They had scarcely left the castle when Don Suero began to meditate on the reply which he had just given; he thought on the stain of cowardice which would be cast on him, broke out into furious imprecations, and maltreated in a barbarous way the first servants who presented themselves to his sight. Very soon, however, his rage changed into discouragement and terror, and he wept like a weak woman. But the hope of destroying the bandits on that very night roused up his spirits, and, full of that subject, he ceased to think on the challenge of Rodrigo.
Two days after, Rodrigo Diaz caused proclamations to be posted up throughout Castile and Leon, publishing the cowardice of Don Suero, and returning, with interest and the greatest justice, the insults which he had received; two days after, the Count of Carrion, who before was well hated by some, was now abhorred by all; two days after, the country people were singing the ballads which the troubadours had composed, setting forth, in the blackest form, against Don Suero, the question between him and De Vivar.
HOW ONE MOOR REMAINED, AND FIVE WENT AWAY
HOW ONE MOOR REMAINED, AND FIVE WENT AWAY
Two days had passed from the time that Rodrigo entered Burgos with the spoils which he had taken in the mountains of Oca, and Teresa Nuña, Ximena, Lambra, and Mayor were amusing themselves, talking to and caressing the Moorish boy, saved by the kind-hearted Castilian general on the field of battle. The boy was very handsome, and spoke the Romance language with tolerable facility, as he had learned it from the Christian captives who had always been servants in the house of his father.
Those kind women had received him well, as Fernan prophesied, and lavished on him all the caresses which a tender mother has for her children when she sees them sad and disconsolate. The poor little fellow, who, notwithstanding the kind manner in which Rodrigo treated him, had been sad and downcast, now recovered courage and joyousness; and even tears of gratitude and pleasure sprang from his beautiful and expressive eyes. Lambra was almost mad with delight on account of the handsome boy; the honoured and faithful dueña, who had envied a thousand times the happiness of mothers who had children to caress and to be caressed by, saw in anticipation the joy she would experience when her mistress and Rodrigo would be married, a joy which was her golden dream, and which would consist in having children by her side, to whom she could be, in a certain sense, a mother. Even Mayor participated in the contentment of her mistress and of the dueña, for without doubt she saw in that pretty child what she hoped the fruit of her love for Fernan would be.
The tender sympathy which binds children to women certainly moves and consoles the soul, whether those women are mothers or those who have never experienced the pains and delights of maternity. A poor, unprotected child often appeals in vain to the heart of a man, but never to that of a woman. When, covered with rags, shivering with cold, and famished with hunger, it appeals to public charity in the streets, let us count the men and the women who aid it, and we will see that the number of the former is very much less than of the latter. What consoling words often escape in such cases from a woman's lips!
"Have you no mother?"
"Poor little angel!"
"Alas for mothers who have given birth to children, to see them thus!"
Such as these are the words which the lips of women pronounce over the unhappy child.
Let us bring back our memory to the calm days of our childhood, let us bring to mind what sex it was that dried our tears, impressed kisses on our cheeks, lulled us to repose with songs, watched over our sleep, took part in our games, divined our wishes in order to satisfy them, wept when we were in grief, and celebrated with deep contentment our good health and joy. The name of a woman will be always bound up withthose recollections, whether it be that of our mother or of some other. God, who foresees everything, who never entirely abandons the weak, has given the child a mother in almost every woman.
Let us wander through the streets, let us go into villages, let us enter the dwellings of the wealthy, and then let us pass on to the cottages of the poor—wherever God has not given a vulgar and stony heart, we shall find the essence of poetry and of sentiment in the multitude of names with which, everywhere, women express their tenderness for children.
"My love!" "My delight!" "My treasure!" "My glory!" they exclaim, kissing with rapture the rosy cheek of an angel. And those names, not studied, but rushing spontaneously from the heart, are they not of more value than all the loving expressions that poets have ever invented?
The sentiments with which children inspire women raise them above vulgar surroundings, and purify their souls with the holy fire of poetry. When we see women filled with such feelings, let us ask them why they love children, and they will reply to us with these words, or similar ones—
"Because, when we seek for angels on earth, we can only find them in these little children."
If for other qualities, for other virtues, for other attractions, women do not merit the love and respect of all generous and good souls, they deserve it for the sympathy which children awaken in their hearts.
Let those be blessed and loved who understand and experience the feeling which moved the lips of the divine Nazarene when He said, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me!"
"Ismael," said Ximena to the Moorish boy, "did you ever know your mother?"
"Yes, kind Christian; she was beautiful and good, and loved me as you do; but Allah took her to Paradise just at the end of the last Ramadan."
"Son of my soul!" exclaimed Teresa Nuña, "and did you love her much?"
"Ah yes," replied the child, "and yet she did not take me with her."
His eyes overflowed with tears, and he continued—
"When holy Allah called her to Paradise, my father and Iwept very much. A short time after the king was enrolling people for the war, and my father asked me, 'Would you wish to go see your mother?' 'Oh yes,' I answered. On that very day he took me up behind him on his horse, and we set out for the frontiers of Castile. 'We are going to the war, my son,' said my father to me, on the road; 'I trust that we may be killed in it, for then we shall fly to Paradise, and never again be separated from your mother, who is there.'"
The boy interrupted his story for a moment, bursting into sobs, and then added—
"My father went to Paradise to see my mother, ... and he too did not take me with him."
"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed the compassionate women, who surrounded Ismael, caressing him and endeavouring to console him, just as affected as he was.
"Unhappy child!" said Lambra; "what he wishes is to return to his own country."
"Would you like to go back to your native country, my son?" asked Teresa. "Do you wish to return to Molina?"
"My parents are not there now," answered the child in a despairing tone. "I wish to remain with you, who are good and loving like my mother."
"Well, then, remain with us; for we will love you, as your mother did, my son."
"How good the Christians are, how good!" exclaimed the child, not knowing how to show his gratitude to those who were pitying and consoling him.
"And would you like to be a Christian?" asked Teresa Nuña.
"If you are to be my mothers, I will adore the Prophet whom you adore. My mother used to say that children should adore the God that their mother adored; and does not the Nazarene, your Prophet, love children?"
"Yes, my son; children are the principal objects of His love: He delighted, when He was on earth, to converse with them, He was angry with those who ill-treated them and prevented them from going to Him, and He leaves the gates of heaven always open for them."
"Oh, how good your Prophet is! I wish to adore the Nazarene," exclaimed the child enthusiastically.
Teresa Nuña and Ximena then left him for a short time, feeling sure that Lambra and Mayor would take good care of him while they were away.
Soon after Fernan came in, whilst the two women werequestioning the child respecting his country and parents, and the boy was replying to them with visible emotion.
"By the soul of Beelzebub," exclaimed the squire, "they are simply fools to torment this poor little chap by reminding him of the good things he has lost, which is the saddest of remembrances. That's the way women always understand tenderness; they kiss just as cruelly as they bite. I will ask my mistresses, Doña Teresa and Doña Ximena, to entrust the training of this little Moor to me; he is worth all the Moors in the world. They will soon see how I shall make him a perfect horseman, and also able to give lance thrusts, which will be worth a king's treasure."
The tone of Fernan was rough enough, and his words severe; but the face and manners of the squire were stamped with such frankness and goodness of heart, that Ismael, far from being frightened, ran to meet him, and clasped his legs affectionately with his little arms.
"May I turn Moor," said the soft-hearted squire, "if this young chap isn't worth all the spoils we took in the Oca mountains! Every time I think of it, I feel more inclined to give that fool of an Alvar a good cudgelling for finding fault with Don Rodrigo because he put this splendid little fellow into a litter."
And Fernan took up Ismael in his herculean arms, and kissed him with enthusiasm, saying—
"I would give you a thousand kisses, only that I am afraid of rasping your rosy cheeks with my beard; but I will shave, and then I can kiss you as much as I like. Are you fond of arms and horses, my boy?"
"Oh yes!" cried the child, jumping with joy. "Have you arms and a horse?"
"Of course I have," answered the squire. "To-morrow morning we will go to the stables, and there I will teach you to ride, and to use a lance and sword. I swear by Beelzebub, that when you grow up, you must come to the wars with Don Rodrigo and me, and fight like Bernardo at Roncesvalles."
"Bring me to the stables now," said the child, "and show me your horse and arms."
"You are very impatient, little chap. But I suppose I must humour you; and your vivacity pleases me."
And thus speaking, Fernan took the little Moor by the hand, who was jumping with pleasure and impatience to get to the stables.
"Don't take the child away, Fernan," said Mayor, "for if my mistresses ask for him, they will be annoyed with Lambra and me for not having kept him with us."
And she went to take Ismael by the hand which was free, in order to remove him from Fernan; the squire, however, pushed her away, and disappeared with the boy, saying—
"He will go wherever I please, and all the women in the world shall not take him from me. By the soul of Beelzebub, that is a nice way to train up children—keeping them always tied to women's petticoats! That's the way hens bring up their chickens—and they become hens."
When the squire and the boy arrived at the stables, Fernan showed the horses to Ismael, who was insisting on being put on the backs of all of them. At last, to satisfy the child, Fernan mounted him on Overo, which he saddled, and the animal, with a patience comparable to that of his master, yielded to all the caprices of the child; sometimes quickening his pace, sometimes going slowly, now turning to the right, now to the left. They then went to the harness-room, and Fernan prepared to give Ismael his first lesson in the use of the lance. He made him mount, in a saddle placed on an arm-stand, put into his hand, to serve as a lance, a stick a few feet long, made a mark on a post in front, and fastened a strong piece of cord to the front of the arm-stand; he then gave him, as a shield, the cover of a tin vessel used for carrying water to the horses, through the handle of which he put his arm; when he had thus accoutred him, he lectured him on the proper way of holding both offensive and defensive arms. Then the good Fernan ordered him to prepare to charge, and to keep his feet well in, so that they might not be hurt; the boy did this, and the squire, taking hold of the cord, dragged on, by means of it, the arm-stand and him who was mounted on it, very quickly. The boy made his thrust too soon, and did not strike the mark.
"I vow to Judas Iscariot," exclaimed Fernan, "that he will spoil his best strokes by his impetuosity."
"My horse did not gallop fast enough," replied the child.
"Well, then," said Fernan, "get ready for a second charge, and take care not to miss your aim."
"You will see, you will see how I shall hit the mark this time."
The little Moor got ready again, and Fernan pulled the cord more rapidly than before; Ismael, however, made the thrusttoo soon, and went even farther from the mark than on the first occasion.
"By the soul of Beelzebub," cried the squire, stamping fiercely on the ground, "that would put holy Job himself out of patience. He thinks, I suppose, that he will do better by making his thrusts too soon."
"I won't charge any more now," said the boy, more vexed by his own want of dexterity than by the annoyance of Fernan. Then throwing away the tin cover and the stick, he began to run back to the place from which the squire had taken him.
"Come back, my son, come back," cried Fernan; but it was in vain, for Ismael was already with Lambra and Mayor.
"Curses on my impatience!" exclaimed Fernan, giving himself a cuff on the side of his head. "What else could the poor little fellow do but run away from me, when I treated him worse than a slave?"
He then went off in search of the little Moor, and shortly afterwards they were playing together as if both were children.
Whilst Fernan was thus amusing himself with Ismael, another scene, not less interesting, was being performed in a large apartment, in which the De Vivar family usually assembled. Rodrigo was relating to his parents and to his wife the innumerable brave deeds of his soldiers at the battle of Oca, remaining silent as to his own, for the noble cavalier was as modest as he was valiant. He spoke also of the bravery of the enemy, for he was so just and honourable that he could not refrain from praising merit wherever it might be found.
"The hostile army," he said, "was numerous; but there were very many who fought for no other cause but that of pillage, and it was those who first turned their backs on our swords and lances. The Castilian troops fought with great bravery; but the victory could not have been won so soon if the enemy had had a few hundred men as brave as their leaders. Those Moorish kings, whom I brought here as prisoners, in order that they might do homage to my parents and to my Ximena, for you are all worthy of it—those kings, I say, and especially Abengalvon of Molina, fought as valiantly as the most perfect cavaliers in the world."
"Oh, how unfortunate they are, and how worthy of being well treated!" exclaimed at the same time both Teresa and Ximena, whose souls were always inclined to compassion.
"For that reason," said Rodrigo, "I have treated them not as wretched captives, who are generally loaded with chains, but as kings, to whom those who receive them in their houses allot the best apartments, believing themselves honoured by having them under their roof; for that reason I intend to restore them to liberty this very day, if you, my parents, and you, Ximena, approve of my resolve."
"Yes, Rodrigo, yes," exclaimed all, with pleased accents. "Sad captives!" added Teresa. "In their own land they have, most likely, wives, children, or parents who weep over their absence, believing them dead or lost to them for ever."
"My son," said old Diego, giving his trembling hand to Rodrigo, and visibly affected, "your heart is worthy of a cavalier; not in vain was I the author of your being, not in vain does my blood run in your veins, not in vain are you descended from the noblest race of Castile. Oh, if Lain Calvo, your grandfather, could raise his noble head from the sepulchre! During my long life I have constantly laboured for the cause of Castile—to make it greater and better—for the honour of our house, and for the triumph of the faith; and God has amply recompensed me by giving me a son as good as you are. My strength is failing, my breathing is becoming difficult, my term of life is but short; but what is death to a cavalier when he dies honoured, as I am, and when he leaves a successor as good as you are? Restore to freedom at once those royal captives; in the eyes of your father, and in the eyes of all that are good, such an act of generosity will be one of your best triumphs."
Yes, Diego was right; on that day Rodrigo achieved one of his noblest triumphs, for to him, the most affectionate of sons and the most loving of husbands, the greatest glory was the words which he heard from his parents and from his wife, and the pleasure which they experienced by his act.
"Dear parents and dear Ximena," he said, as moved as they were, "let us go now to set the captives free. If they wish to acknowledge themselves our vassals, let them do so, but if not, they shall be equally free."
Rodrigo and his family then proceeded to the prison of the Moorish kings. We have said to the prison, but the apartments of Abengalvon and his companions did not deserve such a name. They were situated in the ground floor of the building, having an entrance into beautiful gardens, and werecertainly in every respect suitable for kings. Rodrigo and his family descended to them by a wide staircase, which placed in communication the two habitable floors of which the building consisted, and then requested permission of the Moors to be permitted to present themselves to them. The royal captives came forth to meet them with signs of respect and apprehension, and were about to prostrate themselves before Rodrigo; but he prevented them, with kind words, which filled the hearts of the Moslems with confidence and gratitude.
"The chances of war," he said to them, "placed your destinies in my hands, and for that reason it is my right to dispose of you as I may wish. Do you acknowledge that right?"
"We are your slaves," humbly answered Abengalvon, who was more conversant than the others with the Castilian language, and who was also the youngest of the five Moorish kings, as he was only about five-and-twenty years of age.
"Well, then," continued Rodrigo, "you were my enemies when I conquered you on the field of battle, but you fought with valour, and you bear the title of kings; for these reasons I treated you all, not as slaves, but as friends."
"Who would not be ambitious to be considered as such?" exclaimed Abengalvon.
"My desire is to be your friend," said Rodrigo. "Know," he continued, "that I consider myself so good a subject, that I love and revere all who bear the name of king, and I should consider myself dishonoured if I retained kings as prisoners, even though they are Moors, enemies of my faith and of my country. Return, then, to your kingdoms, and be, according as your hearts may dictate, my friends or my enemies. I comply with what my heart, and the hearts of my parents and wife, whom you see here, dictate to us."
"Oh, blessed Allah!" exclaimed the Moors, raising their eyes, moist with tears, to heaven. "The prayers of our children and wives have reached you and caused you to feel compassion for love and misfortune. We shall sound the praises, in the midst of our families, of the noble Christian who to-day teaches us to be generous and good."
And Abengalvon continued, addressing Rodrigo—
"No, we shall not be your enemies; we desire to become your vassals, as such to respect you and to pay you tribute, and also to become your friends, in order to love you. Let us kiss your hand."
"Come to my arms, if you believe me worthy of yours!" exclaimed Rodrigo, as much moved as the Moors were.
They embraced him, weeping with joy, as did also the honoured old Diego Lainez, Teresa, and Ximena, who were looking on the scene with much emotion, and whose hands the Moors then kissed, manifesting that they felt honoured by being allowed to do so.
"Mother!—Ximena!" said Rodrigo a moment after, "open the gates of their prison for those who have been our captives, but who, from this day, shall be our friends."
Teresa and Ximena then went to a door which gave egress to the street, and pulled open the two wings of which it was composed.
"The gate of your prison is open to you," said Rodrigo to the Moors. "Return to your homes, bring consolation to your wives and to your children, and may God be with you, my friends! Outside you will find good steeds to carry you, and squires who will accompany you as far as the frontier, bearing my green standard, so that neither nobles nor peasants shall dare to molest you."
"We are your vassals, and every year you shall receive tribute from us," said Abengalvon.
He and his companions then left the palace of De Vivar, their eyes dimmed with tears, and blessing Rodrigo, Diego, Teresa, and Ximena with all the fervour of which their souls were capable.
HOW THE BAND OF THE VENGADOR ATTACKED THE CASTLE OF CARRION
HOW THE BAND OF THE VENGADOR ATTACKED THE CASTLE OF CARRION
The band was advancing towards Carrion just at nightfall, in order to make the attack on it at the hour arranged by the leaders, of which attempt Don Suero had received notice, thanks to the treachery of Bellido.
The Castle of Carrion was built on an eminence near the town, beside a road, named at that period the Atalaya Road of Villasirga. Before arriving at it there was found a very thick wood. The night was dark, and for that reason the bandcould reach that wood without being seen by the sentinels. Martin and his captains, Bellido and Rui-Venablos, ordered a halt to be made in it, with the object of preparing for the attack without being perceived, even though the clouds might clear away and the moon shine forth.
The bandits, all on foot, were provided with steel hatchets, iron-shod clubs, and pikes, with which they might force an entrance into the castle. Martin had given orders to all not to strike down the count, Don Suero, as he wished to reserve to himself the consummation of the vengeance which he so ardently longed for; he wished to bury his dagger in the heart of the murderer of his father. The band was divided into two well-ordered companies; one was to rush on in order to force open the postern of the castle, and whilst this operation was being carried out, the other was to protect the attacking body, discharging their arrows against the loopholes and battlements of the fortress, in order that the crossbow-men who guarded them might be wounded, or, not seeing their opponents, might shoot at random. Rui-Venablos, who always considered the most dangerous position the best, asked permission to lead the attacking body, and Martin went with him. Bellido, therefore, commanded the other company.
Thus arranged, the bandits issued forth from the wood, and immediately the cry of alarm was given in the castle, and the defenders hastened to the combat.
Some of the bandits fell to the ground, pierced by the first arrows discharged from the fortress, and this circumstance increased the courage of the band. As the obscurity was very great, and as the ground behind the castle—that is, where the postern was situated—was covered with bushes, Bellido succeeded in separating himself from the men whom he was commanding, and in hiding behind some shrubs, where he remained until his companions all passed forward, discharging a cloud of arrows against the castle. Rui-Venablos, Martin, and their company at last succeeded in reaching the postern. This was strengthened outside with iron plates, on which the bandits began to deal terrible blows with their iron-covered clubs. It was not necessary to continue to do this long, as the door soon gave way, the bolts which kept it shut having, seemingly, been broken. Then the entire band rushed in, uttering fierce cries of fury and wild joy. It was, however, found necessary to force another door in order to get from the place where they were into the interior of the castle, and thatdoor was even stronger than the outer one. Martin was furious when he met this new obstacle, just as he believed the moment had come to avenge himself on the count.
"Break it, burst open the door quickly!" he roared to those who were provided with clubs.
Those then began to discharge furious blows on the door, which did not yield in the least, for it was also well strengthened with iron outside, and securely fastened inside with thick bolts of the same metal. Impatience became a torture to the heart of the Vengador, and, taking a club from the hands of one of his men, he began to wield it with the strength of a giant against the door. At that moment a fearful blow was heard above the arched ceiling of the apartment in which they were, a blow which made the entire edifice tremble, a blow so terrible that it almost seemed as if the whole castle had crumbled down above their heads. All the bandits uttered a cry of terror, except Martin, who continued his assault on the door, for he only heard the voice of vengeance, which was commanding him to execute his on Don Suero, so terrible that he might expiate by it the innumerable crimes which he had committed.
"Out, out! the arch is falling!" cried all the bandits, precipitating themselves, in fearful disorder, towards the outer gate, for indeed the roof was yielding, the stones, as we know, having been loosened under the blow of the enormous weight which had fallen on them. At the same moment some person outside fastened strongly the postern-gate; but just then the second door yielded to the blows of Martin, and he, with Rui-Venablos, and about fifty of their men, rushed into the interior of the castle. The others tried to imitate them when they found that the postern-gate was closed against them, but they had not time, for the arched ceiling came down with a fearful noise, crushing the unfortunate bandits beneath its ruins. A satanic burst of laughter resounded then in the upper part of the castle, and a countenance, on which was depicted savage content, appeared, to gloat over that horrible butchery, at the hole which had been made in the upper floor, in order to suspend through it the heavy blocks of stone which were to fall on the top of the arch beneath.
The laughter had issued from the mouth of Don Suero, and his was the hellish countenance.
The count and the traitor, who had aided him in his work of extermination, did not know that several of the banditshad escaped without injury, and that the second door had yielded and given entrance to them. Soon, however, was this fact made known to Don Suero by the cries and the tumult which he heard in the principal apartments; cries and tumult which seemed to approach the chamber in which he was. Indeed, the Vengador, Rui-Venablos, and their followers, and almost all the armed men who guarded the castle, were fighting furiously in the corridors which led to the rooms usually occupied by Don Suero. Then the most abject terror took possession of the count, for he was as cowardly as he was tyrannical, cruel, and heartless; and running to a secret staircase, he descended into the vaults of the castle, and escaped from them, by a private door, into the open country.
The fight between the bandits and the defenders of the castle was bloody and obstinate. The latter, collected in one of the corridors which led to the apartments in which the De Carrion family resided, resisted the attack with valour equal to that of the bandits. The Vengador and Rui-Venablos, however, filled with fury on account of the destruction of their comrades, and of the resistance offered to them, resolved to make a final attempt, for they must either fight their way onward or die. They rushed, therefore, on their opponents, striking down all who barred the way, and their companions followed their example. Many remained dead or wounded in this bold attack; the others broke through the living wall which their enemies opposed to them, and dashed on, like hungry lions, to the apartments in which they expected to meet their prey. As they did not find him there, they uttered furious maledictions, which terrified even the soldiers who were defending the castle; they, wounded and discouraged, had dropped their weapons, and only hoped to find safety in flight. The bandits, having examined the apartments of the count, left them, believing that he had sought refuge in some other room, and they soon found one with the door locked. This was the chamber of Teresa. They tried to open it, but as it did not yield, the Vengador dealt it a terrible blow with his club, which caused it to fall in fragments on the floor. A young lady, the Infanta Doña Teresa, was standing in a corner, almost dead with terror, and before her stood Guillen, sword in hand, ready to defend the maiden.
"Stop!" cried the page to the bandits. "Hold back, for you shall only get near this lady when some of you have feltthe edge of my sword, and when there will be no other shield to defend my mistress but my dead body."
Martin and Rui-Venablos halted; their companions, however, were about to rush on Guillen, but the Vengador prevented them, saying—
"Whichever of you advances a step to injure this young man or this maiden will fall dead at my feet; we do not desire to wreak our vengeance on a weak woman, or on him who defends her."
At the same time a great outcry was heard from the direction of the town. The Vengador looked through the window, which we have already described, and by the light of the moon, from which the clouds that had covered it had just passed away, he saw a numerous body of men approaching the castle. At the same time he heard the voice of Don Suero, who, seeing light in the window, was crying out—
"Defend yourselves, my crossbow-men; succour is coming."
The count had gone to seek reinforcement in the town, and his vassals hastened to give it, for he told them that Doña Teresa's life was in danger. More than two hundred men, of all ages, were advancing with him, armed with the weapons that first came to hand. The bandits were worn out with fatigue, and their number was reduced to little more than twenty. The Vengador knew that the death of all was certain if they did not at once leave the castle. If he had avenged his father he would have thought little of dying, but as he had not yet done so, life was precious to him.
"Let us escape," he cried, "or the count will succeed in killing all of us, and our comrades shall never be avenged. Do you hear those cries? Don Suero has managed to get out of the castle, and he is now returning with such force that his triumph is certain. Many of our comrades, who lie wounded in the passages through which we have come, must remain in his power, for we have not time to succour them and bring them off with us. They will be sacrificed by the barbarous count if we do not take hostages. We have this maiden in our power, and Don Suero will respect the lives of our comrades, in order that we may spare that of his sister."
"The sister of the Count of Carrion," said Guillen, continuing in his threatening attitude, "shall not remain exposed to your outrages whilst I am alive."
"I swear to you that she shall be respected," replied the Vengador, "but I must take measures to save the lives ofmy comrades. Sheath your sword, and come with her and with us, for if you seek to defend your mistress here you must die, and she will have no one by her side to see that the promise I make you will be kept."
Guillen felt that it was best to follow the advice of the leader of the bandits; he felt that it was necessary that Teresa should have someone by her to assist her if her strength failed, to console her when she wept, to guard her whilst she slept, to protect her if her honour was threatened. He therefore sheathed the sword which he had drawn to defend her, and, sustaining the feeble footsteps of his mistress, he went off with the bandits.
They all left the castle and penetrated into the adjacent wood, just as Don Suero and his vassals entered the fortress, which had been the theatre of such sanguinary scenes. They walked on for some hours by rough and deserted paths, for the bandits, now too few in number to face the Salvadores, feared to meet them. At last they halted in the thicket, which but a few hours before the band had left, full of strength, hope, and valour. During that fatiguing journey the strength of the unhappy Teresa had failed entirely several times, and Guillen was obliged to carry her for considerable distances in his arms, his love giving him force to bear that precious burden, in truth not so heavy as would have been almost any other woman, for Teresa was worn away by sadness and grief.
There still remained there the tents and the other things, which had been left to the care of a few of the bandits who had not been able to go with the others. The Vengador allotted one of those tents to the sole use of Teresa and the brave youth who accompanied her, and he and his comrades lay down in the others, half-dead with fatigue and discouragement, first having placed sentinels in the best positions for such, as they feared that Don Suero's men might have followed their tracks.
All the bandits were soon in a heavy sleep, except Martin and Rui-Venablos, on whom fatigue and grief seemed to have had an effect quite different from that which they exercised on their companions.
"Ah, poor Bellido!" said the former, "he must have found his tomb in the Castle of Carrion. We were fools not to have followed his example; we desired to act as cavaliers, forgetting that we were only bandits, and that we had to dowith one of the most depraved and pitiless wretches that was ever born of woman. It is we who should have found our deaths in the castle, and not our loyal and brave comrades who have been the innocent victims of our stupidity. What have we to do now? Only to lament over our error, and the mishap of our companions."
"Anger of God!" exclaimed Rui-Venablos, irritated at the discouragement of Martin. "Does the Vengador become faint-hearted, and does he shed cowardly tears just when the moment has arrived to work with more firmness, with more bravery, and with less pity than ever? Can you avenge our comrades with tears, which suit women well enough, but which are quite out of place in a man; by killing the count I have to avenge our comrades, and something more"—
"I have to avenge our comrades, and something more also, by reducing to ashes the Castle of Carrion and plunging my dagger into the heart of the count," said Martin, excited by the words of Rui-Venablos.
"Thus do I like to see my chief!" exclaimed Rui, filled with savage joy.
"Do not call me by that name," said Martin, clasping the hand of his companion. "Call me brother, for from this day we shall begin to reorganise the band, and it shall have two chiefs. To prove to you how burning is the vengeance which consumes me, and how great is my friendship for you, I will confide a secret to you. Know, then, that I did not join the band of the Raposo in order to exercise the calling of a bandit, and that I did not continue such a life or take the name of the Vengador in order to avenge those who were slaughtered with the Raposo, but to avenge my father, who was vilely assassinated by the count."
Martin then related to Rui-Venablos all that had happened as they were returning from the pilgrimage, when Beatrice was carried off, adding—
"I have kept this secret from our comrades, in order that they might not mistrust me, knowing that I was working for an object different from theirs, and that I was only desirous of avenging an offence solely connected with myself."
"For the same reason," said Rui-Venablos joyously, "I have concealed the true cause of my rancour against Don Suero. You must know, brother, that I also did not embrace the life of a bandit through affection for it, for I always held a more honourable position. I have been a soldier since thedown was on my lip, and I have always fought in defence of the faith, of my native land, and of the oppressed; and have never entered into the pay of any but honourable gentlemen. Being in the service of Don Ordoño de Lara, an unfortunate old man, quite blind, came to me one day and said, 'For a long time I have sought a man of kindly heart and with a strong arm, who might feel compassion for and avenge a wretched father, whom the Count of Carrion has deprived of his sight and of his honour.' He then related to me, with tears capable of softening stones, how Don Suero had carried off from him a daughter, who was his sole happiness in this world, depriving him at the same time of his eyesight, in order that he might not be able to find her or avenge so horrible a crime.
"'I have been told,' he added, 'that your aid has never been asked for in vain by those oppressed by the powerful, and therefore I come to you full of confidence.'
"His words moved me; I pitied his grief and his misfortunes; I was indignant at the baseness and cruelty of the count, whom I already regarded as an enemy, on account of other acts of a similar kind which had been related to me, and I swore solemnly to the poor blind man to avenge his wrongs. He then departed, full of satisfaction and of hope, to seek his daily sustenance through the country by singing to the accompaniment of his lute. When he had gone, I thought over the best means of keeping my promise to him; I knew that it would avail nothing to challenge Don Suero, as he would treat such a proceeding with contempt, the challenger being a poor and obscure soldier, and he one of the most powerful grandees of Castile and Leon. Should I seek to encounter him unexpectedly in some lonely place and force him to fight with me? That also would be unavailing, as Don Suero is always accompanied by armed men to defend him, and my death would have been but a useless sacrifice. Allies were necessary to me in order to attack the Castle of Carrion, and put the count to death, and as, just then, I heard your band talked of, it seemed to me that it would be the best instrument for the revenge I longed for; I therefore went to seek you, and I succeeded in gaining your confidence."
"Brother," said Martin, rejoiced at being able to call by such a name a man who was actuated by feelings identical with his own, and who would not have embraced the life of a bandit merely to live by plunder, "similar sentiments animate us; the goal for which we are striving is the same; our strength and courage are equal, wherewith to confront the difficulties which we may find in our way. Perhaps Bellido would have brought the same ambition to the band if he had been inspired by some noble sentiment."
"Comrade," said Rui-Venablos, "you are exceedingly simple, and by no means a good observer, if you imagine that any kind of noble sentiments are to be found in Bellido. He is dead, and it is just as well that he is. I do not like to speak badly of the dead, but nevertheless I say that he was very far from being an honourable man. Did you never observe his cruelty whenever we made an assault on a castle? Our attacks were always directed against tyrannical and evil-living grandees; was there not a vast difference between the way in which you and I treated the conquered, and the way in which Bellido treated them?"
"You are right, brother," replied Martin; "Bellido is dead, and there is another person, who is in great grief here near us, who is much more deserving of our compassion. I speak to you of Doña Teresa, of that unfortunate young lady, whom we have taken with us as a hostage. Her brother and she have always occupied the reversed positions of St. Michael and the devil: the devil held the angel beneath his feet. Yes, the angel, for she is as good and pure as the angels in heaven. That brave and faithful youth, who would not abandon her, will watch over her; but we also must guard her; yes, we must take good care of the innocent dove which has been snatched from the talons of the hawk, and who, nevertheless, weeps because she has been saved from them. Many of our comrades are lying in Carrion, covered with wounds, and it was but just that we should endeavour to save their lives, for the facts of their having been wounded and having shared our dangers are sufficient to make us pity them. We have threatened the count that we will take the life of his sister if he does not spare our comrades and give them their liberty, but if he is barbarous enough to sacrifice them—even in that case Doña Teresa shall return uninjured to Carrion."
"That is the very advice I intended to give you," said Rui-Venablos. "If all men were as generous and good as you are, the world would not be as it is. In what way, indeed, can that poor girl be responsible for the crimes of her brother? In the world, and especially in war, the just have often to suffer on account of sinners, but we must not be guided by socruel a law. Certainly, the bandit, when he requires food, must take the bread of his neighbour, but there are plenty of neighbours who well deserve to die of hunger. We shall take the bread from them and leave it with good people."
"Yes," answered Martin, "and in that way, even though we are called by the name of bandits, our consciences will give us another name; our consciences will tell us that, when we were forced to choose between two bad roads, we took the better one."
"Do you think, brother, that it is prudent to remain here? We are too near Carrion, and Don Suero will endeavour to take advantage of our weakness."
"We must only keep on the alert, and not change our encampment for a safer one until those return who remained alive in the castle."
The day was beginning to dawn. Martin and Rui-Venablos knew that it was necessary to recruit their strength, worn out by fatigue and the emotions of that sanguinary night; they therefore stretched themselves on the ground, taking care that their weapons were within reach. A few minutes after they were sleeping soundly, and the silence which reigned in the camp of the bandits was only interrupted by a few words, mingled with sobs, which were heard from time to time in the tent occupied by Teresa and Guillen.
IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT COLD AND LOVE ARE NOT INCOMPATIBLE
IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT COLD AND LOVE ARE NOT INCOMPATIBLE
The following night had arrived, and was somewhat advanced when the bandits retired to sleep. The much diminished band of the Vengador remained in the same encampment, and Teresa and the page in the same tent.
The night was dark and cold, for it had rained during the evening, and to the rain had succeeded a thick fog, with which the day had ended. Teresa and Guillen were sitting near some badly-burning pieces of wood, the heat of which could not warm the page, for it was deadened by the dampness ofthe ground, and by the fog, which penetrated the canvas of the tent, almost like an icy fluid.
Teresa was shivering with cold, and a deadly pallor overspread her face; but a pink circle extended around her sweet eyes, a sign that the unhappy girl had been weeping. Tears also had come to the eyes of the youth, although he had done his best to keep them in. Who would formerly have said that the page, so manly, so brave, so joyous, would one day mingle his tears with those of a weak girl? What an affecting sight was that of the poor maiden, with a body so frail and delicate, accustomed to all the comforts of a castle, almost dying of cold and mental prostration, seated on an icy stone, with her feet resting on the wet earth, her clothes saturated with moisture, and with scarce strength enough to approach her hands to the partially extinguished fire; and then that kind-hearted youth, with the robust body, with the brave soul, accustomed to arms, and to manly exercises, trying to cheer her with his words, and cover her with his clothes, timidly warming the hands of the maiden between his own, reviving the fire which was going out, and, after all, his eyes filled with tears, feeling that all his tenderness, all his love, all his efforts, were unavailing to bring comfort to that delicate girl.
"You are very cold, is it not so?" asked Guillen, with all the tenderness, anxiety, and love with which a father could question a dying daughter. "Oh! to see you dying of cold—I who would wish to see you seated on a throne! Are you very cold?"
"Yes, Guillen," answered the girl, shivering, "I am very cold."
The page, who had already covered Teresa with his mantle, took off a kind of jacket which he wore, and was about to put it also on her.
"No, no!" exclaimed Teresa, "I will not take your jacket; you will die of cold."
"Have no fear for me," said the page, endeavouring to smile pleasantly, "for I am strong, and accustomed to hardships. If I should feel cold, I will put it on again as soon as it has warmed you a little."
Teresa let him cover her with the jacket.
Guillen then considered how he could best keep up the fire. But how could he do it? He did not know what was to be done, but he felt that something must be done, one way oranother, for the life of Teresa depended on the fire being kept burning, and his own life also, for he neither hoped nor desired to live if his lady died.
"I am going in search of wood; wait but a few moments," he said to her, and he went out of the tent, walking with difficulty, for the cold was paralysing his limbs. He had advanced a few steps, not knowing in what direction he was going, when his foot struck against a solid body, not hard enough to be either a stone or a block of wood. He examined it with his fingers, and found that it was a saddle; with it he returned, exceedingly rejoiced, to the tent.
"Cheer up, lady," he said on entering; "for I have brought something with me that will make a fire warm enough to put heat into a dead man."
"Oh, how kind you are, Guillen! You always come in time to save me," exclaimed Teresa, with a weak and rather startled voice,—the page, however, did not notice the latter.
He then broke the saddle in pieces; the leather with which it was covered had prevented the rain from reaching the straw and the wood of the framework. Thanks to the former, Guillen was able to light a good fire, even though he had to be economical with the fuel, for it was not plentiful, and the night would be long.
The heat of the fire soon warmed Teresa, and a slight smile began to appear on her lips, which Guillen looked on as the return of life. If the joy that shone in the dark, full eyes of the page could have been seen, one would have believed that these moments were the happiest of his life.
"Ah!" said Teresa, trying to smile, "if you but knew the terror I was in, during the few minutes you were away from the tent in search of wood."
"In terror—of whom, lady?"
"When you went this evening to the tent of the Vengador a bandit approached ours, gazed on me with much attention, and then went away, uttering some words, the meaning of which I did not catch. Then, a moment before your return with the fuel, I thought I saw again the face of the same man over there, at the entrance of the tent; I was about to cry out, but I heard your footsteps, and the face of the bandit disappeared."
"Have no fear, lady," said the page in a pleasant voice, "for the Vengador promised me that he would hang up on a tree the first who tried to injure us, and besides, I have asword with which I would strike dead anyone who dared to attempt such a thing. Be tranquil, lean against—But there is nothing here on which you can rest your head," exclaimed Guillen in a sad tone; and then he added, timid and stammering, "Pardon me, lady—if you like—lean your head on my shoulder."
"Thanks, Guillen," replied Teresa in a pleased tone of voice; "I do not feel sleepy as yet, but when I do, I will rest myself in the way you propose."
The page raised his hand to his eyes to brush away a tear, and was near throwing himself on his knees before the young lady to thank her for the happiness she promised him.
At the same moment a rough hand quickly raised the piece of canvas which covered the entrance of the tent, and a bandit, with a ferocious countenance and brutal manner, entered. Teresa uttered a cry of terror, for she recognised the face, which she had seen twice before. Guillen seized the sword which lay unsheathed by his side, and asked the bandit threateningly:—
"What do you seek here?"
"Do you know, my gentle youth, that you are by no means courteous to those who try to serve you?" answered the bandit very calmly, and with an ironical smile.
"Go out of this tent at once," said the page to him.
"I have come to spend in it the remainder of the night."
"God's anger! Speak, for what are you come?"
"To relieve guard," replied the bandit, with his sinister smile.
"I do not understand you."
"It is a very simple matter, my gentle youth; as you have acted the sentinel so long a time to this maiden, or whatever she is, I thought that you must be fatigued, and I have come to relieve you for an hour or so."
"Be off, ruffian! be off at once, if you wish to leave the tent alive!" exclaimed Guillen, preparing to make use of his sword; but the bandit replied, still in the same calm tone—
"I shall not do so, my gentle youth, for it pleases me to act as guard over ladies, even though they may be thin and pale, like her who is listening to us. You will see how the colour will have returned to her face by the time you return."
"Treacherous ruffian!" cried Guillen, and he made a thrust of his sword at the bandit, not being able to restrain his indignation; but the fellow stepped rapidly back, and avoided thestroke, then drawing his dagger, he continued, with agile leaps, to avoid the sword strokes which Guillen aimed at him, until, taking advantage of a false move which Guillen made, caused by the dampness of the ground, he rushed on the page, and succeeded in wounding him in the hand which held the sword. Teresa uttered a piercing and dolorous cry on seeing Guillen wounded by the bandit; but the page, far from losing his courage on feeling the point of the dagger in his hand, rushed violently on his opponent, and reached him twice with his sword, wounding him slightly. A furious fight was just commencing, when the Vengador and Rui-Venablos suddenly entered the tent; the former seized the bandit by the neck with the strength of a giant, and threw him out of the tent, saying—
"Traitor, you shall atone for your villainy with your life. Do you imagine that this youth alone guarded the lady?"
The page then approached the young girl.
"You are wounded, Guillen!" she exclaimed, as soon as her terror allowed her to open her lips.
"It is nothing, lady," replied the page, trying to conceal his hand; "it is but a slight scratch, which I scarcely feel."
"No, no, Guillen; you must let me bind it with my handkerchief. Oh, my life would be but a small thing with which to repay your sacrifices for me!"
Then Teresa took hold of his arm and forced him to let her bind the hand, which she did with her handkerchief, which was wet with her tears.
The page blessed, in the depths of his heart, the dagger of the bandit, which was the cause of his receiving such care from Teresa, whose eyes were shedding tears for him, for the humble servitor, whose blood no other mistress but Teresa would have considered of any value.
"Guillen, Guillen, for how many sacrifices am I not your debtor! how good, how generous you are!" exclaimed the noble girl, raising her mild, moist eyes to the youth, with such an expression of gratitude and love, that the page was overcome with joy, and, not without much difficulty, he murmured—
"You owe me nothing, lady; my life is worth less than the least of the kindnesses which you have shown me."
"See, Guillen," interrupted Teresa, with an affectionate, almost childlike tone of voice, "you must not call me lady, for—I know not why—but I do not wish you to call me by that name. How am I to be your lady, when you are my soleprotector, my saviour, my angel guardian? I cannot explain it, Guillen, but I feel an immense void in my heart whenever you call me by that name. For a long time I have recognised in you, not a servant, but a loyal and loving friend, and now even the name of friend seems to me cold and ungracious. If the word 'brother' did not make me tremble, if it were not so odious to me, I would call you by that name, Guillen, for it would express the feelings which your affection, your unselfishness, and your protection inspire in me. Ah, Guillen! do not call me your lady, call me simply Teresa."
The page knelt down before her, overcome by gratitude, by joy, and by love.
"Well, then," he said, "I will call you Teresa, I will call you the holiest and the kindest of women! I also find it necessary to call you by a name which expresses the feelings of a heart full of gratitude, of happiness, and of"—
The page stopped suddenly, for the word "love" was about to escape his lips, and who was he, to make a declaration of love to her, the noble heiress of the countship of Carrion? A poor page had little claims on the love of one of the noblest ladies of Castile and Leon, simply for having amused her a short time, now and then, with his conversation in the Castle of Carrion; for having accompanied her to the camp of the bandits, when she was carried off by them; for having spent four-and-twenty hours in that tent near her, without even having had the consolation of being able to protect her from the rain and the cold; and for having shed a few drops of blood in her defence. If such services deserved a recompense, were they not amply rewarded by the kindness of Teresa, who had carried that so far as to permit the humble page, the son of a poor peasant, to treat her as her equal?
These considerations sealed the lips of Guillen, in order that he might not reveal the intense love which burned in his heart.
"Teresa," he said, after a moment of silence, desirous of changing the subject of their conversation in order to conceal his feelings, "it is now late, and you have need of sleep, even for an hour or so; who knows but that we shall have to pass all to-morrow in travelling to the mountains of Oca?"
"You are right, Guillen," she replied; "but you think only of me, and not at all of yourself. Have you not also need of rest?"
"I shall sleep at the same time as you, for we need nowhave no anxiety; you know that the leaders of the bandits watch over us," said the page, sitting down beside the girl, so that she might rest her head on his shoulder, as had been arranged between them.
Teresa understood the intention of the page, and leant her head on his shoulder.
What Guillen felt at that moment may be understood, but it is difficult to explain it; it is not necessary, however, to do so. We can comprehend it if we identify ourselves with him, in his love and in his situation; we can comprehend it if we have not souls of ice and hearts of stone; we can understand it, best of all, if we have kept concealed for a long time in our breasts a love, as pure as it was ardent, equally distant from triumph and from despair.
Almost at once a deep and calm sleep fell upon Teresa, for pure consciences and innocent souls find in the peace of their night's sleep compensation for the cares and troubles of the day.
Whilst Teresa slept, leaning her head on his shoulder, the page would not have exchanged his happiness for that of the most powerful of the Castilian counts; for that of Rodrigo Diaz; for the crown of Don Fernando. To feel on his shoulder the head of the maiden, to breathe her breath, to be able to put his lips timidly on her hair, to feel the beatings of her heart! Oh! the empire of the world would have been but a small happiness for Guillen, compared with that which he experienced during that short space of time.
The fire had nearly gone out, as the page had not been able to feed it, fearful of awakening Teresa by making the slightest movement. The chill of the morning, which was approaching, at last aroused her. She, believing that Guillen was asleep, removed her head very gently from his shoulder, but, seeing that he was awake, said—
"O, Guillen, how peacefully I slept resting on you! I dreamed that this tent was the cabin of the labourer, which you pictured to me a few evenings ago, and that I was not the Infanta of Carrion, but a poor and simple country girl."
"Ah! would to God that you were!" cried Guillen, full of enthusiasm and scarce knowing what he said.
"But I remember that it is only a very short time since you said you would like to see me on a throne," responded Teresa, with an affectionate and pleasant smile.
"Oh, pardon me, lady—pardon me, Teresa, if my naturalrudeness has made me say a stupid thing," said Guillen. "I only meant, that perchance you would be more happy if that dream were a reality,—and I also would be more happy if such were the case," he timidly added.
The love of the page was so great that his heart was scarcely large enough to contain it. The life which Teresa had reminded him of, that life, rich with peace and with love, which he himself had sketched—sketched only, for although he conceived it in all its beauty, he had not skill enough to paint it in its completeness; that life, we repeat, presented itself to his eyes, and the enamoured youth had not the power to conceal his love any longer.
"And why, Guillen," asked Teresa, "why would you be more happy if I were a poor peasant girl?"
"Because then I could always call you Teresa, and would be at liberty to love you as no man ever loved in the world," replied the page enthusiastically.
"Guillen!" said the Infanta in a voice trembling with joy and emotion, whilst a glow of colour overspread her pale cheeks, and her blue eyes shone with unusual brilliancy, "Guillen! I have already told you, that for you I shall be only Teresa."
"My God!" exclaimed the page, falling on his knees before her, and raising his eyes, moist with tears. "I am the happiest of men!"
He then added, looking up to her—
"Well, then, I will love Teresa now, whilst I am but a poor peasant, and the Infanta of Carrion, when I shall be worthy of her."
"And why should you not love her now, Guillen? Is it a crime for a man of humble birth to love the daughter of a count?"
"It is not so in the sight of God, but it is so in the eyes of men, Teresa," he answered.
"Well, then, let us do what God does not find fault with, and let us treat with contempt the injustice and the false laws of men. I, weak and cowardly until now, shall be strong and courageous enough to resist all the efforts of him who should be my protector, but who is my executioner."
"Oh, what happiness can be compared with mine!" exclaimed Guillen, wild, mad, with joy. "I also, weak, and timid, and humble until to-day, consider myself strong and daring, and almost touching the clouds with my brow. Teresa, youare my good angel; you fill my soul with noble ambitions, you urge me on to all that is good and exalting."
"Guillen, I am no longer an unhappy woman; when I despaired of meeting noble hearts in the world, I found one in you, and loved it as the captive loves the hand that breaks his chains."
The light of day was penetrating into the tent, the morning was very cold, and the fire all but extinguished for want of fuel. Guillen went forth from the tent, almost weeping with gladness, and walked towards some trees which were near it. When he got to them he raised his eyes to the branches of an oak, and saw hanging from one of them the corpse of the bandit who, a few hours before, had wounded his hand.