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.”
