Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1. Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ and he swears to himself that if he lives, the day shall come when ancient Iberia shall ring with the forgotten name of his sire!

      “And you, most venerable archbishop,” continues Roderich, turning to address himself to Opas, who, as if some claim of kindred had sounded at his heart, had further withdrawn himself when Witica appeared, and stood so placed as to conceal the view of the pathetic spectacle before him – “you who, by your presence here this day, give us so signal a proof of your loyalty, what seems to you just in this matter, so closely touching yourself? We would willingly carry the Church with us. Speak your mind freely, nor let our royal presence in aught prejudice the prisoner.”

      “My lord,” answers Opas, in a voice which, spite of his efforts to steady it, still sounds scarcely in its natural tone, “my vote lies with my kinsman, Julian. In a matter so nearly concerning myself as a brother’s life and death, it fitteth best for me to be silent.”

      Something in the familiar tones of his voice, some subtle affinity of blood betwixt brother and brother, struck the dull sense of Witica. As Opas spoke he raised his head, and, as he seemed to listen, a sickly smile played for a moment about his sunken lips, and a more human expression passed into his eyes. Listening, listening eagerly, as if expecting some help, a wistful gleam of hope striking across the depths of blank despair, his glance swept upwards with a pleading impotency terrible to behold, the vibration as it were of some subtle instrument set mysteriously in motion. Watching for what was to come, with open mouth and anxious eyes, thus he remained some time, then gradually the tension ceased, the heavy eye clouded, the jaw dropped, and the head, with its shaggy, unkempt locks, freely mixed with grey, once more sank hopelessly on his breast. All this occupied but the space of a few minutes.

      Don Roderich spoke once more. “Witica,” says he, lowering his eyes to the level of the prostrate king, “you have heard the judgment of your kinsmen and those who were your former subjects. What have you to answer?”

      An inarticulate sound breaks the silence. Witica makes a feeble effort to raise himself in the arms of the slaves, who have never withdrawn their hold, opens his mouth to answer, and then falls back speechless.

      The Goths were ever a people cruel and savage in their laws, but so terrible a spectacle as that one, lately monarch in the land, should have fallen into such a strait might have touched even the heart of an enemy, how much more kinsmen so nearly allied to him? But it was not so, neither did any generous impulse move the king from his cruel purpose. With the kindling eye of vengeance Roderich contemplates what was left of that Witica whose kingdom he had seized, and proceeds to give sentence in clear, ringing tones, audible in every corner of the hall.

      “Let the evil Witica has wrought on others be visited on himself. The eyes of my father Theodofredo were put out by his order, even so be it done with him. In the same dungeon here at Cordoba, where my father died, shall his life end. Away with the prisoner.”

      The sounds of approval which follow these words, especially from the group of young courtiers, serve in some sort to drown the piercing shrieks which break from Witica when his dulled senses grasp the full meaning of the sentence. Quick as thought he is borne away, and the spot where he has lain is rapidly covered by the feet of the crowd of chiefs and princes who gather in groups in front of the throne.

      With a careless laugh Roderich descends the marble steps on which the throne is placed, and placing his crown in the hands of a daintily apparelled page, moves freely about among his nobles. The friends of his father, Pelistes and Teofredo, coming from Murcia, are specially greeted. To the Archbishop Opas he again addresses himself with the studied courtesy he learned in civilised Italy. But again Pelayo is passed over in silence, an affront which calls up a flush of anger on his face, as he silently turns and leaves the hall. At last, singling out Julian, Roderich moves aside under the range of the low pillars which divide the hall.

      “This judgment,” says he, speaking with caution, “relieves my mind of much care. Witica has been condemned by those of his own blood. Brother, brother-in-law, and kinsmen have joined together to make secure my position on the throne. The dam indeed is scotched, but what of the lambkins? Witica will be executed forthwith, but his sons remain. Where are they? While they live the kingdom will never be safe from traitors.”

      “Have no fear, my lord,” answered Julian, who, through all this painful scene seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the expression of the king, as a student pores over the page of a precious manuscript, the sense of which may escape him by its obscurity. What manner of man is this they have chosen, he was asking himself? Was Roderich as ferocious as he seemed? Or was his conduct but the effort of a vacillating mind to play the tyrant to excess, conscious of an inherent weakness? And as he watched him, a feeling of deadly hatred came over him for the commission of the very act of cruelty he had just sanctioned. But his answer to Roderich’s question was as unmoved as though no hostile sentiments were warring within him.

      “The youths are already fled to Africa, my lord, where the Spanish Governor of Tangiers harbours them out of gratitude to their father. Let them rest, they will not trouble you.”

      “You say well, count,” answers Roderich in a light tone; “vengeance for my father is a duty. For awhile we will grant them life, but later they must pay the forfeit of Witica’s crimes. But now to other matters. How fares the Lady Frandina, your virtuous consort, and the young Florinda, whom report extols as beautiful beyond measure?”

      The manners of the king were frank and soldierly, and history records that he possessed to a great degree that winning demeanour which charms in the high ones of the earth. To Julian, whose powerful aid had mainly helped him to the possession of the crown, he had hitherto shown a deference that flattered while it controlled. To Don Roderich’s question Julian answered with a smile: “It is well with my consort, who is at our castle of Algeciras; she bade me greet your grace. As to my daughter, it was of her I was about to speak. Florinda is with me in Cordoba. I have brought her as a fair present and hostage to your bride, Queen Egilona, to attend on her, along with the other noble damsels of the court, and to learn those lessons of virtue and excellence in which she is paramount. Will you, my lord, be my surety with the queen?”

      “That will I, gladly,” answers Don Roderich, his countenance lighting up with a gracious smile. “The confidence which you repose in me is of all else the crown and proof of your loyalty. As such I accept it. To me Florinda shall be as a daughter. I will watch over her as yourself, and see that she is trained in the same rigid principles of piety which honour her mother’s name.”

      Julian, his pale, olive-skinned face flushed with the gratification these words afford, bows low. “Florinda,” he replies, “is but a timid girl brought up by her mother’s side, as yet unacquainted with the state which fittingly surrounds Queen Egilona. You will pardon her inexperience; she is quick and sensitive of nature, and keen to appreciate kindness. It is by her wish that she will attend the queen; I have but followed her own desire. Her mother indeed consented, but unwillingly, to part with her.”

      “This is welcome news. It is as a shaft which tells both ways, in the sentiment of attachment in which she has been reared, and of the mind of the fair maid herself. No parents shall be tenderer or more careful than we to her. Would that I had a son to match with her in marriage.”

      “And now,” says Julian, making a low obeisance, “I will crave to be permitted to withdraw; my presence is demanded in my government. The Moors have received considerable reinforcements, and advance upon Ceuta from the neighbouring hills. By way of Damascus they come, despatched by Almanzor from Bagdad, called by those unbelievers ‘The sword of God.’ Our Gothic province on the margin of the Straits needs vigorous and constant watching.”

      “And it is for that reason,” is Roderich’s reply, “that I have placed the government in your hands, valiant Espatorios, first and most trusted of all my Gothic chiefs.”

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