Who are these houseless men, lying about amongst jagged rocks, laughing gaily, card-playing and drinking—the setting sun lighting up the place with a red glare, and bathing their brown faces crimson?

The sun writes the truth upon their faces; they are men of blood—lawless, houseless plunderers; singing, laughing, card-playing—waiting for the night, and for their captain, that they may begin their work.

They keep a sharp look-out about them though, and at last, start to their feet with a great noise, as a young handsome man comes suddenly in.

He seems to have nothing in common with these men, for he is elegantly dressed, and looks every inch a cavalier. His face is not ferocious; and yet—yes, they have saluted him as captain, and he waves his hat in courteous reply.

Not a thief by birth! O no! this man really is John of Arragon, the son and heir of the Duke of Segovia and Cordova, killed to please the will of King Carlos of Castille. The son narrowly escaped the same fate, but fortune favored him. He reached the Sierras, which, like all mountains, offered the fugitive safe shelter. Hundreds upon hundreds flocked to his standard, and John of Arragon changed his name to “Ernani.” But he dwelt not so far away from his old life, as not to be able to see the Moorish castle of Don Ruy Gomez di Silva. Nor was it for the sake of Don Ruy he kept the castle ever in view. The don had a ward, Elvira, who had held out a hand to save Ernani when the blood-king was tracking him; and for this generous act she had gained his love, giving, however, her own in exchange.

The face of the chief is sad. Would that his men could bear his grief for him, and they would willingly stand between him and death.

“Thank you, brothers—thank you,” replied the chief, as he leapt down amongst them; “but my woe is so deep that even your cheering voices cannot drive it away.”

“The chief, then, is in love—”

“And likely to lose his love, brothers, if you will not help him.”

“Help! Yes—yes—yes.”

“See you that castle there, below us, with the red sun full on it. She lives there—she lives there! If you love your chief, you will help him to bring her here—here to the mountains.”

“Yes—yes—yes!” replied a hundred voices.

“She would follow me anywhere; she will love the mountains for my sake. You will help me!”

“Yes—yes—yes.”

“Then let the night be our friend; when darkness has come we will storm the castle, and then she is amongst us.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

And while the noble chief was waiting for nightfall, the lady whom he loved was looking from a window of the old castle towards the mountains, amongst which she knew Ernani dwelt.

A real Spanish lady was Elvira, as could be seen, had anybody been able to spy her at the window. But, alas! no one could, for Don Ruy, her guardian, hid her as a jewel which he feared might be stolen. He was seventy, she was seventeen; his hair was grey, hers was black, and yet he had determined that she should marry him.

As she sat at the window, watching the sun go down, she was at least at peace, for the grandee was away from the castle. And so she sat pensive, and dreaming of Ernani, perhaps, hoping he would come and carry her off. At last it was night time, and still the don had not returned.

Suddenly the door of the quiet room opened, and a procession entered; gay in itself, but of ominous import to the lady at the window—a string of young maidens bearing rich gifts, marriage gifts; for, truth to tell, the old don had resolved that his marriage with Elvira should take place on the following day. Listen what they say to her.

“How many Spanish maidens envy thee, fair lady. Thou wilt be the highest lady in all the land. These gifts alone are a mine of wealth. To-morrow thou wilt be a bride.”

“I thank you; but the dazzle of diamonds will not lighten hate into love.” And she again thought, “I would Ernani were here, and that he would fly with me.”

Hardly had they, the present bearers, left the room, than she turned quickly at the sound of a cautious footstep—she thought it was that of Ernani. But no; another had learnt, the secret entrance her bandit lover used. Another, who had watched and seen Ernani enter. Not a mean man this. A king—a KING! Don Carlos, King of Castille. She saw her error, shrunk back, and cried out:—

“Sire, you here, at this hour!”

“I love thee, lady, at all hours.”

“Ah, no—sire.”

“Nay, lady, a king is never told he lies.”

“I pray you, leave me.”

“I will leave with thee, lady.”

“With me!”

“Ah, if I were Ernani thou wouldst not start thus. Come, thou canst not know the wealth of love I have for thee.”

“And my honor, sire?”

“Thou shalt be honored by all the court.”

“And by myself, think you!”

“Thou wouldst sooner be honored by Ernani’s out-laws—thou lovest the robber.”

“Sire, each heart has its own secret.”

“And I, have not I mine? Ah, Elvira, from the moment I first saw thee I have loved thee. I love thee for thyself, as I would have thee, lady, e’en love me. But—but if a crown will earn me smiles from thee, I offer you the half of that I wear.”

“With thy crown thy love is too high for me, without it, ’tis too low.”

“Thou shalt fall.”

“A king—never forget you are a king!”

“I forget I am a king when I am at your feet.”

He ran towards her, as her eyes flashed defiance upon him; but the next moment he drew back, for she had snatched a jewelled dagger from his girdle.

“Stand back!”

“You see I do stand back, fair lady. But there are more hands here than mine to pluck the dagger from your grasp.”

Suddenly he perceived a great joy flush her fair cheeks. At the same instant he heard a footstep behind him, and turning round, he saw a man, a handsome, daring-looking man, whom he was sure, seeing the lady’s joy, was none other than Ernani, looking on him defiantly, with hate and anger! Ernani, who had entered the castle by a secret door—who was there to bear away the lady—who had come to save her from yet further misery.

“Thou art Ernani—I know it by the hate I feel sparkling in my eyes. Hate! Does the eagle hate the worm? No, he despises it. Rejoice—scourge of a peaceful country! Let thy meanness comfort thee. Wert thou greater, I would raise my hand to thy destruction. I have but to call, and thou art lost.”

“Thou knowest me and fearest me. I am so mean that thou hast robbed me of my fame;—so mean, that thou hast taken from me my wealth;—so contemptible, that thou hast slain my father! And now thou would’st rob me of my bride. What difference is there between us? Thou, noblest, with a crown on thy head and without risk of life—I risk my life to rob where I have been robbed. What difference is there between us? Cowardice! Now—let us be equal. Defend thyself.”

“Hark! some one is approaching,” cried Elvira, in an agony of fear—“forget your quarrel, at least for a little while,—if you are found here I am lost. So, please you, forget your hates, and leave me.”

Still, the two men moved not—still the footsteps nearer drew.

“If you love me, both of you—either of you—leave me—leave this place! Too late—too late!”

For at this moment the door was thrown open, and on the threshold stood the master of the castle—the Don Ruy—his attendants behind him—witnesses to his dishonor.

“Do I breathe?—here, in the sanctity of my house—to find two men quarreling—as though disputing for some poor booty!”

He was a grand old gentleman, with hair as white as honor. But his age had not brought him humility. He was as proud as he was grand, and as merciless as he was proud. Turning to his court—for this grandee retained a court—he continued: “You, Senors, witness this fall of mine! This woman whom I loved, but till now I thought as pure as the moonlight streaming on her through the window. As for these men—my hands are weak, but one can bear a sword—the other a shield. Yet not here within my house shall blood be spilt. Go, pass before me.”

The last few words were addressed to the king and Ernani, and then for the first time he looked upon them—but the light was too feeble for him to recognize even one of them.

“Gently—gently,” said one of these two. But the don cried out haughtily. “None but myself had right to speak.”

Suddenly, high and loud in the air, sounded a herald’s trumpet.

And, within a moment or so, it was whispered among the crowd, still without the door, that it was a king’s messenger.

A lane was made for him by Don Ruy—who turned to the herald, imagining that he came to him. Following the herald came torch-bearers.

On came the herald. He did not salute the master of the castle—he did not even look at him. On past him, past one of the men found in the lady’s room—past the lady even—up to the second intruder, before whom he knelt.

“The King,” cried many, as the herald knelt, and above him stood, now in the full light of the torches, the brave man who bore a dagger sheath, but not a dagger.

Then said the king, “Don Ruy, I came to consult thy friendship for me.”

See! The proud Don Ruy has stooped his head; then he steps forward, and humbly welcomes to his house “the king.”

As they crowd about the king—as the latter receives their homage—the robber Ernani and the lady were forgotten, and they stood apart, whispering—

See, now, the proud noble stoops to kneel before the outraged king, and entreats his pardon. And, graciously, the king accords it.

Hark! the king demands a safe pass for Ernani. He still thinks the eagle should not injure the worm. See, the bandit passes away, out to freedom. The king is gracious, the don trembles, and the Lady Elvira is presented to the king in due form and courtesy.

Part II.—The Guest.

With the next day’s sun came Elvira’s marriage day. No hope of flight—fate was against her, and so her envious women dress her for the sacrifice.

The great hall of the castle is filling with lords and ladies, retainers and vassals. There is a sudden stir—’tis the entrance of the duke, dressed grandly, and wearing all his orders. He walks gravely to his grandee’s chair, and sits down as the crowd do homage.

In those days—four hundred years ago—it was the custom to give shelter to any pilgrim who should demand it. Hence scarcely a day passed without “the castle” containing many guests of this sort.

The don had hardly sat down when a servant approached and said that a pilgrim was at the gate, craving hospitality.

Gravely and readily was given the order to let the pilgrim enter. The next moment a tall, upright man, dressed in the pilgrim’s loose sombre dress, came forward and up to the don as he sat in state.

“I greet thee, noble knight.”

“Good pilgrim, be at ease. Nor whence thou comest, nor who thou art, we do not ask. Be welcome for this day and night. My hospitality I promise thee.”

“The deepest thanks I have are thine!”

“We do not ask for thanks—the guest is as the lord. But stand aside, good pilgrim.” And the don rose and walked quickly to the door to meet a lady dressed in bridal garments.

“My bride,” he murmured.

“His bride,” said the pilgrim, throwing his cowl from his head a little, so that those who had chosen to look might have seen a handsome, brave face within it. “His bride.”

“Senor—as well as others, a poor pilgrim should offer thee a marriage gift—I offer one of price—my head. Let no one fear—I will no resistance offer—I am Ernani!”

“He lives—he lives,” said the bride to herself.

The don’s face contracted angrily as he saw the pilgrim standing—his gown flung off—fearless among them.

“Deliver me to the king—a price is on my head. Hark! they have tracked me even here. I hear the horsemen near the castle gate. Deliver me, and thou shalt gain a high sum for my head!”

In those old times a brutal ferocity was atoned for by a kind of honor of which, in these degenerate days, we have but slight idea. Above all, the promise of hospitality was sacred, and to keep it inviolate the accorder would run all risk and dangers. When life was so unhesitatingly taken, perhaps this sacredness of hospitality was the only means whereby men lived in society. But for it each man would have kept to his own home as a wild beast does to its lair, and no more have trusted himself in his neighbor’s stronghold than that same beast would besiege another’s den.

Hence the don, having promised to give hospitality to the pilgrim without conditions—awarding it to him no matter whence he came, or who he was, he was bound to save this guest from his pursuers, even though they were the royal troops themselves.

So far this man whom he abhorred—whom he recognized as the intruder of the night before—for this man the very marriage was stayed, and he, the grandee, left his hall for his ramparts. And soon there was heard the clicking of the lowering portcullis, and the raising of the drawbridge.

As he left the great hall the gentlemen followed him; and the only man left in the room was the false pilgrim, standing in the midst of the frightened women.

Their chief, the Donna Elvira, motioned them away, and soon she stood alone with the robber.

“Ernani—Ernani—they told me thou wert dead!”

“And thou didst believe them.”

“Yet I hoped—I would have hoped even to the altar.”

“And then—then thou wouldst have sworn to love Don Ruy.”

For all answer she showed him the dagger she had wrested from the king. So, she would have hoped till living death were forced upon her, and then she would have welcomed death itself.

“The king—the king!”

Again the cry was heard, “The king was at the gate.” The king demanded that it should bow to him, and again the clicking sound was heard as the bridge was lowered before the king.

But ere the king reached the great hall, the lady and the robber had left it. The don returning, discovered them together.

Again, despairingly, the robber offered his life, but the don was inflexible; hospitality he had promised, and hospitality he would grant. True, the very necessity of this hospitality would nerve his hand to greater vengeance when the time came. But now his guest’s life was as his own; so the trembling Elvira saw the don open a secret sliding door, and her lover was safe.

“Begone to thy rooms, Elvira—the king—the king.”

No second bidding needed she. And when Carlos came proudly into the great hall he found there only the grandee, humbly bowing.

“Fair cousin, why in arms, we are not at war? You bow—enough. Let it be known there is but one king of Castille. When his sword is in its sheath all swords must sleep.”

“Your Majesty can never think a Silva dreams rebellion.”

“Prove yourself loyal. The chief of the rebels has sought refuge here in your castle. His men destroyed, he seeks to save himself by your protection. Deliver him!”

“If the king will hear his subject. A pilgrim came and entreated hospitality, which I promised. The loyalty I bear the king will not allow me to betray his subject.”

“Thou wouldst lose thy head, fair cousin.”

“Rather than mine honor.”

The king turned and gave some orders to the gentlemen about him. Then again his eyes were upon the door. “Thy head or his, my lord?”

“Mine own.”

Yet a little, and the gentlemen of the king’s suite returned, saying the royal troops had searched the castle through and could not find the rebel.

“Thy head, I say.”

But as he spoke, the king’s eyes turned from the grandee, and rested upon the Donna Elvira, coming towards him with hands clasped, and white open lips.

“Mercy—mercy—king!”

“Mercy, fair lady! Thou art mercy’s self, and even kings must here obey. But thou shalt be the don’s best hostage for his loyalty.”

“Nay! my king. Is there no other hostage for a loyalty yet unshaken? She is my only hope, my only joy. I have loved her from her very birth. My king, thou wilt—thou wilt not take her from me?”

“Then Ernani. One or the other.”

“Nay, I am steadfast in my loyalty. Therefore—please you, my king—take her—my hope, my life.”

“Come, lady,” said the king, seizing the hand of the luckless lady. “Come, I’ll strew thy path with flowers. Time shall bring thee no heavy hours. Rather let smiles be where now are tears and whitened cheeks. Come, come.”

So with his prey the Christian king departed, leaving the old lord bent and wretched with grief.

But not for long—not for long. Now, his eyes sparkled, for hate was there. His head was erect again, and his breath came and went in short angry catches. He ran to the secret door, and as though calling to a dog, he bade the robber chief come forth.

As Ernani stepped into the room, the grandee ran to the wall, and took down a couple of swords.

“Now, robber, doubly robber, vengeance is mine.”

“What! will a grandee fight with a poor bandit?”

“At least, thou wast born noble, even if now thou art vile. Follow me!”

“No, no.”

“What—has all nobility left thee?”

“I am still too noble to fight with age, Senor.”

“See—is my hand firm?”

“Again, thou hast saved my life!”

“That I might take it from thee.”

“Ah, well! Kill me, thou hast the right, perhaps.”

“Kill thee.” And the old lord raised his sword as though a rat were before him.

“Kill, kill. Yet hear a prayer of mine.”

“Prayers are for heaven, not man.”

“’Tis a prayer to man—to thee.”

“Speak on.”

“But once again, but once again, let me see Elvira.”

“If thou wouldst see her, thou must travel. The king has torn her from me.”

“The king, the King! Old man, the king loves Elvira.”

“Loves—loves Elvira! The king loves Elvira! Vassals, vassals,” he weakly called as he staggered to a seat.

“Nay, call me vassal, and the strength of this strong heart and arm is thine.”

“Stand from me. Aid from thee—from thee! Thou who art doomed to die.”

“My life is thine. I know my life is thine. At any time my life is thine. But let me live to hate where now thou hatest so strongly.”

“Thy life at any time is mine. True. Well, wilt thou promise me thy life at any time I ask it?”

The other hesitated for a moment. Then took from his side his hunting-horn, and placed it in the unwilling hands of the old lord.

“Upon what dost swear that oath?”

“The memory of my murdered father.”

“So be it. Let heaven’s darkness fall on thee if thou dost break thy word.”

Part III.—The Pardon.

Charles the Fifth was not unforgiving, not even inclined to be harsh; and no one ever disputed his bravery. When he was intriguing for his election as emperor—the election which made him the great emperor, Charles the Fifth—Castille was full of plots to oppose his plans, nay, to take his life; and at the head of these conspiracies was Ernani and Don Ruy.

On the very night when the electors were to assemble to decide on the choice of an emperor, the king heard that this most formidable band of conspirators, formidable because its members were moved by personal hate, were to meet in the subterraneous catacombs of Aquisgrana, the royal open burying-place.

The king fearlessly determined to be present at this traitorous assembly, and to crush it at its work. Soldiers were posted about the cavern; the king himself remained concealed in the tomb of one of his ancestors, and the hour of the meeting was close at hand. The king had given orders that if he were elected emperor, cannon should roar from the castle-walls, and that thereupon the lords of the court should present themselves at the cavern, that they might see how a great king treated rebels and traitors. Charles also commanded that the Donna Elvira should be conducted to the gloomy spot.

As the conspirators slowly gathered in the wide central space of the catacombs, no sounds were heard but those they themselves made.

Creeping—creeping guiltily, they came, and stood in a whispering throng. Then came the casting for a regicide: he on whom the lot fell was to slay the king.

There was a little rustling of papers, and then one slip was taken from the heap, brought quickly to the light of a lantern, and the name upon it read.

“Ernani!”

“My father—my father! I will avenge thee!”

“Ernani, thou knowest my voice?”

“Surely, thou art Don Ruy.”

“I am Don Ruy. I am the master of thy life; yield me the privilege you hold.”

“No, no.”

“Think! thou mayst fail, and thou wouldst then surely die; yield me the task?”

“No, no. And mightest not thou also fail?”

“See, here is thy horn! I will give it thee back, if thou wilt let me strike this guilty man.”

“No.”

“What! can I not kill thee by a note on this same horn?”

“I care not; chance hath given me the order, I will not barter it.”

“Then fear me, Ernani.”

Suddenly boomed over their heads the loud sound of triumphant artillery. Victory! victory! Charles of Castille was the Emperor Charles the Fifth.

As the sound roared forth, the emperor strode from his concealment, and the soldiery coming quickly forward, behold the conspirators were prisoners.

Again the cannon burst forth, and the next moment the courtiers were coming down among the tombs by torchlight, to congratulate the new emperor.

The electors headed the procession, and, kneeling, greeted the emperor by his new title.

“The will of heaven be mine. See these traitors; they have formed against me a plot. Tremble, ye traitors, as ye learn an emperor’s vengeance! Let the plebeians be cast into prison; let the nobles bow to the block.”

“Accord the block to me, O emperor! for I, Ernani, lord of Arragon, Cordova, and Segovia.”

Why does he start and tremble? Is it that he sees his dear mistress again flinging herself at the emperor’s feet? Again she pleads for mercy; again she asks for happiness and justice.

“Thou askest, lady, what is already granted; what the king could not forgive, the emperor will not look on as offence.... You are all pardoned!... And as for thee, my lord Ernani, let the memory of the father’s death be forgotten in the justice done his son. Thou art again lord of Arragon, Cordova, and Segovia; and thy lady—behold her!”

The new emperor placed the hand of Elvira in that of Ernani. And then again the emperor spoke, “Ye are all pardoned!”

But how black was the menacing cloud near at hand. The old grandee, sternly frowning, and pressing his hand about a certain hunting horn, whose blast was death.

Part IV.—The Masquerade.

In Sarragossa, in the palace of the reinstated lord, his marriage was being celebrated. Happy at last—the couple bound together for life.

The palace of Ernani, or rather Don Giovanni of Arragon, was all ablaze with light; and the pale moonbeams, shooting into the palace-grounds, showed numberless mysterious masquers flitting to and fro. It was a grand masquerade the bridegroom was giving.

But among the masquers was one who spoke to nobody; who took note of nobody; who moved along stealthily from group to group with a firm merciless tread. They who looked very closely at the mysterious masquer, noted that his hair was white, and that his eyes glittered fearfully below his mask.

“Who is he?”

“See how angrily he looketh about him.”

“He seemeth a wizard!”

Still he took no notice, but went from group to group.

“Gentle love—thou hast not seen thy lover’s face so oft to-night that thou shouldst wear thy eyelids down; look up, and light my very soul!”

“In truth, dear husband, I have some mysterious fear, I know not why, and yet I tremble. A coming ill seemeth near.”

“Those who have felt the storm do tremble when the lightning flashes. But now our sky is all unclouded, love; our life as happy as our hearts are light. See how tranquil all about us seems; see, too, the guests are going, the twinkling lights die out each after each, and tell us that the morn is breaking. Dost thou still fear?”

“Who that has had nought but fears for what he hath—I fear, my love, I fear. For thee—for thee alone.”

A low winding blast upon a horn swept past their ears.

“Why dost thou tremble, love, my Ernani? Is the air cold? or have I frightened thee, perchance?”

Again the low destroying blast swept past them.

“See, see, Elvira! dost thou not see his eyes sparkling in the darkness? I see his white teeth as he smiles mockingly!”

“Ernani! Ernani! I am terror-stricken!”

He looked quickly at her, as though he would confide in her some great terror. Then a world of pity flooded his face, and he said quickly—

’Twas an old wound, Elvira, which leapt in pain. “Leave me a little, love; I’ll come to thee soon.”

“A loving wife doth lovingly obey. I go.”

He followed her with his eyes till he could see her no longer, in the moon-light, and then he knew he was alone with death. Yet for a moment hope sprang up; the sound was surely fancy; the dread of what might be. He was so little used to joy that now it was come he could not believe in it. So he let go the dagger he had touched; and rising, prepared to follow his bride.

Then again came the wailing sound, and following it were whispered the mocking words—

“Mercy!”

Creeping through the moonlight came the mysterious masquer—his face seen now to be the unforgiving, revengeful face of Don Ruy, come to seek atonement for the loss of a bride, and to demand the fulfilment of a rash oath.

“So soon!”

“Aye—so soon! I come to turn thy myrtles to cypresses.”

“Think—oh think! I have drunk from the cup of bitterness all my life—have tasted no happiness till now. Tarry a little—be merciful—tarry a little.”

“Again—mercy!”

“I am a Spaniard.”

Then came flitting through the shade the white figure of the doubting bride. As she came near the spot where she had left Ernani she saw the grandee, and needed no words to be assured that her foreboding was no weak fear.

“See, she comes—thy bride—to see thee fall. Forward, fair lady—forward, fair widow!”

“Don Ruy—art implacable?”

“As death—’Twill tell Ernani that his days are past.’”

“Don Ruy—I love him—I love him! Mercy, dear guardian, mercy!”

“That thou lov’st him is thy fault. Hasten, Ernani, if thou art of Spanish blood.”

“Elvira—do not plead—it weakens my weak arm’”

But she was too loving to obey—too terror-stricken to look upon her husband. She still remained upon the ground pleading hopelessly to the don for mercy. Mercy, she could not tell for what; yet mercy she saw he had the power to give.

“I knew it. Fate hath but spread this feast before mine eyes to make yet blacker the bare truth. Don Ruy—if—if—”

“Ah—”

There was a dull thud, a swingeing sound, and the bridegroom was on the ground, pressing his hand upon his side.

Spanish honor was appeased—he had paid the debt of the life he had placed in the grandee’s hands, and which he had refused to purchase in the catacombs.

“Farewell—dear love—farewell. Nor seek to follow me. Thou dead, who is there left in all the world to love or think of me? As thou dost love me, live for me—weep for me—guard my grave! Our happiness was but a phantom. I knew ’twould vanish. Farewell—farewell!”

And still with his hand upon his side, his head fell upon her breast, and he spoke no more.

There, on that spot, there were but two living human beings. The young bride mutely clasping her dead husband in her arms; and the remorseless noble standing over her unpityingly—unforgivingly—and glorying in his terrible revenge!