"Companions!" exclaimed Caneri, 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 Caneri 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 Indeed, Malique himself would have shared the same fate, had not the private interest of the Moor superseded his frenzied revenge.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 Caneri 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 Caneri, "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 Caneri, 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 Caneri, 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 Caneri 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 Caneri 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 Caneri: 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, Caneri, 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. Caneri, 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.

Caneri, 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 Caneri, 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. Caneri, 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 Caneri'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 Caneri, 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.

Caneri 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. Caneri, 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 Caneri, 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 Caneri 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 Caneri 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, Caneri 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 Caneri 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 Caneri."

"Caneri!" exclaimed several voices in consternation.

"Caneri, aye, Caneri," 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, Senor, 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. "Senor 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.

Voila le precipice ou l'ont enfin jete Les attraits enchanteurs de la prosperite.

La Fontaine.

Oh di destino avverso Fatal possanza! a mie tante sventure Cio 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—