University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

It is necessary that we should now take cognizance of other
parties to this true history, whom we have suffered too long to
remain in the back-ground. Our view is somewhat retrospective,
the scene we are now about to depict having been sketched
prior to the scenes which have occupied the two preceding chapters.
Let us return to the well-known lodge of the young knights
of Portugal, and see what are, if any, the changes which have
occurred in the awkward relations which existed between them,
the fruit of eager passions, and, unhappily, misplaced affections.

Several days have passed since the interview already described,
in which they were the sole and angry actors. Though the scene
on that occasion had terminated, if not amicably, at least quietly,
yet Philip de Vasconselos, with great sorrow, perceived, on the
return of his brother to the cabin which they occupied in common,
that he had relapsed again into his condition of moodiness—
a condition which did not always forbear rudeness. The elder brother,
from long experience, well understood and dreaded the jealous,
suspicious, and resentful spirit of the young man, which his impetuous
passions were too often disposed to infuse with violence.
He had striven, though without much good result, to soothe the
evil spirit in the mood of Andres, and to mollify the disappointment
which the latter still keenly felt in regard to his rejection
by Olivia. It was under this desire that Philip had, in the meanwhile,
forborne, however anxious, to visit the woman whom he
loved quite as passionately, though with more generosity and
prudence, than his brother. He made no allusions to her in his

intercourse with Andres, and was studious so to select the subjects
of his conversation, as by no possibility to prompt the
mind of the youth to turn in the direction in which his heart had
suffered hurt. But Andres exhibited no sense of this prudence
and forbearance. He was one of those wilful and wrong-headed,
but otherwise noble and generous spirits, who prefer, under disappointment,
to suffer and complain; who, of themselves, irritate
the sore places which they feel, and steadily tear away the plaster
with which the physician would cure all their ailments. It
was in despair of saying or doing anything which could be acceptable
to his brother's mood, that Philip de Vasconselos finally
forbore the effort. For the last two days, therefore, an ominous
silence had prevailed in their cottage when they met. Nothing
was spoken which either might well avoid; and Philip felt with
sorrow, that the chasm between them was hourly growing greater
in depth and width. But he felt with still greater sorrow that
nothing could then be done to arrest its increase. It was to time
only, that great corrector, that the matter could be left.

But time was not allowed them. The tournament approached,
with all its excitements, appealing equally to their pride, their
renown, and the somewhat peculiar position in which they stood
in regard to the Castilian chivalry. Both of them, accordingly,
might be seen, a few days before the event, busily engaged burnishing
and preparing their armor. It had already been remarked,
as discreditable to the Spanish knights, that their Portuguese
auxiliaries were better armed, in a simpler and nobler style, and
kept their mail and weapons under better polish than the former.
De Soto himself had been compelled to refer to these knights in
compliment on this account, and to urge their example, in order
to prompt his Spanish cavaliers to get themselves serviceable
armor, and to keep it in order. They were better pleased to
show themselves in gewgaws and gilt than in the substantial
coverings which were essential to warfare. One of the historians
of this expedition thus contrasts the appearance of the knights
of the two nations: “And he (the Adelantado) commanded a
muster to be made, at the which the Portugales shewed themselves

armed in verie bright armor, and the Castellans very gallant,
with silke upon silke, with many pinkings and cuts. The
Governour, because these braveries, in such an action, did not like
him, commanded that they should muster another day, and [that]
every one should come forthe with his armor: at the which the Portugales
came, as at the first, armed with very good armor.... The
Castellans, for the most part, did weare very bad and rustie shirts
of maile, and all of them head-pieces and steele caps, and verrie
bad lances.” The contrast mortified De Soto. In order to rebuke
his Castilians into an emulation of the Portuguese, he distinguished
the latter (perhaps unwisely) with unusual favors at the first,
and appointed them places near his own person. This was the
original source of that jealousy and hostility with which the
Spaniards encountered the farther progress into favor of the Portuguese
brothers. It showed itself so decidedly, and with marks
of such serious discontent, that the Adelantado committed the
further error of passing to the opposite extreme, and putting on
such a cold aspect to our adventurers, as to forfeit in great degree
their attachment to his cause and person, besides exposing
them to the neglect and contempt of those who naturally
take their cue from their superiors. We have not thought it
necessary to detail any instances of the unfriendly or insolent
treatment to which they were subject, but have satisfied ourselves
with showing what has been the result of it upon their
minds. Enough to mention that, in their own skill and spirit,
their ability in the use of their weapon, and their promptness
to resort to it, they found thus far a sufficient security against
any outrageous contempts, while the friendship of a few of the
Castilian knights, such as Nuno de Tobar, reconciled them in
some degree to endure the slights and indifference of the rest.
But the consequence of this false position in the Castilian army
was to excite their national as well as individual pride; to make
them resolve upon achievement; to keep their armor bright on
all occasions; to be always ready for service with their weapons,
and to pluck the chaplet, on all occasions, from the helms of their
boasting rivals. But their personal griefs were perhaps not
necessary as incentives to performance, in the case of knights
with whom chivalry still prevailed with all the force of a
passion.

Our brothers pursued their task in silence. Occupying the
same dwelling, and with but little space in their somewhat narrow
limits for any performance unseen by either, this silence
was an irksome one. The elder brother had made repeated
efforts to break through the icy reserve which prevailed in the
demeanor of the younger from that fatal night, the events of
which have already been described. On that night, after their
passionate interview, Andres de Vasconselos had returned from
his lonely and gloomy wanderings, in no way improved for companionship.
His affections were more stubbornly congealed
than ever; his passions, if less explosive, not a whit more subdued
or placable. A sullen rigidness was conspicuous in all his
features; a gloomy inflexibility in his mood; a hostile reserve
in his actions and deportment. This continued, increased hourly
by the reports of the city, touching the supposed superior
good fortune of his brother in respect to the affections of the
lady of their mutual love. The kind words addressed to him
by Philip were answered only in monosyllables, which were
sometimes more than cold, and accompanied by looks which
the truly warm feelings of the elder brother regarded as little
less than savage. A becoming pity and sympathy, however,
led him to be indulgent to a nature which, naturally passionate,
was now suffering the stings of a peculiar provocation. Besides,
was not Andres the last born, and the favorite, of a mother who
was tenderly beloved by both? Philip did not forbear his efforts,
because they were received with indifference. He felt that
the moment was one which might form the tnrning point, the
pivot, of a sad and serious future. The chasm left unclosed in
season must only widen with time. The affections suffered to
remain ruptured, or hurt, would only become callous from the
lack of proper tendance, a gentle solicitude, a heedful care,
the patient sweetness of a loving watch, which, never obtrusive,

never suffered the proper moment of consolation to be lost.
Such was the spirit with which Philip de Vasconselos regarded
his wayward brother.

It was two days yet to the opening scenes of the tourney, the
beginning of which we have already seen. The day was at its
close; a day all flushed with beauty, and sweet with the warm
breathings of the budding summer. The sun was at his setting.
His not ungrateful rays fell pleasantly gay upon the green slope
which led to the slight bohio, or cottage, made of poles and reeds,
thatched with straw, which the brothers occupied. Soft flickering
folds and remnants of purple, that seemed momently rolling
themselves up, and disappearing with the breeze, only to re-appear
and spread themselves out in increasing brightness, on higher
slopes of hill, won, at the same moment, the silent fancies of the
brothers. The hills were fringed with faint red tints that glorified
them as with heavenly halos; the woods, flushed with the
mingled drapery of spring and summer, lay gently waving in the
breeze of evening, rocked in the arms of beauty, and canopied
with the smiles of heaven. It was one of those delicious moments
when the world without passes with all its sweetness
into the heart, and takes the whole soul into its embrace of love.
The brothers, as by a common instinct, threw aside their toils,
and cast themselves down upon the hill-slope, their eyes ranging
over the blessed prospect. Their shields, of bright blue steel,
spotless, and shining like mirrors in the sun, reflected back the
mellow softness of his beams. They hung upon the upright poles
without the cottage, on each side of the entrance, to which they
furnished a rich and befitting decoration. Their long lances, of
well-sounded and seasoned ash, headed with broad shafts of bright
steel, that shone like silver in the sun, were leaned against the
wall of the dwelling, and also without the entrance. The page
of Andres, a gay boy of fourteen, had just made his obeisance,
and taken his departure, under instructions from his master; and
for a moment, the two brothers, reposing from their toils of the
day, seemed disposed to snatch a respite, in the sweet calm which
had descended upon all nature in the grateful approach of evening.

Andres lay at length beneath the slender shadows of a
palm, which, at an earlier hour, could have yielded no shelter,—
none was needed now. His eyes were shrouded by his arm,
which was carelessly thrown across his brows. While in this
attitude, Philip rose suddenly from where he lay, and moved by
a brotherly impulse, approached him and threw himself quietly
by his side.

“Andres, my brother,” was the affectionate salutation of the
elder, “it is naturally expected that we shall both do our devoir
in the approaching tourney. It is due to our reputation, as good
knights, and particularly to our position among these gentlemen
of Castile, who would not be slow to remark upon any unwillingness
which we might betray in entering the lists. They will
do their best, and we must do ours. That we can maintain our
own, and the honor of our country, in a passage-at-arms, whether
with lance, sword, or battle-axe, with any of these cavaliers, I
nothing question; though there be knights among them, many
who, like Nuno de Tobar, will honor, by their prowess, those who
may strive against them. These will afford us sufficient exercise
and honor. It needs not, my brother, that we should cross weapon
with each other.”

A grim smile passed over the features of Andres, as he withdrew
his arm from above his eyes. The expression was an unpleasant
one to Philip. A brief pause ensued. At length the
younger replied:

“Verily, Philip de Vasconselos, it were not wise to suffer
these knights of Castile to suppose thee unwilling to cross weapons
with any warrior, even though he were of thy own blood
and nation. Such reluctance, in the minds of persons sworn to
cavil, might be construed into doubt of thy own capacity and
prowess.”

“I fear not, Andres,” replied the other, calmly, “that any idle
judgment of these or any cavaliers will do injustice to my reputation,
since it will be easy, at any moment, particularly as I
shall never be unwilling, to satisfy any doubting opponent, and to
silence any unfriendly one. But no man will venture to think

that any feeling but that of a natural attachment between kinsmen
hath kept us from a trial of skill and prowess, which, though
it be but the mimicry of strife, is yet too nearly like it, and is
but too frequently apt to occasion the reality, not to plead against
our indulgence, adversely, in the exercise. It is not, however,
what the world without may think, my brother, but what we feel
within, which should control our wishes in this matter. It is
enough for me that, even in sport, I love not to confront with
weapon the bosom of a brother who is so very dear to mine.”

“Brother, mine, I do not quite understand these refinements.
We have crossed weapons in the tourney a thousand times ere
this, in our early exercises,—nay, in the very training which thou
hast given me, and which, as a grateful pupil,”—this was spoken
with a smile by no means pleasing in the eyes of Philip,—“I am
only too glad to have received at thy hands. What is there now
to make the difference?”

“Ask thy own heart, Andres,” replied the other, sadly. “Art
thou the same person that thou wast, when, without a care or
thought but of the art which thou hadst in thy desire, thou took'st
thy first lessons from my lance? Since that day thou hast
mingled, for thyself, in the press of knights; thou hast shared
the eager fury of the battle; thou hast won for thyself a name
which thou must maintain, at all perils, to thyself and others.
But thou hast other feelings, fears and hopes than those which
possessed thee when a boy; thou hast grown a man of cares;
and, I grieve to think it, my brother, thou no longer look'st upon
me, thy Philip, as the loving friend from whom came thy first
lessons in arts and arms. These make it prudent and proper
that we should not strive against each other. The accidents of
the tourney are, of themselves, sufficient to keep our arms asumder.
Men have been slain, unwittingly by their rival knights,
through false footing of their horse; through frailty and fault in
arm; through haste; through indiscretion, and those nameless
providences of the conflict, of which no man can well account, as
no wisdom can foresee. But chiefly do I desire that we should
not find our weapons crossed, inasmuch as I perceive in thee, my

brother, a decline of that trust in me—that love, which, of old,
made it pleasant to me to teach thy inexperience.”

“I am no longer inexperienced, Philip de Vasconselos. I no
longer need thy teaching, or that of any man! Thou talk'st of
accidents from weakness, and defect of armor. Never better
armor than mine, as thou knowest, came from the forge of the
Milanese. It had its fashion from the same hands with thine, and
is, I warrant me, as free from frailty. My lance is under thine
eye. The sword which I carry has been a thousand times within
thy grasp. Thou canst tell the weight of my battle-axe, and
knowest the value of its tempered metal as certainly as thou dost
thine own. What remains? Methinks, my brother, there is no
such difference between the strength and size of my body and of
thine. Take the muscle of this arm within thy grasp. Doth it show
to thee a feebleness which should make it shrink from any struggle
with any cavalier, even though he be of redoubtable prowess,
like thyself? Thou speak'st of what is in my heart;—of a change
in my feelings towards thee!—it may be there is such a change!
Verily, I see nothing in my fortunes or in thine, Philip de Vasconselos,
which should make me regard thee with feelings such as
we bore to one another, when thou stood'st not in the way of my
hopes, and hadst not yet shrouded my heart, in the overwhelming
shadow of thy greater fame! I reproach thee not, that such
has been thy fortune; but verily, it is no longer seasonable with
thee, to discourse to me of the love of kinsmen; and I tell thee
more, Philip de Vasconselos, thou hast but too much the habit of
speaking to me as if I were still the boy, untaught, and only now
receiving from thee, for the first time, his infant lessons in the use
of blunt spear and shielded weapon.”

“And is it thus, my brother?” was the mournful answer of
Philip de Vasconselos.

“But I will not upbraid thee; and yet I will not forbear to entreat
thee. The feeling which thou showest is most certainly
enough to make me unwilling to encounter with thee in this tourney.
Were it possible, without shame and discredit, to refuse to
take lance in these gay passages, I should most surely withdraw

myself from the field. But I am pledged to the encounter; with
lance, sword, and battle-axe, three strokes of each; with Luis de
Moscoso, with Balthazar de Gallegos, with Nuno de Tobar; and
it may be with others, whom I now recall not.”

“Thou canst not well escape thy devoir,” said Andres, with a
sneering smile.

“Nor, save on thy account,” replied the other “would I
desire to do so. But there is that within my bosom, Andres,
whatever may inhabit in thine, which makes me shrink from
the thought that we shall cross lances in the melée. I know
not that thou designest such a conflict; but I know thy ambition—
thy pride—and I fear that evil spirit which sometimes possesses
thee, making thee blind to thybetter feelings, and to the claims of
those about thee, and which, I grieve to say it, has but too frequently
shown itself in thy moods of late. Brother, hearken to
me;—I pray thee let us not meet! Thou wilt find many noble
knights to conquer, who will do thee honor. There will be no
lack of the fit antagonist, even though Hernan de Soto himself
shall take the field. Let us do nothing which may perchance
lessen or change that love which our mother gave us, and which
should be dear to us, because of her, as because of ourselves.”

“It is on my account—for me—that thou wouldst avoid the
encounter with me!” replied the younger brother. “Verily,
Philip, thou hast betrayed thy modesty. Is it so sure that my
lance must fail when it crosses thine?—is thy arm—”

“Nay, brother, why thus wilt thou mistake my purpose?—
thus cruelly outrage my affections? I do not reproach thy
prowess when I tell thee that it is on thy account, wholly, that I
would avoid this encounter. I fear that thou wilt wrong thyself;
—that thou wilt show a spirit in the field, which would not well
become a brother;—that thy pride, wrought upon by sudden passions—by
unjust suspicions—by unwise jealousies, will lead thee
into deeds of unmeasured violence, such as—”

“Such as thou fearest, eh?” was the mocking interruption.

The other answered proudly—his tones growing instantly colder,

calmer, and with a slower enunciation, while his eye flashed
with a sudden fire, entirely different from its recent expression.

“I fear nothing, Andres de Vasconselos, as thou of all persons
should by this time know;—nothing but shame, dishonor, and
the reproach of knighthood;—nothing but a wrong done to our
mother's fondness—and that wrong which thy evil mood seems
resolute to do to our own. To escape this, I would have implored
thee to forbearance; for I know thy temper in the conflict, and I
somewhat dread my own! Unhappily, we share, in some degree,
the passions of one another. Thus it is that we have both loved,
where both may be luckless—”

“No! no!” exclaimed the other bitterly. Philip did not regard
the interruption.

“With our mutual passions roused—our pride endangered in the
field's regard, I dread the struggle that would follow: for, at such
moments, Andres de Vasconselos, I cannot easily distinguish the
kinsman from the foe! Love, pity, the ties of affection, and
friendship, are all obscured in the wild passion when the blood
rules triumphant in the brain, and I should bear thee down, my
brother, as unsparingly as the least regarded among the ranks of
all this Castilian chivalry.”

“By the Blessed Virgin, thou speakest, Don Philip, as if I
were already beneath thy spear—”

“Forgive me, brother, that I have done so! The Saints forefend
that lance of mine should ever threaten thee in any conflict!
I but—”

“And I tell thee, Don Philip, I no more reck of thy lance,
than I do of that of the least famous of all these Castilian cavaliers!
I know not of any prowess in thee that I have need to fear; and I
promise thee, should it ever hap that our weapons be crossed,
then look to do thy best, or I put thy boasted skill to shame.”

“I boast no skill, brother!”

“Thou dost—thou art all a boast! What else is it when thou
warn'st me that in the strife thou wilt be pitiless—that thou wilt
suffer no thought of kindred to disarm thee? Is it not as much

as if thy victory were already sure, and thou hadst me trampled
under thy feet?”

“I have been in fault, brother; verily, I confess it. It is not for
me to boast; and still less to seem to boast of advantage over
thee. Believe me, I love thee too well to be pleased at any fortune
which shall be, or seem, better than thine—”

The jealous spirit of the younger brother construed this sentence,
which he interrupted, to refer to the disappointment of his
suit with Olivia de Alvaro.

“Indeed, thou approv'st the truth of thy disclaimer by thy
taunts. Have done, I pray thee, good Don Philip, and let the
time bring its own brood; whether of hawks or sparrows, it matters
not. I ask not of thy purpose, and feel myself scarcely free to
tell thee of mine. I know not that I have any purposes. I
know not that I shall oppose any lance in these passages. I but
put myself in readiness to obey my necessity—or my mood—
whichever it may please thee best to believe. I only know,
Philip de Vasconselos, that I am scorned and wretched, and thou
triumphant, as well in the love of woman as in fame. Go to:—
why wilt thou goad my sorrows, when such is thy own good fortune?”

“Andres, let not the sun set on this disagreement. I feel that
thou dost me wrong, but I implore thee as if the wrong were
mine.”

Philip extended his hand affectionately to his brother, as he
made this appeal. The other did not receive it; but, waving his
own in the direction of the orb now rapidly disappearing behind
the last distant billows of the sea, he said coldly—

“He sinks!” and, without another word, rose up and strode
down the slopes which conducted to the city. The elder brother
threw himself upon the earth, from whence, during the earnest
portions of the dialogue, he had risen at the same moment with
the other, and rested his aching forehead upon his hands.

“Verily!” he said to himself—“he is possessed of an evil demon!
What is to be done? Will he put himself in harness
against me? Can he purpose this? But no! no!—The evil

mood will pass with the night. I will tent him no further with
the matter.”

That night beheld the two brothers, in the same apartment,
praying ere they slept; yet they prayed not together, nor at the
same moment. What was in their hearts while they appealed
to heaven? Alas! it is our fear, that, while the lips moved in
worship, the thought was foreign to the homage! Passion,
rather than prayer, was in their mutual hearts;—the one dreaming,
the while, of earthly loves and earthly distinctions;—the
other, filled with a wild conflict, in which pride and vanity, confounded
by defeat and humiliation, were busily brooding in worship
at the shrine of a divinity which they did not yet presume to
name.

The next day, without naming his purpose, Andres de Vasconselos
withdrew from the place of lodging with his brother, and
took up his abode with Antonio Segurado, one of his lieutenants.