  For a time Pedro’s movements were as erratic as his stormy temper. Insurrection here, robbers there, required his attention; but at last he sought a season of repose at the Alcazar of Seville. He reclined, one sunny afternoon, in the verandah of the palace, while Maria de Padilla had left him for an hour to enjoy her accustomed siesta. He seemed thoughtful and uneasy; Blanche’s image seemed to contend with Maria’s in his thoughts, and conscience was not entirely at rest. His mood was interrupted by the entrance of a tall and graceful knight, who, with a low obeisance, delivered to him a small missive, and then abruptly retired. Pedro tore open the sealed silk covering, and opening the letter, read the following words: “My King and Husband,—Were I not thy wife, I should not strive to call thee back. The wild and fickle falcon might rejoice in freedom. But now it is my duty, as it is my happiness, to be with thee in peace and storm, and therefore, by the right our God hath vested in me, do I claim that thou allow me to rejoin thee. What love can live without that heavenly union in the soul which makes us one? What sensual pleasure can bring peace to the o’er-tasked and troubled life of royalty. The sympathy of heart with heart, alone can feed the cravings of the spirit, and bring a joy which Heaven sanctions. Pedro, for thy own sake as for mine, I pray that thou be with me soon. “Blanche.” The trembling hand, the variable brow, but slightly indicated the tempest of the soul. Vague and uncertain were his musings and intentions as Maria entered the verandah. Smiling, she took the letter from his hand, which mechanically yielded it to hers; but her smile fled as she read it, and saw the expression of his face. She handed the letter back, but threw her arms around the irresolute lover. “And thou wouldst leave me, Pedro,” she said, in a low, deep tone, so plaintive in its modulation, that the tears almost reached his eyes, unused though they were to such a visitation. “Thou wouldst leave me,” she repeated; “but canst thou forget? Oh! not to the hours of dalliance, not to the day when words of love thrilled to our hearts with unearthly power, do I call thy memory now; but to those darker hours when adversity broke in a thousand waves; when death awaited his victim, and hope seemed shrouded in the pall of despair. Whose sympathy consoled thee then? Whose hand wrestled through many fearful trials with the dark destroyer? Whose heart grew cold with thine beneath that awful pall? “Pedro!” she exclaimed with a wild energy, while the mournful shadow of her eyes gave place to a brighter glow, for even that appeal was ineffectual. “Pedro! if thou wilt go, go freely; but remember that her heart has not yet learned as mine has, to find its life in thine. If I had ever proved myself less than a part of thee, thy true and real wife, thou mightest now hesitate; but canst thou say that I have ever let my own hopes, fears, or projects be apart from thine? My life is thine. Wilt thou tear me from thy heart? ’Tis thy own eye thou blindest, and thy own tongue thou pluckest out.” She stood before him, stately and magnificent; he quailed before the fearful majesty which crowned that brow with regal power; the kindling fire which dwelt in those dark, glowing orbs beneath, seemed to gleam with supernatural light upon the very inmost motives of his soul. His eyes met hers with a clear firm gaze. “It is over,” he said. “When honor hath two calls love shall be the arbiter.” —— |
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