2. CHAPTER II.
Terrible indeed was the shock to the unhappy father. A man of intense passions,
of indomitable pride, of exquisite sensibility—for all these may, and do, frequently
exist together—thus dishonored by his sovereign at the very moment
when he was most exultant in the consciousness of having achieved for the kingdom
of that monarch one of the most important victories,—the revulsion of feeling
was actually so great as to choke, for the moment, all the most vital faculties of
his physical and mental nature. For more than two hours he lay unnoticed in his
swoon. His officers and followers were too busy without, in attendance upon their
duties, or in the enjoyment of those sports and revels which grew naturally out of
their recent triumph, to know any thing of the suffering of the strong man within.
It was by the slow recovery of his unassisted faculties, that he finally became relieved
from this situation. His eyes opened upon the scene around him. The cressets
were still burning upon the wall. The fatal letter of Cava lay beside him.
His convulsion had served in some degree to obliterate the impression of his misery.
He had but a vague, confused sense of suffering—an imperfect memory of a terrible
wo—dark, fathomless, eternal. But the sight of the scrawl, as he half rose from the
floor, restored his more perfect consciousness. He grasped it convulsively.
“It is no dream!” he exclaimed; “the truth is here—the cruel, horrible truth!
God of heaven, have I been reserved for this!”
He took the paper in his grasp. Once more he crumpled it in his hand, as if to
stifle its cruel tidings. Once more he unfolded it, and drew near to the lights. As
he read, the strong man grew once more convulsed with his agony. But, this time,
the pressure upon the heart and brain was somewhat lessened by the big drops which
gushed out of his burning eyes.
“My child! my poor child! why hast thou been abandoned of heaven? Why
was thy innocence no surety—no safeguard? Oh! brutal, bloody tyrant! Oh!
dark, viperous wretch! insatiable for spoil—heedless of honor and of virtue! But
I will set my foot upon thy neck! I will rend thee as the tiger rends the lamb! I
will gloat upon thy agonies in death! My child, my child! thou shalt not pray
vainly for the vengeance which is thy due!”
He strode the chamber with irregular but heavy steps, the letter clasped in his
hands—then, closing and lifting them to heaven, he paused.
“I must return to Spain—I must rescue the poor child from his grasp. I must
do this with the smile of one who knows no injury—who feels no hurt. I am desolate
at Ceuta—thus will I declare myself. I need my child, my comforter, at Ceuta.
On this plea will I get her from his arms—and then! oh! then—”
Voices were heard before the entrance. He paused, the door was unclosed, and
one of his officers appeared conducting a stranger.
“Who is this? Who art thou?”
The stranger answered:
“Let this man retire; then will I speak.”
“Be it so. Speak! Who art thou?”
The officer disappeared, The stranger advanced.
“Look on me. Thou knowest me.”
“No! I know thee not.”
“'Tis well.”
The stranger was of graceful and becoming form, and bore himself with an air
of natural majesty. The tones of his voice were sweet, but solemn. His garments
were those of a monk, but they were rent and stained by travel and exposure.
Julian perused him for a moment with an indifferent eye, which showed no sign of
recognition.
“Thou knowest me not; yet thou shouldst know me. I am Egiza, son to
Witiza!”
“Ha! thou aft he who sought my daughter to wife? Coward that thou art,
loving his unhappy maiden—thou in Spain, breathing the same atmosphere with
her—thou hast yet suffered her to fall a victim to this brutal tyrant. Methinks,
hadst thou but half manhood, didst thou cherish but a tittle of the passion which
thou didst profess, thy arm could have saved her from this cruel, killing wrong.
Thou wouldst have been taught by quickest instincts the moment of her danger;
thou wouldst have been nigh and powerful to save her when she cried aloud for
help. Methinks I hear her now—that voice! that innocent, entreating voice—it is
ringing in mine ears! Hark! dost thou not hear? `Save me! father! dear father!
Wilt thou not save me from this monster!”'
Julian assumed the attitude of one who listens—his finger uplifted—his head
thrown forward—his air that of one absorbed in attention. But he maintained the
attitude for an instant only. He turned abruptly upon his visitor:
“Thou didst not help! Perchance thou couldst not. Well, what brings thee
hither now?”
“To aid thee.”
“In what do I need thy help?”
“In vengeance!”
“Ha! true! There is that yet for us. But we must pluck the victim from the
monster—the lamb from the wolf! My child, still precious though dishonored,
flies to my love from the arms of this monster. We must smile for this! Put on
the lamb, approach meekly, play the hypocrite; and only show the teeth when the
precious innocent is safe from harm. Thou lovest her—thou hast loved her, young
man. I repent me that I did not yield her to thy love. But I nothing dreamed of
this. How should I dream of such indignity to child of mine! That this reckless
king should dare so high—should so presume on brutal appetite—should— But
this avails us nothing. Thou wouldst aid me—we would have our revenge. Well,
it shall be so. I must first remove my child from the embraces of this Roderick.”
“This is already done!”
“Ha! thou hast saved her?”
“She is saved?”
“How? Here?”
“In death? The beautiful Cava is no more among the living, unless it be with
the angelic hosts of heaven!”
“God! I thank thee! This one pang is spared me, that her blood crimsons not
these hands. Dear child! may the blessed have thee in keeping! Thou art with
thy mother, in heaven; Frandina, Cava—he who loved ye, and loved ye only,
stands alone on earth. He hath now but one work before him, and that must be
accomplished.”
A brief period was employed by the wretched sire in giving utterance to that
natural ebullition of passion which the terrible event occasioned in his soul; and
he then succeeded in so far subduing the expression of his agony, as to listen to a
long and painful narrative which Egiza had to relate. This over, Count Julian
summoned his attendants. A stern composure settled upon his features as they
made their appearance; and, commanding them to prepare an apartment for his
guest, he proceeded to shut himself in from every eye.
“Leave me, now,” he said in subdued accents. “I cannot hide the agony which
rends me, and it suits not that I should bear, in any presence, the expression of a
weakness which befits not my authority. This night for sorrow. When we again
meet, young man, it will be for other and sterner feelings. The attendant will lead
thee to a chamber. Sleep, if thou canst!”
With a stern gripe of the hand—such a pressure as one gives who feels how
inadequate are words to the earnest thoughts which he yet desires to express—he
dismissed the young man to the care of the attendant. Then, fastening the door of
the apartment, as excluding all further interruption for the night, he yielded himself
up to those humiliating contemplations, which must naturally be supposed to
oppress a mind and spirit so endowed and so constituted as were his. What were
his meditations and what his agonies—in what hopes and memories he found his
consolations, if any of these he had—must be left to the farther progress of this narration,
and to the lively conjectures of the reader. But, till a late hour of the night,
his footsteps might have been heard by the warders who kept watch in the courts
below, as he strode, with irregular movement but without pause, in the otherwise
silent chamber above.
