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.
