A
ROMANCE.
Lane,
Darling, and Co. Leadenhall-Street.
CAVA
OF
OR,
The
Gothic Princess.
A
ROMANCE.
AUGUSTA
AMELIA STUART,
LUDOVICO’S
TALE; THE ENGLISH BROTHERS; EXILE
OF
Fierce
wars, and faithful loves,
And
truths severe, in fairy fiction drest.
VOL.
I.
PRINTED
AT THE
Minerva
Press,
FOR
A. K. NEWMAN AND CO.
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1812.
PREFACE.
THE author of the following sheets, struck by
the account historians have given of the fall of the Gothic empire in
CAVA
OF
CHAP.
I.
IN the beginning of the eighth century,
Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, reigned over
It
is from the prince Palayo that the kings of
Opulence,
which in a state is ever accompanied by vice, deprived the Goths of an empire
they had enjoyed three hundred years, and for which they were indebted to the
prudence and the valour of their ancestors—debauchery extinguished their
warlike ardour, and that heroic intrepidity which had rendered them capable of
executing the most glorious projects, both in peace and war—they now scarcely
preserved the remembrance of the military discipline that had rendered them
invincible; their corrupt manners led to as great an avidity for pleasure, as
they had once had for combat; and they as anxiously attended to the
magnificence of their dress and epuipage, as they had formerly done to the
splendor of their armour, and the beauty and perfection of their warlike
weapons.
The
empire of the Goths having fallen into so deplorable a state, this nation, so
famous for its battles and its victories, and which had spread the terror of
its name almost over the whole universe, forgot now what it had once been and
what it ought to have continued to be, so great was the dreadful contagion that
had corrupted the hearts and understanding of almost all the Spaniards. The
expectations of the best people in the kingdom were raised to the highest
pitch, from the excellent qualities that all beheld and acknowledged in their
new king; every thing combined in him to form, as they thought an accomplished
monarch: his face was handsome, his figure majestic, his air noble; his body,
hardened by exercise, was capable of enduring the greatest fatigues; he was
accustomed to hunger and thirst; to the vicissitudes of heat and cold; to long
watching, and capable of the most hazardous and laborious enterprises in war.
The qualities of his mind appeared to excel those of his body: he was bold,
enterprising; the greatest difficulties could not intimidate him; he was
capable of forming the grandest, the most noble projects, and still more
capable of executing them: he was liberal to excess; and had the happy art of
conciliating all who approached him; and even of governing and making their
wills subservient to his own, without their perceiving it. It was scarcely
possible for any person to defend themselves against the seduction of his
manners, so perfectly did he know how to insinuate himself into the hearts of
those he wished to gain. His wonderful talents enabled him to surmount every
difficulty he encountered, whatever might be its magnitude—Such history
represents Rodrigo, before his elevation to the Gothic throne; but, melancholy
to relate! no sooner was he seated on that exalted throne, to which his virtues
had led him, than all those virtues vanished. The brilliancy of his early days
was lost in the dark cloud which his vices spread over his latter years; his
great qualities were not only stained, but obliterated, by the most enormous
crimes; vindictive, even to fury, he revenged himself with unbounded rage on
those who had not been of his party. He gave himself up to the most infamous
life, the impurity of which soon became notorious: by his violence, rashness,
and imprudence, he rendered even his best-planned schemes abortive: and too
late his people found that he much less resembled his father, and the amiable
princes of his illustrious house, than the vile and barbarous Witiza, to whom
he had succeeded.
We must contemplate such a character with
sorrow, as well as with horror; for what a picture does it present us of frail
human nature, whose bad passions turn the best gifts of Heaven, and the
blessings of a prosperous life, to a deadly poison, which not only destroys
this earthly machine, but the inestimable jewel which that machine encloses,
and gives it, a willing victim, an unresisting prey, to the enemy of mankind.
At
the time of Rodrigo’s coming to the throne, count Julian was governor of the
provinces of
The
Christians had indeed displayed the emblem of their holy religion, but they had
forgotten what it taught; and in the eighth century, the purity of the
Christian faith was contaminated by almost Pagan rights: schisms, difference of
opinions, hatred, revenge, avarice, and pride, left, even to the priests, only
the name of Christians; they professed religion, but they knew not what they
professed; and all virtue was lost in sensual enjoyments. Those who went not
with the stream, but took the holy scriptures for their guide, could only
lament the almost general depravity, and by their conduct aim at reformation:
some among the nobility, even in this profligate age, were not only great, but
good; and a portion of the clergy remained uncontaminated by vice; the precepts
of saint Issidore, and of other holy men, were not entirely forgotten, and
still influenced many in the different ranks of life.
Rodrigo’s
queen, the beautiful and virtuous Egilone, was of the most amiable and engaging
character, and was as accomplished as any princess in that dark age could be:
her sweetness, her unassuming manners, her sanctity, which was not only
professed but real, rendered her an object of universal love and admiration;
and she was looked upon as a pattern of excellence to her extensive dominions.
Once she had been the delight of Rodrigo; his heart had chosen her from among
the beauties of Witiza’s court; and those virtues which had shone with such
brightness in so corrupted a hemisphere, had had as great a share, as her
extraordinary beauty, in filling the breast of this distinguished prince with
the most violent and ardent passion. Egilone returned his love; and proud of
the conquest she had made of a gallant prince, the boast and idol of his
country, flattered herself that her happiness was permanent, and that the heart
she set so high a value on, would always own her influence. Egilone’s purity of
mind gave rise to this belief; she knew little of the world; how could she be
acquainted with it, in a court where truth is so seldom found, and where all
who approached her were on the watch to flatter and deceive?
Egilone
was yet to learn, that pure and perfect love cannot exist in a corrupted heart;
it flies terrified from such a mansion, and leaves nought but brutal passion in
its room. Soon was the deceived and unhappy queen taught to mourn her fatal
elevation to a throne; soon was she to lament the beloved and loving husband,
lost in the dissolute and frantic monarch. She saw with terror, that every day,
nay every hour, was marked by the sensuality, cruelty, and violence of Rodrigo:
secretly and in silence, she mourned over the crimes of a being she once
thought so perfect, and still so dearly loved. Some consolation awaited her in
the return of the young prince, don Palayo, to the court; he had been exiled by
Witiza; and the only good action Rodrigo performed after his accession to the
crown, was recalling this amiable nobleman from banishment.
Under
the cruel reign of Witiza, the cousins had been involved in the same
misfortunes; and Rodrigo had ever loved and respected don Palayo, though
unfortunately neither the example or advice of his excellent and virtuous
friend had any influence on his conduct. Rodrigo persecuted with the utmost
rancour all the family connexions and dependants of the late king, whose
children fled from
Alonzo
was about twenty; his soul was noble and good; none of those vices that had
debased his grandfather attached to him; his person was uncommonly handsome; no
one excelled him in all manly exercises; his large and fine blue eyes had a
mixture of spirit and softness, that attracted affection, respect, and
admiration; he appeared to read the hearts of others, and to yield his own
where he met a congenial mind: intrepid in war, mild and gentle in peace,
instructed in all the learning of the times, moderate in all his desires,
studious of knowledge, and, though deprived of empire, deporting himself as a
prince, it was impossible he should not gain the affections of the nobles, and
of all ranks in the kingdom who could judge of merit. Often did the young
prince reflect with grief on the misfortunes of his family—on the degradation
he felt, living in the court of a tyrant, almost unfriended and alone, where,
if his merits had been justly appreciated, he would have commanded in the place
of Rodrigo. His royal blood then mantled in his cheek, and serious thoughts of
disputing with Rodrigo his kingdom took place in his ardent bosom; but they
soon subsided, when he considered, was he to fly to arms, he must wade through
slaughter to a throne; and the precepts of the religion he professed banished
those ambitious wishes; and he tacitly confessed, that the Goths had a right of
electing their king, when they thought it for the good of the empire to do so:
sometimes he determined on quitting Spain, and seeking his fortune in a foreign
land, or of attaching himself entirely to the person of count Julian, the
protector of his youth, and the husband of his aunt: but a secret passion,
which for some time had subjected him to its sweet influence, arrested his
steps, and rooted him to the spot where all the treasure of his soul was
lodged.
It
had long been a custom in the court of Spain, to educate most of the children
of the nobility of the kingdom in the palace of its monarch. The boys were
destined to guard the person of the king, to serve in his chamber, and at his
table; those who were old enough, and had sufficient strength, attended him in
the chace, or followed him to the field of battle; and nothing was omitted that
could render them of use to the state; and it was from this school that the
first statesmen in the kingdom, the governors of the provinces, the valiant
captains, and able generals, were selected.
The
young female nobility were particularly the care of the queen, and scarcely
ever quitted her: it was within the precincts of her palace they were
instructed in all accomplishments suited to their rank and sex; there they were
taught the elegant and various labours of the loom; nor was dancing, singing,
or the lyre neglected; and when they were of an age to marry, husbands were
chosen for them among the nobility, in rank and fortune suitable to their
respective conditions.
Among
all the young nobility of Rodrigo’s court, none could stand in competition with
the blooming Cava, daughter to count Julian, and the enchanting Favilla, sister
to don Palayo. These two young princesses were not more remarkable for their
exquisite beauty than for the tender friendship that united them.
The
queen, still young and lovely herself, beheld with delight their perfections,
gave particular attention to their education, had them constantly near her, was
accustomed to say they were the wonders of her court, and treated them as if
they had been her children: if she felt a preference for either, it was for the
lovely Cava, whose elevation of soul rendered her an object of admiration to
the queen. The two young princesses, though so linked in the bonds of
friendship, were totally different in person, in manners, and disposition.
We
are not, my fair readers, to suppose, that in those ages we call barbarous, the
females of high rank were unpolished, or unattractive; if they did not possess
the various accomplishments of a modern beauty, they were perhaps free from her
follies; the frivolity of the present times was unknown to them, as also the
eternal change of fashion, and the fastidiousness of the present day: less
anxious to attract universal admiration than the modern fair, they seem to have
had more supreme power over the hearts they conquered, and from their own
constancy, to have longer retained their empire. How many instances in former
times, in dark, and, as we are pleased to call them, barbarous ages, are there
of perfect love and unalterable friendship, reaching even to the tomb! Alas!
how few, how very few, are to be found in our polished, enlightened, and
selfish time! —
“What
now is friendship but a name,
A
charm that lulls to sleep,
A
sound that follows wealth and fame,
But
leaves the wretch to weep.
And
love is still an emptier sound,
The
haughty fair one’s jest,
Unseen
on earth, or only found
To
warm the turtle’s nest.”
CHAP.
II.
BEFORE we
proceed in our story, we must make our readers acquainted with the persons and
characters of the two young beauties, who shone with such splendor at the court
of Rodrigo, and who were allowed to eclipse the charms of all the Gothic fair,
excepting only those of the incomparable Egilone.
The
beauty of the princess Cava dazzled and astonished; her person was grand,
noble, and commanding, with the most exact proportion, and the finest turned limbs;
the charms of her countenance could only be conceived by beholding her; her
large black eyes shone with a luster almost divine; long dark eyelashes
softened their radiance, and gave a peculiar modesty to her countenance; her
nose inclined to Grecian; her mouth, when she spoke, displayed teeth that in
colour rivalled the finest pearls; and the bewitching expression that layed
about that lovely mouth captivated all whom she addressed: her soft and clear
complexion was brunette; and the opening morn glowed not with a brighter colour
than adorned her cheek. Endowed with so many natural graces, she had all the
advantages of education: her rank and fortune entitled her to wear the most
splendid apparel, which was the taste of the age, and her own good taste pointed
out, that a noble simplicity in all she wore was best suited to that graceful
figure which required not the aid of dress to render it conspicuous.
If
we cannot do justice to the beauty of Cava, how shall we be able to draw the
picture of her mind! her excellent understanding, and her great soul, appeared
in all she said and did; sincere, candid, open, her affection, where she once
placed it, was unshaken; every virtue reigned in her heart; and as she excelled
all in beauty, so was she allowed to surpass, in accomplishments and
understanding, all the young nobility at Toledo.
It
may be supposed the lovely Cava was a match for the first princes, both in
Spain and the neighbouring countries; many of the heroes of the age sighed for
her; but count Julian, her father, at the period we have taken up her story,
was in Africa, at his government, and declared himself unwilling to listen to
any overture of marriage for his daughter, till he should see her, which he had
not done for near three years, and consulted her inclinations.
Count
Julian idolized his daughter, and gave an evasive answer to those who wished
his alliance, merely to avoid offending spirits he was most anxious to
conciliate; for, in his own mind, he had long determined on a husband for his beloved
child: and we shall see, in the sequel, by the choice he made, how dear her
happiness was to his heart.
Favilla,
don Palayo’s sister, was from infancy the intimate and constant companion of
Cava; the difference of their dispositions only served to render them more
attached to each other. Cava was more serious than her friend; there was a
degree of melancholy in her character, that was relieved by the gaiety and
lively imagination of Favilla. This young princess was truly enchanting; she
was so beautiful, that when the Saracens beheld her, they cried “she was an
houri from the
“And
her pure skin shone with such spotless white,
As
dazzled the weak rays of human sight.”
Gay, lively, and innocent, Favilla enjoyed the
passing hour; she communicated cheerfulness to all around her, for she never
thought of future ills; she was beloved by all her youthful companions, but
Cava was her chosen friend.
Her
brother returned from banishment; he wondered at her improvement; he smiled at
her lively wit; he was charmed with her conversation; he approved all she did;
and she thought him the most perfect man she had ever seen. Favilla’s heart was
untouched; she knew not yet what it was to love.
The
Gothic princess had for some time been but too sensible to the merits of the
prince Alonzo; what heart, not pre-engaged, could have resisted such a lover?
and what woman was so suited to inspire love in the breast of Alonzo as the
charming Cava? Continually in company with each other, the lovers wanted not
opportunities for conversation and a communication of sentiment; the more
intimately acquainted they became, the more they saw in each other to justify
their mutual affection; yet still they feared some unforeseen chance might
blast their hopes.
“My
beloved Cava,” cried Alonzo, one day that they met in the gardens of the
palace, “why are you so melancholy? have I offended you by my presumptuous
love? I am sensible that the poor Alonzo, deprived of his birthright, and
living a dependant in the court of Rodrigo, is not worthy of the exalted Cava,
the heiress of count Julian; yet fate impelled me to declare my fondness, my
admiration, my fixed, my eternal love. Forgive me, Cava; pity the distraction
of my soul; despise me not, because my kingdom has passed into other hands, and
I cannot lay an empire at your feet; had I the universe, it should be yours;
for never can Alonzo know a joy independent of his Cava:” here the prince
paused, and looking anxiously and timidly at Cava, almost breathless waited her
answer.
“Alonzo,”
cried she, regarding him with a look of peculiar tenderness, chastened by her
modest and dignified manner, “Alonzo, from whence, I entreat you tell me, can
such fears have place in your bosom? can you, for one moment, doubt the truth,
and I do not blush to say, the affection of Cava? Ask your own heart, is there
no happiness but on a throne? and let that heart answer the question for me
also. I know, Alonzo, I am in the power of my father, count Julian; he can
dispose of my hand as he pleases; but my heart is my own; I will away with
female disguise; I am above those petty arts; I will confess that heart is
yours; was it a thousand times more worth than it is, it would glory in
bestowing itself on you. Oh, Alonzo! if I am destined to render light to you
the loss of your kingdom, I shall think myself happier than was I seated on the
first throne in the universe.”
Hearing
this, the young prince could no longer suppress his rapture; he seized the hand
of Cava, he pressed it to his lips, and vowed eternal love.
Cava
suppressed his raptures, entreating him to be upon his guard, and give no
suspicion of their mutual attachment.—“Wait with patience till the arrival of
my father at the court: does he not dearly love you? does he not protect you
with all his power? and may we not hope that he will lend an indulgent ear to
our joint entreaties for his sanction to our love? He must know the whole,”
cried she; “he must know it all from us; leave it not in the power of others to
undermine us in his favour; I will hope every thing from my father; and oh, how
sweet will it be to me, Alonzo, to bestow upon you those riches cruel fate
deprived you of! may this great happiness be reserved for me,” added she: “and
yet I fear; a sadness oppresses my spirits, that I can neither overcome nor
account for; but do not suspect yourself the occasion of it,” cried she,
smiling and giving him her hand.
This
conversation, and the certainty Alonzo had of the affection of the charming Cava,
spoke comfort to his heart, and he would not have balanced a moment the
relinquishing the first empire in the world or the princess Cava. He saw her
every day, and every day increased his love and admiration; her prudence, her
good sense, and her delicacy of manners, repressed his fire: she pointed out
the necessity they were under of throwing a veil over their mutual tenderness,
till count Julian should sanction it. Alonzo was his nephew by marriage, and
had always been dear to the countess Julian: this degree of consanguinity
allowed the lovers an intimacy that, as strangers, might have been looked on
with suspicion; often had Alonzo the delight of accompanying his adored Cava on
those parties of pleasure which the queen, eager to make the happiness of all
around her, was continually forming for the amusement of the court.
Egilone
was particularly fond of the chase, and habited as a huntress, and attended by
the young nobility of both sexes, she would sometimes spend whole days in the
plains and mountains near Toledo, pursuing the wild inhabitants of the forest,
even to their dens: graceful in all she did, she might have been taken for
Diana, surrounded by her nymphs.
The
courtiers vied with each other, on these occasions, in the splendor of their
hunting dresses, and in the beauty, the swiftness, and the caparison of the
horses on which they rode. The brave and noble prince Palayo, Alonzo, and most
of the gallant youth at the court, attended the queen, not only to partake in
her amusements, but to secure her person, and those of the lovely group that
surrounded her, from any dangerous beasts of prey that might inhabit the thick
forests, into which they often ventured.
Rodrigo,
not partial to the sports of the field, seldom joined these parties; his mind
was become too gloomy to find pleasure in a sylvan scene; the fragrant breath
of the early morn, the sun rising in splendor over the distant hill, the cry of
the deep-mouthed hounds, that echoed from the recesses of the surrounding
mountains, had no power to cheer his dark soul: he sat in his palace brooding
over plans of future crimes, or contemplating, without remorse or sorrow, those
he had already committed.
The
day on which the queen hunted was almost a jubilee at
“With
such a grace Hippolita bestrode
Her
Thracian courser, and outstripp’d the rapid flood.”
Don Palayo, Alonzo, and the princesses Cava and
Favilla, were constantly near the queen. The lovely Cava appeared to the utmost
advantage in those hunting parties:
“Men,
boys, and women stupid with surprise,
Where’er
she passes, fix their wondering eyes;
Longing
they look, and gaping at her sight,
Devour
her o’er and o’er, with vast delight,
Her
purple habit sits with such a grace
On
her smooth shoulders, and so suits her face:
Her
head with ringlets of her hair is crown’d,
And
in a golden cawl the curls are bound;
She
shakes her pointed jav’lin, and behind,
Her
painted quiver dances in the wind.”
At
the time we are now speaking of, Alphonso, the duke of Biscay’s son, and a dear
friend of don Palayo’s, came on a visit to the court of Toledo, chiefly to see
his friend. In the late reign, their common misfortunes had united them as
strongly as their dispositions; and they had made a pilgrimage together, during
the banishment of the prince Palayo: fortune now seemed to smile on Palayo, and
Alphonso repaired to the gay court of Rodrigo, to congratulate his friend on
his present bright prospects.
The
young Alphonso appeared at
Nothing
could be more favourable to love than the amusements of the court, and those
sylvan parties formed by the queen. During the chase, the young noblemen
followed and protected the beauties they distinguished; assisted them in all
their little distresses; and when weary of the chase, they chose some
sequestered and shady spot, in a delicious grove, or by the side of a winding
stream, in which they could repose after their labours, or partake of a repast,
always ready on these occasions.
Alonzo
and Alphonso, without imparting it to each other, always availed themselves of
these opportunities of conversing with Cava and Favilla. Winged with pleasure
flew those innocent and delightful days; the world produced not four more
perfect, or more constant hearts; their enlightened minds were closely knit
together; every moment, in its course, proved to the lovers that their lot was
cast for life; and with secret and silent satisfaction they hugged their
chains. The heart of the young duke was too easily read by don Palayo, for him
not to perceive that Favilla was dear to his friend; he rejoiced at the
discovery, and wished no happier fate for his sister; but prudence and a just
pride dictated silence on the subject, till Alphonso should think it proper to
divulge his own secret.
Every
thing, at this period, bore the appearance of tranquillity at Toledo; if the
crimes the king committed became publicly known, his creatures took care to
silence the multitude. The great were awed, and dreaded tumult, and the loss of
those comforts they enjoyed: whatever hatred they bore Rodrigo, they remained
silent from prudence. Many were glad to relinquish part of their riches, to
secure the rest from the grasp of the tyrant; and many in secret mourned the
insulted virtue of their wives and daughters, without daring to resent or to
complain, knowing that a sword was suspended over their heads.
Sometimes
unfortunate rumours came to the ears of the queen: she listened to nothing
against Rodrigo, though she secretly lamented the change in his nature, and the
lose of that affection she had so highly prized, and which, unfortunately for
her, she felt conscious was in its wane. With innocent amusements and useful
occupation, she endeavoured to stifle fruitless sorrow, and to prevent secret
jealousy corroding her heart: blind to the future, she rather hoped relief from
it, than contemplated it with dread. Happy, thrice happy for the human race,
all of whom are, from their cradle, doomed to endure the ills attached to life,
that eternal wisdom has shut the book of fate: had we our wills, what dreadful
pages should we turn over! who could sustain the sight? alas! the lot of man
would be a hundred-fold more mournful than even the most unhappy find it: every
moment of comfort, of pleasure, of joy, would be poisoned by the dreadful
certainty of coming ill, and the miserable human race would sink into the grave
without having lived one happy hour.
CHAP.
III.
Upon
a time, (unhappy clock
That
struck the hour); it was in Rome, (accurs’d
The
mansion where); ’twas at a feast; (oh! would
Our
viands had been poison’d); or, at least,
Those
which I heav’d to head.
CYMBELINE.
BELONGING to the king Rodrigo, was a
magnificent palace, not far from Cordova, built on the Tagus, and commanding
the most beautiful and romantic views near that celebrated city. It had been
repaired and beautified at a great expence by its royal master: the gardens
which surrounded it were laid out in the best taste of the age; they were of a
great extent, and filled with all that could gratify the senses; they were much
frequented by the young nobility residing at the court: fine walks, shaded by
chesnut-trees, and bordered with flowering shrubs; charming bowers, forming a
shelter from the noonday heat; cool grottos, and clear fountains, that cast
their pure waters into the air, and cooling it with their refreshing showers, rendered
the grounds enchanting. Here the young females, educated at the court, often
met to pass the sultry hours of noon; or, in the evening, to accustom
themselves to that exercise that gave vigour and beauty to their forms; and in
innocent sport they passed many a cheerful hour. The windows of the royal
apartments looked to the most delicious and sequestered spots of these gardens.
The apartments allotted to the young princesses Cava and Favilla opened on a
terrace that overlooked this enchanting scenery; and they almost constantly
repaired to the terrace, in the cool of the evening, to sport with their
companions, or to enjoy each others society and conversation, free from
intrusion.
One
evening, on which there was to be a feast at this palace, they had both
returned from the chase with the queen, who had withdrawn to her apartments to
prepare for the banquet. The lovely friends, arm in arm, entered the garden to
enjoy its fragrance for some moments before they attended to the labours of the
toilet: they had walked and conversed, unconscious of any attention being paid
to their motions, when Cava, seeing some fine flowers in bloom, and thinking
they would adorn her beautiful hair, stooped to gather them; in rising, a
branch of a tree caught her robe, and loosening a clasp, which confined it on
her bosom, it suddenly fell from her shoulders and breast, and left them for a
moment exposed to view; terrified she looked round; she hastily adjusted her
disordered dress, and blushing scarlet, congratulated herself that Favilla only
was witness to its derangement; and soon after the friends returned to their
apartment, to prepare for the evening’s amusement.
Cava
had, it is true, looked round with a fearful eye, and perceived no human being
near her, except her friend; but unknown and unseen by her, the king had had a
full view of all that passed from the windows of his apartment, at which,
unfortunately for the young princess, he at that moment stood. He every day
beheld Cava; he saw her in all her beauty; but till that moment her beauty,
though the boast of Spain, had made no impression on the tyrant; he had a
thousand times said, “she was lovely,” and had thought of her no more; but when
the robe fell displayed to his astonished sight the perfect form and the polished
ivory of her neck and shoulders, when he beheld the most beautiful bust in the
world, alive and animated; when he saw the crimson veil that modesty threw over
that lovely face and bosom, lest any eye but Favilla’s should have witnessed
the disorder of her dress, the tyrant was enflamed with love, or rather with
those bad passions he wished to disguise under that name. Rodrigo wondered at
himself—he was astonished at his former blindness—how could he so long, he
thought, have been insensible to such exquisite beauty? Egilone and the whole
circle of his court sunk to nothing before Cava. From that hour a furious
passion took possession of his heart; and with determined cruelty he secretly
vowed that Cava should be his. In gloomy meditation the tyrant paced the
chamber, till the hour that called him to the banquet.
The
entertainment for the court was this evening of the most splendid kind; on the
king’s entering the saloon, he found the flower of the young nobility
surrounding the queen; his ardent gaze was soon fixed on Cava, as she stood in
the circle, a miracle of beauty, where all were fair: she, the princess
Favilla, with Alonzo, and the young duke of Biscay, were conversing gaily;
Cava’s beautiful countenance was lit up with smiles and blushes, as Alonzo
recited to her part of a letter he had, that morning, received from count
Julian, and which she thought delicately glanced at Alonzo’s tenderness for
her. The same idea had struck the young prince, and looks full of love and hope
were exchanged between him and Cava; they suffered not a word to escape their
lips that could intimate their feelings; yet this was, perhaps, the happiest
moment of their lives, for hope placed many a glowing picture of future
felicity before them, and they resigned their hearts to joy.
Rodrigo,
for that evening, laid aside the gloom which had lately been so habitual to
him; he was adorned with care, and looked a hero and a king. He was not now
brooding over distant mischiefs; he forgot his thirst of blood, his avarice,
and persecution: those beyond the precincts of his palace might, for a time,
breath freely; the subjects of his empire might, for a little, sleep in peace.
His victim was near at hand; he had laid the snare, but he was determined to
strew it over with flowers, to conceal his cruel intentions under the
appearance of affability and condescension; he smiled on the surrounding
courtiers; he approached the amiable and lovely Egilone, with looks of feigned
tenderness and pleasure, and expressed his admiration of her person and
habiliments.
The
queen received him with smiles, her heart delighted with the unusual softness
of his manner towards her; she flattered herself with the returning love of the
husband she adored; she pardoned all his follies; she even forgot his crimes,
when she saw the change in his countenance and demeanour, and she secretly
said, “My Rodrigo will return to virtue and to me; a crown has dazzled him for
awhile; power has drawn him from the straight path; but his mind is too noble
not to abjure its errors; Rodrigo will still fulfil the expectations of the
nation; I shall have the supreme felicity of seeing him what he once was.” Thus
reasoned with herself the virtuous and deceived queen.
The
night was spent in the utmost festivity; the magnificent Gothic halls were
illuminated with a thousand lamps, they resounded with the songs of the
minstrels, and at intervals warlike music raised a martial spirit in the
breasts of the brave youth that attended on the court: once Rodrigo called for
a mournful song, for he knew “that pity melts the soul to love.” The minstrels
chose the fall of Troy: the tyrant shuddered with involuntary horror at the
vengeance of the Greeks. He stopped the song—he rushed to the banquet—a cloud
passed over his manly countenance; but it was soon dispersed, and he gave life
and animation to all around him. His wild eye was often turned towards Cava,
who was placed with her young companions nearly opposite to where he sat; her
hair was adorned with the flowers she had gathered in the gardens of the
palace, and they bloomed upon her snowy bosom, so simply was she dressed; yet
never had she appeared so exquisitely lovely; “her beauty hung upon the cheek
of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.”
Alonzo
contemplated her with rapture, and his fond imagination dwelt on future days of
happiness with his Cava, till he felt secure of their being realized, and
remembered not there was a dark hour in life.
The
princess was not less sanguine in her hopes, and her whole soul was full of
Alonzo. Scarcely could the king turn his eye from this fascinating object; the
flowers with which she was adorned brought to his remembrance the first moment
of his new born passion; they acted like magic on his depraved heart; and he
vowed, within himself, the combined world should not prevent his possessing
Cava: to inspire her with love was, however, his most ardent wish, and, when
the banquet was at an end, he took an opportunity of approaching the princess,
and taking her hand, he softly whispered in her ear, “Cava, to-night you have
performed a miracle—you have conquered the Goths—their kingdom is laid at your
feet.”
The
innocent Cava believing that Rodrigo was only paying her a gallant compliment,
and looking on him as her guardian and protector, smiled, blushed, and gaily
answered, “She had no ambition to conquer all hearts; one faithful one,” and
she cast down her eye, for Alonzo was at no great distance, “would in her mind
be quite sufficient.”
Rodrigo
now believed it the moment to discover his passion, and gently drawing her a
few paces from where she stood, he whispered, “You have your wish, Cava; the
king adores you; he cannot, will not live without you; he devotes his heart,
his empire, all the remainder of his life to the incomparable Cava; return his
passion, which will endure no coldness, no demur, and you shall see the crown
laid at your feet.”
“If
you are in jest,” cried the princess, snatching her hand from the enraptured
king, and turning pale as death, “it is unfit for me to listen to such language,
or you to make use of it, even in mirth: should you, forbid it, Heaven! be in
earnest, you are a monster I would sooner fly from than from the most savage
beast of the forest: in pity to me, in pity to yourself, repress such ideas, if
indeed you have dared to give them place in your mind; and remember the
princess Cava, the daughter of count Julian, cannot be insulted with impunity;”
with these words she turned disdainfully from the king: he pursued her, hoping
to soften her anger; but she wisely taking refuge near the queen, he had that
night no further opportunity of molesting her, or of endeavouring to palliate
his offence.
Rodrigo,
humbled and enraged at the answer he had received from Cava, was still
determined not to relinquish his pursuit; her virtue, her loftiness of mind,
her sense, her spirit, were, in his eyes, additional charms; and deeply
enamoured, he was fixed on corrupting her, was he to lose by it life and
empire.
All
the pleasure of the night was now lost to Cava; her cheek, which had first been
pale, was now flushed with anger, from the resentment she felt for her insulted
delicacy. If Alonzo spoke to her, she could scarcely answer him, or attend to
what he said; and had he not believed she was fatigued, he would have supposed
her in some distress.
Retired
at a late hour to her apartment, she courted sleep in vain; restless and
agitated, angry and full of fear, she knew not of what, she long traversed her
chamber with agitated steps: she was willing to persuade herself the king had
meant nothing; but his ardent looks had told another tale; and when she
remembered them, her terror was extreme. She was at first tempted to make
Egilone acquainted with the improper language the king had made use of, and
entreat her protection from further insult; but she loved the queen, she was
beloved by her, and she could not bring herself to plunge a dagger in her
heart, or run the chance of for ever losing her affection, should she once know
that she was unfortunately become the object of Rodrigo’s passion. After much
deliberation, she determined to avoid the king, and never give him the
opportunity of speaking to her in private: her father was soon expected from
Africa, and she resolved with him to leave the court, when he should return to
his government.
Some
days elapsed, and the king found not a single moment to breathe his passion, so
strict a guard had she on herself; but soon she had little reason to doubt his
sentiments; letters on letters were delivered to her, by his creatures, as if
from others; she returned them unread; she did not deign to take notice of
Rodrigo; when obliged to be in his presence, she never turned her eye towards
him, and was continually stationed near the queen: she conversed as usual with
Favilla, Alphonso, and Alonzo; and if she was under the necessity of answering
the king when he addressed her in public, the expression of her countenance was
cold and disdainful, and she appeared to despise, not to fear him.
Still,
burning with love and rage, Rodrigo sought every opportunity to find her alone.
One evening, passing through an apartment of the palace, chance threw her in
his way; she endeavoured to pass him, but he crossed her path, and insisted on
being heard; constrained to listen to him, she stood proud in virtue, and with
a look that almost chilled him; but he was too much accustomed to have
submission paid to his will, to be long awed, either by the virtue or the
frowns of a woman. He resorted to his usual arts of conquest; he knelt before
her, he again declared his passion; indignantly she endeavoured to break from
him; he caught her robe, to prevent her retreating, and then, in the most
subtile language, painted the violence of his unconquerable love, the
impossibility of his ever subduing it, and his determination of placing her on
his throne, would she but grant him her heart.—“I will,” cried he, “repudiate
Egilone, and raise my Cava to the summit of earthly grandeur; count Julian
shall be the second in the kingdom, and equal to myself in power.” Seeing the
princess recoil from him with horror, he started from the ground, and grasping
her arm with violence, he cried, “If you are insensible to my love, you shall
feel my power; Rodrigo will never sigh in vain; he shall find the means of
humbling your proud spirit.”
“You
have already humbled me,” cried the terrified princess, wrenching her arm from
his grasp, and retiring as far as she could go, “you have already humbled me,
by your scandalous and insulting offers: know that my virtue is above your
power; that I detest you, and your infamous love, if love you call your hateful
passion; the lowest subject in your dominions holds a higher place in the
estimation of Cava than its boasted, but vile king. Withdraw,” added she;
“suffer me to depart and molest me no more; conduct yourself towards me as a
princess, as one under the protection of your amiable queen; pity for her
feelings only, will prevent me from making her acquainted with the base conduct
of him she so dearly loves: repent, and, I repeat it, cease to molest me;”
saying this she again attempted to pass, and Rodrigo was, for a moment, so awed
by the dignity of her look and manner, that he did not oppose her passage; and
quitting him with a haughty air, she was quickly out of sight.
Though
for the present baffled, the king was not daunted, nor was his evil intentions
changed; again he persecuted the princess, again he solicited, prayed,
entreated, flattered, threatened; it was all of no avail, he was shunned,
scorned, detested; and the princess, in the utmost anxiety, expected her
father’s arrival in Spain, determined on leaving the court. The king, finding
himself despised by her to whom he had offered his crown, gave a loose to rage
and jealousy; he dreaded a rival, but he saw no one he could deem such. His mind
was now more gloomy than ever, and there was nothing too monstrous for him to
undertake: he hated the charming Egilone, believing she was the bar to his
happiness; every spark of virtue not quite dead in his savage bosom he soon
extinguished—the appearance of indifference concealed the passions that
inwardly devoured him, and “hushed in grim repose, he watched his evening
prey.”
At
this period Alphonso was obliged to leave Toledo; his father had recalled him,
to send him on an embassy to France, and it was with sorrow he was forced to
bid adieu, for some time, to his friend don Palayo, and the still dearer
Favilla; he could no longer conceal his sentiments from the object of his
affections, and making a tender declaration of the unfeigned love he felt, he
found Favilla sensible of his merit, and willing, with her brother’s
approbation, to yield her hand with her heart: don Palayo could wish no happier
fate for his sister than a union with such a man as Alphonso; and the young
duke, rejoicing in his successful love, promised to return, the moment his
father would sanction his marriage and allow his absence.
The
bitterness of parting was softened by the delightful hope of future felicity;
the lovers parted, little dreaming of the sad hours they were doomed to pass
ere they should meet again. Flushed with hope, happy from the impression he had
made on Favilla’s heart, and leaving his own in her possession, the noble
Alphonso, mounted on his favourite steed, passed the gates of Toledo, and soon
lost sight of its towers: behind him he left a human fiend, who was soon to
shake these stately towers to their foundation.
The
base Rodrigo, by his artful conduct, had nearly lulled Cava’s mind to peace; he
seemed to repent, and she flattered herself his repentance was sincere, and
that he would molest her no more; but how unequal a match is innocence and
truth for the arts and cunning of a villain! Rodrigo had his agents; he was on
the watch to surprise Cava, for he had determined on her destruction: in an
unfortunate hour he succeeded in finding her unguarded and alone; he destroyed
her peace, he sullied her honour; but he had no power to corrupt her heart, or
conquer her virtue.
When
the distracted princess could free herself from Rodrigo—and now he had no wish
to detain her, even his callous heart felt some remorse—she flew to her
chamber, and there gave a loose to all the feelings of despair. She had
snatched a dagger from the walls of the armory, through which she flew to reach
her apartment; when she entered it, she secured the door, determined to end her
life and misery at once: but Cava was a Christian; to rush unprepared and
unbidden into eternity, appalled her; however wretched she was, her heart was
innocent, was free of guilt; it was the crimes of others, not her own, that
weighed her down. Sinking on her knees, and lifting her hands to Heaven, while
a flood of tears fell from her eyes, she prayed for patience to bear her
sufferings, and strength of mind to endure those ills it was not possible for
her to avert.—“Let me not,” cried she, “commit murder, and sink my soul to
perdition, to avoid the misery of a tortured mind; if I am wretched, I will be
greatly so, and Rodrigo shall tremble on his throne.” She rose, she threw the
dagger from her; for some hours her grief and agitation baffled her strongest
efforts to suppress them: when she had acquired some command over her feelings,
she opened her cabinet, and taking from it materials for writing, she sat down
to compose a letter to her father, count Julian.
To
write one was a task of the utmost difficulty; but in some time she did so, to
her satisfaction. Her letter was long, and though wrote in a state almost of
madness, was clear, and expressed the greatness of her soul, as well as her
delicate feelings: it concluded with the following words:¾
“Would
that the earth could open under my feet, and swallow up alive the wretched
Cava, rather than she should be under the sad necessity of writing you such a
letter, my lord and father; but who can revenge your child? who can repair the
honour of your house, but you? come and sweep from the earth the man that has
dared to insult a princess of the royal blood, and so deeply to injure count
Julian in his child: let the world see, my father, that the punishment soon
follows the crime – that the princess Cava was unfortunate, not guilty, and
that her noble father revenged her.”
When
the letter was finished, Cava felt herself more composed; how to send it she
knew not, for she determined on concealing her wrongs till her father should
take ample vengeance. Should Rodrigo become acquainted with her writing to the
count, he would suspect the cause, and the consequences to her father might be
fatal: fortunately her thoughts turned towards a worthy monk, father Anselmo,
one of the most exemplary life and character, who was much about the queen,
highly favoured by her, and had taken infinite pains in her education and
Favilla’s. She immediately sent a trusty messenger to request his presence for
a few minutes in her apartment. The good monk was not long in complying with
her request, and Cava had endeavoured to compose herself before his arrival;
still he found her in apparent distress, and he expressed his concern at seeing
her unhappy.
“Can
I be of any service to you, my child?” cried he; “why do I see you so
dejected?”
“My
good father,” returned the princess, without taking notice of his question,
“you can be of the utmost service to me; but you must promise to be secret and
expeditious in what you are to perform; on no other terms can I employ you.”
“As
I well know your heart, my child, as I am sensible of its rectitude, and that
you would not lead me to do wrong, I promise to perform your will provided,
when I hear what it is, I shall not find any thing to condemn.”
Cava
then informed the monk that she was desirous of conveying a letter to her
father, count Julian, then at his government in Africa, and to convey it
unknown to any human being.─ “It entirely concerns myself,” continued the
princess; “it is a daughter’s letter to a tender and beloved father, laying
open her whole heart to his view; you cannot, worthy Anselmo, believe there can
be any thing wrong in that; and yet I confess to you, I would not, for the
riches of the world, have that letter read but by count Julian himself: can you
convey it for me in secret, and with safety?”
The
monk mused some time, and then answered —“I can, my child, and I will do as you
wish. I have a young friend, a lay-brother; him will I send with this epistle,
about which you are so anxious; I could trust Jerome with my life; your father
shall have the packet sooner than you imagine: but you are ill, my daughter; by
the changes of your countenance, I see your mind is disturbed, and your heart
heavy. Good-night; I wish not to indulge an idle curiosity, but I am not at
ease on your account; my prayers shall be offered for you; good-night, my
child.” Then taking the sealed packet from off the table, Anselmo slowly
retired, looking anxiously at Cava, and blessing her as he departed. She could
not speak; she had not the power to answer him; her heart was full, was
breaking. The good monk feared to intrude by further questions: he closed the
door, and the unhappy Cava was left to waste the remainder of the night in
unavailing grief.
CHAP.
IV.
FATHER Anselmo was true to his promise; a very
few hours saw the lay-brother he had mentioned to the princess on the road to
the Straits, from whence he was to take his passage for Africa. Anselmo had the
precaution to enclose Cava’s letter in one from himself to count Julian, the
words of which ran thus: ¾
“NOBLE
count Julian, I know not the contents of the letter I now convey to you; I
received it from your amiable daughter, and her agitation on intrusting it to
me, with her wish of perfect secrecy respecting it, assures me it is of the
utmost import. I therefore send a chosen messenger, whom you, count Julian, may
securely trust with a written or a verbal answer: with my prayers for your
happiness, and that of your most excellent countess,
I
am ever, noble count Julian,
Your
friend,
ANSELMO.”
The
good monk had taken little repose; he had passed the night in dispatching his
messenger; at an early hour in the morning, he repaired to the apartment of the
Gothic princess, to inform her he had obeyed her commands. He was at first
refused admittance by her attendant, on the plea of indisposition ¾ he was alarmed ¾ he earnestly desired to see the princess; and
she, hearing it was Anselmo, gave orders to have him introduced.
On
entering the chamber, the kind father was shocked to see the change a few hours
had made in his beloved pupil: Cava was in a high fever, her flushed cheek, her
sunk eye, her convulsed lip, her tremulous voice, declared her dangerous state,
and the monk, who was skilled in medicine, terrified at her appearance,
insisted on her swallowing a draught he hoped would compose her; for he knew to
read the human heart too well not to be assured her indisposition proceeded
from the mind; but where, thought he, is the medicine sufficiently powerful to
be of use there? then, raising his hands and eyes to Heaven, he said aloud ¾ “Religion only reaches the sad heart; make use of it, my child, to calm
those sorrows you are so careful to conceal.”
“I
shall listen to your pious counsel, my good father,” replied the princess: “now
tell me, I beseech you, have you performed your promise?”
“I
have, my daughter; it is some hours since Jerome left Toledo; I accompanied
your letter with a few lines from my own hand; and you may expect an answer as
soon as it is possible to have one.”
Pleased
with this assurance, Cava thanked the monk, and faintly entreated to be left
alone: Anselmo withdrew, fearful of some impending misfortune, from seeing
there was a mystery he could not develop.
We
shall leave the good monk, and the chamber of the unhappy princess, and follow
the steps of Jerome to the shores of Africa. Every thing conspired to render
his journey and voyage safe and expeditious; and, in the shortest time
possible, he reached the nearest port to the seat of count Julian’s government.
On
arriving at the count’s palace, the young monk was instantly admitted to a
private audience, and having only the letters to deliver into the count’s
hands, immediately retired.
It
is as little possible for the writer to describe, as for the reader to form an
idea of the grief, the distress, the tenderness, the rage that by turns reigned
in the breast of count Julian; he adored his daughter; he was proud of her
beauty, and her virtues; he was a tender father, and had formed glorious
prospects for Cava; he had determined to bestow her hand on the prince Alonzo,
and looked to a future day to exalt him to that throne to which he might claim
a right by birth, and which was so ill filled by Rodrigo.
The
count was an able and cunning man; brave, capable of undertaking great things,
difficulties turned him not from his pursuits; fearless of danger, yet ever on
his guard, he excelled all in the art of feigning, and of concealing his
feelings. Although now the outrage he had met with roused every passion of his
soul, and that he vowed the destruction of Rodrigo, even at the expence of all
Spain, yet for the moment he stifled his grief and rage, under the most placid
appearance, in order the better to ensure a lasting and exemplary vengeance.
As
soon as Jerome was sufficiently rested to set out on a second journey, the
count gave to his care a paper addressed to father Anselmo, containing only
these
words: —
“Worthy
Anselmo, tell the beloved daughter of count Julian she may soon expect to see
her father — that father whose tenderness will remain unabated for her to the
last hour of his life; tell her also, she shall behold him in the temper most
suited to her wishes.
Your friend,
COUNT
JULIAN.”
The
count did not long delay fulfilling this promise; animated by the most violent
hatred to the man who had dared to tarnish the lustre of his house, and
secretly breathing vengeance against the inhuman Rodrigo, he quickly regulated
all matters relative to his government in Africa; and his mind, though torn
with rage and grief, was entirely occupied in seeking the means of destroying
the enemy of his house, and of his peace; and preparing to pay a visit to the
court of Toledo, under the mask of friendship, without intimating to his
countess the cause he had for grief, or the preparations he was privately
making for vengeance by a descent on Spain, he bade her adieu; and she with
delight saw him undertake his journey, as he promised to return with his
daughter.
On
count Julian’s arrival at Rodrigo’s court, he was received with all the honours
due to his rank, and, in appearance, with the utmost friendship by the king. He
found the princess Cava recovering from a dangerous illness; and he also found
that she owed her life to the incessant care of Egilone and Favilla. Count
Julian instantly perceived that the base conduct of the king was unknown and
unsuspected; he would not trust himself to have much conversation with his
daughter — he consoled her by his tenderness, and the hope of returning with
him to Africa; he commanded her silence, and would not allow of her absenting
herself from the court, for the short time he intended she should remain at
Toledo.
With
the appearance of the greatest openness and candour, the artful count gave the
king the detail of his conduct in his African government. He well knew how to
estimate his own services, and to flatter the vanity and ambition of Rodrigo;
and he so entirely gained his confidence, that the deceived monarch
communicated to him all the secrets of the state, and relied on him for his
advice respecting the most important affairs.
This
was exactly what count Julian wished, and what gave him ample means for
vengeance; he assured Rodrigo that Spain had nothing to fear from internal commotions;
but that it was of the utmost importance to furnish him with cavalry and arms,
that he might prevent the Moors from making descents upon the coasts of Spain,
and pillaging, as they were accustomed to do. The king consented to every
regulation count Julian suggested; and the country was almost entirely stripped
of arms and horses. When this was accomplished, the count thought only of
quitting the kingdom, before his conduct should render him suspected: he had
already contrived to remove Alonzo from the court. On his arrival at Toledo, he
found this young prince in unfeigned grief at the dangerous illness of his
beloved Cava; he met count Julian with all the warmth of affection he could
have shown to a father; and the count, during his absence from Spain, had not
lost any of the tenderness and esteem he had ever professed for the prince; but
he most carefully avoided opening his heart to him, or, for the present,
suffering him to come to the knowledge of any of his schemes.
To
place Alonzo beyond the power of the king was necessary to the safety of the
young prince; and before he intimated his intention of quickly returning to his
government in Africa, he contrived to send him to Rome, on some affairs, he
said, relative to that government; and he hurried the departure of Alonzo, that
he and Cava might not meet. He dreaded any explanation between them: she had
not yet recovered her illness, so as to allow of her appearing in public, and
she was glad of any excuse to avoid seeing the king.
Alonzo
could not proceed on his journey without intimating to count Julian his
attachment to his daughter, and his anxious wish that he might not think him
unworthy of her. He professed the most ardent love, and even avowed their
reciprocal affection; and candidly repeated all the princess had said in the
garden of the palace.
The
count, always master of his countenance, and possessing a perfect empire over
his passions, listened with placid attention to all Alonzo said, though at the
moment, his inmost soul was shaken with rage and grief; he had always loved and
admired the prince ¾ now compassion was joined to affection; and he
inwardly vowed he would set him on the throne of Spain, or die in the attempt.
Turning towards him, he gave him fresh assurances of his unbounded regard;
telling him, his love for his daughter was a stronger hold on his heart than
any thing else could be; that he had views for him beyond his belief; that at a
future period he would enter on what had ever been his most ardent wish, and
what he had no doubt of accomplishing. He allowed him to hope every thing
respecting Cava; but desired he would wait with patience for his full consent,
till he, the count, had brought all his schemes to bear, which at present must
lie hid in his own bosom ¾ “I have much to do,” cried he, “before I can
listen to the settlement of my child: you, Alonzo, must in a few hours quit
Toledo for Rome; I would willingly keep you still with me, but at present it
cannot be; I have business for you to transact in Italy. I shall soon leave
Spain for Africa; you shall shortly hear from me, when I can appoint our future
meeting; where it will be, I am not yet certain; but trust and rely, Alonzo, on
your constant friend.”
The
young prince, raised to the highest pitch of happiness by the kind behaviour of
the count, threw himself at his feet, kissed his hand, and swore eternal
fidelity and obedience to his generous protector. Count Julian, deeply affected
by this scene, put as sudden a period to it as was in his power; and Alonzo retired
to prepare for his journey.
Count
Julian had still an arduous task to perform; it was to get leave from Rodrigo
to return to his African government. The king either was, or pretended to be so
attached to him, and to think him of so much consequence to the state, that he
could scarcely bear his being a day from the palace: but as consummate a master
of deceit as Rodrigo was, he found his equal in count Julian, who appearing
very melancholy, and the king’s inquiring the cause, with seeming kindness, but
with inward fear, lest that melancholy might proceed from the count’s
resentment, should he have discovered how greatly he had injured him.
The
wily count replied, “He was indeed melancholy from private distress; a
messenger had that morning brought him a letter from the countess, who was
dangerously ill; that he loved her too tenderly not to be wretched at the bare
idea of losing her; that he feared the worst, from the account her physician
had sent him; that the countess requested he would hasten to Africa, and, if he
wished her to die in peace, to bring her daughter with him, that she might have
the only satisfaction she could now enjoy in this world, that of seeing her
beloved child, before she bid it an eternal adieu.”
The
count acted his part so well, that the king believed all he said, and was
surprised into a consent for his return, for a stated time; and he also gave
him permission to carry his daughter with him. Rodrigo was afraid to refuse
what provoked him to grant; and the count succeeded in all his schemes.
Cava
soon heard from her father that she must instantly prepare for quitting Toledo;
hearing that she was to do so, gave her all the pleasure she was capable of
feeling, and she blessed the hour that should carry her from Spain. Alonzo was
gone; but not without writing to Cava, for the count had prohibited an
interview, to inform her of his conversation with her father, and the happiness
and hope he felt from it. He entreated her, notwithstanding the count’s
prohibition, to allow of his seeing her, for a few moments only, before his
departure for Rome; and ended with every assurance of perfect and constant
love.
When
the princess received the letter, she knew the hand, and was agitated almost to
fainting; she was even tempted to return it unopened; but she could not bring
herself to make him so wretched, nor could she resist such a proof of Alonzo’s
affection; she broke the seal, and, as she read, a shower of tears fell from
her beauteous eyes, and she exclaimed, “Oh! my Alonzo, you must ever be dear to
your miserable Cava. I cannot, I will not tear your heart in pieces, that heart
I would not relinquish to be mistress of the universe; but I cannot, I will not
see you; with my consent we meet no more. Oh! how cruel, how dreadful is the
sentence! and must that inhuman sentence proceed from her to whom you are so
infinitely dear? Alas! it must; we are both undone; and till your Cava finds a
refuge in the grave, she will know no peace.”
The
princess, determined on not admitting Alonzo to her presence, wrote the
following lines in answer to his letter: ¾
“Cava
is too ill to see Alonzo; she has received his letter, every word of which has
spoken to her heart; she will preserve it as a treasure most dear to her; she
entreats him to believe, that while she exists, he will always fill the place
he has ever done in her affections; that to own he does so, will be her pride;
and that though they may never meet again, her consolation, when her heart is
most oppressed, will be the certainty of Alonzo’s love; and she will weary
Heaven with prayers for his happiness and safety.
CAVA.”
Several
letters were written and committed to the flames before she could frame one she
thought fit to send him. The prince would have received even a word with delight;
he grieved for her indisposition, but, comforted by the certainty of her
affection, and the assurances of the count that she would soon be restored to
health, he left the court with no regret, but that of being removed to a
distance from his tenderly-beloved Cava.
Favilla,
finding that her friend was to accompany her father to Africa, was sincerely
afflicted; they had not been separated for years; they were knit in the
strictest bonds of friendship; and she almost mourned her departure as she
would have done her death. The melancholy Cava endeavoured to turn Favilla’s
thoughts to her own bright prospects, and the happy lot she hoped soon awaited
her in her union with Alphonso; but Favilla’s was not a selfish mind, and all
her own wishes being gratified, had not the power of hardening her heart. She
saw her friend was wretched, and concealed even from her that grief that seemed
to prey upon her health, and even threatened her life. Favilla, however,
flattered herself that they should soon meet again, and that count Julian would
return with his daughter to Spain, before her nuptials with Alphonso would take
place.
This
also the queen imagined she had settled with the count; for her attachment to
Cava was so sincere, that on no other terms could she be persuaded to consent
to her departure, than the count’s promise that his daughter should again be
placed near her, and that his own return to Spain should no longer be delayed
than was necessary on the countess Julian’s account. Alas! amiable Egilone, how
severely were you doomed to mourn the fatal return of the count, and to shed
tears of agony for those miseries it heaped upon you! But it is not our part to
anticipate the story we relate; and we shall conclude this chapter with the
departure of count Julian and the lovely Cava. She would have left the palace
without seeing the king, had it been possible. That misery, however, she was
necessitated to endure; but, placed between the queen and Favilla, he had no
opportunity to address a word in private to her; and the princess supported
herself with firmness and becoming dignity. She never looked at or spoke to the
king, and only returned his compliments with an inclination of the head;
tenderly affected by the sorrow the queen and Favilla expressed, her silence
and tears were supposed to proceed from the pain she felt at bidding them and
the other loved companions of her youth adieu; and the artful count Julian,
dreading the end of such a scene, hurried her from the court, and a short hour
saw her at some distance from Toledo. They had pursued their journey in
silence, when count Julian, turning round, as they ascended an eminence, beheld
the city, which lay beneath him in majestic beauty. Though his wrongs had made
too deep an impression ever to be erased but by the blood of his enemy, yet his
soul was softened when he reflected what might be the consequences of the war
he was determined to wage with Rodrigo; and, with a sigh, fixing his eyes on
the towers of Toledo, he repeated those lines from Homer, which had occurred to
the brave Scipio when he beheld Carthage in flames.
“The
day must come, the day decreed by Fates,
How
my heart trembles while my tongue relates!
When
thou, Imperial Troy, shall lowly bend,
And
see thy honours fall, thy glories end.”
Conscience
will be heard even by the worst of men; it often stings them almost to madness;
yet it is a melancholy consideration how little it avails when the rein is
given to the human passions, and when hatred, ambition, and revenge, warp the
understanding, and stifle for a time the monitor within.
Count
Julian mourned for a moment over the miseries he was about to bring upon his
country; but that feeling was soon effaced by his ambition, and thirst of
vengeance; and, flattering himself that his wrongs would excuse him to the
whole universe for the part he was about to act, he revolved in his dark mind
his dreadful plans, his deep-laid schemes; and made the utmost expedition to
the sea-coast, from whence he embarked with Cava for Africa. Unfortunately for
Spain, he met nothing to impede his progress, either by sea or land; and the
sun that saw him quit his devoted country was not sunk below the horizon, when
his foot pressed the shores of Africa.
CHAP.
V.
Up
rose the king of men with speed,
And
saddl’d straight his coal-black steed;
Down
the yawning steep he rode,
That
leads to Helle’s drear abode.
* * * * * * * * *
Hie
thee hence, and boast at home,
That
never shall enquirer come
To
break my iron sleep again,
Till
Sol has burst his tenfold chain;
Never
till substantial Night
Has
resum’d her ancient right,
Till
wrap’d in flames, in ruin hurl’d,
Sinks
the fabric of world.
GRAY.
TO the north of Toledo, between two dark and
almost inaccessible mountains, was a narrow and dismal valley, desert and
uninhabited. No vegetation was to be seen there at any season of the year; and,
except a few wild cork-trees, not a shrub could give shelter to the unfortunate
traveller that might chance to pass that way. It was called the Enchanted
Valley, and took that name from a palace that had been built, and remained
there time immemorial. This palace was situate in the middle of the valley, and
was rather an object of terror than gratification to the passenger. The
tradition in Spain was, that it had been built by demons, who had secured and
barred the entrance; and that whenever it should be opened, the empire of the
Goths should end, and the ruin of Spain follow. This was so firmly believed by
the people, that no prince who sat on the Gothic throne had as yet ever
ventured to unbar the gates of this dismal palace; and its only inhabitants
were birds of prey, and of ill omen, who formed their nests in its dark
battlements, and moss-grown towers. The people trembled at the mention only of
the black palace; and the shepherd would drive his flock a league round the
mountains, rather than approach it; and so strong a hold had this superstition
on the Spaniards, that even the most enlightened man in the country would have
deemed it a crime to enter its walls.
About
this time there had been some conversation held on the subject in the hearing
of the king; and he who had never before felt a wish to approach the palace,
though he had often seen it from the tops of the surrounding hills, was now
seized with the most violent curiosity to explore its inmost recesses, and be
himself a witness of what it contained. Rodrigo flattered himself that he
should find within its walls treasures hidden, perhaps, by some former king;
and so prepossessed was he with this opinion, that he was fixed in his
determination of opening the palace, let the consequences be what they would;
and he gave orders to a number of his courtiers and attendants to follow him.
Don
Palayo, who respected the prejudices of the people, and was sensible that
Rodrigo, by his bad conduct, and the indolent and luxurious life he led, was
irritating them, and, perhaps, laying the foundation for his own ruin, made use
of all his influence with his kinsman to prevent his committing so great a folly;
but the ill-fated Rodrigo, urged on by his evil genius, listened not to the
advice of his friend. He was a king, he had power, and while he had it, he
would be obeyed.
To
the black palace in the enchanted valley, then, Don Palayo, and a number of his
courtiers were forced, unwillingly, to attend him; and, deriding the folly of
his people, and pursued by their curses, Rodrigo rode foremost of the party he
had commanded to assemble, highly elated with the hope of finding an immense
treasure in the melancholy spot.
The
entrance to the valley was narrow and steep; scarcely a tract of what was once
a road remained, to lead them by various turnings to the dreary mansion. When
at a short distance from the palace, a torrent roared across their path, and
Rodrigo, plunging into it, called aloud to those who were not cowards to follow
him. Don Palayo, and a few more, obeyed his stern order; but the chief part of
his retinue remained on the bank of the river, astonished at the temerity of
the king, and those that accompanied him, for they were now in the middle of
the stream, struggling with the mountain torrent, and indebted to the strength
and activity of their steeds for reaching the opposite bank in safety. Here Don
Palayo again intreated the king to forbear, and to seek another path out of the
valley, to lead them back to Toledo, and by which he might avoid repassing the
river. Rodrigo ridiculed his fears, laughed at the belief of supernatural
beings, and pursued his way.
The
day was dark and lowering, and thick clouds were gathering on the tops of the
mountains, and foretold a coming storm, just as they arrived at the gates of
the black palace, for its appearance might well entitle it to that name, as it
was constructed of a dark marble, hewn from the surrounding hills. At the back
was a steep mountain, which almost hung over the castle, and seemed to threaten
its battlements with destruction; to the left was a deep morass, the abode of
toads and adders; to the right was a piece of ground, which had the appearance
of a ruined garden; and a spacious court, waste and dreary, lay in front; iron
gates, through which there was a full view of the palace, were locked and
strongly barred. The king alighted from his horse ¾ he carefully inspected them ¾ he was amazed at their strength, and the
belief of a hidden treasure impressed itself more forcibly on his mind; and, in
idea, he saw himself the richest sovereign in the world. He ordered those that
had followed him to force the locks, and unbar the gates. It was attempted, and
found impossible. Again Rodrigo examined them, and was still more convinced of
their strength; but the obstinate king declared he would wrench them from their
hinges; this, after infinite labour, was effected, and the gates falling into
the inner court, the noise resounded like distant thunder from the surrounding
mountains. The rash Rodrigo was now before the entrance of the castle; the
immense folding doors were to appearance as strongly locked and barred as the
outer gates had been; and the narrow Gothic windows were placed so high in the
walls, it was impossible to have a view through them of any thing within. Again
the king commanded the forcing of the doors, though it should be a work of some
hours. The hinges did not yield as those of the gates had done; they had to
file the iron bars that crossed those doors, and still they were secure; the
locks defied the strength of men; they could neither be forced or broken. In
despair and anger, Rodrigo turned to mount his steed, and delay to a more
favourable moment the gaining admittance to the forbidden palace, when he was
struck by the sight of an immense horn, hung by an iron chain, near the
entrance; it instantly occurred to him that the castle had an inhabitant; and,
darting towards the spot where the horn hung, the fearless king seized it, and,
applying it to his mouth, he blew with all his might. The blast was tremendous;
it seemed to shake the ground on which he stood; a loud and mournful noise
passed through the courts, and even Rodrigo felt alarm, for, at the moment, the
palace doors of themselves flew open, and discovered a large and gloomy hall
surrounded by dark pillars. The king, with don Palayo at his side, now entered
the hall; the rest followed, astonished, and almost confounded, for the fabric
trembled beneath their feet; and they heard the bursting open of every door in
the same instant. A hurricane ensued, loud winds whistled through the
apartments, thunder rolled tremendously over the castle, and the blue
lightnings flashing, at intervals, through the high Gothic windows, showed more
visibly the darkness, dreariness, and desolation of the place. Rodrigo,
unsheathing his sword, cried ¾ “Come on; let this be the enchantments of men
or devils, I will search every apartment in this cursed mansion, till I find
what they contain.” ¾ Then striding across the hall, and calling to
his followers to advance, he mounted a broad and gloomy staircase, that led
into a spacious chamber, the walls of which were entirely covered with armour
and warlike weapons; they seemed bright, and were placed in regular
compartments; and, as the lightning was attracted by them, and danced upon
their surface, this immense saloon was brightened by the sudden flashes of
light. No article of furniture was visible, but in the middle of the apartment
was placed a large pedestal of marble, which supported a coffin, made of iron,
ribbed with polished steel. The lid was fastened by strong clasps, and seemed
to defy the strongest arm to open. The king, weary of endeavouring to force them,
ordered his attendants to break the coffin to pieces; but scarcely was the
attempt made, when the lid of itself flew open, and from the coffin rose the
figure of a handsome Moor, in the habit of his country. He spoke not, but
leaping on the floor, he held up a black scroll to the king, on which, in the
Latin language, were written, in letters of fire, the following words: ¾
“Spain
shall soon be conquered, and destroyed, by a nation, whose inhabitants resemble
in figure, colour, and dress, the man you see before you.”
“This
is priestcraft,” cried the undaunted king; “I cannot be deceived; I will not be
thus trifled with; man or devil, you shall not escape my sword.” ¾ And he rushed forward to plunge his weapon in the breast of the figure
that stood before him; but his foot slipped on the marble pavement, and before
he could recover himself, the Moor had leaped upon the coffin; it was instantly
surrounded with a blue flame, and the lid closing with a tremendous noise, loud
shrieks issued from different parts of the saloon, and appalled all but the
king, who would again have attempted to force open the coffin, to discover, he
said, the cheat intended to be put upon him; but terror had so entirely
overcome his followers, that, on looking round, he saw no one near him but the
brave don Palayo, who again entreated him to quit this abode of horror.
“If
it be priestcraft, as you call it,” said don Palayo, “it is quite impossible we
should now discover it; you know not to what dangers you may be exposed in such
a place as this; cunning, and a well-laid scheme, may render our valour of
little avail: be persuaded, Rodrigo, by your friend, and let us return to
Toledo.”
The
king hesitated for a few moments, and then turning to the prince, with a
scornful and disdainful smile, he answered ¾ “I little expected to have found a coward in
don Palayo.”
“A
coward!” cried the brave Palayo, while a burning blush spread over his cheek,
and anger flashed from his eye ¾ “a coward!” placing his hand on his sword ¾ “Had any one but the rash and obstinate Rodrigo joined such a word to
the name of Palayo, that word should have been his last. Think not Rodrigo,
that fear prompts me to advise your quitting this mansion; the brave are wary,
and on their guard, when danger is near; rashness is no proof of courage. I
have as little apprehension of supernatural beings as you can have; the guilty
only can tremble before them; the good are under the protection of Heaven.”
“Let
the guilty Rodrigo tremble then,” said a hoarse and discordant voice, that
seemed close to them, though nothing was visible.
Don
Palayo unsheathed his sword, and preceded the king to the door of the saloon;
Rodrigo followed in gloomy silence, and they descended the stairs together. The
thunder had ceased to growl, the lightnings to glare, and in the lower hall it
was only darkness visible. Rodrigo passed slowly through it; he lingered as he
passed, and cast his wild and haggard eyes around; then pointing beyond the
pillars that encircled the hall, he asked don Palayo if he beheld nothing in
the distance? “for I see,” cried the king, “dark and gigantic shadows fleeting
behind the pillars; let us pursue these phantoms, and discover the trick.”
“Let
us rather quit this accursed place,” answered the prince, advancing to the
entrance; “I perceive another storm approaching; we shall do wisely to return
to Toledo.”
He
had scarcely uttered the last words, when the same voice that had addressed
Rodrigo in the upper apartment again said ¾ “Rodrigo, thy kingdom is departed from thee;
thy reign has been one continued crime, and thy punishment is near,”
The
king started ¾ he turned round ¾ again he was prepared to strike, had any form
met his eye; but those fleeting shadows were either the coinage of his own
brain, or were dissolved in air the moment they were seen. A profound silence
now reigned through the palace; and left almost in total darkness, the king
reluctantly pursued the steps of his friend, and quitted the gloomy building.
He was scarcely beyond the threshold, when the doors all closed of themselves,
with as fearful and tremendous a noise as they had opened. The affrighted
attendants were in the outer court, waiting the return of the king, and
dreading his anger at their want of courage; but Rodrigo’s thoughts were otherwise
employed. He and don Palayo, in silent astonishment, mounted their steeds, that
trembled under them, and left a spot, where their curiosity had been raised to
the highest pitch, and was still ungratified; for what to make of all they had
seen and heard, they knew not. A sad impression, however, remained on the
king’s mind, impossible for him, with all his daring courage, to shake off.
He
departed from the castle, shocked, but not reformed. On coming to the river,
they found it perfectly safe to pass; the swell that had made it so dangerous
was fallen, and their attendants were still waiting on the opposite bank. Once
passed the river, the king and prince, without speaking or commenting on what
they had seen or heard, rode with speed towards Toledo, where they found the
queen in anxious expectation of their return.
This
last act of Rodrigo gave the greatest disgust to his subjects; they looked upon
him as forsaken of Heaven, and as one devoted to destruction; and his numerous
enemies suffered not so fair an opportunity to escape them, of turning the
hearts of the multitude against him.
In
a very short time the king was sensible what a folly he had committed; he felt
how much he had to fear from the hatred of the people; he repented his crimes,
but it was too late; the time was past; he was soon to sustain the utmost
malice of his fate, with the dreadful aggravation that it was the just
punishment for his abandoned life.
CHAP.
VI.
Then
led the way
To
light him to his prey,
And
like another Hellen,
She
fir’d another Troy.
DRYDEN.
WE shall now turn our eyes to Africk, and
enlighten ourselves on what is passing there.
The
countess Julian, notwithstanding what her husband had propagated in Spain of
her illness, was in perfect health, and ignorant of all the count’s schemes,
his cause of vengeance, and the insult her family had received from Rodrigo.
She heard with delight that her lord and daughter were landed, and flew to
receive them with every demonstration of joy. She was met by her husband with
pleasure, and feigned composure; by Cava, with tears, embraces, and delight,
mixed with the deepest sorrow. The countess, who dearly loved her daughter, was
thunderstruck; her appearance was exactly the reverse of what she expected;
and, though nothing could destroy the wonderful beauty of the princess, or take
from the loveliness of her face and form, yet that face and form, overwhelmed
with grief, was like the sun when dark clouds obscure it, and only, at
intervals, can its refulgence delight the eye, or glad the heart of man.
Cava’s
recent illness was declared by her cautious father as the cause of her present
dejection, and the fond mother sought every method to restore cheerfulness to
her beloved child. She succeeded; sadness was in some measure banished from the
countenance of Cava, who strictly obeyed her father’s injunction of silence.
The
court of count Julian was gay and splendid; and many entertainments had been
prepared to celebrate his return, and the arrival of the princess. The count,
pleased with every thing calculated to conceal his preparations for war, was
himself anxious to promote the pastimes of the court, and invited some Moors of
the highest rank to join in these amusements.
The
fame of the princess Cava’s beauty, and the gracious reception the count and
countess Julian gave to strangers, drew many brave and gallant Moors to their
public shows and entertainments; and now the count found it of the utmost
consequence, towards the furthering of his schemes, to conciliate the Infidels.
He therefore made a magnificent feast, to which he invited Musa, the Moorish
governor under the caliph of Damascus. With Musa came his own son Abdalesis,
and also Aleanzar, son to the caliph. This young prince had been entrusted to
the care of Musa by his father, who was desirous he should be made acquainted
with Africa, as he intended, at a more mature age, to give him the government
of that province.
The
Saracens were at this period rapidly overrunning almost all the countries of
the known world, and their troops were looked upon as invincible.
This
was the moment count Julian chose to inform his countess of his most secret
thoughts. He had hitherto feared her love for Spain, and her amiable and
Christian disposition, would lead her to endeavour at frustrating his plan for
the conquest of the country; he feared she would recoil at the calling in the
Infidels to his assistance, and the shedding of so much Christian blood as must
follow the execution of his plan; for although sister to the late king Vitiza,
and to the worthless Oppas, she was not allied to them in vice, but was looked
upon as one of the most amiable and excellent ladies of the age. The artful
count, who was well versed in the human heart, and, by the depth of his own
understanding, knew how to govern individuals as he did the multitude, soon
impressed the weeping countess with a sense of the propriety of his conduct. He
declared, his only wish was to efface the stain Rodrigo had dared to throw upon
the honour of their house, and also to avenge her own ill-used family. “Shall
we,” said the count, “sit down tamely till the wretch tramples us in the dust?
it shall never be; I have withdrawn your nephew Alonzo from the grasp of the
tyrant; and I am determined to place him and our beloved Cava on the Gothic
throne, or fall in the attempt: but my child shall first be avenged,” cried
count Julian, rising in fury from his seat; “this arm, I trust, shall lay the
base Rodrigo low. Cava shall again smile; Cava and Alonzo shall yet be happy.”
Thus
reasoned, and thus hoped count Julian, and soon persuaded the countess that his
conduct was what it ought to be, considering the injuries that had provoked it;
and she flattered herself that at a future day she should see those she so
dearly loved reign over a country they should render happy by their virtues;
and with this flimsy covering did the deluded countess conceal from herself the
ambition that lurked in her heart; and a few days saw her a zealous advocate
for all the count’s measures.
Soon
count Julian dispatched a messenger to Rome, desiring the prince Alonzo would,
with the utmost expedition, join him at his government in Africa; but he
forbore assigning any reason for this order. The young Alonzo having received
the mandate, instantly prepared to leave Rome; he knew that his adored Cava was
in Africa, and that knowledge accelerated all his preparations; to be near her,
was a happiness he could not forego for a moment, if once within his reach.
As
his journey and voyage will take a considerable time, we must relinquish the
pleasure of travelling with this amiable prince, and make acquaintance with the
Moors at the court of count Julian.
Think
not, my fair readers, that I am going to place before you the figure of
Othello, as you have seen him represented on the stage. The Moors were not
black; their dark complexions were not disgusting; they were a fine people,
well formed, active, and animated.
Abdalesis
and his friend the prince Aleanzar were in the bloom of youth, both remarkably
handsome, skilled in all martial exercises; and educated at a court, their
manners were of a superior cast.
Abdalesis
was brave, generous, humane, and felt a partiality for the Spaniards. His
thoughts were turned to war, when war called him to the field; in peace, young
as he was, he assisted his father in the regulation of his government. The fair
had little power over his heart; he admired beauty, but refused to wear its
chains.
Aleanzar
had many amiable points in his character; he was brave, magnificent, and generous;
he was candid and sincere; but his passions were wild and ungovernable ¾ if he commanded, he must be obeyed ¾ attempt to controul him, he was a lion ¾ yield to his power, he was soft and gentle as a lamb ¾ if his eye could flash with fury, it could also melt with love. He
delighted in the company of women; and his worst fault was too great an
inclination for luxury and pleasure.
Many
other gallant Moors came in Musa’s train; but as they are not necessary to our
story, we pass them over in silence.
Amidst
a scene of dissipation and pleasure, count Julian found a thousand
opportunities to work upon the mind of Musa, to assist him in his attempt to
overturn the Spanish government. He represented Rodrigo to him as a wretch not
fit to wield the sceptre; as a man hated by the people, and easily to be
overcome, as he was now unprovided with the requisites for war, men, arms, and
treasure, his luxuries and vices having exhausted his kingdom. The count
assured Musa, that most of the nobles of the land would join his standard, the
moment he should erect it. He endeavoured to persuade Musa that he should find
his advantage in lending him his assistance; and that it would also pave the
way for the Moors, in any conquest they might wish to make in the other countries
of Europe. Nothing could be more gratifying to the Saracen than the overture
made by the count; but Musa was a wary and subtle man, and being a Mohametan,
he feared to trust a Christian, or to enter into his plans, till he knew the
caliph’s pleasure; assuring count Julian of his friendship, and declaring his
own wishes were to assist him, he proposed sending to his master for his
orders. This would take some time. Count Julian thought it most prudent to
agree to it; but did not in the least relax in his preparations for a descent
on Spain, nor in his efforts to attach to his party all the disaffected in the
kingdom. On his way to Africa, he had met many of the heads of the conspiracy,
who had all firmly bound themselves to follow his fortune.
Hunting
parties, sham fights, in which Moors and Christians joined, and exercising
their troops, covered the designs of count Julian and Musa, while they waited
the decision of the caliph.
The
countess, who presided at the banquets, and all those entertainments she so
well knew how to render agreeable, delighted her noble guests by her manners,
and the grace with which she received and entertained them. Cava was seen with
wonder; Musa and Abdalesis admired her beauty, and respected her for that air
of reserve and modesty which she always wore, and which was particularly
pleasing to the Moors. But Aleanzar, from the first moment he beheld her, was
her slave. Her astonishing loveliness surprised even him, who was accustomed to
see the most beautiful women of the east. Aleanzar, in those he had approached,
found willing slaves, who played off all their little arts to allure him, who
flattered, caressed, and often disgusted him. Contrasted with them, Cava
appeared a divinity: possessed with the most violent passion for her, he dared
not approach her but with respect, so fearful was he of offending; for Cava,
instead of endeavouring to attract the admiration of the young prince, shunned
it. She modestly shrunk from adulation and flattery, and avoided meeting those
eyes that were continually turned, with ardour, on her perfect form. But Cava
could not always free herself from the attentions of Aleanzar, who found many
favourable opportunities to divulge his passion. She endeavoured to suppress
it, by assuring him he never could meet a return: this wrought no change in
Aleanzar; the coldness with which he was received quenched not the fire that
inwardly consumed him; he saw himself rejected by the only female he had ever
truly loved; his own vanity, and the education he had received, persuaded him
he could never meet such a mortification. His vexation was extreme, but his
love was greater than his anger; and, in justice to the Moor, we must
acknowledge he aimed at gaining Cava’s affections; and, although she was a
Christian, intended placing her on his throne. Aleanzar, finding he could gain
nothing on the heart of the Gothic princess, while he remained at count
Julian’s court, cautiously concealed from all but the lovely object herself,
his fond wishes; and secretly planning a scheme, which, he hoped, would secure
him the hand of her to whom he was devoted, he became less ardent in his
manner; and though particular in his attentions to Cava, was not exclusively
so. Abdalesis rallied him on his passion for the fair Christian; he was silent;
he even refused him his confidence.
At
the expected time, the caliph’s answer to Musa arrived; and the Mahometan
governor told the count, with unfeigned pleasure, that he was, for the present,
allowed to assist him with some troops; adding, that he would send him more,
should he be able to make good his footing in Spain.
This
was exactly what count Julian wished; blinded by ambition, and the passion of
revenge, he not only accepted, but anxiously sought the fatal assistance of the
Moors; and reflected not a moment on the misery in which it might involve his
country.
Oh!
man, inconsiderate, short-sighted man, what crimes, what afflictions, might be
spared to the world, did you not suffer your passions to tyrannize over your
cooler reason, and, at the moment you feel your own misfortunes so acutely,
allow your hearts to harden to the miseries of all around you! Alas! how
painful is it to take an unprejudiced view of the human heart! and how true
what one of our best poets has said¾
“How
high, how low, how wonderful is man!”
But
to return to our story ¾
Every
thing respecting the descent on Spain being adjusted between count Julian and
the Moorish governor, Musa, with Aleanzar, Abdalesis, and the other noble
Moors, who had attended them, returned to his government, from whence he sent a
hundred horse, and five hundred foot, to count Julian, to accompany him into
Spain.
The
count had no sooner obtained this reinforcement than, taking an affectionate
leave of his wife and daughter, he took his way to the coast, accompanied by
all the forces he could command. He embarked them on the African side of the
Straits, and instantly set sail for Spain, and safely landed at that spot we
now call Gibraltar.
Before
count Julian left Africa, he had assured the countess he would send for her and
Cava, as soon as he had secured his footing in the country, and should have in
his possession a place proper for their reception. The lovely Cava hung on his
neck, and, weeping, sent up a prayer for her dear father’s safety. He tenderly
embraced her, vowing he would amply avenge her wrongs, and hurl Rodrigo from
his throne. The princess started; she repented she had ever wished for
vengeance on the king, when it must involve so many in sorrow. The misfortunes
that must overwhelm the amiable Egilone, struck like ice upon her heart; and
she cried, “Oh! my father, protect the unhappy queen; defend her, suffer her
not to be in every way a victim to the crimes of Rodrigo. ¾ Oh! Egilone, kind and beloved friend, is it my hard lot to be the
unwilling cause of misery to you? I would avert it from you with the last drop
of my blood, had I the power.”
Count
Julian, affected by his daughter’s grief, which rendered her a thousand times
more amiable in his eyes, comforted her in the best manner he could, and
consigned her to the care of the countess, entreating them both to support
their spirits, hope happy news from Spain, and, in every event, depend on his
valour and his honour.
He
waited not for a reply, he had no time to lose; and he dreaded more to combat
the tenderness he now witnessed, than to meet the fiercest foe in the field.
He
had for some days expected Alonzo; the young prince was not arrived, and he now
left strict orders that he should follow him to Spain without delay.
Count
Julian had not deceived himself with vain hopes of success. He was soon master
of the small islands close to the Straits; and all appeared so favourable for
his expected conquest, that Musa shortly sent to his assistance Tariff, his
bravest and most experienced general, with twelve thousand of the best Saracen
troops.
While
the count lingered on the coast for their arrival, hoping, as soon they should
land, to overrun all Audalusia, a vessel was put into the port by stress of
weather; and the count going himself to inspect it, he was not a little
surprised to find the prince Alonzo, with his attendants, on board. The captain
had not been able to make the African shore, the wind having driven the vessel,
with fury, in a contrary direction. This the count looked on as a happy event,
and believed it augured well for his cause. The prince Alonzo rejoiced at this
unexpected meeting, but was greatly astonished at finding count Julian in arms
against Spain, assisted by so great a multitude of Moors. The count desired he
would land, and go with him to his camp, where he should receive every
information on the subject; saying, where they were, was no place for
discussion. Alonzo obeyed in silence and surprise. A sad presentiment oppressed
his heart; he could not account for those fears that presaged something fatal;
and, when alone with the count, he entreated he would disclose the cause of his
hostility to his own country.
Count
Julian, with much solemnity and sorrow, laid open to the young Alonzo the
inmost secrets of his heart, his cause of grief, and thirst of vengeance.
To
describe the feelings of the prince, is quite impossible; his grief, his rage,
his agony, knew no bounds; to his admiration of Cava, was added pity, and every
soft and compassionate feeling that finds place in the heart of man.
Count
Julian, the artful count Julian, let the first burst of grief subside, and then
asked the prince ¾ Was he not willing to assist in overturning
the tyrant?
The
young and amiable prince, embracing the count, cried ¾ “Oh! my father, for such have I always found you, such you must ever be
to me, teach me to fight with glory by your side ¾ lead me where I can encounter that monster, so
fatal to my house; and then shall I willingly resign life, in the bed of honour.”
“Talk
not of dying, my son,” cried count Julian; “you shall mount the throne of
Vitiza, your grandfather, when our oppressor is laid low ¾ rouse yourself from this lethargy of grief, and think of nothing but
your great revenge.”
Alonzo’s peace was gone; he wished not for the throne promised him by count Julian; all earthly grandeur, all worldly gratification, sunk to nothing in his imagination; but his soul was alive to glory; that, and the desire of revenge, for the present swallowed up every other passion. The count found him a willing assistant, full of energy, and paying such implicit obedience to his orders, that he soon looked on him as more useful than any of his veteran generals with the Spanish troops that joined him, and the large reinforcement that the one-eyed Tariff brought him, (for this general is called so in history, from his having lost an eye). The count finding himself in force, overrun a great part of the province of Andalusia.
Soon
the disastrous news reached Toledo, that count Julian had rebelled, and not
trusting to the number of the Spaniards that had joined him, had landed Moorish
troops at the Straits, who were commanded by one of the most able generals
belonging to the Infidels.
Rodrigo
was roused from the lap of luxury; though sunk in vicious pleasure, his mind
still retained something of its former greatness; and, shaking off his
effeminacy, he consulted those nobles that adhered to him, and made the most
active exertions to send an army into the field, under his kinsman Sancho. He
hoped, at least, to stop the conquests of the rebel, and his infidel troops,
till he could rouse all Spain in its own defence.
Sancho,
with his army, arrived in Andalusia. He supported himself against the enemy for
some time, and was prudent enough to avoid a general engagement. But count
Julian, at the head of the disaffected, and Tariff, commanding the fierce and
well-disciplined Saracens, were too much for the brave Sancho; who, often
rallying, displayed great valour, but was at last vanquished in a general
engagement his skill could not avoid, and sunk under the happier fortune of the
Moors.
Alonzo,
who fought near count Julian, and had twice that day saved his life in battle,
regardless of his own, did wonders; to his arm was given the honour of Sancho’s
death, which decided the fate of the Spanish army, that, at the termination of
the contest, fled in every direction. The Moors cried out, that Mahomet had
sent Alonzo to their aid.
The
victorious troops were not idle; they did not sit down satisfied with their
conquest; they covered the whole country; they penetrated into the next
province, and destroyed all before them: at last they made themselves masters
of Seville, which became an easy prey; her walls were in ruins, and she was
without troops.
Here
we shall leave the conquerors, to repose after their bloody toils, and to plan
future schemes of war and havoc, and the scattered and broken forces of Spain
to rally round the throne, while we again pass the Pillars of Hercules, and
inquire what is transacting in Africa, at the palace of count Julian.
CHAP.
VII.
Care
selve beate,
E
voi solinghi e taciturni orron,
Di
riposo e di pace alberghi veri,
O
quanto volontieri
A
rivedervi itorno.
GUARINI.
COUNT Julian having made, as we have seen, so
strong a league of amity with the Moorish governor, had no suspicion of any
treachery on the part of the Infidels; and so infatuated was he, and his
thoughts so entirely given up to his scheme of making himself master of Spain, that
had Musa desired it, he would willingly have trusted his African government to
his care during his absence. As it was, the count left but few Christian troops
to defend his province, should it be attacked; and his own castle had only a
small number to guard it, which was relieved every morning.
The
castle itself was situate at a short distance from the town, at the foot of
that magnificent mountain that lies in view of Gibraltar. It was a delightful
residence, sheltered from the burning south by the high mountains with which it
was surrounded. Delicious gardens, well planted, and watered by clear mountain
streams, enclosed the palace; and the inequality of the grounds gave a
beautiful variety to this enchanting abode.
The
countess Julian, pleased with its romantic scenery, had added to its natural
beauties by her exquisite taste; and here the melancholy Cava spent much of her
time, seeking the most sequestered spots, and often penetrating the dark
recesses of the groves, whose gloom “accorded with her soul’s sadness.” She
found her only pleasure in retracing the happy days she had passed with her
Alonzo; and she gave showers of tears to her departed felicity. She was
conscious of her father’s intentions of placing her, with this amiable prince,
on the Gothic throne; but her resolution was taken; she would not grieve her
parents, by, at present, counteracting their wishes; and she left it to time to
develop her intentions.
During
these solitary rambles, her pious mind raised itself to that heaven she looked
up to for future happiness; the world, and all its vanities, faded to her view;
she contemplated the insufficiency of all earthly enjoyments, and the little
power they possessed of conferring permanent felicity. In her was united every
thing that mortals call blessings; she had rank, riches, exquisite beauty, and
understanding superior to most of her sex, yet was rendered miserable by the
crimes of others. She thought of Alonzo ¾ her tears redoubled. ¾ “I see,” said she to herself, “this world is
not a place where even virtue can find peace. Alas! might we not lose our
eternal peace, were all the wishes of our hearts gratified! ¾ how soon should we be lost in worldly pleasure! ¾ how soon should we forget that there was any thing beyond the grave!
misfortune only points out to us the beauty of that country to which all are
travelling, which the happy here fear to reach, the unfortunate pant to attain.
And is it,” cried Cava, “so difficult to travel that road, which leads to such
superior bliss? ¾ is it so difficult to pass a few years in the
practice of virtue, to be so highly rewarded, as our holy religion tells us we
shall be? Oh! may I,” she cried, raising her eyes and her pure heart to Heaven,
“may I obtain a place in those celestial regions, should it even be purchased
with tenfold sufferings more than I have yet endured! Alonzo, oh Alonzo, am I
fated ardently to desire never to see you more!”
Cava,
in these effusions, relieved her full heart of much of its woe, during her
solitary walks; and she endeavoured to conceal her real feelings from the
countess, fearful of making her unhappy. She knew that Alonzo’s arrival was
every hour expected, and she dreaded it more than death. At length, a letter
from count Julian relieved her fears of any sudden interview. He informed the
countess of her nephew’s accidental arrival in Spain ¾ of their first meeting ¾ of Alonzo’s bravery ¾ his attachment to their cause ¾ and of their having penetrated even to Seville. For a time, Cava’s
sorrows were lulled to sleep; she heard of the fame of her hero ¾ she saw him crowned with laurels ¾ her father was safe, he was triumphant ¾ and self was lost in the gratification she felt at the brilliant
prospects of those she most loved on earth. Cava viewed all this as from
another world. She wished not to be a partaker in any thing here, and she felt
like a departed spirit, hovering round those who had once been the dearest
objects of her love.
The
countess Julian, completely occupied by all that was passing in Spain, saw
little company at her castle; and was chiefly employed with her domestic
concerns, and writing and receiving letters from her lord. She and Cava spent
most of their evenings together; and always parted at night, in full security
of the safety of the castle.
One
evening that they remained together rather later than was their custom, the
countess had just dispatched a messenger to Spain, and, weary from the labour
of writing, and making up her letters, had thrown herself on a sofa, and
entered into a conversation with her daughter, on count Julian’s intention of
placing her, with Alonzo, on Rodrigo’s throne ¾ “When the tyrant is destroyed, my child,”
cried she, “I shall have the felicity of seeing you in the possession of all
the world can give.”
“Never,
my mother,” returned Cava, “never will you behold your daughter on that fatal
throne; I renounce it, and all worldly grandeur; I will retire into a religious
house, the fittest place for me to spend the remainder of my life in; it is
what I have long determined on; but I wished not to mention it to you, till the
moment should arrive to put my plan in execution. I have now to entreat, my
beloved mother, that you will obtain count Julian’s consent to what only will
bring peace to my mind. I trust,” added she, her lovely face brightening with a
heavenly smile, “I trust you will see Alonzo on that throne to which he has so
good a right, and which he will so well know how to fill. He, I know, will
replace your Cava, will be to you all a fond son can be; and, in the silent
retreat to which I doom myself, my heart will be comforted with the recital of
his virtues ¾ with the certainty of his glory ¾ and the security that, in him, you have again found your child.”
The
countess was dreadfully affected by Cava’s discourse; she had no idea of her
secret intentions; they grieved, they confounded her; she combated them in
vain; and it was late before they thought of retiring, so long had their
discourse continued.
The
day had been sultry, but the night was cool; the windows of the apartment in
which they sat were open, and on a level with the gardens of the castle. The
countess had not called for lights; the night was brilliant, and more beautiful
than the finest day; unnumbered stars glittered in the vast expanse; and the
soft beams of an increasing moon played on a waterfall, within view of the
windows of the saloon; no sound but the murmur of the waters was heard in the
apartment, except that, at times, a drowsy bat flitted across the windows, or a
wakeful bird rustled in the aromatic shrubs that were planted near.
Lost
in their interesting conversation, neither the countess or Cava were sensible
even of these sounds, when the young princess, lifting her eyes to the window,
thought she perceived the shadow of a man pass at a little distance from it;
she looked earnestly, but it was gone. She had risen from her seat, and
advanced towards the window; she believed she heard some one talking in the
Moorish language, but all was silent; she thought herself deceived, and
returned to her seat. The countess smiled at her idea of any one being in this
retired part of the garden, sacred to their use, and forbidden to every
domestic in the castle. A second time they were entering on the topic that had
occupied them so long, when the figure Cava before perceived was again visible;
and, going to the window, she fancied it retreated among some thick dark trees,
near the waterfall. Presently they heard the guard relieved, and the steps of
the centinels, who, at stated times during the night, took their rounds outside
the castle. Perfectly secure from this circumstance, Cava believed herself
deceived, by the shadows from the trees; and, for a time, continued in deep
discourse with her mother. The countess, first perceiving the lateness of the
hour, proposed retiring for the night; and, at the door of her apartment,
dismissed her loved child, with a thousand blessings. Cava’s intention of
secluding herself from the world deeply affected her; unusual sorrow swelled
her bosom; and throwing her arms round her daughter, she strained her to her
breast, almost in agony. Cava, in silence, and nearly as much affected,
returned the embrace; and some moments elapsed before they could bring
themselves to separate. Their attendants approaching, Cava retired, melancholy and
oppressed, to her own chamber; and the countess, straining her eyes, to behold
her till she turned the end of the corridor, felt as she had taken her last
farewell, as if for the last time she beheld her child. At length, retiring to
her couch, sleep, that comforter of the wretched, soon “steeped her senses in
forgetfulness.” Not so with the princess, she felt not its drowsy influence;
and, when she reached her apartment, taking a lamp from her attendant, she
placed it on a table, and saying she wished to be alone, dismissed her for the
night.
The
apartment occupied by the Gothic princess looked into the gardens of the
castle, and a large balcony ran along the front, on which the windows opened;
these windows, by her orders, had not been closed; the serenity and brightness
of the night, and the perfume exhaled from the aromatic shrubs, with which the
garden abounded, drew the princess to the balcony; she leaned on the railing,
her eye wandered over the softened, but not obscured, landscape; and as sad ideas
rose in her mind, she felt that the beautiful scenery with which she was
surrounded, and the “solemn, sober, suited night,” abated their anguish. A
prayer for the safety of her father and don Alonzo ascended from her pure lips,
to that heaven on which her eyes were fixed. Some minutes had been given to
this pious occupation, when she was alarmed by footsteps in the garden; and
looking down, she perceived two armed men in the Moorish habit, between the
waterfall and the grove; they appeared as if rooted to the spot. Cava, who
seldom lost her presence of mind, was not dismayed, though alarmed; and,
starting from the balcony, she passed quickly into her chamber, in order to
alarm the castle; but she had scarcely got within the room, when she was
suddenly seized by two Moors; and, before she could cry out, her mouth was
covered with a silk handkerchief, and binding her hands with another, one of
the men lifted her in his arms, while his companion, raising the silk hangings
of the apartment, hurried out of a concealed door, and down a narrow staircase
that led into the garden. Cava struggled in vain; she could neither speak nor
free herself: having carried her through the door, the men covered her with a
magnificent Moorish mantle and veil; and again one of them lifting her gently
in his arms, carried her swiftly across the garden, and struck into a path
between the grove and the waterfall, where they met their companions, whom the
princess had seen from the balcony. Not a word was spoken by the Moors, as they
passed by the grove with their prey. When they came to the outer wall that
surrounded the garden, he that seemed to be their chief applied a key to a
small door, which instantly opening, they carried the princess through, and
then carefully shut and locked it. The terrified Cava was then carried into a
small enclosure, surrounded with trees, where, to her astonishment, she beheld
about twenty horsemen, finely mounted, and their horses most richly
caparisoned; the men were all drawn up in order, with naked sabres in their
hands. On the approach of the Moor who carried Cava in his arms, they saluted
him in silence. A page brought towards him a beautiful Arabian horse, still
more richly adorned than the rest. The Moor was so carefully concealed, that
Cava could not distinguish a single feature. He beckoned to the page still to
hold the horse; and, with respect and gentleness, he took the handkerchief from
the mouth of the princess, and unbound her hands, again rolling the veil and
mantle round her; he gave her to the care of the Moor next him, till he mounted
his steed. The page bent his knee as he gave him the rein; and the Moor who
held Cava, gently lifting her from the ground, placed her before his friend.
Horses were in readiness for those Moors who had been in the gardens of the
palace; and all putting their sabres in their scabbards, they set off at full
speed; and taking an unfrequented road, that wound round the foot of the
mountain, they soon lost sight of the castle and its environs.
Cava’s
astonishment and terror were extreme; she had scarcely power to breathe ¾ she began to fear that Rodrigo had employed those that surrounded her
to carry her off, and she dreaded more than death being in the tyrant’s power.
Her belief, however, of this misfortune was staggered by the Moorish habits of
her guards; and she then feared some treachery to her father on the part of
Musa; he might, perhaps, have seized upon her as a hostage. As soon as she was
allowed the freedom of speech, she entreated to know for what reason she was
carried from her home, and insulted in the manner she was? It was in vain she
asked a question, or solicited a reply. Her conductors were either determined
not to gratify her curiosity, or the rapidity with which they moved prevented
their hearing the supplications she addressed to them. The cavalcade took many
an inland winding path; but before morning dawned, again pointed their course
towards the sea, in an eastern direction, and were many, many leagues from
count Julian’s castle. To its afflicted inhabitants, the loss of the hapless
Cava was not known till late in the day. The countess missed her daughter, at
the usual hour of her visiting her apartment; and, at first, only supposed she
had not risen as early as was her custom, and her breast was filled with fears
for her child’s health. They had parted the night before in wretched spirits,
and their conversation had made a deep impression on the countess, and she felt
she had not sufficient strength of mind to shake off the sadness that oppressed
her: but her distress was soon augmented by the alarm that took place in the
castle. The attendants of the princess, on entering her apartments, as was
their custom, at a particular hour in the morning, were astonished at not
seeing their lady; and, on inspecting the inner chamber, found no traces of her
having occupied her bed during the night. The windows of the balcony were open;
and the lamp, not long extinguished, still remained on the table where the
princess, taking it from her woman, had herself placed it the night before.
Nothing was disturbed or taken away; and as one of her attendants constantly
slept in a gallery close to her chamber, and must have been alarmed by any
noise, it was scarcely possible to conceive how the princess had disappeared. Strict
search had been made for her throughout the castle, before the sad news that
she was missing reached the countess. When the officer of the guard, a trusty
servant of count Julian’s, came reluctantly to inform her of it, it is
impossible to describe her distraction for the loss of her child; she herself
left no apartment in the castle unsearched; and the greatest diligence was used
in seeking her through the gardens and grounds that surrounded the palace.
The
night guard were strictly examined; they were astonished at the possibility of
the princess having left the castle, or having been taken from it, without
their knowledge; they had, as usual, gone their regular rounds, and seen no
soul during the night.
The
miserable countess now began to suspect that Cava had willingly withdrawn
herself, fearful of being either persuaded, or forced into an union with don
Alonzo; and she conceived the idea that she might have sought the protection of
a religious house, as there were some established in the African government
belonging to count Julian, and many in Spain; to one of which the countess
supposed she might have fled. To take proper measures for discovering the
retreat of Cava, was now the only care of her unhappy mother; and messengers
were instantly dispatched to every monastery she supposed might have received
her daughter. Entreaties, threats, promises, and large donations, were all made
use of; but answers were soon returned, that the superiors were perfectly
ignorant of every thing respecting the Gothic princess.
The
countess now thought it most prudent to inform her husband of the disappearance
of their charming child, her ineffectual efforts to trace her, and her
suspicion that she had concealed herself in a convent.
Count
Julian was so far advanced into Spain, that it was long before this letter
could reach him, and much longer before the countess could expect an answer.
This excellent woman’s health was not proof against the accumulated distresses
of her mind; she lost her appetite, her sleep, and strength; and universal
languor pervaded her whole frame; and she fell into a state that greatly
alarmed all about her for her life.
Here
we must leave the countess Julian to the care of her friends, and the princess
Cava to pursue her journey to whatever spot her conductors, the Moors, please
to convey her, and, retracing our steps to the camp of count Julian, see if
victory still attends him and Alonzo, to the plains of Xeres.
CHAP.
VIII.
In
glitt’ring arms, and glory dress’d,
High he rears his ruby
crest;
There
the thund’ring strokes begin,
There
the press, and there the din.
Where
his glowing eyeballs turn,
Thousand
banners round him burn;
Where
he points his purple spear,
Hasty,
hasty rout is there,
Marking
with indignant eye,
Fear
to stop, and shame to fly.
There
Confusion, Terror’s child,
Conflict
fierce, and Ruin wild,
Agony,
that pants for breath,
Despair,
and honourable Death.
GRAY.
THE deplorable news of the total defeat of the
Goths, and the death of Sancho, their general, soon reached Toledo. The success
and rapid progress of the Infidels in Spain, spread terror and alarm every
where; and Rodrigo, who, as we have seen, was roused by the common danger, was
indefatigable in his endeavours to collect his troops, and in encouraging his
people to face so formidable an enemy. It was now he felt with tenfold
poignancy his past bad conduct. Abandoned by most of his nobles ¾ hated by his people ¾ stripped of money ¾ his best troops gained over by count Julian,
the king had every thing to struggle with. He did so nobly ¾ he laid aside his vices ¾ he forgot his luxuries ¾ he called together those still attached to him, and also those whom he
flattered himself he could by benefits draw to his cause. He granted favours ¾ he promised rewards. He collected by these means a large army from all
quarters of Spain; and, with the assistance of his best generals, he himself
attended to their appointments and their discipline. The early day saw the king
rise to labour; the setting sun did not behold him idle; and he gave the
example to his troops that a great captain should do; he desired from them no
toil, no privation, in which he did not willingly share; and in all he was
seconded by his brave kinsman, don Palayo.
While
Rodrigo was thus employed, count Julian, and Tariff, the Saracen general,
leaving their army to a little repose, made as quick a passage as possible into
Africa, to demand more forces from Musa, and to point out to him the easy
conquest they might now make of Spain. The Moor readily granted their request,
and took hostages from the Christians.
Count
Julian, anxious to see his wife, and to discover what was become of his child,
left Tariff to conduct the new-furnished troops into Spain, promising to join
him, the moment he should have settled some domestic concerns. He gave no hint
of Cava’s elopement, nor had an idea of her being in the hands of the Moors
ever entered his imagination. All matters adjusted with his allies, he took the
road to his castle, where he found the countess in still greater affliction
than when she had informed him of the flight of their child. Every day her
loss, and the uncertainty of her fate, became more intolerable. The count was
himself astonished at what he heard; he could by no means account for her
departure; and a thousand times did he make the countess repeat all that had
passed from the hour he left the castle. He examined with care his daughter’s
apartments, and every domestic that belonged to the castle. He gained no information
from the guard of the night; and he concluded that the countess must be right
in her conjectures, that the princess had secretly retired to a convent. He
endeavoured to console her unhappy mother; and promised, that as soon as he had
completed the conquest of Spain, he would himself search every convent for his
child, and offer such high rewards for finding her, that in no part of the
known world could she be long concealed.
He
told the countess he had given no hint to Alonzo of her flight; he was too well
acquainted with his ardent temper to suppose, had he known of it, that he would
have remained one moment with the army. “No,” cried the count, “love would have
carried him from one extremity of the globe to the other; he would have been
lost to glory, to his country, and to us. I entreat you, my Julia, let him not
know from you this distressing event; leave it to me to seek and restore our
child.”
The
miserable countess promised to act as her husband desired; she relied on him
for doing all that could be done in so delicate an affair; but had she wished
to combat her lord’s resolutions, it would have been in vain. Her declining
health rendered her incapable of doing so. She had lost all her energy; with
Cava her happiness had fled, and she was fast approaching the confines of
another world. In deep dejection she parted with the count; and he, in the
bitter moment of bidding her farewell, felt that the gratified ambition of man
cannot compensate the loss of domestic felicity; and, notwithstanding his splendid
prospects, he was oppressed with a deep melancholy during his short voyage back
to Spain, and even till he again mixed in the bustle of a camp.
The
brave king was as determined as his foes; unwilling to be attacked in his
capital, he had in haste collected a hundred thousand men; ill disciplined,
badly armed, and raw as were his troops, he gave orders to prepare every thing
for marching to meet the enemy. Toledo he put into the best state he was able
to do in so short a time, and chose some veterans he could trust, to take care
of the city, and guard the queen, and the young female nobility that remained
with her.
Egilone
had, by degrees, become completely wretched. She had fondly loved the king, but
his bad conduct, which, for some time, he had taken no pains to conceal, had,
if not entirely extinguished, deadened her affection; and resentment had often
found admission into her gentle bosom. Rodrigo, conscious how basely he had
used her, felt uncomfortable in her presence; her company became irksome; and,
except in public, they now scarcely met. The coldness of the king terminated in
what might have appeared hatred to this amiable woman; but, bad as he became,
he was not capable of that feeling towards her. Rodrigo shunned her, because
her virtue awed him; because, in her presence, he felt his own unworthiness;
and was keenly sensible how much she deserved his love and his approbation.
When
Egilone saw him ready to depart at the head of his army, when she beheld him
dressed for a field of battle, love again resumed his empire over her heart.
The manly, the noble figure of her once loved, once adored Rodrigo, stood
before her; for as yet “he had not lost all his original brightness.” She saw
him perhaps for the last time, and the melancholy idea melted her soul. With
agitated steps, and eyes swimming in tears, she approached him, and, attempting
to take his hand, she falteringly expressed her affection, her anxiety, and
breathed her most fervent prayers and wishes for his safety in the day of
battle, and for his happy return to his country, and to her.
The
king’s brow darkened ¾ he recoiled from the touch of the gentle and
innocent being he had once adored. Her merits threw a darker shade on his
character, and his proud soul could not endure the degradation.
“Madam,”
cried he, with a stern and forbidding air, retreating while he spoke, “I am
sensible I am unworthy of this waste of affection. At the present, it is
injudiciously bestowed; if you really feel it, you surpass in merit your whole
sex. The only return I can make you, is to wish you happy; if we meet again,
you will see Rodrigo a conqueror, and Spain at your feet.”
He
then coldly turned from Egilone, and, waving his hand to the attendants to
follow, he instantly left the palace: but violent and various were the passions
that struggled in the breast of the miserable and guilty Rodrigo. Pride and
conscious shame flushed his cheek; and, in departing, notwithstanding his
apparent coldness, his eyes often turned towards the palace, with an involuntary
wish of once more beholding the queen; but it was in vain; the unfortunate
Egilone remained motionless in the spot where he had left her; the colour
forsook her lip, her cheek; the tears which had filled her eyes when she
approached the cruel Rodrigo, appeared to be congealed there; those beauteous
orbs, now dimmed with grief, gazed after the departing king. She attempted to
speak; her faltering tongue refused its office; she could only articulate, “All
is over,” and, nearly lifeless, she sunk into the arms of Favilla.
Egilone’s
constant heart had sustained many rude shocks from the infatuated Rodrigo, but,
till the present moment, she had not relinquished the hope of bringing him back
to virtue and to love. Unfortunate, mistaken Egilone! not all your beauty, your
constancy, your tender affection, possessed such power. The melancholy history
of man too fully proves, that conjugal affection, once extinguished, is rarely,
if ever, blown into a second flame, for “where is that Promethean heat that can
its light relumine?”
But
war, not love, must now employ our thoughts; and I trust my readers will not
unwillingly follow me to the plains of Xeres. In those plains the undaunted
Rodrigo led the immense multitude he had collected. The Infidel army, with his
rebel subjects, there met the king. Both armies encamped within sight of each
other — both strongly entrenched — both promising themselves the victory — yet
history tells us it was seven days before they came to a general action. They
had continual skirmishes, which only served to harass, without being useful to
either side. If sometimes the Infidels were victorious, they had no reason to
rejoice; their victory cost them dear; they were opposed by multitudes; but
delay was ruin to that multitude; their leaders found the utmost difficulty to
provide for their wants, and to keep them together. The king was sensible of
the precarious state of his affairs; but the die was cast; there was now no
retreating; nor did Rodrigo wish it — he looked to conquest or to death. He saw
with dismay the panic that seized his army at the view of the fierce Saracens —
the horror they expressed at the necessity of fighting against their own
countrymen, whom count Julian had led into the field. Melancholy was spread
over the Christian camp; even Rodrigo was a prey to it; his soul was weighed
down with guilt. The night, which should have consigned him to repose,
consigned him to misery. Conscience, that dreadful monitor, told him his bright
day was past; the depth of night could not conceal him from himself. Cava’s
wrongs sat heavy at his heart. In idea he again entered by violence the
forbidden castle. He saw the dreadful scroll with the doom of Spain, he again
heard the shrieks that had sounded in his ears, and those terrible words — “Thy
kingdom is departed from thee.”
“Better,”
exclaimed Rodrigo, “to lie unburied on the field of battle, and there leave my
bones to bleach with summer suns and winter snows, than sustain a conflict with
those hideous specters of the night, over which the sword, or the strength of
man, can have no power.”
The
eighth morning, before the break of day, the king issued from his tent — he
roused his generals — he ordered all things for an attack; tired of life, he
hoped at least a glorious death.
His
immense army was soon in motion. The Infidels, aware of every thing, and never
off their guard, as if by mutual consent, prepared for battle.
The
sun rose in splendor on the two armies, that in the course of this eventful day
were to decide the fate of Spain. Tariff and Count Julian appeared at their
respective posts, one at the head of the rebel Christians — the other
commanding the haughty Saracens; they encouraged their troops, by promising
Spain and all its treasures as their reward.
Rodrigo had now marshaled his
multitude, as was the custom of the Gothic kings when they went to battle; and,
like Mars, he appeared in the front of his army; he was seated in an ivory car,
richly adorned, and over his armour flowed a magnificent mantle, embroidered in
gold; his breast-plate shone with precious stones; and his helmet was encircled
with a golden crown, that seemed to flame in the sunbeams. The deadly paleness,
which for some time had been habitual to him, was changed into the flush of
hope, that now spread itself over his fine countenance, and gave animation to
those eyes so lately sunk and gloomy: with majesty and eloquence he addressed
his army, and, pointing to the Infidels, he implored them, by all that was dear
to man, by their wives, their children, their happy homes, to exert themselves
this day, and drive those demons from their shores. Rodrigo forgot not to make
use of promises, threats, and entreaties; he wanted neither eloquence nor
persuasion — he looked what he was, a hero — they knew him to be brave — the
troops — answered his speech with shouts and acclamations — every one panted
for the battle — The army was soon in motion, and presently the ground was lost
between the contending hosts. If Tariff and his Saracens appeared invincible,
the king, and those that followed him, were not less brave, less animated, less
firm; wherever the battle rages with violence, there was Rodrigo to be found;
he encouraged the weak—he led on the valiant—with coolness he directed all. His
quick and penetrating eye took in the whole plain, and he dispatched his orders
from one end to the other of his extensive army, as a general able to command,
and determined to be obeyed. The contest was long and bloody; victory seemed at
times ready to declare for the Infidels; it then hovered over the banners of
the Christians: at length the Moors recoiled; they appeared paralized, and to
meditate a retreat. Count Julian, Tariff, though exerting themselves to the
utmost, felt doubtful of success. The Christians rent the air with their shouts;
they rushed forward with an impetuosity that nothing could withstand; Rodrigo
and don Palayo were at their head; and the conquest of Spain would never have
belonged to the Moors, had not the infamous Oppas, brother-in-law to count
Julian, and gained over by him, deserted at this moment, with that part of the
army which had been intrusted to his care; and, turning his arms against his
religion (for he was archbishop of Seville), his country, and his king, changed
the fortune of the day. Dismay spread itself through the royal army at this
sight; it was now the turn of the Infidels to exult. Alonzo, at the side of
count Julian, fought both with valour and desperation; he endeavoured to hew
his way to Rodrigo; to lay him low, he would willingly the next moment have
resigned his life; but with all his efforts he could not approach the king; he,
however, kept him in sight, determined not to relinquish his great revenge.
Terror
and dismay now took possession of the royal troops; they began to separate and
fly; in vain the king and don Palayo attempted to stop them; they threw away
their arms to escape from their fierce pursuers: often did Rodrigo, supported
by those personally attached to him, turn and face, and for a time disperse the
Infidels. He that day performed wonders; all that a great general and a valiant
soldier could do, he did: but finding that his voice, his words, his
entreaties, his menaces, were now in vain to stop his flying troops; that all
was in confusion; that victory, having long balanced her favours, now declared
for count Julian and the Moors; unwilling to fall alive into their hands,
quitting his car, he fought on foot, and numbers of the bravest of the enemy
fell by his arm. Even surrounded by the Infidels, he cut his way through them, and
with a handful only of troops, he long opposed their progress. Halting, in the
midst of slaughter, to recover breath, he looked around and saw himself
deserted; his eye searched for don Palayo; he turned it to where he had lately
so bravely fought; no trace of him remained; the Christians were flying in
every direction. Rodrigo found himself alone among a heap of dead; one solitary
and faithful soldier stood near him, holding his favourite horse, (which the
father of Spanish history tells us was named Orglia). The soldier entreated the
king to mount it, and fly. He heard the din of battle; it was distant, and far
as his eye could reach, he saw the Infidels pursuing his broken legions, and
directing their course towards his camp.
Exhausted
with the toils of the day, his heart bursting with grief and rage, the still
undaunted and brave Rodrigo leaned upon his spear, and for some moments
flattered himself with the vain hope he might yet be able to collect his flying
army, and again make a glorious stand. Like lightning these thoughts passed
through his mind, and gave new vigour to his arm, new energy to his soul. But
soon was the wretched monarch awakened from this last short dream of happiness,
by a sudden shout from two men at a little distance from where he stood; they
were armed, and in the Christian habit; they were on foot, and with hasty
strides were making towards the king, and he distinctly heard these words: —
“Turn, Rodrigo, and answer for the wrongs of Cava.” No words but these could
have palsied the arm, or sunk the heart of Rodrigo; they came on the wind like
a pestilence, and unmanned his soul; his spear fell from his hand, and he
remained motionless. The faithful soldier, presenting him his steed, cried,
“Fly, fly, Rodrigo; count Julian and the prince Alonzo are near; fly, my noble
master; my wounds bleed afresh; alas! I cannot assist you.” The gallant soldier
fell as he pronounced these words. The king seized the bridle of his steed,
and, vaulting into the saddle, he flew over the plain with the swiftness of an
arrow, and heard not the curses with which his disappointed enemies pursued
him. Count Julian, enraged, and vowing future vengeance, sought his victorious
troops; but Alonzo, whose keen eye had followed the track of the royal
fugitive, instantly determined on pursuit. He marked the bend the king made
towards the river, to avoid the Infidels; and he believed that, although on
foot, he might be able to overtake him before he could cross the torrent; for
Alonzo knew the river was then full, and the banks were steep.
The
wretched Rodrigo fled he knew not whither. “Grief, anguish, desperation, rushed
upon him.” His horse carried him in safety to the banks of the Guadaleta, and
then suddenly stopped, as if conscious that it was dangerous to attempt the
river. This roused the king from his stupor, when throwing himself from the
saddle, he cried, “Go, my faithful Orglia; may you find a kind master, when
your old one is sunk beneath these waves.” Then tearing off his golden crown,
his royal mantle, and his splendid armour, he dashed them on the ground, and
plunged into the torrent, almost in the moment Alonzo arrived on the banks of
the river, nearly breathless from the swiftness of the pursuit. The young
prince beheld the last action of the king, and cursed his unlucky stars that he
was come so late. He called aloud to Rodrigo to return, to resume his arms, and
accept the combat.
The
unfortunate monarch, rising on the waves, heard Alonzo’s curses. The name of
Cava sounding on his ear, he voluntarily plunged amid the waters; and the
stream soon carried him with violence far from the sight of his enemy. Alonzo
threw his javelin at the guilty Rodrigo; it was in vain; it fell harmless in
the water, and a wave returned it to the shore.
Full
of love, of rage, and anger, at his disappointed vengeance, the prince trampled
on the ensigns of royalty, which the unfortunate king had scattered on the
ground, and spurning the crown with his feet, traced back his steps to join the
victorious troops, now pursuing the Goths to their camp, which was soon set on
fire and pillaged.
History
gives us no idea of the number of Christians that fell; we only know that this
melancholy day deprived Spain of all the glory she had formerly acquired.
Miserable, unfortunate day! in which so much Christian blood was spilt—in which
the nobility and flower of Spain fell before the sword of Mahomet, and for ever
sunk in oblivion that empire, once the terror of the Romans, and subjugated it
to the yoke of the Infidels, after it had flourished three hundred years.
“And
sunk in minutes
What
in ages rose.”
Such
has been the fate of all the empires of the earth. What a lesson for man! was
man willing to learn this great truth, that in life there is no certainty but
of its end.
CHAP.
IX.
ALONZO, certain that Rodrigo had perished in
the Guadaleta, rejoiced that the tyrant was no more, but grieved he had not
received death from his hand. “He was brave, he was a king,” cried Alonzo, “and
notwithstanding his crimes, he merited a less ignoble death. Fate,” said he,
with a sigh, “has not allowed his punishment to proceed from me; nor has it
given me the glory of avenging my beloved Cava.”
The
prince then turning from the river, took his way, over heaps of dead and dying,
to the Christian camp. Here he met count Julian, his arms folded, and viewing,
with anguish painted on his face, the hundred fires that blazed from the tents
of the routed Christians. The Moors, on forcing the camp, found only a solitary
waste; the tents were overturned, and the baggage that remained was only what
could not be removed by those that fled. The routed army, with don Palayo at
their head, had made good their retreat towards Toledo.
The
Infidels now gave unbounded latitude to their cruelty and their joy; they were
but too sensible of their power, and almost insulted those Christians who had
led them to the ruin of their country. Too late count Julian saw his perfidy
would not answer the purpose he intended; he had only asked assistance from the
Moors; he was deceived in the grants they had made him. Tariff, their general,
spoke in the tone of a master; and the mistaken and wretched count could not
disguise from Alonzo, that they must soon become the slaves, instead of the
allies, of the Muselmen. The brave and good Alonzo started at the idea that the
count suggested; and, without hesitation, proposed, now that Rodrigo was no
more, to withdraw the Christian troops from the Moors, and immediately join don
Palayo, and the bulk of Spain. “We shall then be able,” cried Alonzo, “to drive
these Saracens into the sea, should they not retire peaceably to Africa, amply
rewarded for the assistance they have lent us to suppress the tyrant.”
“Never
will they return,” answered count Julian; “here will they fix their abode —here
will they reign. Oh! my unhappy country, I deserve your malediction; in
perspective I behold your sufferings—your future woes; and I execrate myself as
the author of them. Would I had been plunged with my Cava in the ocean, before
I had suffered that dire and fatal passion, revenge, wholly to possess me. Oh!
Alonzo, fate has frustrated all my schemes, all my fond hopes. Where now shall
I find my Cava? she is perhaps lost to me for ever; and her wretched mother,
oppressed with grief may, ere this, be consigned to a too early grave. And
yet,” cried he, with a wild and frantic gesture, and pointing to the flaming
camp, “it was for the sake of those dear objects, for you, Alonzo, that I lit
that funeral pile, which at this sad hour my heart presages, burns not only for
our enemies, but will, ere long, spread its fires to consume us also.”
Alonzo,
alarmed beyond description at count Julian’s words, and fearing that fatigue
and the labours of the day had deprived him of his senses, questioned him
minutely on what he had said relative to the countess Julian, and his adored
Cava. “You left them in safety and health,” said the young prince; “what, count
Julian, can you fear for them? your mind is gloomy; let us retire for the
night; those horrors we have witnessed we must endeavour to shake off in
repose; and tomorrow you can send a trusty messenger to your castle, to carry
the pleasing intelligence of our success to the countess and your charming
daughter.”
“Send
an account that will never reach them, Alonzo.”
“Never
reach them,” in alarm, returned the prince; “tell me, I beseech you, why you
make use of such dreadful and such ambiguous words?”
“Oh!”
cried count Julian, “rack me not thus, Alonzo; I would willingly have concealed
it from you; but you have forced my confidence. I left my dear and unfortunate
Julia dying, sinking into her grave for the loss of Cava, who has disappeared
from the castle, without a possibility of her flight being traced; force could
not have been used, for the guard remained in perfect quiet the night of her
departure. If she went willingly, who assisted her to quit the castle, or where
she could have concealed herself, is also impossible to discover. I have made
use of every means within my power, without success. My wife is dead or dying;
my child is lost; and I am doomed to suffer the most severe punishment, for my
cruel and treacherous conduct towards my country, which I vainly attempted to
varnish over with the appellations of public spirit and brave revenge.”
Here
the repentant count Julian was agonized with grief, and the astonished prince
for some time eyed him in silence; heavy sighs shook his bosom, for the
uncertain fate of her on whom his heart was fixed; and his instant
determination was to seek her, at the risk of life and empire; he now bestowed
not a thought on the Gothic throne; and, turning to the count, he said—“count
Julian, I see, perhaps your cause just and honourable—I followed your
fortunes—I imagined you too wise, to prudent, to deliver your country into the
hands of the Infidels, when you appeared only to wish some assistance from
them. Had I been interrogated, I should have sworn you had taken measures to
guard against this evil. If you have done so, this despair ill becomes you; if
you are guilty, Heaven forgive you!—Spain will not. But know this, never again
will Alonzo lift his sword against his country, or to assist the Moors.
Farewell; I will seek Cava at the extremity of the earth; if you ever behold me
more, you will see her in safety.”
Saying
this, as he stood near the count, he seized his hand, pressed it fervently to
his lips, and then darted like lightning from the spot; and night approaching,
soon hid him from count Julian, who, with vehemence, called to him to stop.
“Stay, Alonzo, I conjure you stay, and listen to my vindication.”
He
spoke to the winds; his words reached not the prince, whose every thought
rested on Cava. He pursued his way, unconscious of fatigue, to where he was
certain of procuring a vessel to carry him to Africa; for in the palace of count
Julian he believed himself most likely to find a clue to lead him to Cava. Ten
thousand fears assailed him. What he most dreaded was her being in the power of
the Moors. He sometimes imagined her charms had captivated Abdalesis, the son
of Musa; at others, he feared they had secured her as a hostage for the faith
of her father: but to unravel the mystery of her disappearance, without farther
fact, was beyond his power.
Alonzo
soon procured every thing necessary to his voyage; fond and impatient, he thought
each moment an age till he could reach the coast of Africa. He was agonized
with the apprehension of losing her, who was more estimable in his eyes than
the whole world—her misfortunes bound her still closer to his heart—pity was
added to love and admiration; all he desired in life was to render hers happy,
by obliterating from her angelic mind the past, by hushing her to peace on his
faithful bosom, and for ever making her the partner of his future fate.
At
length on board the galley that was to transport him from one shore to the
other, he fixed his eyes on the mountains of Africa; his soul was already
there; the utmost exertion of his rowers appeared feeble to his ardent
imagination. The winds favoured his course, the galley flew swiftly over the waves,
but the tumult in his mind subsided not; the nearer he approached the coast,
the quicker throbbed his heart, and the greater became his impatience to reach
it.
Here
we must commit him to the care of winds and waves, and follow, if we can, the
course the Moors steered the night they carried off the interesting and
ill-fated Cava, the object of so much love, and the innocent sufferer of so
many misfortunes.
We
have already informed our readers, that the princess could obtain from the
Moors, her conductors, no answer to any of her questions. She soon was
convinced all her efforts were vain, either to move their compassion, or escape
their power. The Moor who carried her was tenderly attentive to her ease. Cava
resigned herself to sorrow, but it was a dignified one¾her heart was torn with anguish¾the tears fell silently from her eyes; but when
she found her entreaties not attended to, she endeavoured to suppress her sighs
and lamentations.
They
had travelled many leagues, the heat of the day was coming on, and Cava became
languid and ill. The Moor who carried her then for the first time spoke, and
giving her a handkerchief, perfumed with the rich odours of Arabia, and of
power to restore the fainting senses, he entreated her to make use of it,
assuring her at the same time, that shortly she should rest for some hours. He
also besought her to support her spirits, as no harm was intended her; that her
lot, if she pleased, should be the envy of the universe¾that every thing that could give delight in this world was at her
command¾she had only to bless others to be blessed
herself.
Cava
listened with astonishment; the voice of the person who addressed her was, she
suspected, purposely disguised; yet, for a moment, it was familiar to her ear;
but who this person was she had not the smallest idea. She trembled lest she
was in the power of some wandering Arab, who might have heard of her beauty,
and of the riches of her father’s castle. “Perhaps,” said she, mentally,
“others of this troop have plundered the dear abode of my infant years; perhaps
my angelic mother is no more, and that the silent tomb will receive her,
unacquainted with the fate of her unhappy child.” Cava, softened by the ideas
that presented themselves, and by her fears for the safety of her mother, was
about to make some inquiries concerning her, when the Moor, before whom she was
placed, suddenly stopt his horse, and raising her eyes, which had been
unconsciously fixed on the path they were pursuing, she perceived they were
arrived at a cottage on the skirt of a wood, that entirely covering a mountain,
under which the cottage stood, perfectly sheltered it from the noonday heat.
Cava now found that some of the troop had already arrived, and were waiting to
receive the commands of their master. The princess was soon lifted from her
horse; and two Moorish women, one in middle life, the other young, approached
to assist her into the house. Her conductor did not speak to them, but waved
his hand, and made some signs, which they watched, and bowing with the most
profound respect, led the almost fainting Cava into the cottage.
In
the situation to which our heroine is reduced, the most romantic mind could not
be sensible to the beauties of the scenery that surrounded this rural abode.
The women to whose care Cava was committed assisted her into the cottage, and
helped her on a sofa, in a simple but elegant apartment; they set refreshments
before her, and in the gentlest accents the young Moor entreated her to partake
of them; not satisfied with entreating only, she poured into a gold cup some
sherbet, and persuaded Cava to taste it. “It will refresh you,” said the gentle
Moor; “when you have taken some nourishment you shall repose, and I will watch
your rest; no one shall intrude or molest you.”
Having
in her infancy lived in Africa, the Gothic princess perfectly understood and
spoke the Moorish tongue; hearing herself addressed in soft and elegant
language, by a female, she was awakened from the state of apathy she had fallen
into, and raising her eyes to see who the person was who spoke, she perceived a
young and beautiful Moor standing before her, her bright eye beaming pity; she
stood in an attitude of supplication, with the sherbet and some refreshments in
her hand. “You are exhausted,” cried she, “you are dying with languor and
fatigue; I beseech you, refuse me not the gratification of restoring your
sinking health and spirits.” Cava faintly shook her hand; she could not resist,
however, the kind entreaties of the young Moor; she drank of the sherbet, and swallowed
some of the delicate viands presented to her. Her face was flushed—her aching
temples throbbed¾her whole frame appeared disordered¾yet still she was the all-excelling Cava; there was in her countenance
the expression of sadness, of anguish, and distrust; but a faint smile, the
smile of an angel, illumined that melancholy face, when she beheld near her the
lovely and gentle being who appeared to take so much interest in her welfare.
Cava’s heart was oppressed; she could not speak, but she gave her kind young
hostess a look so grateful, that it fully expressed the feelings of her
sensitive and delicate mind. Her eyes wandered round the apartment; they fell
on the benevolent face of the elderly woman, who had withdrawn to a corner of
the room, and seemed to wait the orders of the young Moor. Cava could not
unravel her thoughts; they were indistinct; but her eyes turned languidly from
one object to another, and she was struck with the difference in the dress of
the two females before her. The elder was in a handsome Moorish habit, but
simple and grave; the other dressed with the utmost elegance of the east;
bright jewels, in the form of a crescent, confined her hair on her polished
forehead; and the transparent veil, thrown up in front, and falling over her
shoulders, covered, but did not conceal her fine form. Her vest was azure silk,
from the looms of Persia, fastened to her full bosom, and fine-turned arms,
with golden clasps; her air and manner had all that softness, sweetness, and
sensibility, that, on a first view, so strongly captivates the heart. A tear
started to her eye as she addressed Cava, whose now bewildered and wandering
senses persuaded her that the beautiful object she saw before her was a
celestial being, sent on an errand of mercy to release her from the Moors; and,
stretching her arms towards her, she cried, “Oh! angel of light, save me from
these men into whose power I have unwillingly fallen, and restore me to my
father’s castle—to my sorrowing mother.” The pitying Moor, seeing the perturbation
of her mind, and marking the wildness of her eye, beckoned to her companion;
and gently advancing towards the princess, entreated she would calm her fears,
and, with her life, she would answer for her safety; and assisting the elderly
woman to lay her on the sofa, she threw over her a light covering, and placing
some cushions close to it on the floor, she sat down at her feet, and, with a
pensive air, fixed her eyes on the enchanting form that lay before her, and
perceived, with pleasure, that the object of her care was by degrees sinking
into calm repose.
Sleep
at length shed his softest poppies over her couch, and, for a time, banished
all her woes. The flush in her cheek had subsided, and was replaced by her own
roseate hue; anxiety and care vanished from her brow, and her breathing was
calm and equal. Zamora (so was the young Moor called) gazed at her with wonder;
she beheld a smile of tenderness and content diffuse itself over her
countenance, and play about the ruby lips, that, half opened, appeared ready to
give utterance to some thought that bestowed pleasure, even in sleep.
Cava,
the wretched Cava, at that moment, found in the slumber that weighed down her
eyelids, that happiness to which she had long been a stranger. Delightful
visions floated on her imagination—she was carried back to days of bliss and
joy—she fancied herself at one of Egilone’s hunting parties, in the mountains
near Toledo. She and Favilla were next the queen, and Alonzo rode at her side;
he lavished all his care, all his fondness on her—they passed the day in
joy—their banquet was spread beneath silk tents, on the banks of the river; and
Alonzo, solely occupied with her, had prepared for her a garland of the most
fragrant flowers—he scattered roses beneath her feet, and whispered, in
language the most passionate, his pure, his ardent, his eternal love—“which
even in slumber gave her cheek to glow.”—In thought she wandered with Alonzo
and Favilla on the banks of the river; she contemplated with them the beauteous
and sublime works of nature, with which they were surrounded, and those of art
that the distant city of Toledo exhibited, as the golden beams of a setting sun
glittered on its towers.
This
delightful dream was not of short duration, it occupied the mind of Cava while
she slept, which was for some hours more; and fortunate would she have been,
could such charming visions have filled the space of her future life; but Cava
was doomed, like all other mortals, to awake and find the bliss enjoyed in life
more fleeting, and less substantial than even a passing dream.
It
was towards evening when the Gothic princess threw off her slumbers; she raised
herself on her couch, and, at first, with difficulty, recollected what had
passed, or where she was; but on seeing Zamora near her, she felt some
assurance of safety; resting her head on her hand, she was for some moments
silent; but finding they were alone, she looked earnestly at the young Moor,
saying, “The feeling you have shewn for me, and the charming expression of your
countenance, gives me the hope I shall in you find a friend: we are alone; give
me the means of escaping, I beseech you, and you shall for ever command my
life, my fortune; count Julian, my father, will make you great and happy.”
“Alas!”
answered the Moor, “what you require of me is impossible; if I myself wished to
quit those in whose power you are, I have not the means of doing so. Look,”
said she, opening a lattice of the chamber, and removing a silk curtain that
shaded it, “look at the guard that has the care of us; do you believe they
would suffer you to escape?—besides, where would you go? you would perish
unknown and unbefriended.” Then tenderly taking Cava’s hand in hers, she added,
“Fear me not, I beseech you; I will not deceive; I would this moment set you
free, could I indulge my own inclinations.” This was spoken with an air of
sadness, and a sigh followed Zamora’s words.
“Then
tell me,” said the princess, “if you cannot relieve me, in whose power am I?”
Zamora
was silent—she turned pale—she raised her eyes to heaven—she looked at Cava—and
then fixed them on the ground. She was about to speak—she hesitated—and at
length said, “Do not, I beseech you, require me to tell you what I am ordered
to keep secret. You must proceed on your journey this night; but be not so
alarmed,” seeing Cava start from her seat in agony, “Zulima and I accompany
you.”
“And
the Moor also?” interrupted Cava.
“No,”
answered Zamora, “he did not long remain here; he has left a guard to attend
us, in case of accident, and you will be better accommodated than you have been
during the night; but the refreshment of the bath, change of raiment, and some
nourishment, is absolutely necessary before we undertake our journey.” Without
giving time to the princess to make any reply, Zamora clapped her hands, as is
the custom in the east, to call the attendants in waiting. Zulima instantly
appeared, and was desired to lead the way to the bath.
Cava,
unwilling to give her kind friend offence, or to refuse so needful a
refreshment, complied with her desire; and on coming out of the bath, she found
an elegant robe prepared for her, and one suited to a journey by night. She
hesitated to accept it, and wished to resume her own dress; but the young Moor,
guessing her thoughts, and believing that her delicacy revolted at accepting
presents, however necessary they might be to her comfort, from the Moor who had
dared to insult her by carrying her off, assured her that the habit was a new
one, belonging to herself; and added, with a smile, “We are so nearly the same
size, I hope you will find it fit you.” Cava no longer hesitated to accept her
young friend’s offer, and returned, refreshed and comforted, to the apartment
they had so lately quitted, and where their evening repast was now prepared.
The
day was declining, a cool breeze came from the mountains, and brought with it
odours sufficiently powerful to revive and charm the senses. The lattices of
the apartment had been thrown open during their absence, and from them the eye
took in the grandest and most beautiful objects in creation. Mountains covered
with all the variety of trees that Africa produces; charming valleys spread at
the feet of these mountains, highly cultivated, and thickly interspersed with
small villages, whose white houses, and gilt crescents, seemed to attract the
last beams of a departing sun. At a distance rolled the blue waves of the
Mediterranean; and, in long perspective, were seen vessels of different
nations, of various size, and various shapes, spreading their broad sails to
the winds, or plowing with their strong oars its watery surface. Such scenes
were calculated to chase from the bosom of the beholder “all sadness but
despair.” They had their natural effect on the princess; she expressed her
admiration, and declared to her fair companion, she would willingly pass her
life in such a spot, could she there be safe from the cruelty of man.
Zamora
was astonished at Cava’s beauty, the first moment she beheld her; but now that
some hours peaceful slumbers, and the refreshing bath, had restored her
complexion to its wonted loveliness, and their usual lustre to her soft and
captivating eyes, the young Moor’s wonder encreased. She sighed heavily as she
gazed; but it was not the sigh of envy; that vilest of passions never found entrance
in the heart of Zamora; she turned her head aside, to conceal a starting tear;
but Cava, alive to all the fine affections of the human heart, felt the
transient sadness that appeared in the countenance of the charming Moor; and
taking her hand, said, “Are you too unhappy? If so, our sorrows, as well as our
sympathy, may unite us; consider me, I beseech you, from this moment an
unalterable friend.”
Zamora
pressed the hand that had taken hers, and was going to reply, when Zulima
entered the apartment; and the fair Moor said, in a low voice, and in the
Spanish language, “Be on your guard in the presence of Zulima; in herself she
is most amiable, but you must not trust her; put on the appearance of content
before her; another time I will explain.” She could say no more; Zulima told
them in an hour they must be ready to depart, and then took a seat at some
distance.
Zamora
occupied herself with those preparations she was desirous of making for her
journey; and Cava, covering her face with her veil, took her station near an
open lattice, to inhale the fragrance of the flowers beneath it, to banish, by
the cool evening breeze, the feverish heat that still oppressed her, and to
enjoy, as far as her lacerated heart would allow, the pleasure such a prospect afforded.
Resting her beauteous head on her hand, she leaned from the window, where,
though in part concealed by the aromatic shrubs that grew close to it, her own
view of all she wished to contemplate was not impeded. Her eyes wandered round
the extended horizon, and dwelt with anxiety on every distant object. She hoped
to discover where lay her father’s castle; but she knew not in what direction
to look for it, unconscious from what quarter she had approached her present
habitation; and she feared, from the velocity with which she had been carried
during the night, that now she was distant, far distant, from her dear native
home. Lost in thought, she traced her former happy, and also miserable life.
She trembled for what her mother must endure for her loss; where now was her
father? was he still victorious, or cold and lifeless on the plains of Xeres?
The thought was distraction; she turned from it in terror. Where too was
Alonzo—that dear, that idolized Alonzo, whom she wished never to behold again,
though his idea mixed with every thought—though he was the dream of her
nights—though to forget him for a moment was impossible, while thought was
hers?—where was he now?—if in existence, did he still remember their early
innocent loves, or did he wish to tear her from his heart as the bane of his
life? “No,” said she, mentally, “Alonzo is just, is tender, is faithful; Cava
will not be obliterated from his heart, while that pure heart beats; but it is
my sad duty to avoid his sight¾fly from him¾reject his love¾and banish him my presence for ever.” Here,
overcome by her feelings, she burst into a flood of tears; when conscious how
unavailing her lamentations were, and how necessary she would find strength of
mind and body to support her present captivity, let it proceed from whom it
would, she dried her tears, suppressed her sobs, and remembering father
Anselmo’s pious lessons, for to her excellent nature they had not been given in
vain, she raised her hands and heart in supplication to that Being who alone
can be depended on in the hour of woe. Her prayer was fervent¾was ardent as her heart¾she did not dare to murmur at the will of her
Creator, or to accuse Providence for her sufferings; but she besought patience
and strength of mind to endure them, in the full hope of a future reward, where
all sorrow shall be done away. Cava was a Goth, but she was a Christian, and
rested her eternal happiness on that faith. Errors had crept into the Christian
church, and had sullied the purity of the early faith; but it was still free
from the attacks of that foul enemy, that in the present times has used its
utmost endeavours, with so much subtilty, to undermine the true religion.
Modern philosophy, with all its specious moral precepts, and all its insidious
sophistry, is certainly the most dangerous weapon that has ever been made us of
to destroy the Christian faith; the libertine finds it a convenient cloak for
vice; and the weak female, who thinks it gives her the air of wisdom and
superior understanding, devotes herself to its creed, and fearlessly declares
she does so.
My
young and lovely readers, let not your innocent minds be warped by such
reasoning; shake not off your religion, and the forms it prescribes, to range
wild as nature in search of other laws to bind a human being; turn to the holy
scriptures; there you will find all you ought to know¾all you ought to believe. If you love wisdom¾if you seek truth¾if truth, dressed in the finest and most
persuasive language, can captivate you, turn to that sacred volume; and dread all
those who preach morality, free from the restraints of an established religion.
In pity, and an anxious wish to serve the young females of the rising
generation, this digression has been made. Scoffers will perhaps say it is an
uncouth introduction in a romance; they may scoff; the author has got into
Gothic times, and imbibed old fashioned opinions; and if what she has said can
influence one single female to adopt them, and, by pointing out to an
uncorrupted mind the danger of the new philosophy, when, in some interesting
tale, arrayed in elegant and insinuating language, it infuses its poison into
the heart¾if she can save them from its pernicious
consequences, she will have attained the end she wishes, and the shafts of
ridicule will fall harmless at her feet.
CHAP.
X.
BEFORE the sun had sunk in the west, Zulima
roused the princess Cava from the reverie she had fallen into at the window of
the cottage, by informing her all was ready for their departure. Sensible that
no entreaties of hers would be listened to, no resistance avail, she rose to
follow the Moor, and was soon joined by the charming Zamora. They were seated
in a sort of open chariot, drawn by fine Arabian horses; a silk awning was
suspended over their heads, and soft cushions rendered the inside of the
chariot not only commodious, but perfectly luxurious.
Cava
and Zamora, wrapt closely in their thick veils, occupied the front, and
opposite to them their silent companion took her seat. Some of the horsemen
that Cava knew had attended her the night before were now in the rear; and they
pursued their road through a delightful country, to which the declining day,
and coming twilight, gave more interest than the brightest sunshine could have
done.
The
princess examined every object with a scrutinizing eye, and soon perceived that
their road led towards the sea, still at a great distance. The fair Moor saw
her anxiety, her fears, and doubts, and she made use of her utmost endeavours
to console and amuse her. They travelled with ease and safety; no chilly damp
foretold the approach of night¾it came on in sober majesty¾the moon rode high and clear, stillness prevailed, and all nature seemed
to repose.
Zulima
closed her eyes, and, indifferent to the softened beauties of the landscape, or
to the tale told by the planets in their course of unnumbered worlds beyond the
ken of man, laid her head on a cushion, and slept profoundly.
The
chariot rolled along; Cava and the fair Moor at intervals conversed; but
fearful of Zulima’s sleep not being so sound as they wished it to be, were
cautious of touching on any subject that could alarm the watchfulness of one
appointed to inspect their conduct. The beauty of the night, the admiration our
young travellers both felt for those sublime works of nature that now arrested
their attention, furnished materials for interesting conversation; and every
moment the fair Moor grew in the esteem of the princess. If Zamora regarded
Cava with wonder, if she mentally said, “Who could resist the attractions of
this fascinating being? who could, for a moment, stand in competition with
her?” Cava was not less delighted with Zamora, whose feeling and intelligent
soul, visible in every change of her lovely countenance, gave a double charm to
the exquisite beauty with which she was endowed. No human being could be more
gentle, more persuasive, more insinuating, more interesting, than Zamora; her
natural good understanding was improved by education, to a degree that was
extraordinary in a female of her nation; and Cava saw, with as much pleasure as
any thing in her situation was able to give her, that she had met not only with
a kindred mind, but with an agreeable and interesting companion.
During
the night, the Moors that attended the chariot changed the horses for greater
speed; and, at daybreak, informing our travelers that they were to rest for
some time, they assisted them to alight at the entrance of a delicious valley;
and, awaking the still drowsy Zulima, told them, in the most respectful terms,
it was here they were ordered to prepare refreshments for them, as there were
still many leagues to travel, before they could reach the place of their
destination.
Under
some tall trees, the Moors prepared to spread the contents of a basket they had
brought from the chariot; and while they were thus occupied, Cava, who objected
not to what they desired, and who found it a relief to quit the seat she had so
long been confined to, taking Zamora by the arm, proposed to walk through this
delightful valley, while their guard was busied preparing their repast. She
hoped to have got a moment to put some questions to Zamora apart from Zulima,
but she quickly found it was a thing impossible; Zulima was at their side,
hoping they had enjoyed as comfortable repose during the night as she had done¾ “It was a heavenly night,” added she; “I think I am more refreshed from
sleeping in the open air on those cushions, than I should have done in my own
apartments, in my young master’s palace.”
Cava’s
heart beat quick¾she was alarmed at the words¾ “My young master’s palace”¾she turned pale¾she feared she was an object of too much
interest to Abdalesis or Aleanzar¾till now, she had entertained a faint hope that
Musa had seized upon her, as an hostage for count Julian’s faith. Addressing
Zulima, she said, “And who is your young master, and where is his palace?”
Zulima, aware of her imprudence, only answered, by desiring they would sit down
on the grass, and eat something, for they had fasted a long while. The princess
was thoughtful and distressed; and Zulima had now the conversation almost
entirely to herself; she that was before so silent, was of a sudden loquacious,
and seemed delighted that their journey would soon end, though she chose not to
inform Cava to what place they were conducting her.
At
a respectful distance the attendants reposed on the dewy grass, and made a
plentiful meal; while their horses ranged through the small valley, and fed
upon the patches of fine herbage scattered over it.
In
an hour Zamora and the Gothic princess again mounted the chariot, without
having been able to converse in private one moment. Zulima was now awake, and
alive to all that passed; and Cava, finding it in vain to expect any
information from her, gave herself up to thought, and a degree of languor
pervaded her whole frame.
Some
hours brought the travellers to the end of their journey; they had continually
approached the sea, and were now within some hundred yards of the coast of the
Mediterranean. On turning the bottom of a hill, a beautiful and small bay
presented itself, half encompassed by rising grounds, and, to the left,
sheltered by big and picturesque rocks, some bare, some cloathed richly with
trees, the natives of the country. At the bottom of the rocks, and almost on a
level with the sea, was a castle of ancient date, and bore the marks of having
once belonged to the Carthagenians; it was not large, but in good preservation;
and shewed, by the raised crescents, and the banners that floated on its
turrets, that the present possessor was a worshipper of Mahomet.
Between
the hills and the sea the ground was not extensive, but it was diversified,
beautiful, and well cultivated; immediately round the castle the
pleasure-grounds were enchanting; a sunk and invisible fence protected them
from the intrusion of man or beast.
What
had once been a triumphal arch was the entrance to these grounds, and to the
castle. The arch itself was a beautiful object¾it remained in nearly a perfect state in many
places¾ivy had crept into its crevices, and intwining
with odoriferous plants, that grow wild in Africa, hung round it in festoons,
formed by the hand of nature; a guard was kept near this entrance, day and
night; and a drawbridge, thrown over a clear stream that ran through the
grounds into the bay, was always lowered when necessary, and immediately drawn
up on the side towards the castle.
The
sun had risen above the horizon as our travellers entered the arch, and passed
the bridge; and, sad as Cava was, and woeful as were her thoughts, she was so
sensibly struck by the beauty of the scene, that she exclaimed¾ “Was ever any thing so romantic, so lovely! alas! why should force
constrain one to live even in such a paradise as this!” Zamora pressed her hand
and sighed; Zulima’s countenance could not express a malignant passion, for her
heart was good; but it was now tinged with a degree of melancholy, and a slight
cloud passed over it, that seemed to intimate that Zulima would rather the
Gothic princess should disapprove of her prison, than admire its beauties.
Having
passed the arch and the bridge, their conductors wound round the bay to
approach the castle. The chariot rolled lightly over the verdant turf, that
spread down to the water-edge, whose uniformity was broken by tall trees, some
of which, stretching their luxuriant branches over the bay, were reflected on
its glassy surface. Clumps of rose and orange trees met the eye, and loaded
every gale with their perfume.
“Here
Nature shed her vernal sweets around,
And
fancy wander’d o’er Elysian ground.”
Content
alone was wanting to the mind of Cava to render this spot delightful to her;
yet even to the sad bosom the contemplation of nature’s beautiful works will
often afford a temporary pleasure; if it cannot entirely obliterate past or
present ills, it leads the sufferer to place dependence only on that Eternal
Being who has had power to create all those wonders, and who has given his
almighty word, that perfect bliss in happier worlds shall reward patient
unmerited sufferings here.
The
fleet Arabian horses, well knowing the track they were pursuing, scarcely
touched the ground, and throwing their proud heads into the air, champing their
silver bits, and snuffing the fragrant gale, soon stopped before the palace
gates. Ready slaves in Moorish habits waited to receive the princess and
Zamora; and Zulima, preceding them, led the way, through a suit of apartments,
to an inner room in the castle, where we shall leave our fair travellers to the
bath, and to repose after so long a journey, and turn our eyes to the palace of
count Julian, where it is full time Alonzo should have arrived.
That
brave prince, after a short voyage, tedious however to his distracted mind,
landed safely on the coast of Africa, and made the utmost speed to reach the
castle. He was soon in the presence of the countess, whose pale cheek was
suffused with the flush of hope, on beholding the gallant youth.
Since
the loss of Cava, the countess had remained unmolested in her castle, and every
part of count Julian’s government continued in profound peace. The countess had
written to Musa, entreating him to be sincere with her; and, if her child was
his hostage, to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was in honourable
hands.
Musa,
innocent and ignorant of the offence committed, gave the countess every
assurance that he was incapable of ever sanctioning such an outrage, and that
he would do his utmost to discover the offender, and he should be treated as he
deserved. Musa little imagined, was the offender at that moment made known to
him, he dare not punish, or even counter act him, without endangering his own
future safety. At present, his assurances satisfied the countess that her
daughter was not in his hands; and, sorrowing, she resorted to every possible
means of discovering the place of her seclusion.
Occupied
in these researches, and with a broken constitution, Alonzo found her on the
verge of the tomb; her spirits and her hopes were a little revived by the
presence of her beloved nephew; and she anxiously inquired every circumstance
that related to her husband, and their recent victories.
The
prince, willing to give her comfort, and to render her now certainly short life
as peaceful as was in his power, turned to her the bright side of the picture¾related not the remorse of count Julian¾the insolence of the Saracens¾nor the deep woes of the Christians¾and the sad massacre that had been made of
them. Amiable as the countess was, she rejoiced at the death of Rodrigo; it was
not in human nature to do otherwise; and, sanguine in her presentiments, she
firmly believed it was the forerunner of peace and happiness to Spain; and she
flattered herself, was Cava once restored to her arms, she should have nothing
more to wish for in this world. Alonzo felt a faint satisfaction in being able
to console her by harmless evasions; and every moment that he spent from her,
was given to inquiries respecting Cava.
Weeks
had now passed, and no light was thrown upon the business; every soul in the
castle that could have been accessory to the elopement of the princess was
strictly interrogated, not only once, but often; and to the searching eyes of
Alonzo, their countenances betrayed no guilt. He now began to despond; he paced
the palace gardens for hours in the evening, while the countess reposed, to
meditate on what his future conduct should be. No consideration on earth could
tempt him to relinquish his search for the beloved of his soul. Should fate be
propitious to his wishes, and again give her to his sight, his intention was to
unite his destiny to hers, to place her in safety; and then joining himself to
the brave and patriotic don Palayo, assist him in reducing the Moors to
obedience, or obliging them to quit Spain.
In
these hopes, in these wishes he indulged, while he waited the return of many
faithful messengers he had dispatched to all parts of the country, to trace, if
possible, the steps of the dear fugitive. Pensively and slowly, during the
twilight, Alonzo wandered through the delicious gardens that surrounded the
palace; and as, in all ages, poetry has had peculiar charms for lovers, and
soothed their sorrows with its dulcet sounds, so it now held its soft influence
over Alonzo’s mind, and to the lone woods and listening echoes he repeated the
following lines: ¾
Ye
flowers that bright in living colours glow,
Ye
gales which sweet o’er op’ning roses blow,
Ye
lawns, enliven’d by the solar beam,
Ye
groves, that wave o’er contemplation’s dream,
How
aptly were your peaceful joys design’d,
To
match the temper of my Cava’s mind,
Which
here from courts, and busy crowds remov’d,
Enjoy’d
the calm retirement that it lov’d!
But
now no more these blooming sweets excite
The
finer sense of elegant delight;
The
vernal pride of drooping Nature fades,
No
more my Cava’s smiles illume the shades;
No
more with music’s soft prevailing art,
The
beauteous harmonist enchants the heart;
Nor
zephyr wafts along the vocal grove,
Such
sounds as list’ning angels might approve;
Why
once were these transporting pleasures known?
Or
why, alas! irreparably flown?
A
long time had now elapsed, and the many persons that both Alonzo and the
countess had employed to search for information relative to the princess,
returned unsuccessful in their pursuit. The fond lover began to despair¾the countess became more wretched, and visibly declined. She was also
much alarmed at not hearing from count Julian. Since the arrival of the prince,
not a line had she received in answer to her many letters; and she now doubted
whether her messengers had ever reached him.
Alonzo,
fearful of some disaster having befallen the count, could scarcely disguise his
apprehensions from his aunt; and, to avoid the distressing questions she put to
him, he retired one night sooner than usual from her apartment, and descending
into the garden of the castle, he continued for a length of time to pace one of
the walks, which lay beneath the windows of that part of the castle formerly
occupied by Cava. This was the spot he generally chose when he wished to
indulge his most melancholy humours. He was now lost in the contemplation of
his wayward fate, and in the sad lot that from his cradle had fallen to his
share. Disappointed in all his hopes, his heart deeply wounded, the future
presented nothing to make life desirable; and all his thoughts were turned to
losing it with honour, when he perceived that he was followed by some person
muffled in a dark cloak, which prevented his ascertaining whether the person
who followed him was male or female. The steps approached¾he turned suddenly round¾the figure retreated, and the prince pursued,
anxious to find who could dare at that hour to enter the garden. The figure
advanced to a turret close to Cava’s apartments, and pointed to a small door in
the wall, which the prince had never before noticed; it was now half open; and
by signs he was invited to enter it. Alonzo had the soul of a lion, but he
hesitated to advance, lest he might fall into some snare, or perhaps be
attacked by ruffians in the dark, and unable to make resistance. He unsheathed
his sabre, and stood still. The muffled figure seemed distressed at his
hesitation, and visible apprehension of treachery; and coming towards him in a
supplicating manner, threw off the covering which concealed the face, and he
saw, with astonishment, that it was a woman who had alarmed him.
She
now, in a soft accent, entreated him to follow her, as she wished to lead him
to one who had a communication to make, of the utmost consequence for him to
hear. “There is no time to be lost,” cried she; “if you wish to recover the
princess Cava, follow me, I beseech you; you have no treachery to apprehend
from me.”
Alonzo
perceived that tears were trickling down her cheeks in abundance, and her face
was pale as death. She waited not for an answer to her words, but passing
quickly through the door, she held it open for him; he followed her in haste.
To have heard any thing with certainty of Cava, he would have braved death. The
woman carefully shut the door the moment he had entered, and, taking hold of
his hand, she led him gently through some dark and winding passages, and up a
flight of narrow stairs, into a small room, which he knew must belong to a
turret of the castle. It was well furnished, lights stood upon a table, and he
saw there were two doors in it, besides the one at which he had just entered.
His companion as carefully closed that door as she had done the one which led
from the garden; and Alonzo was not a little surprised, when it was shut, to
find that the most curious eye could not perceive that there was an entrance to
the room in that spot; it closed by a spring, and the smallest crevice was not
discernible.
The
woman, throwing her cloak on a table, begged he would remain there for a few
minutes, till she should prepare her sick husband to receive him. She said this
in such deep affliction, and appeared so interesting, that Alonzo was moved to
pity, and answered he would wait her return. She opened a door leading into
another apartment, in which he saw a light, and he heard a faint voice
ask—“Have you prevailed on him to come? shall I see him before I die?” The
prince heard not the answer, it was in so low a voice; but in a few minutes the
afflicted female returned, drowned in tears; she spoke not, but took the hand
of Alonzo, and led him to the bedside of a man, who appeared not to have long
to live. How was he astonished, on examining the countenance of the invalid, to
find him one he well knew, and count Julian’s most confidential servant, and
captain of the castle guard!
The
prince having no suspicion of his fidelity, but believing he had heard
something of his beloved Cava, that he wished to impart to him, expressed the
utmost concern at seeing him so ill; and taking his seat by the couch,
entreated he would compose himself, and give him the satisfaction of knowing if
he had been more successful than himself in his search for the Gothic princess.
Fabian
(for so was he called) stared wildly at Alonzo, saying¾“You think well of me, you treat me with kindness, and I deserve your
malediction; you know not that the wretch before you assisted in carrying her
off whom you adore; and, bribed by cursed gold, sold her to the Moor.”
Here
Fabian’s voice became extinct, his head fell upon his pillow, and he fainted.
His wife flew to him, raised him up, and chaffing his temples, endeavoured to
restore him to life; Alonzo, in the utmost trepidation, assisted her to support
him, while she administered a cordial. He dreaded Fabian’s death more than he
would have done his own; to know what he did, and know no more, was a worse
misfortune than any he had yet laboured under; and he trembled so, that with
difficulty he could support the dying man.
In
some time Fabian opened his eyes, and seemed more composed, and more himself
than he had been before his fit. Alonzo, subduing all his own feelings,
entreated him to calm his spirits, and narrate faithfully all he knew
respecting Cava, and he should have his full pardon for the past.
“And
will you,” cried Fabian, “commiserate a dying wretch? will you have the angelic
goodness to keep secret his crimes, and by so doing, save his innocent wife and
infant son from disgrace and ruin?”
“I
will do anything you wish,” hastily answered Alonzo, fearful he would expire
before he could relate the truth; “I will save you from infamy, provided you
faithfully declare the truth, and give me a clue to recover the lost princess.”
Fabian,
seeing his wife violently affected, motioned to her to leave the room; then
raising himself on his couch, he turned to his astonished auditor, saying¾“Fear not my sudden dissolution; I feel that I have some strength left,
and I thank Heaven that has enabled me to make use of these last moments of my
life, to atone, in some measure, for the only action of that life that I can
look back to with grief.”
“I
beseech you,” interrupted Alonzo, “give me every possible information, and I
will then listen to what you have further to say.”
The
sick man, again raising himself from his pillow, with a look of the deepest
anguish, gazing on the prince, addressed him in the following words:¾
“You
are sensible, don Alonzo, that I have been for some years in the greatest
favour with count Julian; you know also that I served him most faithfully; he
depended on and consulted me in every emergency; and never did I deceive him
but in this last vile act. I was acquainted with all his schemes for the
conquest of Spain, and assisted him with my best advice. When he brought his
daughter back to Africa, he invited the Moors to partake of the festivities of
this castle. The caliph’s son, Aleanzar, came with Musa; it was I presented him
to the countess and the princess Cava, and from that moment I was satisfied he
was deeply enamoured.” Here Fabian remarked that Alonzo’s expression of
countenance was changed from pity to anger; and stopping in his narrative, he
cried, “Think not too hardly of me, Alonzo; I knew not of your mutual love;
this count Julian had carefully concealed from me. I saw a great, a handsome,
and accomplished prince, heir to the first throne in the world, enamoured of
Cava; I believed she might be brought to love him, though an Infidel, and be
completely happy. You know my situation in this court is a distinguished one; I
lived at great expence, and had nearly ruined my fortune. Shame made me keep my
poverty a secret, even from count Julian; it was a false shame, a shame that
led to ill. The poor may be proud, when they can bear the sting of poverty with
true greatness of mind, when they can say, ‘I am poor, but I am just,
honourable, and virtuous. Alas, alas! I feel this truth too late; my fallible
nature was not able to bear worldly want. But to return to my sad story.
Aleanzar distinguished me, unfortunately, from all at count Julian’s court, and
made me the confidant of his love. At first I listened to him from politeness;
I soon grew interested for his success. He declared to me his intention of
marrying the Gothic princess, and placing her on his throne. He gave me many
proofs of his friendship; and promised, at no distant period, to make me rich
and powerful. In the course of our many conversations, he shewed so good a
heart, that I thought not of his being a Mahometan; and fully believed I was
not committing a crime when I consented to enter into his scheme for carrying
away the princess. He swore to me by his Prophet, he would treat her in a way
to conciliate her esteem; and, if he could not gain her affections, and prevail
on her willingly to accept him as her husband, he would return her in safety to
her mother. You must have been informed by the countess of all that occurred
till the night of Cava’s disappearance, and it is needless to repeat it. You
see the situation of this part of the castle; it is a turret built close to the
apartments always occupied by Cava. This tower belongs exclusively to the
captain of count Julian’s guard, and he inhabits it, that he may always be near
the governor; the entrance to it is from the other side the castle, and the
small door in the garden, through which you entered, was never supposed to have
the least communication with the rooms in which we now are, nor do I ever remember
to have seen it opened. One morning, being alone in the small apartment through
which you passed to this, as I was pacing the floor, and reading a letter, I
had received on material business from the count, my foot slipt, and I fell
with some violence against the wall, and was astonished to find I had burst
open a small door, of which I had not before had the least knowledge; I
examined it, and found I had touched a secret spring, without doing it any
injury, for I could now open and close the door with the greatest ease.
Curiosity prompted me to see where it led to; I descended the stairs by the
dark passages through which you passed, and found, close to them, another
flight of stairs; they led to the apartments of the princess; and at the top I
descried a door, constructed with a spring, in the same manner as that in my
tower. Knowing that it was the time of day in which Cava was always with the
countess, I ventured to push back the spring, and found myself in a moment in
the chamber which has the balcony to the garden. I staid not a moment; I was
satisfied I could gain admittance whenever I pleased; and, descending the
stairs, I examined the small door at the bottom; it opened on the pleasure
grounds, and was strongly barred inside. I was now master of a secret, unknown
even to count Julian himself; for had he been acquainted with the staircases,
doors, and dark passages, he never would have suffered his daughter’s
apartments to remain in the state they were, exposed to any one who should make
the discovery of the secret communication. When I became the guilty wretch I
am, and entered into Aleanzar’s schemes for carrying off the princess, I made
him acquainted with the passages. At the foot of the stairs, Aleanzar, with one
of his friends, concealed themselves the night he was to steal Cava from her
home. It was done without the least noise or alarm. I had given him a key, to
open a door in the wall at the extremity of the grounds, beyond the waterfall.
He had a troop of horse concealed in the wood, which lies beyond our nightly
round; and to facilitate his getting off unseen, I took the guard to the
contrary side of the castle; and, at the appointed hour, gave him a signal
agreed on between us. Aleanzar was active; he lost no time; and when I came
round to the spot with my guard, all appeared perfectly safe; but now my misery
began, and the tranquillity that reigned around had forsaken my heart; my
conscience smote me, and I dreaded to see my innocent wife, who was perfectly
ignorant of my sad conduct. I soon returned home, more dead than alive. A large
purse of gold, that Aleanzar had left for me, instead of comforting, added
torture to my mind. I would have fallen at the countess’s feet, and owned my
crime, but I knew my life must be the price of my treason, and I could not
bring myself to load my innocent family with my guilt and shame. Very soon my
health declined; and, by the entreaties of my unhappy wife, who saw the
tortures of my mind, I was prevailed on to make her acquainted with my fatal
secret; and she, on her knees, besought me to inform you of the whole guilty
transaction, that you may endeavour to recover the princess.”
Here
the unfortunate and penitent Fabian seemed so violently agitated, that Alonzo
was fearful of another fit, and pressed him to say where he should seek Cava.
Fabian,
scarcely able to articulate, drew from under his pillow a sketch of the place
she was to be carried to, with the name of the bay, and the adjacent villages
on the coast of the Mediterranean. “I know not how far it is by land,” said
Fabian, “but I advise you to go by sea, to land at some distance from
Aleanzar’s palace, and endeavour to recover her by stratagem; force will not
avail; Aleanzar has his castle well guarded; and it is near enough to the seat
of Musa’s government, for him to command, in a short time, what troops he might
want, should you attempt force.”
The
dying wretch then offered the prince the gold he had been bribed with, as he
might want it for his expedition. This Alonzo absolutely refused; though he
detested the miserable being who was capable of acting so vile a part, and who
was the cause of such distress to his Cava, he, in consideration of his
repentance, and the information he had given him, faithfully promised not to
blast his memory, by divulging his treachery. Fabian, in agony, entreated his
forgiveness, which he granted, and then left the apartment; the piece of
parchment, and what he had learned form the dying Fabian, being his only clue
to find his lost Cava.
The
disconsolate woman led the prince down stairs, and again through the garden
door. She seemed so amiable and so wretched, that Alonzo, touched with her
situation, endeavoured to comfort her, by giving her every assurance of his
secrecy, and his future protection for her and her child. She prayed Heaven to
restore Cava to him, and her looks and tears spoke the sincerity of her heart.
When
Alonzo returned to the garden, he continued in it a considerable time, musing
on all he had heard, and all he ought to do; he did not wish to trust himself
that night in the presence of the countess; he feared dropping a hint of what
lay so heavy on his mind. He sent his aunt word he had some particular
business, that must, for that night, prevent his going to her apartments; but
he would see her in the morning, when, he hoped to have something to
communicate that would give her pleasure. When he retired to rest, a thousand
schemes presented themselves; and it was morning before the perturbation of his
mind would suffer him to take any repose.
The
countess scarcely spent a less anxious night; she could not doubt that Alonzo’s
message related to her lost child; and when morning came, her impatience to see
him was extreme. Alonzo with caution entered on the subject nearest his heart,
and informed the unhappy countess of the chance there was of recovering Cava.
She heard with astonishment that she was in the hands of the Moors; and hastily
said, “Aleanzar is honourable, at least I believe him so; love has induced him
to steal Cava, but surely he will restore her to my prayers.” Alonzo would not
wound her by a doubt, but he had no such hope; he knew too well the power of
the Gothic princess’s charms, to believe she would be easily resigned. He
disclosed to the countess all he could disclose, without betraying the unhappy
author of her sorrow. He carefully kept Fabian’s sad secret, while he consulted
the countess on the preparations he was already making for his voyage to that
part of the coast where Aleanzar’s castle lay; and he assured her, if he ever again
entered the castle of count Julian, it should be to restore Cava to her arms.
The
countess, though still dreadfully alarmed for the fate of her child, found
consolation in every word that fell from Alonzo; and, embracing him with a
mother’s fondness, assured him that all her hopes rested on his exertions. “I
know what they will be,” said she, with a more satisfied expression of
countenance than she had worn for a length of time; “I know your heart, and how
true it is; I know your undaunted valour; but be careful of yourself, Alonzo,
for mine and for Cava’s sake; let not love lead you to rashness; let wisdom,
cool wisdom, preside over your actions, and then we may hope success. I will
now attend to my health, and wait with patience and with hope the end of your
dangerous expedition.”
During
this conversation, an officer entered to inform the countess of the death of
Fabian, the captain of her guard; and Alonzo found it difficult to retain his
secret, when he saw the countess much affected at this news, and heard her
declare, while she lamented his loss, that she knew not how count Julian could
ever replace so faithful and attached a friend and servant.
Alonzo
sighed, as he reflected on the weakness and blindness of mortals; and his sigh
passed as sorrow for him who had borne so fair a character, and was now so
tenderly lamented. The prince soon withdrew, and sought a friend whom he could
trust, and make a partner in an expedition, certainly subject to many
disagreeable hazards, and in which he could not flatter himself he had a
certainty of succeeding; but love hopes every thing, and dangers and hardships
were nothing to Alonzo, where Cava was at stake.
He
had never seen her since her illness at Toledo ¾ he was conscious she wished to avoid him; nay,
even never to see him more ¾ he had never yet doubted her constant
affection ¾ he had never yet feared a rival in her heart ¾ he only feared he had not sufficient influence over her mind, to make
her change the resolution she declared to her mother she had so positively
taken, of leading a single life in the seclusion of a cloister. Now, in spite
of himself, jealousy had some little sway over his mind; he knew her in the
power of Aleanzar, who, not a tyrant, but an obsequious lover, would make use
of every art to render himself pleasing to the object of his affection.
The
character that Fabian had given Aleanzar, he knew to be no fictitious one ¾ the countess had drawn the same picture of the Moorish prince ¾ he was the handsomest, the most accomplished man in his father’s
dominions ¾ his amiable manners endeared him to all the
Saracens; and the caliph boasted of his son. Possessed of little vanity, Alonzo
doubted his own merits, when contrasted with his rival’s, and feared that Cava
might doubt them too. But love, all-powerful love, came to his aid, and bid him
reflect how sincere, how true, he had always found his Cava; and asked him, did
not perfect love for one object exclude all others, however great their merits,
from a heart so truly, so entirely devoted, as hers had long been? he also knew
her mind was above the influence of worldly grandeur. These reflections
produced a calm in Alonzo’s breast, and he occupied himself incessantly with
preparations for his departure; and, following the advice of Fabian, he
secretly procured an excellent boat, manned it with a small and brave crew,
completely under his command, and well paid for their service; and having taken
leave of the countess, he, with his friend Valasquez, a young soldier of
distinction, who constantly attended him, left count Julian’s palace in the
middle of the night; and having privately entered the boat in waiting, they
were off the coast before the dawn of day.
CHAP.
XI
WE must now return to Cava, who has been a long
time a resident in the castle of Aleanzar. We have seen in the last chapter how
the Moor made himself master of her person, and what were his intentions
towards her. Fabian had not given a false character of this young prince;
though rash, and sometimes violent in his conduct, he was humane and generous;
his admiration of the Gothic princess was unbounded, and led him to commit an
outrage he could not justify, even to himself; but finding, through his past
life, that every obstacle sunk before his will, he persuaded himself, if he had
Cava once at his castle, he should, by tenderness, assiduity, and indulgence,
gain her heart; for he knew not that it was irrevocably given to another. He
was also secure that the fair Zamora would exert herself to further his wishes,
and place his character and his love in that point of view in which he could
wish the princess to behold it.
We
left Cava arrived at the castle; and however she might be displeased at the
manner in which she had been conducted there, her senses were fascinated by all
she saw. When she and Zamora had had some repose, Zulima informed them they
must dress, and prepare to receive her master who intended that evening to pay
them a visit. She then opened the apartments appointed for the use of the
princess, who had the satisfaction of finding they were in the suit of those
occupied by Zamora. In her dressing-room were wardrobes, containing various
habits, rich, beautiful, and elegant, with every other article of dress, either
for use or luxury, all made exactly to her shape, and in the Gothic fashion.
The furniture of the apartments were appropriate and magnificent; the luxury of
the east was here displayed; the looms of Persia had been ransacked, to furnish
hangings for the walls, and coverings for the swelling sofas that surrounded
the apartments. China displayed its brightest hues, in vases filled with every
odoriferous plan that Africa produced.
A
beautiful and long gallery was common to the two suits of rooms set apart for
the fair friends; this gallery looked to the sea, and opened on the side to a
balcony, covered with a silk awning, and from which the eye was charmed with
the interesting, though not extensive, view that it took in. The beautiful bay,
the rocks, the woods, the pleasure-grounds, were all visible from the gallery,
and presented scenery that might be well compared to a Mahometan paradise. The
gallery itself appeared decorated by the hand of taste ¾ the walls shone with gold and azure ¾ the concave ceiling represented a brilliant
and cloudless night (such as the Arabians are accustomed to behold), with the
moon in full splendor, surrounded by unnumbered stars, and the heavenly bodies
moved as in their natural course. In the middle of the gallery, a fountain of
rose-water continually played into a bason of the purest white marble, richly
carved, and supported by a pedestal of the same. This fountain, adding to the
magnificence of the apartment, also cooled and embalmed the air; carpets and
silks of Persia spread their gay tints, to embellish this luxurious abode; and
rich cushions were spread throughout the whole of the gallery.
As
was the custom of the Moors, sentences from the Alcoran, and verses in the
Arabian language, of their own composition, were inscribed on the windows, and
over the doors of the apartments.
Over the door of the gallery, Cava
read as she entered it ¾
“This
delicious spot, oh! charming princess, is ornamented by the hand of love,
directed by Aleanzar, son of the mighty caliph.
“Let
all here please and gratify thee; thou sweeter than the rose of Samarcand, more
timid than the plant that recoils at mortal touch, withdraw thee not from the
tenderness of Aleanzar. Thy presence in this delicious abode, renders it to him
the paradise of his Prophet.”
As
the princess read these words, instead of gratifying, they distressed her. No
love but one could find entrance in her heart.
She
turned to look at Zamora; she saw her in a melancholy attitude contemplating
the writing. The fair Moor perceiving Cava’s eyes were fixed attentively upon
her, placing her arm within hers, led her in silence to the other end of the
gallery, where they were both surprised to find, placed in the most conspicuous
situation, a large picture, in which the likeness of the Gothic princess was
most exactly portrayed at full length. The background of the picture was the
garden of her father’s palace, with a distant view of the turret. She was drawn
standing near the waterfall, and Aleanzar kneeling at her feet, and, in a
supplicating posture, offering her a globe and sceptre.
Cava
looked at the picture, sorrowful and displeased. Zamora perceived it, and said,
“Is it possible, charming princess, that you can be insensible to the love of
such a man as Aleanzar?”
“Insensible,”
returned Cava, “my heart insensible! Oh! Zamora, you little know my heart.”
Then looking again at the picture, she added, “Dear native home, you are lost
to me, perhaps for ever.” Zamora turned pale ¾ she hesitated ¾ another question was on her lips, when Zulima
interrupted the conversation, by putting them in mind of the bath and their
toilet.
In
those hot climates, the bath is as necessary as sleep; and both Cava and the
Moor willingly followed Zulima.
Cava
had determined within herself what her future conduct should be, and she felt a
great degree of security in the company of Zamora. She was distressed at the
necessity of making use of the habiliments procured for her by Aleanzar; there
was however no alternative; except the habit she had on when she was carried
from her father’s castle, she had nothing of her own; and she chose rather to
make use of a Spanish dress than Zamora’s Moorish one; her wish was to make
choice of the most simple; she had no desire to heighten her charms; but every
thing prepared for her was so rich and elegant, it was almost indifferent of
which she made her choice.
So
much time had been employed in repose after their journey, in examining the
apartments, in the bath, and at the toilet, it was evening before they again
entered the gallery, where low sofas were placed for them near the balcony,
that they might enjoy the fresh evening breeze from the bay, and behold its
undulating waters, as they glittered beneath the glowing crimson of a setting
sun.
The
princess and Zamora had not long been seated, when Aleanzar was announced; he
entered with a majestic and disturbed air: the fair inhabitants of his castle
rose to receive him. When approaching Cava, he threw himself at her feet, and
endeavoured to deprecate her anger by the most submissive language, in which he
pleaded love as an excuse for his conduct. Zamora had withdrawn to the balcony,
and Zulima remained at the extremity of the gallery.
With
dignity, and a sweetness in her manner, of which Cava was never able to divest
herself, she entreated Aleanzar to rise, as it was impossible for her to answer
him, while he remained in so humiliating a posture.
The
prince, abashed, obeyed her; he was prepared for her anger, but not for the
mildness of her conduct.
Cava
begged him to compose himself, and listen with patience to what she had to say.
She sat down, and Aleanzar placed himself at her side. Alternately his
countenance expressed shame, fear, haughtiness, and love; he several times
passed his hand over his eyes, and pressed it to his forehead. Cava perceived
the struggle of his soul, but concealing that she did so, she thus addressed
him: ¾
“I
want language, illustrious Aleanzar, to express the astonishment I feel at your
conduct towards me; you profess to love and respect me, and you condescend to
offer me your throne; yet you insult and outrage me in the most cruel manner ¾ you tear me from my home, from my weeping mother, from all that I hold
dear on earth ¾ you bring me a prisoner to your castle, and
leave my character to the mercy of a misjudging world. I put the question to
your heart, Aleanzar ¾ is this a proof of your tenderness, of your
respect? can you suppose it possible to gain a woman worthy of your love by
such violence? Am I not, Aleanzar, a princess, descended from royal blood?
should not that at least have secured me your respect? Hospitably received in
count Julian’s castle, treated as a great prince, and looked on as a friend,
could my father believe that Aleanzar, the son of the mighty caliph, should
abuse his hospitality, break all his bonds of friendship, and steal, like a
midnight robber, into his palace, to carry off his daughter, the comfort and
solace of his declining years? What has been, do you think, my wretched
mother’s sufferings, on missing her child? what terrors have been mine, since
that unfortunate moment when you carried me to the cottage? (for I now suppose
it was you, Aleanzar, who refused to answer me when I addressed you.) I was
near sinking under the weight of my distress; and Zamora can witness for me,
that my senses wandered, when her tenderness and humanity restored me to
myself. I confess to you, Aleanzar, when I knew I was in your power, I felt
some consolation. Guilty as I found you were, I could not believe, from what I
know of your character, that your heart was a hardened one; and a hope sprung
up in my bosom, that you would in the end be merciful and just; that you would
become sensible of the enormity of your proceedings, and consent, at my earnest
entreaty, to restore me to my father.”
Cava
ceased speaking. She saw the violent agitation of the prince ¾ she had probed him to the quick ¾ he could scarcely bear her words ¾ his colour changed ¾ he struck his damp forehead with his hand ¾ the violence of his feelings prevented the power of speech, and,
starting from his seat, he for some minutes paced the gallery, with folded arms
and unequal steps ¾ pride and love warred in his bosom ¾ he was conscious of the offence he had given, but he could not endure
the reproaches of Cava. As great as was his fondness for her, he found in her
presence he was awed, and that his respect equalled his tenderness. Approaching
her, he again threw himself at her feet, and with the utmost fervor entreated
her pardon.
“Accuse
me not too severely, incomparable Cava; love, love only, could tempt me to so
unwarrantable an action as that I have been guilty of. I would repent it if I
could; but when I behold you, when I have the supreme felicity to inhabit the
same house, to breathe the same air with you, I am tempted, against my better
judgment, to think I have not acted wrong. Forgive me, Cava, forgive the being
who adores you, who offers you his kingdom and his heart, his undivided heart.
Cava, I never before was repulsed by woman ¾ I never sued in vain; is your heart more
hardened than the rest of your sex? And is Aleanzar, destined to the first
throne in the world, fated to be wretched from unrequited love? Think, Cava,
oh! think on what you reject; I only beseech you, take a little time to examine
your own heart. You are queen, you are mistress here — you shall not be
molested — I will not appear before you but when you allow me; only consent to
remain here for some days. I never had a wish respecting you, but what was
honourable. If you reject my passion, if you will leave me, give me time to
reconcile myself to my hard fate. I swear to you by the Prophet (and you know
with us how sacred is that oath), that if I cannot succeed in gaining your
heart, I will restore you in safety to count Julian. Cava, will this satisfy
your callous heart?”
Tears sprang to Aleanzar’s eyes; he tenderly
pressed the hand of the princess, and raised it to his lips. She felt wretched
— she saw Aleanzar at her feet —
she could not doubt the sincerity of the passion he professed for her — she was
fearful of every thing — she could have combated rage and anger — but his
tenderness overcame her; and at the moment she refused him her love, she gave
him her friendship. Cautious of exciting his resentment, and sensible how
entirely she was in his power, she believed her most prudent plan was, for the
present, to grant his request of remaining some days at the castle. Entreating
him to rise, she said —
“I
cannot, Aleanzar, doubt your honour; if remaining here for a short time will
gratify you, and that you promise to restore me to my parents, I will not
distress you by insisting on my immediate return; but I earnestly beseech you
to build no hope on this condescension; there is none for you. I will even be
explicit with you, and assure you, it has for some time been my fixed
determination to withdraw myself from the world, and never to marry. I offer
you my friendship, Aleanzar; never can I give you more; let me not be deceived
in the hope of finding in you a friend, in the place of a lover. I need not
tell you, prince, that love, if it confers happiness, must be mutual; and doubt
not Cava’s truth, when she assures you she has no heart to bestow. She flies
from love, more than she would from death, and only wishes to be allowed to
enjoy solitude and peace.”
These
words had a very different effect to what Cava expected. Aleanzar, instead of
despairing, was animated with hope, on hearing this language from the princess.
He did not conceive that her heart was pre-occupied; he only believed she had
never met with an object she thought worthy of awakening her tenderness. His
eyes sparkled with delight, convinced that time would do much in his favour,
and that his tenderness, his attentions, would subdue her stubborn heart. He
willingly promised all she desired, all she wished; and he gratefully accepted
that friendship he secretly promised himself, no distant day would see
transformed into love; he was now almost completely happy, and inwardly exulted
in his fancied success.
Cava
deceived herself, and Aleanzar deceived both himself and her.
The
Gothic princess now rose from where she sat, and sought Zamora; she found the
fair Moor in the balcony; she leaned on the railing, her eyes fixed on the sea,
and she seemed sunk in deep thought — her cheek was pale, and her eye languid;
yet Cava was struck with her uncommon beauty; she had not before perceived with
what elegance and care she was adorned, and she stood looking at her for some
moments in admiration, yet unwilling to interrupt her meditations. On Zamora’s
perceiving Cava, she started, and asked with quickness where Aleanzar was? “In
the gallery,” replied the princess; “we have had a long conversation, and it
has ended well.” Zamora’s cheek grew still paler; but she was silent, and Cava
continued. — “He has offered me his friendship; I have accepted it, on
condition that if I remain here for a few days, he will afterwards restore me
in safety to my mother.”
“Restore
you to your mother!” cried the beautiful Moor, her eyes recovering their usual
lustre, and a blush overspreading her charming face. “And is it possible, Cava,
that you can be insensible to Aleanzar’s merits? that his person, his
accomplishments, his devotion to yourself, can make no impression on a mind
like yours?” and while she spoke, she looked earnestly at Cava, as if willing
to ascertain the truth of her assertions.
“Believe
me, Zamora, though I am truly sensible of Aleanzar’s value, I cannot love him;
I wish only to return to my home; and I shall regret nothing but leaving you
behind me: but wherever I go, dear Zamora, you must ever be remembered by me
with the utmost tenderness, and be the chosen friend of the heart you think so
obdurate.”
To
this affectionate speech Zamora was replying in as affectionate language, when
Aleanzar entered the balcony, with an air of cheerfulness and satisfaction;
advancing towards the young Moor, he said, taking her hand fondly in his, “My
beloved sister, I rejoice to see you again; I have much to ask of you; assist
me, dear Zamora, to make my peace with this offended and too charming princess
— plead for me, with that soft eloquence that so peculiarly belongs to you —
excuse my faults to Cava — and oh! persuade her, Zamora, of the ardour of that
love you know I feel for her.”
The
Moor softly withdrew her hand; the blood that had rushed to her face forsook
it, and flowed back in torrents on her heart; conscious it did so, she dropt
her eyes upon the ground, while she answered, “Can Aleanzar command any thing
that Zamora could refuse to do? Am I not indebted to you for life, fortune,
honour? do you not treat me with the affection of a brother? know you not how
deep the interest is which I take in your happiness? (again her face was
crimsoned with blushes.) I would sacrifice my life, Aleanzar, to your felicity;
would that my opinions could influence the princess! she knows already in what
high estimation you are held by me; doubt not, Aleanzar, that your happiness
must be Zamora’s.”
Cava, though at some distance, overheard most of
this conversation, and willing to put an end to it, and keep Aleanzar to his
promise, she turned to where he and the young Moor stood, saying, “I am
grateful to you, Aleanzar, for the charming companion you have given me; while
I exist, friendship for Zamora will find a place in my bosom; relying on the
faith of your promises, illustrious prince, I expect you will soon release me
from this beautiful prison. Convinced that Aleanzar will not falsify his word,
while I remain, I shall neither torment you with reproaches or discontent; all
I desire is to hear nothing more of love.”
The
manner in which Cava addressed the prince was not calculated to give him
offence; but he felt it had a resistless power — that it was hers to command,
his to obey. Finding this was no time to further urge his suit, his hope was to
steal upon her heart by degrees; and he secretly determined to devise a
thousand schemes to prolong her stay at his castle, without appearing to fail
in his promises to her. He now bowed submissive to her will, and only desired
permission to visit, at times, the fair friends. This indulgence in his own
palace was not to be refused. The prince, secretly elated with the advantages
he had already gained, with an air of gaiety requested them to partake with him
of a collation prepared in the gallery. He led them in; they found a table
spread with every delicacy that luxury could invent to gratify the palate.
Sherbet was handed round by slaves that had not before appeared; rose water and
perfumes were presented towards the end of the repast; and the most delicious
fruits heaped the board. Zulima still remained in the gallery; she sat not at
the table with the prince, but he was not unmindful of her; he treated her with
familiarity and kindness; and sent her, by a slave who seemed particularly to
attend upon her, all he thought most exquisite in the repast. Aleanzar was
cheerful and agreeable; he was careful not to offend or alarm Cava, by further
professions of love; his eyes, it is true, were not silent; but his attentions
were equally divided between the princess and the beautiful Moor.
All
Cava’s terrors subsided, and she mentally wished that Aleanzar was her brother,
and that she could remain secluded for life in that enchanting spot. Her
penetration now discovered Zamora’s secret passion for Aleanzar; she rejoiced
in the discovery, for she looked on it as impossible that his heart should long
continue indifferent to such an assemblage of charms. She heard him call her
sister, but gave no credit to this relationship. She was desirous of being
acquainted with Zamora’s story, but now was no time to gratify her curiosity.
Aleanzar
was of a communicative disposition, and the princess ventured to ask him what
was doing in Spain. “Alas!” said she, a tear trembling in her eye, “my heart
must be sad, when I reflect on the danger to which my beloved father is hourly
exposed.”
Her
filial affection rendered her a thousand times more interesting in the eyes of
Aleanzar; and with an anxious wish to relieve her uneasiness of mind, he
assured her, that in Spain every thing answered to their wishes — that Musa was
going to send more troops there — that Abdalesis, his friend, had written to
him that he was to command them — and had also informed him, that count Julian
and the Moors had been successful in every engagement. “And is Alonzo safe?”
hovered on the lips of Cava; prudence, however, stifled her words, as she was
about to give them utterance; the restraint oppressed her, and tears silently
bedewed her cheeks. Aleanzar could not endure the sight. What a treasure was
that heart, which, though cold to him, seemed capable of the most tender
affection!
Aleanzar
rose from table. The evening was closed in, but the night was brilliant, “and
not a breath disturbed the deep serene.” The prince proposed attending his fair
guests into the pleasure-grounds that surrounded the castle; they were open to
the bay, and the walk along the shore was perfectly enchanting. Elegant and
high pavilions were erected in those spots where the landscape was most
picturesque, and showed to the greatest advantage.
Aleanzar
led the way, and Zulima followed the steps of Cava and Zamora, who, lowering
their veils, descending arm in arm to the gardens, took the path leading to the
shore.
A
mind not insensible to the beauty of nature must have found gratification in
such a paradise. Cava, enthusiastically fond of the country, was really
charmed, and her softened heart for awhile “forgot all duties and all care.”
The
night was too bright to conceal a single object that gave beauty to the scene;
the moonbeams trembled on the waves, that with soft murmurs broke upon the
shore, almost at their feet. Boats passing across the bay, the dashing of the
distant oars, mixt with the song of the mariners, came, at intervals, in sweet
cadence to their ear. Part of the castle, with the mountains beyond it, were in
shade, and darkly visible; but the apartments through which they had passed,
the gallery and balcony, were now illuminated by the slaves against their
return, and threw a softened light on the garden beneath.
“And
now the dew with spangles deck’d the ground;
A
sweeter spot of earth was never found;
Here
the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath,
Whose
odours were of power to raise from death;
Nor
sullen discontent, nor anxious care,
E’en
though brought thither, could inhabit there;
But
thence they fled, as from their mortal foe,
For
this sweet place could only pleasure know.”
Cava,
all truth, concealed not the delight such scenery afforded her; she expressed
her feelings with energy, and every word she uttered thrilled to the heart of
Aleanzar. Young, and sanguine in his expectations, he flattered himself with
the ultimate success of his wishes. Hope exhilarated his spirits, sparkled in
his eye, and animated his conversation. He expatiated with taste on the calm
pleasures of a country life ¾ on the freedom that was enjoyed in sylvan
scenes, when accompanied by those dearest to one’s heart. The great Aleanzar,
the son of the caliph, and next his throne, forgot the world, his father’s
court, his own future greatness, and in the retirement of a rural paradise,
gave his whole soul to love; and perhaps, at this calm hour of the closing day,
Aleanzar enjoyed a pleasure the world could never have afforded him. Conscious
of his own worth, though he presumed not on it, he yet felt it might in time
have its weight with her whom he adored. He looked with a degree of transport
to the future ¾ the present was delightful, for Cava was near
him. Nature appeared to have put on new charms, as he wandered with her through
this delicious abode. He thought of the paradise promised by his prophet, and
his heated imagination persuaded him he had realized it on earth. Cava and
Zamora appeared to him more beautiful than the most perfect of the houris; and
the fear only of mortally offending the princess, prevented his pouring forth
the ardour of his soul at her feet.
Having
long enjoyed their walk, they returned to the castle, where Aleanzar had
ordered musicians and dancers to attend, in the hope of amusing his fair guest.
In this Aleanzar failed ¾ neither the light bound, the graceful
movements of the dancers, or the sprightly notes that animated them, was
grateful to the heart of Cava.
Nature
had exercised that influence over her mind, which it must ever do, where there
is feeling and true taste. The efforts of art were lost upon her; and her
countenance assuming the melancholy cast of her soul, she gazed with a vacant
eye on the gay train whom Aleanzar had called for her amusement. Her troubled
ideas reverted not only to her parents, her native home, to her lamented,
regretted, and lost Alonzo, but to Toledo, to Egilone, to Favilla.
Horror-struck at the remembrance of Rodrigo, she drove him from her thoughts;
and the good father Anselmo presented himself to her imagination. His excellent
understanding, his amiable disposition, his piety, she was well acquainted
with; and she determined, when Aleanzar should restore her to liberty, (which
she doubted not he would shortly do) that to this holy guide she would apply,
to stand between her and her parents, and to obtain their leave for her
spending the remainder of her life in a convent. Lost in these reflections, she
still appeared to the prince and Zamora to attend to what was passing in the
gallery. They were amused by the dancers, and supposed Cava beheld them with
pleasure. Zulima only read the soul of the fair mourner; her good sense and
experience told her she had deep sorrow. Zulima had spoken little to the
princess since they first met; but she observed her, and she had heard a few
sentences of that long conversation which had passed between her and Aleanzar,
when he first entered the gallery. Zulima now approaching the cushions on which
the princess sat, placed herself behind her; and when she thought she was not
attended to by Aleanzar or Zamora, she whispered her in the Moorish language ¾
“Lovely
Cava, I think I am in part acquainted with your sorrows; do not fear me, my
princess; you may yet find in me a friend; and if you wish to do so, be silent,
I conjure you, on what I have said.”
Cava
started from her reverie; she was surprised at what she had heard, and lifting
her eyes from the ground, on which they had been fixed, she was about to reply
to the kind speaker; but she had withdrawn, and was now at the elbow of her
master.
In
a few minutes the music ceased, the dancers left the gallery, and sweetmeats
and fresh fruits were carried round. At length the enamoured Aleanzar took his
leave for the night, but not without assuring Cava, that while he had the
felicity of her company at his castle, he would endeavour to vary the pleasures
of their solitude to the utmost of his power.
Caring
not for his attentions, unhappy at her present situation, and confused in her
thoughts, the princess answered, “all she wished, all she desired of him, was
soon to restore her to her mother.” At this speech, so unexpected at the
moment, Aleanzar’s gay dreams of happiness faded “into thin air,” and with a
gloomy countenance, and haughty demeanour, he quitted the apartment. Cava felt
not subdued by his looks; if he treated her kindly, she would willingly give
him her friendship ¾ nothing could purchase love. Zamora’s eyes
followed him to the door, and as he left the gallery, an involuntary sigh
escaped her bosom; conscious of it, and unwilling her fair companion should
suspect her real feelings, she approached her with smiles, and proposed
retiring for the night. This was what Cava wished; her harassed soul required
repose. Zulima attended them to their respective apartments, where they found
all that luxury and taste could give for their accommodation.
Zulima
kindly wished them peaceful slumbers, and, unseen by Zamora, as she withdrew,
turned to Cava, and placed her finger on her lips. The princess, understanding
her meaning, made her a sign that she did so; and the delightful hope of
finding a friend where she so little expected to meet one, in some measure
tranquillized her mind; and with fervent prayers for the safety and happiness
of those she loved, she closed her beauteous eyes in calm repose,
“And
slept until the dawning beam,
Purpled
the mountain and the stream.”
END
OF VOL. I.