University of Virginia Library

2. BOOK II.

1. I.

Age had not diminished, nor could defeat and disappointment
discourage, the energies of Melchior. Desert-born,
he had been taught to endure trial and to love
adventure. Enthusiastic and resolute by nature, the
life which he had led had early tutored him in a habit
of mental concentration, which made him equally tenacious
and fearless in the pursuit of his object. Vicissitudes
had taught him religion, and its ennobling sentiments,
linked with his natural enthusiasm of character,
had made him zealous in the prosecution of what he
deemed his duties. The dangers which surrounded him
in that strange city, full of his enemies,—the darkness
of the night,—his own fatigues of frame in the long
travel of the day, and the excitements through which he
had gone,—were all as nothing to the aged man. Filled
with the cheering hope which the conversation with Pelayo
had imparted, of improving the condition of his
people, he thought neither of danger nor fatigue. His
spirit was aroused, and he suffered no sleep to visit his
eyelids until he had done something towards the great
object with which his bosom laboured. His purpose
now was an immediate conference with such of his
people as had power over the rest, and could be relied
upon in a scheme so perilous as that in view. This
was a work of caution, and well did Melchior know that
there were few, even among his own tribe, who could

well be trusted. There were but few, indeed, to whom
he could dare confide the secret of his own presence in
that city of his foe; and this was one of the reasons
which prompted him to go forth, at that late hour, under
the shelter of the night. Moving through the gloomy
city like one long familiar with all its haunts, he made
his way to a yet more secluded portion of the Hebrew
suburb than that which he had left. At length he
reached a dwelling that stood at a little distance from all
other buildings. It was a poor and mean-looking fabric,
and nothing in its external appearance could possibly
have spoken for wealth or affluence within. Melchior
tapped lightly at a little low, arched entrance,
and was instantly admitted. A few words, uttered in a
strange language to him who waited, were soon understood,
and the visiter at once followed the porter into
the body of the dwelling.

If the outward aspect of this fabric was base and unassuming,
such certainly was not the character of the
interior. The apartment into which Melchior was conducted
amply compensated, by its exquisite beauty and
richness of ornament, for the humility of its outward
show. It was a chamber of surpassing grandeur of
decoration and arrangement. All things familiar to the
luxurious tastes of that period and country, for the gratification
of the eye and the pleasure of the senses,
seemed here to have been studiously and profusely
drawn together. Roman luxury and Saracen voluptuousness
were made to vie in the wealth and multiplicity
of their productions. The oriental storehouse
had been ransacked, and a foretaste of the future glories
of the “Alhambra” might have been found, like so much
hidden treasure, awaiting the hour of its delivery from
the mine, in the humble home of a trembling father to a
degraded and derided people.

2. II.

But the eye of Melchior rested not upon the wealth
and splendour which were clustered around him. The
glitter of the mine, the glow of the palace, the pomp of
aught save Heaven, were as nothing in his contemplation.
He turned away from the glare and the tinsel in
his glance, and his eyes rested thoughtfully upon a couch
disposed after the fashion of the Moor, and richly habited
with a profuse drapery of fine silks, fretted and inwrought
with gold. On this couch a youth lay fast
sleeping. His dark skin, his thick, black, glossy hair, the
lightness and symmetry of his limbs,—all told of his
oriental origin; while the narrow face, the finely oval
cheek, impaired, however, by the sudden and enfeebling
sharpness of his chin, as certainly determined him to be
of Hebrew parentage. He was richly habited, and not
seemingly for slumber. He appeared rather to have
thrown himself casually upon the couch, and to have
fallen unconsciously into that luxurious repose which, in
the summer, steals so insidiously and with such lulling
sweetness upon the unwary or exhausted senses. His
tunic was of a thick purple silk, and a long sash encircled
his waist. Gems of value glittered upon his
fingers, and a heavy chain of Moorish workmanship,
even more valuable for the exquisite taste and delicacy
of its construction than for the intrinsic weight of the
metal, hung loosely around his neck.

Melchior, while his guide departed as if in quest of
another, drew nigh and seated himself upon the couch
at the foot of the sleeper. The slumbers of the youth
were uneven and disturbed, though his sleep was unbroken.
His limbs were tossed about at moments,
from side to side, as if his blood was in fever; and
Melchior pressed the pulse of his extended arm with his

finger, as if to satisfy himself that such was not the case.
Long and earnestly did the aged man contemplate the
person of the youth before him with a look full of melancholy
dissatisfaction. While he gazed, muttered words
broke forth from the lips of the sleeper,—words of anger
and defiance; and now an oath, a bitter, blasphemous
oath, startled the venerable man with the atrocious impiety
that seemed to be dwelling, as if at home, in a
bosom so very young—in a form, to the eye, so promising.
He turned away as if sickening at the survey, and
the painful thoughts which it had forced upon him.

3. III.

In a few moments, and a door curiously wrought in
the tapestry of the chamber, for the purposes of flight
and concealment, was silently thrown open; and a venerable
man, not less aged than Melchior, though without
any appearance of his elasticity and strength, now
entered the apartment. He came forward with a slow
and stealthy movement, as if fearing to break the slumbers
of the sleeping youth. In silence he approached
his guest, and the two, as if long and dearly known,
embraced each other without uttering a word. In a
whisper, the new-comer instructed Melchior to resume
his seat upon the edge of the couch from which he had
arisen. The other occupied a place beside him, giving,
as he did so, a glance to the sleeping youth, which, to
the eye of Melchior, was full of an unadvised and mistaken
fondness. The thought of his mind at that moment
gave to the venerable man occasion for a remark,
which, though strong, and delivered with emphasis, was
yet uttered in a whisper.

“The boy is a boy no longer, Adoniakim: he has
advanced in growth and strength, and is a goodly youth
to look upon.”

“Very—very goodly, indeed, to look upon,” said the
other, with a sigh, at the same time that his eye dwelt
with fondness upon the features of the youth. Melchior
proceeded:

“Goodly to the sight is he, but I fear me, Adoniakim,
that the evil spirit of self is still the master within
him. He heeds thee not, Adoniakim, as a child should
heed his father. The stubbornness of boyhood, of which
I warned thee, has grown stronger in his years, and,
with his growth, has become too vigorous for thee now
to restrain. Alas! brother, thou hast been erringly and
sadly fond of thy firstborn.”

“My only one, Melchior. True,—thou hast said
but truly. I have greatly erred in my teaching. The
boy is wilful, and heeds not much the commands of his
father or the counsels of his friends: he inclines but too
much to serve the devices and desires of his own heart.”

“I knew it, Adoniakim. I knew that the nature
within him was wayward and wilful from the first, and
greatly did I fear that thine was not the spirit to subdue the
evil temper. Thou hast smiled when thou shouldst have
looked sadly, and been but sad when thou shouldst have
been stern. He has been too dear to thee in thy loneliness,
and thou hast been too much a dependant upon
him to do him and thyself that justice which would have
reproved his error and punished his disobedience. I
fear me thou wilt have much sorrow yet from his wild
nature and vicious mood.”

“And yet, Melchior, I have not forborne to punish
and restrain. Many stripes have I given him while he
was yet a boy; and, since he has grown up, as thou
seest, into a youth seemly to look upon, much sage and
solemn counsel have I bestowed upon him.”

“Alas, Adoniakim, I fear me thou hast not punished
wisely nor counselled prudently. The guidance must
be habitual, and the punishment in season, or they
are equally bestowed in vain. Thou hast punished

when too much provocation has chafed thy heart, and
not because thou wouldst chasten to improve. Thy
stripes have been given in thy anger, and not for his
good; it was thy passion, and not his deserts, that
prompted thee to punish; and we may not wonder that
thou hast pacified thyself without improving him. It is
a sad thing for the young and erring spirit when the
father loves unwisely, for then the strong feelings of the
heart rise up against the sober thoughts of the head, and
the eyes of a calm reflection are blinded by the rushing
impulses from within. I warned thee of this danger,
Adoniakim, when last we took counsel of the youth. He
is soon to be a man,—goodly to the sight, my brother,
but greatly I fear me, Adoniakim, not goodly to the
thought. He will vex thy old heart sadly ere thou goest
down to the tomb of thy fathers.”

“Alas, Melchior, I tremble at what thou sayest.
Tell me, whence come these apprehensions?—what hast
thou heard?—what hast thou seen? Thou hast not
spoken with the boy,—thou hast only beheld him as he
slept. Thou hast had no word with him or with me
that could teach thee of his erring. What, then, is the
art that so informs thee? How is it that thou so quickly
dost dive into the deep soul for its secrets?”

And, as he spoke, the aged parent turned fondly and
gazed upon the sleeping subject of their deliberations.

“Even while he slept I judged him,” said Melchior,
solemnly. “Even while he slept, my brother, evil
thoughts were busy in his mind, and a foul oath and
many dark threats gathered upon his lips. Behold,
even now, the big, swollen vein upon the ruffled brow!
—see to the lips which are now compressed as if in
strife, only to part in bitterness!”

“Stay—he wakes!” said the other, and his hand
rested upon that of Melchior while he spoke, and they
both paused from speech, as a repeated movement of
the youth's person led them to apprehend his awakening.

But the limbs were once more composed, as if in
slumber, and the youth lay again in silence as before.

“Thou misjudgest him, Melchior,” said the father,
deprecatingly: “the boy is rash and wilful, but thou
errest when thou thinkest him vicious. The spirit is
wild, but, I trust, not evil. There is, indeed, much
truth in what thou sayest, but it is not all truth,—not all
—not all: it would be a dreadful sorrow, Melchior,
could I think it so.”

“Is it not now thy sorrow, Adoniakim?” demanded
Melchior. “Dost thou not even now mourn ever with
fears of thy son's wilfulness,—fears that come to thee
unbidden? Deceive not thyself, my brother. This is
always the error of the father. Declare to thyself—to
me—what is thy thought, and thou wilt say that what I
have said to thee of the boy has been long thy sorrow—
thy deep sorrow. Hast thou any care on thy heart but
this, unless it be for thy trodden and thy trampled people?
Does not the boy afflict thee by his profligacy
and his profusion—by his wilfulness and scorn of all the
checks thou wouldst put upon him? Is he not licentious
and wanton? Does he not debauch after the
fashion of the Gothic nobles, and ape their miserable
vices, not having even their freedom? I have heard no
one speak of this—I have seen none of it myself; and
yet, Adoniakim, from thy heart unfold to me, speak I
not the truth?”

“No more, Melchior, I pray thee. Spare me: thou
hast said enough. Let us now speak of our people, for,
if I err not, this is the concern upon which thou comest.
Thou hast been waited for. Tell me of thy hope—of
thy success among the tribes.”

“Not here, Adoniakim—the youth sleeps not soundly.”

“But fear not for him,—is he not a Hebrew like
ourselves?”

“No!” exclaimed the other, sternly. “He feels not

with us. He is not prepared to deny himself for the
goodly cause of his people, and only such are with us.
Leave the boy,—better that he should sleep on. He
would but take thy thought from my tidings, for thou
hast more pleasure in beholding him than in aught else.”

And truly might Melchior say that the aged Adoniakim
had more pleasure at such a moment, and in the
survey of his son, than in any thing beside. The look
was long and lingering which he cast behind him, as he
led the way for Melchior from the apartment through the
secret panel out of which he came at first.

Scarcely had the door been closed behind them when
the youth leaped to his feet.

“I thank thee, good Melchior, for thy friendly thought,
and thy brotherly labour to hurt me with Adoniakim. I
will requite thee yet for thy toil, or I deserve to sleep.
Now, what does the old goat seek with my father, that I
must needs not hear? But I will hear. I love not to be
shut out from the truth; and, by the beard of Samuel! I
will share in this conference, though mayhap I say nothing
myself. I will but give other ears to the eloquence
of Melchior; and he who so loves to hear his own language
may scarce complain of an addition to his audience.
So!”

Thus did the youth mutter to himself, as he approached
the aperture in the tapestry through which the
aged men had gone. This he slightly unfastened, and,
placing his ears upon the opening, the sounds of voices
from within were borne distinctly to them. Gradually
his knee sank to the floor; and it soon seemed that
he heard and understood, for his action was quiet and
patient, like that of a satisfied listener.

4. IV.

In the private apartment to which they had retired,
Melchior narrated to Adoniakim the particulars of his
far travel and adventures during all the long period of
his absence from Cordova. In this narrative there was
much that does not affect ours. When the traveller had
spoken generally of the things which he had seen, and of
his own fortunes in the time mentioned, he proceeded to
confer with his friend upon the condition of their people,
to the improvement and melioration of which both of
them had long before devoted themselves. It was at the
close of a survey of the recent deposition of Witiza by
Roderick, and the dispersion of the troops led by Egiza
and Pelayo, the two sons of the former, that the dialogue
thus proceeded—

“Thou hast seen Moussa Ben Nassir?”

“At Tangier. It was my counsel that moved the
Saracen to the conquest of that city.”

“Wherefore did he not advance upon Ceuta? Now,
when two factions rage—when the children of the Goth
and the descendants of the Roman struggle against each
other, and when the people of the soil, hating both and
fearing both, are not unwilling to join with any power
which may give battle to their double tyrannies—now is
the time for the Saracen—now is the time, Melchior, for
the Hebrew.”

“Such was my counsel. In Moussa's private ear I
unfolded the history of our people, and of the people
who oppress them, and strongly urged his march upon
the Rock of Calpe, whose fortress then was but meanly
defended.”

“Why did he refuse?”

“He dared not, for he had been summoned back to
Syria by the calif, who demanded from him an account

of his expedition; but my counsel was not forgotten, for,
as thou knowest, when he came back from Syria, he
laid siege to Ceuta.”

“But failed.”

“He came too late. Julian, the Count of Consuegra,
who is generalissimo of the coasts of Andalusia,
came to its defence, and so severe was the defeat of the
Saracen, that it will be long before he is prepared to renew
the invasion.”

“But he will renew it?”

“I fear it.”

“How! Thou fearest it, Melchior?”

“I do fear it, Adoniakim; since I sorrow to think
the Hebrew has not more to gain from the success of
the Saracen, than he has to fear from the continued
power of the Goth. The Hebrew will be too feeble to
give weight to either side when a new power comes into
the field. With the contentions of the old we may do
much. We may turn the scale to the party which shall
most extend our privileges, and from which we may receive
the best pledges of security.”

“Could it be so,” exclaimed the other, despondingly.

“Hear me!” said Melchior. “Don Roderick, the
Goth, is now upon the throne, and has been proclaimed
in all the cities. The sons of Witiza have dispersed
their followers, but they are not overthrown. One of
them I have conferred with on the part of the Hebrew.
To him I have pledged our aid—from him I have had
pledges in return, which shall give us the privileges we
demand—security in our religion, property, and persons,
upon the payment of a regular and certain tribute. For
this security we will give him the aid and treasure we
should else have given to the Saracen; and strong is
my hope, and confident my faith, that we shall be at last
successful in obtaining the end that we desire: for never,
oh, Adoniakim, have mine eyes looked upon a youth
more noble to the sight, more like a prince after the

fashion of the ancient kings of Jerusalem, than Pelayo.
With a brow that is high and commanding, and an eye
that is bright with unwavering fires—with a cheek that
does not blanch, and a lip whose form is full of a sweet
majesty, the face and air of that noble prince are a guarantee
for all that is high in mind and noble in soul. He
will not do us wrong; he will keep his faith with us, I
am fond to believe, for I have had signs and tokens
which tell me to confide in the promise which he brings
us.”

“Wisest among us, as thou art, Melchior, will it not
be rash too readily to confide in any of these Gothic
princes? Thou hast not forgotten the false Witebrode,
and the base Count Genseric? Did they not promise
freely till they possessed themselves of our substance,
and did they not then scorn and desert us?”

“Pelayo is a prince not after the make of these,” said
Melchior, hastily. “But thou shalt see and confer with
him thyself. To-morrow night he will seek me at my
dwelling. Thither shalt thou go also.”

“Hast thou the treasure from the Hebrews at Merida?”

“It is safe with me.”

“And the weapons of war—are they out of sight in
secure places?”

“They are ready, yet remote. All this has been
cared for.”

“And Thyrza?—thou hast said nothing of thy child,
Melchior. Thou hast not left her still in the tents of the
Saracen?”

“She is with me; but the guise of a boy, after the Roman
fashion, conceals the person of my child. It were
not well that the eye of a Gothic noble should look upon
one so lovely.”

“Thou art right. It were but a dove's plea to the
kite, the prayer of womanly innocence in the relentless
ear of the Goth. Ah, Melchior, the brute vices walk at

noonday through the land, and none so pure as to feel
offence at their presence. A weak hold has virtue here
against the vice of the nobles, to whom goodness is a
thing of mock, and debauchery and sin the practice and
the credit which give command, and are the decoration
and the attribute of power. There should be a fearful
hour at hand, my brother, if the wrath of Jehovah be not
forgotten eternally.”

“It is a bolt suspended only, Adoniakim. The punishment
is at hand, and it may be that, at this very hour,
we, humble and aged as we are, are the chosen instruments
for bearing the red vengeance into the courts and
palaces of this Gothic tyranny. May Jehovah gird up
our loins, and give us strength and heart to perform his
wishes. Let us strive to be ready for the call, Adoniakim,
that the goodly purpose fail not through lack of
ours.”

“Amen!” exclaimed the other, solemnly; and they
both arose from their place of conference, and turned towards
the apartment which they had left. Heedful of
their movements, the unhappy youth, who had been
meanly hearkening to their speech the while, rose from
his place of watch, and, stealing cautiously to the couch
where he had before been lying, resumed once more the
show of those slumbers which had been partially feigned
before. The two looked upon him, but without seeking
to disturb him; and regarding his sleep as real, the aged
Melchior took leave of his friend in a whisper and with
a cautious footstep.

When he was gone a while, the youth seemed to
awaken.

“Thou hast slept long, Amri, my son,” said Adoniakim,
in a tone of ill-suppressed fondness, “but thy sleep
has been troubled, and thy limbs were tossed about unquietly,
as if the fever-plague had fallen upon thee. The
veins in thy brow, even now, are swollen greatly, and

there is a red flush upon thy cheek, which is a token that
thy sleep hath availed thee little.”

“Is it not enough, my father, that my sleep should be
troubled, when thine eye is turned upon me in anger?”

“Alas! my son, and wherefore should my anger disturb
thy slumbers, when thou dost give it so little heed
in thy wakening? Thou hast too little thought of me
to make it a matter of concern to thee whether my looks
be those of love or anger. Would it were otherwise, my
son.”

“It is otherwise, my father—thou dost me wrong.
Surely I seek thy love—surely I grieve at thy displeasure;
but my mood is wild, and the youthful, like myself,
do not often think the grave thoughts which make
propriety in the estimation of the aged. It is not reason,
but rather a harsh injustice, when the blood is quick in
the veins, and the heart beats high with young life, to ask
that the step be slow like that of age and wisdom, and
that all the movements of youth do wait for a directing
reason.”

“There is truth in what thou sayest, Amri,” responded
the father, solicitous to excuse in his weakness the errors
of a character which his calm judgment could not
forbear to see. Amri was cunning enough to know his
father's foible, and of this knowledge he availed himself
whenever he had a suit to present.

“There is truth in what thou sayest, Amri; and, could
I deem that such were thy nature,—that thou didst only
err from quick blood, and with the natural fondness of
youth—”

“Believe it, father—” and he put his arms about the
neck of his doting sire, while he continued thus:

“Believe it. I know that I have erred; but I have
erred through youth, and not from a wilful love of error.
I will strive to amend it; only be not wroth with me,—
look not again in anger upon me.”

“Yet, these moneys, Amri?” said the old man, sternly,
and withdrawing himself from the youth's embrace.

“It was my folly, my father,—my madness. The
young Lord Astigia—”

“A vicious youth, Amri,—a debauched and dishonest
youth! A poor noble; and such are the worst. What
has he to do with a Jew?—one of a people whom he
scorns? What, but to gather means for the profligacy
which he loves. And what shouldst thou, a Hebrew,—
one of a different and a singular people,—what shouldst
thou do with him? What hast thou in common with a
Gothic noble? Thou shalt give him up—thou shalt fly
from him—thou shalt leave his haunts, Amri, or I give
thee not these moneys.”

“I will, my father, even as thou sayest,” was the docile
reply.

“That is well, Amri; forgive me if I have spoken
thus harsh to thee, my son; but it is for thy good that I
have spoken.”

“Do I not know it, my father?”

“Thou shalt have the money, Amri; thou shalt pay
thy debt to this noble,—to all of those that have claims
upon thee.”

“Thanks, dear father.”

“They shall not say that the Jew is mean and dishonest,
as it is their wont to say. Thou shalt pay thy
debts to them in honour, though they have won them, as
thou sayest, in dishonour.”

“By trick, father—by cheat—as I live.”

“Thou shalt pay them, nevertheless, my son; but as
thou knowest them, thou wilt seek them no more when
thou hast done so. Here are purses. This for the
Lord Astigia. It is even more than thou sayest is his
demand; but give it him all; he shall know that thou
hast no meanness, even if such be the failing of thy people.
This for Edacer,—another spendthrift,—a debauched
and decayed noble,—another of those who have

nothing of nobility but the name, and stink in poverty
even as they stink in vice. Thou wilt leave his gatherings
also: thou wilt quit their walks. Thou shalt
promise me this, Amri.”

“I will—I do, my father.”

“God bless thee, my son, that thou speakest me so
fair! Truly do I think thou wilt keep thy word to me—
that thou wilt go out from among these vicious and debauched
youth that have so led thee astray, my son,
from thy God, thy people, thy own duty, and thy father's
love. Keep thy faith to me, Amri, and my heart is
thine, and my wealth is thine, and I will bless thee with
a father's blessing when the death angel waits.”

“Believe me, father, thou wilt not need to rebuke me
again. I will but rid me of these dues to Astigia and
to Edacer, and see them no more.”

“Go not to them; send them the moneys; avoid
them and the places which they haunt. Their presence
makes an atmosphere of death in the house, where they
gather together for sin. It is a taint that is like a pestilence;
it goeth in at the nostril, and thou knowest not
of the dangers, my son, till thou art lost for ever. Keep
away from the haunts of the wicked, I pray thee, Amri.”

“As thou sayest, my father.”

“Thou hast spoken, Amri, as I would have thee, my
son. Thy ear is open to my word; thy heart is not
leprous. No, no!” he muttered, half to himself,—“no,
no! Melchior has done him injustice,—he sees not the
heart of the youth as I behold it. He knows him only
in the day of his wilful boyhood. No, no!—the eye is
dark and sweet; it is too like that of his blessed mother
to speak falsely now to my own. Go, my son!—go,
Amri, to thy chamber, and may the wing of the good
angel bend over thy slumbers!”

5. V.

The youth retired, but not to his chamber—not, certainly,
to his slumbers. With a stealthy step he withdrew
from the dwelling, after such time had elapsed as
he deemed sufficient to wrap his father in that sleep
which he did not himself seek. A whispered word to
the porter, who appeared to be in his confidence, procured
him a free passage into the street; and it was not
long before the youth, so earnest in his pledges to a too
indulgent parent, was revelling with the most worthless
comrades in scenes of the most degrading debauchery.
His associates, as we have seen, were of another caste,
and a higher condition than his own. They tolerated the
despised Hebrew, not as an associate, but as a minister
to their excesses. The money drawn from the coffers
of his sire paid for their indulgences; and the unhappy
and depraved youth was not unwilling to share their
countenance and their excesses on terms so unequal.

“Thou art late, Amri,” were the first words, uttered
in a harsh tone by one of the dissolute young nobles, as
he made his appearance.

“Too soon,” cried another, “if he has not brought
the money.”

“He knows better than to come before us without
it,” said the former, and a harsh frown gathered upon
his countenance as he spoke. “How now, Jew! thou
hast not dared—”

“The money is here, my lord: be not impatient; I
have brought thee all,—the whole sum, and even more.”

“Good!—I knew thee, Amri, too well, to fear that
thou wouldst play false,” said Astigia, as he received the
purse and proceeded to tell over the amount.

“And what hast thou to say to me?” demanded the
brutal Edacer.

“Thou hast not been forgotten, my lord,” replied the
Jew, respectfully, yet with a tone of ease that showed
how confident he was of favour when the bearer of such
a burden as that which he now placed in the ready hands
of his questioner.

Provided now with the means of indulgence, these
hopeful youths sallied forth for the purposes of excess.
They rushed like madmen through the streets, whooping,
howling, assailing the peaceful whom they met, and
disturbing the midnight quiet of the city. They then
retired to a house allotted to the purposes of debauchery,
where, with wine and profligate women, they passed the
remainder of the night. By the dawn, half inebriated
and quite exhausted, the son of Adoniakim stole silently
to his chamber, having obtained a ready entrance to
his father's dwelling from the porter, who was in his
pay. When he awakened, his father was about to go
forth. He watched the departure of the aged man;
then, gliding down to the place where the porter stood
in waiting, he thus counselled him:

“Go forth, Jared,—follow Adoniakim, and tell me
where thou seest him enter. Note thou his movements,
and suffer none to escape thee. I have gold for thee if
thou reportest truly to me in this matter. Go!—meanwhile,
I will wait for thee at the gate.”

The subservient porter departed, as a spy upon his
master; and the dishonourable son, throwing over his
shoulder the rude cloak which the other had worn, now
took the place of his watch at the entrance. His motives
may in part be told, as we know them from himself.

“Adoniakim is gone to the dwelling of Melchior: I
must find out the way thither also. I must see Thyrza,
the maiden of whom they speak, and of whom I had
sweet glimpses in my boyhood: she must now be a
goodly woman, and my father has told me she is lovely.”

While thus he addressed himself in soliloquy, a slight
blow upon the gate over which he watched warned him

of his newly-assumed duties. When he opened it, a
slender and handsome boy stood before him.

“What wouldst thou?” demanded Amri.

“This to Adoniakim,” said the messenger, “from
Namur of the Porch. It brings him tidings of the trade
to Algeziras.”

“Adoniakim is not within,” responded the porter, as
he received the packet which the boy brought, surveying
curiously, as he replied, the smooth, soft, and harmonious
features of his countenance, and the fine symmetry
of his form.

“Namur of the Porch has a goodly page in thee,”
was the complaisant remark with which Amri continued
his speech. “What is thy name, and where did he find
thee? I will look to-morrow for one like thee in the
same place.”

“And what hast thou, a porter, to do with a page?”
was the reply of the boy. “See to thy master's gate,
sirrah, and keep thy speech for his ear. Give him the
packet, as thou fearest the whip, the moment when he
shall return.”

And the boy turned away as he spoke, leaving Amri
too much astounded to reply. When he was gone, Amri,
after his usual practice, and by an art with which he was
familiar, contrived to unfold the packet and possess himself
of the contents without impairing the silk and seal
which had secured it.

“Ha! Melchior!” he exclaimed, as he looked on the
contents. “Melchior! he is the writer—and that boy—
that page—beard of Samuel!—that boy must be Thyrza!”

With an oath he dashed open the wicket, and rushed
into the open court—but he did so in vain. The page
was gone, and he returned to his station cursing the
dulness which had suffered him to misconceive one so
lovely.

6. VI.

But the tidings which the letter contained were important.
They ran as follows:—

“Adoniakim, my brother, the hunters are upon my
path. They have pursued me to destroy, even from
the country of Algeziras; and they bear the commands
of the tyrant to take no slumber to their eyelids, and no
rest to their feet, until they have secured the worthless
but persecuted Melchior. This, from a true friend, compels
me to fly the dwelling which had received me, and
to seek for another yet more secure. I am now with
Namur of the Porch, where thou wilt find me at evening.”

There were other matters in this epistle which Amri
could not so well comprehend. That which he understood
was sufficient, however, for his purpose. While
he read, he conceived a plan in his mind which he was
impatient to execute; and he scarcely waited for the
porter, Jared, to resume his place, so anxious was he to
prosecute his new purpose.

“Thou hast seen him in the way he went, Jared?”
was his question to the spy. The latter told him of the
route taken by his father.

“It is well—here is gold—thou hast served me ably,
and thou shalt have yet more. Take thy cloak now,
and resume thy place, Jared, for Adoniakim will soon
be here.”

It was not his purpose to await the coming of his father.

“He would not tell me of Melchior—of his place of
dwelling. I care not now. He shall find that I needed
not his aid to bring me to a sight of the maiden:—and
Melchior, too—wherefore should I care for him, whose
thought and word of me are so unfriendly? He shall
see.”

Thus speaking, he hurried from the dwelling, while
yet Adoniakim was absent. He proceeded at once to
the dwelling of Edacer.

“Why art thou here?” demanded the fierce and brutal
Goth. “Why comest thou to me at this hour, Jew?
Dost thou not apprehend blows for thy intrusion?”

“Pardon me, my good lord, but I came upon thy service.
Wouldst thou not have moneys?”

“Dost thou ask, Amri?—look at the purse which but
last night I got from thy hands.”

It lay almost exhausted upon the table.

“There is more in thy hands already, if thou wilt
avail thyself of it,” said Amri to the now complaisant
Goth.

“Speak.”

“Thou hast heard of Melchior of the Desert?”

“Have I not? The traitor!—he who gave Auria
into the hands of the Saracen infidel.”

“The same.”

“What of him?” demanded the Goth.

“Thou knowest that a great price is put upon his
head by Don Roderick?”

“Ay, I know it. But what does this concern me?
Speak out—I am impatient.”

“Melchior is in Cordova.”

“Sayest thou!” exclaimed Edacer, starting to his feet
from the couch on which he had been lying. “Where?”

“Thou shalt know after thou hast prepared thyself.
Thou shalt get the soldiers in readiness for him, and at
midnight thou shalt lead them to a place which I shall
name to thee hereafter.”

“Do this, Amri, and thou shalt have good share of the
reward.”

“What share?” asked the Hebrew, with something
like a sneer of scorn upon his lips. The noble saw not
the expression as he replied—

“A goodly share, he satisfied. Come to me at evening,
and direct our way.”

“I may not guide thee,” said the Jew, abruptly. “I
will tell thee of thy route, but I may not guide thee to
the spot. Melchior is a Jew like myself—he is one of
the tribe of my father.”

The noble laughed loudly and scornfully at the distinction
which Amri made.

“Be it so,” said he. “Let thy words teach us the
way, we shall not ask thy finger to point it out. Thou
wilt be here at evening with thy tidings?”

“I will,” was the reply, and the traitorous youth departed
on the prosecution of his own schemes. At
evening, punctual to his appointment, he came to Edacer.
The Goth had made his preparations, and his
dwelling contained the soldiers who were to arrest the
outlaw.

“At midnight, seek the Porch of Namur,” said the
Jew. “The wicket on the right hand of the court leads
to an ancient dwelling of stone. Behind that is another
of greater size, and around it many, but none so large.
A tower leans, as if about to fall, on one side of the
greater dwelling. In that tower will Melchior be
found.”

“If thou liest, Amri—if thou leadest us falsely,” said
Edacer, “thy father's gold shall pay for thy insolence.”

“Be it so,” said the Jew. “It is there that Melchior
has pledged another to be at midnight.”

“And thou wilt not go with us, Amri?” demanded the
Goth.

“He is of my father's tribe,” said Amri, as he left
the apartment.

7. VII.

The design of Amri was a deep one. He desired,
in the first place, to obtain access to the presence of
Melchior and of his daughter. This, at present, seemed
impossible. His father had kept him from the knowledge
of Melchior's visit, and exhibited no sort of disposition
to extend his confidence. In no way could he
have shown the possession of the secret, unless by an
exposure of the dishonourable means which he had taken
to procure it. He adopted means yet more dishonourable
to effect his purpose. Having prepared the enemies
of Melchior, it was now his purpose to defeat
their aim. Such a service must commend him, as he
thought, to the person he had betrayed, and procure him
a degree of confidence which he well perceived he was
not likely to obtain otherwise. He cared but little for
the annoyance which such a proceeding must bring to
the aged man,—he thought still less of the degrading
falsehoods and dishonourable means through which he
would have to wade to effect his object. These were
no considerations to one so base of heart as Amri.

An hour before the time at which the proposed visit
of the officers was to be made in search of the outlaw,
at the Porch of Namur, Amri hurried to the spot. He
pressed his way, by a cunning story and the utterance
of his own name, through the persons appointed to admit
the visiters, and, to the surprise of Adoniakim, his father,
who was present, not less than of all the rest, he stood
suddenly before them.

“What brings you here, my son?” cried Adoniakim,
with alarm, seeing the well-feigned apprehensions of the
youth.

“Your safety—your safety, my father. Melchior,

your enemies—the guards of the Goth—they will be
soon upon thee.”

“How!—speak, my son,” cried Adoniakim, in terror;
but Melchior said nothing, and looked calmly upon
the youth.

“The officer of Don Roderick, with many soldiers,
even now bend their way in search of Melchior.”

“How knowest thou this, Amri?” asked Melchior;
“how didst thou thyself learn so readily to seek me out
in my dwelling?”

“Ay, tell me, Amri, how didst thou learn the abiding-place
of Melchior?”

“From Edacer, the Goth, my father,” replied the
youth, with unexampled effrontery; “thou knowest, my
father, of the moneys I had in trust for him?”

“I do—I do,—speak nothing of that, my son.”

“I sought him out but a little since, that I might deliver
them into his hands. There were persons with him,
and they bade me wait at the entrance. It was then
that I heard loud talking from within concerning Melchior,
and I strove to hear what they should say of thee.
It was by this means that I came to know of thy dwelling,
for the soldier who spoke pointed it out with great
exactness in the Porch of Namur, and I found that they
awaited but the hour of midnight to approach in search
of thee. When I heard this, my father, I did not scruple
to seek out Melchior in his seclusion, though it was
not my thought to find thee here also, and exposed to
the same danger.”

“Now, bless thee, my son!” cried the delighted
father; “thou hast done rightly and well. Said I not,
Melchior,—said I not, that the heart was right,—that
the warm blood and the giddy head, and not a vicious
spirit, led the boy erring?”

“Amri has done us good service, Adoniakim, and I
give him thanks for the good disposition and the ready
speed which have brought him here to-night; and yet I

would not that he had listened secretly to the language
of the Gothic noble whom he had styled his friend. It
was not the right part for the noble spirit; and while we
acknowledge the good service, Adoniakim, we must
chide the means, even for the good of the youth, by
which he was led to perform it.”

“Now out upon the preacher!” said Amri to himself,
as he heard this rebuke; but he bore it with seeming
humility, for he well perceived the necessity of moving
cautiously in all that he did under the piercing eye of
Melchior.

“We must provide against this danger, Namur.
Thou must prepare the secret passage, while I send one
to preserve the young prince, so that he fall not into the
hands of his enemies.”

This was said by Melchior, in a whisper, to the aged
man called Namur of the Porch—a man of substance
and of great repute among his tribe. He then called to
him Lamech. As the features of the boy, whom he had
seen in his assumed capacity of porter, met his eye, a
strange emotion ran through the veins of Amri. He
scarce could withdraw his glance from the rich, clear
loveliness of her countenance; and the capricious fancy
which prompted him curiously to seek her at the first,
now grew into a strong and passionate desire to possess
her. Melchior led her, still in the garb of a boy, and
still known by the name of Lamech, into an adjoining
closet.

“Thyrza, thou dost not fear to go forth into the city?”

“Father, I fear nothing which thou believest right.”

“Go, then, my child, to the outer lodge at the Porch
of Namur, and watch for the coming of the Prince Pelayo.
Thou wilt know him well, methinks?”

“Well I know him, father.”

“Guide him from this spot, and seek me in the dwelling
of Barzelius. At the eastern gate I myself will be
in waiting to receive you; and thither we shall now

retire. Thou fearest not to trust thyself with the prince?
—he will protect thee if there be need.”

“I fear nothing with him, father. He is a noble,—
he—”

She paused, and her words became confused. The
old man did not observe the interruption, but led her
forth, saying,

“Thou hast thy dagger? Leave it not; it may serve
thee, my child, in some dreadful strait, as once before
it served thy blessed mother, whom yet it could not save.
Heaven keep thee, my child!”

He led her forth from the apartment where the rest
were in waiting, and long after she had gone did the
eyes of Amri bend towards the dark passageway through
which she had departed.

8. VIII.

When she had gone, a secret door in the wall was
thrown open, through which Melchior, Adoniakim, and
Amri passed, leaving Namur, the proprietor of the porch,
to meet the approaching enemy,—a task to which, in
the persecuted condition of the Jews in that time and
country, he had long before been familiar.

Meanwhile the Jewish maiden, with a heart that
trembled with various emotions, but with a step as confident
as if she were really of the sex whose habiliments
she wore, made her way, as she had been directed by
her father, to the lodge which stood at the entrance of
the porch. Here, concealed in a dark recess of the
wall, she took her station, and patiently awaited the
coming of the person she had been sent to guide. An
hour, probably, had elapsed, when her ears distinguished
the sound as of many persons approaching. There was
a hum of voices, the tread of several following feet, and
once she distinguished a rattling noise, as of the heavy

iron head of a lance clashing against the solid wall.
Cautiously, and trembling all the while, she stole forth
to the entrance of the little recess where she had stationed
herself, and her eye discerned, moving down a
dim lane that stretched away into the distance on her
right, a group as of armed men. She saw in the starlight
the glittering of steel; and she plainly saw one
shining helmet, towering brightly in advance of the rest.
At that moment a light but firm footfall, near at hand,
also reached her ears. She turned; and, though the
approaching person was enveloped in a cloak, she could
not doubt that it was him she sought. The erect and
elevated form, the free, unhesitating tread, all spoke for
Pelayo; and, perhaps, there was an instinct in her own
bosom that needed no aid from her senses to speak for
his presence.

He, too, seemed to have discerned the coming enemy;
for once he paused, and his head was turned, as if
inquiringly, in the direction of the intruders. At that
moment she emerged lightly from the recess, and her
slight hand and trembling fingers plucked him by the
skirts of his cloak. He started, and his ready hand
clutched his dagger.

“Lamech,” said the maiden, in a whisper, “Lamech
—I come from Melchior.”

“Ha! where is he?”

She motioned him to follow her, and led the way into
the recess from which she had just emerged. He followed
her promptly, and a few words told him all, and
accounted for her presence.

“These are the soldiers now, sir—my lord. We
must keep in silence here till they have passed.”

“Get thy dagger ready in the meanwhile, Lamech,
for they may think it well to look into this alley. How
now—wherefore dost thou tremble? Thy fears will not
make them blind, nor better thy own strength. Pluck up
thy spirits, and fear nothing.”

Well might she tremble. She stood beside the Prince
Pelayo, and his hand rested upon her shoulder while he
spoke. The voices of the soldiers were now distinctly
heard, and it could be distinguished by the two that they
spoke of Melchior and of the promised reward. Lamech
trembled like a leaf in the October winds, as he
heard their fell threatenings. Pelayo felt distinctly the
beatings of that fluttering heart, and, in a whisper, endeavoured
to reassure it.

“Thy father is safe now, Lamech, and we are safe,
I doubt not, since, in their great thirst to pursue him, they
will not pause to search out other places of which they
have no suspicion. Why dost thou withdraw from me,
boy, and bend forward as if thou wouldst go forth? Move
not; thy weight is nothing against my arm. I could bear
thee like a child in flight.”

A voice was heard at the entrance of the alley.

“Here is a dark hole—dark enough to hide a dozen
outlaws. Shall we not look in here?”

Pelayo thrust the trembling boy, as he heard these
words, behind him, dropped his cumbrous cloak from his
shoulders, and stood in the centre of the alley, prepared
for the intruders. But the words of the fierce Edacer in
reply rendered his preparations unnecessary.

“No—we have no time for this. I know where the
outlaw is. Let us haste, and we shall find him. We
have already wasted too much time with that drunken
Astigia. On!”

Their heavy tread was heard passing before the entrance,
and Pelayo resumed his cloak.

“Come, boy—come, Lamech,” he said, in gentle
tones to the maiden. “Thou hast nothing to fear now,
and canst lead me to the place thy father appointed.
Thou art but a frail ally, Lamech, and wouldst not stand
well the assault of thine enemy. Thy people have too
long been wanting to the strife, and may not lift sword
with cool hand and reckless spirit.”

“Yet Judah was a lion once, my lord,” was the response
of the person addressed.

“Thou art not Judah, then, Lamech. The dove's
spirit is thine rather than the lion's. But lead on, Lamech—lead
on, and fear nothing. Thy hand yet trembles
under mine.”

This was true, and as strange, in the thought of the
maiden, as it was true. Why should her hand always
tremble when it met that of Pelayo? Why should her
heart tremble when she heard him speak? Why should
she fear him? Did she fear him, and wherefore her
emotions? Vainly did she ask herself these questions.
Her thoughts could not give her back an answer, and
her heart dared not!

9. IX.

Edacer found no victim. The bird had flown. Old
Namur received the intruders with as little emotion as if
the visit had been expected, and the disappointed Goth
led his myrmidons away, swearing vengeance upon Amri,
whom he supposed to have deceived him. Meanwhile
the fugitives sought another place of retreat in the Hebrew
suburb—a region at no time deficient in secret
passages and haunts. At the gate of the dwelling Melchior
received his daughter and the prince. The latter
he conducted into an apartment removed from the rest.
He had his purpose in this. He was unwilling that
Amri should know that Prince Pelayo was committed
with them, and in the city. With a something of divine
prescience, he suspected the honesty of the son of Adoniakim,
and prudently resolved to keep from his knowledge
as much as he could of the designs and progress of the
conspirators. In this determination he had a stout opponent
in the person of Adoniakim, to whom Amri had
greatly recommended himself by what he had unfolded

of his doings of the night. Fond and confiding, the aged
man was easily assured of his son's discretion and patriotism.
Of his integrity he never seemed to have had
a doubt. It was after a warm struggle, therefore, that
Melchior succeeded in impressing on him the necessity
of confiding nothing to the youth.

“We must have more proof of his discretion. When
he has given up these profligate associates and these
idle habits, we shall confide to him all; but now—not
yet, Adoniakim. There is too much at risk, and we
must not forget that the lives and fortunes of others—of
the young Prince Pelayo, and of the brave men who are
pledged with him, are at stake. We have not the right
to unfold our knowledge of these to the youth, however
much we esteem him, and however able he may be to
maintain the trust.”

Accustomed to yield to Melchior, Adoniakim at length
forbore to press the matter; and, returning to the chamber
in which, during this brief conference, they had left
Amri, the task devolved upon the old man of sending his
son away. The duty was a hard one, fond as the father
was, and esteeming the youth worthy, as he did, to partake
of their great enterprise.

“Go now, my son—go back to the dwelling, and
leave it not again, I pray thee, till my return.”

“What! leave thee here, my father, and wherefore?
Why shouldst thou grope thy way home again through
the gloomy streets at so late an hour, when thou hast a
son able, like myself, to succour and attend thee?”

“Nay, Amri, I shall not leave the dwelling of Melchior
in the dark hours. It will be bright noonday when
I return, and then there can be no danger. I have much
of grave business to consult upon here with Melchior,
and I need not, though much I should love, thy tendance.
Thou must go.”

“I see it, I see it, my father,” said Amri, impatiently,
for he longed once more to behold the maiden, whom he

now knew as such, in the guise of the page, and was reluctant,
therefore, to depart.

“I see that I am not trusted by Melchior or by thee.
Thou thinkest me a rash and thoughtless boy—mayhap
—and the smile of Abraham be on me, for it is sad to
think so—mayhap, a vicious one, and that thou mayst
not confide to me thy secrets. But I know them—I
know them without thy words. Thinkest thou I am
blind, not to see that thou art toiling for Israel—that
thou aimest for his freedom from the bondage of the
Goth?”

“Oh, my son — Amri — where gottest thou this
knowledge?” exclaimed the astounded father. But the
son did not answer the inquiry, though he continued to
speak.

“I know thy purpose, and I know thou dost not desire
to trust me. I, thy son—I, the son of Israel, and
bound to thy people, and loving them no less than thou
and Melchior.”

Melchior, to whose ears the last words had come as
he was entering the apartment, now spoke in a rebuke
which silenced the voluble declamation of the presuming
youth.

“Thou dost prove thyself deserving of thy father's
confidence when thou dost refuse to obey his commands.
Go to, Amri,—thou hast yet much to learn.
If, as thou sayest, thou knowest thy father's purpose,
and the labour that is between us, thou wilt prove to us
the strength of thy faith and wisdom by putting a seal
on thy lips henceforward, heavy like that of Solomon.
When we behold thee having sealed lips, we shall know
thee to be prudent, and esteem thee to be wise: we shall
then come to thee for counsel. Go now, seek thy father's
dwelling, and maintain its quiet, as a good son, while he
remains abroad. Adoniakim is now waited for, and, if
thou goest not, thy stay will be but tedious, for thou
wilt linger here alone.”

“Let the page Lamech but keep with me, and I care
not for the night: I will remain in waiting for my father,”
was the suggestion of the youth.

“The boy has gone to his repose,” was the quiet
answer of Melchior; but his eye searched narrowly the
features of the rash youth who stood before him. The
thought of Melchior was troubled. Was the daughter of
his heart known through her disguise to Amri? He
knew not, for the countenance of Amri stood the close
scrutiny of his glance, and betrayed none of the secret
thoughts labouring then in the mind of the profligate.
In a moment after, hopeless to gain his object, Amri
departed from the dwelling.

10. X.

The three, Melchior, Pelayo, and Adoniakim, met
in secret conference.

“Thy brother—the young Prince Egiza,” said Melchior
to Pelayo,—“thou shouldst have brought him;
thou didst promise it.”

“I did,” was the reply of Pelayo; and his brow was
gloomy as he spoke, and the words came sternly through
his clinched teeth: “I did promise thee his presence,
Melchior, yet have brought him not. Speak not of him
now, I pray thee.”

“He does not shrink from us?—he doth not refuse?”

“He doth not, but he loiters: he hath been a laggard—too
much a laggard, in this matter, Melchior; it
chafes me when I speak it.”

“Wherefore this,—doth he avoid connexion with the
Hebrew?”

“No!”

“Perhaps he will not hold himself bound to the
pledge which thou hast made—”

“He shall!” was the stern response of Pelayo, interrupting

the speech of Melchior,—“he shall! It is not
this that keeps him from our councils: it is his weakness,
an evil weakness. Thou shalt know all hereafter:
to other business now.”

“'Tis well,—even as thou sayest, Pelayo.”

Pelayo then spoke:—

“I have done much since the last night, and my
captains meet with me to-morrow, at this hour, in the
Cave of Wamba. Thou shouldst be there.”

“I will.”

“Who wilt thou bring else?” demanded Pelayo.

“But two: a brave youth of Merida—a strong and
fearless spirit, who will lead a chosen band of Israelites
to the battle, and with a heart brave as any in thy
service.”

“A Hebrew, he?” inquired Pelayo.

“Of my own tribe. I know him well, my prince.
Do not misdoubt the Hebrew valour always. He will
fight nobly.”

“Thou shouldst know, Melchior. Thy valour, like
thy judgment, is approved. I know it. What other
comes with thee?”

“But this old man, Adoniakim—a father of the Hebrew.
His word is a power among our people which
shall move them like a tempest.”

“What name does the youth bear of whose valour
thou hast spoken?”

“Abimelech.”

“Forget not that he comes. My soul rejoices in the
brave spirit; and, let him but approve himself, Pelayo
will not know he is a Hebrew. I will leave thee now,
since, before morning, I must seek the Lord Oppas.”

“What of the weapons of war, Prince Pelayo?”

“Convey them as thou canst, in secrecy, to the Cave
of Wamba: then shall we distribute them to the chiefs
who meet with us. But be not rash,—move them not
all at once, but in small number.”

Much more was said, between the parties, needful to
the preparations and purposes of the conspiracy, before
Pelayo left the conference. When he did so, he found
the boy Lamech, who preceded him to them entrance,
which he opened for the departure of the prince. The
hand of Pelayo rested gently on the head of the youth,
as he spoke to him thus:

“Thy limbs should be at rest now, on a soft couch,
Lamech,—they are too feeble and too slender to sustain
thee in a watch and labours like to these. Thou wilt
grow weary, and then sickness will come to thee; for
even mine, which are stronger and older, might not bear
with such toils, but that a sleepless feeling within my
heart sustains and impels them thus.”

Pelayo little knew how strong was the feeling in that
boy's heart also, which sustained and strengthened his
otherwise feeble limbs.

“Go now to thy rest, Lamech; and, though a Jew,
I will not chide if thou namest Pelayo in thy prayers to
the Hebrew God whom thou servest. The prayers
must be of avail from a young and faithful heart such as
thine.”

He pressed the hand of the maiden-page as he bade
her good-night, and the touch went like so much spiritfire
into the veins, even to the very core, of her young
and devoted heart. She watched from the door along
the path upon which he had gone, and her eye seemed
endued with a strength beyond humanity to see him, far,
far away in the dim street, though but few stars shone
out from the heavens. She turned away and closed the
door when she could no longer behold him; and then,
for the first time, did her limbs feel weary for sleep.

11. XI.

“Wherefore hast thou lingered from thy couch so
long, Thyrza, my beloved? Why hast thou not gone to
thy slumbers?”

“Thou didst not bid me, my father; but I will go
now. Thy blessing, father.”

And she sank upon her knee before him as she spoke;
and fervently and fondly, though in silence, did the aged
Hebrew invoke God's blessing on his child.

“And thine, Adoniakim,” said the maiden.

“May the God of Israel be thy God, Thyrza,—may
his good angels watch thee, beloved one!” was the kind
prayer of Adoniakim, and the maid retired with no other
word from the presence. Her absence gave an opportunity,
as her appearance had furnished an occasion, to
Adoniakim, which the good old man earnestly desired.

“Melchior,” said he, “thou hast a blessed and a
blessing creature in that child of thine.”

The eyes of Melchior were full of tears, and he replied
in no other language.

“Thou mayst well love her, for she is worthy of all
love in herself; and to thee, Melchior, she must bring
ever back the memory of a time when life was a thing
of love, and all its creatures, and all its objects and desires,
were sought for and beloved. How like is she,
even in my eye, to her gracious mother.”

“Speak not of this, Adoniakim. I would not, my
brother, that the weakness of my heart should be beheld,
even by thee.”

“It is the strength, and not the weakness of the heart,
Melchior, which I behold in these tears of thine eyes.
Weep on, my brother, for the tears that flow from affection
are sweet, even though they fall only upon its grave.
They hallow love, they embalm memory, they consecrate

mortal things, and make them eternal as thought, and
lovely as the first look of innocence. They are blessed,
my brother, and sweetly do they bless the heart from
whose deep and silent fountains they flow.”

“Truly hast thou spoken, Adoniakim. The tears of
mine eyes are grateful to my heart. Yet I would not
that men should see me weep; for it is the wont always
with men to scorn the suffering which they do not feel.”

“I have spoken to thee of Thyrza, my brother, as of
one dear to thee from old memories, and not less dear to
thee from her own loveliness and worth. She is dear to
me the same, and it has been my thought and prayer,
Melchior, that our own hearts should be more closely
joined together in the pleasant bonds which we might
behold our two children weave around the hearts of one
another. Amri—”

“Say not, Adoniakim. I know thy thought and thy
prayer, but speak not again of this.”

“The youth is erring, but not vicious.”

“I pray thee, Adoniakim, forbear. What is it to us
—we who are toiling for Israel—for our people, and our
people's liberties—to bend ourselves to the fruitless employ
of teaching young hearts to commune in love?
Thy son is dear to thee, and my daughter is dear; but
what to us should be their mortal happiness at a season
of trial and storm like that which is impending? The
bird sings not a love-ditty when the tempest clamours in
the air, but sinks secure into his cover, and waits the
moment of repose.”

“I speak not of the present season, Melchior, when
I speak to thee of these hopes upon which my heart has
been set. There will come a time when the storm is
ended—when the strife is over—when the danger is
gone by;—there will come the time, and then, my brother,
how greatly would it rejoice my spirit to behold thy
Thyrza the beloved wife of Amri.”

“Never—never!” was the energetic response of

Melchior. “Amri the lord of Thyrza—the master of
her fate—the dictator of her movements—the arbiter of
her affections and her hopes? Never—never! Speak
to me no more of this, Adoniakim, for I may not hear
thee with patience. God crush me with a bolt when I
give my child up to a tyranny like that of Amri! She,
the dependant, the humble, the uncomplaining, the gentle—meek
as the night-dews—fond like her blessed
mother—giving all her heart, and devoted to the death
for him she is bound to:—shall I give such as she to
Amri? To Amri, the impatient, the capricious, the
wanton profligate—having his own will and vicious mood
for his master, and owning no authority besides! I tell
thee, Adoniakim, I will not hear thee speak of this.
Thou knowest not my daughter, or thou lovest her not;
and still less dost thou know thy son, however thou lovest
him. I know him better than thou. I see into his heart
—I trace his thoughts—and I tell thee, Adoniakim—in
grief but in truth I tell thee—thy tenderness is blindness,
and thy misused love is a very madness of the heart,
which will one day wither it as with fire. Forgive me,
Adoniakim, that I speak thus of one that is so dear to
thee; but I may not speak else. He honours thee not,
Adoniakim, and his days in the land will be short; and
he will scatter sorrow and evil, like a pernicious and fast-growing
seed, all around him. Let us part now, for we
have both much to do ere the gray light of morning shall
cheer us.”

The language of Melchior fell chillingly upon the
heart of Adoniakim. He had been wont to regard the
Hebrew of the Desert as one wise beyond men, and a
reader of the stars. He bowed his head in acquiescence,
and without a murmur, to the words of his companion,
even as to an oracle; but his eyes were full of tears, and
there was a heavy sadness upon his spirit. They parted
for the night, and the gray dawn streamed through the
casement ere Melchior sought his couch.

12. XII.

The gloomy Cave of Wamba received the conspirators.
A hundred armed and brave knights were present.
Melchior came also, and the valiant Hebrew, Abimelech.
There also came the venerable Adoniakim, who
was too much devoted to the cause of his people to heed
the fatigue of such a journey. The enthusiasm of his
heart gave strength to his limbs, and made them light to
bear the toil, so unusual at such an age as his, which he
now put upon them. When they were all assembled,
there was but one voice in the assembly, and that was
addressed to Pelayo in a tone of thunder.

“Where is the Prince Egiza?—where is thy brother?”

Pelayo looked sternly around upon the assembly in
silence, for a few moments, as if disdaining their inquiry.
Then he spoke—

“My lords and gentlemen,—noble knights and men
of Spain,—if Egiza toils, as he should, in the good cause,
which is thine and his alike, it may be well looked for
that he is sometimes absent and afar. I had thought to
find my brother here with the Lord Oppas. That he is
not, and this business so much his, should prove him
more profitably labouring elsewhere.”

“This was thy speech to us before, Pelayo,” replied
Count Aylor. “We know that thou hast been busy, ay,
without sleeping, prince, and so have others of our band;
yet thou canst come, and they can come, when our
pledges so demand it, fearless to meet with those pledged
along with us, and doubting, as they well may, the
brother who forbears to come. Thy brother must have
wrought nobly, indeed, to excuse him for this slight upon
us.”

“No slight, Count Aylor—no slight, gentlemen, as I

trust and know. The soul of Egiza goes with you,”
responded Pelayo. But his voice, though firm, had in
it a something of self-reproach and sorrow, which did not
escape the senses of the conspirators. Much did he
misgive that his brother had forgotten or been heedless
of his duties.

“How know we that he will bind himself to secure
us in the privileges thou hast promised us, Pelayo?”
was the farther demand.

“He shall speak for himself, my friends. I pledge
myself—I, Pelayo—that Egiza meets with you three
nights hence, and ratifies the bond which I have made
you, or yields you release from all your pledges.”

“How!—think you that he will forego the enterprise
—that he will turn traitor to his people, and leave them
to the tyranny of Roderick? We claim no release from
our pledges, Pelayo—we are resolved to die, all, sooner
than bear the iron sway of this Gothic usurper.”

Thus exclaimed one and all of that fierce assembly.
The spirit of Pelayo glowed with unquenchable delight
as he listened to this language.

“Noble gentlemen, and brave knights of Spain,” he
cried to them, in a voice of pride, “yours is the true
spirit, which is to secure you conquest. Think not,
though Egiza prove recreant, that Pelayo falters in the
enterprise. His soul is in it; and, if Egiza prove false
or feeble, Pelayo is yours,—he will lead you to the
usurper's palace,—he will be the first to strike for your
freedom and his own.”

Loud cheers rang through the vaulted chamber, and
it was long before their clamours suffered him to proceed.
When the applause was over, he thus continued—

“But I hope for better things from Egiza. He is
not, he cannot be, forgetful of his trust. He will lift the
sword—he will lead you on—and, as your crowned
king, will give you the privileges and the liberty which I
have promised, and which your valour so well deserves.

You shall hear this from his lips: you shall see him at
our next assembling; when, God with us, we shall lift
the banner of Spain, and do battle with the usurper.
Living or dead, if Pelayo lives, ye shall behold Egiza
then. I swear it on the blessed sign.”

And fervently, as he spoke, he kissed the cross-handled
weapon at his side.

13. XIII.

Ere the dawn of the ensuing day Pelayo entered the
secret door leading to the chamber of his uncle. The
Lord Oppas was even then awake, and busied with the
toils of the conspiracy. Not limited was the share
which he had assigned himself in the enterprise. He
had his own ambition, and it was reckless beyond belief,
to gratify in these labours. But he was prudent in his
measures; and, so cunningly did he play the part of
the rebel, that his practices were hitherto unsuspected by
the most watchful emissaries of King Roderick. His
thoughts, ere the approach of Pelayo, found their way to
his lips in broken and almost unconscious soliloquy:

“This boldness which Pelayo meditates,” he exclaimed,
“is but sheer folly. He has but to speak
aloud, and show himself with the feeble numbers which
we now command, to be crushed for ever. He must
not be suffered to risk everything of our cause—of my
cause—to his insane valour. And yet, unless we move
Julian, the day of our best hope is distant. He is strong
—stronger than any noble in the realm; and, but for
this strength, had surely never received the favour of
Roderick, confirming in his rule the command of Andalusia.
He can move the natives with a word; and but
little less is the power which he holds among the Gothic
nobles. They notefully regard his word, favour his
course, hearken his direction, nor strive to assail his

power. We must win him to win our way. The crown,
the kingdom, my hope, all rest upon his favour; and to
rise in arms ere we have won him to our purpose were
but to bring down all his power upon us, and defeat, by an
idle rashness, not the present plan alone, but all the rich
hopes of the future. Yet how to move him now? He
hath heard my proffers, and in calm thought rejected
them. The gold which had tempted any Gothic noble
is valueless in the sight of Julian; and for the power
which pleaded with his ambition, he hath all from Roderick
which he could ever hope to gain from us. His
love of the old king moves him not to revenge his murder,
since he holds the election of Roderick to be not
less legal than that of Witiza. What then—what then?
How move him, when these things, which had wrought
madness in other minds, fall fruitlessly upon his?
Through her—through her—his daughter. Through
her alone—there is no other argument. She is the idol
of his soul, and he loves the ground upon which she
treads. His heart is wound up in her charms, and she
restores to him the beauties of her whom he had else
lost for ever. He will dare in her behalf all danger;
and the wrong done to her will arouse him to that unwitting
vengeance and wild treason to which no temptation
may win him now. Through her, then—through
the devoted love which he bears her, I have a power
to move him. He shall be ours; he shall be mine!”

The archbishop paced the room hastily as, with increased
emphasis, he uttered these words and came to
this conclusion. His project, but half conceived in his
mind, in the mean time underwent closer analysis. He
spoke at length, though in a more subdued tone, as if
he had reached a desired result.

“I know this Roderick well. A wild profligate;
passionate and voluptuous; reckless of right or reason
when his blood quickens—he will but need to hear of
the beauties of Cava to madden for their enjoyment.

He shall hear of them; and the choice phrases which
teach him where to look for his pleasure will not fail to
heighten their excellence. He shall become wise in all
her charms, and his daring arm will rest not till he has
them in his power. Let him but gain his purpose, and
we gain ours, and I gain mine. He will rouse the
stern old father to vengeance, and secure for us the
succour which our prayers and promises have alike
failed to compass. It must be so. 'Tis a wild design,
without fair defence, but that it helps to the right, and
thus becomes a virtue. Ha! who comes? Pelayo.”

“The same, good uncle,” was the reply of the youth,
who entered the room at this moment. A red spot was
upon his brow, and the closely compressed lips, and the
quick and fire-darting eye of the speaker, betokened a
degree of anger which had not yet appeared in his language.

“Well, my son,” said the archbishop.

“It is not well, mine uncle,” was the sudden reply.
“It goes not well. Where's Egiza?”

“Nay, I know not. Is he not with you?”

“With me! The red curses seize him,” passionately
exclaimed his brother. “His lukewarmness will
ruin us, as it already dampens the spirits of our men.
A hundred good knights gathered at my summons at
the Cave of Wamba, and he was pledged to meet them.
They were true, but he failed them. They waited long,
and, with reason, grew impatient. 'Twere cause enough
that he should claim their duty while utterly heedless of
his own.”

“They were not angered, I trust, Pelayo,” said the
archbishop.

“Your trust is profligate, my lord bishop,” replied the
youth, quickly; “they were angered, and rightly. I
have soothed them as I could with such lessons as I
got from thee. I prated to them of patience and deliberation,
of reason and caution, and other stuff of the sort.

By my faith, if they think as little of the counsel as does
the counsellor, they would eat up their own swords
through vexation.”

“And where, think you, my son, can be your brother?
Sure—I hope not—no harm has befallen him.”

“Thy hope is late, and, like thy trust, profligate.
Harm hath come to him, mine uncle.”

“What harm, Pelayo?” demanded the archbishop,
with great anxiety.

“He is in fetters—in bondage—in villain bondage,”
replied the other.

“In bondage, son?”

“Ay—a witch hath fettered him. He hath eyes—
amorous eyes—and he loves beauty. He is in a woman's
bondage—worst bondage of all; since the soul
slackens in its purpose and sleeps in the chain, which, if
the bonds were other, the strong limb would rend with a
bound. The tyrant's bonds were but flaxen cords to
such fetters as now wrap the feeble spirit of Egiza. He
can no longer serve us with resolution; he hath no
energy to serve or save himself. His truth is forfeit;
his pledged faith denied; his duty to his country left
undone; and all for a silly, simpering, painted plaything,
such as tickle boys with amorous fancies to their ruin.
But, though he be my brother, I shall slay him, even
as a dog, if he fulfil not his pledges.”

“Nay, do nothing rashly, Pelayo,” said the archbishop.
“You are but too ready to strike, and your promptness
is no less an evil than is the lukewarmness of Egiza.
But where do you conceive him, and of what woman do
you speak?”

“Julian's daughter, the Lady Cava. He is in her
web—a long-legged butterfly in a gray spider's house.
Would she feast on him now, the game were at rest.
'Tis she that hath dammed up the proper tides of manhood
in him, and made him what he is—a soulless
murmurer by the silly brook that prattles away the hours

with as little purpose as himself. Well I saw, what
time we sought her father's castle for his succour, that
Egiza grew her slave. I warned him then, and dreaded
this same chance.”

“What would you do, Pelayo?”

“What I have sworn, good uncle. I am pledged to
bring him to our council; living or dead, Lord Oppas, I
have sworn to bring him—and I will do it. Living or
dead, Egiza shall meet our friends at the Cave of Wamba,
as he has promised them, and as I have sworn.”

“When seek you him?”

“To-morrow.”

“Should you find him at the castle of Julian?”

“Well?”

“What will you do?”

“What should I do, good uncle, but make all effort
for his liberty? Try to break his bonds, and lead him
out from his captivity. Entreat him by his honour, by
our father's memory, by his country's sufferings, to return
to his duties—to the pledges sworn to his people—
the ghosts of Witiza and his murdered followers being
by the while.”

“What if he refuse you? Should the witcheries of
Cava still more effectually persuade him? What then?”

“What then should I do but stab him to death, and
vindicate our name, and the oath which I have taken
before our men?” responded the fierce warrior, whose
height, already majestic, seemed to rise still higher, and
to expand in majesty, with the angry answer of his lips.

“That were too rash, too bloody a deed, my son,”
rejoined the archbishop. “It were unholy, and most horrible,
that in any cause thy hand should spill the blood
of thy brother. Wouldst thou have the curse of Cain
upon thee, Pelayo?”

“I slay him at no altar,” replied the youth. “It is to
that I would bring him. It is because of his desertion
from the altar of his God and his country that I would slay
him.”

“'Twere not well—not wise, Pelayo,” replied the
archbishop, “to do this rash and cruel act. Hear me,
my son; I have a better plan of counsel, which shall
break this bondage; nor break the bondage of Egiza
alone. It will break our bonds also, if it succeeds; it
will help us to our battle with the usurper.”

“Thou'lt pleasure me to speak it, uncle,” was the
more temperate reply of Pelayo. “I would not wrong
a lock of Egiza's hair if he would do his duty, and confirm
me in the pledges I have made in his behalf.”

“He will do this, be sure,” was the promise of Oppas.
“We shall help him to break these bonds, escape from
this bondage of which thou hast such dread, my son,
and, by the same art with which we achieve his rescue,
compel Julian himself to choose his side with ours.”

“I grow impatient, uncle,” said Pelayo, as the archbishop
appeared to pause.

“You're full grown, Pelayo, and if we measure your
manhood by your impatience, my son, 'tis long, very
long, since you have been a child. But hear me out.
I have a little scheme.”

“Another?”

“Yes, another. But hear me. The father of this
maiden, whom you now regard as your brother's mistress
or his fate, loves her to so earnest a degree, that she
stands in his thought as one worthy of heaven's own
worship. He doth little less than worship her himself
on earth. He hath kept her from the court, as he feared
its license—”

“He did wisely,” said Pelayo, interrupting the speaker,
who continued thus, after a moment's pause.

“And in his own castle retreats he hath provided her
with attendance and delights which amply supply the
loss of such pleasures as the court might bring, without
its infirmities. In this devotion of the father to his
daughter, my scheme hath its birth. Upon his exceeding
fondness I build all my hope, as well of Egiza's

rescue as of the succour to our cause which the arms
of Count Julian can ably give us.”

“I am dull, good uncle.”

“Thou wilt grow wiser ere I am done. Well, then
—thou hast seen her beauty—she is beautiful, thou
knowst.”

“Ay, she hath glances that warm, and she walks daintily.
Wouldst have me chronicle and number them in
order?”

“No—enough of that. She is beautiful; but, as her
beauty doth not work upon either thee or me, it needs
not that we speak farther of it here. But should this
beauty be unveiled to Roderick—thou knowst his lustful
nature—dwelt on in free and speaking words until
his fancy becomes fired with desire for its enjoyment,
then shall he madden, and his heart grow wanton like
thy brother's.”

“Well?”

“With a bolder spirit than Egiza will he then labour
for her possession.”

“What of this?” responded Pelayo, coldly. “How
will it help our cause, or rid Egiza of his bonds, even
should the lustful tyrant aim, as thou sayst, and as I
doubt not he will, at this foul measure?”

“Hear me. He will pursue her with unholy fires.
He will contrive means to elude the father; and, when
he hath achieved his purpose, the sword of Julian will
be ours for revenge, that hath been heretofore withheld.
The insolence of Roderick will provoke his anger even
to fury, and the personal wrong of the tyrant will prompt
the rebellion which his usurpation provoked not. Julian
will join his ten thousand soldiers to our cause, and—”

“Ay—I see it now,” replied Pelayo. “And you
have taught all this to Roderick?”

Deceived by the calm and subdued manner of Pelayo,
the subtle priest did not scruple to proceed in the development
of his foul project.

“Not yet, my son,” he replied; “but we have time
enough to do it. In a secret missive which I shall contrive
to fall into his hands, or into those of his minion
Edeco, I will arouse him to this knowledge of the damsel.
I will urge him on by a warm portrait of her
charms, and counsel him how best to succeed in their
attainment. This done, I will, with no less diligence,
send tidings of his disaster to her father, and counsel
how best to revenge the wrong of the tyrant to his child.
See'st thou not how this works for us? The appeal
will then be from Julian unto us, and the vengeance
which he seeks upon Roderick will make him a true
soldier to our cause.”

“'Tis a hopeful scheme,” said Pelayo, his eyes resting
with keen gaze upon those of the archbishop; “'tis
a hopeful scheme, my lord; and this poor maiden—this
just budding child, whose bosom hath not yet well
throbbed with its own virgin consciousness, who is just
breathing into life—she thou hast decreed as the victim,
whose sacrifice is to give us the justice and the
victory we seek.”

“'Tis her fate, my son,” was the calm reply of the
archbishop, who was still deceived by the unusually subdued
and quiet manner of the prince. But the next moment,
and the indignant burst of expression which fell
from the lips of the noble-minded Pelayo, soon convinced
the archbishop of his error, and taught him how
greatly he had mistaken the moral sense of his nephew.

“God help thee to a heart, my Lord Oppas. God
help thee, I say, to that which thou seemst to have not
—a heart. Thou art cursed, and wouldst curse others,
with its lack; and I pray Heaven to supply thee soon,
ere the curse grows too heavy for cure, and the doom
beyond all endurance.”

The astounded archbishop could only reply—

“What mean you, my son?”

Without heeding his involuntary inquiry, the prince
proceeded thus in the same strain of indignant apostrophe—

“Thou hadst a mother once—thou shouldst have
had—”

“Dost doubt, Pelayo? Beware that thou sayst
nothing unjustly—she was thy father's mother, my son,
no less than mine.”

“Ay, ay! I hear thee; yet, if thou hadst, my Lord
Oppas, and if she were not dishonest to thy father, and
sinful ere thy birth, her curse is on thee for thy damnable
thought to this poor maiden. She will come to thee at
midnight and will affright thee, not less with her presence
than with the hell which she will promise thee for the foul
practice which thou meditatest against a weak creature
of her sex. Thou toilest madly for such doom, my
Lord Oppas, and I bid thee, churchman as thou art, beware
of it. How should thy cross protect thee in the
perilous moment, when thou hast not suffered its presence
to protect the frail maiden who wears it? How
should thy prayer avail thee before Heaven, when thou
hast taught the monster the hiding-place of his victim,
and counselled him to be deaf to all her prayers? Thy
thought is damnable, my Lord Oppas, and I pray thee
vex not my ears by more speech upon it.”

“Thou art harsh in thine, Pelayo,” said the archbishop,
half stunned by the vehemence of his nephew.
The latter instantly continued:

“I could be, my Lord Oppas, if my feeling, and not
my lips, had language. Words are frigid and feeble to
the indignation in my soul. No—thou shouldst know
—thou, whose duty it is that virtue and not vice should
have spread among mankind—that I am not harsh in
my present speech; not half so harsh as thy cruel
purpose should deserve. Once more, then, I pray that
God may help thee to a heart. Thou needst some
better teaching than thy head affords thee. Nothing of

this scheme of thine shall my hand grapple. Our cause
is too true to suffer me to give it up to shame, and stain
it, through hope of human and temporary aid, by such
polluted purpose. Rather than this, let the crown of
Spain settle for ever upon the head of the usurper; let
Egiza forget his name and his duties; let my father's
ghost—his bloody murder unavenged—go howling to
the furies; and let Pelayo live on with his present
sleepless discontent of soul—impatient, yet hopeless—
clamouring, yet achieving nothing, to the end. I'll none
of thy scheme, my Lord Oppas.”

The young prince was not to be misunderstood.
There had been no hesitancy in his reply, no doubt, no
pause, leaving it still a hope with the archbishop that he
might be won by plausible argument to the adoption of
the foul plan which the latter had meditated. The direct
mind despises all insinuation, and pierces with a
single glance to the core of its subject. Had Pelayo
suffered argument from the archbishop, he had probably
yielded. It was now left for the latter to do so.

“As you deem wisest, Pelayo. It is for Egiza and
yourself to resolve upon your plans of action. I do but
counsel.”

“Sad counsel, uncle,” was the prompt reply, “and
thou wilt be wise to drive its recollection from thy
thought, as I would fain drive it for ever from mine.
Its very consideration taints, as we do soil ourselves
even when we spurn the vile, and trample upon the
unworthy, object. Let us look to means not less noble
than the end which prompts them. It may be that we
must move secretly. That I love not! I would that
we could move boldly, and challenge daylight and the
eyes of men for our actions; but, if we may not, secresy,
though it may help the work of crime among the pliant
and the weak, is not crime itself. It shall be my care
that it becomes not so in our progress. My purpose
still remains. To-morrow will I seek Egiza, and chide

his misdoings, implore him to his duties, obey him as
truly as a subject should, if he will keep his pledges
and share the perils to which he has brought our friends;
and if he will not—if he denies me, and seeks again to
make me his creature with our men—speaking promises
through my lips, which he has made false in the moment
of their utterance, as he has done already—if he does
this, I say, uncle! but no! he will not—I think he will
not—he dare not—he dare not.”

“But should he, Pelayo?” was the suggestion of the
archbishop, who, knowing the temper of Pelayo, spoke
with no little anxiety.

“I have said!” was the prompt reply. “Then will
I slay him, my lord bishop, though he prayed with a
tongue which proved him at every syllable to be the
firstborn of our father. I will slay him as a dog that
wears a badge he dares not fight for.”

“Be not so rash, Pelayo.”

“'I've sworn it—'tis an oath in Heaven, uncle, and I
will keep it.”

“A rash oath, Pelayo.”

“Rash or reasonable, uncle, I care not. Living or
dead, I tell thee, he goes with me to counsel with our
men, as he pledged them through me, and as I have
pledged them for myself. I leave thee now, uncle—
yet, a word—a prayer—before I go. No more of that
dark scheme, that foul thought touching the silly maiden.
Set not the foul lust of Roderick to spoil her innocence.
Rather let us lose all that we love, and all
that we would live for—my brother's strength, his honour,
his kingdom—than do aught shall make these
things less worthy in our hearts. Spare the poor maiden—God
forgive thee the thought—the thought, no less
foolish than foul, which thou didst breathe to me, I trust,
with little thought. He should howl in fearfullest doom
that toils in such practice; and little good can ever befall
the throne built up upon the ruins of innocence.”

“Whither goest thou now?” demanded Oppas, whose
lips shrank from all speech on the guilty subject of his
thoughts.

“To seek Suintilla,” replied Pelayo, naming one of
the best warriors of his faction. “He, with other nobles,
await me at the Gate of the Tribune. I must
meet them ere the falling of the sun.”

“Dost thou not risk much, Pelayo, by such meeting?”
was the question of the archbishop. “The Gate
of the Tribune is a thoroughfare, and thou art known to
many in Cordova.”

“I risk not more than they whom I am pledged to
meet; I must not shrink to keep my pledges when my
brother proves himself so heedless of his. Whatever be
the risk, I cannot heed it. I must teach them a better
thought in his behalf than they hold of him now. His
late default hath roused them, and justly, unto anger.
When I have appeased them, I will seek him. I will
arouse him to his duties, or thrust him out of the way,
which he does but choke.”

“It must be as thou sayst, my son, and yet, let me
pray thee to be patient.”

“Ha! the old strain, uncle—I wonder thou hast kept
from it so long. Thou hast taught me that song of patience
until I have it in memory, if not by heart. I con
it without a consciousness, and think some day to have
it sung. Wouldst thou could teach it to Roderick,
uncle; it would better serve us if he should practice
it.”

Thus, with a playful scorn of the favourite counsel
which it had been the practice of the archbishop to bestow
upon the youths, Pelayo took his departure, leaving
him to meditate upon the interview—a task which
yielded him but little real satisfaction.

“I will teach him a better song, Pelayo, spite of thy
silly scruples,” were the muttered words of the archbishop
after the departure of the youth; “I will not

bind myself to the silence thou wouldst impose, when so
much may be secured for our cause by a breath. I will
speed the letter to Roderick: he shall know wherefore
Julian keeps from the court. He shall hear of the loveliness
of Cava. I will set his lustful soul on fire by the
praises of her beauty, and nothing question of the coil
which is to follow; a happy coil for us, since it must
break the ranks of the usurper, and force Julian into
ours.”

Thus saying, Oppas retired to a secret chamber to
prepare the cruel scheme which his dark policy and vicious
soul had engendered for the destruction of the
innocent and unconscious maiden who had enslaved the
young Prince Egiza. Pelayo, on the contrary, with a
better purpose, though with the same great end in view,
—the overthrow of the usurper Roderick—proceeded to
seek the conspirators, many of whom were chafed at the
seeming indifference manifested by the elder of the two
princes. Throughout the day, and not unsuccessfully,
did he toil with this object. He soothed, entreated,
argued, and reassured, by turns, the doubtful, the suspicious,
and the timid. To one he painted the triumphs
of successful strife, to another the security which would
follow in the elevation of a just monarch to the throne.
Some he stimulated by the love of glory, others by the
thirst for gain. To each he brought an argument of
strength, and, with all his earnestness, spoke for his sincerity
while securing theirs. It was only when the exhaustion
of his frame rendered it scarcely possible for
him to labour longer and to live, that he retired to an
obscure dwelling, which he had chosen for his temporary
abiding-place in the city's suburbs, to snatch from care
and exercise a few brief hours of refreshing slumber.

14. XIV.

Let us now return to Amri, the son of Adoniakim.
We have seen his anxiety to remain in the dwelling of
Melchior, accompanied only by Thyrza, during the conference
of her father with his. As yet, she was only
supposed to be known to him as a boy. But Melchior's
suspicions had been much aroused by the pertinacity
of the youth, and hence, in part, his inflexible opposition
to his wish of remaining. Hurried away from
the place of retreat to which the aged man had retired
under the hot pursuit urged by his enemies, Amri had
sought the dwelling of his father with a mind breathing
nothing but vengeance upon Melchior, yet full of a wild
passion for his daughter. Accustomed to the full indulgence
of his desires, he could ill bear restraint or
opposition; and the necessity of concealing so much
while in Melchior's presence, and of subduing for the
present a temper so irascible and so little subject to
control, aroused him, when alone, to a degree of excitement
and irritation little short of absolute fury. He resolved
upon the possession of Thyrza, and meditated,
if he did not resolve, upon the sacrifice of her father.
The sympathies of kindred alone restrained the activity
of his thoughts and feelings in reference to the latter
subject; but these sympathies grew fewer and weaker in
due proportion to the increase of that lust for the maiden,
which he felt persuaded he could not so readily satisfy
while the father lived. To this matter he gave all
his thoughts, so far as one might do so who was the
creature of changing impulses, and who seldom referred
to a deliberative reason the regulation of a most imperions
will.

Before he came to any conclusion on this matter, he
felt that it was necessary to see the Gothic noble, whose

successless pursuit of the night he felt sure must greatly
annoy and irritate him. It was necessary that he
should seek him out soon and account for his failure.
This was no difficult task to one so habitually cunning,
and so versed in all the arts of deception, as Amri. He
knew the fierce but obtuse nature of the Goth, and as
he had done frequently before, he did not despair of being
able again readily to deceive him. Taking due
care to carry with him a well-filled purse which his
father had previously given him, and which he well
knew would satisfy, for the time, the rapacity of one
even more avaricious and vicious than Edacer, he hurried
away to the dwelling of the latter, preparing, as he
proceeded, the fabrication which was to account for the
failure of his purposes.

15. XV.

The fierce noble gave him but little time to deliberate
after his arrival. His lodgings were in confusion.
The half-drunken soldiers whom he had employed
were yet clamorous around him for their promised
pay, which he could not so easily provide; when the
presence of Amri, if it did not at once relieve him from
this difficulty, furnished him, at least, with a victim upon
whom to vent his indignation.

“Dog of a Jew!” he cried, as the youth appeared
before him; “dog of a Jew, am I thy sport—thy
plaything? Dost thou think to serve me at thy pleasure—to
lead me into the haunts of thy accursed tribe on
a profitless quest for that which it holds not? Speak!
ere I bid the spears of these men search thy bosom for
their prey. They shall have it freely an they find it
there!”

He grappled the throat of the Jew with a grasp of
iron as he spoke these words. But Amri was nothing

dismayed. He well knew where the power lay to manage
his superior.

“My lord—” He began to speak when Edacer interrupted
him.

“Hast thou money? I ask not for thy words yet!
Thy gold—the men must be paid. I have none.”

“I have but little, my lord, and—”

“Give it, and think not long, whatever thou dost; for
it is easier with these spears to search to thy very heart
for thy wealth, than to wait for thy slow hands to pluck
it forth from thy vestments!”

“It is here; thou hast all.”

The Jew gave forth his purse freely, since he well
knew that it was idle to oppose a demand made in a
form so unequivocal. But he had previously abducted
from the purse a goodly portion of the precious pieces,
which he had elsewhere hidden about him. With these
the Goth paid his retainers, whom he at once dismissed
from his presence, but he bade them keep at hand in
the event of other employment. When they had gone
he again addressed Amri in the wonted language of extortion.

“Thou seest! All that I got from thee have I given
among them. Not a piece remains.”

“Truly thou hast paid them freely, my lord, seeing
that they have done thee but little service,” responded
Amri.

“And have I let thee to my company, Jew,—and
held thee fit for my friends, in their moments of mirth
and freedom, to be requited after this fashion. Shalt
thou pay nothing for this privilege?”

“Do I not pay? Have I not paid, even now, my
lord?”

“Hast thou not seen? Have I thy moneys? Thou
hast paid but the base agents of thy own scheme, which
yet has failed us. For that thou shalt answer. Wherefore
is it so? Wherefore hast thou led me into the

vile quarter where thy tribe harbours—amid its sinks
and filthy corners—in an idle search after that which it
holds not? Am I thy thing of sport?—the instrument
from which thy base fingers shall bring forth whatever
sound shall offer to thy mood? Answer me! for I
meditate for thee a shrewd penalty unless thou showest
me wherefore thou hast done this.”

“I told thee truth, my lord.”

“Thou liest!—I sought the Quarter of the Jew—I
sought the dwelling of Namur of the Porch. I searched
it narrowly, both high and low. Melchior was not
there—nor had he been,—else how should he have
escaped?”

“He was there, my lord. He had been. It was
thy own fault and my misfortune that thou foundest him
not. He heard of thy approach.”

“Traitor! By thee—”

The Jew started. The reply of the Goth, uttered at
random, and without a purpose, save that of anger on his
part, had touched truly. But he recovered himself instantly,
and replied—

“No! by the creatures thou didst have with thee.”

“What creatures, Jew?”

“The drunken Lord Astigia!” was the bold reply.
“He it was that defeated thy pursuit. He it was,—
and those with him,—that forced Melchior to escape.
What! shall the hunter clamour aloud to warn the game
he seeks? Shall he who seeks the conspirator, in his
place of watch and hiding, bid the trumpets bray to
make his coming known? Yet such was the clamour
of Astigia, as he came upon the Hebrew Quarter.”

“How knowest thou?—wast thou nigh?” demanded
the Goth.

“Not I. But from one who saw it all I heard it
truly. The Lord Astigia grew drunken, and then furious,
and fought with thee. This was the story brought
me.”

“He did—'tis true,” was the reply.

“He clamoured much, and all the quarter was aroused
to hear his howlings, and the clash of swords in fierce
strife even came to my ears that were distant. But I
thought not that it came from thee. I thought not that
thou wouldst go on a quest so secret and so full of trial
with a besotted train who must defeat thee.”

“Thou art right, Jew; though thy speech does not
beseem thy lips to speak, nor my ears to hear—thou art
right nevertheless. Astigia did as thou sayest, though I
thought not that his clamour had reached the Jewish
Quarter. Indeed, I think not so now. How knowest
it?”

“Thinkest thou a hunted man, like Melchior of the
Desert, will adventure himself among his enemies keeping
no watch? His friends are all about him, and they
heed the public ways. The quick ears that heard the
clamour ere thou reachedst the quarter, had ready feet
that soon bore their intelligence.”

“'Tis like,” said the Goth.

“'Tis certain,” boldly pursued the Hebrew; “'tis
certain. Had he not been so warned thou hadst entrapped
him, even in the dwelling of Namur.”

“We must do it yet. The prize is great. Thou
must search out his hiding-place again, Amri,—we must
share the treasure.”

“Shall I?” responded the Hebrew, assuming an expression
of sullenness as he spoke; “shall I pursue
again—find where the game sleeps, to have the hunter
lose him?”

“It shall not be again, Amri,” replied the Goth, in
gentler language.

The Hebrew continued in the same strain.

“Then, if it fail through the mischance of others,
shall I have the lifted spear to my breast, and a fierce
threat, and a foul oath of scorn in my ears, until I give
money? Such is the share of Amri.”

“It shall not hap again,” said the other, soothingly;
for without the aid of the Hebrew he felt that he could
do nothing. “Thou hast had wrong, Amri,—thou shalt
have justice. Seek out the man again—find where he
lies, then come to me. The reward will then be ours,
and then thou shalt have a goodly part of it.”

The Hebrew promised, and was about to go, but
Edacer detained him.

“Thy purse was but scantily filled. I must have
more. Thou hast it—thou must give it!”

“Thou wilt take all I have,” gloomily answered the
youth.

“What! dost thou murmur? Have I not made thee
free with the Lady Urraca?—does she not love thee,
and let thee to her affections?”

“For money! She hath an affection for gold, my
lord, like all thy nobles.”

“Well—what of that? Thou hast her.”

“'Tis true,” said the Hebrew, giving up his money,
even to the last piece, to the unglutted noble.

“'Tis true,” he muttered to himself on leaving him,
“I have Urraca—a Gothic dame, not too noble to sell
herself to the Jew she despises for the gold he brings.
I have her—but I hate her. I have been her slave—I
will be so no longer. The loveliness of Thyrza has
freed me from that bondage. I loathe the very thought
of Urraca when I think of the loveliness of the child of
Melchior.”

And he hurried away, as he mused thus, with more
rapidity to the dwelling of his father. His aim was now
once more to gain access to the abode and presence of
the damsel.

16. XVI.

When he reached the dwelling of Adoniakim, he was
told by the porter, who was in his pay, that Melchior was
even at that moment in the private apartment of his father.
The design of his mind was strengthened by this
intelligence. His decision was immediate; and he was
only too ready to put his plan in execution to scruple at
the impropriety or the difficulties which were yet before
him.

“Bring me another garment—a disguise, which shall
conceal me quite,” he said, to a favourite attendant. In
a few moments he had altered his whole appearance.
He then sallied forth without seeking his father or Melchior,
or suffering them to know that he was at hand.
His thought was full only of the image of the lovely
Thyrza. The warm fancy had superseded every thing
in his mind, unless it breathed of her.

“She is in the dwelling of Barzelius. 'Twas thence
my father came at morning. He thought to have deceived
me—the old fool! He little knows how close a
watch I keep on all his movements.”

He hurried on through the deepest haunts of the Hebrew
Quarter, till he came near the dwelling of Barzelius.
He then paused, and arranged his farther progress in his
mind before proceeding upon it. He anticipated some
difficulty in entering the dwelling in which Melchior had
taken up his retreat, but trusted to his own ingenuity to
carry him through successfully. Nor did he rely too
much upon himself. He succeeded, after some effort,
in procuring admission, and his way now lay through
certain intricate chambers of the dwelling; though he
was bewildered, and knew not in what direction to turn
in order to find the apartment of her he sought. While
he paused, the sound of a sweet voice, linking itself

naturally with the rich tones of the harp, came suddenly
upon his senses, sweet, soft, and delicious, as an evening
zephyr floating through the precious gardens of Yemen,
bringing music to their flowers, and taking in return
their tribute of perfume. The strain ravished his senses,
and he lingered on the spot where he first heard it, even
to its conclusion. The words were sweet to his ears,
though the sense seemed singular and foreign—because
he knew not yet of the native hopelessness of the true
love, and he could conceive of no reason why Thyrza
should repine and doubt. The song was evidently
hers—who else, that he knew, could make so sweet a
harmony?

17. XVII.

The air seemed to be charmed at the close of the
song, and the feet of Amri were fastened where he
stood. Was it fancy that made him think that a breathing
sound in the air around him was the renewed respiration
of spirit forms, that had heretofore been listening?
His own breathing was still suppressed. But he heard
a movement below, and he went forward. The song
had guided him in the direction he should take. He
reached a little gallery that overlooked a small but richly-decorated
apartment. He gazed wistfully down upon
it. Thyrza knelt—her arm clasping the harp, while her
head was bent down, and resting upon the golden image
which crowned the instrument. One hand hung at her
side, while her long black hair, which had become unfastened,
now fell loosely, and mingled in lovely contrast
with the bright strings, which it equalled in length. She
looked up as she heard him, and he saw that the dark
eyes of the maiden glistened with their tears. But the
sentiment of her face was so holy—so subdued—so like
that of one crowned with the joys and filled with the
spirit of heaven, that the intruder was awed while he
surveyed her. She knew him not in his disguise, and
for the first time, for many years, he beheld her in her
woman vestments.

“Who art thou?—what wouldst thou?” she demanded
hurriedly, as she beheld him.

“What! thou knowest me not, Thyrza?” he exclaimed,
forgetting his disguise.

“How should I know thee?” she replied. “Tell me
thy name, stranger, for I remember not to have seen
thee before.”

He leaped boldly down into the chamber, and threw
aside the garment which disguised him.

“Amri!” she exclaimed, with astonishment, as she
looked upon him.

“The same, sweet Thyrza—the same. Amri, the
son of Adoniakim—thy father's friend, and thine.”

“Does my father know of thy coming here, Amri?”
she demanded.

“He does not,” was the answer.

“And wherefore hast thou come?” she asked.

“Wherefore not?” he replied. “I came to see thee
—to hear thee—to look upon thy loveliness—to know
thee well—and, if thou wilt, sweetest Thyrza, to love
thee.”

“Leave me, Amri,” was the calm response of the
maiden. “Leave me! Thou hast done wrong in
coming hither without the presence or the permission of
Melchior. I fear me that he will chide.”

“The fault is mine, dear Thyrza—he cannot complain
of thee.”

“I should be guilty of thy fault too, Amri, if I did
not urge thee to depart,” replied the maiden, with some
show of annoyance in her manner, but still with a degree
of calmness and decision which altogether surprised
the intruder.

“Nay,” he replied, “I have but seen thee, beautiful
Thyrza—I would know thee—I would have thee know
me.”

“I do know thee, Amri,” was the quiet answer—and
she seemed unconscious of the sarcasm of her speech,
though Amri was not.

“Thou dost not—thou canst not know me, Thyrza.
Thou hast heard of me from those only who know me
not, or speak falsely of their knowledge. Thou shalt
know me better. I would have thee know me, Thyrza,
as I know thee.”

She looked at him with inquiring eyes, but spoke nothing.
He continued—

“I know thee to love thee, Thyrza—I would have

thee know me until thou hast learned to love me in return.”

“Love thee!” she exclaimed, sadly, and her eyes,
still tearful, looked upward, as if seeking the glance of
that one single star, for worship, of which her song had
spoken.

“Yes, love me, Thyrza—canst thou not, dearest
Thyrza? Believe me when I tell thee that I love thee
much.”

“Speak not thus, Amri, I pray thee. Leave me now.
My father will chide that thou art here.”

“Wilt thou not answer me, Thyrza? Speak to my
prayer. I came to thee for this. Thou hast won my
heart till it hath no self-mastery, and it comes to thee
in devotion, and it seeks for thee in hope. Tell me,
then, dearest Thyrza, that thou holdest me not in
scorn.”

“I do not hold thee in scorn, Amri,” said the maiden,
meekly.

“Tell me, then, that thou wilt love me—that thou wilt
strive to love me;—that I may hope for thy heart in
season.”

“I cannot—I dare not, Amri. I should speak falsely
to thee if I did so.”

“Now, out upon thy cruelty,” exclaimed the passionate
youth; “thou hast but seen me, yet thou tellest me
thou canst not love.”

“Be not angry with me, Amri,” said the maiden,
gently; “be not angry with me, I pray thee, that I tell
thee so. But it is truth—I cannot give thee such hope
as thou desirest.”

“Thou lovest another,” he furiously spoke.

She did not reply; but her lip quivered, and the tear
rose, like a brilliant jewel, upon her long lashes. He
repeated the words. She raised her head and looked
steadfastly upon him ere she replied. When she did so,
he remarked that the tones of her voice were no longer

tremulous, and he thought that they were now rather
stern than sad.

“Wilt thou not leave me, Amri, when I pray thee?”

“And why dost thou pray me to leave thee, when
I have but a moment come? Dost thou hate me,
Thyrza?”

“It is not for me to hate; I hate thee not.”

“Thou wilt love me, then?—thou wilt strive to love
me?”

“Leave me, Amri.”

“Not till thou hast promised.”

“Thou dost wrong,—and my father will chide when
he cometh.”

She spoke so gently that her manner deceived the
youth, whose eyes had seldom seen resolution expressed
except when associated with stern words and every show
of violence.

“I will leave thee if thou sayest it; but first, dearest
Thyrza—”

He paused in his speech and approached her. She
retreated a pace.

“Fly me not, lovely Thyrza; but, as a sign that thou
wilt strive to love me,—as a promise which shall give
me to hope, let my lips—”

“Away—touch me not, Amri,” and her eye kindled,
and her hand was uplifted as he advanced.

“But one embrace—one kiss, sweet Thyrza.”

“Leave me, sir, I command you.”

But Amri was not accustomed to be controlled or
commanded when no power stronger than that of a gentle
woman stood in opposition to his will. Blunt in his
own sensibilities, and with appetites that defeated his
finer feelings, he regarded her objections as those only
of form and artifice. He continued to advance, therefore,
and she to retreat, until farther retreat was impossible.
She leaned against the wall of the apartment,
and bade him desist. He heeded her not, and his arms

were stretched forth to embrace her, when her own arm
was uplifted. He started back when he beheld, glittering
in her hand, the poniard which she always wore.

“Go!” she exclaimed; “leave me—thou hast done
wrong, and I will tell my father all of thy intrusion when
he returns. Thou wilt do well not to see him, for he is
quick to strike when there is a wrong purposed to his
child. I would not that he should harm thee, Amri, and
I pray thee to keep from his presence.”

The base soul of the youth cowered before the majestic
person of the maiden. Her eye was fixed upon
him in the unmoved calmness of a conscious and fearless
superiority. She kept her position, and, with the
point of the lifted dagger, she indicated the entrance to
the chamber. Ashamed and shrinking, he obeyed its
direction and left the apartment. The maiden remained
alone. When he had gone she fastened the door carefully,
and restored the poniard to the sheath at her side.
But it was long before her limbs resumed their firmness,
though they trembled not, in the slightest degree, while
Amri stood before her. When Melchior returned, she
communicated to him the particulars of the interview
which she had had with the intruder, though she dwelt
not harshly upon the more unfavourable features of his
behaviour. Melchior heard her with grief and annoyance,
but he approved of her conduct.

“Thou art like thy mother, my child,—thou art
sweet and true. Thou hast done rightly—thou art not
in fault. But this boy—unhappy Adoniakim! what a
curse thou hast made of a blessing sent thee from God.
Much I fear me this boy will work thee the bitterest
sorrow. We must strive, my Thyrza, that we are not
made to partake of it.”

“Shall I bring thee wine, my father?—thy cheek is
pale with thy toils of the morning—”

“A cup, my child, and then get thee to thy harp. I
would forget—I would remember. Give me an old

memory—a lay of the desert—that, in looking back,
I may not see the gloom and the trial which are before
me.”

“The Hymn to the Departed, dear father,—shall I
sing thee that?”

“It is solemn,—it is sweet,—it looks to the past and
to the future,—it may well hide the present from my
sight. Sing, Thyrza, as thou sayest.”

How holy were both hearts when Thyrza had finished
this hymn! How upward-looking their eyes! How
upward-lifted their souls! Though the thought of
Melchior was of war—yet it was a war for the people

and the God of his love; and if, in the heart of Thyrza,
a more earthly flame and feeling had a home, it was
sublimed by a sweet unselfishness, which would not
have been unwilling, if, like the daughter of Jephthah, the
God of her worship or the father of her love had required
it, to offer herself up in sacrifice for the cause, and at
the requisition of either.

18. XVIII.

But Amri was not to be baffled. He had set his
thought upon the possession of Thyrza; and, with that
persevering fixedness of purpose which, in a good pursuit,
would command circumstances and achieve greatness,
he concentrated all the forces of his mind upon the
attainment of an evil object. He saw all the difficulties
before him at a glance, and he felt that his entire
prospect of success must lie in his perpetual watch over
the movements of Melchior. Without a knowledge of
these movements, he could hope for none of the opportunities
which he desired with the daughter. He mused
his plan aloud in his chamber.

“Melchior will change his abode after this. By
night he will be gone. His steps must be regarded
closely. What then? Shall I deliver him yet to Edacer?
Why should I keep terms with him? True, he
is of my tribe, but he regards me not as one of it. He
doubts my faith,—he distrusts my honour,—there need
be no terms between us.”

An agent, whom he had called, now entered the
apartment. Mahlon was a creature in his pay, and
partially in his confidence.

“Mahlon, hast thou prepared thyself as I bade thee?”
was the question of Amri.

“The habit is ready, Amri; and I can now conceal

myself within it so that Adoniakim himself could not
distinguish me, even if I stood before him.”

“It is well. Go then, as I bade thee, and watch the
dwelling of Barzelius in front. Barzai keeps watch
upon the inner court. Watch closely when Melchior
comes forth, and the page—do not fail to note if the
page goes with him;—follow them so that they escape
not an instant from thine eyes, then come to me, to the
dwelling of the Lord Edacer, and report to me the
truth. Away!”

The spy departed, and the youth resumed his musings
aloud.

“I owe him no love—nothing but hate; and, though
of my own tribe, wherefore should I be held by that to
keep from destruction one who hates and distrusts me?
He shall perish! Melchior shall perish for his scorn of
me!”

He paused, and strode his chamber as if in troubled
thought. He spoke again after a slight interval.

“Yet his sacrifice brings me no step nearer to her,
unless by taking from her one protector. That is nothing,
unless, in the same moment which gives him to the
soldiers of Edacer, I can secure her person. I must
think on that. There would be no hope to win her by
persuasion, if she dreamed that I had part in the sacrifice
of her father. I must keep her from that knowledge—from
that thought.”

This latter suggestion, as it exhibited a new form of
difficulty in his progress, produced a farther pause in his
speech, which he gave up to meditation. The result of
his deliberation was soon shown in his uttered musings.
He resolved that Melchior should not yet be given up
to the fierce Edacer. It would be time enough, he
thought, for his sacrifice, which he yet resolved upon,
when he should either have entirely succeeded with
Thyrza, or when he had discovered that success with
her, during her father's life, would be hopeless. His

plans were soon fixed and finished in his mind; and,
towards evening, he proceeded to the lodgings of the
dissolute Edacer.

19. XIX.

Meanwhile, as Amri predicted, Melchior had resolved
on changing his habitation. Such were the toils
and trials, the dangers and necessities, to which the persecuted
have been ever subject.

“We must leave this place,” said the old man to
his daughter, as the declining sunset warned him of
the approaching season of shelter and cover to the
hunted man. “We must now to the last place of retreat
secure to us in this weary city—the house of thy
kinsman Samuel. Thither with the sunset will I go,
while thou shalt seek for me the young Prince Pelayo.”

“Where seek him, father? Thou knowest that he
hast left the—”

“Yes; but thou wilt seek him at the Gate of the
Tribune—thou knowest the place?”

“I do, my father.”

“Bear him this packet, then. Let no one behold
thee give it him. It were dangerous. But watch thy
time to call upon his ear. There will be some who are
to meet him there; let them not see thee look on them.
Pass them by as if thou didst not heed them—as if thou
sawest them not. When they have left the prince, then
make the sign—he will come to thee. Give him the
packet then, and heed well the words that he shall say to
thee. They will have meaning. Forget not aught,
my child, that his lip tells thee.”

“Fear me not, father,—I will heed closely,—I will
forget nothing.”

Well and securely might she give such an assurance.
The smallest accents from Pelayo's lips,—the slightest

movement of his form,—the most passing glance of his
eye,—or the most transient play of expression upon his
noble countenance, once perceptible to her, became from
that moment a strong memory in her mind, and an imbedded
and growing feeling in her soul. The warning
of Melchior for her observance was indeed idle.

20. XX.

Amri proceeded to the dwelling of Edacer according
to previous appointment. It was now almost night, and
Edacer had gone forth from his lodgings. A slave directed
Amri where to find him, having a command from
his master to that effect. Edacer had gone to visit the
Lady Urraca;—a lady of evil repute, and of whom we
have already spoken. Amri was, or rather had been,
attached to her, and even now there was some show of
regard between them. Of this we shall see more. She
was a lady of the Gothic stock: and, though vicious,
such was the degraded character of the Jew, that it had
been a condescension with her to smile upon Amri, and
a favour bestowed by Edacer to procure him her knowledge.
The gold of Adoniakim procured indulgences
for the Jewish youth from the prostitute of a race which
considered him, even while bestowing upon him the utmost
favours of a seeming affection, degraded even below
humanity, and sometimes treated him accordingly.

Amri received the message with some chagrin.

“Now would I not see her!” he muttered to himself;
“I hate her now as once—Psha! she loves me
not,—it is but a stale fetch,—the trick of the trade;—
love, indeed! To think of love with her,—to think I
should once have been so foolish—so blinded—so besotted—as
to fall into her bonds,—and such accursed
bonds. But I must meet her,—I must seem to meet
her joyfully, too, as if I did not hate, and fear her, and
despise.”

He left the dwelling of Edacer, and moved onward to
that of Urraca; but his thoughts were bitter in the extreme
as he proceeded.

“Now will they clamour for the Jew's money,—the
eternal cry! And I must bear abuse and every scorn
meekly, as if I found some pleasure in it. Would I
were free of her. I fear her now. She doth suspect
my coldness. She has doubts. I must seem fond, for
she is passionate. She would not scruple at my blood,
if she but thought that I strayed from her.”

Soliloquizing thus, he entered the dwelling of the Lady
Urraca. A richly-decorated chamber received him, at
the farthest end of which a pile of cushions sustained the
majestic and symmetrical person of this princely dame.
She wore her most imposing look and expression of
loveliness. Her whole figure was one to fix the eye—
splendidly formed, yet exquisitely and nicely elaborated.
Her skin was darker than that of the Gothic damsels
usually, and a bright Moorish teint might almost have
persuaded the spectator to conceive her a daughter of
that nation. Her eye was black, and suited to her complexion,
while her hair, streaming in rich volumes of flowing
silk down her neck and shoulders, was raven-like
and glossy. Her glance was bright and piercing, like
that of a young eagle for the first time challenging the
sun; and, at the first view, none might seem to be more
innocent, as certainly none could have been more beautiful,
than the Lady Urraca. A second look, however,
would better advise the observer. Quick passions, sudden
moods, impetuous emotions, irresistible impulses,
were momently shown to be in her heart, by the changing
colour on her cheeks, by the violent and rapid rush
of blood through her veins, by the flickering and uncertain
expression of her keen and restless eyes. Her
brow, too, was full of action, and therefore of speech.
It had a power of contraction which threw together a
series of muscular folds just between the eyes, whenever

she became excited, which formed a complete cloud
above them, while they darted forth perpetual lightning
from below. This cloud was partially formed upon her
brow as the young Hebrew came into her presence. She
motioned him with her finger, and he approached. Edacer
sat upon a low cushion by her side. To Amri she
assigned one at her feet. When he had seated himself,
without addressing him with any word, the dame turned
to Edacer and thus spoke:

“My lord Edacer, think you that I am less beautiful
to-night than I was last night, or the night before—or
the past nights for a goodly and long year? Speak, I
pray thee,—have I grown ugly in this time?”

“Truly, Urraca, I were a false lord to think so.
Thou hast lost no beauties, but hast rather acquired
many. I see thee not, but to see in thee each day some
newer loveliness—some better sweetness—some dearer
and more exquisite charm.”

“Mine eyes are yet bright, my lips sweet, my person
has lost nothing, dost thou say?”

“Nothing!—to me, if thou hast changed in any wise,
it has been a better change, if it be that one so lovely
as thyself may change to lovelier and yet continue mortal.”

“And there is no other beauty to vie and mate with
mine, newly come into the city?”

“None—none!” was the still flattering answer.

“Then wherefore is it, I ask thee, that Amri seeks
me not of late? He has beheld the change which has
escaped thine eyes, Lord Edacer—he has noted the absence
of some charm which won him once—or else he
hath seen the newly-arrived beauty, which thy glances
have not yet distinguished.” And, as the vain lady
spoke, with a mixed expression of pride and vexation,
she fixed her keen eyes upon the changing features of
Amri. The Hebrew started; he trembled for his secret,
but a second glance at Urraca reassured him. He saw

from the fickle gaze that her charge was vague and conjectural,
and simply spoke for the natural jealousy of the
woman, having no aim but for the devotion of her creatures,
and apprehensive at all times of new and rival influences.
Recovering himself, therefore, from the momentary
confusion which his own consciousness rather than
her charge of falsehood had induced, he replied promptly,
and with as much show of earnestness and passion as
he could well assume under the emergency,

“Thou dost me wrong, Lady Urraca—thou dost thine
own beauty and surpassing excellence no less a wrong,
when thou sayest I have not willed to seek thee of late.
I have suffered that I have seen thee not. Thou canst
not know the pain I have felt when away from thee.”

“And wherefore didst thou keep away? Do I not
know that thou hadst no occasion?”

“Ay, lady, but I had! The Lord Edacer will do me
justice, and tell thee that we had a serious task together,
which kept me from thee.”

Edacer, thus appealed to, leaned over to where Amri
sat, and whispered him,

“Hast thou brought the jewels—the gold?”

Amri whispered him in return,

“Thou wilt find the gold in the silk mantle which is
behind thee.”

“What say ye to each other?” demanded Urraca, impatiently.

“We spoke of that same business, Urraca, which hath
kept Amri from thy presence;” and, while he spoke, the
mercenary Edacer assured himself that the mantle and
gold were behind him.

“Thou answerest for him, then?” she asked.

“I do—I know what cares have kept him from thee.
He hath spoken but the truth, Urraca, and thou must
forgive him.”

“And for my forgiveness, fair Lady Urraca, I pray
thee to wear this;” and, as he spoke, Amri arose, and

drawing from his vest a glittering ornament of precious
gems, making a rich tiara, was about to place it upon
her head, when, suddenly grasping his arm, she tore the
jewels from his hand, and dashed them upon the floor.

“It buys no forgiveness from me, Amri! Thou
knowest me not,—neither thou nor the Lord Edacer.
Leave me, my lord, I pray thee, for a while. I would
be alone with Amri. Leave me with him. I have that
to say which is for his ears only. Go to the other chamber
till I call.”

In silence and astonishment the Gothic noble withdrew,
leaving the no less astounded Hebrew with the
now deeply-excited woman. But he preserved his composure,
and prepared himself, as well as he might, for the
anticipated outbreak.

21. XXI.

Rising quickly from her cushions after the departure
of Edacer, she carefully fastened the door behind him.
She then turned, and slowly approached her companion.
He had risen, meanwhile, from the stool on which he
had first been seated, and now stood in the centre of the
apartment, awaiting her speech. She approached—she
stood before him. Her eye was fixed upon him as if it
would look him through, and the heavy muscular folds
of her brow lay, one upon another, like piled clouds full
of storm and thunder. Her finger was uplifted as she
addressed him in low, half-suppressed tones.

“Thou art false to me, Amri!”

He was about to speak, but she interrupted him.

“Speak not! I know it—thou art false to me—thou
canst not deceive me. I see through thee. I know thy
heart.”

“It is thine, Urraca.”

“Thou liest! I am no longer sought of thee—thou

carest for me no longer—thou art indifferent to me now,
and thy indifference is worse far than thy hate! Thou
hast deceived me—thou, only, hast deceived me. I
have trusted thee only.”

“Thy words have a dread meaning in my ears, Urraca,
and they do me a sad injustice! Tell me by what
thou judgest so unkindly of thine own Amri.”

She looked on him with scornful countenance as she
replied—

“Thou seekest me not now,—thine eye no longer
dwells upon me in fondness—and thou heedest not now
that Edacer should be with me for long hours alone.
Why is this now? Once it was not so. There was a
time when thou wouldst chafe and madden, Amri, to find
another with me in secret.”

“It pains me now, dear Urraca.”

“Dear me not, Amri—for again thou liest! Hear me.
Once, when I did rebuke thee, thou cam'st to me
with fond words and devoted looks—thou wert then all
fondness—all devotion,—thy very heart seemed flowing
like some full stream into my own, and thine eyes—they
took their light, their very life, from mine! For this I
loved thee, Amri. What else? Was't for thy gold,
thy jewels, that I let thee—a Jew—one of a people
whom my own hold accursed—was it for these that I let
thee to my love?—I, the proud, the beautiful, the
sought Urraca—the sought of nobles and of princes!
Did thy gold tempt me to this kindness to thee? No!
'Twas that I thought thou lovedst me—'twas with that
lie in thy mouth thou camest to me,—'twas for thy love,
Amri—not for thy gold and gifts. Gold and gifts I had
from mine own people in profusion—they bought my
smiles with them—not my heart. I gave thee that,—
not for such gifts as theirs, Amri, but for that which
none of them could give me—for thy love!”

“Thou hadst it, sweet Urraca.”

“Hadst it, dost thou say? Hadst it!” Her whole

frame was in convulsion, and she darted towards
him.

“And hast it still, Urraca,” he replied quickly, shrinking
back at her approach.

“That I believe not. Thou canst not now deceive
me. Thou art false—ay, false as hell, Amri!”

“Wherefore thinkest thou so?” he asked. “Who
hath belied me to thee?”

“No one. Thou thyself hast told me. Hear me,”
she continued, impetuously; “when we met first, if
then I chided thee for coldness or neglect, thou didst
persuade me to believe thee then, with fond words—with
constant devotion—with unwearied efforts to behold and
seek me—”

“Do I not now?” he asked.

“No! thou dost not. Break not my speech till I
have said it all. It is soon said. Now, when I chide
thee for thy absence or indifference, thou strivest to bribe
me with a pauper-boon. Thou bringest me gold and
jewels. Need I these? Is not my state most rich?
Have I not wealth and splendour? What are these
chambers?—are they beggarly?—seem they not well
provided? Thou givest me what I lack not—what I
ask not—what I require not from thee. I would have
thy love, which thou deniest me.”

Her whole features seemed now to be convulsed—
her breast heaved with passion—and Amri, who had all
the time preserved his composure, perceived that the moment
of exhaustion was at hand, and that tears must relieve
the excited bosom of the voluptuous woman. He
led her unresistingly once more to the cushions where
she had lain, and seated himself beside her.

“Thou dost wrong me, Urraca—dear Urraca,—I
take from thee no love,—thou hast it all.”

“I should have it, Amri, but I believe not thy words.”
She turned from him and gazed upon the wall—her paroxysm
seemed almost subdued.

“Thou must believe—thou hast my heart.”

“I've let thee to my embraces,” she spoke incoherently;
“thy lip hath pressed my own—thou hast lain
close to this heart, till thou hast known all its beatings—
and I let thee to all this because I thought thou lovedst
me.”

Amri could not forbear a sarcasm, or something that
sounded to her ears like one.

“But others fared as well, Urraca. Edacer—”

“No!” she exclaimed, almost fiercely, and the words
of Amri seemed once more to arouse her fury in all its
strength—“they bought my embraces with gold. But
thou hadst more. I thought I had thy love, and, thinking
so, I swear I gave thee mine. I joyed in thy embrace—theirs
I but suffered. But no more of this. I
feel thou lovest me not. Away!”

The tears now flowed freely from her eyes, and she
sank back upon the cushions exhausted. He leaned over
her, and employed those arts of soothing which he had
previously practised with no little success, but which he
had quite too much neglected of late, not properly to
create in her bosom a doubt of his continued regard.
He bent over her, and—first symptom of returning regard—she
submitted for a moment to his attentions.
But for a moment, however. She started in another instant
from his contact—she thrust him from her with all
her strength, and the sternest expression of her scorn.

“Take thy hands from my neck!” she cried, almost
fiercely. “Thy embrace is like that of the serpent; it
is to deceive and sting.”

“Urraca!”

“Ay, Amri, it is spoken—it is true. Why should
I—a Gothic lady—erring, but desired—sought by the
proudest,—honoured, too, in spite of mine own life of
dishonour,—why should I care for thee?”

“For my love, Urraca.”

“Ay—but for that—for nothing else, I swear. And

wherefore should I value that from thee, but that I was
destitute of all love? The nobles seeking me brought
wealth; but none brought love. My poverty in that,
and not thy worth, made me to seek thy love as something
worthy; and thus I learned to love thee in return.
Why should I else have suffered thee, thou so degraded
in thy sect,—so much the slave even of the vile associates
that thou bringest me here?”

“Art thou now done, Urraca? Wilt thou hear me?”

“Take off thy hands from my neck!” He obeyed
her quietly, as he asked—

“May I speak to thee in answer?”

“Speak on, I hear thee,—but bend not over me.”

“I've loved thee but too well, Urraca. I have forfeited
much for thee:—the friendship of my people,—
the affection of my father,—his esteem. Does the Jew
love gold beyond life?—I've brought thee gold. Had
I aught by which to show thee that I loved thee?—I
brought thee all. Shall it be strange to thee that, when
I beheld others winning thy favour by such gifts, I
should bring thee like gifts to win like favour too?
'Twere strange if I had not done so.”

“Accursed be thy gifts!—thy gold!—thy jewels!
I ask them not. It was not gold from thee that I desired!”

“They were but gifts of my heart. I gave thee
love.”

“Thou sayest it.”

“I mean it. But, when I suffered in the displeasure
of my father,—the outcast from his favour,—could I be
fond, Urraca? Could I come to thee, and look happy,
and be devoted, an exile from the heart and the home
of my sire?”

“Thou didst not tell me that. I knew not this.”

“No, I did not deem it well to vex thee with my sorrows,
and—”

Edacer came to the door at this moment, and demanded

admission. When he entered he called Amri
aside.

“Mahlon awaits thee,—he has tidings for thee,—
something, I deem, of Melchior—though he speaks
not.”

22. XXII.

Amri descended at once to meet the spy.

“Well—hast thou seen aught, Mahlon?” he asked
of the slave.

“They have gone forth, Amri—the old man and the
page.”

“Ha! on what course?”

“The old man to the house of the Father Samuel.”

“And—the boy?”

“Him I followed close, even to the Gate of the Tribune—”

“And there—”

“My comrade Barzai still watches him there. He
saunters by the gate.”

“'Tis well,—thou shalt wait here to guide my steps.
I'll be with thee again immediately.”

He returned to the chamber where sat Edacer and
Urraca.

“I must leave thee,” were his brief words. “Pardon
me, Lady Urraca, that I fly from thee so soon,—but
the Lord Edacer will answer for me that I go on a
most serious business.”

“What business is't, Edacer?” demanded Urraca.

“Is't of Melchior?—hearest thou aught of him?”
was the inquiry which Edacer proposed to Amri, as
they stood apart.

“It is—Mahlon has tracked the page that waits on
him. I must pursue and follow up the track. Bid thy
two followers with me, Lord Edacer. They wear thy

badge,—none will dispute their progress,—and we shall
get the page in custody. The game is then our own.”

“Sayest thou? It shall be so. Go you below and
tutor them a while. I'll speak to Urraca. She shall be
satisfied.”

They turned to the lady, and her glance was fixed
upon the countenance of Amri.

“Must he go? And is it thy business, Edacer?”
she demanded.

“It is, fair lady,—give him thy leave of absence.
The toil is heavy,—'tis for me he toils—but he will
soon return to thee.”

“Amri,” she simply spoke his name. He approached
her. She whispered him,

“I will not take thy jewels. It would seem as if I
sold to thee my love for them. Had I believed thee
true, I would have worn them in pride and pleasure,—
still misdoubting thee, I cannot take them. Give
them elsewhere. I will not chide that thou shouldst
thus requite some other for the love she gives to thee.
My love thou buyest with love—or not at all! Give
them to her!”

“There is no other, dearest Urraca.”

“Well, as thou sayest it. Thou art free to go.
But take the jewels hence.”

23. XXIII.

When Amri had left the apartment, Edacer resumed
his seat beside Urraca; and though he saw that her
feelings were yet excited and her spirit greatly aroused,
he did not scruple to ask an explanation of the scene
which he had partially witnessed.

“What is there in these jewels, Urraca? Is there
some spell of danger that made thee fear them? Why
didst thou refuse them?”

“There was a spell, there was a danger in them,
Edacer. Thou hast said it. But thou hast no fears
such as mine. The spell will not harm thee. Do thou
take them. There—they lie beside thee!”

“What! wilt thou not wear them?” he asked, in
no little astonishment.

“Never! as I live. Take them,—they are thine.”

“What is't with thee and Amri?”

“I'll tell thee some time hence; but answer me,
what is this business of thine upon which he goes? Is
it some coil of state, or some fool affray,—or goes
he but to get moneys for thy pleasures? May I not
hear it?”

“I cannot tell thee yet,—but thou wilt hear it if he
prospers in it. Let it suffice, then, that 'tis something
as thou sayest,—thou almost hittest it.”

“How?—what?—speak on.”

“'Tis business of the state he goes upon.”

“Psha! thou dost mock,—thou mockest either him
or me. He is a Hebrew! what has he to do with
the state, or the state with him, unless to rob him?”

“I mock thee not—'tis strange, but true. On the
state's business goes he.”

“In what form?”

“He aims to trap a secret enemy, and leads two followers
of mine for that object.”

“An enemy—ah!—who—what enemy?”

“A page—he has a secret we would gain—a glorious
secret, Urraca, which promises us a goodly sum
of gold if we can win it. Let him but take the page,
and force him to disgorge, and we are made.”

“Well, it is strange—a page!”

Urraca seemed to muse, and a sudden change passed
visibly over her features as she uttered the exclamation.
They seemed full of strange conjecture and intelligence:

“A page, didst thou say, Edacer?”

The Goth answered her with some little surprise—

“Ay, to be sure,—a page—a boy—a brat—a little,
long-legged, bashful thing—an urchin, sixteen years or
so—not more.”

“Intrusted with a secret of the state! Why, this is
madness, if 't be true,—rank folly!”

“Why?—how, Urraca?”

“There's more in this, Edacer, than thou tellest me.”

“No—as I live—no more—save in the secret, which
now I cannot tell thee.”

“But this page,—it cannot be a page that has this
secret.”

“He said a page,—I know not.”

“And lacks he strength to take a page? Wherefore
thy followers?”

“The boy may struggle—”

“I've been a page myself!” she exclaimed, interrupting
him suddenly, though still without seeming to
address him. “I'll be once more. Hear me, Edacer.”

She beckoned him with her finger.

“It will nothing affect thy secret if I go and see this
page. I'll go as one of thy followers,—wearing thy
badge—”

“But—”

“Nay,—thou canst nothing plead in opposition.
Thou canst trust me not less than they. I'll go as one
of them.”

“But the disguise—”

“Is ready—all. I should not have my freedom, but
that I can wear all shapes that take my choice. I have
a garb will suit me.”

“And thou wilt—”

“Follow in Amri's steps as one of thine. Hear me:
I do suspect him that he pursues another with the love
which he has promised me.”

“And what carest thou, Urraca, for his love? What
is his love to thee?”

“Nothing—if love be only valued by the worth of
him who gives it. Every thing—if she who claims it
is in want of it—if she has none beside.”

“But this is not thy state, Urraca.”

“It is!—it is!” she exclaimed, mournfully, with a
degree of feeling, which, before this, her own sense had
never permitted her to expose to one so callous and
coarse as Edacer.

“But, whether it is or not,” she continued, “is nothing
now. Go—teach thy followers to receive me as
one of them. Get me a spear. Be sudden, and say
nothing.”

Edacer did as she required; and it was not long before
Urraca, habited like a follower of the Gothic lord,
proceeded, with another, after the direction and the lead
of Amri, who was also disguised almost beyond detection.

24. XXIV.

At the Tribune's Gate, according to appointment,
Pelayo, meanwhile, had met with many of the nobles
of his party,—Goths and natives alike. The place
was a thoroughfare; but Pelayo had designated it for
the purposes of meeting, as he well knew that no privacy
was so secret as that of the crowd, and no assemblage
so little liable to suspicion. The plot was ripening
fast. The money of the Hebrew had procured both
arms and men, and every circumstance persuaded Pelayo
the more to a rapid concentration of all his plans
for the approaching moment of revolution. He knew
the danger of a secret intrusted to so many, when the
various parties were not kept frequently together. He
knew the necessity of excitement—the excitement of

continued strife—to keep the mixed multitude as one.
More than this, alarming intelligence had reached him
of the suspicions of Don Roderick, the usurper, with
regard to the conspiracy, and he had just received a
missive from the Archbishop Oppas, advising him that
he had been summoned by Roderick to attend a general
council of the nation at the royal city of Toledo.
Other accounts informed him that Count Julian had
been ordered suddenly to proceed to his command at
Ceuta, in order to oppose an unlooked-for irruption of
the Moors. This movement would necessarily employ
the army of Roderick in a remote quarter, leaving free
room and a fine opportunity for the success of a sudden
and strong blow, struck in the chief cities, by a simultaneous
movement of the conspirators; who, meanwhile,
had been briskly engaged in bringing their followers
together, and, by means of the gold which they had
freely distributed, had secured converts everywhere to
their cause. All the arguments spoke for the propriety
of an early effort, and the conspirators separated, leaving
the Prince Pelayo, who remained in waiting for another
agent of his cause. Nor did he wait long after
their departure. The page of Melchior, true, and vigilant
as true, approached him as soon as they were out
of sight. Pelayo received his packet, and pressed the
boy's hand while he took it.

“Thou art a noble servant to thy father, Lamech,—
thou art a page among a thousand;—would that thou
wert mine, Lamech. Wouldst thou be faithful to me,
as thou art to him?”

“Faithful—faithful to thee, my lord?” was the stammering
response of the messenger.

“Ay, faithful, Lamech. But I know thou wouldst.
Thou wouldst love me as truly as thou lovest thy father,
if thy lips would promise it.”

“Love thee, my lord—”

“Ay, love me, Lamech. I love thee, boy, though

thou art not of my kin, and of another and a hated blood.
Thou hast grown upon my love from thy good service
and thy fidelity, and thy clear, true love for thy father.”

The tears stole into the eyes of the page, but no word
was uttered. Pelayo spoke to him of other topics.

“Tell thy father that thou hast seen me,—that the
Lord Eudon has already brought his men together,—that
the arms have been delivered to Aylor by the Hebrew
warrior Abimelech, who has mustered a goodly troop
along the Pass of Wallia. Say yet more, and forget not
this, Lamech, that we hold to our purpose of assemblage
at the Cave of Wamba. Melchior must be there, to
speak after his own fashion to the Jews who will gather
with us. His words are much to them. Hast thou
heard me, Lamech?”

“I have, my lord.”

“Thou wilt remember all that I have said to thee, so
that Melchior will hear it as from my own lips?”

“He shall hear all, my lord.”

“Then thou must go now, Lamech. The night
grows, and thou hast a long path before thee. But thou
fearest nothing, Lamech?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“Would thou wert son of mine, Lamech, Jew though
thou art. Would thou wert son of mine. But go thy
ways,—give me thy hand—”

The soft fingers trembled in the gentle grasp of the
warrior—

“Go thy ways, and hurry fast to thy dwelling. These
hands are not formed for strife, and would little avail thee
if lifted against an enemy. Good-night, boy.”

She faltered forth a good-night in return, and her heart
died away in a sweet sadness within her rapidly-heaving
bosom, as she turned from him to pursue her homeward
progress.

25. XXV.

“Stand by, and when I speak—” were the words of
Amri to his followers.

“Stay—he comes! Be ready with thy aid when I
shall call thee.”

The three took shelter in the shadow of a jutting
wall, awaiting the approach of the page. Unconscious
of danger, and with thoughts rather too full of the image
of Pelayo to think of herself, Thyrza moved slowly along
beside the wall. On a sudden the arms of Amri were
thrown around her. She shrieked aloud in the extremity
of her terror.

“A woman's voice—I knew it,” was the half-muttered
exclamation of Urraca, as she came forward with her
companion.

“Give me thy cloak!” was the hurried demand of
Amri; “thy handkerchief,—help me to bind his mouth.”

The shrieks of the captive maiden in the meanwhile
rang through the otherwise silent streets. The tread of
a heavy and hurrying footstep was heard approaching
them.

“Hasten!” cried Amri,—“there!”

The maiden struggled, and strove vainly to cry aloud.
Her mouth was now effectually bandaged. But she
struggled still; and Amri, hearing the approaching footsteps,
bade the followers of Edacer stand between them
while he bore off the captive. One of them did so, but
the new-comer thrust aside the presented spear, with
a single stroke from a heavy mace which he bore, with
the ease of a giant. Urraca had prudently darted aside
without offering opposition. Before the foiled spearsman
could recover, Pelayo—for it was he—had approached
the seizer of the maiden, who continued to
struggle desperately in his grasp.

“What ho!” cried Amri; “approach not, whoever
thou art,—we serve the Lord Edacer. Behold his
badge.”

“Be paid for thy service, whomsoever thou callest
thy master,” cried the impetuous prince, for he had recognised
the voice of the page Lamech at the first alarm—
“thou hast claim for such pay:” and, as he spoke, with
one blow of his heavy mace, he smote the treacherous
Hebrew to the earth. Thyrza fell with him, as he still
retained her in his grasp, but she was unhurt. The
baffled spearsman, having recovered from the impetuosity
of the first attack, now rushed upon the prince; but
his thrust was unavailing, in opposition to one possessed
of the great skill and power of Pelayo. The spear of
the soldier was shivered in his hands by a single blow
of the mace, and he must in another instant have fared
like Amri, but that he prudently gave back, and left the
path of the victor unobstructed. Pelayo paused not an
instant to complete the rescue which he had so manfully
begun. He lifted the only half-animated form of Thyrza
in his arms, tore the handkerchief away with which
Amri had bandaged her mouth, and with as much ease
as if she had been an infant, he hurried off from the
scene of the affray without any farther interruption from
the soldier. The heavy mace being still vigorously
brandished by its owner, with an ease and adroitness
which warned him of the utter hopelessness and imprudence
of any second effort in a conflict with one so superior
to himself both in skill and prowess, he wisely
refrained from offering any farther resistance to his
progress.

26. XXVI.

The sturdy follower of Edacer, mortified at his defeat,
now turned upon the disguised Urraca, who, by
this time, was busy in examining the hurts of her Hebrew
lover.

“Why didst thou not set upon him from behind when
thou sawest that I had crossed weapons with him in
front? Thou art—”

Urraca silenced his speech by addressing him in her
natural tone of voice.

“Waste not the moments in idle words, but take
him up in thy arms—gently and with care—see that
thou hurt him not, as thou valuest thy good. Bear him
along with me.”

He did as she commanded, and, unconscious all the
while, for the blow of Pelayo had completely stunned
him, Amri was carried by the soldier to the dwelling of
Urraca.

Meanwhile, but little more conscious than the wounded
Hebrew, Thyrza was borne by the vigorous Pelayo,
quickly, and in silence, through the now deserted streets.
Once or twice during their flight she made a feeble
effort to resume her feet, but he gently bade her desist;
and her head, half in stupor and half in consciousness,
sank at length upon his shoulders, while the tears of an
aroused apprehension and deeply-excited sensibilities
poured unrestrainedly forth from the clear fountains of
her lovely eyes.

27. XXVII.

In the quiet chambers of the lowly dwelling in which
Pelayo found temporary security, he at length arrived
with his precious burden. He laid her down upon his
own humble couch, and watched her, as slowly she recovered
her consciousness. She started up as she beheld
the earnestness of his gaze—a deep blush overspread
her cheek, and with averted eyes she rose from
the couch, and was about to move away from the apartment,
though evidently without any distinct purpose in
her mind, when Pelayo restrained her.

“Where am I?” she demanded. “My father—prince
—I must go now—I must go to my father.”

These were the hurried and brief words which fell
from her lips when she came to a full consciousness of
her situation. She looked round upon the bare walls
of the mean and cheerless apartment as she spoke, and
wondered where she found herself. Could so base a
dwelling be the place of safety and retreat of one so noble,
and so highly-born and nurtured, as Pelayo? The
dwelling of the persecuted Hebrew was superior. It was
usually proudly furnished, though the exterior was low
and uninviting. She was confused by her thoughts,
which yet dwelt earnestly on the objects around her.

“Be no longer apprehensive, Lamech,” said Pelayo,
soothingly, as he laid his hand upon the arm of the maiden,
and gently restrained her movement. “Be no
longer apprehensive. There is now no danger. You
are here safe with me, and the villains who had seized
upon you have forborne to pursue us.”

But the maiden trembled more than ever, even after
his assurances. The slight pressure of his hand upon
her arm had been electrical in its consequences. A
thrill of flame seemed to rush at that moment through

all her veins, and, as his dark and searching eye was
riveted upon her face, her cheek glowed with all the intensity
of fire. Yet, as he still addressed her by the
name of Lamech, she was happy to believe that her secret—the
secret of her sex—was yet safe hidden from
his knowledge. That belief restored her. She felt how
dreadful it would be if Pelayo should know the truth.
But, though something strengthened with this conviction,
she did not readily trust her lips to reply. She felt that
he must falter in her speech. Her heart was full, and
she trembled with the rush of its tumultuous and conflicting
feelings. He beheld her emotion, and ascribed
it to any but the proper cause.

“Fear nothing, Lamech. The danger is now over.
Thou art yet but a child. I warned thee that thou didst
too greatly overtask thy strength; and, though I would
not pain thee, boy, by such a thought, yet I very much
fear thou dost overrate thy courage. Thou wert not
made for strife,—thy nation is enfeebled by its petty toils,
and hath been too long restrained from all free and noble
exercises. They know not, and thou hast not often
shared in, warlike arts, though thou sayest that thou hast
dwelt in a land, and moved among the incidents of a
time of peril. Thou hast not the soul for strife; and, if
thy father will heed my counsel, he will keep thee in a
quiet spot, and afar from his own toils, which are full of
danger. After this night, Lamech, thou wilt seek me
out no more. I will not suffer thee to harm thyself by
exposure of thy youth to such rude assaults as that to
which thou hast been subjected, and to which neither thy
heart nor thy strength is equal. After this night thou
shalt forego these labours.”

“But—I must return now, Prince Pelayo, to my father.
Let me go, my prince, since there is no more
danger. Let me return, I pray thee.”

“There is no danger here, Lamech—but there is
danger in the paths of the city. There were cries of

alarm even as I fled with thee upon my shoulders, and
the soldiers of the governor parade all the public passages.”

The answer of Pelayo seemed only to inspire her
with a new resolution and strength. She rose in spite
of his restraints, though he still stood in the way of her
progress.

“I must go, my prince. There is no danger to me.
I can pass through the passages unseen.”

“This was thy thought, Lamech, when leaving me
at the Gate of the Tribune,—and the thought is idle,
Lamech, and thou wert rash and wrong then to go, and
I were not less rash and wrong to suffer it. Thou shalt
not go—”

“My father—my father—prince; I must fly to him.
He will sorrow after me as if I had come to some
dreadful evil.”

“And better that he should sorrow thus, without reason,
than that thou shouldst go forth to danger and give
him good occasion for such sorrows.”

“I must go, my prince,” she said, doggedly; “I dare
not remain longer.”

“Go to, boy—am I a child, that thou shouldst lesson
me after this fashion? Thou shalt not go! I am resolved
thou shalt not! I were no friend to thy father,
and still less a friend to thee, if I suffered thee to go
forth at this hour, when the slaves and soldiers of the
tyrant traverse all the paths of the city.”

She wrung her hands, and sank upon her knee, imploring
permission to depart. Pelayo frowned heavily
upon the seeming boy as he looked upon this weakness.

“Go to, boy;—though I had deemed thee to be
weak, I had not thought thee wilful. What dost thou
fear with me? What hast thou to fear? This apprehension
shows basely in thee, even beyond the reproach
which speaks of the cowardice of thy people. I held
thee better taught. I looked upon thee as one possessed

of more courage and heart than thy present wilfulness
approves to be in thee.”

How had he mistaken her! It was only because of
her possessing so much heart and courage that she exhibited
so much seeming weakness. But of this Pelayo
dreamed not. He continued—

“Thou shalt not leave me till dawning, Lamech.
Thou art safe with me.”

She almost shrieked aloud, as she cried out in her
terror—

“But I must, my lord, although I perish for it!
Alas! alas! my father,—I must go to him at once, my
lord.”

“Why this is wilful madness, boy. What dost thou
mean?—am I thine enemy?”

“Oh, no—no! But I must go, my prince. Upon
my knees I pray thee, let me go! I will risk all the
danger—all, all—and will not deem it such. Let me
but go. There is no danger—”

“There is danger, Lamech—great danger,—and I
will not suffer thee to depart till early dawning. Then
thou mayst go to thy father, not before.”

She buried her face in her hands while she entreated
him, but he remained inflexible; and, though evidently
chafed by what he deemed the perverse weakness of the
boy, he yet spoke him kindly while denying him his
prayer.

“No, Lamech—thou shalt stay with me this night,—
thou shalt share with me my couch, and I will protect
thee from every harm until the morning, when thou shalt
go home to Melchior.”

“Kill me rather, my lord,” she cried aloud, in seeming
desperation. “Kill me rather, or let me go this night
to my father.”

“Thou art but a foolish boy Lamech, and sinfully
wilful, when I but deemed thee childishly weak. I am
no boy like thee, and thou hast much mistaken me if

thou thinkest I will let thee go forth at this mad hour of
the night. I have said, and thou pleadest and prayest
vainly! I am resolute. Here shalt thou keep till morning—here,
in this chamber. Thou dost not fear to
sleep with me—with thy prince, Lamech?”

Her head was prone to the ground, and she replied
not. He stooped to lift her from his feet. His arm encircled
her slender waist—but she clung to the ground
as if she sought for it to conceal and cover her.

“What means this strange passion, Lamech?” he
cried, as with a strong arm he lifted her to her feet. She
averted her head, and wept in a paroxysm of tears;—
then desperately seeking release from his firm hold, she
cried—

“Thou art a Christian, my prince,—it will shame
thee that one of my race should linger long in thy
dwelling.”

“I heed not of thy race, Lamech. Thou art a sweet
and a good youth; though this night thou hast erred
grievously in the weakness which thou hast shown to
me, and in the wilfulness to which thou still keepest most
strangely.”

“Pardon me, oh gracious prince—pardon me, I pray
thee, that I have so offended, but let me depart from thee
at once to my father. I will not again offend thee. I
will pray for thee to the God of Israel. I will—”

“When thou knowest me better, Lamech,” said Pelayo,
sternly, “thou wilt know that I trifle not with my
resolves. I have declared that, as it would be danger,
and may be death, for thee to go forth this night, thou
shalt here remain and partake of my couch with me—”

“My lord, I cannot—I dare not—I will not! I must
go, though I perish.”

“Thou shalt not, Lamech.”

“Hear me, my prince—I am not the son of Melchior.”

He released her from his grasp as she spoke these

words. Her eyes were uplifted for an instant; and, as
they encountered the intense gaze of his, she sank again
upon her knees before him.

“Not the son of Melchior!—who art thou?” he demanded.

“The child of Melchior. The child, but not the
son,” was the desperate answer. “Look!—behold, my
prince.”

And, as she spoke, undoing a nice piece of network
which was artfully wound in with, and secured her hair,
she let the thick, glossy, and beautiful volume fall down
upon her shoulders. In the next instant she herself fell
prostrate along the floor, and her long tresses swept the
dark pavement even to the feet of Pelayo.

28. XXVIII.

He lifted her from the ground in spite of all her resistance,
though he lifted her with the utmost tenderness.
He bore her once more to the couch, and laid her exhausted
form upon it.

“Thou hast done rightly, maiden,” he spoke, after a
brief interval given to astonishment, in which his eyes
perused her with a singular interest—“thou hast done
rightly, maiden, whosoever thou art, in speaking out the
truth. Be calm!—be not doubtful nor afraid,—thou art
as safe from harm in the chamber of Pelayo, as, in his
heart, he beholds thee without one ungenerous thought
—one dishonourable feeling.”

“Oh, my lord—I thank thee—I thank thee! From
the bottom of my soul I thank thee! I knew that thou
wert noble—forgive me that I did not confide to thee at
the first.”

“Better as thou hast done, maiden. Thy secret was
no less thy father's than thine, and if he confided not to

Pelayo, it was not for thee to do so. But give me to
know thy name.”

She faltered out the word in a trembling emotion that
was not without its pleasure. He spoke the name as if
musingly to himself.

“Thyrza!”—and, thus speaking it, he paced to and
fro three several times across the chamber before he
again addressed her. When he did so, his thought was
one of manly and gentle, yet, with him, of natural consideration.

“And for me, and in my cause, maiden, thou hast
adventured thy young and tender limbs—thy life and thy
honour, at midnight and in strange places—”

“I feared not, my prince,—it was my father bade me,
—and I—I knew that I was serving thee—serving thee
and him.”

“Thou hast served nobly and well, maiden—Thyrza,
—but thy father has exposed thee to toils beyond thy
strength, and such as are foreign to thy gentle sex—”

“I have had neither pain nor fatigue in their performance,”
she cried, interrupting him.

“But a dreadful peril, Thyrza. Thinkest thou the
villain who assailed thee knew what thou wast? Thinkest
thou he knew of thy sex?”

“I know not,” was the trembling response, as the
recollection came over her of what she had suffered and
might have suffered, but for the timely assistance of
Pelayo.

“May I now depart, my lord?” was the timid address
of the maiden, as she saw that he was engaged in
thought.

He did not seem to heed for a moment. More earnestly
and anxiously she again addressed him—

“Have I my lord's permission to depart now?”

He turned to her instantly, and took her hand within
his. She strove to withdraw it from his grasp, and, as
she strove, he released it, and then she feared that she

had offended him, and, unconsciously, the lately-withdrawn
hand was extended towards him. He did not
seem to remark upon the act, though he resumed its
possession; and he spoke thus immediately after—

“Thou hast hitherto had no wrong, Thyrza, at the
hand of Pelayo. Believe me when I tell thee thou hast
none to fear. Confide in me—in my strength—not less
than in thine own. It is not less, believe me, than thine.
That strength is thy security. If it can protect thee, by
the strong arm, from the robber of the night, it can also,
of itself, forbear thy injury. I must be this night thy
keeper and guardian, and hold the place of thy father.
Thou canst not go hence now. It were madness,—
and I could not go with thee unless into the very den
of danger. Here, then—in this chamber—shalt thou
sleep,—nay, interrupt me not, and fear not,—here shalt
thou sleep, and sleep securely, even from any danger of
my intrusion. I have another chamber in the court
without. Behold this bar,—when I am gone, and thou
hast closed the door behind me, thrust it into these cavities
which thou seest on either side of the wall, and thou
mayst sleep as securely as if thy own father watched
over thee, with a strength boundless as his love, and as
sleepless. Thou wilt be as safe from my approach,
Thyrza, as from the enemy from whose brutal outrage
I rescued thee. Sleep, maiden, without fear. I leave
thee, with God's blessing upon thy slumbers.”

He waited not for any answer which she could make,
but at once hurried out of the apartment. Long did her
eyes strain after his departing form, and sweetly that
night did she think and dream of all the events of the
evening. Was it sinful that, in her sleep, her dreams
brought to her a renewal of his embrace, and that she
joyed to linger in the folding fondness of his manly
arms? Was it sinful that she sighed at morning when
she awakened, looking round upon the pillow, to feel
that she had but dreamed? Ah, if her thoughts and

dreams that night were sinful, what heart is innocent?
—What maiden is without a blemish?

Wrapping his mantle around him, Pelayo threw himself
down in the court before the door of the apartment
which he had given up to Thyrza, and many new
thoughts in his mind kept him wakeful; and, when he
slept, many strange, sweet fancies made him sad when
the night was so soon over, and when the bright glances
of the day aroused him.

29. XXIX.

It was yet early morning when the agonized and
greatly apprehensive Melchior appeared before the
prince, in the court where the latter had been sleeping.

“Lamech—my son?” cried the venerable and anxious
parent.

“Thy child sleeps yet, Melchior,—she is in the
chamber!” was the calm reply of Pelayo.

“She!—Ha!—Speak to me, Prince Pelayo—my
child,—thou knowest her sex—her secret. She is safe?
—She has had no wrong?”

“She is as thou wouldst have her, Melchior—a pure
and virtuous maiden. But go in to her, and she will tell
thee all. Let her hear thy voice at the entrance, that
she may unbar for thee the fastenings. I will, meanwhile,
look round upon the court, that we may not be
vexed with prying glances.”

“Thyrza!” exclaimed the old man at the door, after
Pelayo had gone.

“My father!” was the sweet response from within.
The door opened in the next instant, and fond and holy
was the embrace taken between the doting father and
his dutiful and lovely child. She told him all her adventures
of the night—of the wrong which she had partially
sustained, and from the dangers of which Pelayo had

rescued her, and of the forbearance and nobleness of
the prince in all which had taken place between them.
When Pelayo returned to the court, the gratitude of the
father and daughter was spoken in the warmest language
of acknowledgment and devotion, though it remained
unspoken in words.