University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The temptation to describe the scene that followed must be
struggled with. It will not do for us to aim at successes, at this
late day, in a field which has employed the genius of Tasso, of
Ariosto, of Spenser, and Walter Scott, not to speak of hundreds
more, whose practised pens have painted for us the full details
of many a well-urged passages-of-arms between rival knights in
the presence of nobility and beauty. The reader is already sufficiently
imbued with such scenes to require no elaborate details;
and we shall, accordingly, confine ourselves mostly to those portions
of the tournament at Havana which concern immediately
the persons of our own drama, making the general description
as succinct as possible. With this caution to our audience,
against unreasonable fears or improper expectations, we proceed
to our task.

The champions, challengers, and defenders, being now confronted,
and all prepared, the truncheon of De Soto was raised,
giving the signal. The trumpets sounded the charge, and the
opposing parties rushed to the encounter like so many vivid
flashes from the cloud. The concussion threw up a sudden whirlwind
of dust, while the solid earth shook beneath the thunder of
their tread. At the very first encounter two of the assailing
party and one of the challengers went down, and were dragged
off the field by their squires. This result left Nuno de Tobar,
whose opponent had been one of those overthrown, to turn his
lance in whatsoever direction he thought proper; but, with the

generosity of a noble nature, he preferred to keep himself in
reserve for such other inequality in the struggle as might yield
him an unembarrassed combatant wholly to himself. New
lances having been supplied to those who had fractured them fairly
in the passage and without disparagement to their arms, the signal
was given for a fresh encounter; the vacancies, meanwhile,
being supplied in the ranks of both parties. In this second passage,
Don Vasco de Porcallos carried himself so handsomely
against his opponent, who was a huge Fleming of nearly his own
dimensions, that the latter was incontinently overthrown, and
removed almost insensible from the field. A similar fortune,
though not with such serious hurt, befell Christopher de Spinola,
whose boast “a solas me sostingo,” was not justified by the result
of the encounter. He was handsomely lifted out of his saddle
by the lance of Diego Arias Tinoco, a brave captain, rough as a
porcupine, who was honored as standard-bearer of the army.
The latter, being now disengaged, was singled out by Nuno de
Tobar, and his horse failing, and swerving in the shock, he was
adjudged to have been worsted, and very reluctantly yielded for
the moment to a conqueror.

The successes of Nuno were welcomed right royally by the
cheers of the admiring spectators; whose comments, by the
way, were administered unsparingly, whether for praise or blame,
at every charge in the business of the field. Meanwhile, Philip
de Vasconselos has borne himself in a second encounter with the
gigantic Mateo de Aceytuno. In the first, a gentle and joyous passage,
as the heralds styled it, the advantage was decreed to rest
with neither. Their lances had been mutually well addressed, and
had shivered at the same moment, both knights preserving their
seats handsomely, though not, perhaps, with equal grace;—for
Philip had few equals in mere carriage—and recovered their
places in an instant; but proper judgments remarked, in the
strong patois of the mountains, that the horse of Mateo had too
little bone for his master's beef. In this, he certainly suffered
some disadvantage. But the second conflict was decisive; and
the knight of Aceytuno went down before his more adroit antagonist—his

huge bulk thundering upon the earth like the concussion
of some mighty tower. Something of this advantage was said
to be due to a loosening of the girth, by which the saddle of the
heavy knight was secured; but others more liberal, perhaps just,
ascribed it to the better skill of Philip; at all events, the one
opponent disappearing from the field, Philip de Vasconselos found
himself in the presence of another, in the person of his friend,
Nuno de Tobar.

Perhaps, the whole tournament exhibited no two warriors better
matched in most respects. They were nearly of the same
size and age; of strength apparently nearly equal, equally expert
in the use of weapons, and equally accomplished in the management
of the horse. These were the comparisons made by most
persons; and as the two combatants, now almost alone engaged
in the area, confronted each other with fresh lances, the people,
and after them the heralds, sent up fresh cries of admiration and
encouragement.

“Ho! brave cavaliers, for the honor of your ladies! Ho!
bright lances, for the glory of the conquest!” And, sometimes,
the cry, “Ho! Santiago, and the lance of Spain!” indicated the
working of that feeling of nationality, which did not forget that
the opponent of Nuno de Tobar was from another, and, at that
time, a rival nation. The occasional murmurs, and snatches of
dialogue among the crowds, declared this prejudice more strongly.

“I like not that these Portuguese should come hither to glean
of our contests! Shall we find the countries and make the conquest
of the natives, that these should gather the gold? Now,
may the good lance of Nuno de Tobar send him from the saddle
with such shock, as shall make him think no more of the pearls
of Florida!”

Such was the sort of murmur occasionally spoken aloud.

“Out upon thee!” was the reply of some less selfish spirit.
“There is room for all, and gold for all, and there needs all the
brave men that we can muster for these wars with the Apalachian
savages. They are no such feeble wretches as these of Cuba, or
even of Peru, where Pizarro, I warrant you, and our Adelantado

here, had work enough. They will make us glad of all the good
lances that will crowd thither under our banner. The Portuguese
is a good lance, and his brother, the younger, is a good
lance; though where he hides himself at this time, and wherefore,
I cannot guess. I had looked to see him here. Had he
been opposed to our fat Vasco Porcallos, instead of that clumsy
Fleming, I warrant you that he had made the other sweat! But,
hark! they prepare! Go to it, good knights! Go to it with a
stomach! Show that ye have fed on lances! That your daily
meat hath been bolt and spear-head, and your drink hath been
sword-blades, and Moorish scimitars! Ho! brave lances! Ho!
brave steeds! To it! to it! brave lances, noble steeds!”

This was one of a hundred voices, eagerly urging the cavaliers
to the conflict which was held so equal. Equal in many respects,
there were yet some, in which the knight of Portugal, or as they
called him, “the Knight of the Homeless Falcon,”—in allusion to
his crest—had much the advantage. His steed had been better
trained for such encounters; he himself had seen more various
service; and he possessed a sedate and temperate coolness of
mind, to which the somewhat mercurial nature of Nuno de Tobar
could not lay claim. Above all, he knew just in what
particulars he himself was strong and his opponent weak, and
he prepared rather to exercise his patience and watchfulness, than
his strength and skill. Nuno de Tobar, ambitious of excelling—
fighting in the presence of the army, and of that beauty which
was usually the source of his inspiration—resolved that Philip de
Vasconselos should have need of both. Besides, he was to fight
for the honor of Spanish lances. Though, personally, a devoted
friend of his present opponent, he had heard the popular cries
which insisted upon their Castilian representative, in opposition to
the foreign knight; and he was determined that Spain's honor
should suffer nothing at his hands.

But Philip de Vasconselos had also heard these cries. He
had long since been bitterly made to feel the jealousy and prejudices
which existed amongst the Castilians towards himself and
his Portuguese associates, and the pride of self and nation, which

rendered resolute his courage, was mingled with something of
bitterness, which made him half forgetful that Nuno de Tobar
was his friend. Thus it was that, as if in recognition of the peculiar
wishes of the multitude, each knight was prepared to engage
in the struggle with a sentiment approaching that of a real
hostility. We have said nothing of the influence which the presence
of Olivia de Alvaro had upon this feeling of Philip. It is
enough to say that it did not, by any means, lessen his fixed resolution
to employ all the prowess of which he was master in
the approaching controversy.

The interval necessary in providing the champions with fresh
lances, tightening the girths of their saddles, and otherwise making
them ready for the combat, was consumed in much less time than
we have taken in describing it. The knights were both in their
places, and the trumpets sounded the charge. The passage was
a very beautiful one, which greatly delighted the heralds. Both
lances were shivered equally, the strokes being made at the same
moment, and each delivering it fairly upon the shield of his
enemy. Newly supplied with weapons, the encounter was renewed,
and with the same results. By this time, however, Nuno
de Tobar was growing impatient. He felt, rather than beheld,
the coolness of his opponent; in which he knew lay the chief advantage
of the latter; and with this feeling, it seemed quite in
vain that he strove to preserve his own. Philip de Vasconselos
discerned the restlessness of his adversary, in a little circumstance,
which drew down upon the Spanish champion the thoughtless
applauses of the multitude. In receiving a fresh lance from the
herald, and while wheeling about to recover his position in the
lists, De Tobar hurled the lance no less than three times into
the air, catching it dexterously as it fell, and each time by the
proper grasp. Such agility, which seemed conclusive to the
crowd of equal confidence and skill, appeared in the eyes of
Philip de Vasconselos a proof of a nervous excitation, rather than
strength of will, or coolness; and he prepared himself, accordingly,
to change somewhat his plan of combat. Hitherto, when
his steed had rushed to the encounter, his lance, like that of De

Tobar, had been addressed to the shield of his opponent. This
was the common mark in the tournament of that day; the want
of exercise making the atteint more difficult when addressed to
the gorget, or the helm; but the cavalier of Portugal had practised
the one method as well as the other, and not designing a
surprise upon his opponent, he shook out his lance, ere the trumpets
sounded, and levelled it in the direction of De Tobar's visor.
The hint seemed to be taken, for the lance of the latter was at
once slightly elevated, receiving a new direction in his glance.
Thus prepared, the signal was given, and they hurried to the
shock. At the moment of crossing spears, his point still addressed
to the visor of his opponent, Vasconselos threw suddenly
the lower edge of his shield forwards, inclining it over his own
head, and watching the object of his aim from beneath the very
rim of the buckler. No time was left the other for providing
against this peculiar interposition of the shield, which required
him to have aimed so truly as to thrust his lance directly against
the visor of his antagonist, the crest of which was totally covered,
leaving the mark aimed at reduced to the smallest possible size.
The skill of Tobar was not equal to such a manœuvre. The
point of his lance accordingly struck the edge of the raised shield,
and glanced upward, and onward, over the smooth surface, expending
itself in air; while the point of Vasconselos, admirably
delivered, was riveted in the bars of his antagonist's visor, so
firmly, and so fairly, that there was no escape, no evasion of it
possible; and the gallant Nuno was borne from his saddle, without
seeming resistance. Indeed, the spear so fixed, the onward
rush of both steeds gave it an impulse which no skill, no strength,
at such a moment, could possibly withstand. It carried him
headlong to the ground, and the steed went free from under
him.

There was a cry, almost a howl, from the multitude, at the
fall of their favorite, and the national champion.

“Demonios!” sang out the swell mob in the corridor, who
flung up their arms with their voices, and swore, and tore their
hair, with as much vivacity as could be shown by the most mercurial

Frenchman. A few voices shouted their applause of the
conqueror; not able to resist the emotion, more strong than
nationality, in favor of a deed of manhood. But these soon died
away; and then could be heard that angry sort of discussion, in
all parts of the amphitheatre, in which, though all persons were
agreed, there was yet no possibility of settling upon the reason
which should justify their anger, or soothe their disappointment.
Meanwhile, Philip de Vasconselos had thrown himself out of the
saddle, and was the first to hurry to assist and extricate his friend
from helm and gorget, and raise him from the ground. The
squires, however, were soon in attendance. The fall had been a
really severe one, and the Spanish knight was somewhat stunned
by it; but, otherwise, he was uninjured. But his head felt the
soreness, not his heart. His gloved hand, as soon as he had
sufficiently recovered to recognize his opponent, clutched that of
Vasconselos, in token of that friendly sympathy between them,
which such an event could never interrupt. He was assisted off
from the field, and Philip now rode back to his place, prepared
for the next encounter.

The caprices of the day had left him without other antagonist,
of all the challengers, than the portly Hidalgo, Don Vasco Porcallos
de Figueroa. In him, the Spanish multitude were disquieted
to think, that they beheld the only obstacle, now, in the
way of the knight of Portugal; who, if successful in this passage,
would remain the master of the field. The vain and wealthy
cavalier, thus distinguished by fate, as was Ulysses, to be “devoured
the last” of his comrades, had hitherto maintained himself
with equal spirit and success. He had been fortunate, perhaps,
in not having been confronted with the most formidable of the
knights by whom the challengers had been encountered. He
was, perhaps, not wholly unconscious of this fact; and it was
with some misgivings, accordingly,—which he shared equally
with his Castilian friends,—that he prepared to contend, not so
much for new conquests, as to maintain those which his lance
had already achieved. He had seen enough of the prowess of
the knight of the Falcon, by whom the favorite of the Spaniards

had been so roughly handled, to entertain a reasonable apprehension
of the consequences to himself; and, if the truth were
known, he was in little humor for this last grand passage. Could
he have retired from the contest without discredit, and without
utter forfeiture of the honors he had already won, it is perhaps
doing him no injustice to say that he would most certainly have
declined it. He had not gone through his fatigues without suffering.
His portly frame, for a long time unused to harness,
was now shrinking beneath its incumbrance. He was reeking
with perspiration, which a brimming goblet of cool wine of Xeres,
which he had just swallowed, had not tended to diminish. But,
with all his annoyances and doubts, he put on a good countenance,
and, closing up his visor, prepared for the encounter, with his
best hope and spirit.

“The fat knight adds but another to the trophies of our Portuguese
cavalier. Philip de Vasconselos will remain master of
the field; certainly, he hath most admirable skill of horse and
weapon. He hath but a single joust before him, and then he
may elect the Queen of Love and Beauty!”

This was said by Don Balthazar de Alvaro. It was addressed
to the lady of the Adelantado. But it was meant for other
ears. At a little distance, on the left of Hernan de Soto, stood
Andres de Vasconselos. He had been a witness of all that had
taken place; and had heard the significant words of Olivia's uncle.
For a moment he gazed steadily upon the field; then, giving
a single glance at Olivia, whose color had been greatly heightened
by her emotions during the scene, he was about to leave the
scaffolding, when the words of the Adelantado reached his ears,
—not spoken aloud, but rather as if giving expression to a feeling
which he could no longer suppress, and which was stronger
than his policy:

“Now, would I give my best steed could Vasco Porcallos
maintain himself to the overthrow of this Portuguese cavalier.
It were shame to the lances of Spain should he bear away the
palm; and I would gladly see that arrogance rebuked, which but
too much distinguishes this stranger. Were it not for the position

which I hold, I should myself take up lance, and mount
steed in this combat!”

“To be thyself overcome,” was the secret thought of Andres
de Vasconselos, which he found it difficult to suppress. Hernan
de Soto had not noticed the near neigborhood of the younger of
the two Portuguese knights, as he made his indiscreet remark;
but Balthazar de Alvaro was well aware of his presence. He
saw, too, the meaning of that fierce glance which flashed from
the eyes of Andres, when the speech of the Adelantado was
made. It was his policy to divert the anger of Andres de Vasconselos
from every but one object, and he quickly remarked,
still seeming not to perceive the youth:

“It were no easy matter to wrest the victory from this knight
of Portugal, at this moment. There are, if I mistake not, bright
eyes in this assembly, the favoring smiles of which will arm
him with invincible power. He who fights in the sight of beauty
is always brave; but he who fights in the eyes of a beloved one,
who, at the same time looks love in return, is unconquerable.”

This was carelessly said, but the glance of the uncle led the
eyes of Andres de Vasconselos to the spot where sate the niece.
She saw nothing but the one presence in the field; and in her
face, more than ever beautiful, glowed the fires of an affection
which was not to be misunderstood. Her cheek was no longer
sad and pale, as Andres had usually beheld it. It was now
flashed with an emotion, betraying a joy and a triumph which
was forgetful wholly of itself. Andres followed the direction of
her eye, and he saw his brother, proud and eager, with visor uplifted,
and gazing, with the most intent delight, upon the beautiful
creature whom he had loved in vain. Bitter was the pang at
his heart, and, with emotions of hate and envy, which could not be
controlled, he dashed away from the stage, and disappeared
among the pavilions in the rear. Balthazar de Alvaro beheld
his departure, almost the only one of the assembly who did so,
with a keen feeling of gratification.

“He has it!” muttered the wily politician to himself, as he
once more addressed his attention to the business of the tourney:

“He has it—and the time is not distant, when he will make
another feel the fury of that dark passion which is working in
his heart.”

Don Balthazar judged rightly of the feelings of Andres, when
he allowed his own nature to provide the standards of judgment.
Why had Andres gone to his pavilion? we shall see hereafter.
Enough, that he summons his squire to his aid; that he cases
himself in armor; that he bids them get ready his destrier, that
he buckles sword to his side, and shakes aloft the heavy lance,
and tries its burden with his hands. Let us leave him, and return
to the amphitheatre.