University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

This episode, between parties not mingling with the action,
offered no obstruction to the progress of the tourney. The preparations
still went on for the passage-at-arms between our knight
of the Falcon, and the redoubtable millionaire, Don Vasco de
Porcallos. These were soon completed, and the knights took
their places. “Laissez aller!” The signal being given, the two
champions dashed forward to the encounter with a desperate
speed that threatened to annihilate both combatants. There was
no reluctance in the carriage and conduct of the rich cavalier,
however great might have been his secret misgivings. While
he, no doubt, questioned his own resources of skill and strength
against an opponent who had always proved himself most formidable,
yet the doubts of Don Vasco never once occasioned any
fears in his bosom. He was brave enough when the trial was
to be made. He was not destined to be successful, but he was
spared some of the mortifications of defeat. A misfortune happened
to him, while in mid career, which probably saved our
corpulent cavalier from a much worse evil. His steed, which
was as high-spirited as he was powerful, trod upon the barbed
head of a broken lance which had been partly buried out of sight
beneath the sands of the arena. The sharp point of the steel
touched the quick of the animal's foot, and, with a snort of terror,
he wheeled about at the very moment when the lances should
have crossed. He became suddenly unmanageable. Quick as
lightning, as he beheld the straits of his opponent, the knight of

Portugal elevated his own lance, and, having full control of his
steed, drew him suddenly up, arresting him in his full speed so
admirably, that he stood quivering upon the spot; the unexpended
impulse which he had received now shaking him as with an ague.
In another instant, Philip de Vasconselos was on his feet, and
had grasped the bridle of the unmanageable steed of his rival,
which, by this time, was in a state of fury, occasioned by the
agony of his hurt, which threatened momently to unseat his
rider. The timely service enabled Don Vasco to alight, and
gratefully acknowledging the assistance rendered, he at the same
time acknowledged himself vanquished. The courtesy of his
opponent, indeed, had alone spared him this misfortune. Don
Philip gracefully rejected this acknowledgment, and, ascribing
the event solely to the sufferings of his rival's horse, proposed
that Don Vasco should find another. But, by this time, the
chivalrous feelings of the latter had somewhat subsided. He felt
much less enthusiastic than before, and was rather pleased now
at a means of evasion, which, while it lost him the final honor of
the day, at least left him in possession of the credit which he had
acquired in the previous passages. The knight of the Falcon
remounted his own steed, and resumed his place within the lists.
He stood alone, and in expectation. No champion stood before
him, challenging the triumph which he had won,—the crowning
triumph of the field. There was a sudden and deep silence
throughout the assembly. The feeling was everywhere adverse
to his claims and expectations; and it was with something of
contempt, not unmixed with bitterness, that our knight of Portugal
was reminded of the national prejudice, which felt reluctant
to do justice to the achievements of the stranger. There
was no other reason for the silence and forbearance of Don
Hernan de Soto, who, in the case of a Castilian champion, or
in that of one to whom he felt no personal prejudice, would, no
doubt, have promptly risen in his place, and summoned the successful
knight forward, to choose the Queen of Love and Beauty,
and to receive the chaplet of honor at her hands. There was no
reason why the award should not be promptly made. There
was no challenge pending. No opponent had announced himself
for the combat. All who had presented themselves had been
disposed of. Yet the knight of the Falcon was allowed to stand
in waiting, unemployed, alone, for a space of several minutes,
not a word being spoken to him, and a dead silence hanging over
the multitude, significantly declaring the general reluctance to
make the necessary award. In the silence of the crowd, De Soto
felt his justification. But the gallant Nuno de Tobar, who had,
by this time, joined the ladies about the Adelantado, warmly
interposed to demand that justice should be done to the conquering
champion. It was with a cold severity of look that De Soto
prepared to comply with a requisition which he could not longer
escape with decency, when Don Balthazar de Alvaro interposed.

“But a moment more, your excellency.”

“Wherefore?” demanded Tobar. “Will you keep the knight
of Portugal in waiting all day, without a cause?”

“Let him wait!” said De Soto, sharply, though in subdued
tones. “The warder hath a reason for it.”

Don Balthazar whispered to Tobar:

“There is cause. The tourney is not yet ended. There is
another challenger. He will soon appear.”

“Ha! who?”

How did Don Balthazar know that there was another challenger?
The simple Nuno de Tobar himself never dreamed of
it; still less did he conjecture in what guise the new claimant
for the laurels should appear. At that moment, silencing all
further conversation and speculation, a sudden sharp flourish from
a trumpet without awakened Philip de Vasconselos to the conviction
that his crown was not secure. By this time, his feelings
had become sufficiently embittered for genuine anger, and a real
conflict. He turned his glance quickly, as he heard the tread of
the approaching cavalier, and beheld emerging into the amphitheatre
the form of Andres his brother. The spectacle was one
of extreme sorrow and mortification to the elder brother. The
moment he beheld him, Philip muttered to himself, closing his
visor:

“Thou too, my brother! Thou hast then joined with mine
enemies—ay, and thy enemies too—against me!”

The visor of Andres was already closed, and Philip could not
behold his face; but he could readily conjecture the crimson
flush which covered it,—the usual sign of his intemperate passion.
He had been somewhat surprised, that Andres had taken
no part in the tournament before; but the feeling was not one
of regret, since, as we have seen, he had already entertained some
misgivings that his brother might take the field against himself.
We have not forgotten the fierce dialogue which had taken place
between them on this subject. Of course, Philip de Vasconselos
entertained no personal apprehensions from the encounter. His
pride was in no way alarmed, lest he should meet with overthrow,
in the passage-at-arms with his brother. Indeed, to speak
plainly, Philip knew too well his own superiority of training,
art, and muscle; though the vanity of Andres was such that he
had persuaded himself to a very different estimate of their mutual
powers. He was yet to be taught a better knowledge of
their disparity. The reluctance of Philip to engage in such a
contest, even though the tournament implied neither strife nor
malice, was based upon his just knowledge of human nature;
upon his thorough experience in respect to the mood and character
of Andres—his passionate blood; his disappointments of
heart; his jealousy of the superior influence and reputation of
his brother. We can readily divine the several reasons which
governed Philip in his anxiety to escape a conflict, in regard to
which he yet entertained no fears. Now that they stood confronted,
and the contest was inevitable, he endeavored to calm
his own blood, and control his temper, somewhat excited by the
circumstances which had marked his treatment by the Adelantado
and the assembly. But this was not so difficult. The reception
of Andres, by the audience, was of a sort to kindle in
the elder brother a sentiment of passionate indignation, as it
declared how grateful to the common feeling would be his overthrow.
The multitude hailed the entry of the new champion
with the wildest plaudits, not simply as he promised to prolong

their sports, but as he afforded still another chance for the defeat
of the person whose triumph had chafed the national pride.
It was true that, even if Andres should succeed against Philip,
the honor would be lost to Castile; but to this finality, their
vision did not extend. All that they now required was the
defeat of the one cavalier, to whom their own favorites had been
compelled to succumb.

There was still another reason for the excitement of the multitude,
on the unexpected appearance of Andres de Vasconselos.
It is a curious fact, that the instincts of the vulgar rarely err in
respect to the passions which goad and afflict the natures of distinguished
men. The common people seem readily to conjecture
in what points superiority is weak. They all knew, by sure instinct,
that the brothers were rivals. They had seen and heard
enough, touching their mutual attachment to the fair beauty,
Olivia de Alvaro, to imagine that the approaching conflict was
to be marked by other feelings than those of chivalrous ambition,
and the pride that looks only to the momentary triumph.
They guessed all the bitter vexation that stimulated the one
champion, and they inferred like feelings in the bosom of the
other. And the two were to fight in the presence of the woman
whom they both loved. A thousand eyes turned involuntarily
to where Olivia sate, pale and breathless with anxiety and apprehension.
She, too, partook of the convictions of the multitude.
They were brothers; they were rivals; and she had reason to
fear that they were enemies. She had heard of the separation
of their tents; and that there had already been sharp words between
them. And now they stood, face to face, fronting each
other with sharp weapons. What had she not to fear? The
very manner in which Andres de Vasconselos appeared within
the field; the moment chosen, when his elder brother was in
full possession of the victory; when but a moment was needed
to afford him the laurel crown for which he had striven! This
was a circumstance full of significance. That Andres had not
sought the conflict with other champions, or previously, at any
period, was a sufficient proof that its honors were not the objects

of his desire. Why should he take the field now, unless with
the aim to pluck them from the brow of his brother? It was a
bad passion—hate, revenge, anything but an honorable ambition
—which prompted his appearance now, at the last moment.

Olivia thought all these things. Such were the thoughts of
Philip also. But he strove to restrain and silence them; and, in
the brief interval allowed him, his inward struggle was to subdue
himself,—to keep his own bad passions in subjection, and to offer
no such provocation to those of his brother, as would place him
entirely beyond control of human reason. He resolved to be
forbearing in all respects. But this did not imply that he would
forego any of his resources of skill or strength in the conflict.
He was not, by any means, to yield his claims to the honors of
the field, in favor of any opponent. On this point he was resolute;
and, thus resolved, it became him, if he would effect his
triumph, and avoid giving unnecessary provocation, or inflicting
mortification upon his brother, that he should maintain the coolest
temper, and suffer nothing to disturb his passions. It required
some effort to do this, for he had felt bitterly his isolation
in the last few moments,—a feeling sadly increased, when, as he
phrased it, his own brother had joined his enemies against him.

We must not allow it to be supposed that the Adelantado
beheld the opening of the new issue between these parties, without
being somewhat sensible to the strangeness of its aspects.
His instincts, too, were at work; and remembering to have
heard of the quarrel between the brothers, he began to think
there was something unnatural in the approaching combat. His
conscience reproached him for the ungenerous delay which had
kept Philip de Vasconselos from the crown of victory, and afforded
the opportunity for the event, of the results and character
of which he had grown apprehensive; and he looked dubiously
at the warder of the field, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, and for
the first time felt suspicious of those motives, on his part, which
had moved him to urge the delay in closing the lists. But there
was now no moment for arrest and interposition, unless by the
exercise of a seemingly arbitrary authority, which would show

ungraciously in all eyes. Accordingly, the affair was suffered to
go on. Both champions were already prepared for it.

Andres de Vasconselos, as we have already described him,
was a handsome and vigorous youth, well made, of considerable
muscle and agility, well skilled in arms, an admirable rider, and
utterly fearless of soul. He was mounted on a fine blooded
mare, of great hardihood and life. His armor, though sombre
also, was more gay than that of his brother, and he wore a rich
chain of gold, with a medallion pendant, around his gorget. A
gay crimson scarf crossed his bosom, and contrasted effectively
with his sable armor. His shield was very much like that of
his brother; and crest and device equally declared that haughty
ambition, which, in that day, marked pretty equally the Spanish
and Portuguese adventurer. It bore for figure, a shower of
meteors amidst cloud and storm, with the Latin words—“Inter
turbas illustris”—“Glory amidst the storm.” He was certainly
the man to prefer always that his successes should be the fruits
of the most unmeasured conflict. But we need linger no more
in our preliminaries. The signal sounds; the truncheon of the
warder is waved aloft; the trumpet sounds the charge; the
heralds cry their encouragement.

“To it, gallant gentlemen! honor awaits brave deeds; your
ladies look on you with smiles. Glory is for him that conquers,
—`Glory amid the storm'— The falcon has her wings; why
should he not soar to the heights of glory?”

These, and a hundred other cries, from the audience as well
as the heralds, rang throughout the amphitheatre, as the brothers,
parting from their places, rushed to the encounter with a shock
that thundered along the earth. The lances were shivered famously;
new ones were supplied in a moment; again, the wild
rush was heard, rather than seen; and again came the fearful
concussion. The lances were again shivered at the encounter,
but it was observed that Andres de Vasconselos was nearly unseated
in the shock. In truth, he had a narrow escape, and he
felt it; and his anger was heightened, and, as he stood again
confronting his opponent, a bitterer feeling of hostility than he

had known before, worked within his bosom; and his teeth were
gnashed together; and grasping the new spear with which he
had been furnished, he muttered to himself, as he shook it aloft,
—“If thou fail me, I will look to surer weapon.”

The third passage was waited for with great impatience by the
multitude. The previous combats seemed to have been mere
child's play to these. Every one felt that the present passages
were marked by passion much more serious than those of chivalric
courtesy, even when stimulated by ambition, or urged
by the desire of doing greatly in the eyes of love and beauty.
The spectators were now hushed and breathless. The occasional
cries of the heralds, repeating the old formulas of encouragement,
seemed very unmeaning sounds in respect to such a conflict.
They were felt almost as impertinences; and, indeed, by this
time, the heralds themselves seemed to arrive at this opinion, for
they suddenly became silent. All now was eager expectation.
The signal followed, and the passage. There was the same
fearful concussion, as before; the clouds of dust; the confusion.
But the results were more decided, and the encounter was followed
by a wild, sharp cry, full of rage and fury. Soon, Philip
de Vasconselos emerged out of the dust-cloud, and coursed once
round the ring; a moment after, Andres was beheld, on foot,
with his battle-axe in his hand, and darting after his brother with
the ferocity and speed of a tiger. The steed of the younger
knight was down, rolling over in the sand; by what hurt or accident,
no one could conjecture. He, himself, had all the action
of a madman. His fine scarf was riven; his armor covered with
dust, and his helmet thrown off. His hair, which was long,
floated wildly; his face was crimson with passion, and his eyes
glared with a fury which threatened to destroy everything in his
path. He made headlong way towards Don Philip, who had
now drawn up his steed, and stood quietly, if not calmly, awaiting
him at the barriers, which was as far back as he could recede.
Here he must stop and encounter what should happen,
if he would not incur the disgrace of seeming to fly, which would
have befallen him should he again put his horse in motion to

escape from further assault. He had not long to wait. Blinded
with rage and mortification, Andres soon made up to him, and
at once sprang towards him, swinging the battle-axe above his
head. Then it was that Philip exhibited, in highest degree, the
wonderful spirit and activity which he possessed. In an instant
he threw himself off from his steed, and, without weapon of any
kind in his grasp, confronted his brother. The latter at first
seemed not to perceive the unarmed condition of Don Philip,
and all expected that he would strike, from the manner in which
he shook his battle-axe and pushed forward. But, seeing ere he
struck that his brother was unarmed, he cried out hoarsely —

“Get thee thy weapons!”

“Put down thine, Andres!” was the calm reply of Don
Philip—“wherefore this madness?”

“Madness!” cried Don Andres; “if thou darest call me a
madman, I will brain thee as thou stand'st! Get thy weapons, I
tell thee; thy triumph is not complete. There must be other
trials between us!”

“Go to, Andres: thou art foolish; thou art fevered! would'st
thou strike at thy brother in anger?”

“I see no brother; I know no brother! I know thee as mine
enemy only, and I will slay thee as a dog. Thou shalt have no
triumph over me!”

With these passionate words, showing him entirely beyond
control of reason, he at once strode forward, and struck, with
deadly and determined aim and stroke, full at the crest of Don
Philip! But the latter was prepared and watchful, though unarmed.
He lightly stepped aside from the blow, which was such,
that, if it had encountered his head, had certainly brought him
down, powerful as he was. He stepped aside and escaped it; and,
before the younger brother could recover his position, he grasped
him by the arm; and with such a vigor as no one deemed him
to possess, he wrested the axe from the grasp of the infuriate
youth, with as little seeming effort as if the latter had been only
a child in his hands. All this occupied far less time than we
have employed in telling it; but the interval had been sufficient

to have allowed the warder of the field to have thrown down
his truncheon if he had pleased to do so, and for the heralds and
guards to have interposed. Nuno de Tobar had entreated Don
Balthazar to arrest the combat when it promised to be bloody,
but he was unheeded.

“There is danger, I tell thee, Don Balthazar! Don Andres
hath no control of himself in his passion, and see you not that
the victory already rests with Don Philip?”

“Nay,” said the other—“three strokes may be taken with
the sword or battle-axe, according to the wishes of the combatants,
after the passage with the lance.”

“Only where the passage with the lance results in no advantage
to either,” was the reply of Tobar.

“Yet, I see not why they should be checked in a new passage,
if the parties desire it.”

“But Don Philip, you perceive, does not desire it.”

“Then, by my troth, he loses some of his renown as a warrior.
He should face his foe with any weapon.”

Nuno de Tobar was furious at these words, and greatly apprehensive;
and his passion might have exploded in a violent
challenge of the justice and magnanimity of the Adelantado
himself, to whom he now turned in impatient appeal, when he
was arrested by the sudden termination of the combat, as we
have described it. The next moment beheld Don Andres disarmed,
and the battle-axe in the grasp of his brother. Then it was
that Don Balthazar threw down his truncheon, and the trumpets
sounded the retreat. But Don Andres heeded not these signals.
He confronted Don Philip with a passion as reckless as before, but
this time with the feelings of despair and shame, rather than of rage
and hate.

“Slay me!” he cried, “strike, Philip de Vasconselos, as at
thy enemy! Thou hast the weapon. Thou hast disgraced me
eternally. Put a finish to thy work. Smite! my head is uncovered
to thy blow!”

“Go to, Andres; this is folly; thou hast fever in thy veins,
my brother. It is the madness of thy blood, not thy heart, that

has wrought thee to this unhappy conduct. I cannot harm thee,
Andres. I love thee, my brother, whatever thou may'st do, or
feel, or say!”

With these words, Philip flung the battle-axe to a distance.
Andres cast himself down, with his face upon the earth; but, as
the heralds and squires came up, he rose again quietly, and suffered
himself to be led out. He was borne away with a raging
fever in his veins, and that night was in high delirium.