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.
