University of Virginia Library

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.