University of Virginia Library

1. BOOK FIRST.

1. CHAPTER I.

A profligate king and a discontented people, bad counsellors and ambitious
subjects, are each of them enough for the overthrow of any kingdom. They were
all combined for the overthrow of the Gothic monarchy. Roderick—it was already
the prophecy of the seers, who were numerous in Spain at this period—was destined
to be the last king of the Visigoths. The signs of evil in the land were numerous.
Commotions in the city, rebellions in the mountain—marvels in the heavens, and
tremors in the earth—betokened the coming changes to the uninformed and superstitious.
To the more thoughtful and the better taught, the actual condition of things
spoke for themselves. The day was at hand—a day of blood, carnage, and singular
moral not less than political revolution—in the dawn of which—a dawn preceding a
long and disastrous night—a moon, according to the prophecy, should give light in
place of the sun, and by its baleful and unnatural lustre, the land of the Christian
was to suffer through long and successive ages of blight and eclipse. But, as if it
were not enough that these changes should be effected by the ordinary tendency of
events, the men high in place and unapproachable in power, those who were most
to be injured by such revolutions, madly contributed to their promotion; and, wholly
blind in the desperate wilfulness of his sin, Roderick himself, like another Nero,
bore the torch which was to fire his kingdom and consume his power. He gave a
loose rein to his own lusts, when his toil should have been to check the lusts of
those around him; and thus precipitated, by his madness, the madness of those whom
it was his true policy and becoming duty only to restrain and guide. But Providence
had willed the destruction of the Goth. His closest counsellors were his
secret enemies, and had commerce with his foes. From them he imbibed an
unhappy and unwise distrust of those who were his truest friends. Oppas, one of
the two archbishops of the kingdom, had insinuated himself into the blind king's
confidence, not by the wisdom and virtue of his counsels, but by adroit appeals to
his moods and desires. He was not too proud to serve his monarch as a creature,
when he found that the vanity of Roderick did not permit him to esteem a counsellor;
and, by a thousand successful but unbecoming acts, he found that favor in the
bosom of his prince, which enabled him to mislead, and in the end to destroy him.

In his secret chamber the archbishop now meditated other plans, not merely for
confirming his empire over the mind of Roderick, but for misleading him to his ruin.

It was his aim to make his master as unpopular with the priesthood and nobility as
Roderick had made himself with his people. He had already done much toward
these objects. He had secretly persuaded the king, not by any direct charge, but by
dishonest and adroit insinuations, to distrust and consequently to offend many of his
best nobles, whose absence from court, and retirement to their several castles, had
been the necessary result of these operations. Their removal from his own path
was not less an object with Oppas than the misunderstanding which it was his aim
to occasion between them and their sovereign. But he had not been able utterly to
banish from the court the good and the sensible. There were some few who still
held their ground, solicitous to serve their monarch and their country, regardless of
self, and who bore patiently the hourly injustice, the cold and scornful slight, and
sharp rebuke, to which their perseverance continued to expose them. Failing to
drive them away, Oppas changed his means of attack, and now labored industriously
to misrepresent their purposes, and undermine their reputation.

To affect the priesthood was a leading object with the archbishop; and, unfortunately
for Roderick, the indifference of the king, openly expressed, upon all matters
of religion, contributed in no small degree to facilitate the labors of the conspirator.
Roderick, at a very early period, had thrown aside the mask which he had worn
upon coming to the throne. He had then deemed it advisable to conciliate the nobles
and the priesthood, and he had greatly succeeded with both of these powerful castes.
He had raised the standard of rebellion against his predecessor, Witiza, in defence of
the privileges of the former, which had been assailed in his father's person; and the
priesthood was readily persuaded to regard their cause as identical with that of the
nobles, when they remembered that Witiza had yielded but little deference to their
power, which he sought to circumscribe, and, on one occasion, had even bid defiance
to the head of the Roman church, threatening, in reply to rebukes from the
papal chair, to reward his soldiers for the conquest of Rome itself, out of its own
treasury. Having the power of these two classes, Roderick had succeeded in his
rebellion. His usurpation was made legal; and, for a brief season, all parties were
apparently satisfied with his elevation. But, too soon for his own security, the
reckless usurper threw aside the friendly disguises which had gained him so much.
With the consciousness of power, came the confidence, too readily acquired by
princes, in its stability; and Roderick now gave himself but little care to conciliate
any class or character. He yielded himself up to the vices of his predecessors and
of the times. He adopted all the effeminacies of the voluptuous Greek and the debased
Roman; and the nobles who resisted his pretensions to absolute sway, and
the priesthood which rebuked them, equally became the objects of his anger or his
scorn.

It was the policy of Oppas, connected as he was with the growing conspiracy
against Roderick, to foment the discontents of these classes, while stimulating the
king with every counsel to continue and increase their provocations. In this labor
of sin he was indefatigable; yet, though he employed numberless agents, who were
always busy, the archbishop was adroit enough in his machinations, not only to
escape detection, but even to avoid suspicion. It may be that there were some of
the nobles who saw into his secret soul, and conjectured his base purposes; but so
carefully did he conduct his game, and so great was his seeming influence with the
king, that none was able to show cause of suspicion, and but few would have dared,
having the proper evidence, to have declared against him.

Still, though at present thus secure, the time was approaching when he felt that
it would be necessary to practice all his address to avoid the jealous scrutiny and
apprehension of the king himself He was aware that an outbreak was at hand,

when his nephews, the two princes Egiza and Pelayo, would lift the standard of
revolt in the Asturias; and he well knew that nothing then but shows of the most
devoted loyalty would suffice to protect him from suspicion. This difficulty was
before him now; and alone, at midnight, in his chamber, the archbishop revolved
the matter in his mind. While he mused, a private signal reached his ear. He
rose instantly, and admitted one who seemed to have been expected. The stranger
was one of those upon whom the arts of Oppas had been practiced in part already.
Something, however, was yet to be done, to the completion of his purposes. The
person who entered, and who now seated himself so confidently yet unobtrusively
in the presence of the archbishop, was a priest, and one who had a great influence
among his fellows, being endowed with the popular gift of eloquence in a wonderful
degree, and being at the same time one of the four persons, chosen for their venerable
appearance and known wisdom and sanctity, to be keepers of that famous and
strange fabric in Toledo, which was known as the House of Hercules.

This `house,' so called, was one of the greatest supposed wonders in all Spain,
and was regarded by the people of the country—the natives being understood, and
not the Goths—with a feeling of superstitious fear and veneration, which made it
an object of national care and consideration. It was a mountain, in which there
was a cavern and many secret and subterranean passages. Many were the strange
stories told concerning it; and, in that time of marvels and general superstition, when
religion was only dawning as it were upon mankind, and all was twilight and
shadow in the spiritual world, the popular story was the source of a most prevalent
faith among the people. It was said of this cavern that it had been the work of
Hercules, who, when he first came into Spain, raised it there in the course of a single
night, building it on the inside of the most costly materials, and leaving a written
prediction, which was contained within its walls, concerning the future destinies of
the nation. Wo and nameless miseries were denounced against that person who
should endeavor to obtain possession of the secret which it concealed; and such had
been the fear inspired by the denunciation, that the monarchs of that country, reckless
and vicious as in every other respect they may have been, had never once dared
to penetrate the sanctuary; but, in respect of the prediction, or perhaps with a due
regard to the popular superstition, they had each of them, previous to the time of
Roderick, affixed a heavy lock to its gate of entrance, that it might be the more readily
recognized as a place sealed up against idle curiosity or an improper thirst to
know that which the due progress of events would necessarily reveal. At this
day, it matters little to inquire the source and secret of this superstition. The
probability is that it was one of the thousand arts of that venerable power, known
to all nations and ages, which seeks to maintain its sovereignty by practicing upon
the credulity of the weak and unsuspecting. The House of Hercules was in the
possession of the Gothic priesthood. It gave them at all times a certain, and perhaps
supreme command over the fears and the feelings of the Spanish people. It
was confided to their direction, and a selection of four persons from their body were
appointed to keep it. It does not appear that these four persons were kept from the
knowledge which was denied by the monarchs of Spain—arbitrary though they
might be in all things else—to themselves and their subjects. They had each of
them, up to the time of Roderick, placed an additional lock upon its gate, the better
to secure its secrets. That duty was yet to be performed by the reigning sovereign.
But Oppas resolved that Roderick should not perform this duty. He resolved that
this should be one of the appointed modes which the king should employ by which
to offend the priesthood. This, however, was a secret resolve of his own mind, to be
pursued with cautiousness. While he spoke with the venerable Romano, who, by

the way, was the chief of the four keepers of the House of Hercules, and who was
himself both straight-forward and simple in all his purposes, Oppas suffered nothing
of his internal schemes to be seen or conjectured; but he strove rather, though still
with the view to the promotion of his own evil objects, to insist as strenuously as
his brethren upon the performance of this duty by the king.

“It was bad enough, Romano,” he proceeded, “bad enough that king Roderick
should permit the accursed Hebrew, because of his gold, to fester in the kingdom, a
stink as he is in the nostrils of Heaven and Holy Church; but what was to be
looked for at the hands of one who has a countenance and a hand for the heretic
Arian? Doth he not hold terms with the heathen, and those who are the known
enemies of Holy Church? Doth he give heed to prescribed rites and the blessed
ordinances? He makes no confession; though well I know he hath a bosom full
of black and uncleanly thoughts which should bring down his proud knees day and
night, at rise and set of sun, in humility before the altar, if he dreamed of, or dreaded,
the wrath which is in store for him, and which hourly gathers increase. What
cares he for my exhortings, or for thy eloquence, Romano, which might move any
other heart than his? His neck is stiffened, and his heart hardened, like that of
Pharaoh. God forbid that he provoke Heaven's wrath too far: God forbid that we
be called upon to avenge his ordinances!”

“Yet, my lord bishop, I would say God's will be done!” said the other. “If it
be so that Roderick shall still farther continue to defy Holy Church, and give so
little heed to her messengers, I trow not what we shall do to avoid the duty which
shall be assigned us. I would not that Roderick should continue blind; I would
that he should come to a knowledge of his danger; and therefore, father bishop, I
would have thee say—”

“I have said, Romano—I do say,” replied Oppas, interrupting him. “It is the
counsel for ever on my lips, and I have warned him as one that had been sent; but
his thoughts are of the world and its pleasures only. He thinks but of wine and
wassail; the voluptuous woman is his master; and the prayers and preachings of
the church avail nothing. The servant of God must speak, having more fire on his
tongue than I, ere Roderick shall be brought to hear.”

“Could I but be brought to speak with him in private, father bishop—”

“Would he suffer it?” said Oppas, quickly. “Alas! Romano, I fear that Roderick
is one upon whom a mark is set for destruction. For what saith the blessed
St. Cyprian? `What shall be hoped of the king that is wilful and heareth not—
that hath sin in his eye, yet seeth not—that shuts his ears against the word that is
spoken, and laughs at the teacher? He shall perish; and man can not save him!'
Is it not so with Roderick, my brother? Thou shalt see for thyself, Romano.
Thou wilt soon go to demand of him, that, as in all time aforepast, he do as the
kings of Spain have ever done, and place a new lock upon the gate of the House of
Hercules—”

“Thou dost not think him wilful to refuse?” demanded the priest, quickly.

“Heaven send him better wisdom, my brother,” said Oppas, with much outward
piety; “but I greatly fear me that he will. He hath too little reverence for the
church to heed thy requisition; and the mystery of Hercules will be to him but a
blinding superstition, which he doth affect to hate and to despise!”

“Now, out upon his profane thought, if such be a part of it!” exclaimed the
pious Romano, with a holy horror. “What doth he know of the mystery of Hercules,
that he should despise it? What is it to all the kings of the earth, who are
but mean and mortal things, that they should presume to fathom the Incomprehensible,
and declare what is worthless and what is good?”

“Alas! my brother; it is because the kings of the earth are mortal, that they so
presume. It is their ignorance which breeds their presumption, Romano. Roderick
is one of them, and he challenges danger as a thing that can touch him not; and he
has learned to look upon the messenger of death as a summoner for subjects only,
and not for those who sway. This is the woful blindness of which St. Cyprian
has told us: it is the blindness of Roderick, Romano.”

“But wherefore, my lord bishop, should Roderick withhold himself from this
duty, which the kings of the Goth have ever been prompt before to perform?” demanded
Romano.

“I say not, brother, of a certainty that he will, but I greatly fear it, as I know
the nature that is within him. It is enough that none have ever done so before of
the Gothic kings that Roderick will be bold to do it. It is a boast with him that he
may dare when others would dread—that he can do what other kings may not even
think.”

“But the people, lord bishop, the people of Spain—who have been taught to hold
the mystery of Hercules as their pledge of safety—will they forget the prophecy,
which says that Spain shall be lost by the king who shall unfold the mystery; will
they suffer Roderick, in his blind impiety, to do such rashness? Assuredly they
will not, lord Oppas!”

“Alas, Romano, of what is it thou speakest? The people of Spain!—where are
they—who are they? Roderick will have no let to his mood from any, and our
good argument shall yield him none; and if the will so prompt him, he will search
deep into the sacred mystery, in despite of the prophecy which denounces wo to the
monarch who shall fathom it.”

“It must not be!” cried the stern Romano; “the mystery must not be unlocked,
my father. We were lost if it be so. The denunciation is terrible against the monarch,
and against the people, and against the land, if it shall be opened. Better
that we should perish first, my father!”

“Or he, the wrong-doer!” said the archbishop, in a low but inquiring tone, while
he laid his hand upon the arm of his companion. “What says the prophecy, Romano?
`Spain shall be lost to the king that shall penetrate the House of Hercules,
and seize the mystery thereof?' There is a meaning in this for each ear, Romano.
Truly may Spain be lost to the monarch, yet Spain may not be lost to herself. She
may be lost to the tyrant, Romano, but not to the people: she may be lost to the
Arian, and to the Manichean, and to the profligate, my brother; but, if her sons be
true, and the fathers of her church be true, she will never be lost to the banners of
the blessed Jesus. Seest thou not, my brother?”

“I apprehend thee,” replied Romano. “It is true, as thou sayest; but though
the evil fall only on the wrong-doer, and the loss of Spain be only to her present
ruler, yet would I not that the mystery should be laid open to the impious and profane
eye, my lord bishop. The holy things of the church are not for the contemplation
of the Arian. His finger must not touch, his eye must not see, his tongue
must not defame, the relics which are given to our keeping. The trust is sacred,
and we should keep it so, or consecrate the sacrifice which gives it up to the sacrilegious
ruler with our blood, my father!”

“Thou hast spoken like one, my brother Romano, to whom the gates of Heaven
have already been unlocked!” said the archbishop, with an air of the profoundest
reverence. “Thou hast spoken boldly of our duties, and, as thou sayest, it shall
be so. The martyrdom of the saints will be a kindred sacrifice with the profanation
which thou speakest of; and God give us strength, my brother, to bear his cross
meekly, but fearlessly, whenever the earthly ruler shall so decree in his tyrannical

dictation. But let us hope for better things, Romano. Let us hope that Roderick
may not be thus wicked—that he may do with thee and thy trust as the kings of
Spain have ever done before, and place upon the mystery of Hercules the lock which
thou shalt bear him. It is the only lock, my brother,” continued the archbishop,
and speaking with increased significance of tone and manner; “it is the only lock
which should bind him to his church, my brother; and should he reject its ties, Romano”—

He paused with the inquiry, and looked in the face of Romano, as if seeking for
an answer from him. The eye of the zealot glared with an unspeakable fury, which
was a sufficient answer. His reply in words, though full of meaning, had not the
same emphasis of expression which distinguished his look.

“If the lock binds him not to the church, my lord Oppas, then is the church not
bound unto him. It is with the church to bind and to unloose, to bruise and to heal,
to slay as well as to save!”

“My brother, the truth is living within thee!” exclaimed the archbishop, with
well-affected enthusiasm; “truly is thy lip touched with the live coal from off the
altar, and thou speakest with the voice of Isaiah. Thou hast said what I have
thought, but what I could not so well or so boldly have said. The church has all
the powers which thou hast named; and the positive command to use them in his
holy cause has come from God himself. But though we shrink not from their use,
my brother, we must use them wisely, not precipitately. Roderick must do this
wrong ere we so punish. Let us not idly prejudge him, with the blind wilfulness
of children. True, he hath already done much, and left much undone, for which
he merits sore punishment from the church; and I fear me that, in his heart, he is
an Arian—though his lip, when he first came to the throne, had freely enough spoken
otherwise. But I will not judge him, nor shouldst thou, my brother. Better
that we should be thought slow in our duty and lukewarm in our love for the
church, than that we should minister to error by premature judgment.”

Romano evidently listened with impatience to this long and hypocritical harangue
of the archbishop. Not that he knew or suspected his hypocrisy. No! He gave
his superior only too much credit for his indulgence to a heretic, as Romano had
already learned to consider Roderick, through the artful tutoring of Oppas; and was
only impatient to launch forth in anticipation the thunders of the church upon one
whom he was now well-assured would soon render them necessary. His reply was
marked by this spirit, and gave the archbishop only another opportunity the better
to practice upon the fanatic.

“I dare not think with you, my lord Oppas, in this matter. To be slow in our
duty is to refuse its performance—and to be lukewarm in our love for the church, is
to pursue the blessed Jesus with a deadly hate; for he that is slow is overtaken by
the enemy, and he that is lukewarm is won over by his arts.”

“Thou art right in what thou sayest, my brother; but thou errest when thinking
that I would counsel either sloth or lukewarmness. I said that it were better we
should seem slow and lukewarm in the eyes of the rash and headstrong, than that
we should go madly forward to do injustice in our judgment, though it be upon one
like king Roderick, of whom there is but too much cause for believing that he
looks kindly upon Arianism, even if he has not the accursed sin already in his
bosom.”

“And that is enough for judgment!” said Romano. “He that is not with me is
against me, and he who lifteth not spear and sword in my behalf doth arm the enemy
to my undoing. The blessed scriptures are full of precept; and we may not
pause to denounce judgment upon the backslider!”

“No, surely, that we must not, good Romano, when the church is in danger.
But—”

“And is not the church in danger? What greater danger than when the king
which it hath chosen for its protection, heeds not its prayer for safety?” was the
demand of the impatient zealot, who, in his sacred fury, did not hesitate to interrupt
his superior.

“But we know not that he will refuse, Romano!” said the archbishop, willing
now to soothe in some degree the devil he had raised, as he was satisfied of its readiness,
when the proper time should arrive, for the execution of its intended purposes.
“But we know not that he will refuse, Romano; we must await the season
and the summons. It is enough for us, my brother, that we understand our solemn
duties to God's holy church, and shall not be ignorant of the performances required
at our hands in the hour of our Saviour's need. When we know the path and feel
the duty, it is easy for the appointed to go therein; and I trust when the hour
cometh, Romano, that I may be but as firm as thee!”

Romano grasped the extended hand of Oppas, while a scowl of the fiercest enthusiasm
overspread his pale and thin features. The flatteries of the archbishop made
him already thirst for that martyrdom which he now imagined was at hand, and a
secret prayer revolved in his mind, having its origin in the selfish ambition which
possessed him at that moment, that Roderick might refuse the application from the
keepers of the House of Hercules, that he might be the first victim in a cause which
must embalm his memory certainly in the odor if not in the actual enjoyment of
sanctity.

“Let us await patiently the hour, my brother. Thou needest not fear to wait
for thou canst not be tempted. Thou art strong to do and to obey; and the church
will call its servant, perchance, when thou lookest not to hear such a call, but never
when thou art unprepared. Thou hast but to remember, as I said to thee erewhile,
that the prophecy of the ancient house thou keepest hath a meaning for either ear;
and though Spain may be lost to the king, it does not follow thence that she will be
lost to herself, or to the church. It is for such as thee, Romano, that the church
will reserve its highest duties. She may call upon thee to save her, Romano; but
whether she call upon thee, or upon me, or upon any more worthy and devoted of
the brotherhood, it is my prayer that we may be always ready, with girded loins and
unshrinking hearts, to do her bidding!”

“Amen!” said the other, crossing himself devoutly as he spoke, and preparing
to retire. Enough had been said for his purpose, and, too good a politician to risk
all by saying more, Oppas did not seek any longer to detain him. Contenting himself
with repeating a few of the heads of the preceding dialogue—such as he conceived
the best calculated to confirm the zealot in these views of the powers of the
church, and the propriety of employing them, even upon refractory princes, in cases
of extreme danger to its authority—he then suffered him to depart. Romano retired
to the House of Hercules, prepared to work according to the feelings and principles
laid down by his superior, and which that wily intriguer well knew he would soon
enough diffuse among his brethren.

2. CHAPTER II.

With the departure of Romano, the archbishop, in soliloquy, gave a greater freedom
to his secret and true thoughts. He laughed scornfully as he thought upon his
late companion

“A man,” said he, “to work upon the many—to rouse them into rage until no
lion of the desert shall be less easy to tame or conquer—whose words shall fall
like so much heavenly manna around them, and so readily persuade and prompt—
yet what a child himself!—how easy to be won, to be beguiled, and carried from
the truth, which he really loves, to the blinding falsehood, which if he do not hate,
it is only because of his utter incapacity to see!”

He called a page, after this soliloquy, and proceeded to prepare certain papers
which lay before him.

“These lords,” said he again, in a half-syllabled manner, “these lords, whom
Roderick hath banished, at an instance the source of which he suspects not, are in
Andalusia. They are rush, and rage against him. They must have counsel. It
were pity that so much good anger, which might produce noble performance, should
suffer waste. These advices will better teach them; and their proud stomachs shall
not fail to gorge the counsel, as they shall know nothing of the counsellor!”

The page stood before him.

“Ha! thou art there, Ewitza? 'T is well. Go down to the inner court and learn
if the couriers be yet arrived from Cordova. The couriers of the church, boy;
remember!”

The boy disappeared.

“The church is a good mantle,” said Oppas, with a most innocent chuckle, “and
like charity covereth many sins. But for its vestment my couriers would not so
safely pass with their precious burdens.”

This passing commentary did not, however, interfere with the various matters of
business which still lay before the archbishop for his disposal. Various dispatches
were prepared with the haste and readiness of one expert in his vocation. Over
most of these, as he singly arranged them for the couriers, he spoke freely to himself
of their several objects, their character, and of those to whom they were to be
delivered. All of these dispatches more or less affected the conspiracy which he
had in hand; and, though addressed to wholly different persons, no two of whom
were to be moved in like manner, yet it may be said, in behalf of the good judgment
which the lord Oppas had of men in general, that but few of his dispatches ever
failed utterly of the effect they were intended to produce.

“This!” said he, as he lingered long upon one billet ere he passed the gold and
silken cord around it, “this should be the torch, the blaze of which should kindle
all the rest. This is for Roderick. He shall fire the pile: by his own hand, in
his wild passion, shall he effect his own destruction. It cannot fail: his lust is
now a madness—an incurable disease, and this cannot but mislead him.”

He turned the billet in his hand—once more read over the contents, which were
written in a style carefully disguised. When he had read, he folded it, penned the
inscription in the same assumed writing, folded the silken cords about it, and placed
it in his bosom, out of sight, saying as he did so:

“This will serve to-morrow; and if Roderick flame with its tidings, as I am sure
he must, then will our desires have play not less than his! Julian will be sent
far from sight, and the army be removed to the African coast—taking all hindrance
from the path of Pelayo. What follows next, but that the wronged father should
bring the same army to our aid, and rouse up the nobility to side with him—even
those who are friendly to the usurper. This done, what matters it whether that
great brag of the court and twisted feather, the dangling Edeco, leads the forces of
the Goth? Were it the best army that ever Spain sent out against the Scipios, it
were sent out to ruin under Edeco. God keep him in the grace of Roderick, so that
he may still continue to be the espatorio—sword-bearer it should rather be, for truly

doth he bear it rather as a burden than as a weapon—rather as a thing that, as it
carries honor, must be carried in its turn, than as a thing it were a grace to carry, and
which should call for eminent grace in him who carries it.”

The page by this time had returned, and, advancing, he laid sundry packets before
the archbishop; on all of which the cross was drawn in deep red lines. Oppas
made a sign to the bearer to wait, and breaking the silk of each he proceeded to
its perusal. When he had done, he gave him the sundry dispatches which he
had made up, and commissioned him to send off the couriers with them straight.

“This,” said he, taking the one billet from his bosom, on which he had so much
relied, and addressing the boy, “this thou wilt dispose of, Ewitza, so that the page
of Edeco shall possess it, yet see thee not. Thou canst place it in his hands after
night, to-morrow, having well chosen a disguise for thy concealment.”

“I can, my lord!” said the swarthy boy, whose dark eyes shone with a quick,
arch, and intense fire: “I can, my lord,” he repeated, as the archbishop watched
his countenance.

“And with the secrecy I require, Ewitza?”

“As thou requirest, my lord!”

“I trust to thee; I know that thou wilt do it. Leave me now; thou hast done
thy service for the night.”

The boy retired, and the archbishop was alone. He looked out upon the stars,
and with that mingling of religion and superstition which was the prevailing feature
of the time, and from which the wisest and the worst were not entirely exempt, he
demanded of them that success in his purposes which he had nevertheless toiled diligently
to secure by merely human means. One star, a dark red orb, shining over
the distant and frowning rock known as the House of Hercules, particularly fixed
his attention. Bright sparks seemed to shoot out from its sides, and while he gazed
he fancied that an eye looked forth upon him from its centre.

“It is the eye of a god,” said the priest, “perchance the eye of Hercules himself,
watching over his temple. Would that the skill were mine to read its language!
It might be, then, that I should not”—

He paused and looked around him upon the chamber, as if he heard some one
stirring within; then turning his gaze again to where the star had shone, he was
filled with new courage as he saw that it had sunk from his sight behind the mountain,
and was no longer visible, no longer watching its temple.

“It is favorable, that sign,” he exclaimed; “if the god withdraw his guardianship,
what care we for the human keepers; what care we for the mummery and the
mystery, if it makes for our cause that it be thrown open to the impious gaze of the
intruder? Roderick shall break the seal, rather than close it. I will move his
vanity to the measure; for well I know that it must work wo to the monarch who
shall do so. It will work him wo with his people, if not with Hercules. The
church shall rise against him—the Iberian slaves shall grow strong, having its sanction—and
the kingdom shall be lost to him for ever. It will be our weakness and
lack of spirit, if it shall then be lost to us.”

Complying with a habit of body rather than a feeling or sentiment of mind, the
conspirator retired to his devotions; and when these were finished, sought his couch
for those slumbers which his protracted and earnest toils throughout the day had
long before rendered necessary.

3. CHAPTER III.

Let us now penetrate the royal palace of Toledo, at present in the occupation of
the usurper Roderick, and that incomparable woman, Egilona, his wife; a woman
superior to her time, in sense and in virtue—but one whose charms, though great
enough to win her the homage of a Moorish not less than a Gothic monarch, were
yet not equal to the task of securing the affections of one so capricious and reckless
as king Roderick.

The palace of Roderick—king of the Romans, as the late Gothic sovereigns were
pleased to style themselves—had become the dwelling-place of Roman ostentation
and Asiatic luxury. The throne blazed with gold and jewels of immense value;
the commonest utensils of the household were formed of the most costly materials;
the robes, dresses, and equipment were of a texture which the early Goths would
have laughed to scorn for their silken effeminacy; and all objects of contemplation
and enjoyment, announced that rapid progress from the extreme of savage privation
and necessity to the refinements—so called—of civilization, to which the Goths may
ascribe the downfall of their mighty empire. The luxuries which enervated them,
at the same time invited the invader; and both the Moors who succeeded, and the
Goths whom they overthrew, learned in due season to deplore the wooing and too
well beloved possessions, which, however willing they might have been to die for,
they had not the strength or courage to defend.

King Roderick sat upon his blazing throne, having on his head the horned crown
of Gothic royalty, and covered with robes richly embroidered from the neck to the
heels, the folds of which swept the floor in a long train behind him. He was a
monarch of a noble and imposing presence, with a face full of authority, an eye
haughty and commanding, and a lip that curled with an imperious and stern expression.
Egilona, his queen, sat below him, upon an inferior seat, and her eyes
were turned up and watchful of his features with a fond but earnest look, which at
moments grew even into sadness. Her features were very beautiful, and not less
amiable than beautiful. In the midst of a court where all was vicious, and where
sensual indulgence had a full guaranty in the universal practices of all, not the
slightest suspicion had ever assailed her purity; and though Roderick had ceased to
love her with that regard which so much beauty might well have awakened in any
but a blunted sense, he at least never ceased to respect her in consideration of her
many virtues and her gentle bearing.

On either hand of the king stood an espatorio, or sword-bearer, of whom there
were four, one of whom always kept guard in the ante-chamber of the Gothic monarch.
The espatorios on the present occasion were Edeco and Favila—the former,
a favorite of the monarch who contributed greatly to his debasing passions by ministering,
as his creature, to those sensual indulgences to which, in his hour of prosperity,
Roderick had unhappily given himself up. Edeco was a servile minister, a
fop, a thing of feather and pretence, who spoke after a manner of his own, and
whose ambition was to emulate the effeminacies not less than the extravagances of
the other sex. Favila was a simple noble, having the royal blood of the old stock
in his veins, but without much character of any sort, and one who would readily fall
in with the prevailing influences of the time, good or bad. There were many
ladies and nobles in attendance, all richly attired; for Roderick was a monarch to
whom the glitter of jewels and the glow of silks and costly embroidery were grateful
beyond all reasonable measure. But the archbishop Oppas was absent from the
assembly, and it was for his presence that the king most earnestly looked.

But though late in attendance upon the court, Oppas had been already long since
busy with his ministry; and ere the king had made his appearance that morning before
his attendants, the wily conspirator had taken care, though keeping himself free
from any apparent connection with the proceeding, to prepare the mind of Roderick
against the anticipated application of Romano. It was to obtain further knowledge
on this subject that the king looked round upon his courtiers, and at length ordered
that the archbishop should be summoned. Before the command had well escaped
his lips, the door opened and the desired personage made his appearance. The king
addressed him instantly:

“My lord bishop, you are waited for. What men are those without?”

Romano and his associates had followed the archbishop, and now awaited in the
ante-chamber for the summons to the royal presence.

“They are the men, oh king!” replied the archbishop, “who keep the House
of Hercules.”

“The House of Hercules—what house is this?” demanded the king, who affected
ignorance of the whole matter.

“It is a mystery, oh king!” continued Oppas, “no doubt of highest though of
secret value. It is called the `Mystery of Hercules,' though it hath many other
names.”

“Make us wise in them, my lord bishop,” said the king.

“I have little knowledge in this matter, oh king!” replied Oppas, “and not much,
if any, beyond that of the noble gentlemen I behold around me; which is a knowledge,
I believe, commonly possessed by all the people of this country who come of
the native Iberian stock”—

“The native Iberian stock!” exclaimed the king, scornfully. “What idle mock
is this, my lord bishop? What secret should the native Iberians keep from their
sovereign, I pray? What are they that they should thus presume in secrets, in mysteries,
and houses of Hercules? Of a truth, this is a matter for grave heed and close
inquiry, and we'll have more of it, my lord bishop. Give forth thy other names for
this mystery; we will hearken patiently, even though we hearken without gain of
wisdom.”

“These are old names, oh king! by which the charge of the keepers of the House
of Hercules hath ever been known; and each of them hath a signification which ancient
times hath affixed to it. One is the `Perfect Guard,' by which it would seem
that he who hath established the mystery would have shown that the secret should
be made inviolable”—

“Ha! it were no wisdom of Hercules to think to bind the Goth! But go on, my
lord bishop.”

“`Pleasure and Pain,”' continued Oppas, “is another of the names set to this
mystery, having its meaning also; for it is said”—

“We will read this signification ourself, my lord bishop. The `Pleasure' is for
the king of the Romans; the `Pain'—thou shalt have it thyself, lord Oppas, to
share between thy native Iberians and the keepers of the mystery. What think
you, is the division not an equal one, my lords?”

And the wild, scornful laugh of the sovereign was but the signal for a kindred
echo from all around him—all save the queen and her ladies, the archbishop himself,
and one of the lords in attendance whose name was Bovis, and who was one
of the best counsellors, though perhaps one of the least attended to, of the king
whom he served.

“Another name, oh king!” said the archbishop, with a gravity of countenance
which the mirth of the sovereign and of the court had not shaken, “another name

is given to this mystery, having a higher meaning, which should not move your
scorn, my lords—`God's Honor,' and the `Secret yet to Come,' are no irreverent
titles to our regard, oh king! These are the names of the House of Hercules, and
of the mystery thereof. By all these names, from the time when Hercules slew
Geryon and built this house, hath it been known even until now.”

The archbishop crossed himself devoutly, as he concluded; but the king burst into
a loud laugh, and as he was about to speak, seemingly with scorn of what he had
heard, Egilona, the queen, turned to him, and her hand was laid gently upon his
arm, and her eye looked up in supplication to his face, while she spoke in a gentle
and sweet voice—

“`God's Honor,' oh Roderick! remember it is `God's Honor;' and there can be
no king's honor unless there be `God's Honor.' Speak not in wrath, speak not in
scornfulness of what thou hearest, oh Roderick! for it is holy. Let that name—
God's Honor'—be a spell to keep that secret which may seem to us but a childish
folly.”

“Go to, Egilona!” said the king, gently but quickly; “these are not things of
thy discernment. Have done; we will hear others speak.”

“Then hear me, Roderick!” cried the lord Bovis, advancing. “Hear me! I
would counsel thee to leave this House of Hercules and its mystery, as a thing not
calling for thy heed. It is enough that the native loves it, and deems it sacred—let
it not be seen that thou scornest the thing of his affection, for then”—

“Enough, enough, good Bovis,” exclaimed the king, impatiently; “thou hast the
trick of the aged Santon, and makest thunder when thou pleasest.”

“Alas, Roderick, would that I could make thee to heed the real thunder when
thou but hearest it!” responded Bovis, turning away his face from the monarch in
mortification, as he saw that his exhortations must be fruitless, and that Roderick
was predetermined in his purpose.

“Doubtless this mystery hath gold and silver in it,” said Edeco, in a mincing
tone, seeing the humor of the king, “it may be robes of a curious fashion are there
wrought. I would have a sash from its walls, my lord bishop, could it yield me one
of a most cunning and light texture. These silks, by the burning lance! are unendurably
heavy upon the shoulders.”

The affected speech of the effeminate favorite was as great a provocation of mirth
as any of the good things of the monarch, for which mirth was necessarily expected,
and the courtiers generally laughed, and the king spoke with a kindred humor to the
favorite; but Egilona looked upon him sternly, and the face of Oppas was turned
upon the ground. The latter saw, and was satisfied to see, that matters were going
on according to his desire, though he affected to look with gravity and sorrow upon
the open scorn which the king expressed for the sacred things of which he had
spoken.

“`God's Honor,' my lord bishop,” said the king, “is truly a title to our devout
regard; yet we know not but that `God's Honor,' in the House of the pagan Hercules,
is made a cover for man's sin. We will hear more of this matter from thee,
ere we summon these men to our presence. Where is this house, I pray thee?”

“Here, in Toledo, oh king!” replied the archbishop. “Hard by the ruins of
Erviga, the enchanted tower takes a large and holy space from the press of the city.
It seems but a common rock, heaved suddenly up from the bosom of the broad valley;
and yet, even as a tower, it is built up with a crafty skill and a most consummate
art. So fame gives it out; of my own knowledge I can say nothing. It hath
doors and windows within, all well secured, yet there is without but one single gate
of solid brass, most cunning of design, having upon it a thousand clasps at the least;

whereto each monarch of Spain, before thyself, oh Roderick! hath set anew a lock,
having due observance to the commands of Hercules securely to preserve his mystery
which he hath therein concealed. To pray thee to do in like manner with the
kings aforepast, do the men stand without. It is for this purpose only that they
come.”

“For this they come in vain!” was the sudden and resolute reply of Roderick.
“I were no king in Spain, if stale conceit like this should bind me down submissive
to an idle mock, that to my mind, lord bishop, would seem greatly to trench upon
ground that is holy. This Hercules—this pagan Hercules—what is he better than
the accursed Mohammed to us? He should, of a surety, lose dominion where the
cross of Christ is held high in honor by truest worshippers. But, let the men
appear.”

4. CHAPTER IV.

The doors were thrown open, accordingly, and the four keepers of the House of
Hercules, clad in long yellow robes, were ushered into the presence of the king.
They were headed by the stern ascetic, Romano; his long, white beard streaming
down upon his bosom, giving a ghostly and venerable appearance to his thin, pale,
hollow cheeks. In his united hands he bore a huge, heavy lock of brass; and with
a fearless and unblenching manner, resolute and unabashed, he at once approached
the throne, and stopped not till he had passed through the double ranks of courtiers,
who made way on each side, and stood immediately in the presence of Roderick.
He was closely followed by his brethren; but the king did not suffer them to advance
so far, ere he spoke, and arrested their approach.

“Well; wherefore come ye? Why bring ye that massive keeper? Speak!
What would ye? Who are ye? What would ye have of the king?”

The words and manner of the king were stern and ungracious, but Romano was
no ways daunted. He met the fierce glance of Roderick with a glance of defiance,
and as full of resolution, if not so fierce, as that of the monarch. It was indeed this
bold demeanor on the part of Romano which had chafed the usurper, whose nature
was imperious; and the impunity with which he had swayed having made him
reckless, he was not readily disposed to recognise in an inferior any feature that did
not speak for his servility. But Romano had been previously aroused by what he
heard from Oppas, and by his own subsequent reflections on the same subject, and
he was unwilling to abate a jot of his pride or his purpose. Without seeming to
regard, however, the particular language of the king and his stern deportment, Romano,
with eminent and calm dignity, replied as follows:

“God, sire, hath given you power—the monarch chosen of the people of Spain.
The troubles of the strife are all over, and thy duties begin. It were well, then, if
now, like all our kings, you seek with us the House of Hercules, whereof we are
the keepers, and with this sacred lock, after the manner of your predecessors, bind
its great secret fast”—

The king now interrupted him, for it seemed as if Romano would have spoken
further

“And wherefore this?” demanded Roderick. “What is the secret thou wouldst
hold so fast? What is it to us, what is it to the monarch of Spain, that we should
do as thou requirest? Why is it our duty? Speak! And yet beware!—beware,
old man, that thou dost not trifle with us! I suspect ye! I know not that ye do

not conspire in that same House of Hercules against our throne. There be traitors
all around us, it is said; some we have banished, it is true; some, with their heads,
have paid a heavier forfeit. Beware of this, sir keeper! Speak for thy trust.”

The brow of Romano grew dark, as he heard this speech of the king; his lips
quivered—his eye kindled, and, with hand uplifted, advancing as he spoke, he thus
addressed the king:

“I serve the living God! king Roderick; and, serving Him, I cannot be a traitor
to any of the mortal kings of earth.”

The brow of king Roderick darkened, and he replied, briefly:

“Ay, if thou servest him rightly; mark you that.”

The response of Romano was instantaneous:

“He is thy judge, and mine, king Roderick; let Him decide for us both; to Him
I leave it for judgment, as must thou also.”

“Thou errest, sir priest. The judgment shall be with me, if I find thee a traitor.
So, look to it, and go no more wide of thy business. Speak of thy charge, and tell
us of this House of Hercules. What of thy mystery? Unfold me that. And
hearken me, old man; let thy discourse be smooth, if you are bent that it must be
free. I am not meek of temper. See that thy story has fitting language, but give it
no sting; or, whether thou willest me to be thy judge or not, I will not scruple to
send thy head, white as it is and venerable, along with some others to our city gates.
Beware!—but speak.”

The fierce eye of Roderick looked into one not less fierce, when he sought to daunt
by his gaze the enthusiastic Romano. But the difference of look was in favor of the
priest, whom a constant contemplation of holy things had elevated and strengthened.
There was a dignity mingled with the fire of his eye which Roderick could not quell,
and the influence of which he did not entirely escape. Romano replied instantly,
advancing still nigher to the king as he did so, with his hand extended until the huge
lock which he carried waved directly in the face of the monarch:

“And if thou didst this wrong, king Roderick,” were the solemn and stern words
of the venerable man, “and if the righteous and all-judging Heaven, for its own high
and hidden purposes, looked down and suffered it, God's will be done—not mine;
not even thine, oh Roderick! though thy own hand performed it. We are but creatures
of Providence, and nothing of ourselves. If God ordains that thou shouldst
slay me, I may not murmur, either at his laws or at thy performance. I will but
pray to be strengthened against the hour of trial, so that I may not tremble at the
stroke of the headsman, or deny my Master when questioned of the faith that is
within me.”

“The holy man!” exclaimed Egilona, reverently, and with folded hands. “I
pray thee, oh Roderick! that thou wilt speak him kindly.”

Roderick frowned only, as he heard these words, but did not answer the speaker.
His eye glared only upon Romano, whose dignified manner had the effect of rebuking
the violence of the king, while his language was too little objectionable to yield the
latter any occasion to speak the anger which he felt. While he hesitated, with this
feeling, to speak at all, the conscious Oppas came to his relief.

“Wilt thou not hear the venerable Romano, king Roderick?” said he. “He will
doubtlessly unfold to thee all that thou wouldst know, touching the holy house,
much better than any here.”

“Ay, let him speak his story,” said Roderick, “but reserve his sermons. We'll
have no more of them. To the secret of thy charge, sir priest. What of this house
which ye call holy?”

“Which wise men, before our time, oh king! have pronounced holy; and which

other wise men have confirmed as such. It is holy; and the secret which it contains
is even holier than the house which holds it. By all prophecy, that secret is
of mightiest power, and if revealed before the fitting season, will be of great evil to
the kingdom.”

“That is thy fear, not mine!” said Roderick, scornfully.

“'T is wisdom's fear, oh king! though, perchance, it be none of thine!” replied
the fearless Romano.

The king half arose from his seat in anger, but the queen Egilona laid her hand
upon his arm, and he maintained his temper, while Romano, without seeming to
note his emotion, thus proceeded:

“This sacred trust comes down to us, oh king! from Hercules himself, who
founded Spain and this Toledo, which thenceforth, he prophesied, should be the
mightiest city of the realm. Then did he prophesy of the fate of Toledo, and of all
Spain. This prophecy”—

The king interrupted him with something of eagerness in his tone and manner:

“What said he? What was the prophecy?”

“'T is that we keep, oh king! within the House of Hercules; and that we might
maintain it truly, he prepared a spell, such as no magic but his own might foil, and
there he sealed it fast.”

“Thou know'st it not?” demanded the king

“I do not, Roderick.”

“Well!”

“Around it, then, he heaved this dwelling, which is loftier far, oh Roderick! than
thou with all thy strength can hurl the smallest stone!”

“Well, what of that? I trow the boast were but a small one; 't were no great
brag in mighty Hercules to build so high a house.”

The sneer of Roderick was followed by his own and the unreserved laughter of
his courtiers; but Romano continued his description of his trust, without seeming to
regard them:

“Four lions, oh king!” he proceeded, “form its foundation. These are of brass,
and made with the nicest art; yet are they so large that not one of all thy warriors,
though mounted on the tallest charger, can reach with his extended arm to their
gigantic necks.”

“'T is a silly tale,” said Roderick; “hast thou no better matter for my ear, old
man?”

Romano replied gravely, and with rebuking language:

“The tale, oh king! is little, of a truth, if the willing and obedient ear find not its
import. 'T is enough for the church, oh king! that Heaven gives its commands; it
is not for us to ask what is the scope of wisdom in our Ruler, or challenge His decree.
Were it so with us, oh Roderick! then might'st thou find a traitor in each
poor Iberian who might claim example from the license of Holy Church to doubt thy
justice and defy thy rule.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Roderick, with a fierce scowl and furious gesture; “wilt thou
not be warned, sir priest, of thy folly ere it be too late? Beware! I tell thee; guard
well thy speech; it chafes beyond thy thought. Beware!—beware! On with thy
tale of Hercules.”

A slight smile mantled the lips of the priest, as he listened to this language, and
beheld the emotion which he had awakened in the king. It was then that he felt
himself the minister of Holy Church in probing to the quick the feelings of one whom
he held to be quite too regardless of her claims. He proceeded, nevertheless, with
out comment, in his narration:

“He then built up the tower; yet he built it not in human sight. None saw the
building. No inquisitive ear heard the clear hammer ring; no eye beheld the stroke.
The night beheld the plain—a level plain, smooth as this floor, oh king! The morning
saw this tower, like some huge rock, resting upon it.”

“Quick labor that!” exclaimed Roderick. “See, Edeco, that you give this in
counsel to our art sans; so shall our gardens flourish, Egilona, and our new palace
spring at our approach, on the other side of the Tagus. Would he were here, to
give them some strong words, that old Hercules!”

Edeco made some corresponding remark in reply to that of the king, at which the
courtiers generally laughed; but Romano, as if he felt that their punishment would
come sufficiently soon, did not pause to denounce it, but his bosom beat with indignation.
Roderick bade him proceed, and he continued his description:

“And yet, oh king! that mighty tower, having such a sudden and unexpected
birth, is wrought with such true art that it holds not a single stone which may match
in size with thy hand. Yet are they still most large, as they are most precious.
Jasper and marble are most common and least worthy of its materials, and they shine
upon its walls like the loveliest chrystal. A greater wonder than all this, oh king!
is that, though all these stones are so deftly joined together that they seem but of a
single piece, yet no two among them are of the same color!”

“A nice builder he!” said Roderick, contemptuously, “that mighty Hercules!”

Romano continued, without seeming to heed the interruption:

“They further show, oh king! that they are of holy workmanship, as they do
record—being linked together with such intelligence—all deeds aforepast, all great
achievements, as if written in some endless chronicle. Having thus done, Hercules
did then predict what should come hereafter, and the secret thereof is the charge assigned
to us for keeping in that holy house.”

“That shall we read!” exclaimed Roderick, as the aged Romano concluded;
“that shall be read, if there be truth in what thou sayest, old man! The future and
the present shall be ours, even as the past, if it be that courage to defy your superstition
is all that be needed to the purpose. I have no dread of your spells—of your
pagan spells; and we should nothing fear, my lord Oppas, having the cross of Christ
above our heads, to grope for this secret in the House of Hercules. What say
you?”

“Now Heaven forbid! king Roderick,” replied the lord Oppas, in a well-affected
horror. “Now Heaven forbid that you should seek to usurp the secret of the `Perfect
Guard.' We would not have it so.”

To this speech, seemingly injudicious, but really designed as it was, Roderick at
once replied, with the fiercest emphasis:

“Why, who are you, my lord bishop, that will not have it so—that would bind
me with the will of my subject, and impose upon me a fetter which a king only
knows how to break? Truly, good bishop, thou hast greatly forgotten thyself to
hold me such discourse.”

“Pardon my zeal, oh king! that moved my lips to so much freedom. But I
would remind thee of the Iberian people, who regard”—

“Pshaw! lord Oppas; thou dost prate to me of dogs and vermin,” exclaimed the
king, with that common phraseology of scorn which the Gothic sovereigns and people
usually employed, when speaking of the natives of the soil.

“Yet, oh Roderick! remember that, of all the kings who have gone before thee,
none have dared”—

The fierce king silenced his speech at this word. The archbishop well knew, ere
he spoke it, what must be its effect

“Enough, sir priest!—enough! I dare! I—Roderick, king of the Romans—I
dare! Give way!” And the king rose as he uttered these words. But the lord
bishop was disposed to clench the resolve of the king by an opposition which he
well knew would be fruitless, and would only furnish additional provocation to the
monarch's temper.

“And yet, king Roderick,” he began, “it is my thought”—

The impatient and irritable despot at once interrupted him:

“Thy thought is insolent, my lord bishop!” he exclaimed, “if it will suffer me
none. I will not heed thee, and need no further counsel in the matter. I am
resolved!”

“Yet I pray thee hear him, Roderick,” said Egilona, appealingly. “Thy error
is always too great an impatience, Roderick; I pray thee to curb it. Hearken to the
venerable father—hear the good bishop—hear him, I pray thee, Roderick, for my
sake hear him.”

“And wherefore hear him?” exclaimed Roderick. “I know what he would
say, and am resolved against it. I am no fool—no suckling, to be led by babes and
priests and sucklings! Hear me—hearken, sir priest!—you with the lock! I will
that no further guard shall be kept over that pagan mystery which thou keep'st. I
will possess this secret; and henceforward, if it be necessary, I will maintain this
house. Lead the way, then; I will not fear to look in upon old Hercules, and hear
what he may tell us. Bid our guards nigh, Edeco; and have some implements
ready. Lead on, old man; guide us the proper way.”

“I will not lead ye!” exclaimed Romano, throwing himself directly before the
path of the tyrant. “I will not lead ye to sin! I will show neither slave nor sovereign
the path to evil!”

The hand of the king was uplifted as if to strike, but the lord Bovis interposed,
and strove to persuade the king; while others, the lord Oppas among them, undertook,
though without success, to quiet the aroused enthusiast, Romano. Nothing
daunted by the threatening action of the king, and unrestrained by the appeals of
those around him, he continued to struggle and approach, speaking all the while in
denunciation of Roderick's design:

“Strike, if thou wilt!” he cried to the king; “strike, if thou wilt! I do not
shrink from thy blow, king Roderick, and do not fear even death at thy hands. I
stand up for the cause of God, and am ready to die, if need be, in his service. Yet
hear me, Roderick; I do denounce upon thee a dreadful doom, if with thy unlicensed
hand, defying Heaven, thou dost usurp this holy secret!”

“Fool and madman, away!” cried Roderick, scornfully, and full of wrath, to the
now furious Romano. “Thy doom is dreadful to the coward only—it shakes not
me. Away! Take him away, my lords! I will not strike thee to the earth, old
dotard; thy gray hairs plead for thee against thy folly. Perchance thou hast been
more wise in thy youth: thou art sadly foolish now! Take him hence, slaves; let
him not vex us further.”

“Thou art doomed!” cried Romano, as he struggled with the guards.

“Thou liest!” replied the king, with scorn. “Go, mutter thy doom to thyself.
I heed thee not. There is no bolt in the unmeaning cloud. I stand in its
defiance.”

“Thou art cursed!” cried the old man, gasping for breath, and still striving to
approach the person to whom he spoke: “Thou art cursed! In Heaven's name I
curse thee! I”—

“Take him hence!” cried Roderick, becoming hoarse with his own suppressed
anger, at what he deemed the insolence of the priest.

Again the lord Bovis spoke to the king, in low tones, and sought to dissuade him
from his purpose:

“Heed not the old man's anger, I pray thee, king Roderick,” said the sagacious
noble, “and yet give heed to it, as it shows thee what may be the anger of others if
thou dost usurp this secret. What though thou scorn'st as idle—and well thou
may'st—this story of Hercules and his house, yet a wholesome policy would have
thee forego thy purpose. Close up the door, rather than open it. Take the huge
lock, and fasten the old tower, though it hold nothing. What matters it to thee
what are its mysteries, so that they are innocent?”

“Ay, but how know I that, Bovis?” cried the king, exultingly, and interrupting
his counsellor.

“By its undisturbed age till now. It hath always been held so, king Roderick,
even by the most jealous of our sovereigns. Leave it untroubled now. Its claims are
modest enough; would that thy professed friends and favorites had as few! Let it
have what it asks. To thee its secrets are nothing; but it behoves thee much not
to offend those to whom its secrets are every thing. Remember, thou art scarcely
seated in thy throne. It were not wise in thee to check these churchmen, who are
too powerful to be trifled with, and scarce honest enough to be trusted.”

Such was the sagacious counsel of Bovis, one of the king's best counsellors. It
struck Roderick with considerable force, but he had not the courage to recede from
his error. His reply was characteristic:

“There is much in what thou sayest, Bovis—much more than in any of these
dooms of Hercules. But the truth is, I am roused now to look upon the ancient
builder and hear his secrets. I must have my way. Besides, it is my humor thus
to punish the insolence of these people, who would bandy speech with me, and seek
to baffle me in my desires. I will make them know and fear me.”

“Is it not rash?”—the counsellor began, but the king silenced him.

“No more! I 've heard thee, Bovis. I am resolved to unlock the cavern, and
thou plead'st in vain to move me from my purpose. I will search the house of our
progenitor, and read his prophecies; see where he lies in state, or holds his court—
and, with the aid of Holy Church, give defiance, if it shall so please me, to the old
pagan and his dooms and thunders. Thou, my lord bishop, thou shalt lead the way,
and lift the cross”—

Oppas started, with a look of profoundest horror, as he heard these words.

“Pardon me, king Roderick! but I may not do as thou wouldst have me.”

The king laughed scornfully at what he deemed the superstitious timidity of
the bishop.

“What, thou art coward like the rest, my lord bishop? Well, truly, we are surrounded
with feeble men, who need a fitting example to be strong. Be it so, then;
I will lead the way, though I lead it alone. The doom be mine, if any doom there
be—and mine the profit, sirs.”

“Yet, oh king! would I warn thee, ere thou mov'st in this, that thou invad'st
the law and break'st the pledge which thou hast given.”

To tell Roderick of laws, the archbishop well knew was only to stimulate him in
his desire to abolish them; and the king, as Oppas expected, repeated his resolve
with accumulated obstinacy.

“Now, by the Cross! my lord Oppas, which thou bearest this day, I swear to
enter into this pagan house—I swear it! The law!—I tell thee, priest, my pleasure
is the law. Away, there, with that madman!”

Romano, seeing the king's intention to proceed, had again thrown himself in the
way before him. The last words of Roderick were a command to his guards to remove

the aged zealot. But with their utmost endeavors they could not silence his
speech:

“Over me thou walk'st!” exclaimed Romano, in defiance to the king. “Yea,
Roderick, if thou art bent to move upon this bold sacrilege, thou shalt first trample
this lowly body into dust.”

“Why, so I will!” cried Roderick, leaping forward.

The queen seized him by his robes, and implored him to forbear; but he pushed
her away, and hurried forward to the spot where the lord Bovis and others were endeavoring
to silence the furious Romano. They interposed between him and the
angry monarch; but even while they bore him back, the priest shouted his curses
and defiance.

“I call on God to hear me!” he cried aloud, and shook his massive lock at the
approaching Roderick. “He hears!—He sees!—I look for Him to blast thee, Roderick,
ere thou canst rush upon me! Now!—now!—His thunder! Thou wilt
hear it now! I hear it! Now!—now!”

Romano's hands were stretched to heaven as he uttered these words, and his
whole air and manner were those of one who listened for the bellowing thunder
which he invoked upon the sacrilegious king. There was a momentary pause, as if
all waited the storm which was to blast, so earnest was the expression of Romano,
and such was the tacit reverence which his manner inspired. But as Roderick drew
nigh unharmed, the countenance of the venerable man lost its confidence, and looked
the disappointment which he really felt. A moment after, he sank within the arms
of his companions through sheer exhaustion.

“Thrust him forth, slaves!” cried Roderick, “but harm him not. His gray
hairs and his madness plead for him even against his tongue.”

5. CHAPTER V

Obedient to the commands of Roderick, the soldiers in attendance proceeded to
thrust Romano forth from the presence; but, though greatly enfeebled by exhaustion,
this was not to be done without difficulty. He struggled still to maintain his
ground, and to resist the strong arms which grappled him. The efforts that he made
for this purpose were much beyond his natural strength; but he had been an ascetic,
and his looks belied the vigor which had grown exceeding great through severe abstinence.
His morbid imagination was also active to strengthen him beyond his ordinary
nature. While he strove, the white foam gathered around his mouth, and
the clenched teeth shone fearfully through the pallid lips, like those of some famished
wolf. He was borne back from the pathway of the king, who had now risen;
but still, as they hurried him backward, he continued to shake his lock and hurl his
curses at the tyrant; the lock being conspicuously, but perhaps unconsciously, raised
in one hand, and the cross which he commonly wore extended in the other. Roderick
scorned the priest's feeble efforts too much to be greatly enraged with him, and
he contented himself with saving to Romano, as he was hurried from his sight:

“Does thy God hear thee? Thou wouldst have him blast me, wouldst thou?
old dotard, as thou art! But thou invok'st Him in vain! I laugh at thy curses,
and spare thee for thy insolence because of thy excess of years and folly!”

“Wait but a while—but a little while, proud Roderick! I see the bolt that is
hidden from thee; I hear the voice and the thunder! God speed them to his own
glory!—God speed them to thy confusion! Go—go to thy crime!—speed to the

sacrilege thou aim'st at! But the vengeance is on its way, and thou but hurriest to
meet it! Go, then, Roderick, to thy doom! I blast thee with Heaven's curses!—I
mark thee as one that Heaven has marked for vengeance! The bolt is shot—I see
it; and thou canst not fly! The shaft is aimed, and thou art without shield to breast
it! Thou fliest—but thou fliest in vain!—the red sulphur chases thee!—the fire is
upon thee!—thy crown is torn from thy brows! Spare me, oh God of mercies!
spare me the sight!”

Raving thus, even to exhaustion, the venerable Romano fell upon his face, still
struggling with those who held held him, and muttering still, though incoherently,
the curses which he continued to invoke upon Roderick.

“Away with him!” cried Roderick, hoarsely; “away with him!—he speaks
folly!”

Although the king affected to despise and to disregard the holy man, it could be
seen by those around him that he trembled even while he spoke, with sudden emotion;
while Egilona, with many tears, sought to prevail upon him to forego his
purposes. But the heart of the king was hardened against her solicitations. Too
much prosperity had blinded him to truth or prudence; and a false and unhappy
pride—a deluding self-esteem—prompted him to continue firm in his first resolution
to explore the cavern. The very interposition of those about him, who were most
worthy of his consideration, as it made him jealous of their adhesion, strengthened
him in his perverse judgment; and an adroit remark of the archbishop, who deplored,
in the king's hearing, but not in the hearing of Romano, the excess of zeal that had
been shown by his holy brother, confirmed Roderick in the contempt which he had
expressed for Romano's ravings. He silenced their further pleading by a fierce repetition
of his resolve:

“Lead on, with thy soldiers, Edeco! I swear by the horns of the crown, to find
this secret, if there be any, and abolish this idle mummery, if there be none. The
House of Hercules is the house of the Goth; shall he be ignorant of what it holds?
Lead on, then, I say, and no more of this howling!”

The lord bishop Oppas with a secret heart exulted in this movement, though his
hands and eyes were still uplifted in a sort of holy horror. He still continued to
urge the king, but without avail, until he saw him depart on his way, with all his
guards and many courtiers. When left to himself, the archbishop uttered his exultation
aloud:

“It is done!—his madness is better than that of Romano. We shall succeed;
between the zealot and the tyrant the game is certain. Now, let Hercules speak
what he may, well I know the language of the church; and these Iberians—these
despised Iberians—shall they not hear of this scorn of their giant and themselves?
That is my care. They shall hear it all!”

He hurried away, with these words, to his own palace, from the towers of which
he beheld the procession of the king—a motley procession of nobles and guards—
some following through obedience, some through curiosity, but all with mingled
emotions of doubt and confidence. The Mystery of the House of Hercules was a
faith so popular, and held to be of such marvellous import in Spain, that there were
but few even of the higher classes of the people that were not in some degree the
subjects of its influence. The natives hung about the procession at a respectful distance;
and had Roderick deigned to study or to examine the faces of those who came
near him, he would have seen much to induce a pause in his progress, if not a repentance
of his headstrong resolution.

Meanwhile, the king, doubly resolute in his purpose because of the strong opposition
and entreaty he had met with, made his way toward the isolated pile which

was distinguished as the possession of Hercules, and which, with other marvellous
feats of that demigod in Spain, gave him a title to be recognized as the tutular divinity
of the country. The tradition says of this fabric that—“When Hercules the
Strong came to Spain, he made in it many marvellous things, in those places where
he understood that they might best remain, and thus when he was in Toledo, he understood
well that that city would be the best of Spain, and saw that the kings of
Spain would have more pleasure to dwell therein than in any other part, and seeing
that things would come after many ways, some contrariwise to others, it pleased him
to leave many enchantments, made to the end that after his death his power and his
wisdom might by them be known. And he made in Toledo a house,” &c. Then
follows a description of this house, part of which has been given by Romano to the
king, and we forbear repetition. “And he commanded”—continues the tradition—
“that neither lord nor king of Spain who might come after him should seek to know
that which was within, but that every one instead should put a lock upon the door
thereof, even as he himself did, for he first put on a lock and fastened it with his
key.”

But the violent spirit of Roderick, as we have seen, brooked no such dictation. In
vain did sundry of his nobles, while he continued his march toward the enchanted
tower, urge upon him to forbear, and give up the hidden quest; he heeded them not,
but with a momently increasing train he at length reached the rocky dwelling which
he had resolved to enter. But this was no easy matter. Many were the locks already
affixed upon the brazen gate, for which there were no keys—and bolts, and
other modes of securing the entrance, had also been adopted by those whose solicitude
had ever been to keep fast the secret of Hercules. But these were obstacles
only, and not preventives, in the way of the usurper. He commanded pincers and
other appliances to be brought, with which lock after lock was broken. Vainly but
earnestly did the faithful Bovis, and others whose sense of duty was paramount to
all other considerations, plead to the last with the inflexible and wilful monarch.
In the old “Chronicles of the King Roderigo,” there is a rude representation on
wood of the opening of the enchanted tower. A slave with huge instruments is
breaking the locks. Near him stands Roderick, in his royal robes. At his feet a
priest kneels, endeavoring to dissuade him from his purpose. A Gothic noble, also,
holds up his hand in warning to that mad temerity which seemed reckless of all
consequences. But they counselled and implored in vain. The heart of Roderick
was haughty and unyielding, like his countenance. The slaves proceeded with their
labors, and at length, to the great delight of the usurper, the last lock was broken
and the last rivet drawn which secured the massive gate against his progress. At
that moment a dreadful shriek was heard to issue from the cavern, and a noise like
thunder. The workmen threw down their instruments and fled in affright. All
shrunk back from the entrance but Roderick, who, noways alarmed, advanced resolutely
and laid his hand upon the gate. At this moment the lord Bovis once more
rushed between, and with earnest address implored him to forbear.

“It is not too late, oh Roderick! to forego thy purpose. I speak not in fear of
Hercules or of his enchantments; but look upon these sullen slaves, who crowd the
walls of the city, and from the hills gather round to gaze at us. Already is rage
mingled with the religious horror upon their faces; and they but wait as if to hear
the command of their god, calling upon them to destroy thee. Pause, oh Roderick!
while yet in time. It is not too late!”

But the heart of the king was hardened, and the fiat had gone forth for his destruction.
Who can save him whom God would destroy? The supplication of Bovis
was in vain.

“It is too late, Bovis! Shall I confess to these vile dastards that I fear them?
Shall I say that I believe in their folly, and shrink from the direction of my own
mind? No!—it is too late! It might have been wiser not to have moved upon this
business; but it will not be wise for me to leave it now. The king who recedes
from his resolves, encourages the resolution of the slave, and is no longer a proper
monarch. Let me perish ere I do this! Thou art answered, Bovis.”

“I am—but not satisfied, oh Roderick! with thy answer. If thou wilt give me
none other, I will share thy danger—I will go with thee into the cavern.”

The king warmly grasped the hand of his faithful counsellor, and his eye glistened,
but he said nothing in reply. Boldly throwing aside the gate, which swung
easily round at his touch, he darted into the cavern, and was instantly followed by
the equally resolved but more rational Bovis. They had scarcely entered when the
gate, of itself, swung back and closed upon them, shutting them in from that anxious
but timid crowd who waited without, and who, in the general silence that followed
the departure of the king from sight, now began to imagine a thousand terrible
dangers for him and for themselves.

They had not waited long, however, before the massive gate was again thrown
open, and the king rushed forth followed by Bovis. But he did not return with the
same confident countenance with which he had departed. His eyes were wild, and
seemed starting from his head, in the extremity of his terror—his sword was bared
in his hand—the hair was erect upon his brows, and the thick sweat fell from
him like rain. He grasped the arm of Bovis and stared wildly in his face; but the
words that fell from his lips had no meaning for the crowd. It was well that they
stood away from the cavern's mouth, and that the dimness of twilight was around
the two, so that the consternation of the king was not so clearly seen by the people as
by his companion, who did not seem so greatly the victim of his apprehension. He
strove to soothe the king, who spoke in fitful and incoherent language.

“Be calm, oh Roderick! I pray thee; let not the people see thee thus. Remember
thou hast the robes of a king about thee, and thine eye should have the fire of
an eagle. For shame, Roderick!—it is not becoming in thee.”

It was thus that he strove to chide into subjection the weakness which the king
exhibited; but that was not so easy a labor.

“Thou saw'st it!” exclaimed Roderick; “the king—myself—him that was Roderick!
Was not that Orelio he bestrode? It was!—and he fled! I saw it—with
mine own eyes I saw it!”

“I saw a horse and a man upon him in flight, or something that had the look of
man and horse,” replied Bovis, with indifference.

“'Twas Orelio—my own sable steed, Orelio; but the flying caitiff who bestrode
him—tell me, Bovis, that it was not Roderick. Thou dost not think that he would
fly thus from the accursed Moslem! Thou darest not think it of thy sovereign!”

“Speak not thus, for the people approach us. Be calm—be firm—strive with
thyself, oh king!—so that they may see nothing of thy fear, which will strengthen
their superstitions.”

The wisdom of Bovis was unheeded by the king:

“But the rider of that steed?” he said, wildly.

“Was unlike thee, oh king!—for he fled from his foe; and thou hast never done
a thing so base. The rider was affrighted; and I pray thee, my dear master,” said
Bovis, dropping his voice as he spoke, “to forbear the look and the speech which
will bring thee too closely to such a likeness. Thou wast not the flying slave, for
thou wert beside me all the while, and didst pursue him with thy weapon”—

“Ay, and would have slain him, Bovis, but that he sunk from before me into the

engulfing earth,” exclaimed Roderick, fiercely. “Wherefore I ask thee, Bovis, did
he sink? Why did he not await my stroke? Canst thou tell me that?”

“I can tell thee nothing, my dear master, for the matter is beyond me. But this
I know, that thou lettest it trouble thee too greatly. It is a foul trick of the fiend;
or, it may be, a trick of the accursed priesthood, whom thou hast been but too reckless
to offend.”

“Perchance, perchance; and I would, Bovis, that I had given heed to thee at the
first. It were better.—But wherefore—canst thou tell me—wherefore, when I
hurled my sword at the flying fugitive, wherefore did it come back to me with the
point turned unto my hand, as if it had been caught, and so hurled to me again, by
another arm? Canst thou tell me that, Bovis?” demanded the monarch.

“We will think more of this hereafter, oh king!—but now let us meet thy
lords”—

“But the speech, Bovis—that dreadful voice!—I hear it now! What said it?
Ha!—Dost thou remember? It rings fearfully through my brain. `Thy kingdom'—
't was thus it said”—

“Heed it not, Roderick!” said his counsellor; but the king continued:

“`Shall be taken from thee!' Said it not that, Bovis?”

“Nay, Roderick, I know not—I gave it no heed,” was the reply.

“It was; but I fear them not! Let them come—the accursed Moslem—let them
come! Shall we fear? They little know my strength. I am strong, Bovis; I fear
nothing. The dream is passing away. I am once more Roderick. Bid our nobles
come nigh!”

And, truth to say, the delirium had passed away from the mind of the king when
he came to think on those dangers which were only human. He resumed his composure;
and when the courtiers once more gathered about him, he was the same
fearless spirit, and imperious sovereign, who had led them forth that morning.

6. CHAPTER VI

But the consternation of the king, when he first emerged from the cavern, had
been sufficiently visible to such of the people as were bold enough to advance beyond
their fellows. The nobles sagaciously beheld nothing and spoke of nothing
that they saw; for they well knew that there is no knowledge more dangerous to
the inferior than that which shows him the weakness of the superior. The weakness
of the tyrant is the scourge of the slave. But in the absence of the nobles there
was no such check upon the sullen Iberians.

“Didst thou behold his eye?” said one. “Looked he not like one who had been
blasted?”

“And his hair!” said another; “how it rose and stiffened upon his head; and
the sweat poured from him like rain!”

“He hath it truly!” said another; “the good Romano warned him how it would
be, but he heeded it not. He hath it now!”

“But that is not all!” exclaimed a fourth; “that is not all, my brethren, that ye
shall see. It is but a warning he hath had of what is to come. Think you when
Holy Church curses, that he who is cursed lives? No! We know not what Roderick
the Goth hath seen, or what he hath heard; but of a surety he hath seen and
heard matter of fear which is to come. Hush!—the lords move slowly, and may
hear us; and for the native to speak in the ears of the Goth is accounted insolence.”

“They do say,” murmured the first speaker, in a subdued voice, “they do say
that the king defied the Cross, and spit upon the holy man Romano. If he
did”—

“Can he live?” demanded another. “Something dreadful will happen.”

“I will not sleep to-night,” said the fourth speaker, “for of a truth great Hercules
will avenge his wrong upon Roderick. I look to see it before the morning dawns.
And, lo! my brethren, behold! Look at that great bird which has just lighted upon
the holy house, as if he had been sent from Heaven as a messenger. Look!”

“I see it! I see it!” was the cry of each; and every eye was turned to the rock,
on the topmost pinnacle of which an eagle had alighted, as he had probably done
for a hundred years and a thousand times before, without attracting the same degree
of attention.

“Let us all watch, my brethren!” said the first speaker, solemnly, “for, of a
truth, something dreadful is to happen. It cannot be that this will pass over. Hercules
will have his dues, and the blessed Romano will be avenged. My blood
boils to think how he hath been scorned by Roderick, and thrust away at his bidding
by his soldiers. Of a truth, had any one of the nobles who stood beside Roderick
when he came from the holy house, but said to me, `Brito, cast a stone at his head,'
I had done it.”

The timorous crowd shrank away from the bold speaker, who was thus unconsciously
embodying the popular mind; and, one by one, they left him to those musings
which they esteemed too dangerous to participate, but which were sweet to
him—doubly sweet—as they were now for the first time entertained. But he was
not left entirely alone. When the crowd had gone, a stranger—wrapped in a close
disguise—approached him from behind a ledge of the rocks which were at hand.
Brito started from his place of rest and watch as he beheld him, and his hand
clutched a sharp knife which he carried in his belt.

“Fear nothing,” said the intruder, seeing his action.

“I do not fear much,” was the reply of Brito; “but thou comest so suddenly
upon me. Who art thou?”

The stranger, without answering his question, replied thus by another question:

“Thou art a serf of the count of Saldano, him that is banished, art thou not?”

“I was!” replied the slave, sullenly; “but he is no master now!”

“He was a noble master once,” said the stranger; “but of this I would not speak
I heard thy words but now, Brito, spoken among thy fellows.”

“Well!” exclaimed the slave, while his hand once more clutched his knife.

“Thou wouldst have hurled a stone at the impious Roderick, had any one bade
thee from among the nobles?” said the stranger.

“Ay, that would I! I said it to my fellows, and I fear not to say it to thee,” replied
the man.

“No, thou need'st not fear to say it to me. Thou speak'st aptly. I, too, would
freely have hurled a stone at the tyrant, and should have asked for no one to bid
me.”

“Wherefore didst thou not?” was the natural reply of the Iberian.

“It was not time!” was the reply of the stranger, uttered in low but firm and
emphatic tones. “When I would hurl the stone, Brito, there will be many more to
do as I do, should my aim or strength fail me. Dost thou heed?”

“I do; but thou confusest me, stranger.”

“Wherefore?”

“I know not; but it is so. I am confused, and many strange thoughts are in my
brain.”

“Let me arrange them for thee, Brito. Thou wouldst have struck the tyrant, had
any one of the nobles commanded thee? Wherefore shouldst thou look to them
for command? Regard thine own limbs. Have they strength in them? What are
thy muscles? Can they not bend and heave, and are they not elastic for all strife
and trial? Look'st thou ever in the water which ran at thy feet, and saw'st thou
ever thine own face, and looked it less like that of a man than Edeco's? Wherefore
look to him for a word of authority, when thou art not less—ay, when thou
art far more—a man than he? What is the difference between you? Hast thou
ever asked, Brito?”

“I have not—I know not, stranger; but some of these thoughts have already
come to me, confusedly,” said Brito.

“I knew they had, or thou hadst not spoken as thou didst. But hearken to me,
and I will show the difference between Brito and Edeco,” said the stranger. “A
feather makes it.”

“A feather!” exclaimed the serf.

“Ay! a feather—a feather, and a robe. Speak to me, and shout, Brito; I would
hear thy voice.”

The Iberian shouted aloud, until the deep valley rang again with the thrilling
sounds.

“Didst thou ever hear the royal espatorio speak?” demanded the stranger.

“I have,” was the reply.

“Had he a voice like thine?”

“Of a truth, he had not,” said Brito.

“What then?” said the stranger. “Thou hast better limbs and sinews—better
lungs for speech, and, since thou hast looked in the brook I need not tell thee that
thou hast a far nobler aspect than Edeco. What is the difference between you?
The feather, Brito, the feather—nothing more.”

“Yes, more,” said Brito.

“What?”

“The king's favor,” said the other.

“A feather too! I marvel what were the value of the king's favor to Edeco,
when the stone hurled from thy hand has taken his master in the forehead! But
little, I tell thee, Brito; but even that little shall be made up to thee if thou wilt go
with me. Thou shalt have the feather and the robes, Brito, and the favor of a
king.”

“I would not have the favor of king Roderick,” responded Brito, quickly and sullenly,
“since he hath banished my master.”

“Thou shalt have the favor of a king, but not of Roderick, Brito. Come with
me.”

“I would wait awhile, stranger, and see if aught comes from the holy house.
Hercules will of a surety avenge his wrong upon the tyrant.”

“Thou seest now!” said the stranger. “It is from Hercules that I come to thee,
Brito. He hath chosen thee, with a thousand others, to minister to his revenge
upon Roderick. Come!”

With a mind crowded with conflicting and new thoughts, the serf followed his
mysterious guide. The stranger had touched the key of thought in his mind, and
had fired the train which ages had prepared and events were still preparing. That
night Brito was dispatched with missives to prince Pelayo; and it was thus that the
lord bishop Oppas gained a new instrument in the cause of revolution.

That same night, sleeping in the arms of the pure and beautiful Egilona, Roderick
started from his dream of fears, in the consciousness of a wild and sudden terror.

“The palace flames!” he cried, in alarm, arousing his still slumbering queen. At
the first moment of awakening, such, indeed, was the impression upon both. A
bright red glare covered the walls and the chamber, and almost blinded them with
the intensity of its reflection. But, looking forth, the king soon discovered the true
occasion of the blaze. The flames rose vividly, but in the distance; and it required
no second look to tell him that it was the towering House of Hercules that sent forth
such an immense body of light. The pinnacle of the mountain was clearly in his
sight, the flames rising and winding around it and shooting up in pyramidal glory
even into heaven. The superstitious apprehensions of the king, which he had quieted
greatly before his return to the palace, were once more aroused; and while the
trembling Egilona hung upon his arm, he crossed himself, and muttered his regrets
for entering the enchanted premises, against the will and wishes of all beside himself.
It was sweet and singular then, to see Egilona chiding his self-reproach, and encouraging
him against his superstitious apprehensions. She derided the serious fears
he had begun to utter, though she had been the most urgent ere the attempt was
made to discourage him against it. But Roderick was not so easily satisfied, though
the words of the queen tended greatly to soothe his apprehensions. The scene in
the cavern, of which the queen knew nothing, and the knowledge of which he had
enjoined upon Bovis to withhold from all, was present in its fullest force to his mind;
and the dreadful cries which now began to assail his ears, as if they were the cries
of demons dancing around the blazing ruins, helped to strengthen his original fears.
He could bear it no longer, for he heard his name occasionally amidst the uproar,
which by this time had awakened the household. Favila, one of the royal espatorios,
who slept in an adjoining chamber, clapped his hands for admission, and the
king bade him prepare his guards, while he attired himself in his armor in order to
go forth. He was soon equipped and in readiness to ascertain and meet the danger,
whatever might be its shape; for, however great might have been his faults and deficiencies,
the want of courage was not among them. It gave him pleasure to see
the stern lord Bovis beside him, as he emerged from the palace; for, though it was
not often his custom to heed the counsel of the wise and honest, he still found a singular
degree of confidence in having beside him such a counsellor. When they arrived
at the scene of the conflagration, it was singular to behold the spectacle. It
was not merely the trees and shrubs which covered the rock that seemed to burn,
but the rock itself. Red flames seemed to shoot out, like jets or tongues of fire,
through a thousand crevices upon and all around it, which the eye had never seen
before. The whole interior of the cavern appeared to be on fire, and the heat was
insupportable except at a considerable distance. Yet, from its capacious jaws came a
thousand confused and conflicting cries. Voices seemed loud in debate within, and
ever and anon one voice, preëminent over all, cried aloud—“Wo! wo, to Roderick,
who hath possessed himself of the secret! Wo to Spain, that hath suffered it!
Wo!—wo!”

“Now, would that I knew the secret of that cavern!” muttered the lord Bovis to
himself, but sufficiently loud to reach the ears of the king.

“What secret?” demanded Roderick.

“The secret of its passages to and fro, in and out, Roderick; for, of a surety,
these priests are now howling within.”

Even as he spoke the cries ceased, and all was silence. In a few moments more
the flames overspread the pinnacled tower, and seemed to possess a perfect mastery
within. Crash after crash of the falling stones announced this to be the case, and
at length the entire front of the fabric went down, unfolding for a moment, only to
close up for ever, the spacious jaws of the enchanted tower.

7. CHAPTER VII.

It were not just if we should say that these seeming marvels had no effect upon
Roderick, when they affected the greater body of the people. It was his pride to
conceal his sufferings and apprehensions. Whatever he believed or feared, was a
secret between himself and the lord Bovis, who, whatever might have been his anxieties
or his apprehensions, certainly entertained none of supernatural dangers. On
the contrary, he regarded the wonders which so imposed upon the fancies and fears
of others as coming entirely from human origin; and in his argument to the king,
both before and after his visit to the enchanted tower, he referred to a human policy
alone as that which should keep him from his purpose, and when consummated,
which should strengthen him to meet its consequences fearlessly and wisely.

“I fear not Hercules,” he would say, “but I misdoubt these priests, Roderick,
whom thou art but too ready to offend. Beware, for of a truth I tell thee that the
word of the church is of more power with the Iberian—ay, and with thy own people—far
more, than any word of thine.”

But Roderick was insensible to danger coming from men like himself. The moment
he was relieved from his superstition, he was relieved from all other forms of
fear. The argument of Bovis, which went to persuade Roderick that the marvels
which he saw were of priestly contrivance, only aroused him to anger against the
church. In due proportion to the feeling of scorn which he was ever disposed to
entertain for his enemies, was his recklessness now of those earthly dangers which
his faithful counsellor warned him against; and it was to the lord Bovis a subject of
regret that he had indicated the source of those wonders to the king, which had so
annoyed him; for he now saw that he had but let loose an angry enemy upon the
priesthood, whose fury would be such as inevitably to blind him to those dangers
upon which he was bent to run in aiming at their ruin.

“I will pursue them, Bovis, I will drive them from my kingdom! The pope himself
shall feel me; and, like Witiza, I will tell the proud pontiff that from his treasury
shall my soldiers be paid!”

“It was Witiza's folly that he so spake, oh king!” said Bovis, gravely; “he lost
his crown by that and other like madnesses.”

“I will not lose mine, Bovis; yet will I have my revenge for this insolence.”

“Yet be not too quick to anger, oh king! Remember, I have but given thee my
opinion of this priesthood, and that is not the thought of any other of thy nobles.
It were neither wise nor just to do aught against them until thou art sure.”

“I will be sure,” replied Roderick, “and if what thou sayest be true, the saints
shall not save them!”

That day Romano had an interview with the lord bishop Oppas. The fire which
burned in the eye of the venerable zealot was like that of madness. His figure appeared
to have grown, and to have expanded; and the belief to which he had been
persuaded, and, indeed, to which he had persuaded himself, that he had been chosen
as a divine instrument, had elevated his mind, and warmed his spirit into the most
fearless fury of fanaticism. The subject before them was the recent destruction of
the tower.

“The people cry aloud in horror,” said Oppas, “and speak of it, Romano, as an
immediate act of Heaven.”

Romano smiled, but said nothing. Oppas watched his countenance narrowly,
however, and saw that he had much to say.

“They speak,” he continued, “of most wondrous things. They say—for many

of them watched all night—they say that `they beheld an eagle fall right down from
the sky, as if it had descended from heaven, carrying a burning fire-brand, which it
laid upon the top of the house, and fanned with its wings,' until it blazed, and thus
came the fire, which, as we know, was dreadful and all-consuming. Didst thou
hear this story, Romano?”

Another smile overspread the lips of Romano as he heard this legend, which was
the tradition for ages after among the common people of Spain; and Oppas saw by
his smile that the ancient man knew a far truer story of the conflagration. He
replied:

“The story is an idle one, my brother Oppas; it was no bird, no messenger from
heaven, which consumed the house. It was this hand, my brother, that bore the
torch and set the fire to the house within. These hands piled the fuel; and, with
my brothers, I sang praises to Heaven, even while the flames danced around us and
licked the high walls overhead. We saw them cling like serpents to the roof, and
we cried aloud in our rejoicing. A divine spirit seemed to move us all, for we
shouted and clung to one another, even while the flames gathered strength and body,
and there seemed no escape for us but by passing through them to the far secret passage
which opens upon the Tagus. Yet when we would have gone, for the roof
began to crumble and the wall rocked around us, the flame-wall suddenly parted
from before us at the mouth of the narrow passage, even as the waters of the sea
divided at the bidding of Moses before the flight of the Israelites; and we knew from
this sign, and from others, that the blessing of God was upon our work, and that
He would now have us leave it.”

“And sayest thou, Romano, that this work was thine, and not that of Heaven?
Methinks it doth not become thy humility to say so, and thou hast grown proud
because the Lord hath so distinguished thee above all thy fellows. It was Heaven's
deed, and not thine, my brother—though thy hands may have been employed by the
Blessed Father to do his purposes. They were then no longer thy hands, but the
hands of Heaven, Romano; and thou shouldst be heedful not to let thy heart forget
its place of humility, in the high honor to which it is uplifted.”

“Thy reproof is just, my brother, and the scourge to-night shall be the penance
which shall subjugate my vain and rebellious flesh.”

The venerable zealot folded his arms upon his breast and looked up to heaven as
he spoke these words, with an aspect of most towering humility. His pride had
been duly increased by the artful sophistry of Oppas. But the archbishop had not
done with him.

“Thy speech was a vain one, my brother, for the deed which thou didst had a
voice in thy own heart, which counselled it. Wilt thou say that that voice was
thine own, my brother? Alas, no!—whence came thy authority?”

“Of a truth,” said Romano, “it must have been a voice from God.”

“It was, Romano; and because thou wert within the chambers of the house, and
not without to see with thine own eyes, wilt thou pretend to deny the things of their
sight to others? Wilt thou, in thy heart's vain confidence, presume to say that because
thy hands were chosen to put the fire within which consumed the house, that
God sent not another messenger, even from the heavens, to light the flame without?
Know'st thou not that the flames raged even more furiously without the tower than
they could have done within?”

“There is reason in what thou say'st, my brother. Thou art strong, and I am
weak,” replied Romano.

“Truly do I believe, Romano, what the people declare; and further, my brother,
inasmuch as thou wert chosen by Heaven to do thy spiriting in secret, hidden by the

thick walls of the cavern from the sight of all, so do I hold that it was meant that
thou shouldst say nothing of thy service to Heaven. Wilt thou boast, my brother,
of thy aid to God? Wilt thou clamor for thy recompense before the day of reward
cometh? Wilt thou forget the command of the scripture, and suffer thy left hand to
have knowledge of the doings of thy right? and—greater sin—wilt thou cry aloud to
the people, with a mighty voice, of that performance which God has made thee to
execute in secret? In truth, Romano, this were a heavy sin.”

“It were, indeed, my brother; but I trust to have mercy. I have spoken but to
thee of this matter.”

“It is well; and it may be that Heaven has suffered thee to speak thus much in
my ears that I may counsel thee, and declare to thee thy penance. I do counsel
thee, my brother, to hear and to believe the testimony of the people, for assuredly
do I hold it to be the truth. The eagle which brought the brand from heaven to
destroy the tower was an outward sign to the crowd, significant of what thou didst
within; and the marvel which they saw is yet further to be expounded, my brother,
for thy benefit. The eagle was emblematic of thy spirit in this great service, and
its coming from heaven indicated the source of thy ardor. The lighted brand which
it bore was thy heavenly gift of eloquence which is required to enkindle in the cause
of God the true worshippers of the Cross in Spain; and was not the tower which it
destroyed a sign of the power of this usurper, Roderick, who had desecrated it, as
he has desecrated all other holy things of this realm to his most unholy purposes.”

“It is light which I see, father Oppas—a glorious light!” exclaimed Romano.
“I have been blind before. And thou, too, art honored in God's employ, as thou
hast been chosen to declare to me the truth.”

“Remember then, my brother, that as God sent his eagle with the lighted brand,
that his purpose might be seen of the people, and has dispatched thee with a secret
counsel to a secret performance, it follows that thy doings should be hidden in thine
own heart, and thou shouldst only speak of that which Heaven intended should be
known. The eagle bore the fire and destroyed the tower, my brother; not thee—
not thee!”

“Of a truth it was the eagle, lord bishop. Forgive me, Heaven, that I made a
vain boast of my own feeble toils in this service!”

The point of the bishop was obtained, and the popular story was generally circulated,
and as generally credited, with many additions. It was said further—for fear
becomes fancy in such cases—that “after a while there came a great flight of birds,
small and black, which hovered over the ashes of the tower; and they were so numerous
that, with the fanning of their wings, all the ashes were stirred up and rose
into the air and were scattered over the whole of Spain, and many of those persons
upon whom the ashes fell appeared as if they had been besmeared with blood. All
this happened in a day, and many said afterward that all those persons upon whom
the ashes fell died in battle when Spain was conquered and lost; and this was the
first sign of the destruction of Spain.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.

In a few days Roderick had regained his usual elasticity; and, as in all similar
cases, the matter which had caused so much surprise and fear soon ceased to be remembered,
or was only remembered to be laughed at. But a deep and restless feeling
had been awakened among the priests and among the people. The total disregard

which Roderick had shown for the accustomed privileges of the one, and the
venerated superstitions of the other, sunk deep into their minds, and with the feeling
of general insecurity which his recklessness had produced, necessarily came the desire
to be free from his power. It may be supposed that neither the intrigues of the
archbishop Oppas nor the simple zeal of Romano were spared in promoting this desire.
The effects of their industry may be seen anon.

Roderick, in the meantime, having recovered from his alarm, as the tempest appeared
to have passed unharmingly over his head, relapsed into his wonted indulgence
of lust and license. Unhappily for himself and for his kingdom, the pure
charms and gentle virtues of his incomparable queen, Egilona, failed to restrain him
from the most unbecoming vices. Edeco, his creature, and the pander to his unholy
passions, seldom left him, and his influence over the mind of Roderick, acquired
through the love of pleasure which was the predominant trait with the monarch,
was unapproachable by better and wiser counsellors. With Edeco to minister, and
his own lustful imagination to conceive, the king resumed his career of indulgence,
to which the adventure of the holy house had offered some little check, if not rebuke;
and the court became once again, as it was before, the theatre of wild excess
and abandoned debauchery. But the usurper was destined to receive another warning,
if not a confirmation of the old. It is in the written history of kings, that they
seldom go utterly unadvised of their errors; and the narrow economy which in ordinary
life preserves the ploughman from destruction, would avail with not less adequate
certainty to the protection of the king. It is not less true, however, that high
station is apt to blind one to humble dangers. The monarch is too apt to disdain,
as unworthy of contemplation, the pedestal upon which he stands.

There was one true courtier, who clung firmly to the Goth, and with little but his
self-approval for his guerdon, scorned to counsel in any other than the language of
honesty. This was Bovis. Even as Roderick was about to speed to some pleasures,
or rather excesses, to which he had engaged himself for the day, this nobleman
arrested his progress. His manner was solemn but urgent, and the king seeing
it, and fearing counsel which might interfere with and rebuke his proposed indulgencies,
would have hurried away from his counsellor; but Bovis was too honest, too
faithful, to suffer him to escape.

“Nay, good Bovis, nay; not now—another time,” said the king.

“There is but one time, oh king! for our duties,” replied the plain-speaking and
stubborn counsellor.

“Again!” said the king, while a stern frown gathered on his brow at the pertinacity
of Bovis.

“Again, and yet again, oh Roderick! when I strive against the king in the king's
behalf.”

“Thou art too pressing, Bovis.”

“Not a whit, oh king! if thou wilt hear me. Be not angry with thy servant, I
pray you, my master; my zeal is in your service, not in mine own. Not to serve
you thus would be to wrong thy service, and do myself wrong.”

“I do not reprove you, Bovis, that you neglect me. You shall not, with such a
show of self-reproach, fasten yourself upon me.” And Roderick waved his hand as
if to dismiss the unwelcome counsellor; but the faithful follower was firm.

“The tidings come, oh king!”—

“'T is well! Another time! Seest thou not, good Bovis, that our mood would
be free from toil to-day. We will hear you at some fitter hour, when you may discourse
your will to us, and we will meditate upon it, and plot and plan, if it will
please you, then—but not now. I'm bound for pleasure now.”

“But few words have I to say, oh king! and they are needful Wilt thou not
hear me?” said Bovis.

“Can I else than hear thee?” replied the impatient monarch, turning full and
fiercely upon the speaker. “Can I else than hear thee, when with thy fullest, freeest
assail of voice, thou perchest on mine ears, and with a note of discord, like the
jay's, though with far less variety of plumage to the sight, still and anon thou rendest
me with thy clamor? Free me of that!”

Firmly but respectfully the counsellor replied:

“It is my love of thee, oh king! and of thy kingdom's good, that prompts my
free duty into active zeal. I would have thee hear me, even though thou chidst me
in return.”

“'T is ever thus,” said Roderick, “it is still the good of my kingdom, or my own
good, and my good subject's zeal. This is the plea for each unhouseled owl, grown
sagacious, and noteful of the tempest. Would I be thoughtful, they assail my
thought, and thrust their own upon me. Would I pray, they come between me and
the holy man, zealous to teach me of their priest's avail, beyond the reach of any
prayer of mine. They make confession for me—decree my penance; would they
could give me absolution!”—

“Not thus, oh king!”—

Bovis would have interrupted the current of his master's fretful declamation; but
Roderick continued, without giving heed to the interruption.

“Still the same, whether in fight or festival, they chase away all my personal
sense or thoughts, solely to requite me with the recompense of theirs. Nor even
when I love are they less heedful to compel me into a passion according to their discretion.
They are still nigh, and when I crave one woman, bring me ten, all the
while chiding me with most saintly discourse of the wrong, and the folly, and the
deadly sin, and preaching with seasoned words of fear, and fast, and fleshly abstinence.
I'm not myself—I cannot be myself, nor rule myself, nor have thought, or
wish, or will, for myself, in the presence of such zealous guardians of my own and
my kingdom's weal as thou, Bovis.”

“Thou art pleased to jibe, Roderick. I have not been the thing thou speak'st
me,” was the calm and dignified reply of the statesman, to the irritable rhapsody of
the king.

“What wouldst thou, then? Speak out at once, and leave me. I thirst for unrestraint.”

Roderick seated himself as he yielded this permission, and Bovis—who was a man
of stern sense and direct purpose—at once replied, addressing himself to the business
on which he came:

“From Cordova we learn, oh king! that Melchior, the famous outlaw, otherwise
known as Melchior of the Desert—he who delivered up Auria to the Moor, and for
whom the late king Witiza offered such heavy reward—has returned from Barbary,
and is somewhere hidden in Spain, and it is thought even in the city of Cordova itself.
Couriers have come from Edacer, who advises us that a Jew whom he hath in
pay is now close upon the trail of the hoary rebel, and he hopes ere long to dispatch
his head to you.”

“For which he would have a goodly recompense. Is it not so, Bovis? The
weight of the traitor's head in treasure was Witiza's offer for the precious possession.
Would he had left the treasure that should pay for it! 'T will task us to provide it,
and the brethren of the rebel must be assessed. There is no mode else. Is this all,
Bovis?”

“No, Roderick; I have other matters of great regard for thy ears.”

“I could have sworn it! But go on; dispatch them quick,” said the impatient
monarch

Bovis, without being moved by the sarcastic manner and words of Roderick, proceeded
thus:

“Another comes, who reports that Pelayo, the late king's younger son, toils busily
in rebellion; that his followers already begin to grow in the Asturian Passes, and that
it is the thought of Edacer that he hath also dared to move within the circuit of Cordova,
where his Jewish spy reports him to be found.”

“Tell me of a boy! Why, Bovis, thou hast grown womanish and feeble. What
are these boys of Witiza? Both young and sinewless, unbred in arms, having no
wealth, no followers. Let them send out a force and bring their heads, and talk no
more of them.”

“'T is easy said, oh king!”—

“And easy done, my lord Bovis, if that my people be not worthless and my nobles
unfaithful. But no more of this, thou art answered. Hast thou further speech
with me?”

“I have, oh king! The Moor is on our shores!”

“Ha!” cried Roderick, starting quickly from the seat, in which he rather reclined
than sat, his whole countenance filled with sudden astonishment and alarm.

“What is't thou say'st, Bovis? Didst thou say the Moor—the Moor?”

“The Moor, oh king!”

“Then there is truth in it. The accursed house! Thou saidst the Moor, lord
Bovis?”

“I said the Moor was on the shores of Spain.”

“And why didst thou not speak this to me at first? Why tell me of Jew traitors
and Gothic traitors, when thou hadst to tell me of my enemy—Roderick's enemy—
the enemy of the Goth—the accursed Moslem? Go, bid them arm! Let the big
trumpets sound. Array the force of the kingdom. These infidels must be met, and
with all my power. Go, Bovis, let them arm. I will myself lead them to battle. I
fear not—I will not fear!”

“There is no need, oh king! You speak but rashly. The Moor is few in number;
and a small force, led by a trusty captain, will avail. You must not leave
Toledo.”

“Wherefore?” demanded Roderick.

“There are enemies to Roderick in Toledo, more fearful than any that he hath in
Africa.”

“Ha!—who?—what?” demanded the king.

“Another time, oh king! we'll speak of this. It is enough now that we attend to
the business of which I tell thee. It does not need that thou shouldst lead the force
that is to protect thy borders. Send a good captain”—

“Let Edeco go!”

“A fool!—a fop!” exclaimed Bovis, indignantly. “No, Roderick, keep him here
as thy pander to pleasure, since thou must have such a needful officer. But send a
man, and a tried captain upon this duty. Sent thy missives to the count Julian; is
he not the governor of Ceuta? Let him go to his command. There is not a better
captain in thy kingdom.”

“Thou say'st well, Bovis; thou pleasest me. Let him go. Send dispatches to
him with first speed, and let our commands be urgent upon him to drive back the
infidels.”

“It shall be done, Roderick,” said Bovis, preparing to go; but it was now the disposition
of the king to detain him.

“And thou think'st that the force of count Julian will avail, Bovis? The number
of the Moor is small. Art thou sure that it is small, Bovis?”

“Quite sure, oh king! And the force of count Julian is a veteran force, to which
the Moor can offer no equal.”

“Let him speed straight, Bovis. Take thou all the direction of this proceeding,
and command thou, in my name and behalf, whatever is needful to be done. Ha!
Edeco!”

The fop entered at the moment, and the man of business, who heartily despised so
shallow a creature, departed from the presence.

The parasite and puppy, who was the fair representative of a species not yet extinct,
approached the king with the look and manner of one who was satisfied that
he had in his possession the means of giving pleasure. The monarch saw this in
an instant, and prepared himself accordingly to receive it. In that moment the intelligence
of Bovis, and the apprehensions which it had inspired in his mind, were forgotten;
and, bidding the fopling advance, he demanded his tidings.

“Eh, my master; has that camel-faced counsellor, who has a name so befitting—
has he gone, and will he not disturb us?” was the reply of the mincing courtier

“He is, Edeco. What wouldst thou say?”

“I very much dislike his proportions, oh king!—and his speech is sometimes unsavory
to me.”

“Fight him then, Edeco,” replied the king, with a laugh of mingled scorn and
good nature.

“Why, so I would, Roderick, but that my nose objects. To slay him, I must be
near him; and after such contact I fear me that all the waters of the Tagus would
fail to purify my garments.”

“Thou dost right, Edeco, at whatever reason, not to seek Bovis in fight. He
would swallow thee at a bound.”

“Then, oh king! would he swallow a greater delicacy than he has ever eaten before,
and one far too choice for his coarse appetite to esteem. Should he be so unfortunate,
he should then die of his own self-infliction, for greatly I fear me his taste
would be spoiled for all other food. But I have that for thy royal taste, my master,
which is more becoming for our speech. Behold this paper, Roderick; read—read
for thyself. It were too great a feast for me to partake of twice in the same hour
It is the music to thy dainty supper, which thou hearest. How it sounds! Tink-a,
tink-a, tink-a, tink-a, tee! Would that I had grace of musical speech! Dost thou
read the character, oh king? It is fairly written, with a fine reed, else would I not
have looked upon it, for a bad character offends a nice sight; and then what a pleasure
thou hadst lost, Roderick; what a pleasure of sounds and sights—tink-a, tink-a-tink-a,
tee—how sweet is the discourse! `Eye,' and `lip,' `cheek,' and `heaving
bosom'—thus it runs; I could not forget. And so pure, too!—a virgin mine!—ah!
ah!—ah! I have had dreams of these in the spring-time, when, in my youth, I did
strive with a maid of Andalusia, and was not overcome in the conflict. I shall
never handle arms again; but it is pleasant to be reminded of them. Dost thou
read, oh king! Is it a sweet discourse?”

“Truly, Edeco, thou wast born beneath the seven stars, that all fought for thee.
Thou art lucky. Where got you this? I will love thee for ever, if the tale be true.”

“Read it again, oh king! I have a musical ear, though the seven stars denied
that I should have musical speech. Read it, Roderick, read it aloud: Tink-a-tinka,
tinka, tee!”

The epistle, which was one written by the archbishop Oppas, was addressed to
Edeco, but in a hand so disguised that it was impossible to suspect the writer, even

if the sanctity of his profession had left him, like the rest of the courtiers, open to
suspicion. It ran thus, and the king read it sufficiently loud to be heard by Edeco,
but not loud enough to be heard by any casual listener. Roderick was more prudent
in his amours than in his politics, though sufficiently reckless in both for his
own not less than the ruin of his people.

“Doth Roderick delight in beauty?” said the epistle; “and does Edeco know
not where to seek it for the master who so greatly favors him? Wherefore does
he not look upon La Cava, otherwise called Florinda, the young daughter of count
Julian, of Consuegra. Is she not the beauty who would please my lord, the king?
Look on her eye; is there a bright star shining in the dark heavens alone, that is
like to it in excellence? You shall place it in the centre of the court, and the
princely ladies upon whom ye have looked so long, even until ye could see them
not, will be dark spots and sullen clouds beside it, and they shall grow blind while
it blazes. Is it her cheek that ye would look upon? If you look not too long, ye
are hardened into stone, and feel not. That cheek is soft and rose-like, even as an
evening cloud which hangs in the sun's pathway, and gathers his sweet smile as he
goes. Does this move ye not? Then mark her lips, which have the curl of the
leaf and the flush of the flower, and which only pant as they have not pressure.
Is her lip nothing to a taste so dull as Roderick's? Then regard her bosom, which
heaves up, pure, slow and white, even as a little foam-crested billow, that rises and
swells and shrinks back without a murmur, when the sky is fair, and the evening
smile rests on the rocks, at the foot of the rugged Calpe. Bright and black her
tresses fall upon her shoulders in a sort of bountiful tribute to the rounded beauties
which, though they sweetly shadow, they can never obscure; and for her form, ye
have seen a long white figure of fleece in the sky of Andalusia, which the truant
breeze has pressed here and there, until it grew into the shape of some godlike
messenger speeding on a work of love. Even so lined and moulded as it were by
the breathing rather than the finger of Heaven, is the shape of the lady Cava.
Does Edeco hear, and shall the king not see? Would he see her, let him ask why
she comes not to court; let him bring her there, where she shall shine in his bosom.
Let him send the count, her father, upon some far and troublous service, and let
La Cava be his sweet charge in the royal gardens at Toledo. Sweet gardens for so
divine a bird—bird most fitting for such blessed gardens.”

A bright glow overspread the face of the king, as he read this inflammatory
epistle. His quick fancy, sudden to light up, and overwhelming in its fire, was
instantly aroused by the description which he read. Nor were the words of Edeco,
his profligate minister, calculated to subdue his passion. Everything that could be
said by the habitual lips of the licentious courtier, was said, in order to add fuel to
the flame already burning in the bosom of his master; and nothing now would satisfy
Roderick but possesion of the unconscious but selected victim. This, however,
was a resolve more easily taken than executed. The power of count Julian was
immense: his popularity greater than that of any one nobleman in the nation, and
in addition he had command over a certain portion of the military force of the kingdom,
which he had often led, and the men of which were devoted to him. To dishonor
him was to create an enemy too powerful wantonly to provoke; and, however
reckless in most respects, Roderick paused ere he proceeded. It needed the
artful suggestions of Edeco to spur him on. It needed that he should frame plots,
for the consummation of his unholy purpose; and from him came the base suggestion
that the mind of the maiden herself might be moved to consent to her own
shame, and thus the sin might be concealed, for a season at least, from the knowledge
of the devoted father. With the provocation of his lusts, the reflective faculties

of Roderick grew obtuse, and in due proportion as his baser desires predominated
in his mind, did his more generous resolves sink down. It was one of his first
objections to any attempt upon the maiden, that he had just dispatched a courier to
count Julian, commanding him upon his duties to the frontier, in order to encounter
with the invading Moors. The honorable first feeling of the king revolted at the
thought of doing a wrong to one who was even then about to toil and battle in his
service; but this suggestion, instead of silencing the vicious Edeco, only furnished
him wiih an additional argument.

“And wherefore send the courier, oh king? Let him be recalled. Speed yourself
upon the mission; and while you give his command in person to count Julian,
he cannot fail but tender you the guardianship of La Cava. Let your words be
mixed up with whatever matter of grace and honor you please to suit his ear, so
shall he the more readily confide to you a trust, which—if this letter be true—shall,
indeed, be the sweetest bird that ever sang in your garden.”

“It shall be so,” said the too easily persuaded king. “Ho! there,” he cried to
the attendants; “one of you speed quickly to the lord Bovis; say to him that I resolve
not to send to the count Julian, and bid him recall his messengers. Away!”

The lord Bovis sought in vain to know the particular reasons which had so suddenly
prompted him to undo that which was most wisely done; and he was not the
more satisfied as he saw that Edeco must have been the king's counsellor to this
end.

“I pray that you may not repent, oh king! that you have been persuaded to
withdraw your missives to count Julian. Well do I know there is none other in
your realm better able to contend with the Moor than he.”

“I know it, Bovis; and though I recall the messenger, I do not thereby recall the
message. No, good Bovis; your counsel is in my mind, and Julian shall be our lieutenant
in Africa; but I, myself, will give him his commission, and advise him of his
duties. In an hour and I will be on the road to the castle of count Julian, nothing
doubting of a hearty greeting from an honored servant.”

“Of a surety, oh king! such will be your greeting from Julian. Would that all
your friends were half so true and warm in your service. May I attend your
majesty?”

The inquiry of Bovis was put hesitatingly. He was bewildered by the suddenness
of Roderick's resolves, and fearful that some unseemly motive had induced it, as he
ascribed its adoption to the counsels of Edeco. The king denied him, though in a
kind manner and with a compliment, the boon which he desired.

“No, Bovis; Edeco shall command the guard which shall attend me—and such
command, I trow, would be to you ungracious. You shall stay here and keep watch
while I am absent. Egilona shall rule through thee.”

The rugged but honest counselior turned away—he had his doubts and his fears,
but he could say no more.

In a little while and Roderick was on his way to that secluded dwelling of count
Julian, where—ignorant as innocent—the young and beautiful Cava had dwelt till
now, happy in her own innocence, and in the passionate fondness, the almost jealous
love, which her proud but noble father bestowed upon her. But one dream had yet
warmed her fancy to any attachment other than that which bound her to her sire.
But one image came between her mind's eye and his commanding person. Her
thoughts, though now warmed to love, were yet most pure and undesiring; and, although
the will of her father stood in opposition to her heart's new-born devotion, it
had not provoked her to murmur at his denial or to seek to break through his restraints.
If she loved Egiza, she loved him with the thought that there would come

a time when her love would be acceptable in her father's eyes: she did not think of
its indulgence on other terms. Perhaps, indeed, she did not think of it at all. Life,
with her, seemed only a feeling—duty, an instinct—and love, an emotion. To call
her feelings by names, or to inquire into their consistency with one another, was no
part of her mind's employment; and her heart, as yet, was quite too young, and too
well satisfied with itself, to call in its assistance.