University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

It was not until the archbishop reached the court of the palace that he knew the
business upon which he had been summoned. When he was told its purport, his
apprehensions began to be greatly aroused. He dreaded lest a discovery of Egiza's
secret would lead to a suspicion of his own. Could they do less than suspect the
uncle, if they could convict the nephew? The probabilities were manifestly against
it. The affair looked inauspicious. It was only by a course of the most daring effrontery
and admirable hypocrisy that Oppas had escaped proscription when Roderick
came into power. It was only by joining in the denunciations against the powers
that had been, and emulating the truckling servility of those who threw themselves
in the path and at the feet of the newly-risen, that Oppas had preserved his
station as the head of the Gothic church. A policy to which Roderick had now become
somewhat indifferent, had prompted him to receive professions from and give
credit for sincerity to all those who were allied to the nobility of the nation, or were
connected with that more insolent aristocracy which assumed the powers and wore
the garb of the established religion. Oppas was a superior politician to Roderick,
and well understood the motives which operated upon the latter in his favor. He
now as readily conceived that the rashness and self-conceit of the despot would make
him less heedful than before how he offended the class of which he was a leading
member. Such were his apprehensions that, could he have left the court in secresy,
he would have done so, and at once fled, with all his personal retainers, to join the
young prince Pelayo, in the Asturian mountains. But this could not be, and he prepared,
with his utmost coolness and address, to meet events and baffle their dangers
as he might.

The first nobleman whom the archbishop encountered as he entered the court of
the palace, contributed to increase his alarm. This person was one of the most respectable
among those of the old nobles who yet remained within the pale of the
court. He well knew the doubtful character of that loyalty which the archbishop
professed; and, with a smile of particular meaning, he thus addressed him:

“What! does the young head still linger upon the old shoulders? Is the old fox
to be caught at last? You are scarcely wise, my lord Oppas. I had not thought it
of you. I had thought, by this time, to have heard that you were far on your way

to the Pyrennees, and rallying the insurgents who are said to lurk in that neighborhood.
Were I in your case, and had I half the sagacity which fame ascribes to you,
I am sure such would have been my speed, and such the direction which I should
have taken.”

The archbishop affected a surprise which he did not feel.

“What mean you, my lord Gerontius? What case is this, which so alarms you
for my safety; and what have I to fear, that I should fly?”

The composure of his manner was admirable as he spoke these words.

“What! you have not heard?” said the other, quickly. “But I must not so far
question your precautions. You surely know of the attempt which has been made
upon the life of king Roderick.”

“Of a truth, I know that,” replied the archbishop; “but how does this concern
me in especial, and why should I fly?”

“You know that the assassin is a monk?”

“I knew not that. I hear that he is a mere youth, but nothing more. Is he in
truth a monk?”

“Ay, of the Caulian schools—so his garb speaks him; and the king is sworn to
rouse you all for it. He couples it with the insolence of the mad priest Romano—
and him he couples with the drones that he drove out from the House of Hercules—
and these he couples with the whole brotherhood—and the whole brotherhood with
the archbishop—and the archbishop with the pope—and the pope with the devil;
and to the devil, if I rightly understand, he is bent to send you all, or such, at least,
as he can lay sudden hands upon. This is the common bruit through the city; and
I held it matter of course that you should have heard it, having, as I well know, in
your own keeping such superior sources of general intelligence. You may conceive
now why it is that I wondered, knowing your prudence, yet seeing you here?”

There was nothing grateful in this speech of the old noble; but Oppas received it
calmly.

“Truly you surprise, if you do not alarm me, my lord Gerontius, These tidings
are new to me, and strange. I had no knowledge that the assassin was a monk—
still less did I deem it probable that our order, which has always been the readiest
to maintain the power of king Roderick, should fall under suspicion of this nature.
Nor can I think now that there is any reason in this rumor. Of whom did you
receive it?”

“Of whom? What a question! Why, from all the mouths of the court, every
prop and pillar of which has its twain. The common tongue is the universal one;
and man never lacks language when he speaks evil of his fellow. I heard it from
Gunderic, the big-bellied, who puffed and blowed, while telling it, to his own exhaustion
and the disquiet of my nostrils: from Sisibert, who apes Edeco, and breathes
nothing but scent and sentiment, and mortally hates sense: from Chilibert, the sleepy,
who proved the importance, not to say the truth—so far as he believed it to be true,
by never once yawning during his narrative: and, to speak guardedly, from a dozen
others, of as long tongue and as little authority.”

“Your own manner, my lord,” said the archbishop, smiling as he spoke, “tells
me what regard you yourself give to this story. I may well be indifferent to the
clamor of the city, when you speak of it so lightly.”

“Nay, do not deceive yourself, my lord bishop, nor let my manner deceive you.
I have learned to smile at most matters, but I do not smile at this. Of a truth, I do
believe that there is something in it. I have reason to know that Roderick looks
suspiciously upon your fraternity, and I bid you be on your guard. I would not
that all our nobles should suffer from a misplaced reliance on a monarch who is but

too apt to forget an old service, as he is perpetually called upon to remember a new
favorite. But, no more. The guards approach. Be cool, Oppas; for the step of
Roderick is hasty and his cheeks are flushed. They come.”

The advice of the nobleman was not lost upon Oppas, though it was scarcely
needed by so old a politician. The guards of Roderick now filled the chamber, and
the despot only lingered at the threshold of the hall, uttering some hasty commands
to one of his attendants. The nobles began to gather; and in the pause which ensued
before the entrance of the king, the archbishop had composed and arranged his
thoughts for the approaching trial.

He had need of all his faculties for this event; and those who had heard of the
uttered hostility of the king toward the priesthood beheld with surprise his composed
demeanor, and wondered at his presence. He knew, much better than they, the imminent
danger in which he stood, as he better knew the person of the criminal, with
whom his own conscience more perfectly identified him, than could any vague suspicion
of the tyrant, based simply upon the garb worn by Egiza. Could the prince
keep his own secret, Oppas felt that he himself might escape; for Egiza had been
little known in Toledo, and seldom or never seen by those who held the confidential
places around Roderick's person. The dread of the lord Oppas was that the prince,
hopeless of favor from Roderick, and desperate with hate, might declare himself in
defiance; and this done, he well knew that not even his sacred profession could save
him from crimination with his nephew, particularly as, from the nature of the disguise
worn by the latter, it must appear to the jealous tyrant that his attempt had
been distinctly authorized by the priesthood, if not by himself. These thoughts
rapidly passed through his mind during the interim which followed the conversation
with the lord Gerontius, and before the entrance of the king. It would be idle to
deny that his apprehensions were great, since he rested his hope upon one or two
contingencies, together with own presence of mind, and watchful use of circumstances
as they arose. But he took his seat, seemingly with little concern, at the
head of the board and near the throne, where it had ever been his custom to sit; and
neither in look, word, manner, nor in the assertion of his state, did he in the slightest
particular relax from the dignity which belonged to him as a man, and that
which he asserted for his sacred office. The seats around him were rapidly filled
up; and if the men of note in that assembly were few—if the essence of character
and talent in those who composed the king's council was such as to accord meetly
with the degraded spirit and vicious debasement of the kingdom, there was certainly
nothing wanting in external show, in rich dresses, the glitter of jewelry and flowing
trains, to make up for the lack of better attributes, or at least to reconcile the mere
spectator to their loss. The Goths affected the pomp of the Romans and the effeminate
voluptuousness of the Greeks; and, for their useless glitter and vain display,
they were but too ready to yield up the more substantial qualities of hardy valor and
national simplicity. It was thus that the court, on the present occasion, fatigued
rather than won the eye with its overloaded splendors; and the profusion of wealth
which it displayed but poorly supplied the place of good taste and propriety. Even
the guards of Roderick, with their tawdry jackets of purple silk, edged with gold fillagree,
and their long spears, the iron heads of which were softened with a deep
gilding, presented but indifferent substitutes for those rough warriors who had made
the Romans pass under the yoke, and had carried their arms without stop or impediment
from the Danube to the Atlantic ocean. The national character was changed.
The reputation of their forefathers was no longer a source of pride to those who affected
superior refinements; and one of the follies of Roderick, which provoked the
sarcasm of the neighboring Moors, was in the assumption of the empty title, along

with the idle glitter, of `King of the Romans;' as if the spirit of the Cæsars dwelt
in the frame of the licentious and arrogant Goth.

The entrance of Roderick was the signal for obeisance and servility. He entered
with a quick, sudden step, which, though hurried, did not prevent him from frequently
pausing to dart hasty and inquiring looks into the faces of all around him.
Once or twice he paused and seemed disposed to speak to one or more persons upon
whom he looked, but as if quelling the desire, or unable through excess of passion
to indulge it, he hurried on toward the throne until his eye caught that of the
archbishop. As it did so, the king paused, with a convulsive movement. His arm
seemed to twich and jerk with the angry feeling in his bosom; but he remained
where he was at the moment, and his brow collected over his eye, while it darted
forth a light like fire upon Oppas, as if it intended to consume him. The archbishop
met his glance without blenching. He knew that this was one of the tyrant's tests.
He was wont to say that “he could look down treason, and drive, with a glance of
his own, that of his enemy to the ground.” But it failed to have this effect on the
present occasion. The eye of Oppas was as true to his purpose as was that of Roderick;
and, while all in the assembly looked alternately from the king to the archbishop,
the former turned away with a ferocious scowl from gazing upon his victim,
to dart angry glances upon the watchful assembly. If his eye failed to terrify that
of the stern archbishop, it was more successful in controlling those of the spectators.
Their acknowledgements of its power were instantaneous. Every face was bent
downward in humility, and the vanity of the despot was satisfied with this tacit acknowledgment
of his superiority. He proceeded to the throne, threw himself into
the seat, and for a few moments a dead silence reigned throughout the apartment.
At length, with a voice hoarse and loud, Roderick broke the silence by addressing
his parasite Edeco, who stood beside him.

“Edeco!”

With a servile gesture and a fawning smile the favorite approached and bent himself
before his master. A brief pause ensued, when Roderick continued:

“Edeco!—But no, no. Thou art not the man. Thou hast counsel fit for other
moods, and lighter matters. I would that lord Bovis were here! I could trust him,
head and heart I could trust him!”

These words, spoken aloud, fully declared the disquiet of the tyrant. He seemed
vexed and bewildered; then, as if resolved, he motioned Edeco back, and, again fixing
his eye upon the archbishop, thus abruptly addressed him:

“So, ho! my lord Oppas! You are not content to rule in the church; you would
sway the state. It is not enough that you claim an entire disposition of souls; you
would usurp that of bodies also. You are choice in your victims. The blood of
kings and princes must stain your altars, and you dispatch your assassins to the very
palace of your master. But you have dared too much for safety, as you have done
too little for success. The church shall not save you; and the insolent head of it,
who sits in Rome and sends out his murderous decrees, as if he were God himself,
to all parts of the earth—he shall not save you; even if he shall have power to save
himself, which is doubtful. I will march troops upon Rome itself, but I will have
justice; and his treasury shall pay my soldiers for the toil of his punishment.”

A shout rent the air from the armed band around, as Roderick finished his furious
tirade. He looked round approvingly upon them, and then his eye rested upon Oppas.
The archbishop, seemingly unmoved, replied to him respectfully.

“If I say to thee, oh king! that thy language surprises even if it does not confound
me, I shall but say what is the truth. That thou hast the power to punish
me for offences, real and imaginary, I nothing question. That thou hast power to

extort tribute from the iron keys of St. Peter, I do not deny thee; for God, of his
own foresight and for his own purposes, not unfrequently suffers injustice to prevail
for a season upon earth, and the axe of the executioner to be stained with the best
blood of his saints. This is no new thing in the history of the church's trials, and
the apostles have testified to its truth. I look not now to find the princes of the
earth perfected in holiness and slow to injustice; and I were but a poor servant of
my master, if I were not at all times ready to seal with my blood the faith which I
profess. If it be, oh king! that thy anger is against the church, of which I am a
most unworthy son, then must I submit to thy decree without murmuring. Yet may
I implore of thee to know of what offence I am guilty, and what is thy complaint
against the holy father?”

The air of the lord Oppas was that of a saint, so meek, so uncomplaining, so resigned
to his fate in consideration of his faith. To a temper like that of Roderick,
such a deportment was irritating in the last degree; nor did it lessen his anger to
listen to the ready acknowledgment of his power which the archbishop had adroitly
given in his reply.

“Now, by Hercules! this exceeds belief. What! thou art ignorant, my lord Oppas?
Thou knowest nothing of the assassin? Thou hast not heard of the villain
who would have slain thy sovereign, when it is the common speech of Toledo?”

“I have not said this, oh king! Of a truth, I know that such is the common
speech of Toledo; but I know nothing of the facts,” was the response of the archbishop;
to which the answer of Roderick was instantaneous:

“Who said thou didst not know? my lord Oppas. I knew thou didst. But thou
dost not justice to thy knowledge. Thou knowest more than the common speech of
Toledo; thou knowest the assassin—thou hadst knowledge of his mission. Wilt
thou dare deny that?”

“If thou commandest me to speak, oh king! I do deny that I had knowledge of
the assassin, as such.”

“But thou knowest him?” exclaimed the king, eagerly.

“That I know not,” replied the wily archbishop; “for, as yet, I have not seen
him. It may be that he is known to me. I will not say.”

“He is—he must be! He wears thy accursed garments—he comes of thy own
black brood—he ministers to thy church!” exclaimed the fierce monarch. “But I
will set him before thee; ye shall see and speak with each other; and I trust to hear
the truth—for as surely as yonder streams the blessed sun upon the marble of this
floor, so certainly shall the blood of one, or both, or all of you, stream in atonement
for this crime, which I hold to have come from your secret counsels together.”

“Let it be, oh Roderick! as thou hast said!” exclaimed the archbishop, confidently.
“Let the criminal be set before us; if he be of the church, it may be that
I shall know him; yet, if he be, I trust to show that the crime he purposed was the
meditation of his own heart, and came from no counsels of mine, or of the holy
brotherhood.”

The king gave a signal to Edeco, who disappeared.

“Holy brotherhood!” exclaimed Roderick, in scorn; “I know your holiness, my
lord Oppas, and the holiness of the brotherhood; and, as you know it also, it makes
not in your favor, in my mind, that you should so reverently speak of it. But here
comes Edeco. Look, my lord bishop, for the prisoner cometh. See that you forget
not your friends; see that your faith holds firm, and denies not the knowledge of a
brother.”

This was the moment of trial for the archbishop, and he addressed all his energies
to meet it—for all eyes were upon him as he gazed. In boldness only—in the

utmost confidence—could he hope to avoid suspicion. A moment's pause, or hesitation—an
averted look, an agitating apprehension, he well knew—as he was closely
watched by the monarch and by many who would have been but too happy to avail
themselves of his fall to omit noticing his confusion—would confirm the suspicions
of Roderick—and his resolution was taken. Rising, as the guards appeared with
the prisoner, he himself addressed them:

“Bring forward the assassin, that I may look upon him! You shall see, oh
king! that I dread not the contact with this man, which is to confound me—satisfied
as I am that I know him not as an assassin, even though I may have knowledge of
him as a priest.”

The unhappy Egiza, still clothed in the monkish habiliments of Romano, was
brought forward accordingly. He had heard the words of the archbishop—and, indeed,
they were intended quite as much for his ears as for those of the king. They
gave him a clue to the position in which Oppas stood, and taught him the danger of
his uncle—not on the score of his relationship, but as he was a member of the same
religious fraternity. This was enough for the prince. His resolve was taken; and
had he not already determined upon answering nothing that could lead to a discovery
of his secret, this would have made him do so. He met the eye of the archbishop
with as much indifference as he could command.

“My son, who art thou?” demanded Oppas.

The youth paused a moment ere he replied, as if uncertain whether to do so or
not. He then spoke:

“Who are you, that ask?”

“Slave!” cried the furious Roderick, half rising from his throne, and grasping a
javelin; “Speak, slave! and answer, or thy tongue shall be torn from thy jaws by
the roots!”

“Thou wilt have less answer then than now,” was the calm reply; “and wilt
add another proof to the folly, not less than the tyranny of thy sway. Art thou
answered?”

A dozen violent hands were laid upon the criminal as he uttered himself thus; and
this violence on the part of his subjects disarmed that of the despot. He did not like
to behold so much of ready impulse, even though in defence of his own authority, on
the part of those whom he only required to obey; and to the surprise and consternation
of the forward courtiers, his rebuke was by no means gentle.

“How now, my lords; wherefore this violence? Unhand the man, I say. Ye
are too bold. Think you if I had needed that weapon should be used, I should ask
for yours? Am I so feeble of arm that ye come thus to my aid ere I summon you?
Had I needed this free service, and were there danger in the deed, ye had not been
so quick of action. I should have waited for you long, and called for ye in vain.
Ye had been more ready to help the foe, than the monarch who claimed your rightful
service and needed your succor. Give back, and let the slave answer freely. If
he is ready to abide the axe-man, he hath a right to speak. He hath but little time
for insolence, and I am curious to learn his phrase. You have more matter for his
ear, my lord Oppas. Speak to him freely, else you greatly disparage the brotherhood.”

“I know nothing of the man, oh Roderick! and wist not what to ask of him,”
said the archbishop. The king scrutinized him as he spoke this denial, but he detected
nothing in the inflexible features of the speaker to give the least color to his
suspicions.

“Then I will question him myself!” he exclaimed, turning from his unsatisfactory
examination of the archbishop's face, to one equally unsatisfactory and much

more annoying, which he bestowed upon that of the prisoner. After a few seconds,
during which he gazed at Egiza as though he would read the very thoughts of his
secret soul, he abruptly asked:

“Who are you?”

“A man—your foe!” was the reply.

“We shall try your manhood, slave; for your enmity we care not. We shall
subdue both. But ere your limbs writhe under the torture, be wise and answer.
What name bear you?—whence come you? Speak—unfold the truth, and rely
upon our mercy to save, where strict justice would have us destroy.”

The prisoner replied, without a moment's pause:

“I fear not your torture, and your mercy I despise—for I believe not in your assurances.
I have no name—I am without a country. There is one question you
have not asked, which I might yet answer.”

“What question?” demanded the king.

“You seem not curious to know wherefore I strove to slay you—wherefore I invaded
your gardens of infamy and aimed my dagger at your heart! Why is this indifference?”

“Insolent! Wherefore should I demand that which is so evident. Hast thou
not the garments of the monk upon thee? Art thou not one of the creatures that
fattened at the public charge in the House of Hercules? Answer, slave! Wert
thou not sent upon thy base mission by this same priest? Did not thy charge come
from the lord Oppas?”

“No!—thou knowest, Roderick, that it did not. Thou well knowest the motive
of my hatred, and the cause which moved me to aim my dagger at thy life. It was
not for the church, not for the priest, not for any sect, not for my own ambition, that
I strove to slay thee; but for humanity, for virtue, for innocence. Before thy court,
in the presence of the aged and the noble whom I see around thee, will I declare the
occasion of my attempt upon thee; and if all honorable feeling be not gone from the
court—if there be husbands and fathers among them, to whom the virtue of the wife
or the daughter is dear, they will rise against thee as with one spirit, and strike at
thy heart with a dagger as keen and much more fortunate than mine.”

The fury of Roderick could scarcely be restrained, and he was about to rise, and
would probably have hurled the javelin, which he now clutched in his convulsive
fingers, at the bosom of Egiza, but for the archbishop, who beheld, as he thought, a
fitting moment to interpose. He saw that the suspicions of the king—if, indeed, he
had ever, in reality, entertained them—were, in great part, diverted from himself by
the fearlessness of the prisoner; and he now only feared that the provocation given
by the prince, would be such as might prompt Roderick to inflict upon him a sudden
death. This he aimed to avert by a new proposition.

“The prisoner,” he said, “oh king! declares that he hath neither name or country;
but, as I must profess myself deeply interested in the habit which he wears, will
it be permitted me, Roderick, to propose to him a few questions in private, in order
that I may learn from him the motive for a course which is so very strange and
criminal.”

“Ha!—to counsel him to further insolence!” cried Roderick, his jealousy of the
priest reawakening. “No, my lord Oppas, no! Let him speak without counsel, as
I shall look for you to speak. Ye are traitors, both; and I will trust ye not from
my sight together.”

“I ask it not, king Roderick; in your sight let me speak to this man—but let the
guards be withdrawn. I care not what ye do with him: I am prepared for all that
you may think fit to do with me: but, as a servant of the church, I would examine

him who wears its garments, that I may the better learn the source of his iniquity,
and move his conscience to atonement. What should you fear? He cannot escape,
nor can I. Your guards are around us—your eye is upon us; you but suffer the
criminal to make his confession, if it pleases him, in secret.”

“Ay, to thee. He has already made it, I doubt not; but as his doom is fixed,
which all your pleading and all his confession may never change, take the privilege
which you pray for. Let the guards fall back, Edeco, and suffer the holy brothers
to speak together!”

The archbishop did not seem to heed the sneer with which the indulgence was
granted; he was only too well satisfied to avail himself of the privilege. Approaching
Egiza, with a slow and dignified manner, which was carefully studied, as he
well knew that it was closely observed, he at once addressed himself to the leading
object which he had in view.

“He has no guess of your secret, Egiza,” said Oppas, in the lowest tones; “suffer
it not to escape you. You will be doomed to death, and I myself will propose
your sentence, the better to avoid suspicion; but fear nothing, I have already taken
order for your rescue, and to-night you will hear of me in your dungeon from one
on whom you may rely. He will bear a token from me, and you will go with him;
but ask him nothing—and be sure you tell him nothing. Be of good cheer—bear
with the tyrant as you may, but provoke him not; his day will soon be ended—he
is on the precipice. Let us but escape this danger, and we triumph.”

“But the lady Cava?” said the prince, in similar tones, overlooking the present
difficulty in his way, and only solicitous for her whom he loved; “tell me of her,
my father; say that she is safe, that all is well with her, that she is out of the
clutches of this monster, and—in honor.”

“She is with the queen,” said Oppas, evasively.

“Speed—send a letter to her father, if thou canst, for I dread to think of the doom
which is before her.”

“Let us make thee free to-night, Egiza, and thou canst do more than this—thou
canst free her. But, meanwhile, say nothing to chafe the tyrant who has thee in
his grasp. Be not afraid when thou hearest me declare thy doom, for, of a surety,
I have but this one mode to escape suspicion. Reply to him in a subdued spirit,
lest, in his anger, he command the torture for thee.”

The youth shuddered, and replied:

“I will try; but I fear me, I should curse the tyrant, though my last breath lingered
at his will. Do what thou canst, my father; I leave it all to thee.”

The voice of Roderick arrested their conference, but not before the main points of
it, as the archbishop had desired, were sufficiently discussed.

“Well, my lord Oppas, to what condition of mind have you brought your worthy
brother? Methinks you have had sufficient time to hear his secrets—ay, and to unfold
your own. To what doth he confess?”

“He will confess nothing, oh king! neither his name nor the place from which
he comes. He is obdurate: I know him not.”

“What!—he will not say to you that his brothers of the House of Hercules sent
him to avenge their wrongs? He wears their garb; he might reveal to you, having,
I doubt not, so much of your lordship's sympathy. But I have an argument—nay,
two of them—which shall make him wiser. What ho, there! guards, advance the
prisoner. Hearken, slave!—you shall have your life—nay, your freedom—if you
will confess the truth. Say that you were sent by these priests, who style themselves
of Hercules, and I give you your life. Be wise; for as I have good cause to
suspect their fidelity toward our government, I am willing to reward in the most

generous manner the person who shall prove to my conviction their almost known
treason.”

“I were guilty of falsehood, were I to say so. Thou, Roderick, well knowest
the cause for which I set upon thee; and to silence the further wrong which thy
speech would cast upon innocent men, I will declare all the circumstances which led
to my assault.”

But Roderick had no wish that the truth should be spoken. It was to suppress
the truth that he suggested to the prisoner what his confession should be, and offered
him his life—an offer which he meant not to comply with—in compensation for the
lie. The game of the tyrant was well understood by all parties. The resolution of
Egiza enraged him, and he ordered him to the torture. Fortunately for the youth,
the guards announced the approach of the queen. Roderick scowled fearfully, as he
heard the announcement. He knew the gentleness of Egilona, and readily divined
that, having heard that he sat in judgment upon a criminal, she came—as was frequently
the case—to intercede between the judge and his victim, and soften the severities
of punishment. Way was made for her train, and she entered the hall of state
with the wonted ceremonials. Roderick deigned not to rise at her approach, and she
sat down on the seat below him, unnoticed. But the effect of her presence was obvious
to all. As if he had given no order for the torture of the prisoner, the king, assuming
a milder tone and manner, addressed the lord Oppas:

“The prisoner, my lord bishop, is well tutored. To whom he owes the counsel
which makes him thus obdurate, is a matter beyond my judgment, although not beyond
my suspicion. You have heard his crime—a crime which, were the criminal
a noble of this land, would call for his head. But, as the offender is of the church,
a priest, and one who, had he been successful, might have become a saint, the offence,
perchance, in thy mind will seem light, and worthy of no such punishment.
Give me to know thy thought.”

The reply of the archbishop was calmly but gravely uttered, and without a moment's
hesitation.

“His offence, oh king! I hold to be of a most damnable kind; and whether the
offender be priest or noble, its punishment should be the same. If I am to say—as
it would seem to be your desire, oh king! that I should—what the punishment of
the criminal should be, I would say death by the axe, as in the case of all similar
offenders.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the king, who evidently anticipated no such response. Suspecting
the seeming monk before him of a connection with the brotherhood whose
habit he wore, he looked to hear from the archbishop some exhortation to mercy—
some appeal from justice to humanity. Surprised and disappointed, he turned upon
the speaker and scanned him with looks of the keenest inquiry.

“Truly!” he exclaimed, after a brief pause, and a laugh of mingled scorn and
good nature, “truly, my lord bishop, thou art less tender of thy fellowship than I
had looked to find thee. This fellow should be an Arian, a schismatic, a backslider
from the square law and the round, since thou shufflest him down the wind with so
little concern. Wilt thou mutter for him a prayer, my lord bishop? Doth it come
within thy charity to say masses for a soul whose carcass thou art so ready to resign?
If it does, go to thy beads at once, and quickly, for thy decree will I adopt.
The assassin dies within an hour.”

The eye of the unhappy Egiza turned involuntarily upon that of the archbishop.
The suddenness of the sentence—the brief period of life which it allotted him—cutting
him off, as it did, from all hope of assistance such as the archbishop had promised
him—brought to his bosom, in that moment, all the sense and bitterness of death,

in the conviction of its now unerring certainty. So young—so full of hope—so full
of love, and the warm current of a generous affection—to be torn away from all—
from youth, from life, from love!—the thought was agony; and the thrill which
went through his veins, from the full heart which it convulsed, though he strove to
subdue his emotions, or at least to keep them from exposure, was yet perceptible to
the keen gray eye of the archbishop, though the latter did not seem to watch him.
His overhanging and long eye-brows shaded from others the anxious yet assuring
glance which he gave to the prisoner, the moment after the utterance of his doom
by the king. That doom, though undisputed, was yet to be modified. The archbishop
was not disposed to yield the struggle here. Himself seemingly secure, he
was collected enough to preserve his composure throughout the scene; and with that
temperate manner, which had, more than any thing beside, availed for his safety in
the trial through which he had gone, he replied to the last remarks of Roderick, by
seizing upon one part of his speech which furnished a natural opening for a plea in
mitigation of the sentence.

“King Roderick little knows the servant of Christ, if he thinks that his prayer
can be withheld from the criminal because he belongs not to the true church. Our
mission is for such as he. To save the sinner—to turn him from his path of darkness
into one of light, is the office of the priest; and these offices are more than ever
needed for such as are double offenders—offenders against heaven's laws and the
laws of man. But of little avail would be our prayers for the criminal, if he be not
suffered to pray for himself. I trust, oh king! that it is not your will that the unhappy
man before you should so suddenly be hurried from the presence of his mortal
into that of his Eternal Judge; since such a judgment would be little else than
hurrying his sinful soul into the deeps of eternal damnation.”

The gentle Egilona, for whose ears much of this speech was intended, was silent
no longer. She rose from her seat, which was at the feet of the tyrant, and knelt
humbly before him.

“Surely, surely, my lord, you will hearken to these words of the lord Oppas?”
said she.

“And wherefore? Let the dog die—let him twice, ay, thrice perish! It is his
punishment I seek,” exclaimed the king.

“But not in his sins, oh Roderick!—not in his sins! Let him repent of these—
give him time for prayer, for penitence—that, in the blood of the Redeemer, he may
find purification. I ask not that he may be spared; for the dreadful crime of which
he would have been guilty, if his cruel desire could have been accomplished, deserves
a cruel death. Yet, as his crime was mortal, let not his punishment extend
beyond the boundaries of this narrow life. At least, though you deny life to his
enjoyment, deny not salvation to his hope.”

Thus implored the queenly woman, and the gentle wife. The archbishop knew
that he had said enough, and prudently forebore to urge further suggestion. What,
indeed, could he have added to solicitations urged by beauty, by beauty in tears, in
homage, mingled with religious feeling, and enlivened by personal and devoted love.
Roderick refused at first, chafed and chided next, and at length yielded. The prisoner
was remanded to his dungeon, and five days were allowed to him to reconcile
himself with heaven.

The departure of the king and his train, was the signal for respiration on the part
of the archbishop. He had passed through a narrow and perilous strait, and he now
breathed freely. During the whole conference, and while the danger impended, he
had preserved a calm serenity of countenance, which nothing seemed to affect; so
that, whether guilty, and meriting punishment, or innocent, and likely to suffer from

injustice, he still secured the admiration of those who looked upon him. But now
he trembled. The color fled from his cheeks, as the guards withdrew in attendance
upon the tyrant; his knees grew weak, and he looked around upon the noblemen
who lingered in the hall with timidity and distrust. The involuntary sigh that then
escaped from his lips, drew the lord Gerontius to his side. The old nobleman approached
him with congratulations which were not less sincere than earnest.

“Your head was fairly within the jaws of the wolf, my lord Oppas; and I looked
every moment to see them close upon it. That they did not is the more wonderful,
as they evidently desired to do so. Can you conceive what is your offence, my lord;
for it certainly is not that which is alleged. Methinks the king well enough knows
the motive of the monk, who, it seems, is the father-confessor of the lady Cava, left
with her by count Julian. Such was the speech of one at my side while the trial
was in progress.”

“Of that I know not,” replied Oppas. “He would confess nothing to me. My
offence against the king, I readily conjecture to lie in the shallowness of the royal
treasury, and the supposed fulness of that of Holy Church. Another day will
show.”

“Such was my thought—my fear, I should rather say—for my suit at court will
then be sped much more suddenly than I desire,” said lord Gerontius, with a graver
countenance.

“What suit?” demanded Oppas.

“One that I fear to urge—a suit for money. I need certain sums—which I advanced
to help Roderick to the throne—to keep my estates from the Jews. They are
hovering like kites around me, and await but to see what face I wear on my return
from court to pounce down upon their prey.”

“What favor has been shown you by the king for your services?” inquired the
archbishop.

“Favor! Why, yes, 't is a favor that I am yet neither banished nor beheaded.
These seem to be the sort of favors with which old service has been requited; and I
tremble, therefore, but to speak of mine. The lords Aser and Gnotho—who,
in all Spain, toiled so faithfully and gave so freely to make Roderick what he is?
Yet are they banished, and without receiving one `L'ovogild'[1] of all their expenditures,
in return. You may imagine, therefore, with what fears I should demand
my just dues, and how greatly my apprehensions should, of reason, be increased
when you tell me that the royal treasury is low. I think to go back to my province
in despair, without praying for those kingly favors, which mercy may commute to
banishment or beheading—the latter being the greatest mercy, when the Jews are
already in possession of the body.”

The archbishop had some sympathies in readiness for the knight.

“If my treasury is to fill the royal coffers, it will be a merit that I pay some of the
royal debts. You will not regret to give me the lien upon your estates, my lord,
which the avaricious Jews now hold. Believe me, your indulgence will be much
greater.”

“Regret! Ah, my lord Oppas, you bind me to you for ever, if you save for me
the old dwelling of my fathers.”

He would have spoken his acknowledgments at greater length, but the archbishop
interrupted him:

“Come and sup with me to-night, my lord Gerontius, and I will then provide you
with the money necessary to free your estates from incumbrance. Yet say not

where you go, and let your acknowledgments of service be locked up in your bosom.
I shall expect you.”

The archbishop had secured another ally.