of their own
numerical inferiority, and assured of the complete dispersion
of that stronger array of the monarch, on the
junction with which they had so much relied,they began
to sink under the overwhelming despondency which
these events brought along with them. But a few chiefs
and warriors showed signs of a true courage, and a willingness
to advance; and these too soon drew back when
they found how feebly they were seconded by the remainder

of the army. Even the valorous and sanguine
Pelayo saw plainly enough that nothing could be hoped
from them in their present condition of mind; and,
with shame and sorrow, he assented to the necessity
which compelled them to fall back with their force upon
the city of Cordova, where they hoped to find support in
their quarrel. In this retreat their power gradually diminished,
until at length, approaching Cordova, and
hearing that it also had declared for Roderick, the two
unfortunate princes now found themselves sustained
only by a small band, chiefly of the nobles, who had
clung to them and were true in all seasons. The rabble,
always fickle and uncertain, had fled in every direction;
some with the fear of punishment, and some in the
hope of reward from the conqueror—so that the policy
left for the young princes was, simply to disband their
small, but trusty, remaining force, and wait for better
times. This done, though they well knew the danger,
yet, as they had many friends in Cordova, they approached
that city. Carefully disguising themselves, unattended,
they entered the city at nightfall, amid the sound of barbaric
music, and the shouts of thousands assembled to
glorify the annunciation of a new monarch over them—
he the usurper of the throne, and the destroyer of one
whom they had so lately professed to love with a feeling
little short of adoration. Bitterly cursing their insincerity
in his heart, and musing upon the instability of
fortune, Pelayo led the way for his less elastic brother,
until, sheltered by the night, they entered unperceived
into the palace of their paternal uncle, Lord Oppas,
the Archbishop of Cordova. It was then, at midnight,
in the dim seclusion of a secret chamber, that the
archbishop held conference with the young princes, his
nephews, on the best mode for regaining the empire of
which they had just been deprived by the successful
usurpation of Roderick. The churchman and the elder
prince, Egiza, the immediate heir to the throne, were
seated thus in conference, the brow of the prince sad and
thoughtful; while Pelayo, the younger, who was of a
fiery and restless spirit, strode, gloomily and impatient,
to and fro along the apartment.

10. X.

“'Tis an evil day, my sons,” exclaimed the archbishop,
after they had briefly related to him the particulars of their
late mishap, “'tis an evil day, but it is not all evil. We
have lost the battle, and, for the time, our enemy is victorious.
But cheer ye up—all is not lost, if we be not
lost to ourselves. Let us not be downcast—let us not
despair. 'Tis the woman's heart that will not hope on
in spite of denial and in defiance of the misjudging fortune.
'Tis not for the strong man to be shaken with
the sudden tempests nor the mighty tree to be cast down
like the timid shrub—wherefore, then, Egiza, do you thus
hang your head as if it awaited the stroke of the headsman?
Look up, my son—put on the semblance of battle;
and though we hide our weapon for a season, let us
have the spirit for ever warm and ready within us that
shall prompt us to its use.”

While he spoke the clangour of the oriental drum,
mingled with the shrill notes of the Roman trumpets,
and the clamours of the multitude, announced to them
the exulting progress of Roderick's faction. The finger
of Egiza was uplifted as the sounds filled the apartment,
but he made no other reply to the encouraging exhortations
of the archbishop. The latter continued,

“'Tis true—those clamours and that exulting trumpet
tell us all—the throne is lost—your father slain—the
power departed to another hand, for a season at least;
but they only tell us what your own lips have already
been free enough to utter. They give us no new cause
of apprehension. They carry with them no terrors to
heighten those of the disastrous field where the sun of

Witiza set in blood. Let us not despond, and, above all,
despond not thou. Thou art the rightful heir to the
throne, and, if thou be'st a man, they can only keep it from
thee for a season. That season over, and, by the holy
martyrs of Antioch, I promise thee thou shalt come to
thy own.”

The words of the archbishop aroused the youth, if
they did not encourage him. With a deep sigh he answered—

“I would hope, my uncle—I would that I could not
fear. But give us better ground than these empty words.
Whence comes your hope—where are our friends, our
arms, our confidence? We stand alone. The warriors
that followed us so lately are all fled, and, by this time,
I doubt not, those who fled not fill the ranks of the
usurper. The base multitude, forgetting their past favours
and the glories of our race, shrink from the sides
of those whose sires led them in triumph over the neck
of Rome, and bore the banner of the Goth from the Danube
to the Atlantic Sea. On such as these we may not
rely, and for such as these we should not look. The
coward hinds, though they swore most trimly when the
foe was yet distant, had neither word nor blow when he
approached us. They lingered not even to behold him;
and are now, such as follow not in his train, shut up and
trembling among the caves of the mountains, without
the spirit of utterance, when a stout battle had given
them the victory and me the crown that I should challenge
but vainly now.”

“They will come with the occasion, my son,” replied
the archbishop. “Their flight and terror now are natural
enough; let us not upbraid them, but content ourselves,
as we well know that the unobtrusive power (so ordered
by the mazy Providence) comes ever with the necessity
which demands its service. Let us await its coming.
'Tis not now that we can challenge the sudden
growth of Roderick, and raise a party for his overthrow.

It were madness to move in such an effort. We must
abide our time, watch patiently the season when he
sleeps, and when they whom he oppresses are ready to
awake in a common cause with our own.”

“'Tis a long watch,” said Pelayo, now for the first
time joining in the discussion, “and asks more patience,
my good uncle, than altogether befits my temper. I am
not in the mood to wait. I have resolved—ay, sworn
by the sword and by the soul of my father—an awful
spirit now hovering over us—to yield it no such leisure.
To-morrow I speed for the Asturias. We have some
friends there—some true, strong-handed friends; men
who lock not up their anger in smooth discourse, and
plead, even while the foe plucks them by the beard, in
long, dull maxims of propriety, till the hot blood grows
cold.”

“You are rash, Pelayo—rash and ill-advised,” exclaimed
the archbishop, in tones more moderate than his
language. “Your active and open movement, my son,
would be fatal to our success. It would take from wisdom
its design, and, where a sober and calm thought
would win the way, by some hasty movement you were
sure to lose it. Hear to my counsel, son. We must not
offend the uncertain power of the tyrant, who is not yet
easy in his seat. He is jealous now, and watchful, and
not his own eyes merely, but a thousand others watch
for him, if 'twere only to buy his favour. We must
pause until he ceases to fear from opposition, until his
eyes close. Any movement now, even if the tyrant
failed to arrest it, would only arouse him to a closer
watch, which must keep off the good day of our deliverance.”

“And how long are we to watch thus, good uncle—
and where is the better hope from delay? The reason
must be strong to make me sheathe the sword. Did
they not tell us, brother, that the blood-streaming head
of my father was stuck high upon the gates of Toledo?”

“There let it remain,” said the archbishop, coolly;
“and, for your vengeance, let it remain also. Know, my
son, that the appetite grows the keener from the delay;
and this knowledge alone, were it not our policy too,
should make us deliberate in our movement. Hear me,
Pelayo, and hearken to my hope, which springs rather
from the nature of this people and this tyrant than the
particular strength of the army we might bring against
them. What is the Goth in Spain? Rude, wild, ever
bent for action, sickening with peace, yet swilled and
drunken with the sensuality of the Greek. They cannot
bear long with one like Roderick, whose self-indulgence
shall prove a barrier to theirs, offending them by
restraints which he attaches not to his own wild passions.
What of the Iberian?”

“He is with us—more with us than with Roderick—
I too am an Iberian,” exclaimed Pelayo.

“Ay, but he is broken in spirit—dispersed and ill-directed.
Dreading every leader as a new tyrant, and
having but little hope from any. Teach them to confide
in thee, and thou wilt do more than Wamba or Ervigius.”

“I will do it!” said Pelayo.

“Be it so—but thou canst not now, and our better
hope is in Roderick himself.”

“How—what mean you, uncle?” exclaimed Egiza.

“From his tyranny over Goth, and Iberian, and
Basque, and Jew, and all—from his fierce nature and his
jealous passion. I know him well, my sons. I have
long known him, and I well know he cannot long please
the nobles. His lustful thoughts, always passionate
and wilful, wanting now the curb which belonged to his
lowlier station, and kept him within due limits, will soon
work ruin for his cause among their haughty leaders.
Let him have but little sway, and, my life upon it, he will
make for us a thousand partisans among his most favourite
nobles.”

“Speak, in what way, sir?” said Egiza.

“In a thousand ways, my son, and each of them
helping on to our purpose. He is voluptuous as the
Moor; and, now that he is sovereign, will not pause, like
him, to satisfy his fierce passions at every risk. Some
damsel of the court shall catch his eye, and he will
straight assay her as a prince having power to take his
will. With his blood roused, it will not be her plea or
the Lord's prayer that shall make him give over his purpose.
He will on, though maidenhood survive not in
Iberia. Some youthful noble shall but look awry upon
his amours or his insolence, and his head pays for it, and
crowns a pikestaff rather than its own shoulders. In
this and a thousand other ways shall he offend the people
and make us friends; and, as we are better secure of
this than of any open movement, we gather by delay.”

“No delay for me!” exclaimed Pelayo, abruptly.

“How, brother!” said Egiza.

“How!” responded the former; “wherefore ask me
how? What see you in this argument of the Lord Oppas
to stead you by delay? I see nothing. Roderick may
be lustful and insolent, or not—he may make enemies
or not among his followers; but how does this affect
either our rights or duties? I see not. I know that
my king has been deposed—my father has been slain—
and that a tyrant rides in his place. The sacred person
which we have honoured has been hacked by rebellious
swords—his reverend head, which, until this evil
time, they had never beheld but with downfalling eye
and bending reverence, by this usurper has been stricken
from the bleeding trunk, and set on high for the Arabian
vultures—”

“But, my son—Pelayo,” said the archbishop, seeking
to interrupt the vehement youth; but he continued
thus—

“If you have patience, brother, such as our uncle
counsels, be it so. I am of different temper. I am
not pleased to listen to such laggard hope as prates for

ever of pause and pationce, of what may chance to-morrow,
and what not—waiting for opportunity to do its duty,
which the honest and fearless mind should ever carve
out for itself. You can stay listen, if so it please, to the
lord bishop. His preachings shall persuade you, I
doubt not, to a most easy duty. For my part, I must
seek me out a wilder tutor in the Asturias, and content
me with a philosophy which, if less musical, shall, at
least, be much more manly.”

“Truly, Pelayo, for a younger brother, you have but
a slight cast of humility in your deportment. But I forgive
you. Your rebuke is scarcely merited. It is my
will to avenge the fate of our father, not less, I trust me,
than it is yours; and I pledge myself to you to that
purpose, as solemnly now as erewhile I pledged myself
to his shade. But I seek not to strike till I can strike
hopefully. Not to strike fatally were ruinously to risk
our object; and it is in this that the reason of our uncle
lies. His words are wisdom, and should control our
thought. We do not yield our purpose when we delay
it; we rather give it strength, and reduce to a measured
certainty that which in your movement might well be
declared madness.”

The archbishop now approached Pelayo, and putting
his hand affectionately upon his shoulder, thus urged him
to a temporary pause in his contemplated journey.

“Hear me a moment, son; the delay I ask is but a
brief one. I have some friends who made our cause
their own. They meet with me to-morrow night.
Wait patiently till then. There will be little loss of
time, and none to make serious concern. Be thou
there; hearken their counsel, and, when we have all
conferred together, we may then more wisely determine
upon our common course hereafter.”

“This is right, brother,” said Egiza; “the counsel
of our uncle is good. Be not distrustful, I pray you.

Let us listen to the wisdom of age, and grow wiser in
our own purposes, as we needs must.”

But this suggestion did not seem to strike Pelayo
with the emphasis with which his brother gave it utterance.
He replied with increased impatience.

“I am no child, Egiza,” he exclaimed; “why, then,
talk to me of age? If that the aged have more wisdom,
they also have greater caution; and, in time of civil war
and strife, caution is a quality which shows too much
like cowardice to be altogether grateful to Pelayo. The
aged, indeed! What, I pray you, have the aged to do
with those who feel? I'm wronged—I feel my wrong.
My heart, that bleeds for love of a dear father, impels
me to my purpose. What need I of other lesson?”

“Much need, my son,” replied the archbishop.
“The heart does well to maintain its feelings truly, but
the head must guide them wisely, or they must ever err.
Hear me still farther, Pelayo. I have a plan of counsel
with Count Julian of Consuegra, and certain arguments
which, I trust me, shall move him to our cause. He
was the favourite once, and for a long season the follower
of your father. He thinks, most surely, with us,
and did counsel many adversely to Roderick who yet
maintained his faction.”

“A stale soldier! Why, then, kept he aloof from
action? Why drew he no weapon against the rebel?”
demanded Pelayo.

“The wiser, perhaps, for his forbearance, my son,
since, as events have shown, his labours must have been
unavailing. He kept a neutral station—”

“And thus joined the rebels. Avoid him, say I.
Wherefore give confidence to him who neither helps his
friend nor strikes his foe? We'll none of him, I think.”

“Nay, Pelayo, but we must,” said the archbishop.
“He has but late come from Tingitania, and has no
part in the conflict, and but little knowledge, as yet, of
the condition of the realm. We'll seek him out at once.

Hard by is his castle, where he seeks present repose
with his fair daughter Cava. Let us find him soon,
and, by early speech, secure him for our cause. 'Tis
a battle gained. All the troops love him in Ceuta; and
be it known that he is with us, a goodly army follows.”

“And thinkst thou,” demanded Pelayo, “that he will
listen to our argument when he left our father to his
fate? Methinks, good uncle, this is a most wanton
hope, if, in truth, thou feelst it.”

“The case is not the same,” replied the archbishop,
quickly; “thou shouldst remember that Julian has had
separate and remote command in Africa, having a force
to govern and a duty to perform making him foreign, as
it were, to our internal strife. The African had made
bold with the Pillars of Hercules but for the close watch
of Julian upon him. When the strait of Witiza came to
his ears it was too late to serve him. Did he know—
did any of us know that the peril was so instant; that
rebellion had grown so insolent and commanding, to
grapple with the sceptre in one night, and strike down
its high sovereign in an hour? Whatever had been his
faith, submission to the usurper whom he could not overcome
was wisdom; and Julian has submitted to the rebellion
only as it has been successful. Let but the people
murmur; let them but look their discontent, and
Julian, whom we shall now secretly secure, will strike
with us, and for our cause.”

“And with this shadowy hope,” said Pelayo, “this
pause for the rascal discontent, we must go sleep and
drowse, without dreaming, if we can, of the rusted weapons
by our side, and the heavy tread of the usurper
above us. This is but another of thy texts, good uncle,
which teach delay.”

“Even so, my son; and the delay is wise which all
texts incline to teach. We must wait for another and
yet another day, since it were madness now, in the face
of the successful rebel, to attempt the struggle for his

overthrow. But, though I counsel delay, I counsel no
relaxation of our purpose. I but require that we should
wait a fitting time, and I promise that we shall not wait
for it in vain. The hour of hopeful circumstance will
come, and, if we are ready then, clothed in our armour,
watchful, we shall strike home, even to the heart of our
enemy, and make our fortune certain. Any effort now
would keep back the hour, and bring sure defeat upon
our purpose. This is reason, son—wisdom speaks
thus, Pelayo, and she counsels you, even as I do now,
to patience. Hearken her counsels, Pelayo, and do nothing
rashly which shall prejudice thy brother's cause or
thine own.”

“Methinks, good uncle, you do wisdom grievous injustice
when you fill her mouth with counsels she were
loath to utter of her own head. Is't wisdom, think you,
that hath the trick, even ere the morning begins, of
brooding on patience under all privation, and counselling
the humblest submission to all manner of wrong?
You mistake her, uncle, or I know her not. Is it she
who pleads through the long day and the longer night—
a most patient and most needless plea—still for the boon
of patience? who puts off all duties for her prayers—a
priestly practice in faith, if not a wise one—and learns
one lesson only to the grievous exclusion of a thousand
better?”

“Thou dost mistake, Pelayo,” exclaimed Egiza;
“thou dost wrong our uncle's argument.”

“Ay, do I, then? Well, I will phrase it more seemingly.
Is't her voice that, when the heart beats with its
wrongs, implores it to bear its burden, complain, turn
humbly to the stripe-giver—ay, solicit newer strokes—
when, with a single impulse of honourable wrath, it
might avoid the tyranny, avert the scourge, and, giving
weapons to the arms that lately bore but a mule's burden,
destroy the cruel oppressor, and break his rule for
ever? This is thy wisdom, uncle, but not mine. Thou

hast ever ready thy lessons of patience and forbearance
which I love not. They better suit the mule than
the man. They will do nothing for the cause of our
country, or, as thou hast it, my brother's cause and
mine.”

The archbishop paced the room angrily while Pelayo
spoke. When the latter had finished he approached
him, and replied in words and with a manner which
sufficiently denoted the roused temper of his mind.

“Foolish boy, still wayward and impetuous as thou
hast ever been from thy childhood, but that I would have
this cause to prosper, I would leave thee to play at thy
own pastime with it till it drew down ruin upon thee.
What wouldst thou, or what canst thou do of thyself
which would avail to bring thee a step nearer to thy revenge,
or thy brother to the throne of Witiza? What
if thou didst rouse up thy Asturian people into premature
action, they could help thee only to a sight of the
foe, which their unaided weapons could never overcome.
If the Asturians are brave, they are also savages; and
mere brute valour would do little against the practised
arms and superior aid which Roderick will now bring
with him to battle. Our hope now is in wile and strategy.
Thou hast said well when thou saidst that the
part which I counselled thee was that of the mule rather
than the man. That, indeed, is the part we shall play
for a season. We must bear with the heavy burden of
our wrongs; go forward with dull pace of the unconscious
brute, until we feel the reins of the rider slacken
upon our neck and the steel relax within our jaws. The
same policy, then, which taught us, while our rider was
awake and watchful, to submit, will teach us now, when he
sleeps, to resist—throw off our burden, and trample with
our heavy heel the head of him who has bestridden us.
By the mule-seeming, only, shall we delude our tyrant,
and persuade him to the lulling security in which we
shall destroy him. Yet may we toil, meanwhile, for ourselves.

I counsel not lethargy when I counsel caution
and forbearance.”

“Cross counsels, uncle. If we are to have no blows,
in what shall we labour?” demanded Pelayo.

“By art, which supplies to the weak in arms the ally
which shall make them able against the strong. We
have many modes of action, though we lift no banner
against the usurper now. We must win over the nobles
secretly, such as we deem to favour us; such as the tyrant
may offend; such as were the best friends of your
father; and such as may, from phlegm or deliberation,
have kept themselves neutral in the strife just ended.
With this object would I go to Count Julian, who is the
best able to serve us of any officer in Spain.”

To these arguments of Oppas, Egiza added others not
less urgent, together with his own prayer that his brother
might not prejudice their cause by any unnecessary and
injurious precipitation. Pelayo heard him with impatience,
but replied thus.

“Have it as you will. You shall not impute it to
my rashness, as you are but too prone to do, that I
strangled our purpose by quick movement or by hasty
deed of mine. I'll be the mule you would have me,
and bear my wrongs and my bosom's grief as a heavy
weight that would weigh me to the earth, but for the
promise of the day of vengeance. I will wait as patiently
as I may, but I promise you I wait not long.
Let me see you relax in your labours, or fail in the men
you look to secure, and by Hercules' awakening, I will
use my club, counsel how you may.”

“'Tis well, Pelayo,” replied the archbishop; “we
plead for nothing more than this. I trust we shall wait
not long, though we wait patiently. I know that Roderick
cannot long satisfy the imperious nobles whom he
has bought for the present to his cause; that they must
fly from his banner, if 'twere only to escape from his injustice,
and they will fly to ours if 'twere only from the

love of change. Our best hope is in this; and I doubt
not that it must sufficiently serve our purpose. And
now, Pelayo—Egiza, my children—I pray you, embrace
each other. You have spoken impatiently, and your
tones erewhile were ungentle in your mutual ears. This
must not be. Remember, ye are alone in your fortunes,
and out of the world's love; this were strong reason that
ye should more than ever love one another. Embrace,
my children, forget the unkind words, and God's blessing
be upon you.”

“True, uncle,” said Egiza, “we have spoken wildly,
and we should pray to be forgiven. Pelayo, forgive
me, as I truly forgive thee what thou hast said in thy
impatience; this, indeed, I may the more easily do, as
it would need a word unknown to me now to make me
greatly angered with thee. Give me thy hand, Pelayo.”

“Ay—my hand, my heart, my sword, all that is mine,
Egiza, so that thou wait not too long with this mule
purpose,” was the reply of Pelayo.

“Fear not, Pelayo, and be not suspicious of our faith,
to thy own pain and the injustice of those who feel and
wish as thou wouldst have them. But it is fitting that
ye sleep now, my sons. Your toils have been many,
and your fatigue must be great. I will conduct you to
the secret chamber, where you will lie in perfect safety.
But, ere the dawn, you must leave the city. You shall
wear the habits of my household, that ye be not discovered;
and in this disguise ye will go with me to the
castle of Count Julian. I know him well, and will discover
his leaning ere I unfold to him our purpose.
This caution thou regardest with scorn, Pelayo—nay, I
see it in thine eyes—but thou wilt yet have to learn, my
son, that wisdom requires such art for her purpose,
which would fail by directness, and sometimes falter
even by the weight of her armour, were she not to
crave and keep such assistance.”

“Wisdom call you it?” said Pelayo, scornfully.

“Well—Heaven help us to right names, or we are like
to make sad mistakes ere long. Wouldst have my
name for this art, good uncle?”

“Ay, let us hear, Pelayo.”

“Hypocrisy, I call it,” was the reply; “the cunning
of the knave who dares not show his purpose, and meditates
deeds which he fears to utter even to the friendly
arm which shall help him in their performance. These
are goodly lessons for mankind and morality; and thus
it is that the wise man, so called, tutors his scholar
unto wrong; and thus it is that the father counsels his
son to falsehood; and thus it is that the predominant
and infallible priest trains the suppliant soul to an everduring
damnation. Go to with thy philosophy, good
uncle, and lead the way to our chamber. Thou wilt
not counsel us to patience and forbearance in the matter
of sleep which we are to take.”

With a grave countenance the archbishop listened to
the free words of the fearless Pelayo, and, without farther
speech, led the way to the secret chamber which
had been assigned them in his palace for repose.
There, promising to arouse them ere the dawning, he
bestowed his blessing upon them, and left them to those
slumbers which the fatigues of the day had made absolutely
necessary, but which the thoughts and excitements
of their minds continued to baffle until a late hour. It
seemed to them but a few moments after he had left
them when the archbishop awakened them for their
morning journey.

11. XI.

A few leagues from Cordova lay one of the castles
of Count Julian. Fortunately for the conspirators seeking
him, he was even then within its walls. In a splendid
antechamber they waited his coming, and thus discoursed
among themselves prior to his approach; Pelayo,

whose impatience grew with every moment of delay,
being the first to speak.

“'Tis an old saw: truth is still a beggar, whom they
let feed as she may without the temple. 'Tis pretence
only that can force its way within, since 'tis pretence
only that keeps the entrance.”

“It were little better for her, my son—perhaps much
worse—were she to become bolder. Hospitality, at
least among the Goth, would be apt, if she thrust herself
in without command, to thrust her back again over
the threshold. It is for that reason that I counsel you
to the mule's part, since any other would be too presumptuous
for those who toil in the cause of truth.”

“And therefore would I not counsel the patience
which is ever thy lesson. It is because of this so severe
condition that the friends of truth need to draw the
sword in her favour, and pierce her way to justice.”

“And yet her cause, my son,” said the archbishop,
“she being the acknowledged parent of peace, would
seem to crave more forbearance from her worshipper.
She may be denied, and she may be baffled, my son;
but know we not from the word that is blessed, as it is
truth's own, that in time she must be triumphant? The
very destiny, being at the end of a supposed period,
would, of itself, counsel us to patience.”

“Ay, 'tis our patience, uncle, that baffles her so long.
Were her friends but as prompt as her enemies, we
should have but little wrong in the world, and justice
would have no judgment-place, as she would never need
to hear appeal. 'Tis in our pause now that she suffers,
and every moment that we linger adds a new link to
her bonds.”

“Be not rash, Pelayo, in what thou sayst before Julian;
I pray thee let thy speech be modest, like thy
present fortune. We are too weak to be bold, and can
offer but little in temptation which should make us confident
of him we seek. Above all, we too greatly need

the aid of Julian to offend him by precipitate look or
language. Remember that Roderick is now strongly
seated; the nation submits to his rule even if it does
not love it; and so long as the name of the usurper is
new in their ears, and so long as he lavishes the treasure
of your father, will the rabble cling to his feet and
strive in his behalf. These truths will press on Julian
as they press on all minds throughout the nation; and
it will be only through nice argument and liberal promises
that we shall be able to win him to our cause.
Whatsoever, then, you hear from his lips, my son, I
pray you let pass; say nothing that may vex or startle
him, and I trust we shall secure him. It will be for me
to show him the policy of his action with us, to note his
fears or his feelings, and to meet them with proper argument,
which shall help to bend them to our purpose.”

“Short speeches, then, good uncle, I pray you, for
such has been the practice of your Seville bishopric
that, I trow, your grace for festival and prayer for grace
do equally grow into a sermon.”

The archbishop turned away from the reckless speaker,
while Egiza expostulated with him.

“Nay, Pelayo, you are too rude; you vex our uncle
by your timeless speech.”

“Oh, go; you are as much a priest as he, Egiza,
though your sermons be not quite so long. Let me
enjoy my humour after my own fashion, or let me go
sleep.”

“And better do that than vex our friends for ever
while you wake,” responded Egiza; and he would have
proceeded farther, but the impatient Pelayo arrested the
exhortation in the opening.

“Enough, good elder brother; you are the wiser
brother as the elder; I yield to you. Enough, then,
this acknowledgment made, for this brief season; we'll
have time enough to prate at another, when our patience
is in full exercise. We'll have need of words then to

make up the lack of action, and you and our uncle will
do wisely to keep your sermons for the day of need.
May it be a day of grace to us all, for our patience will
be perfect then.”

“'Tis much to be hopeful of thine, Pelayo, for thy
stubbornness grows upon thee. Wherefore is it thus,
my son? Why wilt thou not list to reason?”

“There it is again; the cold-blooded jade, misnamed
Reason; we shall have the burden-bearer next, the mill
jade, the mule, Patience.”

“Be patient, brother,” said Egiza.

“I knew 'twould come. Patience in thy speech,
uncle, and my brother's, is as necessary an ingredient
as gold in all the doings of the church. Thy exhortations
to me end with a prayer for patience, while those
of the church end with a prayer for gold. Were I possessed
of the gold, wouldst thou tax me for so much
patience as thou dost, uncle? Alas for thy soul and
mine, I fear me not. I should be permitted my mood,
of whatever make it might be, could my coffers bear me
out in the purchase of indulgence.”

“I bear with thee, Pelayo,” said the archbishop, “in
love of our dear brother, and because of the duty which
is before us. But have a care, my son, the messenger
of Count Julian approaches.”

At that moment a page entered the apartment, and
briefly stated that his master awaited them above, and
solicited their attendance. While he did so his eyes
were fixed upon the person of Pelayo with so much earnestness
as to provoke the attention of the latter, who,
forgetting the disguise which he wore, in his impatience
thus addressed the slave.

“Dost know me, fellow?”

The slave hesitated, but after a moment replied,

“It is the Prince Pelayo.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the archbishop. Pelayo coolly
spoke:

“Thou know'st too much, fellow, for thy honesty or
my good: but take this gold, and preserve thine eyes,
that they may peruse some lesson which thou hast not
yet learned. Go thy way.”

The abashed page received the piece of gold which
Pelayo put in his hand, and, without looking up for an
instant, led the way to his master. The thought of Pelayo,
meanwhile, broke forth as they proceeded.

“This is one lesson of adversity. That fellow's eyes
had guaranty from our misfortune, and he felt himself
the greater because his superior had been somewhat
humbled. The sod-bearer thus stares when the clay
stains the gay cloak of the nobleman, and the water-carrier
laughs aloud to behold the rents in a prince's
garment. Our kindred from the dust begin to claim
us, and I am more disposed, good uncle, to look upon
thy rule as a good one.”

“What rule, Pelayo?”

“The mule's, besure; the patience that makes the
text and the tail of thine and my brother's preachings.”

12. XII.

In another apartment of his palace, more secure from
the intrusion of the crowd, Count Julian prepared to receive
his visiters. Busied with his official duties, for he
had just been apprized, by despatches from the usurper,
that he had determined to continue him in his public
station, he hurriedly gave his commands to several attendants
in waiting as the guests approached the chamber.

“Take these,” he said to one of the couriers, “to
my Castle of Algeziras; see that Count Astaulph's
hands receive them, and await his answer. Bring
them with all speed, on thy life. Hence; thy errand
is of worth, beyond the value of the steed that bears

thee, ay, beyond thy own. Spare neither in thy journey.
Hence. These,” he said to another, when the
first courier had gone, “these are for Merida; seek for
the Lord Ervigia; let him note their purpose, and haste
thee with his reply. They need despatch; see that they
lack it not.”

As the courier passed from the apartment the archbishop
and the two princes entered it. Count Julian
advanced to receive them with friendly countenance,
motioned the slave to withdraw who had shown them to
the presence, and thus addressed them.

“This is a courtesy, my Lord Oppas, which glads
me, though unlooked for. And these gentlemen?”

The archbishop replied, as they advanced,

“The princes, Egiza and Pelayo.”

“Sons of the late Witiza?” said the count; the words
were scarcely uttered before the voice of Pelayo was
heard—

“The King Witiza, sir—the murdered King Witiza;
a king murdered by subjects—subjects beholding it;
the crown upon his head, the sceptre in his hand,
Heaven-anointed, and girded with all the outward signs
of royalty, as he was endowed with all its substance
within. Such, sir, was the King Witiza. We are his
sons.”

Count Julian turned upon the speaker with a countenance
in which surprise was equally mingled with respect.

“Thou speakst truly, though somewhat hastily,
Prince Pelayo,” he replied, after an instant's pause.
“Truly was Witiza the king thou declarest him. I
meant no doubt, no denial in my words. It were but
slack justice for me to say that he was a most gracious
and a noble monarch. My honours came from his
hand, and my first field was battled beneath his eye.
His sons are welcome.”

The manner of Count Julian, as he spoke these words,

was well calculated to subdue the harsher mood with
which Pelayo began the interview. It was calm, gentle,
and ingenuous. An air of bland sincerity marked his
demeanour, and won the easy confidence of Egiza, while
it encouraged the archbishop to hope for ultimate success
from his contemplated application. But the more penetrating
mind of Pelayo was less hopeful, even from the
first. He saw the features of one who was utterly unmoved;
whose impulses had been checked by years;
and whose desires were sufficiently under his own control
to be governed and modified according to the press
of circumstances. Such a man, high in station, having
a large influence and considerable authority, was not
easily moved, he well thought, to desire or to toil for
any change which could add nothing to his present height,
and might, indeed, subtract from his power. But though
he thought thus, with more forbearance than was his
custom, he withheld the speech which would have given
it utterance, and listened, without interruption, to the reply
which his uncle made to the seemingly hearty welcome
which Julian had given them.

“We are indeed grateful for this courtesy, Count Julian;
so strange has it become to these, now deserted of
all who served them once, that it hath a value in itself,
even if it did not promise something more substantial.
It is not much, my lord, that a prince overthrown in battle
by a usurper may hope from those who are not
bound to him by blood; and the service of such has a
merit in the eyes of God and man alike, as it would
seem to be a tribute beyond the ordinary claims of duty.
Your kindness to them now must tax their present acknowledgment,
as, if followed up, it should command
their more honourable reward.”

“No more of this, my lord bishop,” replied Julian;
“I know not what you may mean by the duties and the
reward of which you speak; but it glads me, as I've
said, to see them, thus young, still manly and buoyant

in defiance of the storms that have wrecked the fortunes
of their sire.”

“Not wrecked, I trust, my lord, not if there be hearts
in Spain that love the memory of Witiza, respect justice,
and are not utterly ungrateful for the blessings, general
and individual, which his sway distributed over the land.
It were grievous wrong to the brave nobles of Iberia,
who owe so much to King Witiza, were we now to think
they could utterly desert the cause of his sons. There
must be hope from them when the first pressure of the
storm is past. They will not always submit to the
usurpation which is now triumphant for the time. They
will take up the cause of the Prince Egiza as their own,
and with this hope have we now come to speak with
Count Julian.”

“With what end?” demanded Count Julian, looking
gravely.

“That question answers all!” exclaimed Pelayo,
with his accustomed impetuosity; “let us begone, my
brother, let us begone. We have no farther business
here; and well may our noble host demand with what
end we came.”

“Brother, you are mad!” exclaimed Egiza, vainly
endeavouring to sooth the irritable youth, whom he led
aside to a remote part of the chamber, leaving Oppas
and Julian still in conference. But the words of Pelayo
were still sternly free; and there was no yielding conciliation
in the tones such as Egiza prayed for.

“Oh, yes!” he replied, “it is madness, and little
else, to feel that we are wronged and robbed, and yet
complain of desertion by those who should be true;
men that we have raised from dust and dregs until they
grew strong to reject the hand that supports, and base
enough to forget the favour which has uplifted them.
It is madness, I know, but it is a natural madness, and
is not an effect beyond a proper cause.”

“Wherefore this coil, my lord bishop?” demanded
Julian of his companion.

“Nay, it is nothing, count; it will soon be over. A
feverish blood, recent strife, and the painful overthrow
of his father—these have vexed him. He is impatient
—nothing more,”

“Impatient! nothing more!” exclaimed Pelayo,
scornfully, as these last words of the archbishop, though
spoke in low and subdued tones, came to his ears. Egiza
anxiously caught his arm, and, fearing some more violent
burst of utterance from his lips, led him to the farthest
end of the apartment, and thus earnestly expostulated
with him.

“Wherefore wilt thou do thus, Pelayo? Thou wilt
spoil every thing with thy rashness. If thou art reckless
of thy own hope, be not regardless of mine. Remember
that I am the rightful sovereign, and what thy impatience
may lose will be my loss rather than thine. Come
not, I pray you, between us and the narrow point to
which we aim, nor mar by an idle word what thou canst
never mend by thy weapon.”

“Pshaw! thou talkst idly and madly, Egiza, though
thy tones be far more temperate than mine. Thou
mayst deceive thyself, and thou dost, but thou canst not
deceive me. What hope hast thou from the warrior who
demands of his prince—his prince overthrown by a rebel
—wherefore he seeks him? The cold question were
enough, did it not prove the lacking thought and the base
spirit.”

“But you mistake, Pelayo—”

“Well, I mistake, then—and you—do not. We shall
see. Go, humble as you please, to your servant. Implore
from him the succour which you should command
and he proffer. I shall say nothing. Yet hearken me
ere you go.”

“What would you, brother?”

“Be patient, an it please you. Look soberly, with
a downcast eye, and let your words be sweet and slender,
and speak them with a modest voice, as if uncertain

what grace they may find in the ears of him to whom
you offer them.”

Thus speaking together, the two once more approached
the spot where Julian and Oppas had been all
this while in close conference. The latter had been in
no wise sparing of arguments and promises to effect his
purpose with the former. It may be added that he had
been much less successful than his earnestness in argument,
the warmth of his promises, and the justice of his
cause would have seemed to promise. The confirmation
by the usurper Roderick of the military and high
appointment which his predecessor had conferred on Julian
had alone defeated the hope of the archbishop, even
if Julian had been lacking in other reasons. The former
did not abate his zeal, however, as he found the latter
cold. He proceeded thus in the discussion, which,
we may premise, was scarcely conducted with logical
precision on either hand at a period when the laws of
succession and divine right were so commonly interrupted
and broken by the custom, borrowed from the last
days of Roman greatness, of electing by the military.
Roderick's best title came from this source, and it was
the policy of Oppas to argue only from what he assumed
to be the legitimate origin of power.

“But, my Lord Julian,” he continued, “if the claim
of Wamba to the throne be doubtful, what better claim
is that of this son of Theodofred? Wherefore should
Roderick have sway over one holding a more perfect right
than ever did the mighty Wamba? The title of Witiza
comes down purely and without interruption from Recared
the Great; and that of Egiza is not less certain. How,
then, shall we pause for judgment between the usurper
upon the throne and him who now claims your succour
for its attainment?”

The archbishop was earnest, but Julian was collected.

“It is true,” he replied, “that the blood of Witiza, the

father of these noble youths, comes from the heart of Recared
the Great; but even this gives them no title to the
crown. You startle, but I speak the truth.”

“Indeed!” said Oppas; “but this makes wide disagreement
between us. How prove you the truth
thus?”

“A word will do it, my lord bishop; for, by the
Gothic law, it was not in Recared to convey the crown,
even though his blood might move him to the desire;
and quite as little is the right to challenge it by his successor.
He himself, yea, all of his successors, took
their rule from the National Council. The popular assembly
decreed and determined the election. They
have ever had this office; and the same power hath
raised Roderick on the shield in the presence of the army
and commanded our obedience. On what plea
shall we refuse it, then, and how sustain our opposition
to the law, which has had the voice of the whole nation
in its favour?”

The archbishop hesitated for an answer, but Pelayo
did not. He had so far listened patiently to the arguments,
but the last words of Count Julian annoyed him,
and he spoke with instant readiness.

“The whole nation, my lord?—not half of it. And
who were they that spoke? It was not the army of the
Gothic or of the Iberian people, but of the usurper, that
raised him upon the shield. An army of ruffians—creatures
drawn from the prisons—thieving Greeks from the
market-place, and such worthless nobles and citizens as
had been banished in the previous reign of my father.
These are they—banished brawlers, hireling soldiers,
and swilled retainers—who assume to themselves the
voice of the nation. It were a sin and shame if Roman
nobles gave place to such authority; bow when they
nod, and whom they elevate cry sovereign, and make
sacred from assault. Shame on such thought, I say;

but I forget—I should be silent here—patient, sweet
brother—is not that the word?”

“Foolish boy!” said Oppas, grasping the arm of Pelayo,
and whispering the emphatic adjuration in his ear;
“foolish boy! will nothing hold you bound—can you
not keep your counsel in quiet for a while, and let us labour
who would still hope?”

The effort to suppress the speaker had a contrary effect.
He broke from the grasp of the archbishop, and,
with a voice rising with his movement, he advanced towards
Julian, speaking, while he did so, with terrible
emphasis.

“No, I must speak, my Lord Oppas, though we despair.
Hear me, sir count,” he continued, now addressing
Julian; “hear me, I pray you, and impute it rather
to the feelings of justice in my heart than to the presumption
of my youth that I am thus confident while I demand
your ear.”

Julian bowed his head with grave respect, and the
youth proceeded thus abruptly—

“'Tis not for a warrior such as you have been, such
as you are, sir count, to assume the office of the schoolman,
and, ere you draw sword and lift banner, deliberate
nicely upon the right of him who calls upon you for the
service which it has been your wont to yield. To the
true man it matters but little who should be present king
and who should not. The laws change daily with the
moods of those who make them, and the true warrior
may not hold by these. He must seek other standards
for his guidance, and—thank Heaven that it is so!—
even as he seeks shall he find them. They are in his
heart; they come from God; they grow out of warm
and honourable impulse, and suffer no cold interest to
come between them and the duty which they owe and
the service which they have pledged. These teach us
never to desert our friend in peril; never to shrink from
our foe in fear; to hold fast the right, even as we determine

it upon the first movement of our thoughts and
feelings, without that delay of the trader, who makes it
a thing of prudential and profitable calculation. Ay,
more. These standards teach us, farther, in the cause
of our country to sacrifice friend, self, and all—all that
we honour, all that we love and would cherish, in the
field of battle, at the flame, and upon the cross, if need
be, and to glory in the prized things which we so yield
in compliance with the nobler promotings of our hearts.
Surely, Count Julian, these standards of the heart are
thine. It cannot be otherwise with the gallant warrior.
If't be that they are, they call for but little argument from
my good uncle here, and still less from me, to move you
in our battle. They must enjoin that, as my father held
your faith, it is your duty to maintain his right; that, as
my father held your friendship, it is your duty to avenge
his murder; that, as my father was the unquestioned
sovereign of the Goth, it is the duty of the Gothic noble,
pledged to him in faith, in friendship, and no less bound
to his country, to punish the rebel who hath slain his
sovereign and usurped the rule which he bore so worthily.
These are my thoughts, Count Julian, my free
thoughts; I fear not to sustain them. It is not wise,
perhaps, to speak so bold, and were more prudent, in
the world's esteem, for one so free-spoken as myself to
have said naught; but I hold you to be a warrior, Count
Julian, and I have faith in the honour of a warrior. I
fear not, therefore, to offend you in what I have said;
and yet—do me justice. If there be right and reason
in this plea of mine, my brother here, having the birthright,
has the benefit. Give him thy weapon, Count
Julian; I plead for no service to myself.”

It may be supposed that a speech so daring, so full
of defiance, and so pregnant with assertion, if not truth,
was well adapted to startle, if not to change the resolution
of Count Julian. He paced the room for an instant

before replying, and his face was full of thought when
he returned to speak.

“There is matter in what thou sayst, Prince Pelayo,
which may well task the thought, if not the weapon of one
who was a soldier, and, let me add, a true one, while he
lived, of the late monarch. Perchance, had it been
practicable for me to have moved in his battle before he
perished, your speech had been unnecessary now. I
must think on what thou hast boldly, but not unwisely
spoken. At present let us stay this discourse. My
daughter approaches to bid us to the board.”

13. XIII.

Now the Lady Cava was the loveliest lady in all
Spain; the only child of her father, whose affection
placed her above all estimate in his idolatrous regard.
She was little more than sixteen, and of a beauty that
did not the less continue to charm because it was so
sudden and so sure to captivate. Yet, to this time, had
she little homage from the young gallants of the day,
for she had dwelt with her father in seclusion. Here
he had studiously maintained her, as he too well knew
the dissolute character of the court of Toledo to intrust
her there in his absence. Loving him, as she did, with
a warmth of regard corresponding to his own, this seclusion
had not brought with it a solitary feeling of privation
or regret; and in the valley, overhung with high
mountains, in which she dwelt usually, or in the frontier
castle of her father at Algeziras, where, with his force,
he watched the insolent Saracens, she still found it a
sufficient pleasure to be alone in the company of a
gentle heart and a lively fancy, both of which were
truly her own. It was a new feeling that came to the
scarcely less youthful bosom of the susceptible Egiza
as he looked upon her. His cheeks were flushed, his

eye sunk yet kindled, and his bosom heaved with emotions
which he had never known before. While he
gazed upon her he forgot the purpose on which he
sought her father; he forgot the memory of his own;
he forgot all things in the new and absorbing passion
which, like sudden electricity from heaven, penetrated
his bosom, and deprived him of every consciousness
save of its own consuming fire.

“By your leave, sweet Lady Cava,” he exclaimed,
taking her hand after she had been severally introduced
to the guests—“by your leave, lady,” and he lifted her
hand to his lips with a sense of rapture which he had
never before experienced. Her own emotions, not less
strong than his, were yet more easily restrained; and
while her bosom glowed with warm, fresh feelings, her
eye looked nothing but the nice modesty, the shrinking
gentleness, and the winning timidity which so adorn her
sex.

“I greet you, gentle lords,” she said, in reply to their
several addresses, “I greet you with thanks and welcome.”

The pleased wonder of Egiza could scarcely forbear
uttering aloud those delighted fancies which he was constrained
to murmur—

“Oh, beautiful! Can such be mortal, having such
grace, such movement, such expression? I may not
speak to her; nay, I should not look, lest that I madden.”

The approaches of Pelayo were of another sort, and
his tall, athletic person seemed but ill calculated for the
genuflexion which he made on her appearance, while his
words were rather hesitating and confused.

“Your slave, fair Lady Cava,” he said, hurriedly, as
if he dreaded that his utterance might fail him ere his
part were over; “lady—yes—your true servant.” He
sank back apace when this was done, muttering to himself
as he did so—

“I'm a poor gallant, and have no touch of the courtier's
quality. I were ill to serve dames or princes,
since the painted flesh of the one and the toys that deck
the other would never win me to the falsehood, in look
or word, which is so much the delight of both. I have
no fingers for fine action. I grasp the flower as if 'twere
an axe for battle; I press the velvet fingers as if they
were those of the rock-heaving warrior. My brother
were the best minstrel, and, doubtless, the more graceful
king. Let him have the gifts of my mother; I lack
them, but I desire them not.”

While he muttered thus in soliloquy, Egiza addressed
himself with the warmth of a lover and a courtier's ease
to the beautiful girl who stood beside him.

“Speak again, sweet Lady Cava; let me not break
the music of your lips by praying thee for more of it.”

“Brave enough!” exclaimed Pelayo to himself as
the words reached his ear. “He were not half so eloquent
to her sire, nor half so warm in winning back his
kingdom.”

The answer of Cava, who was scarcely less pleased
than Egiza, came to his ears.

“You flatter me, gracious prince; 'tis the vice of the
court, they tell me, to pour sweet falsehoods into willing
ears. My ear drinks in the deceit with gladness, though
my thought does not the less teach me my undeserving.”

“Thought has the right on't,” murmured Pelayo to
himself; but the response of Egiza was in a very different
language.

“Nay, it wrongs thee much, fair lady, if it tells thee
other tale than my lips bear thee. What though sweet
flattery to willing hearts be the vice of the court, believe
me, it is not my vice, nor do I esteem it thy weakness
to listen to such pleasant falsehoods. It is because
my words are true that thou yieldest me hearing, sweet
lady. Ah me! I would it were otherwise, for then

might I the better hope to defy the eyes which assail me
now, and the sweet lips which delude me while they
glow.”

The rapturous glances of Egiza as he spoke this impassioned
language, so natural to the time and country,
but so little in correspondence with the proper mood of
one like Egiza, who had his own and the wrongs of a
father to redress, provoked the indignation of Pelayo.

“Oh, patience!” he exclaimed, in tones nearly audible
to the rest. “Oh, patience—the mule, the mule
now. 'Tis a fit servant here. I must con these lessons
of my uncle for very safety. What a dangling
shame is this good brother of mine, that shows more soul
in seeking a boy's puppet than in struggling for a country
and a crown. He hath but just wakened in the
woman's presence, and we shall have him prating of patience
when he leaves it. Well, they have such tales,
even of Hercules the Striker, and it needs not that I
should chafe. Yet Hercules could better afford the
loss of his beard than can Egiza, who has scarcely got
one.”

The lovers were too closely engaged and interested
with one another to heed the increasing sternness in the
looks of Pelayo. They pursued together the same fond
wild style of dialogue, which, indeed, was natural enough
to the period, without a seeming consciousness that they
were remarked by any foreign eyes; and the musings of
Pelayo kept pace with their abstraction. As he watched
the passionate movements of his brother, the rapturous
glances of his eye, and heard the flow of his enamoured
speech, his indignation grew more vehement, and at
length attracted the notice of the archbishop.

“We wait for thee, Pelayo,” he exclaimed. The
answer was not to the address.

“A frail thing, which every breath of the season may
whirl about at will. Now has he all forgot the business
that he came for, and the ghost of our father may go to

his tomb again without revenge. Beggary of fame and
honour—but—ah, uncle, patience, I bethink me—patience
is the word here, is it not?”

“How? what mean you, Pelayo?” asked the archbishop,
who, by this time, approached him. Pelayo
slightly touched his arm as he replied.

“Thou hast been a sportsman—thou lovest the sport,
dost thou not?”

“Ay, son Pelayo, thou shouldst know what thou'st
seen. We have struck the red deer together. Why
askst thou this?”

“Thou hast sought thy game, uncle, with a closer
speed than thou hast ever sought for heaven?”

“Belike, Pelayo, it is truth that thou speakst,” replied
Oppas, with humility. “The church hath but too
many servants like myself, who forget their duty in vain
pursuits and idle imaginings.”

“Pshaw, uncle, keep thy homily and self-reproach
for those who know thee and the church less. Thou
hast wasted one of thy best texts of humility. But to
thy sports, good uncle. Look on yon hart and hind.
But look on them. 'Twere an easy toil for thee, with
all thy bulk upon thee and on foot, to strike both with a
single shaft.”

The archbishop with his eye followed the direction of
Pelayo's finger, but the feelings were not like those of
the nephew with which he surveyed them. A new plan
for effecting his object arose in his mind as he beheld
their manifest regard for each other. He spoke not,
and Pelayo continued.

“Let us put aside this prayer for patience, good uncle,
or we lose the game—and the hunters, too, will be loss
no less. Let us join them, uncle—and see, Count Julian
beckons our approach.”

They did so, and, as they came nigh to the lovers—
for such they were—Egiza, with some incertitude of
manner, turned from the maiden to Pelayo, and thus addressed
him.

“Brother, the Lady Cava has much wonder to know
wherefore you have been so strange, and why you hold
yourself so distant. She would know you better, as she
misdoubts whether it were easy, so foreign have you
proved yourself, to distinguish you hereafter. Pray
you, approach, and speak her.”

“Indeed, fair Lady Cava, but you would have little
loss if you knew me not hereafter; and there would
be but little profit in your knowledge of me now. Mine
is no courtly temper, such as my brother carries. Where
he looks smiles I would look spears; where he talks
of delightful things, my speech is only of things dangerous
and dreadful. His thoughts are of gentle waters
and nodding groves, sweet moonlights and tripping damsels.
I think only of the array of battle, of slain tyrants;
and I have but little mood for other more sightly
objects. For a gentle damsel, his speech were better
than mine. I, that mourn the loss of a dear father, the
wrongs of a brave people, and revenge upon an enemy,
may not move my lips to courtly language and gay compliment.
Let him who suffers no such sorrow have thy
ear. He hath sweet ballads, and will sing thee when
in voice, until thou, like him, shalt forget there is aught
of sorrow in the world.”

“But he hath his sorrow like thine own, Prince Pelayo,”
replied the maiden. “Doth he not mourn like
thee the loss of a dear father?”

“Ah, Lady Cava, thou hast asked this question of my
lips; wouldst thou had asked it of thine own thought.
Behold him, lady. He looks too happy in thy smile to
know aught of the sorrow in my heart.”

“Nay, but thou dost him wrong,” replied Cava,
quickly, and blushing deeply as she spoke.

Egiza replied also to the reproach of Pelayo, the justice
of which he, nevertheless, felt in all its force.

“How now—what mean you, Pelayo, by such
speech?”

“What should I mean?” sternly replied Pelayo, in
tones suppressed duly for the hearing of him only to
whom they were addressed. “What should I mean,
but to tell thee that thou growest sinewless in thy purpose?”

The words of Cava bidding them to the entertainment
interrupted the vehemence of that anger which Pelayo
had only begun to express, and, meeting her glance,
he was compelled to soften those features into a smile
which, at that moment, were better fitted to denote scorn
and indignation. It was no easy task; but, with a power
which he possessed over himself, however unfrequently
disposed to exercise it, he readily did so.

“Sweet lady, we obey you. Hold me your subject
no less than my brother's. I follow—follow where I
may not lead!” was the muttered close of his speech
of compliment, which, spoken in lower tones that the
rest, only reached the ears of Egiza.

“Now be at peace with your suspicions,” said the
latter. “Wherefore chide me thus? dost think because
I speak gently with a noble lady I am less fit to do battle
with a rugged man?”

“Pshaw—wouldst thou deceive me, Egiza?” replied
the other. “Thou canst not. I see into thy soul;
thou art readier for the damsel than for thy duty; and
if thou heed not she will win thee from it. Beware!”

Julian advanced to them while the young men thus
spoke together, and, with considerate courtesy, he prayed
them to attend his daughter to the feast. This done, he
followed with the archbishop; while, rapidly advancing,
Egiza placed himself at the side of Cava, and led the
way to an adjoining apartment. Pelayo, musing to
himself, followed at a slow pace.

“We came for succour,” he said, “but shall go hence
with loss. I see it in his eyes. Well—let him but
palter with us, and brother though he be—”

“Pelayo,” exclaimed the archbishop, looking behind
him.

“Ay, ay, good uncle—I come.”

14. XIV.

Thus moving, Count Julian in close discourse with
the Archbishop Oppas, and the elder prince, Egiza, not
less closely in converse with the Lady Cava, they took
their way into the banqueting-room; the young prince,
Pelayo, following at a little distance, musing upon his
various distresses, soliloquizing sometimes, as thus he
went, in that form of humour which to him was most
natural, though to others strange enough. And now
when they were entered within that noble apartment,
which, in every castle, the Gothic nobles assigned to the
social purposes of the banquet, their noble entertainer,
the Count Julian, with a lofty but gracious cordiality,
pressed them to the board, and assigned them honourable
places, either beside himself or his fair daughter,
who presided with a natural grace, no less winning and
becoming in her than the same cordiality was frank and
manly in her sire. The board was amply provided
with all the most acceptable viands of the time; and
nothing was wanting, save the perfect appetite, which
could do justice to the hospitable feast. But the guests
were in no mood for animal indulgence, and they partook
but sparingly of the banquet. The minds of the
archbishop and the Prince Pelayo were but too full of
the object for which they came to feel hunger or to desire
the tempting food which was before them; while
Egiza was but too busy gazing upon the beautiful Cava,
and in feasting upon her charms, to give heed to any
other less heavenly refreshment. Vainly did Count Julian
endeavour to tempt them to a greater indulgence;
they ate but sparingly, and the repast went off in comparative

silence. When, after a while, the Lady Cava
rose, and, bringing a napkin to each of her guests, took
her departure to another room, into which she was quickly
followed by the amorous Egiza. Meanwhile the archbishop
and Count Julian resumed their discourse; while
Pelayo, who sat by them in silence, chafed within himself
momently, to listen to the compromising propositions
of his uncle, and, as he esteemed them, the evasive replies
of the count. Fearing to trust himself to listen
longer lest that he should again offend by an abrupt obtrusion
of his thoughts, he finally arose and followed his
brother into the neighbouring apartment, in which Cava
and himself, in the dreamy illusions of their newborn
love of each other, contrived to wile away the time in a
most perfect and sweet unconsciousness of its flight.
Their eyes were too much given to each other to behold
his entrance; and gazing upon them sadly and in
silence, Pelayo heard the idle but fond discourse in which
they indulged.

“Alas! sweet lady!” exclaimed Egiza, taking her
hand while he spoke—a liberty which she only slightly
resisted, and to which she yielded in the end; “how
hast thou come between me and my purpose. Thy
beauty hath misled me from my own thoughts as from
the fixed resolve of my duty. Thou hast unmanned me,
lady; and, in the happiness of my heart's visions, I forget
the toils to which my body is devoted.”

“And wherefore these toils, my lord? Wherefore,
if they comport not with the heart's happiness; though
truly, I believe not, as thou sayst, that these visions,
which give thee such pleasure, have their spring in me?
I am but a silly maiden. I have but little knowledge
of the gayeties and gallantries of the court; and how
should a life spent among these mountains give me skill
to move one that hath always been a dweller within it?
Trust me, sweet prince, thou canst not deceive me with

thy speech. My father hath but too well forewarned
me against the glozing wiles of the Toledan nobles.”

“He hath done them wrong, sweet Cava, or thou
dost me wrong to rank me with such as these. By my
soul, I swear to thee—”

“Nay, if thou swearest, my lord, I cannot believe
thee. I will trust not the oath which is so ready to thy
lips.”

“A wise girl,” murmured Pelayo, as he heard her;
“she had better not; for if he doth not forswear her
he will yet forswear himself; and if he keep truth with
her he were but basely false to his people. True or
false, he were yet a traitor, or in the one behalf or in
the other; but he speaks again. She hath blinded him,
and his very soul seems sapless. Here he prates with
a silly maiden, when he should grapple with Julian in argument,
if he seeks his sword. Shallow trifler! that
cannot maintain a noble purpose, pledged in a calm moment,
and pressing upon his honour for its instant execution.
And here, I doubt not, will he linger conning
love ditties to idle ears, and giving idle ears to love
ditties in return, till he grows puny as the bird he would
emulate, and falls an easy victim to the cunning fowler.”

Meanwhile the fond Egiza, whose want of character
was but too well known to the penetrating mind of Pelayo,
continued to pour his flatteries into the ears of the
credulous maiden, who, kept for so long a time in seclusion,
and now just budding into womanhood, was but
too susceptible to such subduing music.

“Till this hour I have not lived, sweet Cava. Thou
hast given me life in the new feelings which possess me.
Nay, turn not from me thus. Look not coldly, but believe
me what I say. Thou hast inspired me with life
—thou hast brought a new joy to my heart—thou hast
given to my eyes a vision of heaven.”

Love at first sight, or love at any sight, was something
new to the thought of Pelayo, who gave little heed

to such idle influences. He listened with curious anxiety
to hear the answer of the maiden to such a rapturous
declaration.

“Ah, my lord, thou dost make sport of me, I fear.
Thy compliment is too reaching for my belief. I will
not hear thee longer, and were foolish to hold thy flattery
as truth.”

“Stick to that damsel, I pray thee,” muttered Pelayo.
“Believe him not; for, if true to thee, he is still false;
and though thou give him all faith, he will rob his
faith from others if he requite thee. But—hear him.”

“Nay, Cava, thou art no less unjust to thy own beauties
than to my heart which adores them. Trust them
and me, and believe me not wild or wilful when I tell
thee that I love thee.”

“Ha! What will she say to that?” murmured Pelayo,
gloomily.

“Oh, sir—my lord, I were wrong to heed thee longer.
Let me leave thee. Nay, sir, but I must. Thy speech
hath a tone of artifice, and it becomes not me to hear
thee. Thou art rash to speak to me thus; thou hast but
seen me; and I were more rash to hearken thee, who
may not see thee again.”

“Cunningly ended,” said Pelayo, while Cava, retreating,
or seeming to retreat, moved away towards a long
gallery, to which her froward lover did not scruple to
pursue her. Pelayo came on as they disappeared.

“Now, should I not follow him?” he exclaimed.
“Should I not follow him, and stay this folly? It were
well for both were I to do so. It were well for the
cause, which this folly mocks, and his vain spirit seems
to forget. All's lost that hangs on him. It must not
be thus! What right hath he to throw away our hope,
and cripple the cause which needs every arm, and will
brook no delay for such pastime? 'Tis no season for
love when the tyrant rages—the bird sings not in the
tempest. I'll go between them; I will disturb their

music; an they will parley after this fashion, they shall
have grave counsel. They shall not fall into folly without
warning, though I preach to them after a favourite
text with the Archbishop of Seville, and cry `patience'
as a charm against too much vigour of blood. There
they palm it in the gallery. I'll follow them.”

15. XV.

Full of his newborn admiration for the beauties of
the Lady Cava, Egiza, with that flexibility of soul which
was his prevailing defect, now pressed his love upon
her in another apartment. Even as he spoke, his younger
brother, Pelayo, whose spirit had no such mood
within him, and whose only thought now was the
rescue of his people from the despotic Roderick and
the revenging of his father's death, walked forward
gloomily to where the two held their discourse. The
eyes of Egiza were too much with his heart to behold
his coming, and those of the Lady Cava looked not up
once from the floor as she listened to a strain of profession
which she readily drank in from the lips uttering it.

“Now will they curse me in their souls for an intruder
upon their pleasures,” murmured Pelayo, as he
beheld the two. He paused in his progress and hesitated.
While he did so, the urgent and persuasive tones
of his brother's voice came to his ears.

“Nay, chide me not, sweetest Cava, that I thus fondly
pursue thee with my love. Hear me plead, dearest lady,
with sufficient reason for my prayer. The times are
wild, full of images of danger, full of strife and apprehensions.
Should I now forego the blessed chance
which has yielded me thy hearing, I were not sure that
like good fortune should be mine hereafter. The next

hour may lose me the opportunity of which I now seek
to avail myself.”

“Oh, sir—my noble lord—do not, I pray you, look
upon me, and implore me after this pressing fashion.
You do wrong to a timid maiden by such prayer. Mine
eye hath only seen you; it were rash, and worthy of a
long sorrow and a heavy judgment, were I so quickly to
incline a willing ear to your soliciting. Let me go free,
my lord, and I will think of what thou hast spoken.”

“He is no man if this answer baffles him,” murmured
Pelayo; “it is a denial very like a consenting. A pretty
hypocrite—she does it well. Her eyelids point to the
floor which her eyes see not; her arms hang idly, as if
they felt it wrong to be without employ; and, do but
behold her feet, how they peep out and play apart upon
the floor. There is a strife between the tongue that
speaks and the heart which speaks not, which these
pretty feet do show, and which the soft warrior watches.
Stay—he speaks—he hath paused for memory. Belike
the flowers of his fancy need to be looked after; he
hath not tended them lately.”

“Nay, sweetest Cava, wouldst thou then leave me?
and whence this fear? What though your eyes have
not until this day beheld me, it makes not against your
taking the homage of the heart which their first glances
have won.”

“It were a weakness, noble lord,” she murmured in
reply.

“And the weakness of love, sweetest Cava, is the
very strength of nature, and may not be gainsaid by
reproach. It is no weakness such as makes the heart
ashamed. It is none to bring shame to thee.”

“But sorrow, perchance, my lord—much sorrow.”

“Wherefore? The decree of love is from Heaven,
and the destiny is but a sad one in which its pleasant
law is not written. To deny love's prayer is to defy

Heaven's destiny, and set at naught the duty which, if
obeyed, were not less for our pleasure than our good.
Hear me, then, dearest Cava; be not stern, be not cold,
lest that thou wrong Heaven's own laws by withholding
thy obedience.”

“Thou dost press me too closely, my lord; I am too
young to answer thee.”

The reply was uttered in broken murmurs, and Pelayo
well saw that the words which she spoke were foreign
to her meaning. His sarcastic humour noted well
the contradiction.

“And yet, by the distaff of Hercules the Slumberer,
even as she speaks there is a warm wish in her heart
that he had pressed her more closely yet. The old
snake again; and our Adam may well beware, since
the hypocrite that counselled Eve hath not withheld his
lessons from her daughter. See, her head bends towards
him, though her lip prays him to keep his distance. Well
—Heaven keep us, we shall know some day what we
need, or would have, at least, for we do not often say it
for ourselves.”

Egiza did not mistake the true nature of Cava's feelings.
Her words misled him as little as they did his
brother, and his prayer became more earnest.

“Oh, be not thus chary of thy charms, sweet Cava.
Look up, dear lady, and hearken to love's argument not
less than to his prayer.”

“Love's argument!” said Pelayo. “Well, that's
new. He'll give it her, I trust.”

“Thou dost object the briefness of our knowledge
—our discourse; thou sayst that 'twere a weakness,
having seen but once, to dispose ourselves in love, and
might bring sorrow upon our hearts.”

“In truth, I fear it much, my lord. We were but
rash—it were a child's weakness to yielo us up to such
sudden passion.”

“The girl has sense enough in her head if her heart
were out of the way!” exclaimed Pelayo. But the answer
of Egiza was in another mood.

“And yet how else, my sweetest Cava, are spirits to
be won and wedded, if not thus? Love is no sober
student — he needs no long study — no books — no
schools—no teaching. He moves to his purpose by no
measures, no scales, no weights. He gains not his
conquest by a ten years' siege, which, sovereign though
it may be for patience, were but a death to him who,
in an instant, leaps to his possession when we least note
his movement. 'Tis an instinct, sweet Cava, and not
a study. It is the first instinct of the heart; for, until it
loves, the heart has no consciousness of life. My heart
has not lived till within this hour — ah, may it be that
thine has taken life in the same sweet consciousness with
mine. This is my prayer, sweet Cava—this my hope.
Hast thou not an answer for me, dearest? If thou hast
not—if the heart which mine own seeks feels not now,
with an instinct quickening into life, like mine, then am
I lost. I hope not from other pleading. Is it thus,
Cava? Tell me—art thou unfeeling? art thou cold?
wilt thou deny me? shall I pray to thee in vain?”

The respiration of the maiden seemed checked, and
the broken words which followed were a full answer,
had the excited feelings of Egiza suffered him to note
their emphasis.

“Oh no—not unfeeling—not cold, my lord.”

“Tell me then, dearest Cava, that the instinct of my
heart is thine. Say to me that thou lovest me.”

“The game is too close hunted—I'll give it reprieve
—come in at the death, but not see it.”

Speaking thus, Pelayo advanced; and, ere the lady
could frame her answer, the heavy tread of his step
reached the ears of the lovers, and arrested their dialogue.

“Ah, lady,” he exclaimed to her as he approached,

“thou hast made but little count of thy guests, since
thou hast left them to seek thee out as they might. I
had hoped to find thee ere my brother; but, as he has
the birthright, so, it seems, he has the good fortune. I
have but stumbled upon thee without guidance, since he
has had thine eyes to himself.”

With the instant readiness of the woman, the confusion
which a moment before overspread every feature of
the maiden's countenance now utterly departed; and
she replied with ease by saying, what, indeed, was the
truth, that she had left him and his brother alike under
the guidance and in the company of her father.

“Why, true, fair lady; and yet my brother, you see,
could escape to seek out a better guide; and a like
passion beset me, the more, indeed, as I left the good
count under my uncle's homily, and he in the highest
heaven of his self-esteem while he bestowed it upon him.
I had no wish to rob your father of the blessing, and, I
fear me, have stolen here upon devotions even more urgent
than those I fled from. My brother has a most
priestlike visage, and you, Lady Cava—nay, you look
not like one who could well guide either of us now to
the fine prospects of this noble castle.”

Egiza now beheld the renewed confusion of the damsel
at these words, and interposed for her relief.

“Nay, nay, brother—we did but step aside that our
uncle should speak securely to Count Julian on the subject
which, as thou well knowst, he has so much at
heart. It were not well in us to meddle with the better
arguments with which it is his hope to move him to our
aid.”

“And hop'st thou aught,” demanded Pelayo, in a side
whisper, of his brother, “and hop'st thou aught from
this appeal? If thou dost so far deceive thyself, good
brother, thou canst not deceive me. The damsel's father
will do nothing for us—I say the damsel's father,
Egiza.”

“A moment, fairest lady,” said Egiza, as he turned
from Cava to Pelayo; “I will but speak a moment—
'tis an urgent matter—with my brother.”

The maiden bowed, and turned from the speaker to
the corner of the gallery.

“How know you — wherefore think you thus, Pelayo?”

“See—the Lord Oppas comes with Julian. Behold
the brows of your uncle, and take your answer from
them. 'Tis written there legibly enough; but I knew
it long before, from the face of Julian himself. See
his brow, how smooth; he has had his response ready
ere he heard our uncle's argument, of which you thought
so greatly, and which, from the beginning, I held of but
little account; and now go, if it so please you, and
prattle your gay conceits in the ears of the maiden whose
sire denies you justice, denies you the due of his life
and good sword, both of which, as his proper sovereign,
you have the right to challenge. But, ere you go, hear
me. Prepare to give up the crown and kingdom of
our father, or go with me with the dawn for the Asturias.”

When he had ended these words, Pelayo turned from
his brother to where the two of whom he spoke were
approaching, and with a scornful composure of countenance
awaited their coming. Count Julian, who beheld
and understood the glance, did not, however, suffer it to
move him, but continued to speak of the topic between
himself and his companion, which, from his remarks,
seemed about to be brought to a full though not a favourable
conclusion.

“You have my thought, my Lord Oppas, without restraint.
I have spared nothing and strained nothing in
my judgment on this subject. It would glad me much
that these young men should have the station to which
they assert a right, for I cannot forget the many and

great kindnesses bestowed upon me by their father.
But I cannot hold the cause of Roderick to be less just
than is theirs. The right of election is with the people,
and they have raised him upon the shield; and I hold
that whatever might be the blood within his veins, whether
it sprang from the heart of the Goth or the Roman,
or from the base puddle of the Iberian or the Bascone,
it were still in the power of the Gothic people to lift it
to such honourable estimation as now crowns the ambition
of Roderick.”

“It grieves me that you think so, Count Julian; and
no less great is my sorrow that you have proved yourself
insensible to the other arguments of force which I
had deemed it useful to urge upon you. You will not
esteem it an obtrusion, Count Julian, if I pray you still
to consider them. There is yet time.”

The count smiled as he replied gently, but with sufficient
firmness of air to show that he was inflexible in
the resolve which he had made.

“The arguments, as you are pleased to style them,
my lord bishop, move me not. Were it wise in me, at
my years, to seek for place and power beyond that
within my present possession, this commission just received
from King Roderick, giving me the highest subordinate
power in the kingdom, without prayer or service
from me, would reasonably encourage me to hope
for more at his hands, were I moved to wish such
gain. But I desire no greater honours, as I desire no
additional toils and responsibilities. I take not my
present charge, which I had thought to have yielded up
to some fitting successor, but that the Moor threatens
at our gates, and the soldiers who are accustomed to defend
them are no less accustomed to me as their captain
in such defence. To this effect is the answer
which I have prepared for Roderick, in acknowledging
the trust which he has been pleased to confirm in my
hands.”

Pelayo joined them at this moment, and, speaking
abruptly, arrested the courteous response which the archbishop
was preparing for the ears of Julian.

“Soh, good uncle, now that you have your answer,
let us be gone. Let us give our gratitude and our
thanks—words, words, all—and then away. We need
make but little pause, and may make great speed in
our progress, since we carry no burden, unless it be
my brother's impatience. We have come hither hoping
much; what we bear hence will diminish our hope, and
so lessen the weight we bear away. We do not leave
our host in such good fortune, since thy homily, Lord
Oppas, has made him reasonably grave.”

“And what need of such haste, my friend? give
yourselves leave to-night, and enjoy our couches. Do
me grace, my young lord, whose speech is more sharp
than needful, and wrong me not in your thought that I
adventure not with you. If my prayer and reason might
avail, I would have you forbear your purpose also, as
it were but desperation to lift an arm against Roderick.
He is too firmly seated in the throne for any force, such
as yours to overthrow.”

“Perhaps, perhaps my lord; — but my lessons
have not taught me this heedful policy. That rule of
narrow selfishness which determines of its duty by its
chance was not among my lessons. I measure no
virtue by expediency. My duty must be done, though
Count Julian counsels against it; I must strive at the
work which is given me, though I perish in the labour.
I know there is a more sleek sort of virtue in the world
which takes easier roads of duty; I gainsay not him
who prefers it; and well I know that such have always
fine arguments for its defence. Let it pass. Yet I
thank you, my lord count, for your courtesy; nor, though
I use it not, am I less grateful for your good counsel.
It might profit others, but would only beggar me; and

I leave it, therefore, my lord, for those goodlier persons
whom it would better stead than myself. Shall we not
depart, good uncle?”

“Ay, my son, if it please you. Yet a moment.”

He turned to Count Julian as he thus replied to Pelayo,
and in tones which were audible only to the two,
and were meant only for the ears of the former, he thus
spoke.

“What we have spoken, my lord count, I hold to be
in sacred trust between us.”

Julian put his hand on his heart as he replied—

“You are safe with me, my lord bishop; for though
the officer of King Roderick, my honour is in my own
keeping. If I betray not my own trust, he cannot demand
of me to betray the trust of another.”

“And if you did, my lord,” exclaimed Pelayo, misunderstanding
the import of Julian's reply, and striking
the hilt of his weapon as he spoke—“and if you did,
my lord, you would not find us willing victims. There
are swords to be bared and blows to be struck ere the
betrayed fall at the mercy of the betrayer in sacrifice to
his tyrant.”

“There needs not this display of valour, young man,”
replied the count, calmly. “I mean you no wrong.
You have sought me trusting to my faith, and you shall
not suffer by your confidence. Yet it were well to say
that I would not have you again seek me on such mission.
It is enough for you to know that I shall this day
accept the trust of King Roderick; such trust will be
incompatible with your purpose; and I must not know
of it. From this moment, what has already passed is
forgotten. You are free to depart without interruption
when you please, though it were no wrong to my honour
to give you honourable tendance and fresh couches
for the night. Let me pray you, then, to remain.”

“I know, my lord count, that we are free to depart

—I, at least, am free. I carry my freedom here,”
touching the hilt of his sword. “Hold me not unthankful
for your courtesy, my lord, when I decline it;
but I must be soon a traveller if I would not that my
head should keep countenance with that of my father—
the King Witiza—your friend, Count Julian—upon the
gates of Toledo.”

There was much in this speech that pained and offended
Count Julian; but, with the subdued superiority
of age, he freely allowed for the warmth and impetuousity
of youth, angered as it was, in the case of Pelayo,
by his late and painful losses. Still, he could scarce
forbear stern reply; yet he turned away, and bit his lip
in silence. Meanwhile the three prepared to depart;
and, while they bade their adieus to their host and his
lovely daughter, Pelayo addressed himself to the latter
with more freedom than he had before shown in his approaches
to her.

“Lady, by your leave,” he said, taking her hand and
carrying it to his lips, an action which not a little annoyed
the jealous Egiza, who was engaged in speech with
Julian. “Oh, you shall be my queen, sweetest lady,
and no subject in your realm should be so true to you
as I, if you can but persuade my brother here to rid
himself of a certain damsel whom he wills for ever to
ride in his train.”

“A damsel, my lord?” demanded Cava, in unfeigned
astonishment.

“Ay, lady, a damsel—not so fair as thou art, but one
he would keep with no less.”

“I pray you, what is she?” inquired the maiden.

“Ask you for her name or quality?”

“Oh, both, my lord.”

“Well, then, her name is Patience—a goodly scripture
name. Our uncle, the archbishop here, taught it
him, with her choice qualities, in sundry exhortations;

until now, he takes her to his bosom instead of many
virtues. She is now, indeed, my brother's mistress.
She rides with him, nor trusts him at any time from
her sight. If he would move, she plucks him by
the sleeve, and counsels him against rash riding and
youthful venturesomeness; and when other youth not
so counselled would urge him on to greater daring, she
quarrels with them in a mood too spiteful to keep faith
with the name she bears. Truly, Lady Cava, would I
rejoice that my brother should ride with any damsel but
this, for she drives better spirits from his side, and keeps
him in a sad lonesomeness, and all the bondage of the
solitude she makes. Couldst thou help him, sweet
lady—”

The approach of the jealous Egiza enabled him to
hear much of what his brother had said, and to interrupt
him at this moment—

“He jests, sweet lady. He hath a stray spirit,
which moves him ever to such speech of his friends.
Heed him not, I pray you.”

“I jest!” exclaimed Pelayo. “I tell thee not to believe
me, sweet Lady Cava, for I know thou wilt. I
cannot jest. I can understand no jest. When I jest
teeth are broken—ay, and heads too. He knows I do
not jest, and jests when he tells thee thus. I leave you,
lady.”

“Farewell, farewell, sweet Cava,” was the parting
whisper of Egiza. “You are in my heart—its substance
and its soul, dear lady.”

“And in mine too, sweet lady,” said Pelayo, whose
keen ear caught the whisper, “if thou wilt but do as I
have prayed thee. Teach him to rid himself of that
damsel of whom I told thee, so that he shall awaken
into the life that is his duty, and the rough speech of
Pelayo shall take a goodlier tone, and shape your
praises even into sounds of music.”

“You overrate my power, Prince Pelayo.”

“Not a whit—I would that thou shouldst use it for
his good. I pray thee, lady, if again he seeks thee,
that thou wilt do so.”

Egiza murmured over these words as he passed from
the threshold:—

“If he seeks thee? Can I else than seek her? I
have no thought now but to remain; and if my power
serve but with my will, I cannot help but return.”

“You grow impatient, brother,” exclaimed Pelayo,
after he had bidden farewell to the count. “Why do
you linger? The fair damsel, Love, has departed, and
the other damsel, who is not so fair, Dame Patience,
grows chill with waiting.”

16. XVI.

There was no hope from Julian. He was firm in
his refusal to take part with those, whose cause, however
rightful at first, was, in truth, unlawful now—inasmuch
as the Goths, according to ancient usage, had duly
elected the usurper Roderick. The usurpation had
been legalized by the strongest faction, and there was
little doubt but that the greater portion of the people
were with the tyrant. In this condition of things, his
rejection of the arguments of the Lord Bishop Oppas
was peremptory, and that ambitious and intriguing
churchman was compelled to forego all hope from the
quarter to which his eyes had been directed far too
much. Leaving the palace of the count, the mood of
each had in it much of disappointment. That of the
archbishop arose, naturally enough, from the refusal of
Julian. Pelayo, only chafed with the delay, as at no
period did he look to have aid against the usurper from
one who consented to hold office under him. The disappointment
of Egiza was soothed by the passages of

love which had taken place between the Lady Cava and
himself, and his regret arose rather from the necessity
compelling him to leave her presence, than from any
great sense of mortification following the refusal of
Julian to take part in the conspiracy. The several
moods of the parties resulted in a falling off from each
other of their usual sympathies, and, with but small
show of cordiality, the two young princes listened to
new suggestions from Oppas.

“Heed it not now, Pelayo. It is a sad chance—but
we have friends left—many, glad to serve us, and not
less willing to bring down the usurper. To-morrow
night we meet. There you will see them—hear their
advice, accept their pledges, and prepare, at all points,
to gain the vantage ground in the commotion which
must come ere long. Think not of the Asturias yet.
The peasants there may be true, but they are too remote.
To bring them here, on his own ground, to fight with
Roderick, it were only to destroy them. We must
strike here, and suddenly. You will come to-night?”

“I will, good uncle, though I look for other defeat
from thy ministry. Thou art too subtle to be certain—
too skeptical of man's honesty properly to believe, and
considerately to serve, the people. With no faith in
others, they will not wisely do to believe in thee; and
it is the nature of thy practice to scorn the direct, in a
fond search after the pathway which is hidden. Go to
—this policy may seize but will not secure—it may
win, but is not worthy to win—it may conquer in battle,
but the strife is without honour, and would tarnish the
spurs of the good knight, though he conquer by it.
Thou wilt say I dream in this, as it is the wont always
with the cunning to say of those who hold man higher
than he holds himself. But, if my thought were the
world's thought, then wouldst thou lose thy bishopric,
for then would men be far more Christian than all thy
teachings could make them, or approve thvself. Of thy

holy practices, good uncle, I speak not—I will not do
thee so much unkindness.”

“Thou art most considerate, Pelayo, but thou endest
thy speech where it were better to have begun. Take
a better mood to thee, and be prudent to be wise. I
forgive thee all thou sayst, for the cause we hold is ours
in common. Thou hast thy venture along with thy
brother's and mine, and I can well understand the rash
words which the peril of its loss may prompt thy lips in
their utterance.” The bishop spoke soothingly, and to
him Pelayo replied without the pause of an instant—

“I have no cause such as thou claimest in this, lord
bishop. Speak not of mine, or of thine, or of my
brother's cause, when the beautiful country of our fathers
is trodden by an accursed tyrant. That is my cause—I
aim at no crown, either for Egiza or myself.”

“This is our cause as well,” promptly responded the
archbishop, who felt the necessity of conciliating one
already renowned for his valour, and possessing a wonderful
influence over the few knights of their party, who
admired his courage and conduct, and were secure in
the knowledge which they possessed of his virtue and
patriotism. “This is our cause, as well as thine, Pelayo,
and the cause of all who feel with us; as thou
shalt see to-night, at thy coming. Thou wilt come?”

“I will.”

“Where goest thou now, Pelayo?” inquired his brother,
seeing him about to depart. The person addressed
turned abruptly upon the speaker, and with eyes that
seemed to pierce him through, after a moment's hesitation,
thus addressed him in reply:

“Thou hast known me long, Egiza. Shall I say to
thee that Pelayo has no thought but of his duty—his
duty to the living—his duty to the dead. The good of
the one—the just homage to the other. I go upon these
duties. I work through all the hours in our labour—
yet think not that I work for thee. My dream by night
—my thought by day—my hope, through all seasons the

same, is, that the creature who has limbs such as mine
should have thoughts such as mine. There was a dream
of freedom among the nobles of ancient Rome, while
they rode over the necks of their barbarian captives.
Thou hast thy dream of freedom too, Egiza, when thou
hast supped plentifully. The dream of Pelayo is not
like thine, nor yet like that of ancient Rome—yet it is
also a dream of freedom. His dream of liberty shows
it all alike—a principle like truth, such as no season
can change, no condition magnify or depress, no rule
subjugate, no soul avoid; whose temple is of universal
adoration, and whose light, like that of the sun, is seen
from all the nations.”

“Why, thou dost dream, surely. What meanest
thou by this freedom?” asked Egiza, wondering.

“The freedom of man.”

“And what is that?”

“The absence of that necessity which imposes a
condition upon man adverse to the nature within him.
He is no slave whose intellect is not beyond his condition.
He is a slave whose ambition, guided by a just
impulse from truth, is restrained by a will hostile to his
own, and defrauding him of his right, while defeating the
purposes of the God who made him.”

“Oh, this is idle, my son; and such words, which
mean nothing or little, are out of place in the mouth of
a noble and a prince. Thou art, indeed, dreaming,
Pelayo,” said the archbishop.

“Thou wilt see—thou wilt see. Oh, would thou
couldst dream with me, Lord Oppas—but it is not for
the sleek churchman to learn how godlike is the sacrifice
which the noble heart can make—how vast the
labour the high mind can compass—how great the trial
the nerved form may overcome and defy, when cheered
by such a vision which that dream affords of the future.
I see what thou canst not. I hear sounds which reach
thee not. Know, my lord bishop, that he who labours
for mankind has already begun his immortality.”

“Very good—but my thoughts are not so foreign,
my son; and such as thou hast were better discarded.
They will profit not thy cause.”

“My cause!—would I could teach it thee. Thou
wouldst use me for thine. I purpose to do the same
with thee—not for my cause, not for thine, save only,
as we both make a part of that condition which can only
be happy when officered by the truth. My cause is not
the cause of to-day, but of time. The labour of to-day
is only useful to my cause, as it belongs to man, and holds
a portion of the hours which are his; and the individuals
who work in it are of no import in its progress, only as
they precede countless generations yet to come, having
their feelings and thoughts, and subject to the same necessities.
The error of all thy thought is, that thou
thinkest only of to-day.”

“Well—and enough too. But then thou wilt be
here to the time?”

“I have said.”

“Shall I go with thee, brother?”

“Stay, and keep counsel with our uncle, Egiza. Win
him to give thee some new homily, which shall serve thee
in lieu of good works, when thou comest to the throne.”

Pelayo left them, and Egiza, with Oppas, proceeded
to the palace of the latter, where arrangements were to
be made for the secret reception of the conspirators.

17. XVII.

After leaving them, Pelayo went forth into the
country, having a secret object and without a thought,
save only of the duty he had before him. He now
rambled along a narrow valley, on either hand of which
rose the towering sierras, dark, steep, and lonely. The
solemn silence of the scene suited well with his musing
temperament; but his meditations were interrupted by
the sudden appearance of a steed, bounding with head-long

course along the narrow gorge, and making directly
towards the spot on which he stood. As he approached,
Pelayo saw that he had been recently mounted, and
most probably had thrown his rider, for the saddle was
upon his back, and the housings were all in order, as
for a journey. Down, as the steed came forward, Pelayo
leaped from the little crag, and throwing himself
directly upon the path of the fugitive, spoke to him in a
voice of authority. The animal stopped at the instant,
even as if he had known the voice, then half receded,
and lifted his head in air, but without other motion.
Pelayo advanced and seized upon his bridle. Another
instant found him upon the back of the now completely
docile animal, and turning his head again upon the
path which he had overrun, the prince now sought with
him to find his owner.

18. XVIII.

He soon came to the place from whence the fugitive
had fled—a little hollow of the hills, about a mile from
the spot where Pelayo had arrested him, near which
bubbled up a pure fountain of water, to which travellers
in that wild country usually bend their steps. There,
close by the fountain, lay a man at length, his head resting
upon the arm of a slender page that knelt beside him.
A little palfrey, upon which the boy had probably ridden,
stood fastened to a neighbouring shrub. As Pelayo
came near, he saw that the man was aged—his beard
was venerably long and white, and his face was marked
with the deep lines of thought and experience. He
seemed to suffer pain, and the boy was busied in binding
up a wound upon his head with a sleeve of his garment.
He had been greatly bruised by his fall, for the
horse had thrown him; but his hurts were not dangerous,
though the concussion which his head had sustained,
coming suddenly upon the rock, for a time had stunned

him. As Pelayo approached, the boy spoke—the eyes
of the old man were fixed knowingly upon him, while
his face assumed a quick expression, and he half-raised
himself from the ground. The boy continued to hold
his head, with a tenderness which Pelayo saw even more
fully expressed in his pale countenance and quivering
lip, than in the solicitous care exhibited by his actions.

“Thou art not much hurt, father, I hope?” said Pelayo,
speaking kindly, while fastening the fugitive steed
to a shrub.

The old man paused a few seconds before he
answered—all the while surveying the young prince
with an earnest penetration of glance, which at length
became unpleasant to Pelayo, who now repeated the
inquiry.

“Not much, not much, my son, I thank thee—but
who art thou, and how hast thou chided that vicious
beast into subjection? He hath a spirit that is wrathful
and vexing.”

“Not so, father, thou errest in thy thought of this
fine-eyed Deserter. He is a true Barbary, and is not
less gentle than fleet and forward.”

“Ah, he knows his master. It is with thee he is
gentle—not with me. Thou hast a strange power, my
son, to do that which none might hope to do before.
See, he looks to thee as a tame thing of thy household.
Who art thou? I gaze on thee again, and thy features
grow full in memory. Art thou not—”

“Nothing!”

“The prince, the Prince Pelayo—son of King
Witiza!”

“The same, old man. A name not oversafe to him
who utters—or to him who hears. I am the Prince
Pelayo!”

The old man looked at the speaker again, then groaning
audibly, turned his face, and buried it for a moment
in the arms of the boy, whose looks expressed more
than usual solicitude. Pelayo, who suffered none of this

to escape him, now asked, with some curiosity, “Who
art thou?”

“Ask not—ask not, Pelayo. To thee, I should be
nameless, even as thou wouldst have thyself to me.”

“And wherefore, father?” inquired Pelayo, with increasing
curiosity.

“Ay, wherefore—wherefore should I dread my fate?
Why should I longer hold life a thing to strive for? I
will tell it thee.”

“Oh no, no, no! Speak it not, I pray thee, my father,
speak it not to him.” Thus interposing, the boy threw
his arms affectionately, and with great earnestness,
around the neck of the old man, and sought to stay his
words; but the sudden determination which he seemed
to have made was invincible, and he shook off the boy,
addressing him at the same time in language, which, if
not ungracious, was at least stern.

“How now, boy—hast thou forgotten? Go to thy
place, and meddle not with the doings of thy betters.
Thou wilt mar, where I would make thee.”

Meekly, at the rebuke, the boy sunk back behind
the speaker, and, with arms folded upon his bosom,
awaited in silence the progress of the scene. But his
interruption had led Pelayo to look more narrowly than
he had done before to the features of the attendant, and
he now saw that the tearful eyes were of a most glorious
and glowing black, and the hair, which was confined by
the close folds of a cap, not unlike the turban of the
Moors, was glossy and dark as that masking the wing
of the full-fledged raven. The figure, too, though exceedingly
slight, was distinguished by an eminent grace,
and, as he sank down upon the earth with humility,
Pelayo thought his attitude and expression such as would
have delighted Erzelias, the sweet painter of the Gothic
court, in the time of Witiza. The old man went on
with his speech where the boy had interrupted it.

“I will tell thee all, my prince, though I should be
but loath to tell thee any thing, if I had not long since

learned to compute life—the life not ready for quick
sacrifice—as a poor labour for a profitless spoil. Thou
shalt know me. My name is Melchior. Thou hast
heard of me before.”

“What! Melchior the Hebrew?—Melchior, as thy
people call thee, of the Desert?”

“He—Melchior of the Desert—Melchior the Hebrew!”

The boy clasped his hands, and threw himself forward
to the old man, but said nothing. Pelayo recoiled,
as if in horror, for a moment, then suddenly and fiercely
exclaimed, as he bared his dagger—

“And what if I slay thee on the spot!”

“Oh, strike not, strike not, mighty prince, strike not
the old father! See his white hair, and the blood on it!
His limbs totter—he is weak and old! Strike him not,
strike him not, I pray thee!”

Thus pleading, the boy rushed in between, and, with
uplifted hands, and a cheek flushed over with excitement,
while his eyes flowed with tears, he prayed for
mercy for the aged chief of a despised and persecuted
sect. Pelayo regarded the old man and boy alternately,
and though possessed of many of the prejudices common
among the Christians of the time, which held the
Jews an odious race on many accounts, as well of trade
as of religion, his mind was too superior to the prejudices
of the period, too noble and truly chivalric, not to forbear.
He covered up his steel, and, in a calmer tone,
thus addressed him—

“Melchior of the Desert, enemy of my father, of my
country, and of me, I should do thee but faint justice
were I to slay thee, even on the ground where thou
liest.”

“I am not thy enemy, Pelayo. Thou wrong'st me
much to say so. Thou art as one sacred in the sight
of Melchior of the Desert.”

“What! thou wouldst lie for life, too, at thy years?
For shame, old man! This is to be a Hebrew. Why

shouldst thou hold for me a gentle thought, when thou
didst hate my father?”

“Hear me, my son. I say, as I have said to thee,
thou, Pelayo, art sacred in the sight of Melchior of the
Desert. Even as thou approached to me, leading that
fierce steed, which thy one word had tamed—then,
though a thick film was before mine eyes, and all my
senses swam in a dull stupor, from my many hurts—
even then I saw it.”

“Saw what?” inquired the prince.

“Yes, even then, I saw the green wing of the humma,
the sacred bird of Heaven—such as the Arab sees
—such as I saw once, many years ago, in a far vision
of a spring, vouchsafed me in the desert—I saw it
thrice sweep closely round thy head, and straightway
I knew thee for a mighty prince. I saw, and could not
doubt. Then I knew thou wert the chosen of the God
of Abraham, to be the king of thy people. Thou art
their king, and whether thou strik'st or spar'st me, still
Melchior of the Desert must call thee king. I cannot
be thy enemy.”

“He is my enemy who is the enemy of my people.”

“Am I not one of thy people? Do I not own thee
for my king?”

“Ay, the king whom thou wouldst betray to death,
even as thou didst league thy accursed sect with the
Saracen, to destroy my father and my people.”

“I did league with the Saracen—I would league with
the Saracen again, that the enemies of man should not
make a dog of him. But I will not league against
thee.”

“I am my country's—so wouldst thou be, were the
ties of country aught to a spirit so base as marks thy
tribe.”

“My country!” exclaimed the Jew, bitterly—“and
what is my country? what is the country of the Hebrew?
This is not his country. The ties with which thou wouldst
bind him to it are the scourge and the chain, the cruel

taunt and the unlimited exaction. These are the ties
of country to my tribe. How should they be true and
faithful to the rule which yields them for sympathy
the stroke, and for security and peace all manner of persecution?
I have leagued with the Saracen against the
tyranny of the land—the tyranny that was death unto
my people.”

“And didst thou hope for a kinder sway from the
children of the accursed Mahound?”

“Hear me, Prince Pelayo. Melchior of the Desert
has wandered with the Saracen in his tents, as his captive
and his slave: and though cruel is captivity by
whatever name, and softened by whatever indulgence,
yet was it with the Saracen a gentle providence,
when compared with the intolerance of the Christian rule.
I speak to thee as one who may soon be gathered to
his fathers, having no hope from the judgment of Jehovah,
but from his justice. My words are those of truth,
even though the grave were open before me. The
practice of the Saracen was the Christian faith—the
Christian practice to the Hebrew were worthy of the
name of terror and of cruelty thou hast given to the
Saracen.”

“I fear me, Melchior, much thou hast spoken of the
Goth is sorely true, and sadly do our people now bear
testimony to the error which overreaches the land. The
Jew is hardly dealt with, and I know there can be no
faith where there is no trust. To hold thee bound in
honour to thy country, thou shouldst possess thy country's
confidence.”

“Thou hast spoken, Prince Pelayo, as a prince should
speak—with the thought of a father for his people.
Thou lookest, with me, beyond the high hills, and
through the thick clouds that keep other men from the
distant truth. Thy thought is the true wisdom. All
that the Hebrew claims—all that is claimed by Melchior
of the Desert—from the land that asks his service, is, its
confidence. But give it him—keep it not back from

him—let him but know he has a country, by her trust,
her love, her care in his concern, and not, as now, by
scorn, wrong, and all manner of oppression—let him
know this, my prince, and not a Christian dwells
throughout Spain shall better serve her—with a truer
love, or a more perfect fidelity. He will not shrink
from her battles—he will glory that he may range under
her banner. Her pride shall be his own—her fortune
as much his care, and as well worthy preserving, in his
thought, as they may seem to any of the proud nobles,
who now cry aloud against him.”

“Could I think this, Melchior, as thou hast said it,”
replied Pelayo, musingly, to the old man, who had
grown warmed by his feelings, and now hastily answered,
half rising from the ground—

“Believe me—I will swear. The great God of
Israel shall hear the solemn promise that I now make
thee for my whole tribe. Not a Jew of Toledo that
will not move at Melchior's bidding. Thou shalt see
—I swear for them. Thou little know'st my people,
Prince Pelayo. How glad were they to learn they had
a country—how glad to die for it.”

“And for a rule that brings them to this knowledge—
for one which gives them the same freedom with the rest,
to hold their faith and wealth—their several thoughts—
to shape themselves in life—pursue their venture,
whether in worship, or in toil, or trade, each with his
single mood, with no restraint, save of the wholesome
laws that all obey—for this thou'lt pledge thyself?”

“Ay! I swear it all! My arm, my wealth, my
people—all shall swear. Say but this word to them,
and be their king.”

“Not I, their king. My brother holds the right.
'Tis he shall promise this.”

“Ha! not thou? I tell thee, Prince Pelayo, thou
art he—thou only can'st do this. Thou shalt be king
of thy people. Have I not seen it? I may not doubt
the promise which has shown it me, when, at thy first

coming, the green wing of that bird of Heaven shadowed
thy rising forehead with its glory. Thou wilt be king
of Spain.”

Pelayo searched the venerable speaker narrowly with
his eyes, and plainly saw that he spoke in all sincerity.
The wild oriental faith in the crown-giving wing of the
humma, the fabulous bird of the desert, was strong in
the soul of him who had dwelt for so long a season in
the tents of the Arab; nor was the belief of the Christians,
at that time, much less certain on the same subject.
The Prince Pelayo, however, was superior to the
superstition, and he calmly enough replied to the speaker,
whose manner had become rapt in due correspondence
with the strain of enthusiasm which had fallen from
his lips.

“No, Melchior, none of this. My brother Egiza
shall ascend the throne, and his power shall do for thee
and thy people as I have said. It will be to thee and
them the same, if thou wilt make the same pledge to his
rule as thou profferest to mine. What force mightst
thou array?”

“Three thousand men. Not practised, as thou
know'st—not skilled in arms. The stern sway of thy
father took greatly from the ancient valour of the
Hebrew. But they will follow and fight for thee, so
thou wilt lead them.”

“Will they not for my brother?”

“Ay, for the king who does as thou hast promised.”

“Thyself shall lead them. They will follow thee.
I know thy power over them of old, when thy rash call
unto the Saracen brought them to that peril which attends
thee now.”

“Yes, even now I fly—a fugitive. My head is forfeit.
But if thou, my prince, wilt move thy brother to
the thought thou speak'st, old Melchior will not fear the
foes that hunt him. My beard is white, but look upon
mine arm. The cimeter is pleasant in my grasp, and

let me know the country I may strike for—I shall grow
young again.”

“Thou shalt know this, and grasp the cimeter against
the bloody-minded Roderick. Egiza shall requite thee
with a pledge. Come, go with me. Give me thy arm
—I'll help thee to thy horse, which is now gentle.
What means the boy?”

Thus Pelayo spoke, and the old man was about to
accept the proffered assistance, when the page, who had
all the while been a silent but attentive listener, now
arose hurriedly, and pressing between the prince and
Melchior, sought, by the substitution of his arm, to render
unnecessary that of Pelayo. At the movement,
the old man seemed to be conscious, too, of the impropriety
of which he should be guilty, were he to task the
aid of a Christian, in contact with one of a people, at
that period regarded in a light the most offensively
odious.

“Now what means this?” inquired Pelayo, with some
surprise. “They boy is weak, Melchior, and cannot
help thee.”

“Pardon me, prince—'twould not beseem thy name,
thy race, thy Christian blood—thou'dst vex at what thou
hadst done.”

The boy spoke hurriedly, but with an appearance of
gratification still in his countenance, which sufficiently
proved that the fear of impropriety, and not a feeling of
aversion, prompted his interposition.

“Thou little know'st Pelayo, boy. Thou'lt learn in
time. Come, Melchior—there—thy page is forward
though. Is he thy son?”

“He is—he is, my lord. He is a gentle lad. A
good—back, Lamech, back.”

The old man answered confusedly, and the boy, as
he spoke, proceeded to mount his own palfrey. In the
mean time Melchior was firmly seated, with the aid of
Pelayo, and his majestic and venerable form, at its
fullest height, seemed to have been greatly inspirited by

the prospect held forth to his ears of his people's redemption.
He now proceeded to describe the place of
his concealment in the neighbouring city of Cordova, so
that Pelayo should not fail to find him; and having
promised to go with the prince, that night, to a meeting
of the conspirators arranged to take place at the palace
of the Archbishop Oppas, they separated—Melchior,
with Lamech, proceeding in the direction of the city,
and Pelayo taking a path leading from it.

19. XIX.

With the approach of night, the Prince Pelayo, as
had been agreed upon, proceeded to the dwelling of
Melchior of the Desert, under the guidance of the page
Lamech, who had been despatched by his father to the
prince for this purpose. The boy was now differently
attired from what he was when Pelayo had first seen
him; and the prince could not help remarking the exceeding
and effeminate beauty of his face and person.
His eyes were dark—dark and glittering. His hair was
smooth, like that of a girl, and of a rich black—glossy
beside, and fine as the most delicate silk. His figure
was so slender, it might have been thought almost too
ethereal for mortality, and so symmetrical that the eye
always looked for it again, as if for a thing that was
necessary.

“Thou art but a child, Lamech,” said the prince,
kindly, “to engage in toil like this. Are not thy limbs
weary?”

“Oh no, my lord, they never weary when my heart
goes along with them,” was the gentle response, uttered
by the lips of a childish innocence.

“'Tis a right spirit thou hast, and God hold thee in
it, boy; but these are dangerous seasons for the mild.
Thy meekness will put thee at the feet of bad men, who
will ever trample upon thee, if thy ready weapon teaches

them not to fear. Thou wilt find it wise to lift steel
when thou get'st more years.”

“And so I have learned already, my lord. See—
my arm is weak, I know, but I am strong in heart; and
with this dagger, methinks I could teach the insolent
man a goodly lesson.”

He disengaged from his tunic, as he spoke, a small
and richly-ornamented poniard, which had been hitherto
concealed within its folds, and nothing could have looked
more pretty or more amusing in the sight of Pelayo,
than the glow of valour in the eyes of one so exceedingly
effeminate and slight of form. The prince
smiled slightly as he replied—

“It is well that thou'rt provided, boy; but hold
it no slight to thy valour, if I counsel thee to a greater
gain of strength than thou hast. Why, what would thy
arm do in a stroke with mine, even though mine carried
no weapon, and thou wert ready with thy steel?”

The boy looked at the extended arm with a glance
expressive of innocent admiration, as he surveyed the
knotted muscles, that, swelling here and there into hills,
indicated the great strength of the owner. But his features
underwent a change corresponding with the active
movement of his thought.

“Why is thine eye sorrowful?—thou weepest, boy,”
said the prince, curiously.

“It is a child's weakness, my lord—when I thought
of thy strength, I thought how thou wouldst use it.
Thou wilt go into the battle, where the spear strikes,
and the sword cleaves; and what were thy strength
then?”

“All, boy! It is then that I will strike—then will
my strength avail for conquest.”

“Ah, but my father. It is thus Melchior speaks to—
to Lamech. Thus went he in fight against the Saracen,
when they made him captive, and he led the camels in
the long march of the desert. I was but a child then,
but I remember.”

“Thou hast had an ill chance of fortune, boy. Wert
thou a captive, too, with thy father?”

“For three long years; but I chafed not in my captivity,
for the Saracen was tender, and had pity on my
youth. They gave me no task which was not a pleasure,
and they taught me much that they knew. I
learned to read the stars in their teaching, and to heed
their language; and many a song they taught me, when
we lay, at the warm noon, in the camel's shadow, made
my heart soften so that I forgot—shame on me that I
did—that my father was a captive.”

“And thou hast always been with Melchior?”

“Ever since I knew him. They were kind—the
Saracen—when they made us captive, for they did not
part the father from his child.”

“How old art thou now, Lamech?”

“Sixteen, my father tells me. But I am much older
than that, I know.”

“How! What dost thou mean?”

“Oh, sometimes I have lived two days at a time, and
then I learned all that I know.”

“Indeed!—but art sure thou knowest where thou
lead'st me? I know not this place. It looks strange
to me.”

“Quite sure, my lord. I know it by day and night,
the same. It is the suburb of the Hebrews.”

“Ha! Well, I am pledged for this, and must go on.”
As he spoke, Pelayo crossed himself with an air of
strict devotion; then continued, “And the Christian
does not often come to this quarter of Cordova?”

“Only when he seeks for money,” was the reply,
uttered in a tone of deep emotion, and with a subdued
sternness of accent, which showed a larger share of
character in the speaker than his previous language had
led Pelayo to anticipate. The prince gazed on him
earnestly, but the eyes of the boy were busy in his
progress.

The two now pursued their way through a strangely

clustering assemblage of small and uncouth dwellings.
The owners had been studious, it would seem, to avoid
any show of external splendour in their habitations.
The assessor came too frequently, and was satisfied with
too much difficulty, not to compel a due forbearance on
the part of the wretched Israelites, of all those exhibitions
of wealth, which, as it was, they could not often
conceal. No one not familiar with that people would
have looked for its possession in the quarter of the city
through which Pelayo now made his way. Silence and
an air of unnatural repose was over all; and the occasional
light, shining stealthily through the crevice of the
household, was hurriedly obscured with the consciousness
of approaching feet. Thus moving, they came at
length to a long low dwelling, crowded in by others, all
larger and more imposing to the eye, yet all around, in
some way or other, connected with that to which they
now advanced. A slight tap upon the door, by the hand
of Lamech, obtained for them admittance, and passing
through a long and dimly-lighted gallery, they entered a
spacious court, over which they moved in a direct line,
and Pelayo then found himself in another passage,
equally dark and narrow with that which he had just
left. He might have thought the boy had mistaken his
way, but for the unhesitating progress which he made,
and the knowledge which he had then in his memory
of the exceeding necessity for caution on the part of one
so much in danger, and whose arrest was so desirable,
as that of the man he sought. Pressing on, therefore,
with a speed that still at times left him short of his conductor,
he at length ascended a flight of winding stairs,
which carried him into a small chamber. Here he
paused while the boy tapped upon an inner door. He
heard a hum of retiring voices before it was opened,
but in the next moment he was ushered into the apartment.

20. XX.

The eyes of Pelayo were almost dazzled by the gay
lights and the gorgeous shows around him. Costly
drapery, splendid mirrors of polished steel, and furniture
of inlaid work, such as the eye of the Moor loved to
rest upon, were clustering in every form beneath his
sight. Rich ornaments of massive gold, sparkling gems,
and a thousand glowing forms of luxury, which, however
natural to the view of one born and once living as a
prince, were yet altogether unanticipated in the spot
where he now found them. It was thus that the persecuted
Jew endeavoured to indulge his own eyes in those
luxuries which he might not dare to expose to the eyes
of others. It was thus that he strove to satisfy himself,
by an extravagant crowding of his wealth around him,
for the thousand privations he was compelled to undergo
in his commerce with the world.

“Thou art gloriously provided, Melchior, and may
not repine for thy losses,” said the prince.

The old man sighed as he answered, “These are
vanities, my prince, pleasant to the eyes, and grateful to
the thoughts of children only. The wealth of gold and
of gems—of the rich robe and the glowing wines—what
are these to the sad heart? to the fettered spirit? to the
soul denied its exercise? to the form denied its freedom?
Thou hast never known this bondage of the
spirit, my prince: thou hast not felt this denial—this
worst doom that can fall upon the nation or the man.
This wealth is none of mine. Melchior of the Desert has
only its wilderness and the privilege to roam in it, in momentary
fear of the Saracen's sabre—yet is it dearer to
him, this condition, than all the enjoyment of the wealth
thou seest. Thou shalt judge how the Jew values the
freedom thou hast promised Melchior, when I tell thee
that all this wealth is subject to thy word in the war

thou shalt wage with the tyrant Roderick. Nor is this
all. The Jew shall bring from every city in Spain—
from Toledo, from Seville, from mountain and valley—
he shall bring thee his vessels of gold and of silver, his
rich silks, and the carefully-hidden jewels so dear, as
the Christians think them, to his best affection. Thou
seest. They are thine! Now am I ready to go with
thee where they talk of strife against the enslaver of my
people.”

“Father, shall I go with thee?” spoke the boy, coming
forward.

“Thou wilt stay, Lamech. It is men alone that can
go with the Prince Pelayo. Stay!”

The boy pressed his hand, and shrunk back hurriedly;
but an instant after, coming forward, whispered thus, in
a language unknown to Pelayo:

“The prince is a sweet noble, and speaks kindly.
He will not chide that I go.”

“But others will, my child, Isamech—others will.
Stay, and fear not. I will not keep from thee long.”

The boy followed them to the door, and watched their
forms until the turn of the long avenue took them out
of his sight.

21. XXI.

From the dwelling of Melchior, they proceeded at
once to that of the archbishop, where, by this time,
generally assembled, the conspirators awaited the princes.
Taking a route less indirect than that by which he had
come, Pelayo followed his conductor into the street, and
it was not long before they reached the palace of Oppas.

In a secluded and low-vaulted chamber, the enemies
of the usurper, each having his own peculiar wrong to
avenge, not less than that of his country, were crowded
together. They were a small, but trustworthy band—
fierce in the assertion and faithful in the maintenance

of their rights. A mean lamp,suspended from the ceiling,
gave a sufficient degree of light to enable the eye
to take in the dim outline of their several persons, and
possibly the darker expression of their faces, but little
more; and this, perhaps, is quite as much as conspiracy
at any time calls for, however laudable its object. Here,
half impatient that the leaders of their enterprise had
not as yet made their appearance, they discussed their
plans of conduct and their resources, uttered their
several causes of complaint, and spared not their threats
of vengeance. From group to group, among them, the
archbishop moved continually, studiously infusing into
their minds, so far as he could, his own particular thoughts.
He was a dark, cold, designing man—a restless malignant.
With a thirst of power, which had always engaged
him in mischief, he was now earnest rather to promote
his own than the interest of the princes. The honourable
spirit which was their prompter was not his, and
he rather feared that of Pelayo in particular. He had
no love for them, and little cared for their father's, his
brother's, memory; but he professed much, for their
name and cause were essential to his purpose. He
dared not offend them; and with a spirit of hypocrisy,
which was his nature, while seeking to excuse or to
account for their absence, took care to urge upon the
attending nobles his own views of what would be their
best course of proceeding. He was interrupted in this
work by the entrance of Pelayo, whose appearance was
instantly hailed with a murmur of applause, which well
testified the favourable opinion of those around him.

“Thanks, noble gentlemen, thanks. Your love is
much to us in our humility. We are too poor now to
offer more than this; but there will come a time, when,
with your own good arms to aid us, we shall work out a
better estate for all. How, my Lord Oppas, where is
Egiza?”

“Has he not been with thee, my son?”

“Not since the morning. You took note of him. I
left him with you, and looked to find him here.”

“He staid not with me long; but, as if impatient for
other tasks, he broke away, and gave no word, save that
the night should find him at our meeting. Yet is
he not.”

“Laggard! but we must on. What is our purpose,
uncle?—have you spoken?”

“Yes—but most briefly. Some of them are firm—
all of them with us. But who have you here, my son?”

Oppas, as he spoke, pointed to Melchior, and Pelayo
then turned to the spot where the old man stood behind
him in waiting, and motioned his advance, while replying
to the inquiry—Melchior, as he spoke, advancing
sufficiently forward to stand, at the moment of his reply,
in the fullest glare of the lamp.

“Look on him, my Lord Oppas—gentlemen. Do ye
know this man?”

“We do not,” was the reply.

“Know him from me. This man, once the deadly
enemy of my father and of our country, I have made
bold to bring among you as our friend. I look to have
you hail him so. This is Melchior of the Desert!”

“Ha!” was the exclamation of the nobles, and the
greater number shrunk away as from'a polluted and polluting
presence. The high, dark brow of the Hebrew
gathered into a momentary scowl, while his lips curled
into something like scorn; but the expression passed
off in an instant, and in another he had resumed the
habitual, calm, almost melancholy look of benevolence,
which he commonly wore.

“How!—son Pelayo, is it the Hebrew—the slayer
of his God—the foul and beastly infidel, thou wouldst
bring into the presence of Christian nobles—even in
close neighbourhood with the humble servant of Christ?
Is this thy pride of lineage, my son? What scorn is
this that thou wouldst put upon thy friends and people?”

The archbishop, as he spoke, crossed himself with an
air of the profoundest devotion.

“No scorn—my lord bishop, and most Christian
uncle—no scorn, but rather good service. I bring
Melchior of the Desert to your knowledge, and to the
knowledge of the friends I see around me, as one willing
and able to do much for our cause. He, too, is a sufferer
by the tyrant who now sways the land—he is here
to strike with us that Roderick shall fall from his
usurped throne; and it is something new to me, good
uncle, that thy Christian spirit, which has not shamed
ere this to employ many unchristian and unworthy
agents in the doing of works we may not always consider
good, should scruple now to achieve a good and
glorious work with the unworthy instrument, if he be
such, whom I now bring you.”

“It is an unholy agent thou wouldst give us, Pelayo,
and as an humble follower of Christ, I am not free to
counsel that we accept it,” replied Oppas, who, unscrupulous
enough in almost every thing else, yet felt that
his profession, at that period, derived its chief importance
by earnestly encouraging a most bigoted hatred
to all forms of infidelity. To do murder for his cause
was legitimate enough, but it was grossly unbecoming
in a Christian to employ a Jew for that purpose.

“I ask not for thy counsel, my Lord Oppas. It is
to these nobles I submit—”

“And they will refuse,” cried the archbishop, interrupting
him—“they will refuse all hand in a strife, if
the Jew be there.”

“Let me speak, I pray you,” was the deliberate and
calm reply of the prince, as he turned to the nobles,
many of whom showed quite as much reluctance to accept
the aid of the Hebrew as did the archbishop, and
were indeed, most probably, influenced by his expressed
determination.

“Speak on, Pelayo,” said one; “let us hear thy
thought, and why thou bring'st us a Hebrew for a fellow,

and he too one of our land's enemies. Did he not betray
Auria to the Moor? owe we not to him the rise in
battle of five thousand of his base tribe? and how should
we trust in one who has been so false before?”

“Count Eudon, you speak fairly. Hear to me.
This morning did I meet with Melchior first, and my
first thought was to slay him, as the enemy of my father
and my country—”

“A good thought—Heaven had given thee bliss,
Pelayo, hadst thou but done it.” And as he spoke, the
archbishop again devoutly crossed himself, and muttered
a prayer half audible to the crowd. This was one of
the thousand arts of the venerable superstition.

“Thou wilt not break upon me thus again, my Lord
Oppas, unless thou seek'st for rude answer in acknowledgment.
My mood is something stern to-night already,
and thy chafings make it not smoother. I proceed,
Count Eudon. My thought was harsh like thine,
and in my first feeling I would have slain him, but that
he made his proffer of good faith.”

“Did you believe him, prince?” was the inquiry of
one of the nobles.

“I am not moved to this warfare against Roderick
by my own loss of right or that of Egiza; but by a
sense of wrong that, in my own feeling, tells of my
country's suffering. The men of Spain are men—I
hold them so—the rich and poor alike—and, more than
this, I care not for their creed. Let them pray or not
—believe or not, if that they wrong no law that's based
on reason—if that they keep their faith unto their country—the
country that protects and watches for them—
they are alike to me. In this I speak for Melchior—
for the Jew—so does my brother speak. I speak for
him; and, strange as it may sound unto your sense, I
freely say, Lord Oppas, that you, not less than this old
Hebrew, are no Christian. The faith of Christ is that
of liberty. It teaches that the religion of mankind must
spring from each man's reason—it so requires that he

shall have free thought, and no restraint to make his
reason yours, save as he comes to it of his free will and
unimpeded conscience. Thinking thus, the Jew shall
be a fellow with the Goth, held equally in estimation of
Pelayo. So, too, my brother speaks.”

“Strange thought, indeed, Pelayo; but if you make
the Hebrew thus secure, how will you make him true—
how bind him to you?”

“Your's is a narrow spirit, good mine uncle. We
elevate the soul when we do trust it, degrading when we
doubt. But now apart. In your ear, good gentlemen,
I pray leave to whisper more.”

Then taking aside a few of the leading nobles, together
with the bishop, he whispered to them as follows,
urging more selfish considerations upon them.

“Hear to my reason, gentlemen, for this confidence
we give the Hebrew. He may not choose but be
Roderick's foe, for Roderick has proscribed him. A
price is set upon his head—makes him a common mark
—and by the decree of the usurper, whoso shall keep
him safe shall suffer death and forfeiture of goods.
This makes him ours. To be true to us is to be true
to himself, for we are the enemies of his enemy. It
were his policy to strike for us. Thus we may trust
him. Then he brings us the gold which otherwise our
coffers would lack knowledge of. Smacks not such
promise sweetly to your sense? To me, more than all
this, he proffers in our battle a strong force—three thousand
fighting men—good subjects we shall make them
—ready to follow as his will may guide. He is a
leader too. His battles were well fought; and if he
strikes for us, as once before he struck against my
father at Alpuxarra, I shall approve him, Hebrew though
he be. These are my arguments, and strong enough to
me, though my uncle's conscience receive them not.”

“I wash my hands of it—I'll none of the Jew, Pelayo,”
exclaimed the bishop aloud.

“Could you but wash them clean, uncle, it were

better. Tut—but you lead not here as 'twere your
own. The cause is for my brother and his people.
The Jew is of his people; and, I swear it, he shall be
free to lift his arm in this great service. So take a
wiser thought to your mind, and reject not the instrument
Heaven sends us in our need.”

“Could he embrace the church—put on the sign of
the cross, as a badge of honour and of glory? Say,
Jew, couldst thou do this it were all well.”

“Never! the heart of the Jew clings more firmly to
the faith of his fathers as thou seek'st to degrade it.
Even chains and the scourge are sweet, when they tell
him of the ancient altars of his nation: the sacred ark
of the temple; the temple itself, hallowed by a thousand
glories—by the awful front of Jehovah, and the song of
the monarch minstrel. Shall I put off the joys of my
spirit—the pleasant thoughts of my boyhood—the old
fancies that came with the mighty Jerusalem, and of the
parent God of the patriarchs? Thou know'st not the
Jew that asks it. Thou canst not feel his thought—
thou canst not grasp the glory in his imagining. It is
not the spoil and the suffering of to-day that shall make
him renounce the bright promise in the future for his
nation. He knows that the scattered people shall be
united—that there shall come one who is to lead them,
so that they meet again, the world's master, and there
shall be no oppression.”

“He is come!—the prophecy is fulfilled!” cried the
archbishop triumphantly.

“So thou say'st—so doubtless thou think'st—but, if
he is come, the prophecy is still incomplete. Where is
the gathering of the nations shown? where is the security
of the flock? where is the shepherd that is to protect
and give them peace? Dost thou behold its image
in the tyranny which makes wretched this thy own land
and people? which denies all peace to mine, while robbing
them of their substance? Is this thy fulfilment of
the glorious prophecy which promised to man the kingdom

full of good-will and endless joy, of a time unbroken
of security, when the good angels, as of old, may again
walk beside us in the quiet valleys, and from the hill-top
at evening the fine sense may catch the faint notes of
that spirit-born minstrelsy which trickles from the thousand-stringed
harp at the golden gate of heaven? Has
thy Saviour brought thee all this? for such is the blessed
promise of that sacred prophecy.”

“Strike down the impious wretch!—he blasphemes!”
was the sanguinary cry of the archbishop, as the warmly
roused Melchior, whose spirit was deeply impregnated
with the wildest fancies of the desert, poured himself
forth in the most fearless strains of enthusiasm. The
old man stood firm, and his dark eye was fired like that
of the eagle fresh descending from the sun. One or two
of the crowd moved towards him as if in compliance
with the call of Oppas, but Pelayo passed calmly between.

“Go to, lords, this is my guest—under my protection,
and, to silence all further coil, one for whom my
honour stands pledged to yours. I answer for his faith
to us—let the God we all worship see to his own rights.
He is a better judge than either you or I, uncle, and
quite as able to avenge his wrongs. Have done, and
now to counsel.”

22. XXII.

The opposition of Oppas and the nobles ceased,
rather in deference to the expressed will of Pelayo than
because of any diminution in their minds of the ground
of scruple. Still, cautiously avoiding all show of connection
with Melchior, they began their deliberations
freely, each suggesting his own view of the course
which should be taken. It happened here, as in most
cases where the counsellors are numerous, that much
difference prevailed among them. One party was for

secret corruption, the other proclaimed its sentiments
fearlessly in favour of an open warfare. The leader
of the former was Oppas—and this was by far the most
numerous body. Pelayo counselled the other. Many
were the reasons given by the archbishop in behalf of
his suggestions—reasons all highly politic had the cause
been less just and honourable than it was—reasons
wisely framed for the rebel, but not so moving for him
who claimed rightfully his throne from the hands of a
usurper. Pelayo saw through the designs of Oppas—
he saw that the plan suggested by his uncle would have
the effect of binding his followers to the guidance of a
secret and irresponsible authority, which, should the fate
of Egiza or himself prove unfortunate, would vest the
power in the hands of one, not less a usurper than was
he who now swayed the empire. He, therefore, resolutely
opposed it.

“My brother,” said he, “has a right in this, a sacred
right, left him by a thousand sires, each having it the
same. 'Tis not for him to hide it in a cloak, but, with
good argument, he well may lift his banner, and declare
his full resolve to make it good or perish.”

“'Tis not wise, my son—'twere better policy to move
in quiet. Let us not offend the eyes that watch us,
until we may defy them.”

“We may do so now, my Lord Oppas—we may do
so now. The people chafe already under the rule of
Roderick, and, with their wonted impulse, they will
gather to the banner of Egiza, when once they see it
waving. They love the change, for they are the
creatures of the common nature, and her element is
change. Give them a new cry—`Egiza, and close
ranks for Spain!'—and they will peal it from each
sierra under the blue arch of heaven.”

“Such is my thought,” cried Count Eudon. “And
mine,” “and mine,” cried others of the more daring
and restless—those in particular who had personal
wrongs to avenge at the hands of Roderick.

“I thank you, friends—I thank you. This is good
service, true. I love not this same cunning—this concealment.
Truth needs no bush for cover, and the good
cause has in itself a strength which virtue gives, shall
always make it mightiest in the end. What is your
force, Lord Aylor?”

“Twice two hundred—men good at spear and axe.”

“Bowmen, too?”

“But few—too few for note.”

“And you, Count Eudon?”

“As many more—some thirty bowmen—good at
close strife too. Stout, ready, daring.”

“Wherefore this, Pelayo?” cried the bishop, now
approaching. “Sure you press not the strife until your
brother speaks?”

“I speak for him, my Lord Oppas, even as I speak
for Spain and these assembled nobles. It is not more
the cause of Egiza than yours, and yours, and mine.
He but imbodies, in the name he bears, the rights of
those who make him. He is their king, 'tis true—king
for their good—no king for them, if not.”

“True—true! Our king, and not his own,” was the
ready cry, in response, of the nobles generally. Such
an expression had the effect of silencing Oppas for the
present, and the council then proceeded to deliberate
upon the farther action of the conspiracy. By careful
computation it was found that a force of six thousand
men or more, not including the three thousand promised
by Melchior, was at command—scattered, however, at
various and remote points, and requiring some time for
assembling. In addition to this difficulty, the present
want of money was suggested; and it was then that
Melchior again spoke, pledging the necessary sum.
This was one of the greatest obstacles to the enterprise,
for the nobles thus gathered were many of them destitute,
and hence much of their discontent. A small
party was designated for the purpose of procuring the
amount needed, by attending Melchior to his abode;

and the Hebrew, with a smiling scorn, which he did not
seek to hide, beheld the ready spirit with which they
now consented, having such an object, to seek the habitation
of one whose very contact, but a little before, they
had been so shocked to think upon. Having arranged
their next meeting, as a national council, to take place
in the Cave of Wamba—a huge cavern in one of the
neighbouring mountains, where they proposed to elevate
Egiza to the throne of the Goths—the assembly was
dissolved; Pelayo, with the small body of nobles appointed
to go with Melchior, moving off with him to his
secluded dwelling-place.

23. XXIII.

They reached it, after a while, by the same indirect
route which Pelayo had pursued af first with Lamech,
and the boy awaited him at the door of an inner apartment.
Pelayo looked with surprise and some dissatisfaction
upon the fondness which he showed his father
upon entering. He thought it unbecoming in one who,
however young, might be required, before long, to engage
in strife and bloodshed. But when he saw the
eyes of the boy, the next moment, fixed upon himself,
with a gaze, seemingly, of admiring emulation, while a
fire of unusual expression rushed into and kindled them
up, he did not doubt but that he also possessed a fine
spirit which would sustain him nobly in every form of
trial.

Melchior led the way for the nobles into a gorgeously
decorated chamber. They threw themselves upon
cushions of the richest covering; and Lamech soon
appeared, as they spoke, with a pitcher of the finest
wine. When they were well served and refreshed, the
Hebrew brought forth his gold, in large sacks, and
such a supply as more than met the expectations of
the most voracious of the discontented nobles. Pelayo

alone forbore providing himself with the rest, and having
reminded Melchior of the meeting at the Cave of Wamba,
for a future and appointed day, he took his departure
with his company. Soon as they had gone, and the
doors were secured, the boy Lamech went to his chamber,
and after a brief space returned—a boy no longer
—but a woman—a tall, beautiful, dark-eyed Arabian
maiden—the daughter, and not the son, of the venerable
Hebrew.

“Oh, my father, how I love to return, though but
once in the long day, to the garb of my mother. I feel
so unhappy—so awkward in that foreign dress—when
shall I be released from the task of wearing it?”

“Ay, when, my Thyrza, when? The garment of the
boy is now thy security; and though I love not to see
thee in it, yet, as it keeps thee from harm, I must even
love it too. Perhaps, my child, if the God of our
fathers turn not again from us, the time is but short in
which thy present servitude, and mine, and our people's,
shall continue.”

“Ah! I understand thee, father. Thou art again
about to lift the spear and the sword; and thine eyes
look forward to the fight with an old kindling. Thou
art leagued with the princes of the Goth, who now cry
war against Roderick.”

“It is even as thou say'st it, Thyrza. I am sworn
with the battle of the princes, and, God help me, I
shall strike fairly with them against the bloody ruler of
my people. It cannot be that Jehovah will always look
dark on Israel—it cannot be that Judah will always
be a dweller in the tents of the stranger, beaten with
stripes, and born to do his bidding. So long as this
bondage is his, so long must Melchior battle for him,
and against his oppressor.”

“And yet, my father, what hope is for the Hebrew?
—the despised, the persecuted Hebrew? How wilt thou
confide in him whose pleasure and whose pride it is to
scorn and to abuse thy people? Thou didst league,

having this hope, with the savage Count Generic, and
with Witebrode, yet what was thy fortune? When
came the peril, they shrunk from thee—when came the
triumph, they trampled upon thee, needing thy service
no longer. Ah me, my father, wherefore shouldst thou
strive, when Israel himself lies down like a beaten dog,
and howls only when he should hurt—when the lion of
Judah sleeps under the foot, even as the imaged stone,
at the doorway of his oppressors. Why shouldst thou
toil in battle for such as these? why pray to them,
when they hear thee with but half an ear, and turn to
thee with an unwilling spirit?”

“Thyrza, my child, thou speakest melancholy things
—most sad, as they are most true. But the spirit
which labours for man is a spirit from heaven, and the
sacrifice is not idle, though the victim appears to bleed
in vain. It must be that the prophet shall speak to unheeding
ears—it must be that the patriot will strike for
hearts that merit not freedom. Yet must the prophet
speak on, and the patriot strike. They do not this for
a race, nor for a generation—they do it for God and for
man; and the glorious principle which men flout and
deride to-day, shall, to-morrow, when the blood of the
good hath been poured forth in attestation of its truth,
become a sacred thing which all the world shall delight
to behold and worship. Think, my child, if Melchior,
the wanderer with the Saracen, the beaten slave of the
Roman, the persecuted and hunted outlaw among the
Goths—think what would have been the blessing of life
to him had his spirit lived only for the day of its exercise.
Thou knowest not how high, how stretching were
his thoughts, when his eye counted the blessed stars of
heaven, from the wide and cheerless bosom of the
desert. They taught him that so numerous and so
scattered were the myriad families of man; and even
as he borrowed light from glories so remote as theirs,
so to the immeasurable worlds of man should be his
various thoughts, all coming from the great Jehovah,

and all going forth to bless and illumine his divided
people. Melchior, my child, has had but one selfish
thought since the departure of thy blessed mother, and
that thought has been of thee.”

“My father!” and as she spoke she threw her white
arm around his neck, while her head rested upon his
shoulder.

“Thou wert that thought—and sometimes it has
prompted, even as thou hast counselled; and I would
have given up this struggle for the Hebrew, leaving him
the trampled and beaten dog that I have found him, but
that a spirit, like that which came to Job at midnight,
has filled me with a chill and a trembling, that seemed
a punishment for mine error. I must labour for my
people, let me love them as I may—ay, my child, even
though thou art the sacrifice. I have leagued with the
sons of my enemy Witiza, in a cause full of hope for
the Hebrew.”

“And yet, my father, in what can be thy trust—thou
so much wronged, and so much misguided as thou hast
been before?”

“My trust is in God—he who gave the lion-spirit to
Judah, and whose promise yet stands for my people, in
the thousand prophecies of our fathers. Yet not altogether
do I withhold my confidence from man. I hold
much to the faith in this noble youth, the Prince Pelayo.
Did not my eyes, even when I lay half stunned and insensible
upon the rocks, open into consciousness as he
came? did they not behold, above his head, the thrice
circling wing of the sacred bird the Arabian worships,
with its green glory, promising him a crown? And then,
his speech is noble—his thought is wise, far beyond his
years and people; and he loves truth as a thing for high
spirits, and the becoming language of a God. I believed
him when I saw him first—I believed him when
he spoke—I cannot but believe him.”

“And I believe him too, my father—I do—” and,
with a strange emotion, the cheeks of the Hebrew

maiden glowed like fire, and she buried her face upon
the bosom of her father, while her young heart beat
audibly.

“And now, Thyrza, thy harp, my child. Tell me
of that solemn march of our people from the bondage
of the Egyptian, when the prophet of God led them
through the waters, and the hosts of Pharaoh were buried
in their depths.” And with a slow, sweet accent, the
maiden sang to her harp the story he required.

24. XXIV.

25. XXV.

The solemn strain was finished, and in a style of
beauty not more remarkable for its exquisite simplicity
than for its exquisite harmony. Thyrza had been educated
chiefly by her father, and had acquired, as much
from his as from her own spirit, no small portion of that
lofty and high-souled enthusiasm which made up so much
of his character. Glowing with the rich exuberance of
excited religious feeling, when the performer turned
from her seat to look upon the old man, she beheld him
upon his knees—his eyes lifted to heaven, and the sentiment
of prayer deeply written upon every feature of his
face. She glided to him softly, and knelt down quietly,
without a word, beside him. He acknowledged her
presence with a start, then clasping her to his arms,
thanked her for her performance, and gave her his parting
blessing for the night.

“Now go to thy chamber, my child—take thy sleep,
and may the God of Abraham watch over and keep thee
from harm. Good-night!”

She murmured a similar aspiration, and left him.
The old man again sank back into prayerful musing,
for his mood was eminently devotional, though his pursuits

all his life had been wild, and many of his more
vigorous years had been spent in unprofitable strife.

“When, oh, when shall Thy people now pass out from
their bondage? When wilt Thou come to their aid, O
Thou, whose arm shook the waters over Pharaoh, and
humbled the hosts of the Philistines! Oh, wouldst
thou endow me, for their good, in this great service—
wouldst thou smile upon my hope—wouldst thou give
strength to our warriors, and fortune to this our enterprise,
then would thy servant gladly lay down his own
life, happy in the sacrifice that brought with it so great
a profit.”

He arose at length from his knees, placed a keen
dagger in his girdle, and wrapping himself closely in
his mantle, went forth into the city.