University of Virginia Library

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.