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.”
