University of Virginia Library

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.”