LONDON:
HURST, CHANCE, AND CO.
65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD.
1828.

---

CHAPTER I.

Nul ne sut mieux que lui le grand art de sÉduire;
Nul sur ses passions n'eut jamais plus d'empire,
Et ne sut mieux cacher, sous des dehors trompeurs,
Des plus vastes desseins les sombres profondeurs.
Voltaire.

The pathetic and heart-rending lamentations of Theodora rung ominous in the ears of Gomez Arias long after he had ceased to hear them; but as he drew near Granada, and beheld its stately edifices, ambition again dazzled his imagination, and he welcomed the bright images which rose before his view to dispel the gloomy tendency of his present thoughts. The stately turrets of the Alhambra enlarging upon his sight, awakened the most flattering ideas in his ardent mind. Proud of the regard with which he was honored by his gracious sovereign, and truly estimating the high connexion he was about to form, he naturally anticipated the most brilliant and honorable career. The last lingering suggestion of remorse, which told him of the cruelty and ingratitude by which he had paved the way to his advancement, now grew less powerful, and conscience, that terrible monitor of the human heart, hushed her enfeebled voice, bribed by the rich prize offered for future silence.

Don Lope secretly applauded the dexterity with which he had extricated himself from all his dilemmas, and rejoiced at having parted with Roque, who now could only be considered as a witness of his crime. By handing him over to the custody of the Moors, he was safely rid of a troublesome servant, whose frowardness in future he must have tolerated as the reward of secrecy. Besides, there was a further probability that the loquacious disposition and impertinent sallies of the valet, would ultimately draw upon him the ill-humour of some sullen Moor, who, not inclined to relish his jests, might pay with a few inches of a poniard the freedom of his tongue. With regard to Theodora, Don Lope could entertain no fear of her escape, being under the guardianship of one who appeared to be a captive to her charms. Meantime his wedding with Leonor would be celebrated, all his views accomplished, and then if a decree of wayward fate interfered with his flourishing honors, he would already have power to set aside the past, and to make his way clear for the future.

In this pleasing anticipation, Gomez Arias arrived at Granada, and awaited impatiently for the auspicious morning that was to terminate his fears, and crown his fondest desires. Early in the morning, therefore, he flew to the mansion of the Aguilars without changing his dress, and bearing in his appearance all the hurry and derangement of a hasty journey. He found Don Alonso in the apartment of Leonor; but the welcome he received from the object of his attachment was certainly not given with the warmth of an affianced bride; nor did the countenance of Aguilar betoken any very friendly reception. Don Lope felt this coldness, but he perceived the urgency of sustaining his equality of character, whatever might be the nature of the peril with which he was threatened. Affecting, therefore, not to notice the unsocial cast of their meeting, in a gay and lively tone addressed himself to Leonor—

"My dear Leonor," he said, "in my impatience to greet you, I may appear guilty of a little indecorum," looking upon his dress; "but you will, perhaps, on that plea pardon my presenting myself before you in a manner so irregular."

"Oh, Don Lope," answered Leonor with a sarcastic smile, "I can forgive you any thing, for my nature has become of late so indulgent, that I find I could pardon offences much graver than a mere breach of manners."

"Your goodness I never doubted," replied Gomez Arias; "but methinks you look rather uneasy; surely you are not indisposed?—the noble Don Alonso too! Nay, has any thing occurred during my short absence to cause your disquietude?"

"Certainly," returned Leonor coldly, "nothing has happened that ought to cause disquietude. But, surely, Don Lope," she added sarcastically, "your sudden departure, and the summons of our mutual friend Count de UreÑa, might have held us in some little anxiety. Moreover, other small circumstances have contributed to cause a transient uneasiness."

"But you must not," interposed Don Lope, "suffer yourselves to be discomposed on account of our friend UreÑa, for I am happy to say he was considerably better when I left him."

"Then," cried Aguilar, "it is as I suspected."

And rising from his seat with an expression of dark displeasure, without further ceremony he quitted the apartment. Gomez Arias was struck at such strange behaviour; but soon recovering his surprise,—

"What means this, Leonor?" he said in an angry tone: "Why am I treated thus?"

"Don Lope," returned Leonor, "surely the malady of your friend has somewhat affected your understanding. We can have no right to interfere with the actions of my father, particularly as I have already told you some accidents have occurred lately to ruffle his temper."

"And what accidents are those, in the name of heaven?"

"Are you really, then, so ignorant of the events which have taken place since you were imperiously summoned to attend your friend?"

"Perfectly ignorant," replied Don Lope.

Leonor looked steadily in his face, and making a sign of impatience which she was unable to restrain, proceeded—

"It is surprising that the Count has not informed you."

"Of what?" interrupted Gomez Arias, astonished. "In the name of heaven, explain yourself, Leonor."

"Now, do you not think," continued she, in an affected banter, "it was highly ridiculous in a man of so grave a deportment as the Count to play such boyish tricks? Can you really believe that, shortly after your departure, a message came from him, to announce his intention of surprising you by his attendance at your wedding."

"Certainly," replied Gomez Arias with visible marks of emotion, "the Count's conduct is strange; what his intention has been I really cannot conceive: but at all events, it ought in no manner to entail on me your noble father's displeasure."

"Why, Don Lope," said Leonor significantly, "you are not such a novice in knowledge of the world, as to expect that a man's displeasure should be strictly confined to the object by which it has been caused. Besides, Don Alonzo has other reasons: our fair guest, who was so sacredly beholden to him, is gone."

"What fair guest?" demanded Gomez Arias, with feigned curiosity.

"Did you never hear me speak of her?"

"If I did, I really do not remember."

"And what is become of Roque?" abruptly demanded Leonor: "he did not attend you upon your departure yesterday, and search has been made after him without effect. Is he ill?"

"Why, to say the truth, his health is rather precarious," answered Don Lope, "and he has so repeatedly been entreating me to allow him to retire to Toledo, where I believe he has a brother or sister, that I was at length obliged to consent to his wishes; which, in sooth, I did the more willingly, as he was growing of late so careless and impertinent, that his attendance became more troublesome than serviceable to me."

"Why, Don Lope," returned Leonor, "you must have been strangely surprised that he should wish to quit your service precisely on the eve of your wedding day. Moreover, you will be still more amazed when I inform you that it was this identical Roque that eloped with our guest Theodora de Monteblanco."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Don Lope, affecting to be thunderstruck.

"Repollo, our old gardener," continued Leonor, "saw them leave the palace, and instigated by a feeling of curiosity, followed them at a distance, as well as the speed of their pace would permit. He saw them at length halt at the public walks, where another person awaited with horses. But this is the most extraordinary part of the tale, for the gardener said that the person who was so complaisantly attending upon the fugitives, appeared so exactly to resemble you, Don Lope, that he would swear to the identity, were he not certain that you set out in the morning for the seat of Count de UreÑa."

Great as was at all times Don Lope's presence of mind, and prepared as he seemed for all contingencies, this last intelligence somewhat deranged his composure; a circumstance which did not escape the keen and scrutinizing eyes of Leonor.

"The insolent rascal," cried Gomez Arias after a pause: "It was for this then that he appeared so anxious to quit my service; but I told you that his behaviour had become of late most impertinent, and even arrogant. The reason is now plainly discovered. But after all, your fair guest, as you are pleased to call the lady-love of this unseemly knight, is most to blame. What, in the name of Lucifer, could possess a woman of noble family to elope with a base menial? Was she devoid of all shame?

"I suppose so," replied Leonor: then, in an expressive tone, she added, "But shame has been completely set aside in all the turnings of this iniquitous affair."

She fixed a significant look on Gomez Arias, whilst the astounded cavalier, aware of the perilous nature of his situation, merely assented to the truth of her observation. Leonor, eager to pursue her clue in ascertaining how far Don Lope was implicated in the transaction, continued,—

"But is it not surprising, Don Lope, that this groom of Roque should in every respect so much resemble you?"

"My dear Leonor," replied Gomez Arias, laughing loudly, and affecting good humour, "it is certainly a sad misfortune to have so unprepossessing a likeness, but we must submit with a good grace to that which is out of our power to remedy. But I dare say the rascally groom is not after all so perfect a resemblance of your devoted admirer as the besotted gardener would make us believe; how could the old dotard distinguish objects so well, at the distance he confesses, and at night? It would seem more probable, by his prowling abroad at such an hour, that a free potation of wine had so far acted upon his senses, that he saw the marvellous story he has related, in a reverie whilst sleeping under the friendly shelter of a ditch."

"Nay, Sir," replied Leonor, "we have no reason to doubt the testimony of an honest and faithful servant, who has no interest in the invention of a tale to deceive his benefactor."

"Well," returned Gomez Arias, "I will prolong the discussion no further than to express my concern that you should bestow your affections on one who has the ill-fortune to resemble a vulgar groom. But I hope this circumstance will not abate the tender regard with which you have condescended to honour one who lives but in your smiles."

Here Gomez Arias attempted to pour forth the most ardent protestations of unalterable attachment; but he was shortly interrupted by Leonor,—

"Nay, Don Lope," she cried, "spare yourself the trouble of uttering a single word more, either to convince me of the sincerity of your love, or in extenuation of your conduct, for I can very well imagine before-hand what you would say."

"That is no miracle," replied Gomez Arias, "your discernment is not too hardly taxed to perceive the emotion which I scarcely wish to conceal, and must of necessity easily imagine the expressions that such feelings must dictate. But pardon, if in a day like the present, my passion oversteps the bounds of common love; for the delirium of bliss that possesses me cannot be manifested by the usual demonstrations of cold-hearted mortals. A day that unites me to the most exalted, as well as the most lovely, of her sex, is surely—"

"Hold, Don Lope," gravely interrupted Leonor; "I will not now dwell upon the respective merits of your passion—for I have a favor to ask, and it is your time to grant a request which, perchance, may sound strangely to your ear."

"I need not say that the wishes of my charming Leonor can meet with no opposition from me," politely answered Gomez Arias.

"Yesterday," continued Leonor, "notwithstanding the fervour of your love, you requested that the wedding should be deferred one day. Now, you cannot deny me a similar favor, and I have particular reasons for desiring that it may be further postponed for a month."

"Heavens! what say you? A month! a whole month!"

"Yes, Sir," cried Leonor with emotion, "a month—a year, if circumstances require a further delay—'tis alike indifferent to me."

Saying this she abruptly left the apartment, leaving Gomez Arias in indescribable consternation.

"I am ruined!" he cried after a pause: "the forced indifference which Leonor has imposed upon herself during this interview, and the burst of feeling that marked her departure, leave me no room to doubt that her suspicions are excited. But shall I tamely submit to this reverse of fortune, after the many and cruel measures I have been impelled to adopt for the success of my designs? No, by heaven! I will not."

He then remained sometime buried in a musing attitude, balancing in his mind the most prudent course to pursue in so difficult a situation.

"Boldness and indifference," he said at length, "alone can insure safety. From Theodora and Roque, I have nothing to apprehend. I will forthwith send instructions to Count de UreÑa; nay, I will partially open my heart to him, since his co-operation is now become indispensable to the furtherance of my plans."

After this, Gomez Arias sought another interview with Leonor, and with a proud and offended demeanor, informed her that he was perfectly willing to concede her request. Then, without waiting for an answer, he abruptly left her presence. He next repaired to Aguilar, and bitterly complained of the material change he had observed in him as well as in his daughter Leonor.

"If," he added, "you have reasons to impeach my integrity, speak aloud, Don Alonso, and give me an opportunity of removing the foul slander. But if it is a caprice, or a late repentance in her choice, that induces your daughter to adopt this strange behaviour, let her speak frankly—Gomez Arias is above the thought of constraining a woman's inclinations—and she shall be at once released from all engagements."

Don Alonso de Aguilar was struck with the generosity and manliness of Gomez Arias, and gave credit to the apparent sincerity of his words. The noble mind of Don Alonso could not conceive it possible that guilt should assume so perfect a resemblance of candour. The disappearance of Theodora, and the events which had attended her departure, were certainly well calculated to awake a suspicion that Gomez Arias was implicated in that affair; but as nothing positive could be adduced to prove his participation, Aguilar did not feel inclined to proceed with inconsiderate hastiness in an affair calculated materially to injure Gomez Arias in the estimation of the world. Leonor was naturally more irritated than her father at the least shadow of duplicity in the conduct of her lover. Thus she had requested the wedding to be deferred for a month, during which interval a proper investigation might be made.

Gomez Arias did not lose time in calling all his abilities into requisition, for his case was desperate, and it was necessary that the remedies should partake of the same character. He continued his visits to the Aguilars, but not with the same confidence as heretofore; and as he witnessed the high degree of esteem in which Don Antonio de Leyva was held, both by Don Alonso and his daughter, he affected to look on Leonor with offended pride, while he bitterly insinuated that it was a growing attachment for young de Leyva that had induced her to consider with suspicion, and treat with coldness, the conduct of a sincere lover.

Leonor, however, continued in the same frame of mind, insensible alike to his expostulations and bitter sarcasms. Deeply had her pride been offended, and deeply she had determined to resent the affront; nor could her sagacity and penetration permit her incautiously to trust the soft words and blandishments of a man whose notoriety in gallantry, she began to suspect, did not originate in idle rumour.

Meanwhile the irritated Don Lope spared no efforts to place his own conduct in a favorable light, and endeavoured to cast the imputation of caprice on that of the Aguilars. He complained constantly in terms of acrimony of the ungrateful manner in which his affection had been requited, and vowed vengeance against de Leyva, whom he accused of most criminal and ungentlemanly duplicity.

Contending feelings kept him in a continual turmoil, and he earnestly wished for an opportunity that might divert both the court and himself from a subject of which he was so disagreeably the hero.

Fortune again favoured his desires, by bringing about an event as terrible as it was altogether unexpected.

CHAPTER II.

The battle is their pastime; they go forth
Gay in the morn as to the summer's sport:
When evening comes, the glory of the morn,
The youthful warrior, is a clod of clay.
Home.

The streets and squares of Granada were thronged with a bustling and confused crowd. Here groups were assembled talking earnestly, and evincing all the signs of surprise and terror—there others were running about as if the dreaded event was actually come to pass. A continual hum was heard in every corner of the city; every tongue was eloquent in telling, and happy was he who could obtain an attentive listener, where all were eager to assume the part of orators. Indeed the cause of these demonstrations was important: several expresses had arrived, announcing the insurrection of the Sierra Bermeja, with the additional calamity that the terrible El Feri de Benastepar, whom they all supposed to have been slain, was not only safe and alive, but with the means of renewing a desperate warfare, and actually possessed of a force sufficiently strong to enable him to march upon Granada.

The town of Alhaurin, and several villages in the vicinity of the Sierra Bermeja were likewise in arms, and the rebellion seemed rapidly to extend throughout the whole of the surrounding country.

The rage of the Christians on receiving this intelligence was greatly increased by the insolent carriage of their fellow-citizens of the Mahomedan creed. Indeed, they evinced, in the triumph of their demeanor, the workings of smothered hatred, that only waited an opportunity to explode. Granada itself would have become a scene of tumult and bloodshed, had not Count de Tendilla speedily resorted to measures of precaution to insure public tranquillity. Various bands of veteran soldiers patrolled the streets, where the confused murmur of discontent, or the whispering group of sedition, was heard on all sides.

The queen was highly incensed at this fresh instance of the refractory and turbulent disposition of her new subjects. Her former edicts were again proclaimed through the city, not only against the aiders and abettors of the rebels, but even against such as should hold communion with them, howsoever slight or incidental.

The indignation of Alonso de Aguilar was strongly depicted on his noble and manly features, when in the presence of the assembled court he grasped the standard of the cross, and in a tone of resolution and enthusiasm—

"By the holy sign on this banner," he cried, "and by all the honors of my house, I swear not to return to Granada until this accursed rebellion is rooted out, and the promoters brought to punishment. Ere this month be past, El Feri de Benastepar, or Don Alonso de Aguilar, shall be numbered with the dead."

A shout of enthusiasm answered the noble sentiments of the warrior, whilst the queen issued orders that the next day all disposable forces should depart for the Sierra Bermeja, under the command of Aguilar, his son, Count de UreÑa and Don Antonio de Leyva. The troops of Jaen and all Castile were likewise ordered to hold themselves in readiness to march under the Alcayde de los Donceles and Count de Cifuentes.

Gomez Arias seized with avidity the opportunity which fortune thus offered him to signalize himself, and found stronger claims to the esteem and regard of his sovereign, on whose features he had lately observed a degree of coldness which little accorded with her former cordiality. He did not regret his being excluded from the number of chiefs under Aguilar, though his pride might feel a temporary wound. For he considered that his reputation would not be materially increased whilst acting in subordination to such a chief as Aguilar. His gigantic fame would engross almost all the glory, and its splendour would naturally throw into shade the lesser stars of his unequal rivals. He rejoiced, therefore, that his exertions were unfettered by a superior, and his ardent and ambitious mind soon worked out a plan of operations against a quarter of the revolted territory which had been neglected in the hasty dispositions already made.

He now boldly sought the presence of the queen, and requested her authority to embody a division to act under his command, a boon which his reputation as a soldier fully justified him in demanding. Isabella, to whom Don Lope's courtly manners and gallant bearing had always been pleasing, was happy to afford him an opportunity of distinguishing himself, and the cloud that obscured her brow was soon dispelled by a gracious smile as she wished him success in his expedition. Indeed, justice required that the request of Gomez Arias should not be denied, for while most of the Spanish chiefs, his brothers in arms, were about to share the dangers and glory of so honorable a war, it would have been utterly inconsistent that Don Lope, who ranked amongst the foremost in courage, should remain in obscurity.

Gomez Arias immediately made his arrangements with the usual ardour of his character, stimulated by ambition and the desire of forcing upon Leonor a conviction of his superior merits, by adding to his fame without being indebted to the proud family of the Aguilars. He summoned to his ranks all the friends over whom he possessed power, and the retainers of various noble families with whom he was in alliance. But these being volunteers, whom their zeal or hatred to the Moors had instigated to take up arms, could not be put in a state to depart from Granada with the regular army of Don Alonso de Aguilar.

The troops of this noble veteran were prepared to march. Previously, however, to their departure from the city, they piously bent their steps towards the cathedral, where divine service was performed with great pomp, to propitiate heaven in favour of its servants. The archbishop delivered an eloquent oration inculcating on the Christians their duty, and the glory of their enterprize; pointing out fame and honour to the survivors—an eternal crown to those who should fall in defence of their country and religion. The banners of the army were then blessed, and the various divisions directed their march towards the gates of Elvira, by which they were to leave the city.

It was a clear and beautiful morning; no lowering cloud defaced the serene brilliancy of the sky, and the sunbeams sporting on the polished helmets and glittering trappings of the army, were reflected in a thousand curious rays.

The trumpets, clarions, and other martial instruments, poured their brazen voices in wild and animating strains, while the shouts of the multitude, assembled to behold the departure of the Christian soldiers, floated promiscuously along the air. The walls of the city were thronged with spectators, whilst others, more active or more interested, followed the army down the Vega. It was a scene at once splendid and interesting, to behold the army marching gallantly to the field, followed by a multitude all unanimous in imploring the benedictions of heaven on their brave countrymen.

Amongst the dense crowd that gazed upon that martial array, what passions were called forth—how many latent affections kindled—and what sentiments of glory displayed! The magnificent pomp and the spirit-stirring dignity of war, at the same time that it elevates the soul to deeds of heroism, fails not to awaken in the breast a corresponding sentiment of awe.—Alas! while the warrior, in all the enthusiasm of courage and self-devotion, marches with eager strides to the paths of victory, perhaps of death, how many tender hearts swell high and beat fearfully for the dangers which they themselves cannot perceive!

Amongst that overpowering multitude might be discerned the venerable father, a lingering spark of noble fire still lurking in his dim eyes, and his withering frame receiving new energies as he gazed on the military display. A sigh of regret escapes him, for the perilous and glorious scenes in which his age forbids him to bear a part. His out-stretched palms are clasped in fervent orisons to heaven, not for the safety of his child, but that his conduct in the field may be worthy of a man and a Spaniard.

There was also the affectionate spouse contemplating the marching army in silent sorrow; her eyes swimming in tears are intensely fixed on that numerous mass of warlike spirits, where one, to her dearer than all the world, was speeding from her side. On one arm some innocent, perhaps, lay in sweet slumber, whilst another urchin, with years enough to gaze with delight upon the glorious scene, evinces his pleasure at the animating prospect, and with infantine exultation looks upwards to his mother, wondering to see her bathed in sorrow, for to his unconscious heart no cause is there for grief; and yet his tears flow because his mother weeps.

Farther, perhaps, more lonely, on some high turret, on some distant eminence, striving to hide her sorrows from the eye of the world, is seen the trembling virgin, whose pure heart has received the first impression of love, and whose charmed ear has listened with fondness to the soft tale of promised bliss. Now, with restless and agitated glance, she surveys the numerous host in the vain hope of distinguishing the dear object of all her tenderest affections, torn from her arms to exchange her smile for scenes of bloodshed and desolation. Alas! how numerous and various are the fears that agitate her gentle breast! She may never more see him: he may sleep his last sleep on the field of horror; or he may return triumphant but false to his vows, with a proud heart, to scorn the love of her who mourned for his absence.

But women, likewise, there might be seen more high-minded and more heroic in their thoughts and feelings; some who, like Leonor de Aguilar, offered their tears at the shrine of glory and patriotism, and who, while they trembled for the life of the object of their affections, were still more anxious for his honor; some, whose passion received a spark of heavenly fire that elevated them above their kind, and who gloried in the sight as they beheld their lovers marching onwards to fame and victory.

Such scenes, such sensations, with others which as powerfully affect the heart, but which the pen would vainly attempt to portray, are generally attendant on a departing army. Fear, perhaps, holds its dominion in the breasts of the many and interesting beings who are left behind; but hope steals gently forward, and gilds with its bright illusion the most fearful anticipations.

Meantime the soldier marches on gaily and reckless, and with a light heart he takes his farewell of those whom he is, perhaps, doomed never more to behold; and the tears that accompany his departure, tears of sympathy and affection, will soon, alas! be changed for the bitter drops of grief and despair.

CHAPTER III.

Mer. Ce sont lÀ de mes moindres coups,
De petits souflets ordinaires.

Sos. Si j'Étois aussi prompt que vous,
Nous ferions de belles affaires.
MoliÈre.

No nos rompas la cabeza
Hombre——Pero Ay Dios mio!
Pored un freno a mi lengua;
Y ojala que esta no fuese
La menor de mis flaquezas.
Cruz.

"Valga me el cielo!" exclaimed Roque, "Oh Maria, oh Rufa! Oh Rufa, oh Maria! nearly a week have I been with you, and yet I cannot, for the soul of me, believe what I see. There must be witchcraft in this; to find the old crony of my late mother, que en paz descanse![43] to find Maria Rufa, whom I had supposed dead, and her soul dwelling with the saints, amongst the rebels—amongst the Moors I mean, and herself a Moor: well, nothing shall make me wonder for the future."

Such were the words that our reader's friend Roque addressed to dame Aboukar, as they were advancing toward the town of Alhaurin in a cavalcade, of which they made a part. The venerable and sour spouse of the ex-master of the household, was rather nettled at the valet's impertinent freedom: he had been during the way most assiduous in favouring her with the benefit of his remarks, which he happened to convey with such an extraordinary licence of tongue, that the dame's patience, which it is believed was not of the most enduring kind, at last became completely exhausted. With much tartness and asperity, therefore, in a discordant voice, she exclaimed, "Out upon thee, most saucy and ungracious varlet; curb that licence of tongue, and learn to behave in a proper manner to thy elders and betters."

"Sweet dame," quoth the valet, "I do not by any means desire to dispute that first quality; you are certainly my elder by some good thirty years; but at the same time, most matronly and venerable Marien, I beg leave to differ in opinion on the second part of your assertion."

Then, as if afraid of being overheard, he muttered, in an under tone, "I am a good Christian and ever was."

This observation did not escape Marien Rufa, who heaved a deep sigh, and cast on Roque a look of mingled shame and resentment. She felt sorely the rebuke, but notwithstanding the valet's impertinence, the friendship she had entertained for his mother induced her to consider him with some degree of interest, and prevented her from discharging on him the whole weight of her indignation.

"Roque, Roque," she observed with sourness of aspect, "methinks you ought not to be so enamoured of the sound of your own voice, for that most unfortunate propensity to prating has brought you to the present pass: remember that it was on account of your growing sententious, that your master so unceremoniously dispensed with your services."

"Well," pertly cried Roque, "I suffer for having spoken truth, and I glory in what I have done. By all the saints, since I reflect on the flagrant injustice of Don Lope's conduct, and am become a martyr to my rectitude and compassion, I find that I am endowed with a degree of courage and resolution of which I was far from imagining that I was possessed. And now," he added, drawing near the dame, "now will you condescend to favour me with the particulars of your apostacy from our holy religion. What, in the name of infatuation, could entice you to take a step so detrimental to the interests of your soul? Virgen Santa! once no one was to be found more assiduous at the ceremonies of our religion; you were in very troth the most devout beata[44] of the whole parish, and now here's a change, in the name of Satanas! Oh, Maria Rufa, you have surely been bewitched."

"Alas!" cried the crone, ludicrously rolling her eyes in attempting the pathetic, "you say right, Roque; I was verily bewitched."

"Santa Barbara!" exclaimed Roque crossing himself, "and by whom were you bewitched?"

"By that most powerful tyrant."

"What tyrant?" demanded Roque, drawing closer, and casting a suspicious glance around. "What tyrant, Rufa?"

"Guess, Roque, and spare my confusion."

"Spare my guessing," returned the valet, "and with respect to your confusion, I dare say it will not overwhelm you. Now, tell me the name of the terrible tyrant."

"Love," replied Marien Rufa, affecting much disorder.

Roque forthwith burst into an immoderate fit of laughter that startled the cavalcade.

"Love! the Lord defend us!—how could such a guest enter so homely an habitation! Love! here's a pretty object for Cupid to exercise his pranks upon. Now, I do verily believe there is witchcraft in the tender passion. Miserere! Miserere! and who was the happy mortal attracted by your matured charms?—whence came the man blessed with the good taste necessary to set a just value on your miraculous attractions? That most beautiful elongated chin—that capacious mouth—those lack-lustre eyes, and shrivelled complexion—that most polite and well-educated nose, which is continually bowing to the neighbouring chin; in fine, those long shaggy tresses of hair, which, if we must judge by their consistency, bespeak thee endowed with the strength of Sampson."

Scarcely had Roque made a stop in his harangue, in order to take breath, than Marien Rufa, exasperated beyond bearing at the caricature he was drawing, with a wonderful alacrity lifted her clenched hand, and dealt the facetious valet such a tremendous blow on the ear, that he fell stunned from the donkey which he bestrode, and lighted on the ground with such violence that the whole place rung with the noise.

"There," cried the hag, "there's a convincing proof that my hair has not imposed on your credulity with regard to my strength."

Roque was completely reclaimed from his waggishness by the unexpected visitation of the Sampsonic fist, and for some time utterly forgot the use of his tongue. The notice of the whole cavalcade was attracted by the mishap of the luckless valet, and the energetic exclamation of dame Aboukar. The Moors that served as escort were seized with a fit of wondering mirth, and even the renegade, who was the chief of the party, spite of his habitual sternness, relaxed his rigid features into something like a smile. The tenant of a litter that was carried in advance likewise stopped to inquire into the reason of the commotion.

"Roque, what is the matter," demanded Theodora (for she was indeed that lady), when she perceived the valet rising from the ground in the greatest confusion.

"Nothing, my lady:" answered Roque, wofully; "the Lord defend us, but we have in our party a devil incarnate, under the semblance of a woman. Good heavens! here's such a concert ringing in the side of my head—such a hissing and whizzing never did I hear. O, Maria Rufa!" he then proceeded, in a humble tone, "what a flame you have imparted to my poor face! If it is a sample of your amorous fires, I am amazed you are not actually reduced to cinders!"

"That will teach you," said Maria Rufa, pacified, "to put a proper restraint on your froward tongue."

Roque for some time after kept a profound silence, for though he affected to treat the matter with jocose indifference, yet he was in no manner satisfied with the mirth and merry sayings which his adventure had occasioned. At length, however, his curiosity prevailed, and almost forgetting his recent disgrace, he again in a friendly manner accosted the Amazon.

"Now, Rufa," he said, "I hope you entertain no rancour against me for what has passed?"

"By no means, good Roque," answered the hag grinning, "I am perfectly satisfied, and I hope you are the same."

"Quite," returned the valet, "quite; so let us say no more about it, but rather tell me, if no ways disagreeable, the origin, progress, and final results of your passion."

"Alas! Roque," replied the old sybil, "it was unfortunate in its results."

And she heaved a profound sigh, whilst Roque, in most sympathetic unison, uttered a dismal groan.

"Console yourself," he said, "with the reflection that your case is pretty general in this sinful world. But what is the name of the amiable barbarian, the sweet monster, the bewitching, yet cruel oppressor, that excited the tender sentiments of your virgin heart, and turned you from the true faith."

"What! you are yet unacquainted with my husband?"

"Husband!" ejaculated Roque, "so there was a husband in the case! Oh, then I am not surprised."

"He treats me like a brute, as he is."

"Indeed! that is astonishing," cried Roque, "wonderfully astonishing, considering the means you have in your power of enforcing proper behaviour on the unruly. And pray what is the name of your brute?"

"You might have perceived it before: it is Aboukar."

"Aboukar!" exclaimed Roque; "Now, indeed, my wonder ceases—Aboukar! Oh the sweet creature! with his pretty lobster eyes, and most awful and portentous proboscis, which seems for all the world like a fine ripe tomato displayed on a copper platter."

But here Roque thought it prudent to make a retrograde motion, as he looked at the masculine arm of the dame, and remembered the little relish she had evinced for his talent of drawing portraits, and the manner in which she remunerated the artist.

"So Aboukar is your husband!"

"Alas! yes," answered the ancient, "we have been married now these five years."

"Valgame San Roque!" cried his namesake. "What a dull dog have I been!—five years married—certainly I ought to have discovered that long ago by his treatment."

"Treatment!" re-echoed Marien Rufa, a little incensed, "What treatment?"

"Oh! I mean no harm," replied Roque, "conjugal treatment, that is all."

"Roque," resumed the crone, modulating her croaking voice to something like a human sound, "Roque!" and she suddenly stopt, and looked the valet steadfastly in the face. "Well?" said Roque, surprised at the pomposity of her manner.

"Roque, my child, are you a kind and compassionate soul—a thorough good Christian?"

"A very good Christian," responded Roque, "though a humble sinner. But methinks such a question comes with ill grace from the mouth of a renegade."

"I will confide in thee, Roque," returned Marien Rufa, "I am an unfortunate woman, and alas! might I hope that my repentance were not too late? Roque, thinkest thou that there is truly a hell as terrible as it is depicted?"

"Worse, worse, a thousand times worse," replied Roque. "All the torments which you may have suffered in the company of—— But do you allow me to abuse your husband safely?"

"As much as you please," answered the gentle spouse.

"Well," resumed Roque, "all the torments which that most abominable, ugly scarecrow of a rascally unbeliever has made you endure, are nothing in comparison to the tortures you are doomed to suffer when you are compelled to leave that miserable carcase, and that time you must be aware cannot be far off. Then consider what a life you will lead in those dark regions, where, by the bye, you will be eternally tormented with the sight and company of your ungracious consort."

"I am sensible of my errors, but if I have sought your confidence, it was with the view of exciting your compassion, not your reproaches."

But Roque had insensibly got into a very oratorical mood, and, without heeding the hag's remonstrances, proceeded:—

"Now, Rufa, consider for a moment, who but the devil could tempt a matron full half a century old, without a sound tooth in her head, the head itself being unsound, to look kindly on the most perfect sample of ugliness, and a ruffian Moor to boot: this is enough to make you despair of salvation—But no, the blessed Virgin forbid! I think, and charitably hope, that by a vigorous course of penance, and wholesome castigation, properly and soundly administered, by a frequent use of discipline, constant fasts, devout prayer, donations to the poor, of whom I am one, and the like pious exercises, I really think your sinful soul may be snatched from the perdition to which it has been brought by that infernal Aboukar, your most confounded lord and master; therefore—"

"Roque," interrupted ruefully Marien Rufa, "whether you are in right earnest or only playing the fool with me, I cannot determine; but my situation is such as to deserve the pity of every good Christian."

Roque had, indeed, a peculiar inclination to a ludicrous banter, even when dwelling on the gravest subjects, which might put on his guard a person of quicker intellects than the dame of Aboukar.

"Rufa," he said, "pardon me if, in my admonitions, I cannot impart to your troubled spirit that unction which becomes the important subject that dictates them. Now, provided you will tell me the manner in which you intend to proceed, perhaps I may be able to help you with my good advice."

"Well, child," replied Marien Rufa, "I wish heartily to be reconciled to the church, and for this purpose we must contrive to fly from these accursed Moors."

"Very well," replied Roque, "so, you are resolved to abandon your matrimonial misery?"

"Oh, yes, Roque," retorted Rufa, "my conversion is very sincere; I have so many motives to quit the wretch. Oh, he is indeed a barbarian! Think, Roque, such a sweet partner as I have been to him, and now to neglect me for a little Moorish hussey not worth a maravedi. Oh, the faithless Aboukar—the wicked man! Yes, Roque, I wish as soon as possible to be reconciled to the church."

Roque, though far from being a deep divine, could not but significantly shake his head, when he perceived the motives that brought about the conversion of the apostate love-smitten dame. However, the idea of flying from the Moors very much tickled his fancy, and he was determined to adopt the step, provided it could be carried into effect without any great risk to his precious person, and that his mistress Theodora should be a partner in the flight.

Thus he was indulging in the most agreeable reverie, when his fair penitent disturbed him by uttering a most discordant sound, which the valet soon perceived to be a failure in the imitation of a groan. The eyes of the hag exhibited terrible signs of displeasure, as she turned round to some object that called her attention, while writhing her uncouth features into a most diabolical grimace. She thundered out an oath which made Roque invoke Santa Maria; but he was not a little scandalized when he discovered that the occasion of the hag's indignation was her frolicsome husband, who, without the least regard to her presence, was carrying on, in the presence of his wife, a little coquetry with a Moorish girl.

"There," cried the ill-treated spouse, "there is a traitor—how I could belabour the barbarian, and pluck that vile creature's eyes out! Oh, Roque! I have been a sad sinner, and I fervently desire to be reconciled to the church."

"Well, well," said Roque, "but first tell me on what foundation do you build hopes of an escape. We are, that is my mistress and myself, so narrowly watched, that it will be no easy task to evade the vigilance of our guards. It is true that by the interference of the renegade I am allowed a free access to Theodora, and the lady herself is treated with much courtesy; but at the same time I have observed that some cursed Moor or other is constantly watching our motions. Moreover, good dame, I must undeceive you, should you have relied on my courage for some desperate plan. I will not fight a single Moor. My humility will not permit me to exercise a business for which I consider myself utterly unfit, both for want of practice and natural inclination."

"No, child," replied the crone with a sneer, "I was never foolish enough to place any great hopes on your bravery; but I trust we shall find means to forward our plans without such assistance. To me," she then added, "all the secrets of the Moors are known, for they consider me too much interested in their cause to doubt my fidelity. Don Alonso de Aguilar is rapidly advancing against El Feri and should he succeed in his expedition against Sierra Bermeja, as it is more than probable he will, CaÑeri, Mohabed, and the other chiefs will not be able to withstand the forces which are already sent against them. We must take advantage of the confusion to escape, lest they should carry us with them to Africa."

"Cuerpo de Cristo!" cried Roque, "and is that all your wise head can devise? Well, I hope you are not overpowered after such an effort of imagination; but really I cannot give you credit for the contrivance."

They were now entering Alhaurin, where CaÑeri had preceded them two or three days before, and they halted at the entrance of a large mansion, which appeared, by the guards patrolling in front, to be the abode of the chief. Meantime the renegade helped Theodora out of her conveyance, and led her to the apartments allotted to her use. She was no longer a prey to the frenzied passions that had so long stormed her breast. The keen intensity of affliction, insulted and indignant pride, were now lost in the gloomy resignation and cold apathy to which they had given place. The severe trials she had undergone had impaired the beauties of her person, and poisoned her warm and generous feelings, but still Theodora was lovely and interesting. She had lost the brilliant beauty of a girl blooming with youth and happiness, but she had acquired the chaste graces and loveliness of sorrow. Alas! even in those sad memorials of fading beauty, enough yet remained to make her an object of interest, and keep alive the passion which CaÑeri had conceived. The load of grief and despair which had weighed her down at the last proof of her lover's treachery, was succeeded by a mood of deadened resignation. This calm, however, appeared presageful of some dire intent, and accordingly, for the first two or three days, she had not been left a moment alone, and every instrument of death had been carefully removed from her reach. The attentive services of Roque partly reconciled her to her dreadful situation; for it is consoling, even in the lowest depths of affliction, to meet with one sympathising being, however humble his station, however weak and limited his means to afford comfort and redress. In the midst of her barbarous enemies, she was permitted the attendance of a Christian, and this circumstance, trifling as it was, imparted some solace to her oppressed spirit. Besides, CaÑeri had abstained from importuning her with his loathsome protestations of love. This forbearance of the Moor arose from the renegade having stipulated, that in engaging the affections of Theodora, he should resort to no violence in her present sorrowful condition.

Thus CaÑeri had limited his addresses to a bare manifestation of respectful regard, foreign indeed to his nature, and borrowed only from the necessity of acquiescing with the wishes of the renegade, who had boldly declared he would oppose any violence employed against Theodora. This favorable disposition of the renegade was a source of astonishment to the object of his solicitude, for she could not forget that he had been the principal agent in the completion of her misery. Did Bermudo intend by these seeming kind offices to secure the prey to himself? or was it really a sentiment of pity that impelled him to the manifestation of this solicitude? Could heavenly pity dwell in that darksome abode, where the most fiendish passions kept a constant habitation? How were such opposite guests to be reconciled?

These surmises kept the mind of Theodora in a state of continual excitement, but as day after day passed, and the renegade, instead of exhibiting the least mark of enamoured sentiments, seemed to grow more respectful in his attention, those doubts began to wear away, and Theodora concluded that some mystery enveloped his proceedings, which she was unable to unravel, and which time alone could clear up.

In pursuance of the injunctions of El Feri, his brother chief, CaÑeri, had established his head quarters at Alhaurin, where his party was daily increasing by the Moors who came to join his standard. CaÑeri himself had arrived three days before, having left to the renegade the charge of Theodora, who could not be supposed to travel with equal expedition.

Bermudo, therefore, with a few resolute Moors of his band, and the other personages of whom mention has been made in the former part of this chapter, constituted the cavalcade that now entered the busy and thronged streets of Alhaurin, where the ferment occasioned by fresh and numerous arrivals, plainly manifested the rapid progress of the insurrection.

CHAPTER IV.

Some good I mean to do,
Despight of my own nature.
Shakespeare.

Ser. No hay quien socorra, quien valga
A una muger infelice?

Fel. Si, que decir muger basta,
Quando infeliz no dixera.
Calderon.

The air of dignity and importance which CaÑeri had resumed with his change of fortune, was displayed to an extent that might render him extravagantly ridiculous in the judgment of any sober individual. He already considered himself a sovereign firmly established on his throne, and he took no precaution to disguise the impulses of his over-bearing vanity and despotic character. Thus, while he was apparently serving the cause of independence, he afforded an opportunity to his enemies of truly estimating the purity of his intentions.

CaÑeri paid a visit to Theodora immediately upon her arrival; but, according to the agreement with the renegade, he limited his attentions to the mere phrases of gallantry and courtly good nature. This ostentatious shew of civility, however, did not arise from a generous disposition, but merely constrained necessity. The renegade was continually present to his thoughts, and though his superior in command he was forced involuntarily to yield that tribute of respect, which resolution and courage are sure to exact from the feeble, however humble the situation in which their possessor may be placed. Besides this, though his passion for the fair Christian had not abated, his heart was now too much engrossed with objects highly gratifying to his vanity and pride, to suffer the charms of a captive to rule there with undisputed and despotic sway. His visits, therefore, were short, and he soon left Theodora to the undisturbed possession of her own thoughts. She no longer exhibited those signs of exquisite anguish or passionate delirium. Keen and protracted suffering had rendered her in some measure callous to the stings of sorrow. Musing melancholy and listlessness as to her fate disputed alternately the possession of that heart, once so fruitful in every tender feeling, in all the genuine virtues of female loveliness and merit. But, alas! the situation of the unhappy Theodora was, indeed, more distressing than heretofore. Hope now no longer illumined her heart; amidst the darkness which had over-clouded her imagination, no cheering light shone upon her path to lead her from misery. But the dereliction of hope is not the worst enemy of virtuous woman. No, it is the loss of salutary fear, and Theodora was nearly sinking into that lamentable state of indifference which generally succeeds the extinction of youthful hope and affection. Every thing seemed to conspire against Theodora. The secluded and retired nature of her education, and the tenderness of her age deprived her of those auxiliaries to combat her present state, which a woman of greater knowledge of the world, and more advanced in years, would gather from these very circumstances.

Roque had, by order of CaÑeri, a free access to Theodora, and he took special care frequently to profit by the permission granted. This was some solace for the unfortunate girl; the interviews with the valet diverted her thoughts by the lively, though ludicrous, pictures which he drew of their future release from their present thraldom. The very night of their arrival at Alhaurin, Roque was giving to his mistress a circumstantial account of his conversation with Marien Rufa, when the door of the apartment swung open, and the renegade boldly entered without any previous announcement. His sudden appearance caused the greatest perturbation and alarm, both to Roque and his mistress. The unseasonable hour of the visit, and the interest evinced by the renegade towards Theodora, were naturally indicative of some sinister intention. Theodora, however, recovering from her first surprise, involuntarily drew back as Bermudo advanced. Meanwhile Roque was at a loss what to think or to do; the flutter of his whole person plainly indicated how ill at ease he was with himself. He looked at his mistress, and perceiving her emotion, felt more afraid, though on what account he was perfectly unconscious. But Roque was not long suffered to remain in uncertainty with respect to his own feelings. Bermudo, with a most haughty demeanor, made a sign to the valet to quit the place, and as Roque deliberated between regard for his mistress and dread for his own dear self, the renegade, to bring about a final determination, laid his hand on his weapon, an argument which completely set at rest the valet's doubts, and convinced him of the necessity of a speedy retreat.

Theodora perceiving how easily Bermudo had succeeded in convincing Roque, and knowing the obsequious manner in which the valet acted when such sort of conviction was forced upon him, deeply felt the danger of her situation, if abandoned by the only being who might interest himself in her fate.

"Oh! Roque, do not leave me," she pathetically exclaimed; "stay—I cannot remain alone with this dark, this terrible man."

Roque cast a melancholy look on his mistress; her piteous appeal went to his heart, but a terrible glance from the renegade seemed to make still stronger impression, for he quickly resumed his retrograde motion.

"He must be gone," said Bermudo resolutely, waving his hand in a most expressive manner, which considerably tended to expedite the valet's exit.

He retired, therefore, and Theodora no sooner found herself deprived of this last frail protection, than with an assumption of fierce dignity:—

"Renegade!" she cried, "what means this intrusion? Were then all thy former marks of regard but the insidious means to cover the real intentions of a miscreant heart? Away!—begone!—I will alarm the place,—yes, I will call on the protection of CaÑeri himself, for odious as he is to my eyes, I can never look upon him with the same degree of abhorrence and contempt as I do on a renegade to his faith, a traitor to his country, and the vile minister to a despot's pleasures."

Bermudo heard these bold and severe rebukes without attempting an interruption. Calm and unmoved he suffered the first ebullition of resentment to evaporate, and for some time deigned to make no other reply than a bitter smile of disdain.

At length he broke that dismal pause, and in a slow and deep toned voice:—

"Woman," he said, "thy taunts I will not resent, for partly they are just, and the rest I excuse in consideration of thy forlorn state, and the many sufferings thou hast undergone."

"Oh!" cried Theodora, with a sad smile, "It well becomes you to condole for misfortunes to which you have so largely contributed;—approach me not—begone—I cannot trust a traitor; there is guile and malice in the very proffer of thy kindness;—hence,—or——"

"Hush, lady," interposed the renegade, with indignant pride, "you surely mistake my character. Threats and fears are strangers to this heart. Nay, when it is in some weak moments attuned to virtue, a threat, a solitary threat would banish hence the heavenly inspiration, and the fiend again triumph in its natural dwelling. Therefore, lady, threat me not, for the man is inaccessible to fear, who, like myself, is a beggar in happiness. Rest, lady, rest, and do not by an imprudent act, neglect the opportunity which fortune affords you of escaping the fate with which you are threatened."

There was an air of sullen yet dignified composure on the renegade, as he delivered these words, and Theodora, in spite of her apprehension, was for some time rivetted to the spot, waiting the disclosures of the fearful man.

"I do not pretend," he proceeded, "to command your implicit confidence; I only counsel you to rely on your own judgment and discretion. My character you have drawn in colours dark and glowing, but, perhaps, too true. Yet I must correct an erroneous impression under which you labour; 'tis true I am an apostate—a traitor—and if in the catalogue of accursed crimes, there is a name still more horrid and abhorred, I claim it; but to be subservient to the pleasure of a despot—no, no, you must know me better. No," he added with warmth, "my deeds have been dark, but not dastardly or contemptible; I have drunk deep the cup of crime—yes, I have quaffed it with avidity, but my palate has always been nice enough to scorn the dregs. Had any other than a woman dared to give utterance to the base thought, ere this he would have added one more to the list of those who have fallen by this arm. You are a woman, and a woman in distress; the only consideration that could have restrained my indignation for such an insult."

"What then wouldst thou with me?" demanded Theodora, somewhat reassured by his words and manner.

"To befriend you, not to harm you, for I war not with women; the solitary being that showed the feelings of humanity towards Bermudo belonged to womankind, and the recollection of her virtues and her love for me, would secure her whole sex from the effects of my wrath."

Theodora was struck with this asseveration. She could not reconcile these symptoms of feeling with his previous acts, and his acknowledged character for crime.

"Theodora," resumed the renegade, and his austerity of tone and manner seemed momentarily to acquire a tint of softness uncongenial with his habitual nature; "Theodora, I am a man of guilt; yea, one who plays his part in this detested world without a feeling of remorse—but I cannot harm a woman—and you less than any other of your sex. She, like you, was innocent and beautiful—like you, unfortunate—like you," he added, with agitation, "like you, the victim of Gomez Arias."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Theodora, "what mystery is this? Oh, speak! I am already but too low sunk in misery, and yet I fain would learn the full measure of the crimes of him who has undone me."

"It would be a difficult," replied the renegade, "an endless task, to satisfy your desire; but you may, perhaps, from your own experience, draw a just inference of his conduct to others. Beauty, innocence, and youth, and unlimited affection, could not save you from his barbarous acts; the rule has been the same for those who like you had charms to captivate his attention, and an unsuspicious, a genuine heart to inhale the poison of his persuasive tongue. But still the fate of poor Anselma surpassed in horror her many rivals in misfortune."

"He loved her once," said Theodora despondingly, "and then forsook her, like me."

"He loved her," darkly returned Bermudo, "with the affection of one, who centres his whole bliss only in the enjoyment of his selfish and degenerate passion. But she spurned him; stratagem and force prevailed. Madness—despair—must I say it? death ensued. Enough—the circumstances of the horrid tale 'tis needless to relate: I have said thus much to convince you of the impossibility of my harming a woman whose fate bears so strong a resemblance to that of my own unfortunate Anselma. Dispel then your apprehensions, and look upon me now not as a foe, but as your sole friend and protector."

Theodora gazed on the renegade with mute amazement; the professions of her lover, and his base desertion, had taught her mistrust: her heart was no longer ready to believe any pleasing tale, to welcome every protestation of regard. It was by trusting too implicitly to her feelings that her ruin had been accomplished, and even in her present abandonment she considered those feelings as premeditating another treason. Yet, when she beheld the composure of the renegade, when she recalled to mind that not even a word had escaped him that could be distrusted, she was persuaded to listen to his proposals, if not totally to abide their results. The renegade perceived the state of her mind, and hastened to hush the whispers of suspicion.

"Think you," said he with firmness, "think you that I deceive you?—abandon such a thought; for learn that should I be tempted to harm you, the only object of my life would be blasted; trust then my interest, if you cannot trust my honor. I came to render you a service, which must be reciprocal. Nay, start not; you may well marvel what affinity there can be between an unfortunate and helpless female, and an outcast like myself; yet this seeming anomaly exists—we are drawn together by the most powerful ties that can bind one fellow-creature to another: for we are linked by those of misfortune, and misfortune wrought by the same individual."

"And yet," cried Theodora, "despite of your enmity to the barbarous, unfeeling man, you strenuously seconded his plans; had you not aided him, I should not have been here."

"Perhaps not," replied the renegade, preserving an unalterable composure; "but where would you have been? Have you reflected well on your helpless situation, and the character of the foul betrayer. Ah! call to your memory the last scene of his desertion, and judge by his behaviour then, of what he might have been capable, in order to remove from his path the unfortunate obstacle that impeded his ambitious and criminal career."

"The monster was capable of all!" exclaimed Theodora, with dreadful agitation; for the recital of her lover's perfidy rudely awoke all the dormant feelings of the heart.

"I have saved you from his infernal machinations;" said the renegade. "My conduct to you then appeared barbarous, but my subsequent behaviour must have effaced from your mind those unfavorable impressions. If not, the time is come for you to learn, and me to disclose, the motives by which all my words and actions have been directed. Theodora," he then added, in a firm but soothing tone, "my proceedings have been to you mysterious; the mystery here ends—I have procured liberty, home, happiness for you—revenge for myself."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Theodora, "explain, what mean you?"

"I mean the truth. Be cautious and confident, and not many days shall pass ere you flee from the company of men whom you abhor, and I despise. Ere long you shall return to your deserted home, and enjoy the consolation which a father can confer—a happiness which they say is great.—I never knew it."

"Can this be real?" exclaimed Theodora, with a scream of surprise and joy. "Oh, Alagraf, are you then so generous?" and unable to restrain the swelling emotion of her grateful heart, she fell at his feet.

"Rise, lady, rise," vehemently cried the renegade, "that posture ill becomes you. I cannot sustain the sight. Poor, helpless, innocent sufferer," he then said in a pathetic tone, which in spite of his sternness, he could not suppress. "Poor, poor, forlorn girl—it was thus she begged and supplicated, but he denied her." He suddenly recollected himself, and with an abrupt motion he raised the weeping Theodora from the ground.

"Rise; for by all the powers of darkness, to see you thus more fiercely burns my brain, and my frenzied madness becomes more ungovernable. Woman, I am not generous, I am only just, though some cold mortals might denominate my justice selfish cruelty. But I care not for man or his opinions."

He paused for a moment, and then proceeded in a calmer tone:—

"Theodora, you are now acquainted with my intentions. I only grieve they cannot be put in execution with the promptitude that I desire.—But I must go hence immediately—I must keep up the hellish character which I have assumed, and I am sent to act in conjunction with El Feri; my absence shall be as short as I can make it, and in the mean time fear not any violence from CaÑeri. In that quarter you are secure; for the petty despot knows that his death would be the consequence of such a step. And now, lady, keep strict silence on my important disclosures. Roque is faithfully devoted to your service, but much is to be apprehended from his imprudent loquacity, should he be made acquainted with the secret before the time of action. He and any other you wish to point out shall be our attendants. Remember my injunctions. Be comforted, but do not exhibit symptoms of sudden and extraordinary joy, lest you awaken the suspicions of CaÑeri; for he is possessed of all the cunning and mistrust which generally fall to the share of a coward heart blended with a despotic mind. Till we meet—adieu! I call for no blessing on your head,—for I can only curse."

He said, and suddenly withdrew.

Theodora for some time was scarcely able to collect her thoughts; the renegade had again revived her drooping spirits, and she ventured to hope once more. She resolved implicitly to follow his instructions, in the anxious expectation of a speedy deliverance from her present miserable and perilous condition.

Un farouche silence, enfant de la fureur,
A ces bruyants Éclats succÈde avec horreur.
D'un bras dÉterminÉ, d'un oeil brulant de rage,
Parmi ses ennemis chacun s'ouvre un passage.
La Henriade.

Now yield thee, or by him who made
The world! thy heart-blood dyes my blade.—
Thy threats, thy mercy I despise,
Let recreant yield, who fears to die.—
Sir Walter Scott.

The shadows of evening were falling round when Alonso de Aguilar and his gallant army arrived at the plain that skirts the mountain of the Sierra Bermeja. The rebels, with El Feri de Benastepar at their head, who had already been worsted in the plain, had resolved not to hazard another battle, but to keep possession of the mountains, confident of the advantages of their position. El Feri, therefore, having secured all the heights and passes of the Sierra, beheld with inward satisfaction the approach of the enemy; indeed, his situation could not be improved; nature had fashioned an impregnable fortress in the whole circumference of that huge mountain; large masses of rock frowned at intervals around the summit and extended down the sides, and the hollows were filled up with large clumps of trees, the growth of ages. There was only one path by which an ascent appeared practicable, narrow, steep and tortuous, and this perilous pass from the nature of its position might be defended by a handful of brave men; numerous small ravines were likewise observable, by which a laborious and difficult ascent might be attempted, although they were almost choaked with different impediments, being the beds of the torrents which at times poured their headlong course down the sides of the mountain.

The Christians beheld with dread the formidable array which the Sierra presented. The Moors from the adjacent country had flocked to the standard of El Feri, confiding in the prosperous turn which their enterprise was likely to take; they manifested both their hopes and defiance by a prolonged succession of shouts and barbaric yells, which, in lengthened and fearful clamour, were reverberated through the rocky passes and solitary caverns of those mountains.

Alonso de Aguilar was struck with the advantages which the rebels derived from their position, and the attempt to ascend the mountain, crowned as it was with desperate men, might be considered more a deed of madness than an act of true courage; but again he thought of the evil which procrastinated measures often produce in a war of this nature—the longer he delayed the attack the greater the number of enemies he should have to encounter, and if the spark of revolt were not immediately extinguished, the whole province would soon blaze out in open rebellion. Most alarming symptoms of the refractory spirit of the inhabitants had already been manifested during the progress of the army from Granada, and Aguilar well knew that the difficulties he had now to surmount, would increase tenfold each day that he suffered to pass without risking a battle.

Thus, although aware of the desperate character of his undertaking, he nevertheless resolved to engage the Moors in defiance of their superior advantages, relying with the most unlimited confidence on the enthusiastic valour of his veteran troops, whose hatred to the Moors was proverbial, and whose bravery and military conduct he had tried on many a well-fought field.

Under this impression, Don Alonso had summoned Count UreÑa, and other principal chiefs, to communicate to them his determination.

"Perhaps you will think," he said, "that the resolution I have formed is desperate, but there is no middle course to choose; we must either return inglorious to our homes, or attack the rebels in their strong hold. An assault must be immediately attempted. Our soldiers burn with impatience to meet those rebellious and ungrateful Moors. It is on the confidence of their love to their country, and hatred to their foes, that I found my expectations. However, we will wait until night has closed; darkness will be more favorable to us in the passive warfare which for some time we shall be obliged to carry on. The shafts of our enemies cannot thus be aimed with such fatal certainty. And now, my brave companions, to your posts, and I hope that when next we meet it will be amidst the shouts of victory."

Aguilar divided his army into three parts, the right wing of which he entrusted to the command of Count de UreÑa, the left to Don de Antonio Leyva, whilst he, with his gallant son Don Pedro, determined to lead on the centre to the charge by the more direct ascent, where the chief force of the Moors was judiciously placed.

These three bodies were again sub-divided, as a large mass would afford a conspicuous object against which the efforts of the enemy might be more successfully directed. Thus the different commanders having received their instructions, and the signal being given, various columns advanced towards the mountains from their several points of attack, whilst the war-cry, Santiago y Cierra EspaÑa, was echoed from one to another with inspiring courage and animated enthusiasm. The Moors answered the challenge with wild acclamations, looking on the advancing foe as a devoted prey on which they were shortly to glut their long-desired vengeance. The Christians were, therefore, suffered to proceed unmolested in their course lest, by a premature disclosure of the resources of their enemies, they might be induced to retreat, and thus prevent the Moors from obtaining a complete victory. Slowly, then, the Christians began to ascend the rugged and difficult paths of the mountain. The deafening shouts had for some time ceased, and were succeeded by a dismal and deadly silence. The Christians, therefore, continued to ascend in noiseless progression, until El Feri de Benastepar, judging that the enemy was sufficiently drawn into his toils to ensure success for the artful manoeuvres which he had planned, now gave the signal of command, and again the whole mountain rung with an overpowering tumult of cries and yells.

Suddenly the rocks above seemed to be alive, broken into numberless fragments. With dreadful and overwhelming violence their huge disjointed masses rolled from their elevated summits, and gathering a new impetus in their headlong course, rushed down the sides of the mountain, and bounding from point to point with an appalling crash, heaped destruction on the advancing enemy. The ominous and redoubled cries from the summit of the Sierra, rose above the terrific sound of the deadly fragments, and were sufficient to strike dismay into the most daring. Astonishment for a moment paralyzed the Spaniards; yet their intrepidity did not quail in the hazardous moment, though they perceived a heap of mangled corpses swept before them with fearful rapidity. Aguilar could not behold unmoved the destruction wrought amongst his brave followers; and fearing that a second discharge of those terrible missiles might succeed in disheartening them, in a voice of enthusiasm——

"Forward, my brave comrades!" he cried: "those rebels will find that they will sooner tire of hurling rocks than we shall of withstanding them. By suffering we will triumph. On, brave companions, on!"

Aguilar succeeded by his example in instilling into the hearts of his men a degree of maddened courage, which alone could carry them through the obstacles that impeded their course. They accordingly continued fearlessly to advance.

Night had now closed in the most dense and impenetrable darkness. The moon seemed unsuccessfully struggling through a pile of massy clouds, and the scanty light afforded by the dim stars was insufficient to illumine any distant object. Thus the Christians had no means of warding off the dreadful fate which threatened them. They heard, without the power of resistance, the low rumbling sound of the huge rocks that were loosened from their beds, and the crash that followed their ponderous course, as they tore down every object which came before them, mingling all in one vast and promiscuous ruin.

The voice of Aguilar and other chiefs, in hoarse tones, was heard at intervals encouraging and animating their troops, who, wrought up to madness by their loss, had now no other feeling than an ardent desire of attaining the summit, where their enemies lay in security, and quenching their rage in their detested blood. Indeed, the terrors of this dismal and appalling conflict, instead of damping the courage of the soldiers, served only to brace them with redoubled force. Dauntless, therefore, they continued to ascend, unmindful of the cries and groans that rent the air, and although they were sensible that a similar fate might the next moment await themselves. On they proceeded, in the full confidence that some amongst them would ultimately reach the summit, and take ample vengeance for the death of those whom they left behind. Nor did the Moors consider this stubborn constancy and self-devotion without amazement and dread; but El Feri, who read their thoughts, immediately took measures to prevent the consequences with which they might be attended, if he allowed his men to indulge their fears; aware that the best means of keeping up the mettle and ardour of his men was to employ them actively, he ordered a considerable portion of them to descend and meet the enemy boldly in the path. This order was joyfully obeyed, and the Moors rushed impetuously to the attack. Aguilar, who hailed this movement of the enemy as favorable to his troops, by affording them an opportunity of profiting by their superiority, now rushed forward to encounter the charge with increased energy, whilst Don Pedro, with a chosen party, led the van.

The young warrior continued gaining ground; the Moors retreated; and the Spaniards considering this movement as the forerunner of success, boldly pushed on, reckless of the thousand shafts which assailed them on every side. Fresh men supplied, according to instruction, the place of the Moors who retreated; and the wearied Christians had nothing to carry them through the unequal contest but the undaunted courage which had supported them in so many battles. Still they advanced, although the enemy, in spite of the numbers that fell, preserved a fresh and unbroken front, disputing every inch of ground apparently with undiminished numbers.

In the midst of his gallant achievements Don Pedro fell from the blow of a stone, which disabled him from proceeding. His absence soon became apparent; but Alonso de Aguilar pressing forwards to the front, by a desperate effort soon compelled the rebels to abandon their defence, and retreat precipitately to their stations. The Spaniards here halted for a few moments and rallied their forces, on which dismal inroads had been made by the late conflict. Again they advanced in silence and without impediment. Their gallant leader, however, looked on this change with the most gloomy apprehensions; for he conjectured that the Moors were about to renew that system of defence which had been so destructive at the first onset. His suspicions were well grounded. Incontinently another ominous shout rent the air, and the tremendous fragments again rolled down, spreading devastation wherever they passed.

And now, to render the unequal strife more terrific, there fell some broad and scattered drops of rain, announcing the storm which had been gathering in the dark bosom of the swollen and shapeless clouds. Hollow gusts of wind swept through the passes of the mountains, mingling their gloomy cadences with the loud cries of the Moors and the wild lamentations of their victims. And now the pregnant clouds discharged their contents, which poured like an impetuous cataract down the channels of the mountain, whilst from those dark and impenetrable masses fitfully glimmered the livid streaks of lightning, followed by the hollow muttering of the distant thunder. This approaching conflict of the elements Don Alonso beheld undismayed. Boldly he urged on his men, whilst the power of the storm increasing apace, presented additional obstacles to their progress. Nearer the tempest advanced, and the flickering sudden gleams of lightning were succeeded by closely repeated sheets of sulphurous and liquid fire, which in serpentine corruscations illumined those scenes of carnage and devastation, while loud and prolonged peals sounded like the ominous voice of the spirit of destruction riding on the storm, and exulting over the scene of death. But the Spaniards, though moved by the sight of their companions falling around, could not be subdued by the gloomy prospect before them, for it is the attribute of noble courage, while it sympathises with the brave, to continue in the path of honor and duty undaunted and undismayed.

Flash now followed upon flash, and by their livid and unearthly reflection appeared the gallant leader and his band, more resolute in proportion to the fury of the warring elements. The caves and wild recesses echoed with the hollow moaning of the blast, mingled with the shouts of the combatants. Chilling was the scene; more chilling still when the pause made by the raging storm was filled up with the more terrific noise of the falling rocks and stones which came thundering down. Aghast the Christians beheld, by the vivid flashes, the descending destruction; now a block rolled along dyed in the blood of their gallant companions, and again some uncouth and unfashioned fragment had gathered in its career a broken limb, a nerveless arm, or a bleeding leg. The channels were now filled with the water that rushed down the sides of the mountain, forming gurgling eddies around the crushed bodies of the fallen, and mingling their blood with the turbid waters in their descent below.

Such an accumulation of misfortunes began to dishearten the Christians, whose forces were reduced to half their number. Don Pedro, Count de UreÑa, and other principal chiefs were wounded, others dead; and an horrific shout on the left, commanded by Don Antonio de Leyva, announced some dreadful catastrophe in that direction.

The renegade, with a valiant reinforcement, had by a dexterous manoeuvre cut off the retreat of the Christians in that quarter; and, though they had fought with the most desperate courage, they were completely routed, and the greater number slaughtered on the spot. Savagely Bermudo dealt his blows on his own countrymen, and vented his diabolical feelings on many brave and innocent men to take vengeance for the wrongs he had sustained from one. But few men escaped from this promiscuous carnage, and those few cut their way with frenzied courage through the ranks of the enemy, bearing the bleeding body of their chief, Don Antonio de Leyva.

The rage of the storm had by this time abated, and Alonso de Aguilar, auguring favorably of men who had withstood, undaunted, such an accumulation of terrors, had pushed forward, and was now midway on the mountain. The rebels beheld his progress with conscious alarm, for though his numbers were considerably reduced and weakened by fatigue, yet Don Alonso was about to reach a space of even ground, in which should he succeed, it would render more doubtful the victory which they had till now considered as certain. Still they continued to roll down their destructive missiles, but these had lost their former power; for though some visited the enemy, yet the greater part stopt in their career, impeded by the trunks of trees torn up by the tempest, or stuck in the spots of marshy ground caused by the descending torrents. The Moors, therefore, abandoned this system of aggression, and perceiving that the gallant band of Don Alonso de Aguilar was extremely small, and that it could not receive assistance from the Spanish forces below, they collected a great body, and determined to oppose the further progress of Aguilar, before he could succeed in reaching the little plain. A desperate contest ensued, in which every Christian exerted his remaining strength, and their present position was so far favorable, that the Moors were not able to overwhelm them with numbers. Thus Aguilar, encouraging his men with the better aspect of their fortune, continued fighting desperately, and gaining ground, whilst the affrighted Moors retreated before his amazing efforts.

But the most exalted courage cannot support the body under the accumulated sufferings of wounds and exhaustion, and Don Alonso at length beheld with a look of melancholy resignation, blended with manly fortitude, the diminution of his numbers, and the state of depression under which they laboured. He could no longer hope to accomplish his daring enterprise, nor effect an honorable retreat. The day, which had now shed its first glimmering light, revealed the forlorn condition of his men: he beheld his once gallant army stretched along the path, which was so completely covered with the dead, that it seemed to be paved with human victims. The Spaniards fought still, but their foes were continually supplied with fresh men, and Aguilar foresaw with a pang of distress that the Moors would ultimately triumph. In this emergency he cast a desponding look on his troops below, who would in vain have attempted to assist him, on account of the distance which separated them.

The followers of Don Alonso were now reduced to a very limited number, but he perceived on their countenances the noble expression of resigned courage and high-minded patriotism. A sad smile of satisfaction was on his lip, as with a firm voice, he exclaimed:—

"Christians, this standard must be planted on the highest point we can attain." Then after a pause he added, pointing to the little plain; "Behold your grave!—-- advance boldly—there is the last stage of our existence—and if any one returns to Granada, he may tell the queen that Alonso de Aguilar has redeemed his pledge."

These words were electric—the countenances of his companions brightened, and they seemed to acquire new vigour from the example of their noble leader. They dealt their blows with increased energy, and after a terrific struggle, they at length reached the fatal plain. There they halted at the goal of their glorious career, and Alonso de Aguilar planting the standard of the cross firmly on the ground, placed himself near a rock which he caused to be surrounded by his men. There the devoted warriors resolved to await their fate.

The Moors now rushed on them from all parts with a ferocious joy. But many were those who fell before they could succeed in mastering the brave and infuriated Christians. Man to man they fought, and round the rock the gallant soldiers gradually fell. The heroism of the Spaniards might protract, but could not avert their fall. Aguilar at length beheld himself alone amongst a heap of his fallen men; his armour was broken in many places, and stained with the life-blood which flowed through the crevices; with his left hand he grasped the remains of a banner, and supported himself against the rock, while his right still continued to wield his ponderous sword. The numerous assailants looked with dread and awe on the redoubtable champion, and for some time seemed to be rivetted to the place. But a host was gathering around to rush at once upon the formidable foe, when a giant figure made his way through the crowd, crying aloud—

"Yield thee, Christian, for the Moors know how to respect courage like thine."

"Yield! Never will I yield to a rebel. I am Alonso de Aguilar."

"Thanks to the prophet!" cried the Moor; "look then on thy irreconcileable foe!—I am El Feri de Benastepar."

Aguilar saw the Moor-chief with the fortitude of a noble heart, and rising superior to his adverse fortune, although covered with wounds, and fainting from exhaustion, he sprung forward to meet the advance of his terrible adversary, whilst the Moors awed by the meeting of such warriors, stood around in breathless silence.

The mighty foes closed in desperate combat. But soon Aguilar conscious of his weakness, retired to his original position against the rock, and in that posture sustained the attack. The fresh and unabated force of El Feri became too powerful for the Christian chief, worn out as he was with the loss of blood, and the fatigue of many hours of battle. Aguilar now perceived that to die nobly was the only alternative he could embrace, and accordingly grasping firmly the banner, he continued a resolute but unequal combat. His exhaustion, however, increased, and as he perceived his end approach, he sprang forward, and with one desperate blow, in which he collected his remaining energies, endeavoured to crush his enemy. But the exertion far exceeded his strength, and the same blow that an hour before would have cloven through buckler and hauberk, now fell almost harmless upon the shield of El Feri. The Moor availed himself of the moment, and before Aguilar had time to recover, the scymitar of his foe had cleft through the helmet of Don Alonso, and sunk deep into the brain. The hero fell; with one deep sigh his noble spirit parted from its clay, and the brave, the generous, the heroic Don Alonso de Aguilar was no more![45]

A tremendous shout from the exulting Moors announced the catastrophe to the Christians below: it sounded through the mountain like the ferocious yell of demons revelling over their victim. El Feri stood silent for a moment gazing on his prostrate enemy, and he could not but contemplate with veneration and awe that form which even in death preserved the nobleness and dignity which had distinguished it through life. His helmet had given way, and rolled to some distance on the plain. His black hair silvered with age, and now dripping with his blood, overshaded part of his noble countenance. Shorn of its proud device, his broken shield lay on his left arm, as well as the remains of the banner which he had sworn to defend with his life, whilst his right arm still retained that sword once the terror of the Moors, now lying harmless on the ground. Thus fell Aguilar, and the exulting Moors flocked round his corpse, led by an instinctive curiosity to behold the prostrate warrior so long the object of their dread.

CHAPTER VI.

Inter their bodies as becomes their births:
Shakespeare.

Few, few shall part where many meet,
* * * * *
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
T. Campbell.

The victory of the Moors was complete; and as they had been long accustomed to reverses, so unusual a success elated them beyond all bounds of moderation. They considered their independence as now firmly established, and could scarcely be restrained from rushing, like a disorderly horde of conquering barbarians, on their enemies below, and ravaging the country round. But fortunately El Feri joined to great courage and activity the rare endowments of a prudent and sagacious chief. He foresaw that the present success, if not followed up judiciously, would prove more prejudicial than favorable to their cause. It was not by a confused depredatory system that this first victory should be followed up; for their cause could only be ultimately benefited by improving their present advantages. Besides, the fierce courage of his followers, arising rather from a sense of injuries and revenge, than real military bravery, was ill calculated to sustain the superior numbers and better disciplined bands of the Christians. Nor could El Feri be so far dazzled by one solitary success as to attribute solely to their conduct and courage that result which was chiefly to be ascribed to the advantages of their position, combined with a series of fortunate circumstances that had assisted them against the Christians. He knew that the intelligence of this victory would excite those of his countrymen who were as yet lukewarm in the cause, to take up arms and repair to that mountain which was now the cradle in which their infant liberty was to be rocked. He wished to preserve and improve this situation without risking the danger of another action, until he possessed ample means of insuring success. A precipitate movement now might involve the Moors in difficulties capable not only of retarding their triumph, but even of rendering fruitless the effects of a first victory: Gomez Arias was likewise marching with a powerful army, and it would be madness to abandon the strong hold of the Sierra for the sake of hazarding an encounter, when as yet they were in all respects inferior to their enemies.

El Feri, therefore, strongly deprecated the design formed by Mohabed of advancing at present against the Spaniards. But Mohabed, flushed with pride and little conversant with military affairs, could only be prevailed upon to defer his sally from the mountain for two days; and El Feri, considering the baneful effects which any disagreement amongst the chief leaders might produce, prudently acquiesced in his decision. He hoped that in the meantime he should have an opportunity either of dissuading his brother chief, or at least of organising a more systematic and powerful invasion.

Whilst the best warrior in the Moorish ranks was deeply interested in forwarding their views, his disorderly and savage followers were affording proofs of their wanton cruelty and insubordination. El Feri saw with disgust and sorrow, that the men he led to the field adhered not to the principles which they pretended to profess. He perceived that his army more resembled a horde of undisciplined barbarians than true and sincere patriots; that the gratification of private animosity and revenge had a far greater preponderance in directing their exertions, than the heroic impulses of noble enthusiasm and public spirit. He had been himself stimulated to take up arms solely by pure and patriotic sentiments, without the least alloy of personal interest, or the indulgence of a revengeful disposition. He, therefore, bitterly lamented, for the sake of his country, when a secret voice whispered to him, that he was less the leader of independent men, panting for liberty, than of a lawless discontented rabble, better deserving the name of rebels than that of liberators. Alas! how often is the lustre of a good cause darkened by the private interests and vices of its agents!

The attention of El Feri was however diverted towards a tumult in that part of the mountain where the mighty Aguilar had fallen: he hurried to the spot to inquire into the cause of the commotion, when he saw the noble form of his redoubtable foe ignominiously placed on an eminence, round which men, women, and children were crowding, to glut their eyes with the bleeding spectacle. While their savage disposition was gladdened with the sight, they heaped maledictions on the dead. This dastardly ebullition of revenge was more particularly displayed by the weaker portion of men, and by the refuse of women. Women, fashioned by nature to indulge every kindly feeling, and tender sentiment of compassion for the fallen—women, when they have overstepped the barriers of their natural delicacy, become more lawless and cruel than the most hardened of men. An old hag was, with wanton mockery, striving to close the eyes of the warrior; another was trampling under her foot the cross which she had wrenched from his breast; and a dirty urchin was rending his venerable locks, whilst some miscreants, not satisfied with these profanations, in base revenge plunged their weapons into the lifeless clay. But still there were some whom the great Aguilar inspired with terrors even in death, and they shrunk from the inanimate corpse, as if it were ready to start into life, and wreak vengeance for the outrages sustained. Flushed with indignation at the sight, El Feri soon dispersed the vile and motley crowd.

"Base, pitiful wretches," he cried in anger, "it well becomes your cowardly nature thus to insult in death, the man you dared not look on in life. Aye, quench your valour on that unconscious body, for those weapons are unworthy of warring against the living, which cannot respect the dead. Avaunt, miscreants! tempt no further my just anger."

The affrighted crew shrunk back in confusion, but one more daring than the rest ventured to exclaim—

"He was the mortal foe of the Moors, and of El Feri de Benastepar——"

"In life he was," sternly replied El Feri; "but death reconciles the bitterest enemy—for enmity must lose its fire in the cold precincts of the grave."

"The Moor and the Christian," retorted gruffly the other, "even in death, must be irreconcileable; even in the frost of the sepulchre, the hate of such foes must not be extinguished.

"Cease, miscreant!" fiercely returned El Feri, "or by the mighty Allah, a single word more, and a blow from the scymitar of El Feri shall be thy only answer."

In speechless terror they all retreated, when El Feri turning to one of his followers—

"Do you, Moraz," said he, "and some of your brave companions, pay the last honors to the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar."

The Moors obeyed the orders of their chief, and forthwith a grave was dug at the foot of the rock. No funeral pomp—no military honors graced the obsequies of the great Aguilar—no chaunting priest was there to rehearse the service of the dead—no friend to weep over his loss—no grateful dependant to raise the closed hands in prayer to heaven; but in silence his enemies laid him in his humble grave, and strewed the earth over his warlike form. What, though no sculptured marble was there to point out the noble dust that lay beneath; the name of the warrior will live in the hearts of his countrymen, and will be handed to posterity as long as the records of Spain shall exist. But, in the absence of the pomp which marks the burial of the illustrious, Don Alonso received the most honorable tribute that can adorn a warrior's grave—the manly and venerating tear of his mortal foe; for, as the earth covered for ever the remains of Aguilar, the silent tear of noble feeling fell on it from the eye of El Feri de Benastepar.

Meantime the Christians at the foot of the mountain were making a precipitate retreat, carrying with them a number of their wounded companions, and leaving behind a terrible monument of their bravery and misfortune.

How imposing is the calm, when the warm activity of action gives place to the desolate repose of death! Now, the din of strife is over; no longer the brazen notes of the trumpet swell in the wind—no longer the echoes of the mountain rehearse and fling back the warlike sounds. Hushed is the voice of command and animation—mute the cries of victory or defeat. Even the howling blast, which lately, with its fitful voice, increased the terrors of the scene, is now softened into a low and mournful murmur, emblematical of the dismal tranquillity that reigns around. The smiling face of nature is bloted and defaced by the truculent works of men. The rich and reviving green that carpeted the ground, now presents to the view an ensanguined plain, and the smiling flowers, emblems of innocence and peace, bear no longer in their calice the pearly moisture of the morn, but display the crimson evidence of man's hatred to his kind. The soft grass is not now ruffled by the welcome pressure of living individuals, happy in the joyous dance, or gently reclining under the sweet influence of slumber, but by the weight of ghastly corpses.

It was a sight fearful to behold! not a sound was heard; an unnatural sadness prevailed over the scene; a thousand warriors lay there in the silence of the grave, but in those colourless features still lingered a tinge of the last feeling by which they were animated—the last passion that raged within; the brow stiffened into gloomy fierceness—the eye intensely fixed with bold resolve—the firmly clenched hand—bespoke the various sensations in which they were surprised by death. Tranquil and extended lay some who had received the summons without a throb; surely the blow was struck, and swiftly fled the spark of life, whilst others, in the violent contraction of the muscles, and the writhing expression of pain, indicated how fearfully the rebellious soul had grappled with the destroyer, before she could be dislodged from her tenement. Death levels all distinction, and here were seen men of various ages and ranks, so widely separated in life, promiscuously mingled in the last repose. Youth and age alike indifferently strewed the plain, and the silvered locks lay beside the flowing tresses; the pale hue of protracted life, with the rosy healthful tints of commencing and hopeful existence. Spring had mixed its blossoms with the falling leaves of autumn. No distinction of rank was here; by the noble chief lay the humble soldier—their attire alone could distinguish one from the other; and even this external ornament would soon be destroyed, and all, all would be amalgamated in one general indiscriminate dust.

But still that period was not arrived, and the encampment of corpses, fresh in death, appeared most like an army of sleeping warriors; but for the bloody tokens and fearful disorder which drove away every image of natural repose, it seemed as if their departed spirits still hovered within the bodies which they had lately abandoned. But alas! too soon the harbinger of fading and helpless mortality would speed to dispel the melancholy charm. The carrion birds were now hurrying to claim the undisputed inheritance of that prey which a short time since had been the receptacle of so many feelings and affections, while a thousand hearts were doomed to weep for the occasion that afforded joy to the gloomy and filthy revellers.

The routed Christians, meantime, were fast retreating, whilst the news of their defeat and the fate of Aguilar spreading swiftly around, soon reached the stately city of Granada, for misfortune is a most expeditious traveller. The heroic Isabella felt an indescribable shock at these unwelcome tidings; even victory, if purchased with the death of Don Alonso, she would consider a reverse, but attended, as it was, with complete overthrow, it created the most lively sensations of indignation and sorrow. She made a solemn vow in the presence of the archbishop her confessor, and her nobles, that she would neither wear linen nor sleep on her royal couch until that daring rebellion had been annihilated, and its agitators brought to retribution. She next gave orders that all her troops should march against the rebels, and a numerous army was soon collected, both of veterans and volunteers.

Meantime the grief of Leonor for the death of her father was exhibited in a striking manner, but still in a manner worthy a branch of that noble tree. She found a generous consolation in the name bequeathed to her by her departed parent, and she fondly cherished the halo of glory that surrounded her father's life, and now must adhere for ever to his memory. The queen, anxious to contribute to the mitigation of her sorrow, had kindly invited her to the palace, that by a temporary absence from her own dwelling she might be relieved from the sight of objects, which continually brought to her mind a train of painful associations.

CHAPTER VII.

Padre mio, caro padre,
E tu ancor m'abbandoni!
Guarini.

I know not how to tell thee;
Shame rises in my face and interrupts
The story of my tongue.
Otway.

Bermudo, the renegade, having received instructions from El Feri soon after the affair of the Sierra Bermeja, returned to Alhaurin, where he found CaÑeri in an extacy of uncontrollable joy. His late extravagance had of course been considerably augmented by the news of the recent success. So elated were his spirits, and so confident did he feel of the happy results which would attend all the future operations of the Moors, that, forgetting a secret dislike he always entertained to actual strife, he talked of heading a body, and meeting the Christians, who were rapidly advancing upon Alhaurin: but the renegade brought different injunctions from El Feri, who was now looked upon, by common consent, as the supreme arbitrator of the Moorish cause. CaÑeri was ordered, unfortunately for the display of his present ebullition of valour, to fortify himself in Alhaurin, and prepare a retreat for Mohabed, in case the rash expedition of that chief against Gomez Arias should prove unsuccessful.

All El Feri's persuasions had been thrown away upon Mohabed, who, quite inexperienced in war, and highly flushed by their recent victory, had descended the Sierra Bermeja with a strong division to offer battle to the Spaniards. CaÑeri submissively followed the orders of his brother in command. Indeed in his present exhilaration of spirits, he would submit almost to any thing, except to renounce the outward show of dignity, for CaÑeri was one of those good-natured soldiers, who can be satisfied with the shadow, whilst other leaders possessed the substance of power.

In every age and country, there needs must be warriors of all descriptions; some are designed by nature to encounter perils, and acquire a name to be enrolled in the temple of immortality, and there are others whose noble achievements entitle them to the same honor, though traced in different characters; there is also a third class of military men, who, being neither sanguinary nor heroic, are yet intended to shine in a more peaceful warfare,—generals of undoubted military capacity, of extraordinary genius for the enactment of regulations and orders, with a clear judgment for the various qualifications of staff officers, and bearing an exceedingly martial and appropriate carriage in courts, reviews, and parades. Now, to this last class CaÑeri most assuredly belonged: his talents for military parade and shew no one could dispute. He now approached the renegade, and in as affable a manner as his arrogant dictatorial manner would permit:—

"Alagraf," he said, "these are joyful times for the Moors."

"Provided they last," coldly returned the renegade.

"Last," rejoined the Moor, with indignant surprise. "Behold!" and he pointed to his men, all arrayed and equipped in a martial style, as they were standing in review, "those men are not likely to tarnish the laurels already culled by their companions of the Sierra Bermeja. But you are ever sullen, Alagraf; no victory, no fortune can efface the gloom which pervades every action of your life."

"Yours, at all events, CaÑeri," replied the renegade, sneeringly, "is excessively gay; the love of your country must certainly be great, since it can occasion such extraordinary marks of satisfaction for a temporary success."

"My country and religion are dear to me," returned CaÑeri, with dignity, "very dear, and sacred. But then," he added, relaxing, "my heart is not wholly absorbed in the love of my country."

"That I believe," replied Bermudo, significantly. "It will easily admit of division, and in the distribution of your lore, I dare swear you have reserved a considerable share for yourself."

CaÑeri laughed affectedly, then drawing nearer to the renegade, and taking him gently by the hand—

"My friend," he said, "much as I love myself, still have I a store left for such as love me well, and when a lady fair——"

"Eh!" exclaimed the renegade, "what lady fair is this?"

"Oh, Alagraf," returned CaÑeri, unable any longer to contain himself, "I am the happiest of men—Theodora—the beautiful Theodora has at length yielded to the soft persuasions of love, and it is to you, my good Alagraf, that I stand chiefly indebted for such favorable results."

The renegade started back in visible consternation. CaÑeri's words sent daggers to his heart. Could it be possible? the amiable and elevated Theodora, sunk to the base minion of so worthless a character! and all his plans overturned for ever! It appeared unaccountable—impossible. Theodora could not look kindly upon the object of her late mortal abhorrence.—Such a transition was abrupt—unnatural—unless, indeed, her reason had fallen a sacrifice to her accumulated distress.

Terrible thoughts coursed over the troubled and darkened brow of the renegade, whilst his whole person manifested strong marks of the passion that agitated his bosom.

"Alagraf, what means this emotion? why, you appear thunderstruck."

"Yes;" replied the renegade, assuming his composure, "with surprise. But you said it was to my good offices you stood indebted for your success. Now would you favour me with the particulars of such an extraordinary conquest?"—

"Aye, my friend," returned vauntingly CaÑeri; "Fortune is very capricious. She never works progressively, but by starts, and then according to the mood she is in, a man is either overpowered with misery or with bliss. Some time since both the affairs of my country and those of my heart went on desperately; the scales are now turned, and I am blessed in a double triumph.

"But," cried the renegade, "the nature of your triumph I would fain learn."

"It is complete," replied CaÑeri with complacency.

"Complete!" re-echoed the renegade with emotion—"complete! how?"

"At least by anticipation," returned the Moor. "Complete by anticipation. Nothing is yet concluded."

The renegade recovered from the suspense of agony.

"The triumph of which I speak," continued CaÑeri, "is yet to come, though it is already beyond a doubt. Theodora, until now so resolutely bent against me—Theodora, who at the very sight of me shrunk back with horror and abhorrence—Theodora at last receives me not only without reluctance, but even with kindness. My visits no longer create disgust and dread, and every symptom foretels a speedy and grateful termination to my fondest hopes." He then added with conceited vanity,—"And I marvel how else an affair of this nature could terminate? Theodora was a lovely woman, a woman in affliction; but she was a woman still, and could not be expected to continue eternally in the same mind. Constancy in any thing is against the very nature of woman; perseverance is a foe she could never successfully withstand."

To this sapient observation the renegade made no reply. A glance of scorn was the only sign by which he evinced his value of the chiefs opinion. He allowed him a free range to his hopes, and when the vain Moor had satisfied himself with aerial happiness, the renegade in a bitter bantering tone wished him joy of his conquest, and hurried away to certify upon what basis were founded the expectations of the Moor.

CaÑeri retired to his couch, when to his waking dreams succeeded those of night, which though not wilder in their nature, were still by their flattering prospects the source of unspeakable satisfaction. He rose, therefore, the next morning if possible in greater exhilaration of spirits than before, and immediately sent for his confidant the renegade; but his confidant came not, and CaÑeri was in absolute necessity of a person to whom he might communicate his hopes and his plans. Malique was accordingly ordered into his presence.

"Malique, where is Alagraf?" inquired the chief.

"Alagraf!" exclaimed the astonished Malique; and he remained for some time as if struck by a thunderbolt.

"Alagraf!"

"Alagraf! yes Alagraf," repeated impatiently CaÑeri. "What means this confusion? speak. Where is the renegade?"

"The renegade is gone," answered the trembling Malique.

"Gone!" echoed CaÑeri with superadded agitation.—"Gone! where? when? to what purpose?—gone! without my knowledge!"

"The purport of his mission," replied Malique, "I know not; nor was I made acquainted with his departure until this morning. The guards of the night allowed him to pass. Possessed as Alagraf was of your secrets and unbounded confidence, it was naturally supposed that he acted under your instructions: his egress from the town therefore caused neither surprise nor alarm."

"My instructions!" cried fiercely the chief; "I gave him no instructions; it is an act of insubordination. That man was ever too proud; his accursed Christian blood still remained in his veins, when his mouth pronounced a recantation of his creed. He renounced his country; but could not renounce his character. By the mighty Allah! he shall severely suffer for this breach of discipline if CaÑeri has power amongst the Moors. Yes, he shall feel the bitter consequences of his imprudence upon his return."

"Return!" cried Malique, despondingly, "If he acted not according to your orders, I much apprehend he will never return; for his companions in flight leave no doubt as to the motives that have directed him."

"Companions!" exclaimed CaÑeri, in breathless anxiety. "What companions?"

"Even the fair captive, and the menial Roque," replied Malique, after some hesitation.

"What! Theodora gone! gone with the renegade!—hell! furies!—unsay those words, Malique! tremble for the villains that allowed him to leave the town—nay, tremble for your own life!"

The fury of CaÑeri knew no bounds, upon the confirmation of Malique's intelligence. He stamped and raved like a madman, and plucked his beard in very ire: then, in the summary way of distributing Moorish justice, he caused the chief and two or three of the guards of the night to be slaughtered in his presence. Indeed, Malique himself would have shared the same fate, had not the private interest of the Moor superseded his frenzied revenge. But CaÑeri considered Malique as totally devoted to his person, and he was loath to part with a man of whose aid and counsel he stood in greater need than ever. Thus the life of Malique was spared by the despot, as those of many other humble slaves had before been and will again, by their despotic masters, not for the services which they have already rendered, but in consideration of those which they might still afford.

"Malique, quick," cried CaÑeri, "take the best of my troops, the fleetest of my horses, and speed after that accursed renegade; bring him, dead or alive;—alive, if possible; and ask for any recompence, any, how great soever, which I can grant.—Begone!—fly!"

In a moment the faithful Malique with a chosen band was mounted, and in a moment they started rapidly with the velocity that a hope of recompence or a dread of punishment inspires. They sped in the direction reported to be taken by the fugitives, but it was too late; the renegade had devised the necessary precautions to insure success in his undertaking. He had the advantage of a whole night's journey, and had besides prudently changed his route as soon as he found himself out of sight.

Thus the efforts of Malique proved as abortive as the ravings of his master. After a day spent in fruitless pursuit, the party was compelled to retreat before an advancing band of Christians, and returned to Alhaurin, to witness the extravagant rage of CaÑeri, who was alternately the prey of shame, disappointment, and vexation. Indeed, all the Moors evinced signs of discontent at the disappearance of the renegade. Some, because his presence animated their courage, and others because they dreaded the despotic temper of CaÑeri, now rendered doubly formidable by this untoward event. All the Moors were, therefore, in dismay at the flight of the renegade, all but one, and that was Aboukar, who found with no less surprise than joy, that amongst the companions of the runaway was included his spouse, Marien Rufa.

Meantime, the fugitives were rapidly approaching the town of Guadix, the native place of Theodora. But with what throbbing hearts the travellers proceeded on their journey, and how different were the feelings that gave expression to their features! A thousand sensations agitated the bosom of Theodora; fear, hope, and filial love, alternately disputed the mastery, whilst the countenance of the renegade evinced nought but a dreary isolation of feeling; revenge alone reigned in his heart uncontrolled, and undisputed. The two inferior personages were likewise indulging in reflections consonant to their nature and habits. A vacant joy, a happy riddance from a state of fear and thraldom, predominated in the heart of Roque, whilst a curious amalgamation of gratified spite and returning superstition claimed that of Marien Rufa. But, however different the sentiments by which they were actuated, the travellers evinced an equal joy when their anxious look caught the first glimpse of Guadix, which now stood before them softly enveloped in the twilight shadows.

"Welcome! dear lady," cried Roque, joyfully, "once more behold your home."

Home, delightful thrilling word! It went to the heart of Theodora in a tumultuous flow of pleasing, yet painful sensations. She now returned to the scenes of her innocence and happiness, but it was also the theatre of her disgrace and sorrow. What agitation did she feel as every well known object presented itself with powerful associations to her mind. Already she descried the stately appearance of her father's mansion, rising majestically in the shades of approaching night. Though distant she clearly perceived every object, every feature of the surrounding scene.

Tranquil and quiet the country and the city lay in religious silence, and the gentle hum of humanity that softly stole upon the ear, and the tinkling of a bell, or the social bark of a dog, every well-known sound struck with a congeniality of feeling on the trembling heart of Theodora. She returned to her home like the happy traveller after a lapse of many years, to whose memory charged with numberless objects that have intervened since his departure, these infant scenes must return in a confused, fading, yet pleasing sensation of delight. Theodora came; she drew near the place of her birth with anxiety and dread. Around she beheld every object as she had left it. Nature had proceeded undisturbed in her accustomed rotation. Green were the fields, and the boundless heavens still displayed their majestic grandeur. Yet, all around, to the eyes of Theodora, bore a tint of strangeness she could not well define. Alas! the change was not in those places, but in the tone of mind with which she considered them. Guadix and its gardens, and its groves, and its fountains, were still the same, but Theodora was changed. She had left those happy scenes in all the glory of youth and beauty. She returned experienced in grief in the beginning of life, and bearing in those heavenly features the iron stamp of premature decay. She had left them in the wild delirium of love,—in the intoxicating bliss of a first all-powerful affection, lavishly bestowed, and abundantly requited. She returned with a heart desolate and forlorn, the pure springs of which were envenomed by the baneful effects of passion, and embittered with shame and grief. She had left them in the happy society of a fond lover, full of present joy and glowing hopes of future happiness. She returned full of disappointment and remorse, under the protection of an apostate, the dark enemy of her country. These sad images obtruded upon her mind, and to such dismal thoughts was superadded the load of fear and anxiety arising from the uncertainty of her offended parent's reception. She was his only child, tenderly loved and cherished; but yet, would not this very love offer obstacles to a reconciliation? Would not her father's unbounded kindness serve to set off in blacker colours her own cruel ingratitude?

With these gloomy ideas she at length reached the threshold of the paternal dwelling. There was a melancholy calm that smote her heart—the ponderous casements were closed—a dismal silence prevailed, and as they entered the Zaguan, the echo of their steps was sent back in a mournful sound that seemed to rebuke the intruders. The old favorite dog of Don Manuel lay in a corner dozing a dull slumber, and Theodora, as she fondly called him by his name, received no sign of pleased recognition. The animal slowly raised his head, and mechanically fixed his heavy eyes on the speaker, but he neither leaped briskly to hail an old friend, nor resented the approach of an unwelcome stranger. The servants, too, were long in making their appearance, and when at last Pedro, the old major-domo, advanced to meet the party, he bore on his countenance deep lines of affliction: for some time he gazed vacantly on the strangers, and then in a harsh, inhospitable tone, inquired their business.

"Pedro!" said Theodora, with faultering emotion; "Pedro, don't you know me?"

At the sound of that voice Pedro started, and made the sign of the cross—he gazed in astonishment, applied his hand to his dim eyes, and then in a sort of wild stupor—

"Santo cielo!" he exclaimed, "Is this a dream, or a miracle? Surely it must be an apparition!—My lady Theodora, here!"

"Yes, good Pedro," mournfully replied Theodora, "this is no delusion. I am, in truth, Theodora, thy young mistress. But the announcement shocks you! What means this confusion?" Her emotion redoubled—she trembled and had scarcely strength to cry—"My father!—where is my father?"

Pedro heaved a sigh, and shook his head despondingly—"Alas! your father!"

"What! speak!" shrieked Theodora, struck with horror—"He is not dead!—Speak!"

"No, not dead," replied the old man, "but it seems that heaven sends you to close his eyes, and witness his departure from this world.—Oh!" he added, sobbing violently, "sorrow hath bowed down his venerable head: since his daughter fled from him, this has been the home of grief and desolation."

Theodora covered her face with her hands; the consciousness of her guilt came with additional force to pierce her heart, as the melancholy results of her dereliction were revealed to her. Roque and Marien Rufa were much affected, and even the stern features of the renegade seemed to be softened by a tinge of pity.

Theodora now could be detained by no consideration. The powerful impulse of nature rose superior to the suggestions of fear. She hurried to her father's chamber—she crossed the long corridor and reached her own saloon without opposition. There she threw a melancholy glance on the objects around, and heaved a bitter sigh when she beheld every thing in which she formerly took delight remaining in the same situation as when she had left them. Her books were scattered about, and her guitar was thrown carelessly upon the sofa where she had last sung a mournful romance previously to her meeting her lover in the garden. It was a rapid glance Theodora cast, and yet, alas! what a world of keen sensations did it produce. Every thing around bespoke the disconsolate tranquillity of a deserted home. Theodora at length gained her father's apartment; the door was closed, but she listened, and distinctly heard the murmur of disease. She gently knocked; an old female attendant opened the door—Theodora rushed in, and threw herself at the feet of Monteblanco's couch.

"Oh! my father!" she cried, and her agony denying her the powers of utterance, silent she sank by the bedside; yet the violent respiration and the smothered groaning which escaped from her bosom but too plainly told the full measure of her sorrow.

"Who is this?" feebly inquired the old man, as those sounds of distress snatched him from the feverish and troubled slumber of disease.

"Your daughter! your guilty, your unfortunate Theodora! Oh, my father, I come but to crave your forgiveness and die."

Prostrate and weakened as Don Manuel was, the sound of his daughter's voice, and her pathetic appeal, awakened all his latent feelings, and gave a new impulse to his decaying frame.

"Theodora! my child! my child!" he cried, raising himself on the couch; and as the sombre reflection of a dim lamp fell on the form before him, he was chilled with horror and amazement. He saw his Theodora; for the eyes of a father will always recognise his child, spite of the blasting influence of misfortune in disguising the features. He recognised his daughter, but alas! how changed was that model of female loveliness and beauty. Sunk was that eye, and quenched its pure and brilliant fire; the smile of innocence had fled from those lips, and the soft delicate tint of her countenance was chased away by a deadly paleness. But still Theodora was interesting and lovely; still Monteblanco gazed on her with the tender fondness of a parent. He rose superior to the malady which confined his withered frame to the couch of sickness; the film of decaying nature was upon his eyes; but yet he fixed them intensely on that fading form that bore the resemblance of his once-beloved child. He could not speak, nor did his daughter attempt to break this pause of dreadful solemnity. Her overpowering grief burst with impetuous effusion; in briny showers the tears fell, and her bosom seemed ready to break under the pressure of heavy and tumultuous groans. Monteblanco was moved to tears; his parched eyelids, which appeared unused to these testimonies of sympathy, were bathed in moisture. He wept, while in soothing accents he endeavoured to raise his daughter from the ground. But she struggled to preserve her humble position.

"Oh, my father!" she cried in an agonizing tone, "your kindness will kill me more than cruelty. I am unworthy of so much tenderness; forgiveness, only forgiveness, is the melancholy boon that the wretched, the guilty Theodora craves from her venerable and injured parent."

The recollection of some dark dream seemed now to absorb the senses of the old man. The debility to which sickness had reduced his mental and physical powers, and the overpowering efficacy of a first impression of pleasure and surprise, had entirely banished from his mind the dreadful image of a parent's just indignation. At first he only saw his lost child returned to his arms, nor in that moment of agitation did he recur to the cause of her absconding, to the state in which she returned. All the sensations which might naturally spring in the bosom of an injured cavalier were deadened by the more powerful feelings of a father's love.

But now that the first emotion had subsided, and that the voice of the guilty Theodora sounded distinctly in his ear, the attention of Don Manuel was promptly recalled to images of a painful nature. His daughter's desertion and the misery consequent on this first act of guilt, rushed upon his mind in deepened and aggravated colours. He rudely drew back the hand which the unfortunate Theodora was bathing with her tears, and in a tone of indignant feeling—

"Say," he cried, "art thou come to hasten my departure from a wretched state of existence?—Speak, guilty as thou art; unfold the horrid tale; and when I am doubly cursed, when I have seen thee thus forlorn and blasted by guilt and misfortune, then let me die!"

"Oh my father," she exclaimed with heart-rending emotion, "I am a criminal daughter—a wretch unworthy of the name I bear—yes, I amply merit your wrath and malediction. But oh! in pity do not deny me your forgiveness, for I have drunk deep of sorrow; if my guilt has been great, so have likewise been the tortures that have rent the heart of your child, since the moment of her first transgression."

"Unfold to me those horrors," exclaimed the desolate father, in a frantic tone; "perhaps their disclosure may break my heart, and bestow on me the only comfort I can now expect—yes, speak, and let the last words I hear from my daughter be my passport to the tomb!"

"Father, speak not thus—on me alone let the vengeance of the offended heavens fall—I alone must expiate the guilt, for shame cannot be joined with the name of Monteblanco; but you, oh! father, live—live to support the dignity of that name."

"You have disgraced it," interrupted Don Manuel, "but I will hear tranquilly—ere I deeply curse, I will deliberately examine the extent of your guilt."

He seemed suddenly to acquire a dreadful composure, and Theodora, as soon as her emotion would permit, told in the strains of deepest woe the particulars of her sorrowful history. It was interrupted repeatedly by her disconsolate father: rage, pride, pity, and resentment, by turns swelled his breast, according as the circumstances related excited those different feelings. But when the harrowing recital was finished, his character seemed to assume a tone of energy uncongenial with his present state of malady. Family pride, a sense of degradation and of injury unrevenged, rose paramount in his mind, and stifling for the moment all the pleadings of pity and parental tenderness, he felt an equal degree of horror and resentment against the betrayer and his unfortunate victim.

In the first impulse, therefore, of his rage, Monteblanco fixed his despairing eyes on his daughter, and in a tone of bitterness, enough to break the fibres of her heart, he cried out imperiously—

"Begone from my sight for ever—begone, and let me die in peace—let me descend to my grave without the additional pang which the presence of an ungrateful child inflicts upon me—rise and begone; and may the stings you have planted in this withered heart, and the shame you have heaped on my head, be your companion to the latest moment of your ignominious life."

"Oh horror! horror!" shrieked Theodora: "Father! father, you do not—you cannot curse your hapless child. Oh! my expiation has been boundless—the justice of Heaven itself must be satisfied, and the heart of a father cannot deny forgiveness to the poor wretch whose miseries are far—far superior to her guilt. Oh pity me!—grant me your pardon—repulse me not thus from your heart, and I will immediately speed to bury my sufferings and my shame amidst the gloom of a cloister."

She ceased, and the wildness of her manner, a fitful tremor that shook her frame, and the unearthly hue that overspread her already pallid countenance, exhibited in glowing tints the havoc that such deep anguish had made. Her trembling arms were extended, and the thin cold fingers clasped in agony; loosely her dishevelled tresses fell on her father's couch, as in the earnestness of grief she appealed to him for mercy.

Monteblanco looked on her, intensely looked on that harrowing picture of distress, and felt the burning tears that descended in copious streams from their swollen springs. The vivid signs of her repentance, and the excess of her affliction were inconsistent with depravity. Error more than guilt was there, and Don Manuel could not behold unmoved his once beloved daughter, the pride and solace of his declining years, reduced to her present state of utter wretchedness. Dreadful was the conflict which the noble and high-minded cavalier had to sustain between the stern dictates of worldly prejudice, and the tender pleadings of nature. But happily to the father's honour, nature at length prevailed. He was softened, and in an extacy of mingled grief and affection, he clasped his sorrowing child in his trembling arms.

Monteblanco appeared now partially relieved from a load of anguish. He consoled the poor forlorn culprit that pathetically clung to his protection, and his fondness for the once beautiful and accomplished Theodora, seemed to return with additional force for the unfortunate being that stood before him.

But now new feelings took possession of his breast. As he gazed with a melancholy joy on his restored child—as he considered with the smile of sadness the mournful devastation which one man's treachery had wrought there, all his thoughts were forcibly drawn into one predominant idea, whilst the decaying energies of his frame received a new impulse to second the resolutions of his working mind. The cold and unnatural atrocity of Gomez Arias burned in his brain; he felt the agonized throb of his injury run corrosive through his veins, and impart an uncontrollable desire of revenge; the fever of excitement rose superior to that which had laid him prostrate, and he seemed impatient at the weakness that confined him to his couch.

"Before I die, poor suffering mourner," he said, turning soothingly to his daughter, "I shall see your wrongs redressed, and my insulted honor amply revenged; this sacred duty links me yet to life, and I hope fervently in God that my existence may be protracted until that period."

The renegade was there; for when revenge was the word, how could Bermudo be absent from the essence of his life? Theodora, overpowered with the emotion which her meeting with her father had produced, retired to compose her disordered spirits, and in the mean time, Don Manuel had a short but terrible explanation with the renegade: in few words this man of darkness unfolded his powers of seconding Monteblanco's plans of vengeance.

The heated mind of the old cavalier, though in need of no stimulus, nevertheless gathered fuel from the insinuating eloquence of the renegade. A plan was concerted, and an immediate appeal to the queen resolved upon; but the state of Monteblanco's health did not allow him to put in execution his determination with a promptitude consonant with his feelings. The renegade was therefore prudently concealed for the present, to avoid the danger of inquisitive curiosity, whilst the only obstacle that retarded the departure of Monteblanco for Granada, was the sickness which still confined him to his couch.

CHAPTER VIII.

Crece el tumulto, y el espanto crece:
Y todos le abandonan—uno solo
Fiel se presenta, y con valor perece.
Anon.

Don Manuel de Monteblanco has already been described as a man weighed down by years and the iron pressure of infirmities and sorrows. The disappearance of his daughter, in whom all his thoughts, all the affections of his heart were solely centred, tended to fill the measure of his misery and reduce him to that gloomy state of despondency with which his lost energies and increasing age in vain attempted to struggle. Totally unsuccessful in his endeavours to discover the retreat of Theodora, time at length reconciled him to his state of desolation, but it was the resignation of despair; that feeling which makes man acquiesce with gloomy calmness in the decrees of fate, and look with tranquillity on the approach of death as the happy termination of his sufferings.

Don Manuel had sent despatches, and made diligent inquiries to recover his daughter, but in vain. Martha, the old duenna, from whom he might have obtained a knowledge of the truth, had successfully baffled his pursuit, the sanctimonious hag having embarked at Barcelona, for Italy. The vessel was wrecked, and it was supposed she perished, as no information of her could be afterwards obtained. Don Lope Gomez Arias had all the time kept up a correspondence with the deluded and ill-fated father, who, far from harbouring the least suspicion against the betrayer of his daughter, considered him as one in whose advice and services he could implicitly confide. Thus in proportion as the intelligence from Gomez Arias grew more cold and less frequent, the hopes of the old cavalier decreased, until he was at last reduced to a state bordering upon distraction. He lay prostrate on the couch of sickness; it was presaged he was doomed never more to rise. Slowly death was stealing over him, and all his friends and dependants bitterly deplored the causes which contributed to render so miserable the last days of the good old cavalier. Indeed, it appeared as if the angel of death hovered round his fated mansion, and awed all its inmates into a melancholy tranquillity. At this time the sudden and unexpected appearance of Theodora worked a powerful revolution in the feelings of the family, whilst the frame of Don Manuel, instead of sinking under the weight of the impression which it produced, seemed to revive. His latent feelings were roused from their gloomy torpor, the slumbering energies were called into action by the powerful excitement of new ideas, and the mind rendered buoyant in proportion as new projects called for the exertion of its faculties. The unparalleled effrontery and cruelty of Gomez Arias formed the source from which the drooping frame of Monteblanco gathered life. His wrongs, instead of accelerating the progress of death, seemed instantly to check its strides, while the desire of revenge so powerfully operated on his mind, that it warmed the torpid energies of decaying mortality.

Three days had scarcely elapsed since the arrival of Theodora, when Don Manuel already considered himself equal to the exertion of a journey to Granada. The distance was short, and his feelings would not allow him a longer delay; for he conceived every dilatory suggestion to be as detrimental to the success of his design. The renegade, instead of checking Monteblanco's views, contributed to encourage them by his instigations.

Early, therefore, on the fourth day, every thing was prepared for their departure. Theodora habited herself in robes of deep mourning, and departed from Guadix with her father and her former companions in flight. The presence of Roque was indispensable, and Marien Rufa went with the pious intention of being reconciled as soon as possible to the church, by the Archbishop of Granada.

Whilst our travellers are journeying towards that city, let me entreat you, kind or unkind reader, to suffer them to go in peace, and accompany me in another direction. We must now revert to the Moors, whom we left in high excitement at Alhaurin, though the rage of CaÑeri at the flight of his captive had considerably damped the joy produced by their victory.

The disappointed Moor roamed about like a discontented mastiff, growling and casting around his revengeful glances; whilst his dependants, awed by his ferocity, cared not to encounter the ebullition of his wrath, but timidly skulked away: strange phenomenon of human nature! Amongst those Moors there was not one who did not inwardly despise the petty despot; not one that was not endowed with a greater share of personal courage, and yet they all trembled before the man they contemned, and shrank from an object invested with no other terrors than those which they had voluntarily conferred upon it. Where lies the spell of a tyrant that enables him alone, hated and contemned, to tyrannize over his fellow creatures! However, the Moors had now a respite from their fears, for the approach of the Christians compelled CaÑeri to forsake the gratification of his petty malice, and direct his thoughts to the public danger. The town of Alhaurin, which he commanded, was well garrisoned, and had a plentiful store of provisions; and yet the mind of the chief sadly misgave him. Every moment straggling Moors arrived, who depicted, in the most lively colours, the terrible appearance of the Christians. These reports, and the names of the gallant chiefs who headed the enemy, failed not to depress the hearts of those who a week before had looked upon their triumph as certain, imagining that the lustre of their glory was beyond the possibility of a blemish.

In the mean time Mohabed, contrary to the advice of El Feri, had descended the Sierra Bermeja with the Moors under his command. El Feri had expostulated with his brother chief, but could not persuade him to postpone an attempt which, planned with haste, and executed with rashness, could only be attended with disaster. The Moors, though possessed of courage, were unskilled in the discipline of war, and better calculated, therefore, to harrass the Spaniards by detached bodies, in petty skirmishes, than to oppose them in the open field. Mohabed was callous to all remonstrances; and this want of unity in the chiefs, proved a mortal blow to the Moorish cause. El Feri saw with grief his companions descending that mountain which, to them, had afforded a strong hold, and a secure home, to risk, by an act of imprudence, the advantages which they had already gained.

Mohabed boldly directed his course towards Granada, in which direction Gomez Arias was said to be advancing. The enemies shortly came in sight; but no sooner did they come within hearing, than the Moors sent forth a wild shout of exultation, which was answered by the war-cry of the Christians, who were burning to revenge the defeat of their countrymen in the Sierra Bermeja.

Gomez Arias beheld the advance of the enemy with transports of joy. He hailed an opportunity of avenging the death of Aguilar, and of acquiring, by a brilliant act, fresh laurels to sanction his ambitious and enterprizing schemes. Besides the many deceitful stratagems to which he had resorted on account of Theodora, his unsatisfactory conduct on the day of his intended wedding, and a degree of mystery that remained over that affair, had combined to throw a shade over his character which he was anxious to remove by the eclat of a military exploit. The hope of victory, the desire of retrieving the late disgrace of the Christians, and the sweet whispers of ambition, produced a state of wild excitation he could scarcely restrain. His soldiers were equally impatient to signalize themselves, and every one awaited the moment of action in a ferment of expectation.

Gomez Arias made choice of an advantageous position near Rio Gordo, and there resolved to receive the attack of the enemy. Meantime Mohabed, as if to forward the wishes of the Spaniards, hurried on without considering the fatigue and exhaustion to which his men were reduced by a forced march. The Christians, in their turn, beheld the approach of the rebels, as an approaching holocaust to the spirits of those who fell in the Sierra Bermeja with the gallant Aguilar. Don Lope commanded his men to sustain the first attack without moving, and then, taking advantage of the confusion excited by a repulse, suddenly to charge their enemies with the united advantages of discipline and courage. His wishes succeeded to their utmost extent. The Moors rushed on to the charge in a blind and disorderly manner, totally heedless of the consequences of their want of organization. The Spaniards suffered the attack with the greatest coolness and intrepidity; when their fiery courage, acquiring additional stimulus from having been compressed, now spurred them on, and, with their entire force, they fell on the confused and crowded masses of the enemy with an overwhelming shock.

A dreadful carnage ensued. Terror had succeeded the first ebullition of courage, and the Moors perceived their own rout and confusion only when it was too late. Mohabed exerted all his powers to rally his panic-stricken followers, but it was in vain. Disorder and dismay every where prevailed, and the Christians obtained a victory as easy as it was complete. The greater part of the Moors were slain in the field; a few only escaped to carry the disheartening tale to their companions. The rest, with their chief, Mohabed, fell into the hands of the enemy.

The news of this disaster caused the wildest consternation amongst the rebels at Alhaurin and the Sierra Bermeja. El Feri de Benastepar, grieved but not surprised at the unfortunate results of Mohabed's rashness, was active in repairing the loss, but his numbers being so much reduced, he was now more fully confirmed in his design of confining their warfare against the Christians to the Sierra Bermeja. With the vigour of a superior character, he did not feel dejected by this overthrow, as he had not been wildly elated by his previous success. Not so with CaÑeri: the total rout of Mohabed, described in the darkest colours by those who had succeeded in effecting their escape, began to awaken apprehensions for his own safety. His fear was considerably aggravated by the arrival of the Alcayde de los Donceles, who, by forced marches, had suddenly made his appearance before Alhaurin, to which he immediately laid siege. The disorder and discontent of the Moors hourly increased, and the absence of the renegade was severely felt.

At this moment the Alcayde de los Donceles sent a herald to summon the rebels to surrender, promising a full pardon should they be willing to lay down their arms and deliver up their chiefs. But in case they neglected to adopt in time this conciliatory measure, it was threatened that they should all be put to the sword, and the town reduced to ashes. Discontent and insubordination now prevailed amongst the rebels. The sense of their danger—the formidable array of the enemy—and above all, the unpopularity of their chief, CaÑeri, conspired to render a great portion of the troops willing to accede to the proposals of the Alcayde.

Soon a numerous and powerful cabal was formed, and the malcontents, deciding that their cause was desperate, agreed to surrender. In a large body they proceeded to the palace, and insolently demanded that the gates of the town should be opened to the Christians. CaÑeri, and some of his adherents, aware that they were made an exception to the amnesty, were naturally anxious to defend the city, as the only means of averting their fate.

CaÑeri, no longer an unruly despot, now crouched to the danger like an abject slave, and in a piteous tone began to expostulate with the mutineers. It was a striking contrast to see the man, who lately was the terror of all, converted into so gentle an animal as to astonish even the Moors when they contemplated the cowardly being who had held them so long in dread. They were not moved by his entreaties; for the supplications of a despot, instead of awakening sympathy, serve only to augment the rage of mankind, by placing in a more striking light his pusillanimity and unworthiness, and the shame of having suffered so despicable a thing to tyrannize over and oppress them.

The uproar and insubordination increased as the term allowed by the Alcayde to effect a surrender was drawing near. All obedience was now disregarded, and a party of the most turbulent resolved to put their chief to death, and, by this means, propitiate the favor of their enemies. Accordingly, with wild exclamations and terrific yells, they surrounded the mansion of CaÑeri, and insolently summoned the few Moors who still adhered to him to give up the despot, or that they would immediately commit the palace to the flames. CaÑeri, pale, haggard, and trembling, stood like a convicted culprit in the scene of his former brief authority, bewildered with fear, and without knowing what course to pursue. To escape was utterly impossible, the palace being surrounded by the infuriate Moors, and the town beleaguered by the Spaniards. In this emergency he cast an imploring look on his followers, and saw with despair the limited number of his adherents. In vain he attempted to harangue the infuriated throng from the window; he was driven back by a shower of stones and other missiles. In this suspense and agony he remained some time, during which he had the mortification to behold his few remaining friends gradually deserting his side in proportion as the danger became more imminent. All was tumult and anarchy, and the cries which proceeded from without, predicted to CaÑeri's ears his approaching and terrible fate. To the curses heaped on his devoted and abhorred person, succeeded the appalling threats and the wild savage laugh of exultation over his near downfall. Those who were formerly the most abject of his slaves, were now more particularly conspicuous in manifesting their revengeful disposition.

The outward gates had now given way to the ponderous hammers with a terrible crash, and the frenzied mutineers rushing impetuously in, traversed the hall and gallery without opposition, and directed their course to the apartment of the chief.

The wretched CaÑeri, alike unable to meet his death like a man, by opposing his rebellious soldiers, or to prevent by his own hand the ignominy which threatened him, awaited in stupor the crisis of the bursting storm. Aghast he rolled his starting eyes, glazed with agonized terror; and he saw himself deserted in that dreadful moment by all his dependants. All had forsaken him—all but one man; he alone, in spite of the fate which inevitably awaited his adherence to the fallen chief, still remained faithful to his side: it was Malique. There is an instinctive fidelity, existing sometimes in the most unrefined and barbarous minds, honorable to human nature,—the uncouth Malique was of this stamp; he had received no favors from his master when in prosperity, yet he now scorned to abandon him in adversity.

CaÑeri looked at him, and in spite of his forlorn and perilous situation, could not but be moved at the sight of the faithful Malique. The noble minded Moor stood by his side, his scymitar drawn, and evincing on his countenance no signs of terror or dismay. CaÑeri, frail as was the protection that could be derived from a single man, still fondly clung to hope with the sordidness of a cowardly mind.

"My faithful Malique," he cried in a tone of agony; "Is there no hope?"

"None," replied Malique, sadly, but resolutely: "none, but to die like brave Moors; draw your weapon, noble CaÑeri, and perish as becomes your race." The trembling chief answered with a groan, for the mutinous soldiers had succeeded in bursting the door of the apartment, and now with a dreadful clamour poured in, eager to strike the first blow at their wretched and defenceless chief. Their very impatience retarded the accomplishment of their fell desire, for as they thronged the narrow passages, some were thrown down, the impatience of the one impeding the progress of the other.

His suspense between life and death was protracted by the confusion; and the miserable CaÑeri suffered the additional torture of hearing for some time the appalling heralds of his fate, before the blow was struck. The door burst open, and the savage eyes of his enemies glared upon their victim, and the glitter of their weapons struck fearfully on his sickening sight. He stood gazing with the petrified look of despair; Malique boldly advanced and placed himself before his master, with the resolute courage of one who has determined upon his part.

"Malique," cried the foremost of the conspirators, who happened to be one whom CaÑeri had favored; "Sheath thy weapon; we seek not for thy life." Malique made no reply, but with a single blow he levelled the traitor with the ground; he then sprung fearlessly amongst the rebellious crowd, and after having laid prostrate two or three of the most infuriated, he was himself struck down, and met his death with the courage of a soldier, and the coolness of a man, who dies in the discharge of his duty.

Grown desperate by the very impulse of terror, and moved by the sight of Malique bleeding at his feet, CaÑeri assumed a courage arising from desperation, and as the mutineers closed round him, he dealt several blows with a stubborn resistance that might have done him honour in the field. He was, however, soon overpowered, and fell covered with innumerable wounds. His head was immediately severed from the body, and being affixed to a long pole, the disorderly and motley crowd now proceeded to the camp of the Spaniards, bearing before them the bleeding and ghastly token of their surrender.

The whole town now became the scene of indiscriminate riot; men and women, old and young, ran about in a tumult of hope and fear, whilst the discordant shouts of the soldiery, and the appalling sight of the procession, bearing the ensanguined trophy, greatly contributed to increase the confusion.

El Alcayde de los Donceles having taken the necessary precautions to insure the safety of his men, in case of treason, now entered the town of Alhaurin amidst the acclamations of his late foes; the chiefs of the rebels had already been secured, and the disorderly multitude taking advantage of the proffered pardon, soon evacuated the place, and dispersed in every direction.

Meantime the Alcayde, having left a garrison in the town to prevent any further trouble, proceeded towards the Sierra Bermeja, the last and only refuge of the Moors; for the little villages where the fire of sedition yet burned, were too insignificant to engross his attention. The Christians therefore continued their march towards the dreadful spot, where the spirit of the noble Aguilar seemed to hover, in expectation of redress, and where the terrible El Feri, the most valiant of the Moors, still kept his ground.

CHAPTER IX.

Cuan breve y cuan caduca resplandece
Nuestra gloria! Cuan subito, en el punto
Que deleita a los ojos, desparece!
Herrera.

Che piu si apera, o che s'attende omai?
Dopo trionfo e palma
* * * * *
Luto e lamenti, e lagrimosi lai;
Tasso.

Granada, lately the seat of mourning, was again converted into a scene of indiscriminate joy. The recent victory obtained by Gomez Arias, and the defeat of CaÑeri which had so closely followed that advantage, awoke the most pleasing sentiments in the minds of the inhabitants. They almost considered the rebellion as at an end, assured by the late successes, and awaited with impatience the triumphant entry of Gomez Arias and his conquering band, now rapidly approaching towards the city. The court was assembled, and displayed the heroic Isabella in all the insignia of royalty. Surrounded by all the principal personages in Spain, she awaited the arrival of the victor, anxious to offer him her congratulations and to bestow upon him adequate marks of her royal favor.

The grand saloon of the Alhambra, where formerly the Moorish sovereigns dictated their laws, now afforded a different, though no less striking display. The dazzling glitter of armour and the sumptuousness of official dresses, blended with the gay and richly ornamented attires of the ladies of the court, presented a picture at once beautiful and imposing.

At this moment a rumour was heard at the extremity of the long hall. It proceeded from the guards, who appeared anxious to deny admittance to some person who, with a feeble though piercing voice, was heard continually to exclaim—

"Justice! I come to the Queen! Justice! She cannot deny it to an unfortunate noble!"

The queen was moved by the appeal, and ordered that the supplicant should be admitted without delay. Scarcely were her commands obeyed, when a venerable old man, in sable robes, and bearing on his countenance deep traces of grief, slowly and solemnly advanced towards the throne of the queen. He supported, or rather was supported, by a young female, likewise in mourning, and wearing a veil, which reached almost to the ground, thus concealing her beauties and her sorrows from the curious gaze of the spectators. Two other figures followed closely, a man of strong athletic proportions in a Moorish garb, and a thin curious-looking individual, apparently of inferior station.

Solemn silence prevailed, and every one seemed anxious to learn the cause of this extraordinary appeal. But when the stranger reached the throne he was immediately recognised by the queen and several of the nobles, who could not conceal their astonishment at the sight. "Monteblanco!" involuntarily and simultaneously escaped from several voices in the some breath.

"Yes," replied he, kneeling with his daughter at the foot of the throne; "the wretched Monteblanco comes humbly to crave justice from his sovereign. Before his grey hairs descend with sorrow into the tomb, he collects his weak remaining strength to seek redress from the powerful, and to interest in his behalf the feelings of all the noble and generous. Pardon, most noble and gracious Queen—" he then added, addressing Isabella, "Pardon, if I come in a day of glory and jubilee, to damp with the tale of woe the joy that reigns around. But behold the picture of an aged father, wounded and insulted in his best affections—a noble family dishonoured—the only scion of that family reduced to the lowest state of obloquy and shame. Such a picture may well call the attention of the just, even from objects of dazzling interest. Yes, I may be pardoned for intruding my misfortunes on my Queen—my generous Queen, from whom alone I can expect redress."

"You shall not demand it in vain," replied the queen; "all times are sacred to the solemn appeal of justice, and in the court of Isabella, every other consideration shall be postponed to satisfy its demands. Monteblanco, you have been guilty of no intrusion; speak confidently—unfold the particulars of your grievances, and trust that nought on earth shall induce the Queen to deviate a single step from the sacred path of justice."

"Gracious Queen!" cried Monteblanco, "that hope has been my sole inducement to prolong my miserable existence. I am injured deeply; injured in the dearest feeling of a nobleman and a Spaniard. The honors of my family, gained by a long line of illustrious ancestors, have been foully tarnished by one who calls himself noble and a Spaniard, but who is alike unworthy to rank as either. I will not enumerate the services of the Monteblancos to interest our Queen in behalf of their affronted house; still, whilst the lustre of their name is on the point of being extinguished, it may be permitted to the last remaining but withered branch of that noble tree, once again to speak of those who are alas! now no more. Oh, Isabella, I had five sons; all—all deserving of the name they bore. Bravely they fought against the Moors, and gloriously they fell before the walls of this city, in the sacred cause of their religion and country. I was left desolate with this only frail but dear support of my declining age."

He cast a piteous look on Theodora, and then continued. "The fate of my sons might draw tears from the eyes of a father; but those tears were unmingled with the bitterness of shame. With pride I remembered that my boys died for their country. Heaven! could I then surmise that in my unfortunate daughter all the former glory so dearly earned should be degraded! Could I ever anticipate that the day should come when the noble fate of my sons would be to me a subject of regret! I am now reduced to envy my country those lives which might now stand forward to avenge the honor of their house. My daughter, blessed with innocence and beauty, gentle and kind in her nature, was the only solace of my declining years—the only sweet and blooming flower that still grew smiling beside the parent stem. Yet of this, my only remaining comfort, I was treacherously and cruelly deprived. A ruffian, honored far beyond his deserts, and rich in the plenitude of power, envied me this solitary consolation. My unfortunate daughter was seduced from her home! Oh heaven! that a Monteblanco should be reduced to confess his shame! She was seduced from the fond arms of her parent under the most sacred promises, and then, in violation of his plighted honor, the miscreant cast her aside to wither in neglect and obscurity. But it was necessary that the most atrocious example of barbarity should accompany his base desertion. In the arms of sleep, the hapless victim was abandoned amidst the wilderness of the Alpujarras. She fell into the power of the Moors, from whom she experienced all the terrors which her forlorn situation was naturally calculated to produce. Fortune threw her again in contact with her betrayer, when the cold heartless ruffian, under the most insidious promises of false repentance, drew her from the house of her protector, that she might be no obstruction to his ambitious career. He again delivered her to the power of the Moors, the rebels whose heads were proscribed, and with whom the guilty man scrupled not to hold communion, in open defiance of the repeated and solemnly promulgated decree of your highness."

Here Monteblanco stopped, and a suppressed murmur of indignation ran through the whole assembly.

"Such an example of depravity," continued the old man, "astonishes you, but your wonder will be increased when you learn that the man who has so disgracefully added treason to his crimes is one high in rank, great in military renown, and honored by the favour of his sovereign."

"Those circumstances," cried the queen, "render his conduct doubly criminal. Monteblanco, your wrongs shall be redressed. Let the guilt be firmly established, and then, were the culprit the first man in the kingdom, the support of my throne—nay," she added, rising in her anger, "were he even of my own blood, he shall not be screened from the rigour of the law." As she delivered these words a cloud of indignation mantled on her brow, and her eyes shot the fire of insulted majesty as she looked proudly on the surrounding nobles and warriors.

A pause ensued, and the splendid train that had assembled to celebrate a victory, now gazed on each other in blank dismay, expecting to hear in the name of the criminal one of their own friends or relatives.

"Pronounce the name of the traitor," cried the queen, "and if he be not here already, he shall be summoned this very moment into our presence, to answer these charges."

"His name is powerful," replied Monteblanco.

"Not more so than my will," nobly retorted Isabella.

At this moment a burst of popular applause announced the triumphant entry of the victorious Spaniard, and the name of Gomez Arias, in the wild strains of a grateful multitude, was repeated by a thousand voices.

"His name?" impatiently demanded the Queen.

Viva! Gomez Arias, Viva! again burst on the ears of the Court, and Monteblanco, with bitter emphasis, exclaimed:—

"Hear! hear his name honored with the strains of triumph: hear the name which causes my misery and dishonor, now receiving the glorious reward of the hero! Oh, shame on my withered arm; where is the strength of my youth; and where the sons of my name?"

"Gomez Arias!" cried the queen and the courtiers with one simultaneous cry of amazement—"Gomez Arias!"

"'Tis he!" replied Monteblanco, firmly and indignantly.

A dismal silence then succeeded, and the emotion of the queen became strongly apparent. She felt that, in the person of a triumphant conqueror, she was about to receive a criminal, and that the reward due to his services could not avert the punishment incurred by his guilt. The surrounding courtiers stood aghast, gazing in wonder on the queen. They were well assured of the rigid impartiality which had swayed her conducts through life; and aware that not even all the powerful voices in the country could successfully plead against the claims of the unprotected, or stay the decree of justice upon the oppressor and the criminal.

Meantime Gomez Arias, with all the exultation of a conquering warrior, entered the hall, attended by his principal adherents, and preceded by Mohabed and other captive chiefs. He advanced in joyful expectation towards the throne, when suddenly his course was arrested by a dreadful vision.

Fixed in mute astonishment, he stood, as he gazed upon the group, at the foot of the throne; an ashy paleness succeeded the glowing tints of joy yet visible on his countenance. His confusion became apparent, and was productive of the most injurious surmises in the minds of all around. Yet Gomez Arias raised his eyes towards his sovereign, but from her features he could augur nothing favorable; no encouragement could be traced in their calm and distant expression.

A consciousness of guilt now mastered all his powers of dissimulation, and the nature of Gomez Arias seemed, in a few moments, to have undergone a total and inexplicable revolution. His joyous attendants were surprised at these unwonted signs of consternation; and the sounds of pleasure and triumph suddenly ceased. A deadly spell seemed to have been suddenly cast over the scene, and every one remained in a state of terrible suspense. At length Gomez Arias, striving to conceal his agitation with an assumption of boldness and ease that ill consorted with his manner—"Most gracious Isabella," he cried, "behold the rebellious Mohabed at your royal feet, and accept the humble congratulations and devout attachment of your faithful servant."

"Don Lope Gomez Arias," answered the queen, with stern dignity of tone and demeanor, "before we receive your congratulations, and acknowledge your services—before we can consider you with the regard due to the glorious character of a victorious soldier, you must remove certain accusations which have this day been averred against you by the noble and respected individual now before the throne. Answer these serious charges before you claim a title to our gratitude and favor; for not all the splendor of conquest shall throw a veil over flagrant guilt. Approach, and behold those whom you have wronged—mark well the situation to which you have reduced a noble family, and say, what you can plead in justification."

Don Lope cast a glance on the group; but when he perceived his man, Roque, whose presence deprived him of the little opportunity left for prevarication, hope forsook him, and the presence of mind which had served him on so many occasions proved utterly insufficient at this critical moment. He foresaw that any attempt at exculpation would be as fruitless as dangerous. He therefore continued in mute silence, and appeared to plead guilty to the accusation. His countenance, however, gradually cleared, as though a cheering ray had suddenly beamed upon him. He seemed to adopt some resolution so imperiously demanded by circumstances—he regained his composure; but a deep sigh escaped him; it was the last testimony of regret that announced the disappointment of his hopes. No alternative was left; he must relinquish all thoughts of Leonor; and he accordingly attuned his mind to receive with deference the commands which he awaited from the queen.

"Gomez Arias," said Isabella after a lapse of time, "that silence clearly bespeaks thy conviction; the honor of a noble family has been stained. It now remains for you to make all the reparation in your power; and that must be done immediately; for I will not leave this place, nor shall you leave my presence, till I see the victim of your wantonness and cruelty restored to that honor and happiness of which she has been deprived."

Gomez Arias heard these words with apparent respect and humility. Foiled completely in his former hopes, he yet was willing to preserve the favor of the queen, and to effect this it was necessary to deprecate the indignation which his conduct had excited. He therefore assumed all the symptoms of repentance, without any alloy of fear or servility, and casting himself at the foot of the throne, "It would never," said he, "be worthy of Gomez Arias to resist in any instance the will of his sovereign; much less on an occasion when honor induces him to follow her dictates."

"Pity," answered Isabella sarcastically, "that this consideration did not sooner induce you to adopt such a course, for much misery had by these means been prevented. But the evil is already done, and must be instantly repaired.

"Don Lope Gomez Arias," she then proceeded, "This very moment you must plight your hand and faith to Theodora de Monteblanco. You appear fully sensible of the justice of such a measure, and therefore in my presence let the ceremony be performed."

One of the chaplains of the queen was immediately summoned, and before the assembled court, whose looks bespoke their astonishment at this extraordinary scene, the unfortunate Theodora became the wife of Gomez Arias. With trembling steps, and supported by her father, she advanced to the foot of the throne. Don Lope approached her, not only without symptoms of dislike, but even with some appearance of a kindly feeling, the sincerity of which was however of a doubtful nature, as little trust could be placed in a conversion so suddenly effected. Nor did Theodora, blinded as she was by her infatuation, confide entirely in his specious address; but yet the thought of restoring peace of mind to her father, and honor to herself, rose paramount to every other consideration. Amidst the tears that dimmed her eyes, and the lines of sorrow that marked her countenance, some grateful signs of happiness were discernible, like the cheering rays of the sun struggling through the gloom of the clouds.

She received the hand of Gomez Arias tremblingly, with a mixed sensation of joy and dread. Alas! when she took that hand, once so dear, it seemed deadly cold, and the touch imparted to her heart a chill she could not define.

As soon as the ceremony was performed, the queen arose, and with a stateliness of manner that struck with awe the surrounding train—

"Don Lope," she said, "You have, as far as it lay in your power, repaired the injury you have done to the daughter of Monteblanco; you must now answer your Queen, for treason to your country."

Gomez Arias was struck with astonishment, not so much from the consciousness of guilt, as from the suddenness of such an unexpected charge. As soon, therefore, as he recovered from his surprise, with indignant pride he exclaimed: "What! Gomez Arias charged with treason, when he comes to afford the most incontestable proofs of his love and devotion to his country? Where—where is the villain who dares affix so foul a stigma to the name of Gomez Arias? Where is he?—let him appear, that I may confound and chastise the miscreant;" then looking round with haughtiness, he added, "who dares charge me with treason?"

"I dare," cried a voice; and presently the renegade, who, till then, had been concealed from Don Lope, came forward with boldness, and fixing his eyes steadfastly on Gomez Arias—

"I dare," he repeated, "in the face of Spain, and I will make good my charge."

Gomez Arias staggered at the sight; the apparition had burst upon him so unexpectedly, that, unable to contain his emotion,—

"Ah!" he cried, faultering; "what! the Moor here!"

"The Moor!" echoed the queen; "then you know the Moor?"

"I have seen the wretch before," replied Gomez Arias; "but how dares he throw on me so dark an imputation?"

He cast a look of darkening anger on the renegade, but Bermudo returned the haughty glance with a cold sneer.

"Proud man," he exclaimed, "your wrath affrights not me, and humility becomes you better than arrogance. You can as little intimidate me, as you can effectually contradict the veracity of my accusation. Queen of Spain," he then cried in a tone of fearless intrepidity, "and you, ye nobles of Granada, behold in me one of the rebels who has laid down his arms and accepted the amnesty. An eager desire to unmask that haughty man, has obliged me to abandon my companions, and appear within the walls of a Christian city. My motives for proceeding against Don Lope will shortly come to light; but first his guilt shall be established. His conviction and punishment will necessarily follow, if the court of Isabella can boast real claims to that impartial justice, for which the world gives it credit."

These words were delivered with such firmness of tone and manner, that the friends of Gomez Arias began to look on him with mingled pity and amazement. He, however, cast around a glance of indignant contempt; then he preserved a sullen silence, attempting not to contradict the statement of his accuser.

"What answer make you to this charge?" demanded the queen, observing the pertinacity of his silence.

"Answer!" replied Don Lope, with overpowering indignation; "none! Gomez Arias will not deign to answer the accusations of a vile rebel, nor will he afford his Queen and brethren in arms the satisfaction of seeing the established character of a noble Christian put in competition with the base assertions of a villain."

Hurt as the queen felt at the arrogance and insolence couched in these words, she forbore manifesting her displeasure.

"No, Don Lope," she said, "your Queen is grateful, but not more than she is just. You stand accused of treason, but the mere word of that Moor will not be sufficient in itself to induce your Queen, or your brethren in arms, to convict of treason one of the first knights in Spain. We must have proof—evident, irrefragable proofs of the crime alleged against you, before a decision is pronounced."

"Proofs!" exclaimed the renegade, with a sarcastic sneer—"such a demand is too just to be denied; and who would be the presumptuous madman, that dare impeach Gomez Arias without proofs? In the first place, therefore, the Queen will perhaps not question the validity of this." And saying this, he took a ring from his finger, and approaching the throne, added:—

"Your Highness cannot have forgotten this pledge of your regard for Gomez Arias, though that nobleman seems totally to have overlooked such a gift, when he speaks in dubious terms of your Highness's gratitude."

A gloomy joy animated the features of the renegade, as he pronounced these words; a demoniac triumph was visible on his countenance.

The queen felt an involuntary shudder as she received the ring, whilst Gomez Arias stood in speechless suspense, a transitory, but deadly paleness driving the flush of anger from his countenance.

"Moor—how camest thou by this ring?" asked the queen.

"It was," answered Bermudo, "a recompence for the services I rendered Don Lope Gomez Arias. When this gallant knight wished to part with yon noble lady, I was the agent in the transaction; I procured him the interview with CaÑeri."

"CaÑeri!" exclaimed several voices in consternation.

"CaÑeri, aye, CaÑeri," repeated the renegade, unmoved. "Could the noble Gomez Arias enter into a treaty with a rebel less than a chief. I was the individual who introduced these personages to each other, and surely for so considerable a service could I expect less than a ring—a ring valuable indeed in itself—more valuable from the illustrious personage to whom it had belonged—more precious still, as I have it in my power to return it to that elevated owner."

The solemn mockery of this speech was suddenly interrupted by the queen, while, with looks of anger and displeasure—

"Peace!" she cried. "You came here to make good an accusation, not to intrude upon our patience with these remarks." Then turning to Gomez Arias, she continued in a tone of mingled sternness and compassion—

"Don Lope, you gave this ring to the Moor?"

"I did," replied Gomez Arias, gloomily, but dauntless.

"An oath," resumed the renegade, "will surely be held sacred with a Christian. Let one be taken by that man," he added, pointing to Roque, who was now endeavouring to effect his escape, as he beheld, with dismay, the unexpected and serious turn the affair was taking, and felt repugnant to criminate his former master, for whom he still preserved a feeling of respect.

"Secure the man," continued Bermudo, "and we will then see how far I am justified in my assertions."

"Silence!" again exclaimed the queen, inwardly grieved at the evidence that was pressing against Don Lope. "Silence, Moor: we need not thy instructions."

A mixture of pity and amazement prevailed throughout the assembly. They met to congratulate a victor, and they were now to consider him as one who had not scrupled to outrage the laws of his country, and for the purpose of accomplishing a detestable crime. So extraordinary and contradictory a situation appeared to some impossible; yet nothing is beyond the compass of the passions when unrestrained in their headlong career.

The feelings of the unfortunate Theodora were such as to beggar description. There she was obliged to stand and witness the accusation of her husband, brought by her means into this dreadful situation. But her dismay was doubly augmented when she observed the queen rise, and in a solemn manner, address the surrounding train.

"Christians," she said, "I bitterly deplore this melancholy event, which changes a day of triumph into one of sorrow. Governor of Granada," she then added, turning to Count de Tendilla, "to you I commit the person of Don Lope Gomez Arias, accused of treason to the state. See that he be safely guarded, though respectfully treated—and you, Don Lope, prepare to stand a trial for your life."

"For his life!" exclaimed Theodora with horror; and she fixed her imploring eyes on the queen.

Gomez Arias heard the decision of his sovereign with more indignation than fear, and in the bitterness of his soul, he said, turning to his adherents—

"My friends, be zealous to serve your country, for you perceive the recompense and encouragement which await you in a day of triumph."

"Don Lope," cried the queen with warmth, "charge not to your country what has been the effect of your unrestrained passions and imprudence; nor carry your insolence so far as to imagine and insinuate that I can wantonly sport with the life of the meanest of my subjects, much less with yours. You shall be judged by your peers, who will not neglect any extenuation in your favor, and it shall be only on irresistible evidence that the decree of justice shall be pronounced."

She then made a signal for the assembly to disperse, and every one retired in deep consternation. A deadly silence prevailed as they slowly left the hall, and to the joyful sounds of popular feeling which had lately been heard, now succeeded the murmurs of grief and astonishment.

As it was feared that the friends of Gomez Arias might be tempted to some rash act, proper precautions were taken, that the public tranquillity should not be disturbed. Mohabed and the other prisoners were confined in dungeons, and Monteblanco and his wretched daughter, by the desire of the queen, remained at the palace until the fate of Gomez Arias should be decided.

CHAPTER X.

A do el favor antiguo? a do la gloria
De mi pasado tiempo y venturoso?
A do tantos despojos y vitoria!
Herrera.

I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.
Shakespeare.

The fatal day of the trial arrived; the evidence was heard, the facts fully substantiated. Gomez Arias convicted of treason and condemned to lose his head on a scaffold! This sentence filled the inhabitants of Granada with indescribable horror. The man, who a few days before had been the theme of general admiration; he, who came victorious, borne on the wings of fortune to the highest pinnacle of honor, was now, by the same capricious turn of fate, shorn of all his dignity and splendor, and condemned to the horrors of an ignominious death. He, who had so long awakened the jealousy of the great, was now the object of general compassion.

Theodora had been schooled in affliction, and familiarized with suffering, yet when she was apprised of the result of the trial, many circumstances conspired to add to the intensity of her grief. She considered herself as the primary, though innocent cause of her husband's untimely fate; all his ingratitude and cruelty; all the treachery of which he had been guilty towards her, were now forgotten, and her vivid fancy, excited by the extent of the danger, now saw nothing but his brilliant qualities, and his untimely fate. Doubly dear was Gomez Arias to Theodora, when she perceived him on the brink of destruction. Hope, however, did not entirely forsake her, though the boding voice of grief, which floated on the air, soon dissolved so enchanting an illusion. If expectation had been great, the disappointment was now doubly terrible; the sentence had been pronounced, and the queen alone could mitigate its rigour by virtue of the royal prerogative. To this last hope Theodora clung with fond expectation; Isabella was humane and a woman; she had, it was true, acquired celebrity by the rigid and unimpeachable justice of her decisions, but could she send to the scaffold, a young and gallant nobleman, to whom she stood indebted for a brilliant victory, without infringing the sacred principles of that justice. She was a woman, and though heroic and high-minded, still nature must have planted in her bosom the genuine attributes of her sex. Pity, humanity, generosity, would stifle the sterner voice of duty, and she could not repel from her throne, the humble, yet noble supplicants for mercy; she would be deeply moved by the tears of one, whom but lately she had made a bride, and whom another word would make a widow. Besides, the application of many intimate friends, and many of the first families in the kingdom, could not be utterly disregarded by the queen, to whom their services had been so important.

These soothing ideas in some measure lulled Theodora's apprehensions, and she successfully combated the idea of losing him for ever. Unfortunate woman! soon she was doomed to learn the fallacy of her expectations! Several strong appeals had already been made to the queen; the first families of Granada had deeply interested themselves in favor of Gomez Arias, but all applications had met with a disheartening and absolute repulse. Nor indeed could the queen be taxed with ingratitude and cruelty, for she adduced powerful reasons in her answer to the supplicants, to prove her inability to comply with their request, without at the same time giving her subjects an example of unjustifiable partiality. A week had not elapsed, since six men had been executed in the Plaza de Bivarrambla, on account of the same offence for which Don Lope stood condemned. With this melancholy precedent, even the most sanguine in their expectations began to droop, and the death of Gomez Arias was looked upon as an inevitable misfortune.

Theodora heard the opinion generally entertained with a feeling of horror. In vain she cast herself at the feet of the queen, and there implored the royal clemency with all the fervid eloquence of grief; Isabella received her with tenderness, but allowed the wretched girl no room for hope: Theodora's feelings were wrought to the wildest paroxysm of anguish. She flung herself violently on the ground, and in all the poignancy of her affliction, prayed, fervently prayed for the life of her husband, the mere life, though by incurring banishment, she might be doomed to see him no more; the tears of the unfortunate bride fell profusely; her hands were franticly clasped, and trembled in the intensity of her emotion. It was a picture of distress unutterable. The queen beheld it with compassion—she was astonished at the sight of such affliction in one so injured as Theodora, but she could not remove her sorrows without a partiality in the administration of justice, which it had been the pride of her life to avoid.

Evidently distressed, she kindly bade Theodora rise, but with noble dignity she pronounced those memorable words:—

"As a woman, I might forgive a treason against love; as a queen, I can never forget one committed against my country."

The wretched Theodora was then ordered to retire, but she was unable to obey the mandate. She clung earnestly to the foot of the throne, fondly imagining that as long as she retained sight of Isabella, she could not lose every hope. Again she was invited to withdraw, the queen humanely wishing to spare her feelings another unnecessary shock, but the object of her solicitude was not conscious of the kindness of her motive. An officer of the governor now entering, proceeded to deliver a roll of paper into the hands of the queen. Isabella appeared suddenly agitated as she received the scroll, whilst a ray of horrible light glancing across the mind of the wretched supplicant—

"Oh, in mercy do not sign"—she franticly exclaimed. "In the name of heaven! not yet—do not sign!"

It was too late—the decree which condemned Gomez Arias was signed, and his unfortunate wife fell senseless to the ground.

In this melancholy state she was carried to her father, who, far from being able to afford consolation, was himself a prey to the bitterest woe.

Gloomily the day wore away, and the inhabitants of Granada beheld with horror the high scaffold which was already prepared at the Plaza de Bivarrambla. An universal mourning seemed to prevail throughout the city. Every one felt interested and shocked at the approaching execution, though no one dared to impugn the justice of the sentence, by virtue of which the noble culprit was about to suffer.

After the condemnation of Gomez Arias, a strong guard was placed at the mansion of Count de Tendilla, where he had been confined. He was treated with the utmost deference and regard, the queen having particularly commanded that every attention should be lavished on him; and indeed, until his death warrant was signed, the prisoner had been permitted a free intercourse with his friends and relatives. Thus his prison bore rather the resemblance of a levee of a person in power, than the visits of despairing friends to one in the last stage of mortality. All his friends and companions in arms had been assiduous in these mournful visits, and he appeared greatly pleased with this testimony of their regard. Indeed it was his pride which had brought Gomez Arias into this dreadful predicament, and he was thus highly gratified at the very general interest exhibited in his behalf.

It might be easily seen that he had not yet lost every hope; for to him it seemed impossible that the queen could ever be prevailed on to give her sanction to the sentence. He fondly recalled to his mind the high favor in which he had hitherto been held by Isabella—the different tokens of regard received from her royal hand—the many interviews and even familiar conversations with which he had been honored. To these pleasing recollections he added the intercessions of so many powerful advocates, all eager to solicit the royal clemency in his behalf. Thus, every thing conspired to buoy up the spirits of the prisoner, and to prolong an illusion from which he was soon to be rudely awakened. He was conversing in a tranquil, nay, lively manner, with two or three friends, when Count de Tendilla, followed by the official attendants, entered, and in a sad melancholy tone—

"Don Lope," he said, "I deeply lament the necessity to which I am reduced, of being the messenger of woeful tidings; but part of the pain I feel in such a disagreeable duty, is removed when I have to communicate it to such as Gomez Arias, who have fortitude and courage to know how to sustain misfortune."

"Proceed, Count," answered Don Lope, with a bitter smile, "let me know the worst, and I dare say I shall have that fortitude which you kindly suppose me—"

"Don Lope," solemnly said the Count, "your sentence is confirmed, and you must prepare for death."

"Death!" exclaimed Gomez Arias, with emotion, "death!" Then suddenly composing himself, he continued in an indignant tone:—"Well, I must confess that I am somewhat struck with your information, Count. Certainly, I was not prepared for so much—banishment and confiscation, I could have expected, but I see that I have most erroneously calculated on the favor of our Queen—her generosity, indeed, surpasses my most sanguine ideas."

Count de Tendilla, without seeming to understand this innuendo, proceeded—

"In consideration of your services, Don Lope, the Queen is willing to grant any request you may wish to make. It shall be most religiously observed."

"I am greatly beholden to the Queen," replied Gomez Arias, in the same bitter manner, "but upon my honor, I am already too much indebted to her Highness, and I should be loath to trespass on her indulgence."

"Don Lope," cried Tendilla, with warmth, "you wrong the Queen. At this very moment she deplores the necessity which compels her to sign your death warrant. Had there been any means, any honorable method to save you from your fate, she would eagerly have seized the opportunity. She would willingly forfeit the greatest treasure of her kingdom to save your life.—Yes, for your existence she would sacrifice all—all but her duty."

"And when," demanded Gomez Arias, "is this sentence to be carried into effect?"

"To-morrow;" replied the governor, "but should you like to profit by the favor, a respite of two days is granted."

"No," proudly returned Gomez Arias, "I should feel exceedingly mortified to disappoint the expectations of the public, who, no doubt, are by this time anxiously looking for the preparations of the approaching spectacle: no, let the ceremony take place to-morrow; I am ready." Then, turning to young Garcilaso, who had been his companion in the expedition against Mohabed—

"My young friend," he said, "you are a gallant and most promising soldier, but be careful how you use the favors of the ladies; for not all your services rendered to a queen will compensate the most trivial disregard offered to the woman; and above all, be cautious how you meddle with rings."

Count de Tendilla did not think proper to resent these remarks, for the present situation of Gomez Arias precluded the propriety of replying to the imprudent effusion of his irritated feelings.

"Don Lope," resumed the governor, "I will place your person under no unnecessary restraint, but you must pardon the disagreeable necessity to which my responsibility reduces me of stationing a guard within your apartment."

"The presence of soldiers, Count," replied Don Lope, "was never unpleasant to Gomez Arias; on the contrary, I shall feel particularly gratified; they will, perhaps, tend to dispel the cloud that hangs over my mind by recalling to memory my former glory; besides, they will acquire a new stimulus to serve their Queen by witnessing the encouraging reward she has in store for her servants."

He now folded his arms and began to pace the room with an affected indifference, but his inward feelings baffled even the powers of his superior mind. No man can feel calm and indifferent under such circumstances; it is against the principles of his nature; pride and a due sense of honorable feeling may help him to assume a dignified composure, or ferocity and callousness may adopt an insolent demeanor or a gloomy tranquillity; but real philosophic evenness of mind exists more in theory than in practice. Nevertheless Gomez Arias manifested no symptoms of weak regret, and his exclamations bespoke more his resentment against the queen than the dread of relinquishing life in the midst of a brilliant career. He now seemed to be absorbed in thought and the governor prepared to take his leave, when—

"Stay," he cried, "upon better reflection, perhaps it will be more respectful not to refuse the kind offer of my sovereign; I shall therefore make one request."

"Name it," said Tendilla, kindly; "it shall be granted."

"It is," resumed Don Lope, "that upon my way to the scaffold I may be allowed to head a party of my own gallant soldiers, mounted on my charger and attended with all military honors."

Count de Tendilla gave an involuntary start at so strange a demand, and looked steadfastly on Gomez Arias, as if doubting whether compliance might not be attended with danger. The request might involve the secret of some desperate act, or perhaps only bespoke the workings of a noble pride. However, the governor considered himself justified in granting the favor.

"Your wish shall be fulfilled," he said. "Whatever may be the feeling that prompts you, Don Lope, to make such a request, I and my own guard will likewise accompany you."

He delivered these words with great significancy of tone and manner, that Gomez Arias might be sure the governor was prepared, should there be aught in contemplation that might affect the public tranquillity.

"And now," resumed Tendilla, "I must bring you a visitor, Don Lope; one who earnestly wishes to take a last farewell."

"And who is that charitable being?" inquired Gomez Arias, carelessly; "for if I mistake not, all my friends and relatives have already fulfilled that duty."

"It is your lady," replied Tendilla, "the lovely and unfortunate Theodora."

Gomez Arias made a sign of impatient displeasure, and then, in a cold and constrained manner—

"I am sensible," he said, "of her kindness and self-devotion, but I cannot consent; no, I cannot, I will not see her; and I earnestly pray and hope she may no longer require an interview to which I have already given an absolute denial."

This was true. Gomez Arias had obstinately refused to see his once idolized Theodora, nor could all her prayers and entreaties, backed by the remonstrances of friends, prevail on him to alter so unkind a resolution. This determination might have sprung from a feeling of horror for the cause of his death, or of pity for the poignancy of her anguish: perhaps he wished to avoid a scene which was capable of producing nothing but terrible or melancholy recollections.

He evinced, however, no reluctance to see his man, Roque. The poor faithful creature anxiously desired to be admitted; for though the claims of his master to his gratitude were feeble, yet a lively sentiment of affliction and a degree of horror for having been, though unwillingly, one of the instruments to forward the catastrophe, made him desirous of throwing himself at the feet of Gomez Arias.

Tremblingly the poor valet entered, and as he beheld the noble figure of Don Lope standing composedly in the middle of the apartment, he could not refrain from tears.

"Oh! Don Lope," he cried, despondingly, "my dear and honored master, that it should come to this! That ever I should live to see the most gallant cavalier in Granada undergo such a sentence!"

He then threw himself at the feet of Gomez Arias, and clasping firmly both his knees, in a tone of keen anguish continued—

"Alas! my unfortunate master, I will not rise from the ground until you grant me full pardon for the share I have in your death. Heaven knows how unwillingly I have acted, and how sadly I repent the untoward circumstances which reduced me to that fearful alternative."

"Rise, my good Roque," said Gomez Arias. "I freely forgive thee, not only the melancholy necessity to which thou hast been compelled, but even all the other transgressions of which thou hast been guilty in my service, and I dare say they are not a few; however, as I am to undertake to-morrow so long a journey in which, I suppose, thou hast no inclination to bear me company——"

"Virgen de las Angustias," interrupted Roque, "how can you, SeÑor, speak of such dreadful things in so light a manner?"

"Now, Roque," replied Don Lope, "thou must be silent, at least at present, and allow me thy privilege for a time; listen with attention. It is high time to settle my accounts. I am thy debtor, Roque."

"Valgame Dios!" exclaimed the valet. "SeÑor Don Lope, why think of these matters at such a time?"

"The best of times," returned his master, "or you run a fair chance of not being paid at all."

"But I do not want to be paid," cried Roque, sobbing aloud. "I am sure you think too meanly of me, if you suppose I came here with such on intention."

"No, Roque, I well know thy fidelity, and I mean not to offend thee; but thou must not refuse the last bequest of thy master: here, take this," he said, delivering a large purse, which the valet could scarcely be prevailed upon to accept. "And here," he continued, taking a ring from his finger, "receive this as a token of remembrance," and as Roque hesitated to take it, he added, smiling, "Take it, for I can now give rings away without danger."

"Thank you, my good master, but have you no pledge of affection, no last remembrance for her?"

"Why," answered Gomez Arias, with affected levity, "she will never forget me. Besides I have nothing worthy of her acceptance—give her my best wishes, and beseech her to pardon me as freely as I forgive her."

Having said this, he wished to turn away, but Roque again interposed, and in a most doleful tone—

"Alack! Don Lope," he said, "remember what I told you at Guadix; my forebodings did not deceive me, for my prognostication has, unfortunately, been but too truly accomplished. Now, had you then—"

"Gently, my good fellow," interrupted Gomez Arias, "gently; this will never do; thou camest here in the humble mood of a sinner, to crave my forgiveness, and now thou hast relapsed into thy former calling by assuming the preacher. In goodness forbear, and leave that task to those who claim it in virtue of their office. And now, my faithful Roque, begone, for I feel drowsy, and an hour's sleep would not come amiss."

Saying this, he bade his servant kindly adieu, and retired to his closet, followed by two guards.

Roque was bewildered, for though he had already had several occasions of forming a just estimation of the character and temper of Gomez Arias, yet he could not comprehend how a man on the eve of death could resign himself to sleep with the ease and composure which his master evinced.

"Virgen Santa!" he ejaculated, "did ever man think of sleep at such a time? Why los siete durmientes[46] would have been at fault at such a pinch. He is going to sleep; the Lord help him! I am sure I cannot sleep; nay, I don't know whether I shall ever sleep again."

Saying this, poor Roque withdrew, weeping and wondering, and imploring the protection of all the saints in the calendar, for his unfortunate master.

CHAPTER XI.

VoilÀ le prÉcipice oÙ l'ont enfin jetÉ
Les attraits enchanteurs de la prospÉritÉ.
La Fontaine.

Oh di destino avverso
Fatal possanza! a mie tante sventure
CiÒ sol mancava.
Alfieri.

Forget! forgive!—I must indeed forget
When I forgive.
Southern.

Every hope was now extinct—the fatal morning arrived. Theodora, the hapless Theodora, against whom fate seemed to have exhausted all her malice, after a night of restless grief, had left her couch betimes, and in a gloomy reverie was sitting by the casement, her hands clasped together, and her eyes vacantly fixed on the moving groups below.

The door opened, and her father entered—the wretched man was in a most pitiable state.

"My child," he said, tenderly, "my dear child, you must leave this place."

"Never," cried the melancholy Theodora, "unless it is to be carried to the grave. Oh! my poor, my dear father, you will soon have to fulfil that last mournful duty towards your hapless child."

"Theodora, speak not thus; your words are daggers. We must submit to the will of Providence—raise your streaming eyes to that heaven, my beloved, and cherish the fond hope that this life of sorrow is to purchase an eternity of pure uninterrupted bliss. Throw yourself into the arms of religion, and your evils will appear lighter to bear."

"Yes, my father, now my only friend," replied Theodora, in a tumult of agony, "I will consider my misfortunes as a just atonement to offended heaven, for the ingratitude of which I have been guilty towards the best of parents."

"Heaven bless thee, Theodora," returned the affectionate father, "and restore to thee peace and tranquillity; and now grant me a request—you must away with me."

"But whither are we going?" demanded Theodora, "I cannot—I will not quit Granada until I see him laid in the ground. I am now his wife, and I shall religiously fulfil the duties of such a character, for cruel as he was," she added, mournfully, "to refuse me permission to see him when alive, he cannot prevent me from showing my attachment when he is dead."

"Theodora," said Monteblanco, "it is not my intention to take you away from Granada. I merely wish you to accompany me to the dwelling of our kinsman, Don Antonio de Leyva. He has repeatedly demanded to see you, but you have always denied his request. You surely cannot dislike him?"

"Father! father!" cried Theodora, in a tone of reproach and sadness; "why this eagerness to renew an intimacy with a man whom I have wronged? Think you that Theodora will be able to sustain his reproach?"

"No, Theodora, such thoughts are far from the minds of Don Antonio and your father. But the gallant young man lies prostrate on the bed of sickness. The wounds he received at the disastrous affair of the Sierra Bermeja, have reduced him to the last stage of debility. He has this very instant earnestly requested to see you; for he has something to announce which may affect the fate of us all."

Theodora answered not, but rising immediately, signified her readiness to obey, and supported by her father, she proceeded towards the residence of Don Antonio. Dismay and confusion reigned throughout the city. At every step Theodora met with some object to impress her forcibly with the dreariness of the fate which was at hand. Busily the moving groups were talking of the melancholy event. She beheld the troops that were collecting and marching about to insure the public tranquillity, and this testimony of the hopeless situation of her husband filled her bursting heart with new terrors. How dismally sounded the trumpets and clarions! And now the ponderous bell of the cathedral sent forth its reverberating tones, and it sounded like the summons of death to Theodora. It struck eight, and in two hours Gomez Arias would cease to exist. A chill seized on the very soul of Theodora, at each stroke of the dreadful monitor, and as if its terrors had not been sufficiently multiplied, a hundred different clocks, with their boding voices, repeated the same sad tale to the agonizing heart of the wretched girl.

Next came the sight of the ministers of religion hurrying about; sad heralds of mortality, in Christian charity, earnestly wishing to offer their prayers for the departing soul, or holding out the example of the approaching execution to the young and inexperienced.

Theodora shuddered at every object she saw—at every sound that struck her ear, and in this state she reached the mansion of Don Antonio de Leyva, which happily was situated at a short distance. She trembled with emotion as she found herself before young De Leyva, nor was her appearance productive of less astonishment to Don Antonio. They were both much altered—she by intense suffering—he by his wounds and lingering sickness. Don Antonio, extremely faint, was reclining on a couch, from which he attempted to rise when he saw his kinsman enter, but was prevented by Monteblanco. The countenance of the gallant young man seemed suddenly to brighten up.

"Theodora," he kindly said, "tremble not thus, for you are in the presence of a friend, a sincere friend; one who bitterly laments having, though unconsciously, been instrumental in your misfortunes. Alas! dear lady, had you placed more confidence in me, perchance so much misery had been prevented. However, this is no time for reproach; the moments speed swiftly away, and we have none to spare. Had you not at this moment arrived, weak and wounded as I am, I was about to be carried to your habitation, though the exertion had proved fatal to my recovery. Theodora, look upon me as a friend—as a dear valued friend, and receive the greatest proof a man can give of pure disinterested regard. Here," he then added, presenting a little casket to Theodora, "take this precious gage; look, it is the portrait of our Queen, given by her own royal hands, when fortune favoured my exertions in the last tournament. The bearer of this gift is entitled to claim any boon from Isabella. Dispatch—present her with this beauteous copy of herself. Reclaim the promise—demand the life of Gomez Arias—it will be granted."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Theodora, overpowered with emotion, "Can it be possible!" Then falling at the feet of young de Leyva—"Generous—generous Don Antonio; is this the way that you repay an injury?"

"I might," replied Don Antonio nobly, "satisfy the cravings of a paltry revenge, by leaving my rival to perish ignominiously, when I have it in my power to save him. But no; my heart shudders at such reprisals, and finds joy in contributing to the happiness of Theodora."

Struck with admiration at such noble and manly conduct, Theodora seized the hand of the high-minded Don Antonio, and would have imprinted on it a thousand kisses of gratitude, but he modestly prevented her, urging her to depart.

"My dear Theodora, begone; you have no time to lose. Think that the least delay may perhaps prove fatal."

These words acted like magic on the mind of Theodora. The thought of her husband's danger absorbed every other consideration. She rushed with impetuous alacrity towards the palace, pressing with convulsive firmness the valuable pledge on which all her hopes depended. Upon her arrival at the entrance, the guards, struck with the wildness of her manner, and sympathising with her misfortunes, expeditiously opened a passage, as she exclaimed almost incoherently, that she must see the queen.

Meantime the Plaza de Bivarrambla was thronged with a vast multitude, for the novelty and exemplary justice of such an execution had thrown the people into a ferment. It was long since a nobleman had suffered thus, and no instance occurred to their recollection of a conqueror stepping from the car of victory to the platform of a scaffold.

All lamented the fate of Gomez Arias, and yet most of the lower classes, amidst the feelings of pity, experienced a kind of satisfaction at the idea that so great a personage was doomed to suffer, as well as the meanest of their own class. In the middle of the Plaza rose a high scaffold, covered with costly black velvet, and most of the houses around were likewise draperied with mourning symbols of the sorrow of their owners. A strong body of veterans lined the square, whilst other detached parties of horse patrolled the neighbouring places to prevent any obstruction from the multitude. The hurry and agitation of the people now became extreme; but when at last the tremendous knell from the cathedral gave the mournful signal for Gomez Arias to set out for the goal of his mortal career, a simultaneous murmur of horror rose from the surrounding crowd. The dismal tolling of bells, accompanied at intervals by the sad and hollow strains of trumpets, announced that the procession was ready to move.

Gomez Arias had descended from his apartment perfectly composed. Indeed, no other feeling could be descried in his features but stern pride and resentment. He walked with a firm step towards the melancholy train that awaited him. But when about to mount his horse, he perceived the Countess de Tendilla bathed in tears, approaching to bid him farewell. He kindly thanked this lady for all the attentions he had experienced at her house during the time he had remained there, and having bidden her a last adieu, he bounded on his favorite charger. The spirited animal began to curvet and rear, as if proud of his burthen.

"Gently, gently, Babieca," said his master, caressing the noble steed: "be not impatient, for this is the last time thou wilt carry thy master."

He then looked around, and as he saw a party of his victorious troops, chosen for his escort according to his desire, all plunged in the deepest grief, in a soothing tone he bade them be of good cheer.

Don Lope being determined to set at defiance every appearance of despondency, had assumed an air of martial and dignified composure. His handsome figure never looked to greater advantage than at this disastrous moment; he was attired in a most sumptuous suit, while all the friends and relatives who accompanied him were habited in deep mourning. The procession moved slowly on amidst the confused murmur of the multitude, deeply lamenting the fate, and admiring the firmness of the hero of the dismal tragedy. He was attended by a crowd of the ministers of religion; but two friars of the order of St. Francis attached themselves more particularly to his person. The whole presented a most singularly contrasted scene; for in the same view appeared mingled all the panoplies of war, stirring the soul to martial deeds, and the solemn emblems of religion inviting the mind to abandon the pomp of the world, and turn its thoughts towards eternity. Warriors and priests, banners and crosses, moved promiscuously along, while the subdued blast of clarions united their strains to the deep-toned and gloomy cadences of the chaunting monks.

In this manner the procession reached at length the Plaza de Bivarrambla. At the sight of the scaffold, Gomez Arias gave an involuntary start, for he was unable to stifle the impression which the first view of that dreadful spot made on his mind. He soon, however, recovered his usual composure, and cast an inquiring and intense look on the assembled multitude. Sorrow and consternation were every where visible, but all was tranquil and quiet. The last lingering hope now vanished from the breast of Gomez Arias, and he seemed resigned to the fate that awaited him. The murmur of the multitude was hushed into a deadly silence. Don Lope dismounted, ascended the scaffold, and turning to his soldiers, he said—

"Farewell, my brave companions; this is the last expedition in which we shall meet; but in this, as well as in all the former, Gomez Arias will display the coolness and courage which becomes a soldier." He then with equal resolution was about to bare his neck for the fatal stroke, when a piercing scream was heard at a distance in the crowd. Presently a female form was seen flying towards the scaffold—

"A pardon! a pardon!" shouted various voices; and the multitude joyfully opened a passage to the unfortunate. She ran with frantic speed, until she arrived at length, exhausted, at the foot of the scaffold, exhibiting in the disorder of her person and the wild expression of her features, all the workings of terror, anxiety, and joy. Every one stood mute with astonishment when they beheld in this apparition the wretched Theodora, who flew up the steps of the scaffold, holding aloft in her trembling hand a paper; then throwing herself into the arms of her husband—

"Oh it is not too late," she cried eagerly; "I have brought your pardon. Here! here! You are safe—it is the Queen's signet."

Count de Tendilla took the paper from her hand, and read joyfully aloud the pardon of Gomez Arias. Theodora looked wildly around, her large beautiful eyes fraught with terror: she gazed upon the appalling scene, as though still fearful that the execution would not be suspended.

"Read! read!" she cried vehemently to Count de Tendilla: "it is the Queen's order. A messenger will soon arrive; but I am here first. I came to save my husband."

These few electric words were followed by a shout of tumultuous applause from the assembled throng.

The messenger indeed arrived. Theodora uttered a wild scream of joy, and her feelings, unable any longer to support the efforts she had made, overpowered her, and she fainted in the arms of Gomez Arias.

Even Gomez Arias, that man so hardened to all the tender pleadings of gratitude, was at length overcome. As he beheld her who had returned his coldness with affection, and repaid his cruelty with kindness—as he considered that miracle of love and goodness lying lifeless in his arms, a tear stood trembling in his eye—one solitary tear; but that testimonial of feeling in Gomez Arias was equivalent to years of sorrow in other men. He tenderly pressed Theodora to his heart, and the fond embrace seemed to recall her suspended animation. She opened her languid eyes and was happy; for she saw the object of all her care and affection now watching with tender solicitude her returning life.

"Oh Theodora," cried Don Lope, in a voice almost inarticulate with emotion, "I am unworthy of you. How can I ever atone for so many wrongs? This is indeed a noble vengeance."

The queen had ordered that Gomez Arias should be conducted to her presence, and accordingly, accompanied by the happy Theodora, he proceeded towards the palace, followed by the immense crowd, who rent the air with joyful acclamations.

When they arrived at the palace, they found the gracious Isabella seated in the large public hall, ready to receive them. Her countenance was radiant with delight in the consciousness of having been able to save Don Lope from an untimely end.

"Gomez Arias," she said, "your life is saved by the most fortunate, as it was the most unexpected of incidents. Nobles of Granada," she then added, turning to the surrounding court, "you cannot accuse your Queen of partiality in the distribution of justice. At the moment when Don Lope was approaching the end of his mortal career, this gage was brought to me and the guerdon claimed. It was a pledge of regard given to Don Antonio de Leyva for his conduct at the tournament, with my sacred promise that any boon should be granted to the bearer. Theodora produced it, and I could not resist her just appeal—my royal word had passed. Gomez Arias, you owe your life to the generous Don Antonio de Leyva and your wife. Let then your future life show that you are not insensible of the magnitude of the obligation. To yourself you owe nothing; for had it not been for this happy circumstance, by this time you would have been numbered with the dead. Go, and rejoice with your friends over your fortunate deliverance, and then I will receive you as becomes a victor."

A shout of unfeigned approbation burst from every one. Theodora seemed intoxicated with happiness. She looked on Gomez Arias, and in those features which had so successfully enraptured her young heart, again saw a display of tenderness to recompense her affection. All her sufferings were forgotten; the cup of misery had been drained, and happiness, boundless, uninterrupted happiness, was to be hers for ever. Gomez Arias, moved with kindly and generous feelings which had long been dormant in his heart, had as yet been unable to give utterance to his demonstrations of gratitude. He now disengaged himself from the hands of Theodora, moved forwards, and threw himself at the feet of the queen. Every eye was joyfully turned on him, when suddenly one of the friars, who had attended him at the scaffold, broke from the surrounding group. In his hand gleamed a poniard, and before any arm could arrest the blow, he buried the fatal weapon in the breast of Gomez Arias, who started on his feet, reeled, and fell at the foot of the throne. In an instant every thing was wild confusion. Theodora, with a piercing scream, threw herself beside her murdered husband, while several leaches hastened to the assistance of the fallen knight.

The queen alone seemed to preserve her presence of mind amidst the uproar that prevailed.

"Seize the assassin!" she exclaimed, and the guards immediately secured his person. He was one of the Franciscans who had accompanied Gomez Arias to the scaffold. He still held in his sinewy hand the ensanguined poniard, and with the savage laugh of a fiend exulted over his deed.

"Now, God be thanked!" exclaimed the leach who had examined the wound of Gomez Arias, "if my skill fail me not, the knight may yet live."

"Never!" cried the friar, in a voice that chilled the reviving hopes of every one; "Never! your skill is vain—the dagger is poisoned."

A shudder of horror ran through the court.

"Man of darkness," exclaimed Count de Tendilla, "fiend under the holy garb of religion, what could prompt thee to such a crime? But a short time since I saw thee attend thy victim to administer to him hope and consolation."

"Yes," replied the friar, grimly, "yes, I did accompany him to the stage of his despair and my glory: yes, I was beside my victim, like the vulture watching for the moment to lacerate his heart. But I went not to whisper hope into his dying ear, or to bid him rely on the mercies of Heaven; no, it was to speak the words of horror; to bid him despair, and point the way to that hell whither soon I was to follow him. My soul was drunk with joy; my heart was wild with happiness: gladly would I purchase with a whole existence of misery and crime those few rapturous moments when I could watch the dreadful workings of his mind, as the last peal of my ominous voice rung in his ear, ere his soul took its flight from this world."

"Peace, wretch!" exclaimed the queen. "Leave thy blasphemy; tremble for the profanation of thy sacred calling; tremble for the punishment which awaits thy crime."

"I tremble at nought," sternly replied the assassin. "No canting friar am I; no preaching monk; but a man deeply wronged, and now amply revenged. Look on me," he continued in a wild tone, throwing off his disguise, "I am Bermudo, the renegade!"

Every one shrunk back with instinctive horror at the well known name; but the consternation increased, when in the person of the apostate was recognised the Moor who had played so principal a part in the condemnation of Gomez Arias.

"Look on me," proceeded the renegade; "look on me, Gomez Arias; behold the man by you condemned to misery and shame—I am Bermudo the outcast, the maddened lover of the unfortunate Anselma. Call back, Don Lope, the powers of thy fleeting soul, and fix its fading recollection on thy crimes and my misfortunes: remember Anselma—remember her frightful fate—your wrongs to me—the despair to which I was driven. But for thee, proud man, I might have been a hero, and for thee I am a traitor and a renegade. But, oh! now thou art laid low—no, not even princely fortune and favour could save thee from the hand of a desperate man. Die, then, die in despair: it is in the hour of rapturous happiness that the blow is struck, and think with agony that it is struck by Bermudo.—Anselma, thou art revenged!"

A wild and savage laugh closed this apostrophe, and the renegade stood calmly gazing on his victim with an expression of ferocious joy: his dark features seemed to brighten in the glare of infernal revenge, and his strong frame shook with the rapture of the fiend that inspired him.

Meantime, Gomez Arias was rapidly approaching his end; the blood flowed thick and heavy through his veins, and the film of death was fast dimming his sight: still his noble features shewed no symptoms of unmanly emotion; but fixing his dying eyes upon the renegade, in a firm tone he said—

"Bermudo, thy hellish desire is but partially fulfilled; I die not in despair; despair is the attribute of cowards, not of Gomez Arias: I feel thy poison burning in my veins, yet my soul takes its flight with calmness. Wretched man," he then added, "may God forgive thee as I do: and thou, dear and last object of my solicitude," he said, faintly addressing himself to the disconsolate Theodora, who, in a paroxysm of agony, was kneeling beside him, "Theodora, injured and unfortunate girl, too late I appreciate thy value; too late I deplore my fault. Oh! if I regret existence, it is because I cannot live to prove my love and gratitude. Forgive me, Theodora! forgive the repentant Gomez Arias!"

His dim eyes were cast tenderly on her despairing countenance, and pressing gently her clammy hand, he breathed his last.

The piercing cries and lamentations of Theodora deeply affected the spectators of this tragic scene: she tore her flowing tresses, and falling on the bleeding corpse, in a wild incoherent tone poured forth her anguish. The renegade himself appeared somewhat moved at the exhibition of her frantic sorrow. The darksome deed was done; his enemy was dead, and Bermudo seemed no longer to live in this world; stupor and apathy were overshadowing his countenance, for the principle that fed his life was now no more.

The soldiers were about to move away with the prisoner, when a minister of religion addressed him:—

"Sinner," he cried, "behold your deadly crime and repent; repent ere 'tis too late; thy mortal career is short; employ it, then, in calming the offended justice of heaven."

"Friar," said firmly the renegade, "my conscience is seared; my soul has no longer sympathy with human feelings; I cannot, will not now repent me of a deed which has been the sole object of my existence. Lead me to torture, and when ye tear this flesh, and suffering nature is unable to sustain the racking pangs, then, even then, my eyes, faithful interpreters of my soul, will tell you I shrink not from my fate; the poniard that struck my foe I might have plunged in this breast, but I disdained to evade the recompense of my deed. Lead me to torture, but mock me not with words of penitence."

"Oh horror! art thou a man and speakest thus!" exclaimed the priest.

"I was a man; I know not what I am; let me return to my kindred clay, and hide from the face of the earth the monster at which ye shudder."

He ceased, and his features stiffened into a horrid tranquillity more appalling to behold than his wildest ebullition of passion. One last savage look he cast on his prostrate enemy, and then, with a firm step, he walked away to meet the punishment due to his crimes.

The wretched Theodora could not be torn from the mortal bleeding remains of her adored Gomez Arias, until the paroxysm of her grief was succeeded by insensibility. In this melancholy state she was borne from the fatal spot, while sorrow and compassion swelled the hearts of every one who had witnessed the events of that disastrous day!

CONCLUSION.

La douleur lentement m'entr'ouve le tombeau,
Salut mon dernier jour! sois mon jour le plus beau!
Lamartine.

Three months had now elapsed since the death of Gomez Arias, and the people of Granada were again rejoicing in the success of the Christian arms. The insurrection of the Moors was now completely quelled; the wise and prudent conduct of the queen had saved the country from the horrors attendant on a fanatical war. The individuals admitted to the counsels of Isabella were in general men of enlightened understanding and philanthropic dispositions, and though some few voices, swayed by fanatical zeal and religious intolerance, opposed themselves to liberal measures, yet, happily for Spain and honorably for her ministers, their objections were over-ruled, and the more beneficial and milder course adopted. A full pardon was proclaimed to the rebels. Moreover it was promised that they should enjoy the same privileges as the Spaniards, and that no compulsory measures should be adopted to make them embrace the tenets of the Christian religion. Free permission was given to every Moor who should prefer passing over to Africa, to remove unmolested, and with full security to his family and property.

These judicious resolutions answered the desired effect. The Moors joyfully accepted the offers of the queen, and the greatest part of them came immediately to lay down their arms at the feet of the Alcayde de los Donceles, and other chiefs who still were carrying on the war. However, some Moors of the higher rank, who refused to subject themselves to the Christian government, retired into Africa, and amongst this number we must count the magnanimous El Feri de Benastepar; for, as no account was received of his death, it was supposed he had abandoned the country.

Thus peace was at length restored, and the city of Granada became again the center of gaiety and happiness, and this was not a little enhanced by the anticipation of the union of Leonor de Aguilar with the gallant Don Antonio de Leyva: the nuptials being only delayed until a due allowance of time had been devoted to the memory of the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar.

Meantime Don Manuel de Monteblanco and his unfortunate daughter had retired to their mansion at Guadix. Shortly after the mortal remains of Gomez Arias had been consigned to the earth, Don Manuel prevailed on his unhappy daughter to abandon a city fraught with such dreadful associations. Theodora submissively obeyed the desires of her solicitous and kind parent, but alas! the sorrow that slowly consumed her heart was not to be removed by change of place: the lovely victim carried within her the deadly poison that was to consign her to an early grave. Theodora became the prey of a deep-rooted melancholy. The kind attention of friends, the tender expostulation of her father, might momentarily withdraw her mind from the subject of her constant meditations; tokens of regard, and the soft caresses of pity might elicit a transient smile; but soon, alas! her mind would revert to its mournful occupation; soon her smile would give way to sadness.

During the day, she wandered about the large mansion like a restless spirit whose duties in life are fulfilled, and who longs to take its flight. Sometimes she took her lute, and in wild and plaintive voice she would sing those romances which Gomez Arias had loved to hear. Then she would ramble through the garden, and visit those spots endeared by the recollection of her love. Sometimes, too, in the stillness of night, a most piercing scream would issue from her chamber, and arouse the unfortunate Monteblanco from his couch, to hush the fevered imagination of his daughter, continually haunted by the image of the murdered Gomez Arias.

Day after day the disconsolate father watched the progress of the malady. Gradually Theodora was wasting in form, and her intellectual powers seemed to share in the wreck of her outward appearance. Nothing could disturb the gloomy monotony of her thoughts. Musing tranquilly, she would pass the hour, and oft in the night when the moon beams fell on the garden, she would be seen gliding along its paths like some fleeting phantom.

In this melancholy state Theodora had continued during some time, when one morning Monteblanco was agreeably surprised to see his child in unusually good spirits. The gloom which sat habitually on her brow had vanished, and a placid smile played upon her lips. Joyfully the venerable parent beheld the welcome change, and anxiously he wished to improve those favorable symptoms of returning health. Theodora told her father that she had dreamed in the night an awful dream. She had seen her husband, not as heretofore, in the fearful scenes of his desertion and death, but his eyes beaming with a heavenly light, bidding her be happy, as he was happy and blessed.

It was the anniversary of the day on which Theodora had left her home. Night came, and Monteblanco saw not his daughter by his side. He waited impatiently for some time, and then repaired to the garden, for he knew Theodora delighted in rambling there.

The faithful Roque, who since the death of his master had attached himself to the service of Monteblanco, took a torch, and accompanied the old cavalier to the garden. Don Manuel called aloud upon his daughter, but his voice was only answered by the sad echoes of the place. He became alarmed, and hastily proceeded to the bower: there he descried Theodora lying on the marble seat, apparently asleep. He approached her, and affectionately chid her for her absence.

"Awake, child, awake," he cried; "surely your delicate health will be injured by the chilling air of night."

He gently raised her arm.

"Roque, bring closer that torch."

Roque obeyed—Theodora indeed slept, but it was the sleep of death.

Struck with consternation, the wretched old man clasped the lifeless body in his arms, and called eagerly on his child by the most endearing of names. Alas! it was too late: the spark of life had fled for ever, and the dull glare of the torch that fell upon her countenance soon confirmed the mournful truth. Pale and bloodless was her cheek, and cold were those beauteous limbs. The angel of death had spread his sable pinions over her dewy brow, and closed her eyes in eternal sleep. The despairing father now strove to raise his daughter in his arms, when something fell from her nerveless grasp. Roque immediately took it up—he gave a start, and uttered a most piteous moan, as he presented the object to Don Manuel. It was the portrait of Gomez Arias. That melancholy testimonial told that the heavenly spirit had lately taken its flight, for it was yet moist with her tears, the last effort of her departing soul—the last sad evidence of a woman's love.

Non come fiamma, che per forza È spenta,
Ma che per se medesma si consuma,
Se n'andÒ in pace l'anima contenta.
Petrarca.

THE END.

GUNNELL AND SHEARMAN, PRINTERS, SALISBURY SQUARE.

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