University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The sun was fast sinking in the western heavens, and but a few bright rose tints
remained, resting like so many smiles of a gentle spirit upon the gray hills over
which he had lingered, when a man in the prime of youth, but weary and wayworn,
descended one of the jutting ledges of rock which covered the scene in every direction.
His dress was torn and soiled with dust and mire, and his tread was feeble and
tottering. He went forward with an anxious step which might have been a hurried
one but for his physical inability to make it so. It was evident that he had travelled
far, and had suffered much from hunger and fatigue. His cheeks were sallow and
sunken—his eye dim and spiritless, yet sometimes it lighted up with an expression of
pride and energy, which spoke for concealed character that had once known lofty
purposes, and had been prompted and taught in a high condition. From his neck
depended the short thick sword which the Iberians preferred to use. It was without
sheath of any description, and the dint of many strokes might have been seen upon
both of its keen edges. Fresh stains were also plainly apparent upon its once polished
surface, and distinguished its wearer as one to whom danger had been recently
and fearfully familiar; though his desolate condition might well enough instruct
the observer to believe that his share in the strife had been less than fortunate.
Feeble though he seemed, he did not pause for rest when he descended the tedious
rocks over which he came, though the green and smiling beauty of the little valley
through which he wound, might well have tempted one less weary to repose. But
the traveller went forward, and after a momentary hesitation began to ascend the hill
which terminated the plain and lay directly in his path. It was painful to behold
his toil in this endeavor—so feeble had he become that nothing but the most unrelaxing
resolve of mind could possibly have sustained, while nothing but a conviction
of the last importance could have carried him forward. He reached the peak of the
eminence, and the last gleams of the sun fell cheeringly around him. He turned his
sad eye upon the inspirer, and stretched out his arms in the same direction, as if he
implored strength to pursue his way. While in this attitude the waning orb sank
suddenly from sight, and a cold chill fell upon the heart of the wayfarer. His eye
turned upon the space which he was yet to overcome, and it looked dismal and uninviting.
Once more he gazed wistfully toward the western summits, and sweetly

did they lie at rest with the purple haze and the various drapery of evening around
them. Then, as if he had too long delayed, he again set forward, and plunged
down the steep passages with a reckless determination that seemed desirous to forget
fatigue while invoking danger. Night closed around him ere he reached the bottom
of the valley, and when he did so his strength utterly failed him. He could go no
further. He sank down by a little hillock, and, in the first moment of despondency,
he refused to hope.

“Why should I struggle longer with my fate!” he exclaimed, mournfully, while
his cheek rested upon his hand, and his eyes peered into the bosom of the earth before
him, as if he would there look for shelter and repose; “wherefore resist; why
not yield, and let the strife cease? I have striven long and hopelessly—I have lost
all—I am myself lost. With my own hand I put away the crown of my ancestors—
with my own lips have I rejected the service of my people. What remains? Wherefore
should I live?”

His arm relaxed in the support which it gave to his head, and, as if he would
yield the struggle for life in compliance with the suggestion of his lips, he sank forward
upon his face without effort, and lay supine upon the earth. But he lay not
long in this manner. The mourner was young, and not utterly hopeless, though he
thus declared himself. He started from his dream of despair—he raised himself from
the earth, and the new-born emotions of his soul found utterance from his lips, having
no check in that evening solitude.

“Yes—there is one! She remains; and, having her, I have lost nothing. Let
the throne go to my brother. It were a toil to govern which I should not seek, having
my heart only filled with the one image of delight. She demands the sacrifice—
she forbids the step; and that is enough! She will reward me for the loss, if loss
there be; and, with her to cheer my solitude and fill my home, I know no solitude.
I lose no kingdom. I am still a king; prince of possessions far more worthy than
any I resign.”

To an imagination so fond and fervent, the pictures which the young man had
drawn before his mind's eye, had the effect of almost making him forget his weariness,
and he lay musing upon them for some time in silence, unconscious that the
night was thickening fast around him; making further travel difficult, if not dangerous,
among the hills. He started from his dream at length, with a sudden knowledge
of his difficulties. His momentary rest had brought with it a certain degree of
refreshment; and his fancies had filled him with new courage to pursue his way.
He started to his feet, and in the uncertain light which hung mist-like and vaguely
around his path, he set forward without hesitation. An hour later, and he lay motionless
at the opposite foot of the hill he was now about to ascend—stupor growing
fast upon his senses, and the feeling of despair, which he had just baffled, coming
over his heart with a darker gloom than ever. He resigned himself to his fate, and
his eyes closed; but a falling torrent at a little distance, unseen though heard, vexed
him with its trembling murmurs, and he vainly strove to sleep. While his eyes
were closed, a voice mingled with the waterfall and provoked his attention. The
voice was evidently calling at the foot of the hill, and from the very valley in which
he lay. He opened his eyes, and a new hope came to his heart. He, too, cried
aloud; and his desperate accents seemed to him like those of a feeble boy. Again
did he cry aloud, and he was answered. While he looked, a light gleamed before
his eyes, and he shut them the next moment in utter oblivion. When he again
opened them, he found himself upon a rude couch of straw, in the humble cottage
of a peasant.

“Where am I?” he demanded, hastily.

“With friends,” was the kind answer; and a woman stood beside his couch.

“Rest—do not fatigue yourself,” she said. “You are feeble—you need sleep”

“And food,” said the traveller. “But tell me; how far is it to the castle of count
Julian, of Consuegra?”

“It lies near at hand,” was the reply; “but a short two leagues from the mountain;
you may see its towers in the sunlight.”

The traveller seemed satisfied, and the woman brought him food. While he ate,
her husband came in, and described the situation in which he had been found. It
was with difficulty they persuaded him to forbear continuing his journey that very
night, so anxious was he to set forth when he learned that the castle of count Julian,
for which he inquired, was so near at hand. But his frame refused to answer the
desires of his mind, and even while he spoke of going forward, he sank into a deep
slumber.

The next morning, after partaking with the cottagers of their humble breakfast,
the traveller resumed his journey, and in a couple of hours the castle of count Julian
stood before him. But he did not approach it as was usually the wont of visiters to
do. He carefully avoided the public entrance, and the ordinary paths. Sinking into
the rear of the building, he sought shelter from passing observation among the trees
and hills. Here he waited patiently, watching the castle all the while, until at
length, as if an auspicious moment had arrived, he went to a secret place in one of
the rocks with which he seemed to have been previously familiar, and drawing from
it a bow and quiver, he approached a spot visible only from the eastern wing of the
edifice. Advancing from the cover of the trees into a clearer space, he shot three
shafts into the air, in an upright line; then, gathering them up, he again sank back
into the close cover, and awaited the result.

A keen and watchful eye in those towers had marked the flight of the arrows;
and after a brief space of time, the lovely lady Cava, the daughter of count Julian,
stole through the shade of the thicket to meet the stranger.

“My lord, my true lord!” she exclaimed, as he folded her to his bosom; “you
are come to me at last; and oh, how happy does your coming make me! Why have
you lingered from me so long? I feared, Egiza, I feared that some harm had befallen
you.”

“Dear Cava, your fears were idle!” exclaimed the youth, while he clasped her
fondly to his breast. “You see me at last—safe—unhurt, and as true to you as
ever.”

Her eye caught the stain of blood upon his garments, and they bore other traces
of the strife in which he had so lately been engaged. The color went from her
cheek as she surveyed these tokens.

“This blood upon your clothes!—speak—tell me, Egiza, your hand has been
mingling among the men who fight.”

“It is true. I have been striving against my enemy—against the enemy of my
people—against the tyrant who usurps my throne”

“You cannot mean it, Egiza!” exclaimed the maiden, withdrawing herself from
his embrace.

“It is true, Cava; and I fought perforce. It was no merit in the eyes of my
people that I took arms in their behalf. I could not help but fight since I was
assailed.”

“And you were defeated, Egiza!” demanded the maiden, anxiously.

“No! thank Heaven, we were not defeated. The good cause triumphed in the
fight. I waited but for that. I saw my brother a conqueror over his foe, and free.
I saw him with the crown of his people—my crown—upon his head. I heard him

hailed with the plaudits of my countrymen; while I—alas! Cava, if thou shouldst
love me not, if thou shouldst be untrue to me, I am lost!”

“Nay, doubt me not, my dear lord!” exclaimed the maiden, at a loss to account
for the deep expression of anguish, and the acute, wild fire that gleamed forth from
the face of her companion. He proceeded:

“Yes, Cava, I am still Egiza to you, though it may be to none other. I have
been true to you, though they proclaim me false to all beside. Do you believe my
truth—will you receive my vows—will you give ear to the protestations of one
whom all men call traitor?”

“Alas! my lord, your words are strange to me, and full of terror. What is it
that you mean?” was the reply of the apprehensive but fond maiden. “Who is it
so foul of speech as to call you traitor? You are all truth, and I would believe it
from no lip, not even that of my father.”

“Bless you, bless you, dear Cava! for the word. It is sweet, it is every thing
to my soul,” was the fervent response of Egiza; but, after the pause of a moment,
his manner and his language changed: “I am a traitor,” he exclaimed, “it is true
what they declare, my Cava; I am a traitor to my people—'tis you have made me
so.”

“I, my lord?” she replied in unaffected astonishment.

“Ay; but I blame you not, my beloved. Freely do I bear the scorn—calmly do
I hear the reproach, so that it come not from thy lips—so that thou love me not less
because of it. Oh Cava! I have come to you, indeed—but how poorly do I come!
I am still true to you, but how false to my people. To be yours, my Cava, I have
robbed others—to win you, you know not what I have lost, and forfeited.”

“What lost—what forfeited, my lord?” she demanded.

“My country—my crown—my brother's love—my people's homage, their reverence,
their service—all. They have taken from me all—pride, station, friends' love,
people's service, and honorable name!”

“Alas! it is not so; you do not mean it, Egiza! And it is I that have done this,
that have caused this evil? Oh, my lord, unsay your words. Tell me that you but
toyed with my childish fears—that you meant not the cruel speech in sooth.”

“'T is true!” he responded, gloomily; “'T is all true.”

“Speak—tell me how!” she asked in terror.

“I have met my people—the nobles of Iberia—in solemn council. They profferred
me the crown of Spain”—

“You took it not!” she hastily exclaimed.

“I thought of you, my Cava; I feared that it would rob me of your beauty, and
I refused it.”

The gladness of Cava's heart, as he spoke this, was visible in her eyes; but they
met with little of a glad response from his. Sadly he proceeded, for the memory of
his brother's scorn, and the unconcealed indignation of his nobles, was present to
his mind.

“They would have doomed and slain me,” he proceeded.

“But you escaped!” she exclaimed. “How?”

“My brother spoke for me, and though he spoke for me in scorn, he yet saved
my life—saved me for you, dear Cava.”

“Heaven save him for it with blessings, my dear-lord. We owe him much.”

“Much, much!” was the ironical and bitter response of Egiza. He proceeded:

“He saved me to my own shame, and for the scorn of others, dear Cava—nay,
even, perhaps, for thine.”

“Never, oh never! Speak not thus, Egiza. Why should I scorn you?”

“Have I not shrunk from the danger of this war, to head which they implored
me? 'T was I, dear Cava, who first set on the nobles, after my father's death,
against his murderer. I was the first to shrink from them. I leave them to the
danger—I desert them at the season when every sword is needful in their ranks, and
every head is numbered. This is my shame, dear Cava—my deep shame. For thee
have I done this; for thee have I given up my father's throne, and suffered dishonorable
words to blot my name. Wilt thou not scorn me for it, like the rest?”

“No, Egiza. Nor will they scorn you, who are wise. This war is hopeless.
How can your people attack king Roderick? Where are the soldiers, the arms, the
money? 'T is madness but to think it.”

“The greater reason, then, my Cava, that I, who have wrought them to this madness,
should be the last to leave them. If the cause be so hopeless, I should be the
first to meet with its dangers, and not the first to desert them because of its hopelessness.
Seest thou not that if thy argument be strong, the greater is my shame to
leave them. Thou takest to thy heart, my Cava, one who is scorned of all but
thee.”

“I will not think it, my Egiza; but if what thou sayest be true, I will love thee
more for the scorn of others. Do I not know that it is for me thou hast risked this
danger and incurred this shame. 'T is I have wrought thee to it; and shall I heed
the error, if it be error, which makes me thine the more certainly—which comes of
thy stronger love for me. No, Egiza, I will but pray Heaven that the power be
mine to requite thee with that love for which thou hast yielded up so much.”

“Thou wilt requite me?” he asked, hastily.

“I will be thine, Egiza; or, I will yield myself to none other.”

“But wherefore the doubt, my Cava? Is this all? Canst thou not say that thou
wilt certainly be mine?”

“My father, Egiza.”

“What! Thou waitest for him to give me to thy arms? Alas! Cava, he will
never give thee to me. Has he not drawn weapons upon me? Dost thou forget
when last we parted, when Pelayo came to my succor, and saved me from bonds or
death? What hope is there that he will yield thee to my prayers, when such has
been his temper.”

“He will relent. He denied thee when thou wast a foe to king Roderick, but
when he hears that you have left your people, and refused the crown, he will relent—he
will yield me to thy prayers; for greatly, dear Egiza, does my father love
me.”

“Would it were so, Cava; but I fear me much that he will not so readily confide
in my pledges—he will not believe my promises.”

“Fear nothing, Egiza; he cannot doubt thy truth—I know he cannot!” said the
relying maiden.

“But if he does, my Cava”— The lover paused in his speech.

“Alas!” exclaimed the maiden, as her head hung down droopingly at this suggestion
of denial.

“If he does withhold thee from my love, my Cava—if, heedless of my prayers
and thy consentings, he should deny me to thy arms—say, what, what wilt thou
say?—what, then, shall I do, that the happiness of both be not lost for ever?” exclaimed
the lover.

“Indeed, indeed, I know not!” said the maiden.

“Let me teach thee,” was the quick response. “Thou shalt fly to my arms, my
Cava; a priest shall be in waiting to wed us; and, far away from danger, in the seclusion
of the mountains of Asturia, we shall enjoy happiness and defy danger

Wilt thou fly with me, Cava; wilt thou share with me the life I offer thee, should
thy father deny thee to my prayer?”

“Stay!” she cried—her hand uplifted, and her eyes turned upon a distant road,
which wound around the brow of a neighboring mountain. The eyes of her lover
were upon her, and he urged her reply to the demand which he had made. But
her mind had received an interruption, and she did not heed his earnestness.

“Stay—a moment, dear Egiza; look to the road from Toledo. What is it that
thou seest?”

He turned his eyes impatiently in the prescribed direction, as if all objects but that
of his quest had been of no importance—none, at least, which should interrupt his
pleadings.

“I see men,” he replied; “a goodly troop, shining with armor: but what is this
to us, my Cava?”

“They seek my father,” said the maid.

“But do not seek us. Let them speed, dear Cava, as they may; but hearken,
dearest, to the prayer I make thee. Thou hast heard what I have said—what I
would have thee say. For thee, and at thy wish have I yielded all; wilt thou yield
all for me? Should thy father refuse my prayer—should he deny thee thine—wilt
thou then free thyself from his power, and rely on mine? Speak, dearest, and make
me happy by a word”

“Alas! Egiza, what would you have me say—what would you have me do?”

“Be mine—be mine!”

“Why, so I would be. Doubt not, my lord, that my father, who truly loves me,
will yield me to thy prayer, knowing how much I love thee. He is kind—loves
me beyond all human things, and gives me all things I love. Wait but a while,
my lord—give thyself time to seek him, and to make thy worth be known to him,
and all will go well, even as we wish it.”

“I pray it may be so, my Cava—but should it not—say that he should deny me
—say that he holds me as an enemy, or that he would give thee to some other noble”—

“I would not wed another!” exclaimed the maiden.

“Thanks, many thanks, dear Cava!—but say that thou wilt wed with me, and I
will bless thee from my soul.”

“Alas! I know not—the thought is strange—I know not how to answer.”

“Dost thou love me?”

“Canst thou ask?” replied the maiden reproachfully; and she half withdrew
from his arms, which at this time were locked around her.

“Nay, Cava, chafe not with me. I speak like one most desperate. I am despe
rate. I have but one hope left. 'T is in your hands. Speak and save me, Cava—
or, if thou dost not love me as I would have thee love, speak and destroy me.”

“Oh, I am thine, all thine, Egiza; wherefore dost thou doubt me thus, and vex
thyself? I will be thine—thine only.”

With an almost frantic embrace he drew her to his bosom, and, for the moment,
such were his feelings, he had no other mode of speech.

“I hold thee bound, my Cava,” were his words at length, when he broke the silence
which his intense pleasure had imposed. “Should thy father withhold thee
from me, and deny my prayer, thou wilt still be mine. Thou wilt heed my summons;
thou wilt come to my signal as thou comest now.”

“I will, believe me, Egiza; but I must fly thee now. Look! the strange troop
approaches, and my father must not know of my absence from the castle, should he
demand my presence to receive them.”

The stirring sounds of the trumpet rang with a lively note as the troop wound
their way over the rocky defiles. Egiza surveyed the glitter of their armament with
a melancholy feeling, and his mind busied itself in comparing the gorgeous trappings
of the chiefs who led them, with his own miserable appearance. A jealous sentiment
rose to his lips.

“Thou wilt look on these gallant warriors, my Cava, and in thy thoughts thou
wilt compare them with the sorry looks of Egiza. Their gilded trappings will shine
in thy eyes, till thou turnest from the thoughts of him who seeks thee in so poor
a fashion.”

“Thou dost me wrong, Egiza. I will remember nothing but the trappings thou
hast given up for my love, and remembering these, I shall not regard the glitter which
I behold on others. Be as sure of the love of Cava, as thou hast made her confident
of thine. I leave thee now, Egiza; I will come to thee to-morrow, and we
will speak more of this matter. I will, when thou hast permitted me to speak, declare
to my father, all that thou hast now unfolded to me. Be not impatient, my
lord, in this matter; my love is too strong for thee to make it needful that thou
shouldst hasten the season when it may be thine.”

The gorgeous cavalcade which they beheld descending the hills, had now reached
the main entrance of the castle. They heard the martial summons of the trumpet
clamoring for admission, and the maiden hurried away from her lover, in her solicitude
to gain her chamber ere the arrival of strangers, while Egiza sank among the
covering hills with which he was familiar, and which had often already afforded
him a shelter.