University of Virginia Library

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.