“O’er the lands of the earthHe hath wandered from birth;He hath much—wants no more,Does this same troubadour.He hath treasure, I’m told,Quite surpassing all gold,’Tis a lady—no more.He’s a rich troubadour.”
“O’er the lands of the earthHe hath wandered from birth;He hath much—wants no more,Does this same troubadour.He hath treasure, I’m told,Quite surpassing all gold,’Tis a lady—no more.He’s a rich troubadour.”
“O’er the lands of the earthHe hath wandered from birth;He hath much—wants no more,Does this same troubadour.He hath treasure, I’m told,Quite surpassing all gold,’Tis a lady—no more.He’s a rich troubadour.”
Hardly had the last words floated away on the air than the window, behind which was the taper, opened on to the broad terrace. The next moment the Lady Leonora was softly coming down the broad steps to the green lawn.
As she reached the foot of the marble stairs, she saw a manly figure. Guessing it to be that of the singer, she ran and put her arms about the new comer’s neck.
“Thou art late. I have counted the moments for thy coming.”
But the voice of her lover sounded many steps away, crying, “Faithless one!”
And then, by the light of the moon, which had seemed darkness to her, coming from the illuminated chamber, she perceived how terrible had been her mistake.
“Manrico, thy Leonora thought this man to be thyself; he hath not yet spoken; by his voice I should have learnt my fault.”
The count, in a whirl of rage, cried, “He is but a coward or a sinner who wears a mask—remove that mask.”
The troubadour took off his mask.
“Thou, Maurico,” said the count. “Thou!—proscribed—condemned to death—a rebel.”
“Defeat thy rival, count, by calling here thy guards.”
“The only guard I call is this—an honorable one.”
And the noble drew his sword. “Thou shalt degrade its blade.”
The troubadour quickly drew his sword, and the count was rushing upon him, when cried the former, “Softly, count. Brave men quarrel not in the presence of trembling women.”
“Follow me!” cried the count; and, spite of all the entreaties of the lady, the rivals strode on to some secluded spot that one might slay the other.
Amongthe gipsies!—the gipsies—then, as now, and as who knows through how many hundreds of years?—daring, brave, handsome, light hearted rovers!
In Spain the zingaras, or gipsies, have ever increased and multiplied. The land seems to foster them kindly; and, at the period of our tale, they were so numerous, that quarrelsome or rebellious nobles would frequently enlist the sympathies and strong arms of the tribe. Often and often the prowess of the zingaras provided the turning points of the Spanish victories.
The band of gipsies to which the troubadour, Maurico,belonged had taken part in the rebellion against the king. Hence the expressions used by the count when he discovered Maurico in the palace gardens.
The gipsies were encamped within and about a dilapidated old building, amid the mountains of Biscay, not far from the castle of the Count di Luna. In their encampment they sang, and laughed, and danced as though they were masters of the earth, instead of being surrounded by danger, and, possibly, near to death!
The flickering flames of a wood fire, which shone on the faces of the wild band, paled before the coming day. But there was yet sufficient light to see Maurico, muffled in a cloak, lying at the feet of a stern-looking gipsey woman, whom they called Azucena.
Suddenly this woman started from her sleep—stood up—came a step or so forward—and cried, “Look—look ye! See how the flames dart at her, as she is dragged along. Look ye, how they all crowd about, and are merry over her trouble—a poor gipsey led to death! See how their faces are bathed in blood! There! she screams in her agony; and higher, and yet higher the mocking flames rise about her; and now I see her no longer. Gone—gone—gone!”
Suddenly she came to herself, and half whispered, “Vengeance! I will have vengeance.”
“Still that word, mother,” said the troubadour, Maurico, rising from his hard bed.
As the sun lit up the shadows in their dark skins, the gipsies moved away in various directions. Presently, the gipsey-mother and gipsey-son were alone together.
Suddenly she began again to speak of her terror. “She was accused of witchcraft—my mother; and they burnt her here—here, on this very spot. I see her, thick chains hanging about her limbs, dragged to this very spot. I stood near, holding thee in my trembling arms. In vain she sought to bless me; they struck down her hands, and drove her forward. Then it was she cried aloud, ‘Avenge me!’ And canst thou not read the words here—here on my face?”
“And thou didst obey, my mother?”
“I stole the old count’s son. The child wept and clungto me. Why should I pity him? They had shown her no mercy. Here with him I came—a fire blazing as when my mother died. I closed my angry eyes, raised high the child above my head, and dashed it screaming on the burning embers. Then, looking forth again, I saw—I saw—the count’s own child still living.”
“Then thou hadst destroyed—”
“My son—my own dear son.”
And she grovelled on the ground, hiding her face with her hands.
“Then am notIthy son?”
Suddenly she looked up fearfully. “Yes—yes, boy, thou art my son—my own dear son.”
“And yet thou didst say—”
“Ne’er heed what I say, son, for am I not sometimes daft? Thy mother—have I not been a tender mother to thee all thy life?”
“There’s not a day that I recall when thou wast otherwise.”
“Did I not save thy life, my son—my own dear son? When they said you lay dead on Pelilla’s field, did not I seek thee—find thee—cure thee? Thinkest thou I would do all that for the stranger?”
“A noble wound! If, when Di Luna rushed upon me with his score of men, I fell—I fell as falls a soldier, mother.”
“Di Luna! And so he rendered thee reward for the life thou gavest him, when he stood before thee in a duel, and was conquered. Thou shouldst love Di Luna, e’en as thy brother; Di Luna, whom thou, my son, hast spared.” And she laughed scornfully.
“I may not know wherefore, but when my sword was pointed at him—when the next moment I should have slain him—some power held back my sword, and I heard whispered in mine ear the word, ‘Mercy!’”
“But if again thou meetest him, thou dost promise to slay him—without mercy? Slay him,” she said again, as if to herself, and turned away without waiting for his reply.
As she turned, a trumpet sounded near at hand.
A herald appeared, and brought Maurico a scroll fromthe rebel chief, in whose ranks he and his people now fought. The stronghold, Castellor, had been wrested from the royalists, and Maurico was ordered to take its command. The scroll also incidentally mentioned that the Lady Leonora, believing in Maurico’s death in the late fight, was about to take the veil in a neighboring convent.
The gipsey-mother saw him turn, and quickly fling his cloak about him, and place his helmet on his head.
“Whither goest thou?”
“To duty.”
“I command thee, stay.”
“But mygeneralcommands me.”
“And thy wound! thou must not leave me. It may open again; and if I am not near thee, son, thou mayst die; therefore thou shalt not go.”
For answer, he wrapt his cloak more closely about him.
She threatened him, but it was useless. Soon she was gazing after him as he wended his way down a mountain pass.
Go we now to the cloisters of the convent, where the luckless Lady Leonora was about to take the vows that were to separate her for ever from the world.
Love had humiliated and degraded the count, as it hath humiliated and degraded many a better man. As he could not honestly possess himself of the Lady Leonora, he had now come to steal her—tear her away from the altar. He had not come alone, for love had also made him a coward. He had brought with him a score or so of his followers to snatch her from amongst a host of women.
See them hiding behind pillars, and in shadows, creeping softly and meanly, as robbers and cowards do.
Then came the widowed Lady Leonora, surrounded by old friends, who would fain accompany her to the door of her life-long prison.
She sighed as she heard the low religious chant from within the walls of the convent—henceforth to shut in all her hopes. But she was determined. He was dead—her love. Killed on the battle-field, and she would mourn for him in the silence of a convent cell.
“With good, hearty old friends,” said she to the attendants about her, “see me to the altar, and then—a long farewell.”
But as she turned towards the sacred door the count came quickly from behind a broken pillar, and tremblingly said, “Nought can save thee—thou art mine.”
“Mercy!”
“There is no Maurico now to save thee. He is dead—he is dead.”
He ran towards her, but suddenly he stopped, and trembled like a coward, as he was. For there, standing between him and his expected prize, was the minstrel, Maurico himself! Standing there was the very man he had seen fall on the field; or—or, was it his shade?
And Leonora? After an instant of doubt and hesitation—for she, too, believed her lover was not of this world—she ran to him, and, with a great cry, threw herself upon his breast.
The consternation of the dastardly count hardly gave him much time for deliberation; but, on a signal, his followers swarmed out from their hiding places, and surrounded the lovers. But they reckoned without their host. The next instant Maurico and the Lady Leonora were protected by trusty arms.
In vain the count drew his sword and rushed upon the troubadour. Twenty swords were pointed at him—twenty swords that in an instant would have touched his heart. But their leader, Maurico, who still suffered from his wound, bade them spare him.
So the count yet stood alive in the midst of his followers. Stood unsubdued by the mercy which had now been shown him; stood, and vowed vengeance against his gentle foe; stood and cursed him as he led the lady away. Away from him, the rival; away from the convent, away to Castellor, which had fallen into the rebels’ hands, and whose governor was Maurico, the Warrior Minstrel.
Surely, mercy may sometimes be a fault, if extended to a heartless man.
The Count di Luna held his life by the great mercy of the gipsey stranger, but he determined to reduce the castle, whose master was that gipsey, hoping that he might yet destroy a hated rival. No breath of gratitude was in his heart. He thought only of revenge, and turned away his face from the light.
The count’s camp was pitched within a mile of the doomed castle. The count’s soldiers were lying about—playing, singing, gambling, and polishing up their arms—when the soldier, Ferrando, was seen to run quickly towards the count, who was walking moodily amidst the troopers.
“One hath seized a gipsey woman, general. She is a spy, perhaps.”
“Let her be brought hither,” said the count, and looking up as the sound of a tramping, mixed with smothering cries, reached his ears, he saw a middle-aged, stern-looking gipsey-woman being dragged towards him by half-a-dozen thick-bearded men. She showed no fear.
“Wherefore do ye thus treat me? What evil have I done ye?”
“Come hither, woman. Answer me truly.”
“That shall be as thy questions are.”
“Whither goest thou?”
“Whither the gipsies ever go. To the north or to the south, sometimes westward, yet ever gladly to the east.”
“What wouldst thou?”
“My son—I only crave my dear, dear son. He hath left me, and I seek him. Thou tremblest—perchance thou hast lost a mother.”
“I seem to know thy features. When my younger brother was stolen, the woman who did carry him was like thee.”
The noble seemed to be thinking aloud, rather than addressing the gipsey. “Fifteen years—fifteen long years since I lost my younger brother.”
“Thou art, then, the Count di Luna?”
She saw she had spoken hastily, as soon as she had uttered the words, so she prepared to fence with them.
“How knowest thou that?”
“They say the gipsies know all things, master. But let me go; I may trace him for thee.”
Suddenly the old soldier, Ferrando, cried out, as he peered towards the gipsey, “By our Lady, ’tis she herself!”
“She! who?” cried the count.
“May I never be absolved, general, if ’tis not the gipsey who stole your brother! Did I not see her carrying the child away, hid in her rags? Aye, marry, did I. Did I not tremble when I saw her but just now, as though I knew her? Aye, marry, twice did I.”
“She trembles; her lips betray her,” said the count. “Bind her—till the cords cut deep into her flesh. Ah! scream—scream; there is no help.”
“Help, Maurico!” cried the gipsey, in her agony. “Help, my son! help, my Maurico!”
“His mother—HISmother!” said the count. And running to her, he raised his hand, as though he would strike her. But he had not yet fallen so low as that.
She looked at him fearlessly. “I defy thee! Thou—the base son of a base father. Frown—hope!—hate, thou monster. Vengeance shall be mine. List to that, I say—‘Vengeance shall be mine!’”
He turned from her contemptuously. She to talk of vengeance! She a miserable, bound gipsey.
He to his splendid tent—she to imprisonment; and yet she had cried, “Vengeance shall be mine.”
Turn we to Castellor, where are Maurico and Leonora.
As they stood near the balcony, all in all to each other, she heard the distant clash of arms. “Prythee, wherefore that sound?”
“Thou art so brave that I fear not to tell thee all. The Count di Luna is encamped but a short mile away. Before the night is gone he will have besieged this castle. Nay, trouble not—your courage and our swords will bevictorious. It is, I know, a weary prelude to our marriage, dearest. Of victory I am sure—yet should I fall—my last thought will be of thee—only of thee—Hark!—they await us in the chapel.”
As he spoke, the chanting in the neighboring chapel reached their ears, and each knew that the priest was waiting to join their hands.
They were moving towards the holy place when a soldier ran quickly in, saying he had woeful news.
The gipsey Azucena—was taken.
“Azucena!”
“They say—she will be burnt!”
“Ah! the air grows hot and dark about me.”
The lady Leonora put her hand to the troubadour’s brow, but he put it aside and cried—“My mother—they would slay my mother.”
“Thy mother!”
Then she bade him take arms. No fear had she now. Victory must be with him who fought to save a mother! “Onward!” she cried. She buckled on his sword, and was the first to cry, “farewell.” Her last words were “love” and “victory!”
Mightis not always for the just. Were it so always, where would be the honor of virtue?
Maurico was conquered, and the castle fell into the hands of his enemy the Count Di Luna. The minstrel languished in prison, with but one consolation in this life—the presence of his mother. They were imprisoned together, that to their miseries might be added the pain of a last separation.
Upon the fall of the castle, the Lady Leonora took flight, hoping against hope. But when she heard he was condemned to death, she came weeping to the foot of the castle, and leant her face against its wall.
With her came the faithful soldier, who had ever been at Maurico’s right hand—who had told him of his mother’s capture, and who had escaped from the battle at thelast moment, when he saw his master taken prisoner, and all hope had fled.
She bade her faithful escort leave her, and then hope whispered that perchance she could save him. And when she trembled she looked at a ring she wore, and found new courage.
Swelling on the night air came the dirge of the monks within the castle—
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
The solemn words made her tremble and look for a moment with fear upon the ring she wore; but the next instant she started forward with horror, for she heard his voice—
“Ah—death itself is slowWhen death itself is wooed—When death itself is peace.Leonora—fare-thee-well!”
“Ah—death itself is slowWhen death itself is wooed—When death itself is peace.Leonora—fare-thee-well!”
“Ah—death itself is slowWhen death itself is wooed—When death itself is peace.Leonora—fare-thee-well!”
“Great Heaven!—can I believe my senses?”
Again the solemn voices of the monks arose—
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;Miserere for one who, a moment more,Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
Again his voice arose; his last words for her—
“Leonora—Leonora, a last farewell.”
And again she looked on the ring as she thought, “her love was as great as his.”
Then suddenly she heard footsteps, and she shrank into the shadow of the frowning tower.
The count passed over the very spot from which she had just fled. Then he turned and said to some person unseen by Leonora—
“Thou markest my will; when the day breaks—the scaffold for the son—the pile for the mother.”
Cruel, implacable as he was, he even blushed in the dark night as conscience whispered to him that this scaffold and this pile were but a poor return for his life, twice given him. But he had gone too far to recede; and, with a curse, he cried, “’Twas fatality, and Leonora.” Then he asked himself where she was—where she had hidden herself, and, in an agony of hot, unrestrained passion, he cried out, “Leonora, Leonora, where art thou?”
“She is here!”
As he started at her voice she came forward, pale and trembling, from the shadow.
Asking himself how she could have reached the terrace, after an effort he said, “What wouldst thou?”
“Canst thou ask me? His life.”
“Hislife! Ask me for mine own as well.”
“See, I kneel to thee.”
“Thou art mad.”
“Nay, see how humble I am; look on me—at thy very feet.”
“Look in my face; dost thou see pity there?”
“I cannot look upon thy face. Pity—I can say no more;—pity! Hath he not twice saved thy life? Wilt thou not render back half thy debt? Kill me if thou wilt, for I heard thee say ’twas by me thou art what thou art. Kill me, yet spare him.”
“As thou speakest, thou dost but ensure his fate. I would I could make him suffer a hundred deaths. As ardently thou lovest so fiercely do I hate. Let go your hold. Nothing can purchase his life.”
“No price?”
“No price.”
“Yes, there is one, and I do offer it to thee—myself.”
“What hast thou said?”
“What I do mean—myself.”
“I dream.”
“Nay, open his prison-door, and I am thine.”
“Wilt thou swear it?”
“By my dead mother’s name!”
“Enough—he is free.”
He strode quickly to the door of the tower, and spoke rapidly to the gaoler within it; but she had had time to offer herself a sacrifice to her honest love. She took the ring from off her finger, opened a little receptacle in it,removed from it a small grey pellet, and swallowed it. “Thou shalt have a dead bride,” she whispered. When he again turned towards her, her hands were pressed to her sides.
“Saved, saved,” she cried to herself, as the count—smiling now for the first time for a weary while—took her right hand and courteously led her to the grand hall of the castle.
Enter the hopeless prison, in which the gipsey and the troubadour were trying to console each other as each weary moment rolled away.
She was lying on the bare ground; he sitting at her feet, his hands crossed, and smiling as he looked upon her.
“Dost thou sleep, dear mother?”
“There is no time for sleep, my son.”
“Thou tremblest with cold.”
“This is a tomb. I would we could escape.”
“Escape!”
“Yet, fear not, son; they cannot torture me.”
“No; for art thou not a woman?”
“Oh, they would not fear to torture a woman. But look on my face, canst thou not read death there? Nay, cry not, ‘mother,’ as thou weepest. They shall come to bite their lips with anger; for they will find me dead.”
Then, as he buried his face in his hands, she was seized with unconquerable fear. “They come—they come. Save me—save thy mother. I am indeed, indeed thy mother.”
“No one cometh; all is quiet.”
“Fire! death by fire! I am afraid—I am afraid. I see her now—my mother. They dragged her and bound her to the stake. There! there! See, the flames have caught her hair; how it shrivels up! And her eyes—ah! she can see me no longer. Help! help! save me!”
And she fell back senseless upon the hard earth.
“Mother, if thou dost love me still—if thou wilt hear thy son’s prayers, be brave and calm.”
As he spoke, she came again to a knowledge of her fate.
“I am worn and weak; or thou shouldst not bid me be calm and brave. I am—very—worn-and—weak.”
And she fell peacefully to sleep, as in her native mountains; free as the wind, and surrounded by her tribe.
Then he knelt by her side, hardly daring to breathe, for fear of waking her.
No fear of awaking her; for she is aweary, andwillsleep. They shall come and bear him away from thee, and still thou shalt sleep on and peacefully; he shall bid thee his last farewell, and still thou shalt sleep unheedingly.
Suddenly he started, as a light fell upon the prison walls. He looked upon his sleeping mother, and thought it was her funeral pyre. But as he turned, he saw the light came from the door, upon the threshold of which stood the queen of mercy—his dear Leonora.
She ran to him, and nestled on his breast. Then she cried, “Thou shalt not die, for I have saved thee.”
“Thou hast saved me! how?”
“Nay,” and she hid her face, and pointed to the door.
“And thou—thou comest also.”
“My life—my hope—I must stay here.”
“Stay here!”
“I pray thee go, go.”
“Where thou goest I will also go; and where thou stayest, I will stay.”
“But if thou stayest thou diest.”
“Without thee what is life? Why do thy eyes turn from me; what is the price thou hast paid for my liberty?”
“No price is high for a dear human life. There is yet time. For my sake, go!”
“But he for whom that life is bought may cast the gift from him as I do, and as I also cast thee away.”
“Ah, Maurico—’tis not the hour to hate. Peace and good-will, peace and good-will.” She turned deadly pale, and rocked to and fro in agony.
His arms were about her in a moment. “My transient hate—my fears, were but excess of love.”
“Speak on, speak on, death vainly strives against the warmth of love. I feel for thee. Speak on, oh, myMaurico. But a little, and envious death shall have his will.”
“Leonora—Leonora, thou art dying!”
“Ah—yes, she goes to be thy herald. Unrelenting is the poison. If ’twill let me stay near thee but for a little, little while. Ah, place my cold hand against thy trembling lips, thou knowest now my wealth of love for thee. I did mean to save thee at my life’s expense; this was the price. No more, no less.”
“AndIfell back from thee—turned from thee. Mine eyes have fallen from my face. Leonora—look up, look up.”
“I am too weak. Keep your hands about me. So let me die! Ah, ’tis well as it is.”
At this moment the count came to the door to claim his bride.
“Good-bye—oh, good-bye!” and she sank exhausted in his arms.
Even this scene did not soften Di Luna. No reverence had he for the poor dead lady—no reverence had he for the maddened lover, straining his eyes upon the dear one’s face. The guards, who waited without, came in, and tore them asunder.
“Mother,” he cried, “mother.”
But she slept on unheedingly. Slept on while they bore her son away to death.
Again, as he was wrenched across the threshold, he cried, “Mother.” And now, she trembled in her sleep.
Again, and again, she trembled. Then with a shudder she awoke. She looked round quickly, and clasped her hands about her breast, as she no longer saw her son. Then her eyes rested on the count. With a bound she was by his side. “Thou hast stolen him—thou hast stolen while I slept.”
He stood immovable, and uttered not a word.
“Mercy—stay the axe—I will save him—I will save him.” And she clung, shrieking, about his feet.
“Save him—nought can save him—see there.”
He dragged her to the window, and she looked wildly forth.
“Dead—dead—dead!”
Then she turned from the window a changed woman. No tears. No horror. Smiling even a grim smile.
The noble stepped back in wonder. Then he thought that she was mad. But no.
Proud—erect—she stood before him.
“Have I not said—‘Vengeance shall be mine’—in thy tent, where thou didst cut my flesh with cords.VengeanceISmine. Thou look’st towards the window. Gazing through it—I say—Vengeance is mine. He is dead—thou sayest he is dead. Hear!—thou knowest me to be the gipsey who robbed thy father of thy younger brother. Ah well, I am indeed she—and that brother,—rejoice in the act,—and that brother—look again through the window—mark that body.Thou hast slain thy brother.Shrink—shrink!—Vengeance is mine.Hadst thou but have let him wake me that he might say farewell, I should have pitied thee and saved him—but thou didst steal him from me while I slept. Dead!—he will carry thy murderous name with him. Have I not said, ‘Vengeance shall be mine?’”
And then her troubles were over, and the last she saw on earth was the bleeding body of him she called, and whom she loved, as a son.
While he, the triumphant count, stood there alone.
Alone. With remembrance. With remorse.
Whoare these houseless men, lying about amongst jagged rocks, laughing gaily, card-playing and drinking—the setting sun lighting up the place with a red glare, and bathing their brown faces crimson?
The sun writes the truth upon their faces; they are men of blood—lawless, houseless plunderers; singing, laughing, card-playing—waiting for the night, and for their captain, that they may begin their work.
They keep a sharp look-out about them though, and at last, start to their feet with a great noise, as a young handsome man comes suddenly in.
He seems to have nothing in common with these men, for he is elegantly dressed, and looks every inch a cavalier. His face is not ferocious; and yet—yes, they have saluted him as captain, and he waves his hat in courteous reply.
Not a thief by birth! O no! this man really is John of Arragon, the son and heir of the Duke of Segovia and Cordova, killed to please the will of King Carlos of Castille. The son narrowly escaped the same fate, but fortune favored him. He reached the Sierras, which, like all mountains, offered the fugitive safe shelter. Hundreds upon hundreds flocked to his standard, and John of Arragon changed his name to “Ernani.” But he dwelt not so far away from his old life, as not to be able to see the Moorish castle of Don Ruy Gomez di Silva. Nor was it for the sake of Don Ruy he kept the castle ever in view. The don had a ward, Elvira, who had held out a hand to save Ernani when the blood-king was tracking him; and for this generous act she had gained his love, giving, however, her own in exchange.
The face of the chief is sad. Would that his men could bear his grief for him, and they would willingly stand between him and death.
“Thank you, brothers—thank you,” replied the chief, as he leapt down amongst them; “but my woe is so deep that even your cheering voices cannot drive it away.”
“The chief, then, is in love—”
“And likely to lose his love, brothers, if you will not help him.”
“Help! Yes—yes—yes.”
“See you that castle there, below us, with the red sun full on it. She lives there—she lives there! If you love your chief, you will help him to bring her here—here to the mountains.”
“Yes—yes—yes!” replied a hundred voices.
“She would follow me anywhere; she will love the mountains for my sake. Youwillhelp me!”
“Yes—yes—yes.”
“Then let the night be our friend; when darkness has come we will storm the castle, and then she is amongst us.”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”
And while the noble chief was waiting for nightfall, the lady whom he loved was looking from a window of the old castle towards the mountains, amongst which she knew Ernani dwelt.
A real Spanish lady was Elvira, as could be seen, had anybody been able to spy her at the window. But, alas! no one could, for Don Ruy, her guardian, hid her as a jewel which he feared might be stolen. He was seventy, she was seventeen; his hair was grey, hers was black, and yet he had determined that she should marry him.
As she sat at the window, watching the sun go down, she was at least at peace, for the grandee was away from the castle. And so she sat pensive, and dreaming of Ernani, perhaps, hoping he would come and carry her off. At last it was night time, and still the don had not returned.
Suddenly the door of the quiet room opened, and a procession entered; gay in itself, but of ominous import to the lady at the window—a string of young maidens bearing rich gifts, marriage gifts; for, truth to tell, the old don had resolved that his marriage with Elvira should take place on the following day. Listen what they say to her.
“How many Spanish maidens envy thee, fair lady. Thou wilt be the highest lady in all the land. These gifts alone are a mine of wealth. To-morrow thou wilt be a bride.”
“I thank you; but the dazzle of diamonds will not lighten hate into love.” And she again thought, “I would Ernani were here, and that he would fly with me.”
Hardly had they, the present bearers, left the room, than she turned quickly at the sound of a cautious footstep—she thought it was that of Ernani. But no; another had learnt, the secret entrance her bandit lover used. Another, who had watched and seen Ernani enter. Not a mean man this. A king—aKING! Don Carlos, King of Castille. She saw her error, shrunk back, and cried out:—
“Sire, you here, at this hour!”
“I love thee, lady, at all hours.”
“Ah, no—sire.”
“Nay, lady, a king is never told he lies.”
“I pray you, leave me.”
“I will leave withthee, lady.”
“Withme!”
“Ah, if I were Ernani thou wouldst not start thus. Come, thou canst not know the wealth of love I have for thee.”
“And my honor, sire?”
“Thou shalt be honored by all the court.”
“And by myself, think you!”
“Thou wouldst sooner be honored by Ernani’s out-laws—thou lovest the robber.”
“Sire, each heart has its own secret.”
“And I, have not I mine? Ah, Elvira, from the moment I first saw thee I have loved thee. I love thee for thyself, as I would have thee, lady, e’en love me. But—but if a crown will earn me smiles from thee, I offer you the half of that I wear.”
“Withthy crown thy love is too high for me,withoutit, ’tis too low.”
“Thou shalt fall.”
“A king—never forget you are a king!”
“I forget I am a king when I am at your feet.”
He ran towards her, as her eyes flashed defiance upon him; but the next moment he drew back, for she had snatched a jewelled dagger from his girdle.
“Stand back!”
“You see I do stand back, fair lady. But there are more hands here than mine to pluck the dagger from your grasp.”
Suddenly he perceived a great joy flush her fair cheeks. At the same instant he heard a footstep behind him, and turning round, he saw a man, a handsome, daring-looking man, whom he was sure, seeing the lady’s joy, was none other than Ernani, looking on him defiantly, with hate and anger! Ernani, who had entered the castle by a secret door—who was there to bear away the lady—who had come to save her from yet further misery.
“Thou art Ernani—I know it by the hate I feel sparkling in my eyes. Hate! Does the eagle hate the worm? No, he despises it. Rejoice—scourge of a peaceful country! Let thy meanness comfort thee. Wert thou greater, I would raise my hand to thy destruction. I have but to call, and thou art lost.”
“Thou knowest me and fearest me. I am so mean that thou hast robbed me of my fame;—so mean, that thou hast taken from me my wealth;—so contemptible, that thou hast slain my father! And now thou would’st rob me of my bride. What difference is there between us? Thou, noblest, with a crown on thy head and without risk of life—Irisk my life to rob where I have been robbed. What difference is there between us? Cowardice! Now—let us be equal. Defend thyself.”
“Hark! some one is approaching,” cried Elvira, in an agony of fear—“forget your quarrel, at least for a little while,—if you are found here I am lost. So, please you, forget your hates, and leave me.”
Still, the two men moved not—still the footsteps nearer drew.
“If you love me, both of you—either of you—leave me—leave this place! Too late—too late!”
For at this moment the door was thrown open, and on the threshold stood the master of the castle—the Don Ruy—his attendants behind him—witnesses to his dishonor.
“Do I breathe?—here, in the sanctity of my house—to find two men quarreling—as though disputing for some poor booty!”
He was a grand old gentleman, with hair as white as honor. But his age had not brought him humility. He was as proud as he was grand, and as merciless as he was proud. Turning to his court—for this grandee retained a court—he continued: “You, Senors, witness this fall of mine! This woman whom I loved, but till now I thought as pure as the moonlight streaming on her through the window. As for these men—my hands are weak, but one can bear a sword—the other a shield. Yet not here within my house shall blood be spilt. Go, pass before me.”
The last few words were addressed to the king and Ernani, and then for the first time he looked upon them—but the light was too feeble for him to recognize even one of them.
“Gently—gently,” said one of these two. But the don cried out haughtily. “None but myself had right to speak.”
Suddenly, high and loud in the air, sounded a herald’s trumpet.
And, within a moment or so, it was whispered among the crowd, still without the door, that it was a king’s messenger.
A lane was made for him by Don Ruy—who turned to the herald, imagining that he came to him. Following the herald came torch-bearers.
On came the herald. He did not salute the master of the castle—he did not even look at him. On past him, past one of the men found in the lady’s room—past the lady even—up to the second intruder, before whom he knelt.
“The King,” cried many, as the herald knelt, andabove him stood, now in the full light of the torches, the brave man who bore a dagger sheath, but not a dagger.
Then said the king, “Don Ruy, I came to consult thy friendship for me.”
See! The proud Don Ruy has stooped his head; then he steps forward, and humbly welcomes to his house “the king.”
As they crowd about the king—as the latter receives their homage—the robber Ernani and the lady were forgotten, and they stood apart, whispering—
“Until the sun sinketh again in the deepResist the proud tyrant, nor yield to dismay;For Ernani unbroken thy precious faith keep,And to-morrow from peril I’ll bear thee away.”———“Thou knowest I’m thine—know also this steelCan save me from tyrants—nor do I repine;In wretchedness even ’tis solace to feelThat my heart—that my faith, will for ever be thine.”
“Until the sun sinketh again in the deepResist the proud tyrant, nor yield to dismay;For Ernani unbroken thy precious faith keep,And to-morrow from peril I’ll bear thee away.”———“Thou knowest I’m thine—know also this steelCan save me from tyrants—nor do I repine;In wretchedness even ’tis solace to feelThat my heart—that my faith, will for ever be thine.”
“Until the sun sinketh again in the deepResist the proud tyrant, nor yield to dismay;For Ernani unbroken thy precious faith keep,And to-morrow from peril I’ll bear thee away.”———“Thou knowest I’m thine—know also this steelCan save me from tyrants—nor do I repine;In wretchedness even ’tis solace to feelThat my heart—that my faith, will for ever be thine.”
See, now, the proud noble stoops to kneel before the outraged king, and entreats his pardon. And, graciously, the king accords it.
Hark! the king demands a safe pass for Ernani. He still thinks the eagle should not injure the worm. See, the bandit passes away, out to freedom. The king is gracious, the don trembles, and the Lady Elvira is presented to the king in due form and courtesy.
With the next day’s sun came Elvira’s marriage day. No hope of flight—fate was against her, and so her envious women dress her for the sacrifice.
The great hall of the castle is filling with lords and ladies, retainers and vassals. There is a sudden stir—’tis the entrance of the duke, dressed grandly, and wearing all his orders. He walks gravely to his grandee’s chair, and sits down as the crowd do homage.
In those days—four hundred years ago—it was the custom to give shelter to any pilgrim who should demand it. Hence scarcely a day passed without “the castle” containing many guests of this sort.
The don had hardly sat down when a servant approached and said that a pilgrim was at the gate, craving hospitality.
Gravely and readily was given the order to let the pilgrim enter. The next moment a tall, upright man, dressed in the pilgrim’s loose sombre dress, came forward and up to the don as he sat in state.
“I greet thee, noble knight.”
“Good pilgrim, be at ease. Nor whence thou comest, nor who thou art, we do not ask. Be welcome for this day and night. My hospitality I promise thee.”
“The deepest thanks I have are thine!”
“We do not ask for thanks—the guest is as the lord. But stand aside, good pilgrim.” And the don rose and walked quickly to the door to meet a lady dressed in bridal garments.
“My bride,” he murmured.
“His bride,” said the pilgrim, throwing his cowl from his head a little, so that those who had chosen to look might have seen a handsome, brave face within it. “His bride.”
“Senor—as well as others, a poor pilgrim should offer thee a marriage gift—I offer one of price—my head. Let no one fear—I will no resistance offer—I am Ernani!”
“He lives—he lives,” said the bride to herself.
The don’s face contracted angrily as he saw the pilgrim standing—his gown flung off—fearless among them.
“Deliver me to the king—a price is on my head. Hark! they have tracked me even here. I hear the horsemen near the castle gate. Deliver me, and thou shalt gain a high sum for my head!”
In those old times a brutal ferocity was atoned for by a kind of honor of which, in these degenerate days, we have but slight idea. Above all, the promise of hospitality was sacred, and to keep it inviolate the accorder would run all risk and dangers. When life was so unhesitatinglytaken, perhaps this sacredness of hospitality was the only means whereby men lived in society. But for it each man would have kept to his own home as a wild beast does to its lair, and no more have trusted himself in his neighbor’s stronghold than that same beast would besiege another’s den.
Hence the don, having promised to give hospitality to the pilgrim without conditions—awarding it to him no matter whence he came, or who he was, he was bound to save this guest from his pursuers, even though they were the royal troops themselves.
So far this man whom he abhorred—whom he recognized as the intruder of the night before—for this man the very marriage was stayed, and he, the grandee, left his hall for his ramparts. And soon there was heard the clicking of the lowering portcullis, and the raising of the drawbridge.
As he left the great hall the gentlemen followed him; and the only man left in the room was the false pilgrim, standing in the midst of the frightened women.
Their chief, the Donna Elvira, motioned them away, and soon she stood alone with the robber.
“Ernani—Ernani—they told me thou wert dead!”
“And thou didst believe them.”
“Yet I hoped—I would have hoped even to the altar.”
“And then—then thou wouldst have sworn to love Don Ruy.”
For all answer she showed him the dagger she had wrested from the king. So, she would have hoped till living death were forced upon her, and then she would have welcomed death itself.
“The king—the king!”
Again the cry was heard, “The king was at the gate.” The king demanded that it should bow to him, and again the clicking sound was heard as the bridge was lowered before the king.
But ere the king reached the great hall, the lady and the robber had left it. The don returning, discovered them together.
Again, despairingly, the robber offered his life, but thedon was inflexible; hospitality he had promised, and hospitality he would grant. True, the very necessity of this hospitality would nerve his hand to greater vengeance when the time came. But now his guest’s life was as his own; so the trembling Elvira saw the don open a secret sliding door, and her lover was safe.
“Begone to thy rooms, Elvira—the king—the king.”
No second bidding needed she. And when Carlos came proudly into the great hall he found there only the grandee, humbly bowing.
“Fair cousin, why in arms, we are not at war? You bow—enough. Let it be known there is but one king of Castille. When his sword is in its sheath all swords must sleep.”
“Your Majesty can never think a Silva dreams rebellion.”
“Prove yourself loyal. The chief of the rebels has sought refuge here in your castle. His men destroyed, he seeks to save himself by your protection. Deliver him!”
“If the king will hear his subject. A pilgrim came and entreated hospitality, which I promised. The loyalty I bear the king will not allow me to betray his subject.”
“Thou wouldst lose thy head, fair cousin.”
“Rather than mine honor.”
The king turned and gave some orders to the gentlemen about him. Then again his eyes were upon the door. “Thy head or his, my lord?”
“Mine own.”
Yet a little, and the gentlemen of the king’s suite returned, saying the royal troops had searched the castle through and could not find the rebel.
“Thy head, I say.”
But as he spoke, the king’s eyes turned from the grandee, and rested upon the Donna Elvira, coming towards him with hands clasped, and white open lips.
“Mercy—mercy—king!”
“Mercy, fair lady! Thou art mercy’s self, and even kings must here obey. But thou shalt be the don’s best hostage for his loyalty.”
“Nay! my king. Is there no other hostage for a loyalty yet unshaken? She is my only hope, my only joy. I have loved her from her very birth. My king, thou wilt—thou wilt not take her from me?”
“Then Ernani. One or the other.”
“Nay, I am steadfast in my loyalty. Therefore—please you, my king—take her—my hope, my life.”
“Come, lady,” said the king, seizing the hand of the luckless lady. “Come, I’ll strew thy path with flowers. Time shall bring thee no heavy hours. Rather let smiles be where now are tears and whitened cheeks. Come, come.”
So with his prey the Christian king departed, leaving the old lord bent and wretched with grief.
But not for long—not for long. Now, his eyes sparkled, for hate was there. His head was erect again, and his breath came and went in short angry catches. He ran to the secret door, and as though calling to a dog, he bade the robber chief come forth.
As Ernani stepped into the room, the grandee ran to the wall, and took down a couple of swords.
“Now, robber, doubly robber, vengeance is mine.”
“What! will a grandee fight with a poor bandit?”
“At least, thou wast born noble, even if now thou art vile. Follow me!”
“No, no.”
“What—has all nobility left thee?”
“I am still too noble to fight with age, Senor.”
“See—is my hand firm?”
“Again, thou hast saved my life!”
“That I might take it from thee.”
“Ah, well! Kill me, thou hast the right, perhaps.”
“Kill thee.” And the old lord raised his sword as though a rat were before him.
“Kill, kill. Yet hear a prayer of mine.”
“Prayers are for heaven, not man.”
“’Tis a prayer to man—to thee.”
“Speak on.”
“But once again, but once again, let me see Elvira.”
“If thou wouldst see her, thou must travel. The king has torn her from me.”
“The king, theKing! Old man, the king loves Elvira.”
“Loves—loves Elvira! The king loves Elvira! Vassals, vassals,” he weakly called as he staggered to a seat.
“Nay, call me vassal, and the strength of this strong heart and arm is thine.”
“Stand from me. Aid from thee—from thee! Thou who art doomed to die.”
“My life is thine. I know my life is thine. At any time my life is thine. But let me live to hate where now thou hatest so strongly.”
“Thy life atanytime is mine. True. Well, wilt thou promise me thy life at any time I ask it?”
The other hesitated for a moment. Then took from his side his hunting-horn, and placed it in the unwilling hands of the old lord.