University of Virginia Library

4. BOOK FOURTH.

1. CHAPTER I.

The historians have described Egilona, the queen of Roderick, in brilliant colors
of romance. Poetry, indeed, would fail to make her lovelier than she appears in the
pages of history. Living at a period and in a country in which so little was the regard
paid to virtue that vice deigned not even to wear the garments of hypocrisy, and
all was gross and audacious in the vulgar and vicious indulgences of court and people,
Egilona not merely maintained the dignity of the queen, but the unapproachable
purity of a faithful wife and a superior woman. In her presence licentiousness was
rebuked and quieted; and Roderick himself, though not sufficiently refined in his nature,
to accommodate himself to those restraints which he esteemed in her, yet felt
their influences upon him sufficiently to forbear in many cases where his tumultuous
passions and indomitable pride would otherwise have prompted him to brave the eye
of the public, and prove his vices to be not less audacious than they were gross and
selfish. Add to this, that Egilona did not merely maintain her virtue, but, subsequently,
her religion also. Her piety was exemplary; and, though she became the spoil
of the Moorish conqueror, she yielded nothing of her faith; but, with a womanly tenacity,
when she had become the wife of the misbeliever, after the death of Roderick,
she exacted such concessions from her Moorish lord to the Christian forms of worship,
that she is supposed by many to have converted him. One of her arts to compel
at least his external acknowledgment to the images of the Saviour and the Virgin,
is worth recording. She had the doors of her apartments in which she kept
them, made so low that he was always compelled to stoop upon entering. “She
was,” says Rasis, the Moor, “a right worthy dame, right beautiful, and of a great
lineage.” When Bilazin, the Moor, the son of Muza, whose captive she had become,
proposed to her to become one of his wives—his law allowing him seven—
she replied: “Sir, offer me no violence, but let me live as a Christian;” and he
married her; and, through her influence, his sway over the Christians became mild
and gentle as her own character, and the faith which she professed.

But we anticipate. These are events which belong to other chronicles. At this
time, the lovely Egilona dreamed not, any more than her vicious lord, of the trials
which were before them, and the destiny which was to abase the latter, and change,
if it did not abase, her own fortunes. She was a Christian, but not a prophet; and
meekly regarding present events, she had but very little solicitude about the future.

When, in the fierceness of his merriest mood—having extorted from the archbishop
a large amount of the money of the church—Roderick informed her of what he had
done, her reproaches were fearlessly uttered. She had beheld with pain the treatment
which the lord Oppas had undergone at the trial of Egiza, as she neither suspected
nor believed in any connection between the former and the meditated crime of
the latter. Her gentle nature even prompted her to plead, as we have seen, for the
indulgence of time which had been granted to the criminal; and though she did not
pray for his pardon—for she regarded his crime with too much religious not less
than personal horror to prompt her to such an extreme of charity—yet her pleadings
had not been spared to procure for him every indulgence which might have been
supposed not inconsistent with the doom before him. That he was spared the
torture, might even be ascribed to her presence at the trial; for Roderick's curiosity
to ascertain the secret of the person who had braved him, was only restrained by the
dread that she might hear that from the lips of the prisoner which, licentious as the
monarch was, he would willingly have kept from her knowledge, though perhaps
indifferent to its exposure to all beside. Feeling as she did toward the Christian
faith and toward its professors, her sympathy took an active direction when she
heard from Roderick of his morning spoliations. She well knew that any effort to
make her rapacious lord disgorge his plunder would be made in vain; and resolute
to do all in her power to amend the injustice and atone for the wrong, she sent for
the archbishop to her private apartments. To these apartments Oppas had never
come without experiencing a strange mingling of painful and pleasurable sentiments;
and even now, with mingled doubts and hopes, and not untroubled by goading fears,
he prepared to obey the summons with sensations which he loved too well entirely
to suppress. He had the passions of the man, which his profession could not quell;
he had the tastes of a courtier, and more than a courtier's ambition; and, in the beauty
of Egilona and we may add in her very virtue, there was a hopeful prompter to his passion,
which encouraged him to dream of enjoyments not merely inconsistent with the
profession which he taught, but hostile to the very virtue which he so much admired.
When the command was brought him to wait upon the queen, his heart bounded within
him, his pulse beat with increased quickness, and he felt the warm glow rise to his
cheek from the over-full fountain within his bosom. With a feeling and a thought
rather of the vain boy than of the religious and venerable man, he proceeded to make
his toilet with the care of one about to go before a person in whose eyes he desired
to seem well; and never did youthful lover arrange his dress with more precise and
elaborate care than did the archbishop. The imposing garb of the church accorded
well with his strong and majestic figure; and as the lord Oppas moved before the
polished steel plate which reflected back his person and brought it distinctly out, as
if it had been chiseled in the blue metal of Damascus, his eye remarked with unconcealed
satisfaction the vigorous and stately tread of his person—the manly and muscular
fulness of every limb, seeming more like that of a warrior king preparing with
heavy mace for approaching battle than that of the humble servant of God, solicitous
of favor only in the eyes of a Supreme Master. For a moment, while engaged
in this survey of his own person, such seemed to be his thought. He paused before
the mirror, and his right arm was involuntarily extended. He would have grasped
the sceptre at that moment, and his conscious soul seemed to bound and pant with
the haughty and the fond idea.

“Will it be?” he said, musingly; “Will it be? Will it not be?” he exclaimed
with more energy; “Or do I but dream? Is the strife—is the hope—is the toil that
I have had, for nothing? Will the proud boy, Pelayo, triumph without my aid, and
requite my assistance but in the idle acknowledgment, which is the common recompense!

No! These serve not me! I labor not for him; nor yet for the lovesick
and feeble Egiza. They think me their ally—their willing friend—their creature.
Fools! they are mine. The hour is ripening—the church is strengthening amongst
the people, and, if the pope will but heed my prayer, it shall have its own armies!
And who shall lead those armies? Who?”

His question was answered by himself, as, lifting the crosier from the table, he
bore it aloft with his extended arm, as if that moment he grasped the mace of the
soldier rather than the sign of peace; and his eye gleamed with the fierce desire of
battle which was working in his soul, as the strong thirst of his ambition led him to
regard this theatre as that which was preliminary and essential to his full and complete
success.

“Ay, the crosier shall become a sword—and the sword”—

The archbishop paused. He did not venture to conclude the sentence, even to
himself. The sceptre was still something of which he might dream, but not speak.
There were still uncertainties to overcome, and seas to cross, and church prejudices
and popular prejudices to be worked down, by the gradual attrition of events, before
the cowled head could surrender to the Gothic horns. The laurels alone could conceal
the shaven crown, and make it worthy of the coronet he coveted; and these
were yet to be gathered on the field of strife. These thoughts, and the doubts that
came with them, oppressed him, and he turned away to the contemplation of other
objects. His toilet was completed, and, bidding his groom provide for him a favorite
steed, he set forth on his way to the palace.

2. CHAPTER II.

To his surprise the archbishop met king Roderick, just as he was about to enter
the apartments of the queen. To his greater surprise yet, the king smiled upon him,
and spoke in language not merely of condescension but of regard; as if he had lost
entirely from his memory the transactions of the morning. Such are the caprices of
tyranny. Indeed, it is the caprices of tyranny which make it tyranny. It is the alternations
of power which occasionally soothe and soften its own terrors, that prompt
to continued obedience in that spirit which, in the people, would otherwise discard
their shackles. Were it not for the hope of amendment, which the insidious smile,
the bland indulgence, and the cunningly conceived promises hold forth, resentment
would soon correct wrong, and suffering rise into rebellion, and exact justice on fearful
terms of rebuke from the reckless oppressor. The successful tyrant is the judicious
thunderer.

But such was not Roderick. He loved too much to hear the sounds of his own
thunder. He was too fond of witnessing the exhibitions of his own power, and of
having it beheld by others; and in this, in great part, lay the secret of his downfall.
His bland benignity of manner, on meeting with Oppas, was not the result of any
thoughtful policy It was simply in his change of mood that he smiled. Besides,
he had gained one, if not all, of his objects. He had extorted the wealth, to obtain
which his anger had been admirably pretended; and with one whose profligacies demanded
continual supplies of money, the attainment of so large an amount as had
been furnished by Oppas, was a sufficient occasion for good humor. A moment's
reflection soon taught this to the archbishop, and he too smiled—and, with more of
policy than Roderick, he too appeared to discard from his thought the scene of the

morning, which had been so full of peril to him. A few words were exchanged between
them, and the king, having bid the archbishop attendance at council on the
ensuing day, left him to bestow his offices upon the queen.

A single maid was in attendance upon Egilona, and her she dismissed upon the
entrance of Oppas. She sat upon a raised cushion of rich velvet, which lay on the
floor; and her eyes, when lifted upon the appearance of the archbishop, were full
of tears. She motioned him to approach, and he sat down before her on the edge of
the cushion. In silence she sat for some moments, and her beautiful eyes were fixed
upon the faint but lovely rays of the evening sun that streamed through the lattice.
She seemed to derive an interest from the survey of their flickering and uncertain
hues, which every moment of the sun's decline would necessarily divert from their
place, and diminish, as well in quantity as in richness. After a few moments, consumed
in this manner, she spoke—her thoughts still given to the beautiful objects on
which she had been gazing.

“My father, I have been thinking sadly, as I gazed upon you streaming light of
the declining sun, how the bright things and hopes of life escape from us; how we
see and touch and taste, only to lose for ever; and the thought has occasioned in me
a sort of wonder that we should so blindly and so earnestly pursue visions which
are so deceptive. When I first gazed upon those bright colors, that are sliding further
and further from me at every moment, they appeared like a broad wing of purple
all over the spot where now thou sittest, and even to my feet. I could have laid my
hand upon them where I am sitting. They are now beyond my reach; and though
I rise and pursue—yea, though I grasp them—in a little while and they will flee
from my sight, as certainly as they do from my grasp.”

“Yes, my daughter; but the morning restores them to both touch and sight,” said
the archbishop.

“Alas! father; but with the morning there is a change upon the sunlight and upon
me. The beams are not the same, nor do they rest upon the same spot; and a like
change is in the eyes that survey them. In a little while, and their beams will fall
upon me coldly: in a few seasons, and I shall behold them in hues less rich and in
rays less vivid than I see them now. The sense will be dim, and my heart will not
leap, as it was wont, to go forth in the sunlight and be a partaker of the air. I feel
already a forecast of the change which is to come, and, in my thought, I begin to
perceive the gloomy shadow which time is about to cast upon my person.”

“Wherefore, my daughter, should such thoughts of sadness come to thee?” replied
the archbishop. “Why shouldst thou speak of time—of the chill and darkness
of age? Thou art but young, my daughter.”

“Ay, father; but so is the flower which is cut down in the morning,” was the
quick reply.

“True, my daughter; but thy hope is greater than that of the flower,” returned
Oppas.

“Yes, father, if I hope according to the truth. But if my hope be but of this
life—which, alas! it too greatly is—then have I no better hope than the flower, and
I have a fear which affects it not. This is the sorrow which troubles me, my father.
I yearn for earthly joys, for earthly treasures—and sometimes forget those
higher and better desires which should fill the heart of the true Christian. I would
confess to thee, my father; but not as I have confessed to thee. I would tell thee
of thoughts and desires which haunt my soul, and which yet have no name within
my bosom. This is the evil which afflicts me. I feel that there are thoughts that
trouble me, and hopes which keep me from the due consideration of holy things; yet
am I without the form of speech which should enable me to bring these thoughts to

thy understanding, and help thee to discourse with me upon them for my absolution.
Wherefore should this be so, my father? Canst thou help me in any way by thy
counsel?”

“Thy case is that of thousands, my daughter, and there is no misfortune in it; for
as light often cometh out of the womb of darkness, so does strength come out of despondency,
and hope from humiliation. The state of man on the earth is one of continual
strife, and chiefly with his own passions and vain desires. It is in his conquest
over these that he acquires that proper grace which fits him for the unselfish
and God-loving abodes of heaven. Thy study must be to overcome these vain desires,
these earthly longings—to bring thyself to a proper and careful thought of thy
destiny.”

“Ah, my father, it is this which I would know. What is that destiny?” asked
Egilona.

“The answer is easy, my daughter. Thy destiny is to live: thy destiny is life
immortal—eternal! It is the difficulty to realize this wondrous truth which carries
down thousands and thousands of sinful people to depravity in this life, and dreadful
despair in that which is to come. If thou, or any of us, my daughter, would
have it as a present and continual thought in our minds that the time which we are
spending upon earth is a probationary time, and that we do not begin to live until
we begin to live for ever, how little to thee would seem all the longings which beset
the vain hearts of those who strive and struggle for evermore, like the fly against
the light, for their own destruction. How idle and worthless would be that striving
for wealth, for the glitter and the gain, which dazzle the poor insect of humanity
and tempt him, in his miserable weakness, to all manner of mean and sinful doings
and all forms of injustice. To unlearn pride and the falsehood which is born with
us, is to open our eyes to a perception of the truth. Humility is the first lesson,
penitence the next, and love the last. Love, the prompter, becomes the consoler,
and finally the rewarder. And it is for thee, having thy destiny of eternal life clear
to thy mind before thee, to resolve whether it shall be a life crowned and made for
ever happy with eternal love, or wretched with a hate not less enduring. Confess
to me, my daughter, the sins and the sinful thoughts which trouble thee; this is the
task which humility puts upon thee. Be penitent, and consolation flows, and eternal
love and life are thine own.”

“I will try, my father, and may the blessed Virgin give me strength to know and
to name my infirmities, that I may have the consolation which I seek. But first,
my father, let me strive to do justice and to amend, in what I can, the wrong which
has been done to thee and to holy church.”

“What mean you, my daughter?” demanded the archbishop.

She did not immediately reply; but, rising from the cushion, she went to a richly
wrought cabinet of Mosaic which stood in the apartment, and returned almost instantly,
bringing with her sundry caskets of royal gems and female ornaments of
great value, apart from their exquisite workmanship. These, the tributes of Roderick,
her relatives, her courtiers, and of her own purchase, she placed in the hands of
the archbishop.

“Take these, father, they are of great value in men's eyes—they are also of great
value in mine. Many of them are gifts from my lord, when, perchance, he loved
me better than he loves me now. Many of them came to me from the kindest of
mothers, and some I have bought, in my own lavishness, from the rich Jew, Benhazin,
of Tangier. I give it now to the church, that I may restore thee something
of thy loss, and, as it were, divest myself of some of the shows of that idle vanity
of earth, which it may be afflicts my thoughts and keeps them from making them

selves entire and single when I would throw myself at the feet of the Lord. Take
them, my father; wherefore wouldst thou refuse?”

“Thou hast spoken of my losses, and of the losses of the church, my daughter.
What is the meaning of thy speech?”

“Alas! father, wherefore wouldst thou have my lips utter that which is so much
a shame to my heart to feel? Do I not know that my lord, king Roderick, whom I
love not the less that I do not approve in this—do I not know that he hath dispossessed
thee of the monies and the jewels of the church—that he hath taken from the
altar of God the tribute put there by His worshippers, and hath thus despoiled the
penitents, whose gifts they were, of the goodly shows of that penitence which was
to work for their salvation. I trust in the Virgin that they will not suffer harm
therefrom, and I would fain replace, or restore their holy offerings with my own,
which though less sacred, my father, as they are not yet consecrated to godly purposes,
are yet I believe of great worth to make good to thee those which thou hast
lost.”

“I did not think, my daughter, that thou knewest of this unholy spoliation. It
was my thought that king Roderick esteemed thee too devout a worshipper to venture
heedlessly upon letting thee know of this sacrilege. Alas! my daughter, though
the rich offerings which thou now puttest into my hands may well replace in temporary
value those of which the altar hath been dispossessed, I know not what atonement
will purge the heedless offender of this most heinous sin. It will be a curse
and a”—

“Stay!” she exclaimed, “stay, father; speak nothing, I pray, I beseech you, of
the curses of the church. These would I disarm—these would I avert from my
lord's head. He hath been sinful, I know—greatly sinful; but not in wilfulness,
my father. Evil men have been his counsellors, not his own thoughts; and it is my
hope that he will of his own resolution do the church justice for this wrong. I have
spoken with my lord, my father, to this end; and I have also shown to him how
greatly it did pain me to hear the violence of his speech this day to yourself, my
father. I told him (though it would not need that I should show to him that which
his own sense would more readily perceive than could mine offer, would he but
calmly think ere he moved in performance) of the grievous sin to speak in such a
fashion to one so much his senior in years, and so made sacred as it were from assail,
wearing the very livery of God himself. Thus did I declare to him of my
thought but a little while before you came, and I am fond to think that he will repent
him of his sin, and make due atonement which shall be grateful no less in Heaven's
sight, my father, than in thine. Be sure, my father, that if prayer of mine be
blessed, he shall not fail in this atonement.”

“Thou art thyself blessed, Egilona, blessed among women!” exclaimed the archbishop,
while his hand rested upon her head; and he paused after he spoke these
words, and his lip quivered, and there was a tremulousness in his voice which her
ear detected, but the sources of which, in the innocence of her pure heart, she did not
dream. She knew not that in that moment when his lips pronounced a seeming
benediction, that the blood was bounding in his veins with the pulse of a wild and
merely human passion. She had no thought that when his hand rested on the long
and beautifully dark hair, that gathered in thick volumes and fell down upon her
snowy shoulders, that his mind was even then dwelling only upon those feminine
charms which were before him, and was as utterly foreign to the subjects on which
both of them had spoken, as were her own thoughts from every thing like guilt.
And when his fingers, relaxing as it were with the relaxing thought, glided from her
head and rested momentarily upon her bare and beautifully rounded shoulders, little

did she for a moment imagine that she—kneeling and wlth clasped hands, saintlike
in soul as in posture—that she had imparted the flame which was then scarcely
suppressible in the bosom of him before whom she bowed. She did not look up,
else it must have been that his passion would have been seen by her eyes, glaring
forth from his. There, indeed, it had utterance beyond the intelligence of words;
though it might have been, had she not then spoken, that the full soul would have
forced the unwilling tongue of the archbishop into speech, in defiance of all his efforts
to prevent it. But the pure, subdued, and gentle tones of Egilona were as a
spell upon the troubled waters of his soul. He trembled as he heard them, and he
listened breathlessly.

“Bless me not, father; I am not worthy of your blessing. I feel that I am not.
I feel strange thoughts, and I have longed to ask of you counsel, and have your
guidance in doubt. I will confess to you, my father, that I have sinned grievously
since I received your blessing last. I have been angry, and have spoken harshly to
Gerdovia, one of my ladies, using wicked words, and employing ungentle threats to
compel her better service. But there is a sin in my soul, father, which is even
greater than this, and greatly do I tremble, father, lest thou shouldst deem it beyond
grace of pardon. Know then, my father—alas! the sin—know that there is a damsel
lately come to the court, named the lady Cava, the daughter of count Julian, of
Consuegra, who is gone to Ceuta. She is a damsel lovely to the sight and winning
in the eyes of man. Her father gave her to my charge, and she has been a dweller
with us in our garden of the Tagus, where I made her an attendant upon my person.
But, my father, a discontent soon arose within my bosom, and a strange apprehension,
when I saw the eyes of my lord, king Roderick, gazing frequently and fondly
upon her. Then it was, father, that I envied her the possession of those charms
which God had given her”—

“'T was a false judgment that made thee do this,” exclaimed the archbishop, interrupting
the speaker quickly, “for of a truth thy loveliness is far beyond hers.
She is beautiful, I freely say; but her beauty is that of the thoughtless and immature
girl, while thine is the beauty of soul and person, alike, of the highly taught and
the reflecting woman; and the loveliness of thine eye and countenance, speak not for
themselves merely, but for a rich and flowing fountain which thou hast within thy
bosom of noble spirit and commanding thought. Thou, Egilona”—

“Nay, father! thou hast enough said for my humbling,” were the words of the
queen, mistaking or seeming to mistake, utterly, the purpose of the archbishop. “I
know that it was a foolish vanity in me to think of my own poor beauties, if such
they may be called, in opposition to the lady Cava's; but truth it is, I thought of
them with envy—ay, with hate, when I beheld the eyes of my lord follow her, and
heard his soft words in her ear.”

“And thou heardst him then?” exclaimed the archbishop eagerly.

“Alas! for me, my father, I heard him speak in praise of those beauties which I
envied, and my heart sickened within me; and in the madness of my spirit, my father,
I privily left my chamber and watched my lord, as he pursued his steps toward
the apartment of the lady Cava, having in my heart a vexing hope and a dreadful
fear all the while, that he meditated an evil thing in his mind.”

“And thou sawest him in her chamber, my daughter!” exclaimed the archbishop,
his hands trembling even while they contracted themselves more closely upon the
neck of Egilona.

“Alas! my father, how shall I tell thee? But even to the entrance of her apartment
did I, like a thief in the night-time, follow my lord, and know not where my
evil spirit might not have carried me, but that the lord Edeco then appeared, and,

with a guilty dread lest I should be seen of my lord, I fled back to my own chamber,
where I could not sleep. The evil spirit was still within my heart—it is now
there, my father, filling me with all vexing thoughts, and making me sin hourly, as
it brings me bitter and strange thoughts and wishes that I know are sinful.”

“Thou sawest him to her chamber, thou sayest?” exclaimed the archbishop, musingly.

“Alas! my father, though I shame to say it, of a truth I did,” answered the fair
penitent.

“Unhappy man! foolish as false! to fly from beauties so superior—to scorn a
heart so much more worthy, and to yield himself up to crime for a silly girl, and
one scarcely ripe to the knowledge of affection!”

Such were the exclamations of the archbishop. Egilona seemed to hear him with
surprise. Entirely absorbed with the conviction of her own errors, she had given
no thought to those of her husband.

“Speakest thou of my lord, my father?” she asked, when the archbishop had
concluded.

“Ay, Egilona, of that sinful, that soulless man, who seems madly bent on wronging
the good, and the holy—he who despoils the church, who despoils the innocent,
and who wrongs thee. It is of him that I speak.”

“Nay, father, but thou shouldst not. It is of my sin that I would have thee
speak to me. It is for thy counsel, not for the reproof of my lord, that I come to
thee. I would have thee chide the evil spirit from my heart, and teach me the better
way and the better thoughts of good. Do this, my father, I pray thee; but
say nothing of my lord.”

“Alas! my daughter, the sin that makes us sin is a sin to be chided also. Hath
not the wrong of thy lord led thee to wrong; and is not one evil the fruitful parent
of the other? The axe should be laid at the root, if we would deny that the branches
should bear. Was it not the voice of Roderick that prompted thee to the error thou
hast committed?”

“Alas! my father, I fear that the error was but too strong in mine own heart—
for, to tell thee a truth, I had strange thoughts and unkind suspicions of my lord,
ere this, and of the lady Cava.”

“And wilt thou tell me, my daughter, that thou hadst them unjustly? Alas! no.
The errors of the king Roderick are but too commonly in the mouths of the whole
court”—

“But not mine, my father. It is not Egilona who will or should speak thus of
her lord; and I would pray thee for that counsel which should strengthen me even
against the thought.”

“And this I cannot give thee, my daughter,” answered the archbishop, quickly.
“Thou art commanded to hate the vice and to fly from the vicious. The Lord himself
hath commanded, and the hate which in thy heart has taken the place of love
for king Roderick”—

“Nay, father, that were a dreadful sin. Thou dost me wrong. Evil is in my
heart, I know—this I have confessed to thee already—but no hate. I hate nought
that has life, not even things that crawl, the poisonous reptiles that crawl and sting,
not even these do I hate”—

“The lady Cava!” exclaimed the archbishop.

“Ah! father, thy words crush me; but think not that I hate the maiden—I fear
her, I fear her charms!”

“Thou hatest them, Egilona.”

“Father, forgive me; I fear I do hate them—I envy them!”

“My daughter, let thyself see. Blind not the judgment and good sense which is
growing within thee. Why shouldst thou hate the lady Cava, or her charms? they
wrong thee not. The wrong is that of Roderick, not of the poor maiden whom he
seeks. Wilt thou do another wrong, in the maintenance of his? Wilt thou revile
the poor victim, because thou art wedded to the criminal? Alas! for thee, my
daughter; thy gifts to the church are unavailing—thy prayers are unavailing; for
how canst thou look to the blessed Virgin to uphold thee, and intercede in thy behalf,
when thou givest countenance to him who wrongs the Virgin? Take back
thy offerings to the altar; they are not worthy of a place before it, nor can they be
consecrated and made holy when they are the tributes of a heart that is obstinate in
its sin, and pleadest in its defence.

Egilona sank in terror at the feet of the archbishop, as she heard this threatening
language.

“Crush me not, holy father!” she exclaimed; “crush me not; I am but a poor,
weak, sinful woman, and I would be a loving and devoted wife.”

“But thou canst not. If thou lovest sin, thou partakest of the sin; and thy best
confession before Heaven, will be that in which thou declarest thy readiness to cut
off and cast away thy right hand if it offend thee. Tell me then, my daughter, the
truth. The truth alone shall save thee, if it should condemn thee; for though of
the truth thou mayest be convicted of the sin, yet is the truth itself a virtue which
shall prove a fitting foil to the sin. Thou hast, I know thou hast, a becoming fear
of vice, and thou dreadest its presence; thou hast hated it also—thou shouldst, thou
dost hate it. Say, Egilona, when thou hast beheld thy lord, king Roderick, sinfully
inclining to other women, and forgetting thee whom it is his solemn and sworn duty
to remember, has not thy heart grown cold toward him”—

“Never, oh, never!—as I live, never!”

Her ready response interrupted and, as it seemed, somewhat disappointed the archbishop.

“Nay, be not too fast—be not rash, my daughter. The church esteems it no sin
if thou fall off in thy regards from those whom thou findst vicious—if thou art cold
to those whom thou didst once love, perhaps, whenever thou seest them unworthy.
Nay, it esteems it a virtue so to become.”

“Alas! father, this virtue is not mine. Though Roderick has of late forgotten
me, and his neglect has given me many hours of weariness and weeping, yet have
I loved him not less in my soul because of his desertion. Even when I beheld him
heedless of my regards, and following after the beguiling charms and arts of other
women—nay, when I beheld him as I thought, seeking himself to beguile the unwary
virgin—yet did I rather envy those he sought, than anger with him for his
wanderings. I have been ever fond of him, and true to him, my father, though, before
thee and Heaven, I fear that he hath almost utterly forgotten me. He cares not
for my love.”

There was no satisfaction in the countenance of the archbishop as he heard this
reply. His looks were full of disappointment, and he half withdrew his united
hands from their clasping folds upon her neck, as he spoke thus:

“But there have been moments, my daughter—nay, there have, there must have
been—when, seeing him thus wanton, thou too hast sighed, my daughter, for a like
freedom and like indulgencies. There have been noble gentlemen of the court whom
thine eyes have looked upon with pleasure, nay with desire.”

“Never! oh, never! my father. The Virgin keep me from so sad a fault.”

“Bethink thee, my daughter, thou art not infallible. We are are all weak, and
to be weak, indeed, is only to have an opportunity to approve our virtue. I mean

not to reproach thee with any sin beyond the passing thought, the momentary desire,
the lust in thy soul, which thou didst suppress—perchance, the very moment in
which it came to thee. This, indeed, is thy nature—the erring nature of thy sex;
and not to know such feeling, such desire, is to differ from thy nature, and to be superior
to all of thy sex. It is expected from thee, this weakness. It is thy strength,
when they virtue is strong for its subduing. Such has been thy case, my daughter;
nay think, ere thou denyest it. The church is indulgent, my daughter, and its censures
are only given to concealment and perverse devotion to sin, not to free confession,
not to the sinner who tears open the dark shadows with which Satan would
hide the corruption of the heart, and begs for the friendly knife of the soul's physician
to cut away without sparing the callous and the leprous spots thereof. Confess
freely, my daughter; thou hast desired, thou hast sighed for other regards than
those of thy lord.”

“Never, never!—as I live, never!”

“Of a surety, thou hast seen many noble gentlemen, who well merit the love of
woman?”

“Truly, father, I believe it; I think there are many such.”

“And thou hast seen such?”

“I doubt not—I believe it, father.”

“And hast thou not remarked that there were many having the graceful demeanor
and the manly beauty of thy lord, who were yet more regardful of the love which
they had won; did such not seem to thee at the moment, persons to love and desire?
Didst thou never, in thy thought, and without thy wilful resolve, make such comparison
in thy passing mind? Hast thou not remarked other noble dames, blessed
with the affections of such lords, yet more honored than thee, in their constancy?
Bethink thee, Egilona, ere thou speakest; I know it must have been.”

Again did the hands of the archbishop unite in a fond and fervent pressure upon
the neck of the devotee, as he listened for her answer. But he heard nothing that
he longed to hear, and his hands were as quickly withdrawn as placed, in the mortification
of his spirit.

“Of a truth, father, as I kneel before Heaven and thee, I think never! It is true,
I have regarded other noble gentlemen with esteem, and some with admiration, but
not one with a feeling inconsistent with that which I owe to my lord, king Roderick
It is true, I have beheld with sorrow and with deep affliction the neglect of
my lord and his pursuit of other women, but even when I suffered and sorrowed the
most, by reason of neglect or injustice, I never once held it fitting that I should anger
with him, and never did it seem to me that I could love him less. So far from
this, though it may seem strange to thy understanding, as it hath been a passing
mystery to mine, I feel that I have been loved him the most at moments when I
have believed him least worthy of my esteem, and as most ungrateful to my love.
I know not what this may mean, unless it is the will of Heaven, by which to show
to woman, who is the weaker and the humbler object, that, as she is dependent, she
must be dutiful; and as the love, which to her is the very breath of life, is so capricious
and so little likely to be secure, even where it is proffered by men in other respects
the noblest and the truest, so is it the more necessary that she should be unshaken
in her constancy, that her faith may work in behalf of him she loves, and
for the salvation which were else for ever forfeit. It was by love and self-sacrifice
that the blessed Jesus died for the race of man, which fought against His holy and
saving labor; and the love of woman were of little worth, if she were not ready for
the same sacrifice, should it need, for him that she is bound to—even though he
slight her homage and prove faithless to her love. I rank the love of man, my

father, with that blessed sunshine which I watched when first thou camest. We
have not heeded it while we have spoken, and lo! where is it now? See, but a
few scattered rays rest upon the orange-leaves which twinkle before the lattice, and
now they are dark in their own deep hue, for the beams are departed. Are not
these beautiful things that fleet from our affections and our eyes so fast, are they not
blessed monitors to prepare us for our departure, and to lift our thoughts from a too
devoted love for any of the vanities and seeming joys of earth?”

“Ay, my daughter, and from its affections, also, where they chime not with the
blessed precepts of divine grace and truth. Shouldst thou become enamored of that
sunbeam so that its absence gave thee pain, thou wouldst be guilty of an error, and
the penalty would be hourly pressing itself upon thee. Still more heavy would be
the penalty, if thou didst love a light which came to thee from the infernal abodes
of the damned. Shalt thou, my daughter, love vices which have a like origin; thou
shouldst”—

What more the archbishop said, or would have said, was lost in a new and unlooked
for interruption. While he spoke, a sudden clamor arose from another part
of the palace. Shriek upon shriek, in the voice of a woman, rang through the
apartment, rapidly repeated and increasing in loudness with every instant. The
tramp of feet, as if in flight and pursuit, followed each interval between the cries;
and while they wondered at the uproar, the sounds approached, and in a few moments
after the door was thrown open and the lovely Cava, her hair dishevelled and
floating in the air, her whole features convulsed, her eyes red, full of tears, and almost
bursting from their sockets, burst into the chamber, and rushing forward, fell,
rather threw herself, at the feet of the queen. Her cries all the while continued,
without intermission.

“Leave me, father,” said Egilona, rising and motioning the archbishop; “leave
me for awhile. I will again send for thee.”

The archbishop instantly withdrew, bearing with him the rich offering which the
queen had made to the church, and she was left alone with the beautiful woman
whose fatal charms, destructive to their owner, had brought scarcely less misery
to the queenly Egilona.

3. CHAPTER III.

A moment only had elapsed after the departure of the archbishop, when Roderick
came to the door of the queen's chamber. His appearance was the signal for the
renewal of those piercing shrieks with which the flying Cava had startled the palace,
and which, in the presence of Egilona, had been changed into a long unbroken
sobbing.

“Save me! save me!” she screamed in terror, the moment that her eyes beheld
the face of the king. “Save me, dear lady! I pray thee save me from that bad
man!”

“Man, dost thou say, maiden?” said Egilona. “It is my lord, king Roderick,
whom thou beholdest. Dost thou not know him?”

“Too well, too well! Save me, I pray thee! Hide me from him! Hide me
in the earth! Let him not approach me!”

Roderick was about to enter and to speak, when the wild paroxysm of Cava was
renewed. Her terror became extreme, and rushing in the opposite direction from
the door where the king stood, she dashed herself against the unyielding wall as if

she would have found an escape through it, though at the hazard of her life. Her
terror seemed to increase as she found her flight prevented, and, sinking to the floor,
in a series of hysterical paroxysms, she shrieked and gibbered like an idiot, dumb
with fright, her hands extended toward the entrance and waving away the intruder.
This was no time for explanation; and, venting his anger in muttered curses, which
Egilona heard imperfectly, he left his victim to the considerate humanity of his wife.
Nor did the noble woman who, in that bitter moment, in the despair of the young
maiden before her, beheld the full realization of her fears, suffer her own sense of
injury to make her heedless of her who had been, however unwillingly, the cause
of it all. Her humanity and religion were triumphant over her woman pride. Gentleness
was her instinct; and, sighing bitterly, she proceeded to soothe the terror and
condole with, if she could not alleviate, the sorrows of the maiden. Tenderly lifting
her from the floor where she had fallen, she bore her to the cushions, and proceeded
to a cabinet from which she took some bottles of reviving cordials and perfumes.
With these she bathed the temples of Cava, who, meantime, spoke nothing,
or single words only, but who maintained, all the while, with few and those brief
intervals, a most distressful sobbing.

“Poor maiden!” murmured Egilona, as she performed these kind offices—“Poor
maiden! would that I had never seen thee, ere I had seen thee thus. Would thou
hadst still kept with thy father, in his secluded hills, where thou hadst peace—and
innocence. Alas! how will my lord look upon his face? How shall I surrender
thee to him? What shall I say, in discharge of his fond trust—in fulfilment of my
rash promise? Oh Roderick, Roderick! what a ruin hast thou made!”

Cava shuddered in the arms of the queen. She had heard the tones of condolence,
she had distinguished some of the words, and when Egilona paused, and the
warm tears fell fast and thick from her eyes upon the cheek and bosom of her she
sustained, the poor girl turned herself so as to look up into the face of the queen,
and with broken words she thanked her for the sympathy she gave.

“But!” she exclaimed, wildly and passionately, a moment after, “speak nothing
of my father. No! no! I never more shall see him. I dare not! He will spurn
me from him; he would slay me with the sudden blow!”

“Nay, speak not thus, sweet Cava; be not thus passionate. Why shouldst thou
not see him? Thou dost him wrong. He will not hurt thee.”

“Ah, madam, thou knowest not!” exclaimed the shuddering victim—“thou
knowest not, and I cannot tell thee. I have not the words—I have not the strength.
But thy lord—the king—Roderick—to whom, as to a father, did my own father
give me in trust—he”—

She threw herself from the arms of Egilona, and her face lay prone upon the
floor, which was wet with her gushing tears. The queen strove in vain to pacify
her.

“I was not guilty!” she exclaimed, in continuation; “Oh! believe me. They
blinded me, and the strength of men was upon me. Hadst thou, oh! hadst thou
kept me to thyself, in thy apartments, nor sent me to that far, fearful chamber!”

“Would that I had!” exclaimed the queen, fervently. Cava continued:

“I cried to thee, my lady, I cried to thee in my terror and my pain, till my breath
left me. I cried to thee with all my strength, but thou didst not come. Why didst
thou not come; why didst thou not save me?”

“Alas, my poor maiden! but I heard thee not. I would freely have died to save
thee.”

“I called upon God, too, and he did not hear me. Upon my father; oh! that he
had heard—that he had dreamed of this! I had been safe! But all deserted me—

none came; and I am—oh God! oh father!—I am what I dare not name, and what
will kill me. Would he had slain me! Would that Roderick had put a keen
knife into my heart, ere I had seen this day—ere he had done me this wrong! But
it is not too late. I can die—I can die! He shall not see my face! I shall not
look upon him in my shame!”

Raving thus with the fever of mind and body both, she started at these words
from the floor where she lay, and looked wildly around her.

“What wouldst thou, Cava?” demanded the queen.

The poor girl did not immediately answer. Her eyes seemed to search over the
apartment; then, as if disappointed, she sank forward again upon the floor, exclaiming,
as she did so, in reply:

“Death! death! I would have death: I must! It will hide my shame; it will
give me quiet; it will stop this fire in my brain; it will save me from my father—
my proud, poor father.”

“And wherefore, dear Cava, dost thou fear to see thy father? He will not
chide thee; thou art not guilty.”

“I am! I am!” she vehemently exclaimed; “I am guilty of life. The life of
woman is her purity. She is guilty if she survives it. Canst thou not help me?
Oh, my lady, my royal mistress! be my friend; give me help; let me have death.
Give me some weapon whose keen, quick stroke will release me from this dreadful
agony. Give it me, I pray thee, that I may die ere I see my father.”

“Speak not thus, my dear Cava; but pray to Heaven rather for strength, for
peace, for resignation,” said the queen.

“Ay, it is well!” exclaimed Cava, now sitting up, and speaking not merely in
tones of firmness but of vehemence; “it is well for thee, Egilona, to counsel me
to resignation, when thy lord hath destroyed me for ever! Thy counsel of resignation
to me is but a counsel of submission; but I warn thee that my submission
will work wo to thy lord. I will die—I know that; I cannot live—I must not;
I will perish, ere my father shall behold me; but he shall hear of my wrongs, and
he shall avenge them! I will not perish in silence, though I perish in secret
My prayers, ere I die, shall move the winds of heaven, if other messengers be denied
me, to bear the tidings of this wrong to my noble father. He will avenge
me terribly upon thy lord; he may not be counselled to submission to such foul
dishonor.”

It would be needless to linger upon this painful scene. Words would inadequately
express the anguish of the unfortunate Cava. She was a maniac for the
time; and it was only by sheer exhaustion of the animal faculties, that she was
quieted at last. In the pause of her passion, the queen summoned her attendants,
and they bore her unresistingly to her chamber; but as the fatal apartment in
which she had suffered the dreadful wrong which had debased her pride and shaken
her reason, opened upon her, the paroxysms of her frenzy were renewed.
The excitement of her mind gave new powers to her body; and of a sudden, with
one piercing shriek, which rang through the vaulted passages, she broke away
from the grasp of those who attended her. With a flight which seemed that of a
bird, and a footstep whose fleetness set all pursuit at defiance, once more she hurried
along the course which she had taken when flying from her destroyer. Once
more she would have rushed into the presence of Egilona, whom she had just left,
when, at the entrance of the queen's apartment, she met the cruel Roderick himself.
The sight was like a sudden blow from a steel-gloved hand upon the poor
maniac. Her hands were thrown up in horror and affright, and she sank to the
floor with one deep exclamation of dread and disgust, which smote to the heart of

the tyrant. The attendants seized upon her senseless person, and conveyed her
now without difficulty to the chamber whence she had fled, and in which the kind
providence of the queen had commanded that two of them should remain with her.
Nor did Egilona content herself with this degree of care. She visited the unhappy
victim in her chamber, and with a humility which was not without its effect
upon Cava, she bore with all those bitter reproaches, which, in her despair
and agony, the latter did not scruple to utter. The blow which had destroyed the
maiden, had also been a cruel blow to her; yet never did Christian meekness and
Christain hope more admirably sustain, even while they subdued her high and
holy spirit. She herself spoke no word injurious to her lord, though she spoke
to Cava in tones and language of sympathy and encouragement, befitting the ears
of one who had so grievously suffered; and when, at length, in stupor rather than
sleep, the poor maiden lay before her with closed eyes and in utter silence, never
did sinner pray more fervently or plead with more humility for grace from heaven
on the sufferer, than did the wife of him who had been the parent of all the suffering.
Nor should it subtract from the power of her prayer, that she mingled with
it a humble petition for mercy on the wrong-doer. Her love, like the heaven to
which she sent her entreaties, was boundless; and in her charity, while she wept
the crime, she could yet hope for that indulgence for the criminal which the interests
of her own heart, if not the merits of his for whom she prayed, imperatively
demanded.

4. CHAPTER IV.

The unhappy Cava slept; but her spirit was awake, and her dreams were full
of the liveliest images of horror. The events of the day were renewed by her
aroused fancies in the night; and her sudden shrieks, as she started from her rest,
broke the slumbers of the maidens who were alloted to sleep with her. They
quieted her with difficulty; and, finding that she was watched and guarded as it
were, her anguish put on the aspects of a sullen stupor. She gave no seeming
heed to those about her, or to the pressing and cureless thought, but appeared now
satisfied to endure the sorrow which she could no longer avert. The hours were
passed in a slow silence on her part, though her attendants in many ways strove
to attract her attention and enlist her interest. They spoke in light tones and in
playful language in her hearing; but that which they meant as music was only so
much discord to her soul. Like one sinking into stone, she sat in a gloomy indifference
before them. They brought her music, and the gay seguadille—a dance
originally Roman, but mingled in Iberia with certain Moorish movements; they
danced before her with the grace peculiar to the Spaniard; but they failed to
awaken her regard or affect the dull, immoveable features of the mourner. She
ate, as if in compliance with a customary habit, and not with appetite; and consciousness
seemed almost to have left her, until late in the day ensuing her wrong,
when Roderick presumed once more to appear before his victim. With his presence,
life seemed once more to awaken. Her consciousness came back to her in
a renewal of her wo, though not with such an exhibition of it as before. She did
not shriek—she uttered no moan. Her heart seemed to have acquired undue and
unnatural strength; and though she turned from the presence which was no less
dreadful than hateful to her soul, and fixed her gaze in mute deliberation upon the
stony wall of her chamber, her wo was no less apparent to the intruder in its dumb

aspect, than when, with hair disheveled and voice screaming as she fled, she had
made her escape from his fierce embrace. He motioned to the attendants to leave
the apartment, and she saw them do so without seeking to arrest them. This appeared
a favorable indication to the mind of the lustful monarch. He approached
her where she sat, and kneeled down beside her. She started to her feet, and retreated
slowly to the opposite end the room; and when he rose to follow her, and
looked upon her face, all passion was checked and chilled within him. Her looks
wore that expression of indescribable despair which says, more emphatically than
language, that hope is for ever gone. Her eyes were luminous, but stationary.
They gazed fixedly upon him, and no single revolution of their orbs took place
while he watched her. Her lips were rigidly closed together; and when they separated
to admit her speech, her teeth remained fast clenched below. Her voice
was hollow, like that of one perishing with hunger in the deep abyss of some dismal
cavern; and every word which she uttered went into his soul like a keen iron
He trembled while he heard her.

“My lord, approach me not. If you do, you approach one who is wedded to
and resolved for death. The power of death is even now upon me. I feel it in
me; in my veins—in my head—in my heart. If this may not disarm your cruel
lust, may God have mercy on me—I can do no more. You have already doomed
me. Be satisfied, and leave me to die. It will not be long; and I would be at
peace—such peace as you have left me—until that moment. Be merciful; let me
not pray to you in vain. Be merciful, and spare me from any farther violence.”

“And why do you fear violence at my hands, fair Cava?” replied the monarch,
in tones in which respect and appetite were strangely mingled. He approached
as he spoke. She waved him back, while she replied:

“Why do I fear violence at the hands of him whose brutal power hath destroyed
me? Why does the mother clasp the shivering infant to her bosom, when
she hears the tramp of the wild beast which hath devoured its brother? But you
mistake me, king Roderick; I do not fear your violence. You cannot harm me
now. You cannot—you dare not again seize me, with foul thoughts, in your polluting
embrace. I am secure from that in your fears, in your apprehensions, and
these spare mine own. You would as soon clasp the decaying bones of the already
buried, as clasp me. In the death which is now feeding on me, and which
you must behold in these eyes, I am secure. It is your touch from which I would
fly; it is your presence that I would not behold; it is your voice which I would
not hear.”

“So stern, so cruel to me, fair Cava; whose only error was in loving thee too
much,” said the monarch.

“Thou love!” she exclaimed; “oh God! how are thy blessings and thy benefits
profaned! Love cherishes, but thou hast destroyed. In thy selfish and sinful
lusts, king Roderick, thou hast blasted as sweet a hope as ever blossomed in poor
maiden's heart. For the pleasure of thy foul passion—the passion of an hour—
thou hast taken from me life and love, and all that I have lived for, and all that I
could love; and now I crave but one mercy at thy hands—that, as with thy unmanly
violence thou hast degraded me from hope, and deprived me of the love
which honored and would have blessed me, thou wilt employ another violence,
in compliance with my prayer—the only one which I make to thee—and rid me
of life also. Do so, king Roderick; and if I cannot bless thee, I will at least thank
thee for the kind though destroying blow.”

“Alas! Cava, wherefore dost thou urge me thus? Why wilt thou not be happy,
as I implore thee? Thou art not the beloved of a poor hilding—of a trader to

Tangier and the Pillars, that needest to be virtuous. Thy state gives thee a certain
freedom which thou wert not wise not to use. Wouldst thou be unlike the
other dames of the court, many of whom would joy at thy fortune? Remember,
it is a king who implores thee, fair Cava; he can make thee a princess, before
whom even Egilona herself shall how. He can deck thee with jewels, and honor
thee with a service which shall vex into jealous fever the proudest damsels of the
court.”

“Thou knowest me not, king Roderick. These things have no power upon my
thoughts. I seek for no admiration which shall beget envy in others; nor would
I trench upon one smallest right of that noble lady, Egilona. But why do I speak
to thee thus? Thou canst not persuade me, king Roderick; thou mayst trample
me into submission by thy brutal strength; thou mayst misuse this frail body by
cruel and unmanly violence; but it is my joy that thon canst not move my spirit;
thou canst not persuade my mind by any temptation which thou showest me. If
it has seemed meet with God to deny me the strength to resist thine, at least He
hath not denied me the resolution of soul to reject thy prayers and scorn the arts
and temptations with which thou wouldst bring me to thy purpose. This is my
consolation now; that I have not yielded, though I have suffered—that I have not
been guilty of wrong in the wrongs which I have borne. It will be this only
which gives me strength to hope that I may see and speak but once with my father
ere I perish.”

“Ha! dost thou hope thus, Cava; dost thou hope to speak with thy father of
thy wrong? Wherefore this? Of what avail will it be to thee that thou shouldst
have speech with him? What wouldst thou say to him, to please him or to help
thyself.”

“I would have vengeance, Roderick! a vengeance as fearful as the wrong I have
borne; and for this reason would I see and speak with my father. It is my only
prayer, ere I die, that he may hear from my lips, or gather, if I have not that privilege,
the tidings from some swift messenger, of thy brutal rage and the disgrace
which thou hast cast upon his blood. He will not sleep ere he avenge it. He will
not sell thee his honor for the baubles in thy gift. I know him, and thou knowst
him well; and when he shall hear of the shame of his daughter, beware his wrath!
it will sweep and rend thee, king Roderick, as even now—better heedful of his
trust than thou of thine—he rends the armies of the invading Moor, which beset
thy coast.”

“But thou shalt not see him, fair Cava; thou shalt not reveal this madness to
his ears; nor shall he have idle knowledge of thy secret. Thou wert too bold to
declare thy purpose. These walls shall circumscribe thee till thou growest wiser.
When thou shalt meet my love with a gentler temper, thou shalt have freedom—
but not till then. Nor shalt thou have cause of anger with me the while. I will
woo thee, fair Cava, as I have wooed no woman yet. I will minister to thee in a
thousand forms of love, and thou shalt not withstand me. Wherefore wouldst
thou withstand my love? What is this demure virtue which thou affectest? A
bond and a fetter, fit only for the cold hearts whose icy temper is proof against all
pleasant warmth. Such is no heart of thine. Thine shalt melt to mine. Thou
shalt smile where thou frownest now; and, forgetting the idle rules of that freezing
chastity which unloved maidens fitly boast, thou shalt meet my spirit with one
no less fond and apprehensive of its joys. Such is my hope, sweet Cava; and in
this hope I will keep thee in bonds until the season of its spring. When, like the
bird which has grown familiar with his wires, thou singest a sweet song of content
in mine ear, then will I withdraw the bolt, and give thee the freedom which

thou wilt not use. Meanwhile, sweetest Cava, give ear to reason, and bend thy
heart, stern and stubborn though it be, to the fond pleading and the single truth of
mine.”

“King Roderick, I trust thou wilt not keep me from my father,” said the forlorn
woman.

“Will I not! Believe me, but I will. I am doubly sworn to it now, since thou
hast forewarned me of thy purpose. My love for thee is enough to make me resolute
in this; and while thou threatenest, a prudent caution prompts me no less
to the same resolve. Thou art my prisoner, sweet Cava; but like a choice bird,
of mellowest note and loveliest plumage, thou shalt be so tended that thou shalt
not feel thy bondage, nor behold the wires which restrain thee. Ere many days,
thou wilt forget thy cage, and begin thy song of gladness as before.”

“If thou hast so resolved, king Roderick, I have not the strength to break my
bonds, nor the wing to fly them; but I may at least be permitted to hope that I
bear my bondage in solitude. I will bear thy restraints, if thou come not nigh. I
will be submiss, so that thou come not near to compel it. But I warn thee, king,
that though I have not the strength to break thy chain, nor the wing to fly from
thy prison, yet I despair not of escape from thee, and I feel that vengeance is sure.
I know that I will break through these vain restraints of thy power, and I trust in
Heaven's justice to avenge my wrong.”

“I fear it not, sweet Cava; and thy threats, not less than thy hopes, are idle and
fruitless. The walls are thick, and my guards fill the garden. How canst thou
escape?”

She moved a step toward him, ere she replied; then, in solemn accents, which
he felt even while he flouted them, she spoke:

“By a stronger arm than thine—by Death! I tell thee, king Roderick, that
she, the pale maiden, who was given to thee in trust—having youth, and beauty,
and a heart which was gushing with warm hope and the innocentest love, but
whom in thy wanton cruelty thou hast dishonored and destroyed—will escape thee
by death. It comes—slowly, perchance, but surely; and I feel that it is at hand
Ere three days, I tell thee, thou wilt hear, when thou least thinkest to hear, or it
may be when thou least thinkest of her—that she is free. They will tell thee,
while the untasted wine is at thy lips, that Cava, thy victim, is dead—that she fears
thee no longer, as she fears thee now. Thou will hear; and, haughty as thou art,
thou wilt tremble.”

He did tremble, though he ceased not to speak boldly, and in accents persuading
her to guilt. But she answered him no more. She turned from his presence, and
gave no reply to his solicitations, even if she heard them. After fruitless efforts,
as well of argument as of entreaty, he resolved for the present to forbear her presence,
trusting that time and subduing circumstances might change her temper, and
soften that stern resolve of character, which it had not been his lot, in that licentious
court which he ruled, to encounter often—and which, indeed, from the gentleness
of Cava's demeanor heretofore, and the pliant softness of her manner, would
have seemed as foreign to her character as it was singular in his sight. Her character
had undergone a most unexpected change. She was no longer timid, shrieking,
and apprehensive. She was strong in her despair, resolute from the dreadful
cruelty to which she had been subjected, and totally unapprehensive, as she had
already suffered the worst of injuries. When Egilona visited her, which she did
soon after the departure of Roderick, she found her as calm as the immoveable
rock, and seemingly as insensible.

5. CHAPTER V.

The desires of the archbishop were in some measure gratified, though the interview
with Egilona had been productive of but very partial gratification to his personal
feelings. The treasure which he had received from the queen, compensated
in great part for that of which Roderick had despoiled him; and the discovery he
had made, while in attendance, and which abridged the interview, had its advantages,
and furnished the argument which he had long desired by which to move
count Julian to his purpose. To effect this object, what did it matter to him that
the girl was destroyed? What was her virtue, her peace of mind, her happiness
in this life and the next, to his ambition? Had there been thousands, instead of
one, whose sacrifice were essential to his projects, he would not have scrupled to
have required it; though the temporary and uncertain dominion of a few short years
over a vicious and changing people, was the sole reward as it was the sole stimulant
to such a grievous sin.

The shrieks of Cava, her flight and dishevelled appearance, as, rushing from the
brutal embrace of Roderick, she sought the presence and protection of the queen,
revealed the catastrophe to the archbishop. When he reached his own palace, he
proceeded to avail himself of his knowledge. In his private chamber, he prepared
the billet which follows:

This done, he called a trusty courier, to whom he gave instructions to proceed
to the command of count Julian, at Ceuta, to whom he should contrive the delivery
of the letter without being seen to do so. The characters of the writing were disguised,
and there was no signature. He well knew that with a man of the high
spirit and proud sense of honor of count Julian, it needed not a name to prompt him
to action in a matter of such painful moment; yet the courier had his instructions to
wait, observe, and, if need be, to act discretionally upon the movements of Julian,
with authority from the archbishop to declare himself as the bearer of the letter, and
to reveal its author, should events seem favorable to that course

6. CHAPTER VI.

A day passed, and the night following came the release of Egiza from his dungeon.
His escape from his pursuers has been noted, and we have seen his safe arrival
with Romano at the palace of the archbishop. His appearance was productive
of no little anxiety to the latter, who felt that he was hourly accumulating new toils
around himself, from which nothing but the strong hand and the rapid progress of
desired events could give him extrication. To his nephew, he spoke freely of his
fears.

“You must fly. There is no shelter for you here. Your escape, and the death
of Guisenard, will rouse the rage of the tyrant even more greatly than before, and
he will hunt you in every suspected quarter. My palace will be one of the first
places of suspicion, and you must fly from it this very night.”

“God will keep his own!” exclaimed Romano; “let the holy man resolve for
himself, my father. He hath slain the jailer, and he hath confounded the pursuers;
and he will write the doom upon the walls, yea, in the very face of this Belshazzar;
and the Lord will be his keeper, and he will suffer no harm. Praise be to the
Lord!”

The zealot continued to murmur to himself in broken prayers and praises, but the
archbishop gave them little heed; and though his conduct awakened the wonder of
the prince, yet he was too much filled with his own troubles of mind to dwell long
upon those of another. His reply to Oppas revealed the deep anxiety which possessed
his soul.

“Tell me not of flight, uncle; tell me of nothing but the maiden. What of Cava?
Speak!—answer me that.”

Romano looked up with some bewilderment. Oppas had his own reasons for
concealment of the truth. He replied, evasively:

“Indeed, my son, I know nothing.”

“Speak not to me of flight, then. I leave not Toledo till I see her and know all,
and hear from her own lips whether I dare continue to look upon her with hope,
or”—

He paused and clasped his burning brow with his hands for a moment; then starting
suddenly, he was about to depart.

“Whither wouldst thou go?” demanded the archbishop.

“I know not; I am blind—I am without thought or direction,” was the desperate
reply.

“Nay, then, my son,” said the archbishop, placing his hand tenderly upon the
shoulder of the youth, “let me counsel thee.”

“Restrain him not, father!” exclaimed Romano; “he does the will of a greater
than thou. The spirit of the Lord is upon him, and His hand shall guide his footsteps.
How hath He led him in safety, to the discomfiture of the pursuers. The
fierce man, thirsting for his blood, stood up in the way of the Lord, and I smote
him—even under the fifth rib I smote him, as the Lord had commanded.”

“I must go, uncle,” said Egiza to the archbishop, in a whisper. “I cannot remain
here in safety, and I would not wish to do so. I must seek the palace gardens
this night, since I may best penetrate them now undiscovered by the guards
But I would not have this strange priest to follow or go with me. Thou must divert
his thought—his attention. Do not suffer him to pursue me.”

This did not appear so easy a matter. The zealot seemed to consider himself the

special attendant of the man of God; and when Egiza rose, he rose also—when he
moved, he followed him—and when he spoke, the look of Romano denoted the
watchful regard which he gave to every syllable that was uttered. But the ready
thought of Oppas relieved the prince of his difficulty.

“Command him as thou wilt, my son,” he replied to Egiza, in the same subdued
tones; “he will obey thee. Speak to him with authority; it will the more insure
thee his regard to what thou sayest, for he holds himself, by divine command, to be
thy follower and servant.”

“I will then bid him remain with thee,” said the prince.

“By no means, since it may be that he has been seen in thy prison, and the murder
of the keeper may be traced home to him. If he be found here, suspicion
necessarily touches me, and it behoves me at this moment to be doubly cautious.
Send him rather beyond the walls: stay, come with me while I will find thee a
commission for him. But bid him await thy return here.”

This dialogue was conducted in a whisper. Egiza, as the archbishop counselled
him, bade the zealot await his return. He folded his hands upon his breast, and
howed reverently as he promised to obey.

“As thou wilt, holy brother. To move or to rest, to strike or to spare, even as
thou commandest, am I resolved and ready. They serve not the Lord who serve
Him not according as He wills, and not as they will themselves; and the self-willed
and the stiff-necked He smiteth with the sword. Ay, He smiteth him with a sword
in the moment of his presumption, and his pride is sorely humbled. I will await
thee, holy brother, even as thou commandest; the will of God be done.”

The archbishop, regarding the famished and enfeebled looks of the zealot, inquired
if he needed not food.

“Food! holy father; no! This earthly tabernacle hath need of little, and that
little I already have. My food is the contemplation of the Lord's glories, His mysterious
ways, and His almighty providence In my fastings I have heavenly manna.
The bread which supports me is His blessed love; the drink which refreshes me is
the blood of His atoning grace. Shall I hunger after earthly and low meats, when
such food as this is spread before me? I were most unwise to do so; and the taste
were perverse which could endure the common viands of mortal desire, after such
blessed refreshment.”

“But thou wilt grow weak and weary, my brother, unless thou wilt partake of
this mortal diet. Thy limbs are feeble now—thy face is thin and wan”—

“Feeble, my father! dost thou say? Alas! thou art blind to say so. The
strength is great within me. Thou knowest not the power, under the Father, of
these poor limbs. I smote him—thou shouldst have seen me smite him; though he
had eaten of flesh, and was strong among men, after the common thinking of mankind—yet
I smote him, even as the butcher felleth the ox, with a single blow did I
smite him to the earth. Yet had he eaten in my sight—he and his wife! May the
blessing and the bounty of the Lord be upon her and the child!”—

Egiza shuddered and turned away with a strange sickness, as he listened to these
words. But the fanatic proceeded:

“He had eaten and drunken of earthly food, and he fancied that he was strong.
He refused the Lord—he defied His power—and he perished. But I, who had not
eaten, holy father—if thou wilt believe me—I, who had eaten but of the bitter root,
and drank but of the simple water, for days and weeks—I, whom they call feeble
and thin—with the blessing and strength of the Lord, I smote this strong man who
had fed upon flesh daily and he fell like an infant before my blow. Vainly did he
strive; for though he lifted his arm to avert the blow, and would have grasped my

throat with his extended fingers, yet the arm was palsied and the fingers were stiff,
and they could not seize the flesh upon which they rested. Wonderful, wonderful
is the Lord! He is a God doing wonders!”

The madness of the zealot was evidently increasing in even degree with his fast
increasing feebleness; and anxious though Egiza was to obtain intelligence of Cava,
and thinking indeed of little else, he could not forbear to linger and to listen to the
peculiar idiosyncrasy which Romano's words developed. He little knew how completely
his madness had been the result of that artful management of his uncle, of
which he, too, had been, in another respect, the equally unconscious victim.

7. CHAPTER VII.

They left Romano, and proceeded to confer in another apartment. Here they resolved
that the fanatic should be sent upon some business of fancied importance out
of Toledo. This charge the archbishop assumed to himself—Egiza being required
simply to instruct the priest to obey him, as if he himself commanded in each particular.
The prince then demanded a dagger from his uncle, which he received, and
hiding it in his bosom, he prepared to take his departure. When they returned to
the room in which Romano had been left, they found him lying upon his face. He
was faint with exhaustion; and though he seemed conscious of their presence and
care, he did not at the moment give any evidence that he understood their words.
The archbishop commanded that wine should be brought and poured into his mouth
This revived him. A little food was brought at the same time, and an effort was
made to force or persuade him to eat. But it was not successful. They poured a
small quantity of wine down his throat, and a temporary reanimation of his frame
was the consequence. Meanwhile, Egiza, taking advantage of the circumstances,
left the palace; and though the eyes of Romano beheld his flight, and gleamed with
disquiet and dissatisfaction as they beheld, yet his limbs refused their office. Their
strength, of which he had boasted but a little while before, was seemingly all departed.
It had been overtasked by the labors put upon it; and the probability is that
the hallucinations of his mind had been in great part the result of his ascetic life
and unnatural abstinence. He nevertheless pushed aside the attendants who administered
to him, pointed to the door through which Egiza had fled, and strove to rise
and pursue. But he could not; he sank back with a deep sigh and lay motionless
on the floor. The archbishop at first thought that life had departed; but when he
placed his hand upon the body, it shrank from his touch, and the next moment Romano
raised himself to a sitting posture.

“The holy brother, my father? Where hath he gone? Shall I not see him?
Hath he left me no tasks?”

“He hath, Romano; these will I deliver to thee in season.”

The eye of the fanatic brightened, and a smile of pleasure rested upon his thin
and pallid lip.

“Give them to me now, my father!” he exclaimed, striving desperately to rise to
his feet.

“Nay, not yet,” said the archbishop, persuasively. “There is yet time. To-morrow”—

“There is no to-morrow for me, my father. The Lord hath called me. I heard
His voice but now, calling unto me, and I sank down in a swoon while I heard it.
What the holy brother hath left for me to do, that must I do quickly. I have little

time; keep it not from me; let me not go before my tasks be ended, and the good
work done, which hath been left to me.”

“Thou hast done thy work; thou hast been the faithful steward, and mayst go
without fear to thy account.”

“Said he so?” eagerly demanded the dying man. “Did he tell thee this, my
father?”

The archbishop nodded in affirmation. Romano clasped his hands, and the muttered
prayer and thankfulness of his lips were audible, though indistinctly syllabled,
and the tear stood in his eye—the bright drop of a most pious gratitude—in proof of
the delight which this intelligence gave him.

“Now am I ready to depart!” he exclaimed. “The day is done—the night is
coming on—the weary shall rest....... Yet, father,” he continued, rising and resting
his form upon his elbow; “yet, father, if thou wilt believe me, I had nearly faltered—
nearly sank back from the blessed heights—when the promised land lay before me.
What a moment of blindness was that, my father!”

“What moment, Romano?”

“When I faltered.”

“And when was that, my brother?” inquired the archbishop; not so much with
a desire to know as to amuse and satisfy the mind of the dying man.

“When the Lord bade me strike. Then, then, I bethought me of the long communion
I had had with Guisenard, ere he had sworn himself God's enemy and the
oppressor of the brethren; and I bethought me of his wife, who is young and passing
lovely. Many a time had I broken and blessed the bread in their habitation. Alas!
that it was God's pleasure that I should do otherwise. This was my weakness, father;
when I thought too much upon these things. I had almost stumbled, and fell
back from the service; but I grew strong, when the keeper bade me sup with him.
I smote him ere the speech was over; but I had almost missed, I had almost lost for
ever the blessed crown which is before my hope in this hour. And there was yet
one more trial to my soul, my father—one more trial, when the piercing shriek of
the woman came to my ear, as we fled. Hush! hark! I hear it now!—now!—
now!”

He clapped his hands upon his ears, shrieked loudly himself, then with one convulsive
effort fell over upon the floor, still and lifeless as the man he had slain in
his madness.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The archbishop was confounded. He had not expected a death so singular and
so sudden. He saw, from the moment of Romano's return with the fugitive, that
the tenure of his life was slight as the solitary fibre from which the indefatigable
spider depends with all his fortunes; but he looked to see him linger on while the
quick and animating spirit of his phrensy was still within his bosom to sustain it.
Such might have been the case, had any new duty been assigned him by Egiza, as
the Messenger of Heaven. The pious fury which had sustained him so long without
food, would have sustained him to the end. But the body—the frail garment of
mortality—was, in his instance, upheld and warmed and invigorated by the moving
principle of mind, wrought upon by the highest of all mortal powers, religious zeal,
and concentrating every faculty of thought and feeling upon a given object. This
object consummated, the chords were naturally and necessarily relaxed. The steward

had fulfilled his trusts; to employ his own words, and at the same time afford
the proper clue to his sudden death—the duties of life were fairly over, and the
laborer had gone to his reward.

It was fortunate that, at the moment of Romano's demise, the archbishop was
alone. Though confounded by the event, he did not forget his customary policy.
He carefully closed the door of the apartment, secured the key, and leaving the body
where it ceased to live, he retired to his own apartment. Here he deliberated upon
what he should do in the present difficulties. It was manifestly necessary that the
corpse should be removed. If, in the search which he knew would be made after
the fugitives, it should be found in his dwelling, the suspicious which must follow
in the mind of Roderick would be difficult to parry, and, as he well knew the scorn
if not hatred which the latter entertained towards the priest—a scorn that only for
bore injury as it too little esteemed the object, or was governed by a policy that
feared to break utterly with a powerful priesthood—he dreaded lest Roderick should
identify him and his feelings with those of the deceased. This was a well-grounded
fear, and it called for especial caution on his part, not merely to avoid the hostility
of the despot, but to disarm those suspicions which might otherwise stand greatly in
the way of his farther projects. It was his policy, not merely to avoid all question
of his fidelity, but particularly to inspire the king with confidence in it. He aimed
at the employment and direction of Roderick's power, not less than the aggrandisement
and promotion of his own; and this could only be secured by a policy as tortuous
and refined as his desires seemed to be ultimate and difficult. But the removal
of the corpse of the fanatic was absolutely and immediately necessary. This was
resolved upon; and the mind of Oppas, while he resolved, conceived a project in
which boldness seemed the fruit of necessity. He gave orders to his servants to retire
to their offices for the might, while he prepared to undress himself alone. This
done, he arranged a habit which he wore only upon occasions of similar necessity,
and which effectually disguised his person. Having put on this dress, he waited
patiently the progress of the night. When the hour had become sufficiently late,
he descended without a light to the apartment in which he had left, the body of the
monk, and with ease raised it upon his shoulder. The burden was slight. The
miserable ascetic, to whose wretched system of life the irregularity of his mind and
exhaustion of frame, might be ascribed equally, was a mere skeleton, and the powerful
limbs of the archbishop, better calculated for the fatigues of the field than the
humbling devotions of the cloister, bore the corpse as if it were unfelt. Cautiously
moving through the apartments, Oppas made his way without interruption into the
outer court of his dwelling, and paused under its archways, until he could note the
appearance of the street. Finding all quiet, he emerged from his place of concealment,
and went resolutely forward in the direction of the royal palace, which rose
before his eyes at a little distance. He had not gone far when he beheld the shadow
of a mule, and a man lying beside him, seemingly asleep, against one of the columns
of the public aqueduct. He laid the corpse down upon the ground, and went
forward to reconnoitre the spot. The man slept soundly. He was a water-carrier,
and only waited thus the coming of morning to commence his duties. The
goat-skins in which he carried the water, lay about and beneath him; and the
patient mule, as if long accustomed to his present station, stood by, entirely untethered,
and yet immovable. Having satisfied himself that he might pass unnoticed,
the archbishop hastened back, and resumed his burden. He passed the aqueduct,
and the sleeping man, in safety, and approached the palace. When he came in
front of it, he paused abruptly, and sank behind one of the rude stone abutments
of the fabric A soldier paced along sluggishly, before the court, and was then

approaching. The apprehension of the archbishop was, that he might walk the
whole length of the palace, and if he did he could scarce escape detection. To be
discovered, was to lose everything, and the resolve of the stern churchman was as
fierce as it was ready. He felt for the handle of his dagger in his bosom, made it
easy to his grasp, determined, if he came nigh, to stab him to the heart. But he
was spared such a cruel alternative. The soldier sauntered but a little distance in
front of the court, then wheeled about, and proceeded in the same listless manner
toward the opposite tower. With the change in his movement, the archbishop resumed
his own, and reaching the entrance of the palace unobserved; immediately
darted beneath the arches. It was here that he resolved to leave his burden; and
with something of tenderness toward the corpse, he placed it directly before the
massive gate which opened upon the great hall of the royal dwelling. This done,
he hurried away. With cautious steps he moved onward until he had got fairly
beyond the reach of the guard, when he resumed the unruffled and composed gait
of one who had no motive for flight or fear. He reached his own habitation without
any adventure, and slept, in an hour after, as composedly as if nothing had
occurred.

9. CHAPTER IX.

Meanwhile, the hapless Egiza, was pursuing his own lonely pilgrimage to the
gardens of the royal palace. He had once before scaled the walls, high and huge,
which the tyrant had raised as a barrier, to keep away the intrusive footstep and
the curious eye from the scene of his lustful and luxurious pleasures. There was
no reason why he should not scale them again. He went forward, approached the
walls, and prepared to do so; but while his hand grasped the rugged projection
of the wall, and ere he sprang upward, he heard a murmur, and the tread of a footstep
within. He paused and listened; the sounds at length died away, and with a
reckless spirit, seizing the protruding rock, and swinging upward with elastic muscle,
he planted his foot firmly upon a strong knob, that bulged out midway upon
the wall, and, in another instant, looked down upon the lonely maze of grove and
garden, that spread themselves out before his eye, in the spacious courts within.
All was silent at that moment in the scene before him. The moon was just rising,
and brought with her from the east a gentle breeze, that, as it came subdued among
the flowers, was rather a melodious breathing than a zephyr. The deep leaves of
the olive lay here and there like glittering specks of water before his eye, as they
gave a plane surface to her rising glance; and the vine spreading with dark purple
clusters, in a wanton maze that clasped even the tops of the gigantic oak-tree, and
bound them in many places to the wall itself, upon which he leaned, and over
it wandered with unrestrained luxuriance, made a roof to the verdant neighborhood,
which rendered it a spot as secret and secure as it seemed sacred to the generous nature
to which it owed so much. How beautiful was the night, even to his gaze! He had
a soul open to such influences, and it was a source of frequent sarcasm, if not censure,
on the part of his brother Pelayo, that he could dream away the hours in
slumbrous groves, as idle as the birds that fill them. “At our birth,” Pelayo was
wont to say; “at our birth, Egiza had all the ballad minstrelsy,” and the phrase
denoted truly the pliant spirit of the now hapless youth to all gentle and natural
influences. Though miserable, he could not even now reject the sentiment of loveliness
which filled his soul, at the various pictures which lay before him The

moonlight, rising over the gloomy towers of the palace, stole through the thinly
scattered leaves and the open boughs, and lay, here and there, like so many silvery
gems, mottling the dusky ground; while, on the thicker foliage, her glances rested
as upon a plate of green and polished metal, which reflected back a loveliness that
was even richer than that they received. A light more subdued, and therefore
sweeter than that of day, played fantastically upon the gloomy towers of the palace,
and the solemn crags of rock which furnished a natural wall to one portion of the
garden, through the ledges of which the interrupted Tagus went slightly murmuring.
Dark hollows in the rocks, and among the courts of the palace, where the light did
not come, stood like so many lurking shadows, crouching for concealment. Upon
those towers the eyes of Egiza were riveted in mournful anxiety. What were
their secrets? How anxiously did he desire, yet how greatly did he dread to know
what they could unfold. To think only, was to suffer a misery too acute for his
endurance; and he was about to rise upon the top of the wall, and descend to its
inner base, when a slight rustling in the leaves below warned him to use greater caution.
He drew back and listened quietly, though with unspeakable impatience, for
other sounds, while his eye peered watchfully over the wall. In a few moments a
soldier emerged from the chesnut-grove, which lay at a little distance off, the thick
foliage and massive limbs of which had entirely concealed him, and the glittering
shaft of his silver-headed pike waved as he paced along within a few feet only of
the eye of the fugitive. He could have grasped it with a sudden effort, and had
there been but one soldier, and no other mode of entrance into the garden, he would
not have scrupled an instant to have done so. But in another moment a second
soldier made his appearance from an opposite point, and the two moved off together
in the direction of one of the towers of the palace, to the guard of which they
seemed to have been assigned. Egiza readily saw the risk and danger of descending
from the spot at which he stood. While he gazed and listened, his eye turned on
the wall which lay by the Tagus, and partly within its waters, the murmuring
sounds of which had guided his ears, and insensibly attracted his sight; and he saw
that the region of the garden upon which he looked lay in greater depth of shade
than any other. He readily conceived that in this quarter the grounds would not
be so well guarded as that lying toward the city, and the thought which prompted
him to seek an entrance in that direction was instantly acted upon. He leaped once
more to the ground outside the wall, hurried around the heavy blocks of palace and
prison, which lay between him and the river, and soon reached its margin. A little
farther observation only was necessary, to enable him to see that it was easy to
enter from this quarter. The majestic river floated on calmly beside him, but as it
shallowed to its shores in little rivulets, and broke upon the rock of wall that
divided it from the garden, where its murmurs made a fitting music for the triumphant
and stately march of the stream which went on so unheedingly, he felt that
he could wade easily to the ledges that lay at the foot of the wall, and he then
thought that with the assistance of the shrubbery that grew thickly, even amid the
shallows, he might readily effect his ascent. He pressed forward unheeding the
depth of water, though, in some of the hollows of the stream, he found himself up
to his waist. Passing over the rocks, which were scattered thickly about, he soon
reached the base of the wall, and paused for momentary rest and observation.
He sat upon a stone the while, which was covered with moss; around him the
bushes were thickly waving, and from a cleft in a larger rock, which rose beside
him, a ragged tree had shot upward, crooked and imperfect in its growth, but nevertheless
admirably calculated to serve his purposes. Of this tree he availed himself
to rise to the wall, and then his task was easy. The groves within were of a donsity
which guaranteed security from all passing scrutiny, and no stir or sound below
him indicated the presence of the jealous sentinel. Seizing upon the broad and
massive limbs of a huge chesnut-tree which grew near an angle of the wall, he
descended by its trunk, and once more found himself within the same inclosure
with the beloved object of his affections and his fears.