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 TALES 
 
 THE WARS OF OUR TIMES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PENINSULA, 
 
 <*c. &c. &c. , 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOll 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1829.

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 " War is the curse, and peace the blessing, of 
 a country : a realm gaineth more by one year's 
 peace than by ten years' war." Thus thought 
 and spoke the great Lord Burleigh. His last 
 memorable act was an attempt to bring about a 
 peace with Spain, in which he was opposed by 
 the Earl of Essex, to whom the statesman pointed 
 out these words in the Psalms, " Men of blood 
 shall not live out half their days." 
 
 It is a very ancient and true proverb, that 
 " War is pleasant to none but to those who 
 have never tried it." 
 
 Protected by her insular situation, and happy 
 in her many and blessed privileges as a nation, 
 England dwells in security, and breaks her daily 
 bread in peace. It is now more than a century 
 and a half since she has seen her happy valley
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 defiled by the work of slaughter — since the tide 
 of battle has rolled through her affrighted vil- 
 lages — since trumpets have sounded in her pale 
 market-places, and loud cannon have burst a 
 way into her trembling cities. 
 
 True it is, she has borne many a struggle 
 — her treasure has been drained to support 
 long and bloody wars. But the arena of 
 the combatants has been always in a foreign 
 land ; — her sailors and her soldiers have fought 
 her battles, but they have been sent forth out 
 of her bosom to fight them. Her citizens 
 have sat warm by their own firesides — her 
 haymakers and reapers have sung and whis- 
 tled at their labours, — seed-time and har- 
 vest have never failed — and every revolving 
 Sabbath her village " bells have knolled for 
 church." 
 
 In how sad a manner this picture of peace 
 and security has been reversed in those countries 
 of Europe which have been, in mournful succes- 
 sion, the theatres of war, needs scarcely to be 
 told ; but yet, methinks, it is not sufficiently 
 remembered or gratefully considered. The oh-
 
 PREFACE. VII 
 
 ject of these tales is to portray the miseries of 
 war ; but I mean not to fill these pages with 
 bulletins of battles, of which we have had almost 
 a surfeit, but rather with such little histories of 
 private sorrow as every theatre of war which I 
 make the scene of them could doubtless furnish. 
 The reader will have the goodness to bear in 
 mind that these tales are pure fictions — inven- 
 tions ; that all I pledge myself to preserve is the 
 character of the wars of our times ; — to show 
 in what a difficult and unhappy relation to each 
 other individuals of conflicting nations are often 
 placed — to show how domestic happiness is 
 frighted away — -how human loves, human friend- 
 ships, become broken or destroyed by their cruel 
 operation ; — to exhibit by true inference, that 
 
 " False the light on glory's plume, 
 
 As fading hues of even, 
 That youth, and hope, and beauty's bloom, 
 Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb ; 
 
 There's nothing bright but — heaven." 
 
 Moore.
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 Wherever the name of a city or a leader, or the date of an 
 engagement, may be referred to in these pages, it is but to give 
 an air of verity to the story, a date to the action, and a locality 
 to the scene.
 
 TALE OF THE WAR IN SPAIN.
 
 THE 
 
 LADY OF CORDOVA; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate." — * Graf. 
 
 Cordova, in Spain, is a city of ancient and fair 
 renown, and has been always very famous in the 
 history of that romantic land. 
 
 The capitano of the mule-train, coming from 
 Castile and La Mancha, as he winds down the 
 bare and stony road which descends from the 
 gloomy solitudes of the Sierra Morena, does 
 always suspend his way-beguiling song at the 
 welcome sight of its cathedral tower; points 
 out to the traveller in his company where its 
 white dwellings lie sunny and shining among 
 b 2
 
 4 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 green and pleasant gardens, and promises him 
 both plenty and pleasure in merry Cordova; 
 is garrulous about its snowy bread, its fine fruit, 
 its excellent chocolate, its delicious ices; tells 
 of the famous Mezquita # , of the many and 
 gay festivals, the bull fights; forgets not to 
 narrate how black the eyes, how small the feet, 
 of the pretty donnas, and, above all, how that 
 wine is so good and so cheap, that, " Vinopuro 
 e non poco" is the motto of the men of Cordova. 
 
 It was, in truth, a merry city some twenty 
 years ago, and the most aged person within its 
 walls could not remember when it had been 
 otherwise. Had any one, at that period, passed 
 through its streets, in the noon of a summer 
 night, he would have heard the tinkle of light 
 guitars, and the rattle of lively castanets from 
 many an open casement. 
 
 In the very midst of their accustomed plea- 
 sures, as they lay singing in the lap of peace and 
 security, they were startled by the voice of war. 
 
 The populace of Madrid gave it loud utter- 
 ance, and braved, at the knife's point, the power- 
 
 * Cathedral ; so called from having been once a mosque.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 5 
 
 ful and well appointed troops of France, whose 
 perfidious councils and lawless aggressions they 
 determined openly and in arms to resent. 
 
 The cry of defiance, which sounded in the 
 streets of Madrid on the second of May, 
 eighteen hundred and eight, echoed swiftly 
 through the land. The youth of Cordova rose 
 ready at the call. Every donna and every nun 
 in the city was busily engaged in embroidering 
 the red Fernando badges. The very monks 
 came forth from their sullen convents, and placed 
 the war-belt above their cords of discipline. All 
 Cordova was busy at her barriers. Some works 
 were thrown up in a hurry, and irregularly 
 manned by a mob of willing but undisciplined 
 defenders, while a small band of two thousand 
 Flemish mercenaries, having a sad but too sure 
 a presage of the vainness of their errand, came 
 with swift feet indeed, but reluctant spirits, to 
 her succour. 
 
 These weak and insufficient preparations were 
 
 all that the time allowed of. The trumpet of 
 
 France already sounded at her gates. The 
 
 eagle of Napoleon hovered over the devoted 
 
 B 3
 
 6 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 city ; and the dusty legion which arrived before 
 it in the burning noon of a hot June day, with 
 scarce a pause for breathing or refreshment, 
 formed its black column of attack. 
 
 One hundred sappers, with the necessary 
 tools, advanced briskly to the stockades and 
 barriers : they were covered in their dangerous 
 but familiar labours by the quick and well di- 
 rected fire of a cloud of skirmishers and a few 
 pieces of cannon. The Spaniards were asto- 
 nished : their own heavy but irregular fire did 
 neither check the boldness nor disturb the good 
 order of their enemies. Some of the French 
 sappers fell by the very knives of the people, 
 but, after a short struggle, the barriers were in 
 part demolished, a breach effected, and a heavy 
 column of French infantry rushing through it 
 like the loosened torrent of a tumbling river, 
 flooded the city. Alas ! for Cordova. The 
 troops and mercenaries retreated with despair- 
 ing haste and terror ; her citizens, resisting 
 many of them to the very last, taking the last 
 true shot, giving the last firm stab, fell slain 
 upon their own thresholds, and saw not the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 7 
 
 miserable after-scenes ; the swift and headlong 
 runnings ; the hands together smote and up- 
 lifted in agony to Heaven ; the pillaged altars ; 
 the defiled beds ; babes in their innocent blood. 
 Alas ! for Cordova. 
 
 u Time and the hour run through the roughest day." 
 
 At length the shades of evening closed in ; from 
 blowing open doors and breaking in windows, 
 from plundering and killing, the soldiers betook 
 themselves to cooking and drinking. Furniture 
 served for fuel, and wine ran free in the open 
 cellars, and they sung, the happy innocent 
 fellows, about " JJ Amour et la Gloire ,•" and at 
 length, tired with the toil of their pleasant 
 crimes, placed their booty-filled knapsacks be- 
 neath their heads, and so pillowed, slept — with- 
 out a dream ! 
 
 The bright moon of a lovely June night sailed 
 calm and silent in the blue heaven above them, 
 and looked with its soft light as kindly on their 
 slumbers as on those of cradled infants.* 
 
 * The History of Mr. Southey ; as also, that of the French 
 General Foy ; as also, the Annual Register of the year ; and 
 the public prints of that period, all agree in stating that the 
 city of Cordova was pillaged by the army of Dupont, 
 B 4
 
 8 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 It had already struck eleven by the clock of 
 the Augustine convent, when the trembling 
 inmates of a house in one of those narrow and 
 unfrequented lanes, which, presenting little more 
 to the eye than dead Wcills, apparently enclosing 
 gardens, had hitherto escaped a visit, were 
 alarmed by a loud knocking : the sound of 
 horses' feet, and the clank of arms, plainly 
 announced the quality of their visitors. They 
 rose and crossed themselves in terror : to this 
 first emotion succeeded a brief contention for 
 the dangerous service of opening the door. The 
 lamp, however, in spite of all kind efforts to 
 prevent him, was resolutely taken by an aged 
 and venerable looking priest, who slowly de- 
 scended to the door, followed by an infirm 
 domestic, the only male besides himself in the 
 dwelling. 
 
 Four females stood leaning over the rails of 
 the balcony above the small patio or court, and 
 listened with intense fear, and a suspense full of 
 anxiety, for the issue. 
 
 As the key turned slowly in the lock, and 
 the rusty bolt was drawn grating back* their
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 9 
 
 hearts beat quick in their bosoms : a moment, 
 and woe and death might be in their chambers ; 
 woe unutterable, and an end untimely, violent, 
 in blood. 
 
 What tears dropped warm from their eyes, as 
 a fine voice, mellowed by deep mournfulness, 
 asked, in good Spanish, for a bed. 
 
 It was some fugitive patriot, they thought, 
 escaped from the affray, whom they should have 
 the happiness to succour and to save. 
 
 They were running down to meet and to 
 welcome him, but shrunk back again, as their 
 eyes caught the gleam of a helmet, such as they 
 had never seen, and their ears the sound of an 
 unknown and foreign tongue. 
 
 Unheeding any one, the stranger, bearing in 
 his arms a wounded man, followed the priest 
 up the stairs into the chamber, whither he was 
 conducted, and laid his groaning burden on a 
 couch. The noise of many and heavy steps, 
 and of loud coarse voices below, renewed the 
 terrors of the women, and possessed them with 
 an alarmed expectation of some brutal revenge
 
 10 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 from the irritated comrades of their wounded 
 guest. 
 
 They followed into the same chamber, scarce 
 knowing what they did. If the sound of the 
 stranger's voice had, at first, for a moment, dis- 
 pelled their fear, how complete was their re- 
 assurance, how settled their comfort, as they 
 now looked upon his face. 
 
 It was pale with grief, not whitely pale — that 
 the deep and martial bronze of his complexion 
 forbade, — but it was forsaken of all blood, all 
 glow, all life. He was a man of tall, commanding 
 stature, prominent and manly features, beard 
 and mustachios of a raven blackness, and eyes 
 — there was no guessing at their ordinary ex- 
 pression, for they were now dim with tears. 
 
 Sorrow is a sacred thing : they gazed in reve- 
 rence and silence. 
 
 Upon the couch, the hand of death evidently 
 upon him, lay a fine youth of eighteen : relieved 
 somewhat by rest and a recumbent posture, he 
 was now enabled to repress his groans : his 
 hand grasped that of the elder officer with ten- 
 derness, as if to console him; and the expres-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 11 
 
 sion of his countenance, which must at all times 
 have been most beautiful, was not so changed 
 by pain as not immediately to interest the be- 
 holders. Flushes of his wonted bloom still 
 struggled at intervals on his fading cheek, and 
 rays of brightness broke out from his fine blue 
 eyes, as if summoned up by his sweet but strong 
 will to comfort his depressed companion. 
 
 He spoke, too, in soft and subdued tones : — 
 they knew not what he said ; but it were easy 
 gathered that he mentioned names and places ; 
 then, at a motion of his hand, the elder stranger 
 kneeled down by his side. 
 
 At this sight the good father went near to his 
 pillow, and holding up the crucifix, offered it to 
 his pale lip. The dying youth grasped and 
 kissed fervently the withered hand that held the 
 sacred symbol, but put it aside, and turning to 
 his companion, with ear attent and moving lips, 
 seemed to follow him in prayer. The venerable 
 old priest, who saw and did well, in his very 
 heart, understand this action, nevertheless sunk 
 quiet on his knees, as did all the party, though 
 in the looks of the three domestics there was a
 
 12 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OK, 
 
 something of wonder, if not terror, at the thought 
 that a hopeless heretic lay before them. 
 
 Yet that holy name, " Christ," was so often 
 distinctly uttered in the stranger's petition, and 
 being the only one they understood, it so fixed 
 their attention, that, in the fervour of their own 
 devotions, they crossed their bowed foreheads, 
 and beat their grateful bosoms, and forgot or 
 forgave all difference of creed. When they 
 arose from prayer, they found the open door- 
 way, and part of the gallery, filled with dark 
 and bearded soldiers. These men stood silent 
 and wondering, but respectful, and looked upon 
 their dying favourite with a grave anxiety ; 
 their brazen helmets, and the black horse-hair 
 plumes, which hung drooping over their swart 
 cheeks, gave a solemn and funereal aspect to 
 the scene. 
 
 The exhausted youth observed them, signed 
 to them with his feebly-lifted hand, and gave 
 them a languid look of kind recognition : the 
 sun of his young existence was fast setting, and 
 they shared its parting smile. 
 
 At a word from the elder officer, these brave
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 13 
 
 men, with drooped heads, and brief but deep 
 regrets, withdrew ; and at his request, he was 
 left by the family alone with his sad charge. 
 The soldiers went down quietly, and occupied 
 the offices below : the family passed into that 
 inner apartment, which being the only room on 
 that floor that contains a fire-place, is the 
 common hearth, common both tt> masters and 
 servants ; for to no one is the proud Spaniard 
 so affable, so amiable, so fond and familiar in his 
 manners, as to the cherished and attached do- 
 mestics of his household. Here they all sate 
 silent or whispering; — a dying enemy the sub- 
 ject of their words, their thoughts, their very 
 prayers. 
 
 In all Cordova there was not a house where 
 the invaders were more gloomily feared, or 
 where, a few hours before, the reasons for hating 
 them were so sad or so strong. Now, alas ! 
 many families in the city had drunk of the same 
 bitter cup. 
 
 The Lady Cassilda de Velasco had within a 
 few short weeks been widowed, and at the same 
 time bereaved of a darling son.
 
 14 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Her boy, an artillery cadet, had fallen in the 
 tumult of the memorable second of May, at 
 Madrid ; her honoured husband had been one 
 of the victims who suffered in the Prado on the 
 day following: the nobility of his sentiments 
 was known ; he had given utterance to them, 
 and he was removed by a military execution. 
 
 Don Juan de Velasco was a retired admiral 
 of high and merited reputation. The object of 
 his visit to Madrid had been principally to take 
 away his son from the institution where he had 
 placed him ; for his prescient eye foresaw what 
 would be the inevitable consequence of the 
 measures which France had treacherously taken, 
 and the aim and end of which she was every 
 hour more clearly developing. 
 
 The cruel fate of De Velasco, and the gallant 
 but untimely end of his young boy, had produced 
 great sensation in Cordova. 
 
 The Lady Cassilda, after recovering from the 
 first terrible shock, offered all her plate and jewels 
 to the patriot junta, quitted her large mansion 
 in the heart of the city, and retired to a smaller, 
 which the admiral possessed in the suburbs, for
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 15 
 
 the sake of its garden. Here she was living 
 with her only daughter, and the aged confessor 
 of her house, in sad and severe seclusion. 
 
 She had still one son, her eldest, indeed, 
 now the representative of her family : he was 
 absent, and serving as an officer in the army 
 of Cuesta. 
 
 It was a helpless, defenceless household, — de- 
 fenceless to human eyes; but the Lord encampeth 
 round about them that hope, that trust in his 
 mercy. It had been with a thanksgiving for 
 all past mercies to himself, a trust for all future 
 mercies to his family, with a prayer for his 
 country, and with a free forgiveness to the 
 ignorant instruments of a tyrant's will, that Juan 
 de Velasco had bared his bosom to the balls of 
 his executioners, and as he had lived, so did he 
 die, without a fear ; and in this day of peril at 
 Cordova, his fatherless house had not been 
 forgotten. 
 
 The Lady Cassilda and her daughter Leo- 
 nora had been prepared for every supposable 
 situation in which the conquest of their city 
 might place them ; and, for one sad and possible
 
 16 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 extremity, they wore daggers concealed in the 
 folds of their dresses : they would have equalled 
 here the high courage of the far-famed don- 
 zellas de Simancas. 
 
 For the scene just presented they were not 
 at all prepared, — to witness meekness, resigna- 
 tion, and piety in a dying youth of eighteen, — 
 to witness pity, love, devotion, and all the gentle 
 tenderness of a nursing mother, under the severe 
 exterior of a veteran in war, — and these things, 
 too, in their enemies, their dreaded enemies, 
 did greatly surprise and affect them. There 
 was blood upon their threshold, blood in 
 their chambers; but it was not the blood of 
 Spain, and they could scarce feel it that of an 
 enemy. 
 
 No eyes were closed that night in the dwell- 
 ing of the Lady Cassilda, save those of the 
 youthful Frenchman, and these were sealed for 
 ever before the morning rose. 
 
 They knew the very moment of his decease, 
 for there burst from his companion the heavy 
 sighs of deep and long-suppressed emotions. 
 His tread, which had hitherto been light as a
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 17 
 
 woman's, was now the hurried pace of agony ; 
 and the strong clank of his iron heel re-echoed 
 though the house ; at last it ceased, and they 
 heard a voice, subdued and humble, as in prayer, 
 and weeping followed, and then — long silence. 
 At day-break he came out of the chamber, 
 with a changed and calm countenance, and 
 called up some soldiers, with a firm voice. The 
 body, wrapped in its cloak, was carried down 
 by these men to the garden, and from the win- 
 dows they saw a grave quickly dug beneath an 
 olive-tree, and the boy, scarce seen, but yet re- 
 gretted, was buried out of their sight. Henry 
 de la Bourdonnaye, the beloved of his mother, 
 
 — the youngest and fairest of her fine family, — 
 the pet of their household, — the pleasure of 
 their neighbourhood, — and, of late, the youthful 
 pride of the gallant squadron in which he rode, 
 
 — Henry de la Bourdonnaye was no more. 
 He had not fallen in the attack of the city, or 
 
 even been engaged on that service. It was in 
 the faithful, fearless, and zealous discharge of 
 a noble duty that he met his untimely but ho- 
 nourable death.
 
 18 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 He was shot by a drunken French grenadier, 
 while in the act of rescuing a Spanish lady from 
 his violence. The life of the miscreant was an 
 instant forfeit to the sword of Eustace de Roch- 
 fort, the friend of Henry, who was to him as 
 father, as brother ; whose eye had ever watched, 
 whose arm had ever been near him in the melee, 
 and who, at the very moment of this fatal acci- 
 dent, was not many yards distant ; but the sword 
 of Eustace, though quick to revenge, was too 
 late to save, and he now leaned against the 
 olive-tree alone, above the young and cherished 
 charge which was torn from him for ever — no, 
 not for ever; — but yet away, — above, — out of 
 sight, — never on this earth to cheer or soothe 
 him with his bright presence again. 
 
 The families of De la Bourdonnaye and De 
 Rochfort were united in a happy and intimate 
 friendship of very long standing. They were 
 both of ancient date : their grandfathers, who 
 were cadet branches of houses illustrious and 
 wealthy, had embraced the Protestant faith, and 
 had been ever after most naturally lost sight of 
 by their powerful relations ; they retained, how-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 19 
 
 ever, what they could not be deprived of, the 
 names and the pure blood of their ancestors. 
 
 In that pleasant country Which lies near the 
 old town of Amboise, on the beautiful banks of 
 the Loire, these friends had settled down as 
 neighbours. Poor as they were, during the 
 storm of the Revolution they had sustained se- 
 vere losses, and their very names Itad subjected 
 them to persecution from the vulgar and envious 
 levellers among the tyrant mob during that me- 
 morable reign of terror, which disenchanted the 
 world about the blessings of a republic. They 
 had decided, however, come what might, to re- 
 main in their place, and stand or fall with their 
 country. They could not command its destinies, 
 but they could share them, — - could not only 
 sigh for the wickedness of the land, but by their 
 individual exertions and influence do something 
 to counteract it, and serve the best interests of 
 France. Their sons were men in the prime of 
 life ; and when they saw Europe entire arrayed 
 against their country, and Prussian cavalry in 
 the heart of it, they willingly obeyed the call of 
 the nation, and marched as volunteers against 
 c g
 
 20 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 the invaders ; but having served a few cam- 
 paigns, they returned gladly to their homes, and 
 left foreign wars to those who made arms a pro- 
 fession. 
 
 The houses of their fathers, with the farms 
 attached, though small, were suited to their cir- 
 cumstances and to their wants. They employed 
 themselves with their spades and pruning-knives 
 in their gardens ; and left military rank, civic 
 honours, and wealth to be scrambled for by 
 men more ambitious than themselves. Here 
 they bred up their children. 
 
 It was in the tranquil year of 1802 that 
 Eustace de Rochfort returned from the Army 
 of Italy, to pass a short season of leave with his 
 father. He was then about three-and-twenty, 
 had served five years, and had obtained his 
 commision for an action of distinguished gal- 
 lantry on the field of Marengo. 
 
 Henry De la Bourdonnaye was at that time a 
 happy, lively boy of ten, — of an age to play with 
 the sword and the sash of Eustace. His sister 
 Caroline was just seventeen, — of an age to look 
 upon the decoration which hung at the breast of
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 21 
 
 Eustace with a sweet and strange admiration, and 
 to steal those gazes at the handsome features of 
 his half-averted face, which beget love. The 
 term of Eustace's leave of absence had been as 
 one long and happy holiday to both families ; 
 and when he departed, he took with him some 
 favorite music written out beautifully by Caro- 
 line, and a plan of the battle of Marengo, 
 copied fair from a sketch of his own, which he 
 left behind, by little Henry. In the winter of 
 1807 he came again to Amboise. Chancres 
 had taken place. Madame De la Bourdonnaye 
 was a widow : Henry had just been appointed 
 to serve as cadet for his commission in a 
 regiment of dragoons; and she was exerting all 
 her interest to get him transferred to the corps 
 in which Eustace was a chefi-d 'escadron. She 
 succeeded in obtaining this appointment while 
 Eustace was at home; and she delivered up her 
 boy to his charge in a manner that deeply 
 affected him. She did more; she gave her con- 
 sent that at his return from Spain, whither his 
 corps was ordered, and where it was scarce 
 c 3
 
 22 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 guessed in France there would be any fighting, 
 Caroline, whom he had long fondly and in 
 absence loved, should become his wife; and he 
 was now henceforward permitted to correspond 
 with her as his own betrothed. 
 
 Eustace and Henry left Amboise together, 
 and had scarce been separated since. Every 
 succeeding day had more and more endeared 
 them to each other. Henry could sing his 
 sister's songs, and look, as near as brothers 
 may, his sister's looks; and Eustace — when the 
 sword-belt was unloosed, and they sate to- 
 gether in their chance-billet, to-day a palace, to- 
 morrow a cottage; to-day a splendid convent, 
 to-morrow a chapel of mud ; here in a rude 
 camp-hut, there beneath a tree near their 
 bivouac, — enjoyed a sort of domestic peace 
 amid the movements of the march such as he had 
 never tasted of before. All this was past, and 
 he had only now to write to Amboise, and tell 
 a doting mother that she had lost a darling 
 child ; — and he was going up to his chamber 
 full of this difficult and melancholy task, when the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 23 
 
 call of the trumpet "To horse !" summoned him 
 forth in haste, and he did not return to his 
 quarter from a distant reconnoissance till late in 
 the evening.
 
 24 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
 Pale Melancholy sate retired. — Collins. 
 
 Leonora de Velasco was sitting sad and 
 solitary behind the lattice-casement of her 
 chamber when Eustace de Rochfort rode up 
 to the door. It was at a slow foot-pace he 
 returned, and alone : the bridle hung loose from 
 his hand upon the neck of his weary horse, and 
 he looked exhausted and depressed. 
 
 Leonora felt, that of all the men who had 
 ever crossed the threshold of her father's house 
 this stranger, this enemy, did seem most worthy 
 of a woman's love : a chord in her heart had 
 been struck, which none had ever touched 
 before, and she lifted her dark eyes to heaven 
 in fear. She thought upon her slain father ; it 
 would not do : — she thought upon her young, 
 bright brother, stained with his life-blood ; it
 
 THE SPANISH RROTHER. 25 
 
 would not do : — she thought upon her country, 
 upon Cordova, in terror and in tears ; upon her 
 only surviving brother, a patriot in arms; it 
 would not do. There is in the human heart a 
 depth of feeling, a mystery of sympathy, which 
 no philosopher has ever sounded, or could ever 
 explain. " Love's reason's without reason." 
 Leonora shook and shuddered at the new and 
 wonderful emotion : it was her sorrow and her 
 dread. 
 
 To gentle affections she united a high and 
 noble mind. She had never loved but as 
 daughter, sister, friend : her country she loved, 
 and its present wrongs had filled her with a 
 new and devoted attachment to its cause. The 
 melancholy fate of her father and her brother, 
 whom she justly considered as murdered by the 
 invaders, had called forth her patriot feelings in 
 all their strength. After the example of her 
 lady mother, she had emptied her little casket 
 of every jewel it contained, even to her little 
 breast crucifix of gold ; and as she passed forth 
 daily to mass, no otherwise adorned than by her 
 half-veiled beautv, the men of Cordova stood
 
 26 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 aside in reverence, and looked with admiration 
 after her. 
 
 Even the good Father Clemente, who had a 
 heart where peace and good- will dwelt lovingly, 
 having found or rather made a kindred soil, — 
 even he, whose every thought was benevolence, 
 whose every act beneficence, — had strongly 
 encouraged, both in mother and daughter, a 
 spirit of enthusiastic hostility to France; for he 
 deemed her the infidel enemy of all holy faith, 
 and the lawless and cruel foe to every thing 
 good and pure, happy and free. Well might 
 Spaniards have so deemed of her, at the period 
 of which we speak. In the presence of this 
 very family, a partaker of their prayers, one 
 enemy had just breathed his last, and another 
 was to be, for a time, a considered inmate. 
 Eustace de Rochfort had received no other 
 impression of the individuals composing this 
 family, save that they had exhibited a kind and 
 Christian sympathy around the dying bed of 
 Henry : he remembered that they had kneeled 
 in prayer ; but the only countenance which he
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 27 
 
 had so observed, as to recollect it, was that of 
 the Father Clemente. 
 
 It was a consolation to him as he passed up 
 to his chamber, to reflect that the minute or- 
 derings of that Providence, whose goodness he 
 ever recognised, had placed him, at such a mo- 
 ment, in a house where God was feared and 
 loved, and where sorrow would be pitied and 
 respected. 
 
 From principle he had constantly avoided 
 intruding himself on the inmates of the various 
 houses where he had been quartered in his 
 march through the country; for no sooner did 
 he discover the real intentions of Napoleon to- 
 wards unhappy Spain than he felt ashamed of 
 the service on which he was employed, and 
 rightly deemed that the presence of a French 
 officer was, or ought to be, if not hateful, at 
 least unwelcome in the domestic circle of a true 
 Spaniard. Few felt with him ; some forced ; 
 some won their way; not often, indeed, success- 
 fully with the men, but there are many avenues 
 to woman's heart, and some of these the flatter- 
 ing Frenchmen found. Poor Henry had found
 
 28 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 Eustace far too rigid on this point, and had 
 often rallied him on it; for, in a land so full of 
 romantic associations as Spain, the boy had 
 longed to fall in love. A dark beauty of the 
 south was the ideal mistress of his young heart. 
 " Cordova," he would say, "Cordova, Eustace, I 
 am sure I shall fall in love there : in that strange 
 cathedral, where the turbaned Moor has wor- 
 shipped, I shall see the Laura of my life, and 
 turn poet as well as soldier. Una dama per servir. 
 I shall never feel a true knight till I have found 
 one." Poor Henry! the noble boy had served, 
 had saved a lady of Cordova, and had laid 
 down his young life as the price of his true 
 service. 
 
 The memory of all this came full and heavily 
 upon Eustace, as he entered the chamber now 
 prepared for him, and found in it a character 
 and a charm such as his departed Henry would 
 have delighted in. The window opened on a 
 veranda overlooking a garden : the red gera- 
 nium twined round the trellis-work in front of 
 it ; a myrtle hedge beneath, starred with white 
 blossoms, breathed up delicious fragrance ; and
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 29 
 
 near the olive, to which the eye of Eustace was 
 instantly directed, stood a citron tree, with its 
 pale fruit gleaming beneath the moon, soft, 
 delicate, unearthly in aspect, as if they grew in 
 that still invisible paradise, whither imagination 
 sought vainly to follow the departed spirit. 
 He passed down by a few steps at the end 
 of the veranda, which descended to the gar- 
 den, and went to the grave : — an unknown 
 and charitable hand had strewn flowers on it: 
 it looked very peaceful ; — a long time he stood 
 over it lost in painful and unavailing regrets. 
 It was by Father Clemente that he was roused 
 from this train of thought, and invited back to 
 his chamber. 
 
 A basket of fruit piled as by the hand of a paint- 
 er, and a glass magnum of old wine of Xeres, 
 were on his table. " The compliments of my 
 lady," said Clemente; "she bids me say, that she 
 shall be happy to make your stay beneath her roof 
 comfortable, in such manner as she can ; but as 
 she is suffering herself under severe domestic 
 affliction, she is secluded, and cannot have the 
 pleasure of any personal intercourse."
 
 50 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 " I understand you, Father ; she is a true 
 Spaniard, and the presence of a Frenchman 
 would be hateful to her." 
 
 " With some reason : she has lost a husband 
 and a son since your troops entered this 
 country." 
 
 " May I ask the name ? " 
 
 " Velasco — Don Juan de Velasco was shot 
 in the Prado on the third of May : her boy 
 perished in the tumult on the second." 
 
 The blood rushed with the hot tide of in- 
 dignation into the pale cheek of Eustace, then 
 back again it hurried, leaving his visage marble 
 and deathlike. 
 
 " I remember," said he, " this brave man's 
 name, and I heard of this abominable case at 
 Toledo. Upon the devoted heads of the in- 
 struments will the sins of our Emperor be re- 
 paid, and the flower of our young chivalry will 
 fall in this war of crimes. Many were the 
 gallant and unoffending soldiers who fell beneath 
 the knives of your patriots in the streets of 
 Madrid. As for the boy who lies below, tell
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 31 
 
 your afflicted lady, that he, like her own, fell by 
 the hand of a Frenchman." 
 
 " By the hand of one of your own army ? " 
 asked the Father. 
 
 "Yes, while rescuing some helpless lady of 
 your city from the violence of a rude marauder. 
 We are not all marauders, good Father : to kill, 
 and to burn, and to plunder, is the business of 
 a few, who are very demons in activity : to 
 conquer and to sigh, to fight and to fall, this is 
 the stern destinv of thousands among us, who, 
 though we cannot leave our standards, detest 
 this war of aggression, and have a melancholy 
 fear of unhonoured and unpitied deaths, of 
 withered laurels, of life-blood poured out in the 
 dark by the silent stabs of patriot assassins." 
 
 " It is a horrid thing war, a horrid alternative 
 for us : but death is better than a life in chains." 
 
 " Yes, Father, the man who arms for liberty, 
 who fights and dies defending his country, 
 chooses the better and the nobler part : so long 
 as he lives he shall be honoured, and when he 
 falls, he shall be mourned over and remembered; 
 but we, alas ! are but the hounds of a mighty
 
 32 THE J.ADY OF CORDOVA ,* OR, 
 
 hunter ; our master is the Nimrod of this latter 
 a^e. From the heart I served him once, for I 
 always thought I was fighting for the cause, of 
 France ; but I have seen the snake around his 
 iron crown, and sicken of his service." 
 
 " Why not leave it ? Can you not live among 
 the citizens of France in peace ? " 
 
 " Father, you know not the citizens of France ; 
 you know not the bonds about the soldier ; 
 the march of his life is shaped out for him ; he 
 moves a passive unit among a million of war- 
 riors ; and though he serve a despot, yet, if he 
 break that silken thread which binds him to 
 the colours of his country, traitor and coward 
 are his names for ever. No ; there are many of 
 us march on, and hold our breath, and wait for 
 an opportnnity to deliver France : doubtless the 
 day will come." 
 
 They now opened their minds to each other 
 freely, and jointly deplored the war. 
 
 Clemente convinced Eustace that the contest 
 would last long ; that no invader, no foreigner, 
 could ever maintain a footing in the country ; 
 that all the best prejudices, the noblest pride,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 33 
 
 the blindest superstitition, the fiercest zeal of 
 Spain would unite to oppose them : that the 
 virtues and vices of the land would all be 
 arrayed against them : that no reverses of for- 
 tune would shake the constancy of the people ; 
 that the warfare would assume a dreadful 
 character. " You have begun," said Clemente; 
 " we shall finish. It is some comfort, though 
 of a truth a melancholy one, to be able to 
 esteem an enemy. In your person, Senhor, I 
 feel I can do this ; but, though old and grey, 
 though a minister of peace, though war is a 
 word hateful to my ear, yet, till the troops of 
 your iron master are beyond the Pyrenees, I 
 pray for their discomfiture, and I sigh for the 
 freedom of Spain." 
 
 Their conversation was suddenly interrupted 
 by a tall lean figure, with a white cotton night- 
 cap, nodding its bag end upon the forehead of 
 as strange a face as caricaturist ever saw. The 
 long nose, upturned at the end by snuflP and 
 sneering, the twinkling eve of grey, the lank 
 jaws, the peaked chin, were such as Spaniard had 
 never seen ; the white apron, and the lanky and 
 
 D
 
 34 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 lark legs, which descended far below it, together 
 with the whole demeanour and manner of the 
 being, did so contrast and jar with that of the 
 manly and melancholy Eustace, that Father 
 Ciemente started, and for a moment forgetting 
 the latter, felt a new and almost increased con- 
 tempt for France and Frenchmen. This figure 
 bore a tray of covered dishes, and a white 
 napkin over its arm ; and while laying the cloth 
 and spreading the dishes, which actions it per- 
 formed with incredible celerity, it poured out 
 with like volubility this speech, which scarcely 
 bears our translation : 
 
 Ne vous qffligezpas — ne voas affiigezpas, Capi- 
 talize. C'est le sort de la guerre. Le pauvre Mon- 
 sieur Henri — qiCil est dplaindre ! — qiCil auroit 
 mange de ces plats avec sentiment. With this 
 he lifted off the covers, naming each dish as he 
 did so. " Gros poulet farci " pardon. Monsieur, 
 dans ce vilain pays, il n'y a pas de dindon. — 
 "Sauce en petit deuil," le pauvre Monsieur Henri/ 
 — " Car dons d'Espagne" — vilain pays. — " Arti- 
 cliaux de Barbarie en bonnet de Turc" — ce sont 
 des sauvages ces Espagnols Mauresques.—" Cailles
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 35 
 
 aux lauriers" — Ma foi, c'etoit un vrai coup 
 de main — un assaut brillant. — " Tombeau d'un 
 brave en patisserie" — le pauvre Monsieur Hen?~i! 
 — U y a cinque jours, il m'a dit — en souriant — 
 toujours gai, toujours gai — " Broche dans la 
 belle ville de Cordove ! — un bon repas — le 
 meilleur que le marche peutjburnir.^ — Pauvre 
 gar con, qiCil est a plaindre ! — Ne vous qffligez 
 pas, Monsieur le capitaine — ne vous qffligez pas. 
 It was with vexation that Eustace spoke, as 
 he bade him take all away; but, had it been 
 an Egyptian feast, and the dead present, it had 
 scarce been possible to suppress a smile. Mon- 
 sieur Cesar Broche was a broken down re- 
 staurateur who followed the army, and whom 
 Henry, in the playfulness of his spirits, had 
 patronised all the march from Madrid. In his 
 sketch-book, there were a dozen different like- 
 nesses of poor Broche; to caricature him was 
 impossible, but Henry had taken him in all 
 positions, and with every expression, from the 
 grin of triumph to the shiver of dismay ; and 
 could he have burst the grave, he would have 
 D 2
 
 36 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 infallibly fixed his portrait now, as he indig- 
 nantly resented this rejection of his talents. 
 
 Comment Monsieur — un tel repas — poulet 
 farci aux tncffes ! — Savez-vous que c'est Vanni- 
 versaire de la bataille de Marengo P — Regardez 
 done voire decoration. — Moi, j'etois la — Oui, 
 Monsieur, oui — le soir avant V affaire. — Mon- 
 sieur le General Desaioc, {e'etoit un grand 
 homme, Monsieur,) eh Men, il a mange de ma 
 cuisine. 
 
 Broche had evidently been paying his re- 
 spects, while practising as artiste before the fire, 
 to some honest wine-skin, and it was with dif- 
 ficulty that Eustace, by the help of his own 
 dragoon, got him to leave the room, and take 
 his tray to some happier customer. Broche 
 thought a man whom such a repast could not 
 console, as past hope, and a little beneath his 
 respect; so he muttered as he went, Le pauvre 
 animal, il rtest pas philosophe ,• il manque de 
 de heroisme. Un tel repas, poulet farci ! and, 
 to console himself under the disappointment, he 
 broke out into some fragment of a song about
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER, 37 
 
 " Mon bras a ma patrie, 
 
 Mon coeur a ma maitresse r 
 La guerre, — et la folie, 
 Et ma belle enchanteresse !" 
 
 It has been remarked by a thoughtful writer, 
 that to mourn over some beloved object as it 
 lies dead, and see a fly fluttering and buzzing 
 in the window, is painful. 
 
 Perhaps there is a sound of human mirth 
 that does more wound and insult our woe. The 
 creaking chirp of those old human grashoppers, 
 who exult to live, and grin, and eat, and live 
 only for themselves, and laugh to themselves 
 when they are fed, and safe, and in the sun ; 
 even such, in his then mood, was the cracked 
 voice of old Cesar Broche to De Rochfort, 
 though, probable it is, had Henry been alive, 
 they would have had a lively supper in that 
 house of mourning, not knowing it to be one, 
 and poor Broche had but played buffo to their 
 feast. A stout rough soldier succeeded this 
 unhappy exile from some lane in Paris, and 
 put before his master a bouillon and a loaf 
 D 3
 
 38 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 of bread, with an anxious look, but without 
 uttering a word. 
 
 " Life is a strange thing, Father," said 
 Eustace. "Matter and mean things press round 
 and about us ; things ridiculous break in upon 
 and disturb our very griefs ; cares, common and 
 low, and earthy-rooted, mingle with our very 
 prayers, and pollute our devotions." 
 
 " This is well, my son, — good for us. We are 
 thus made sensibly to feel that this world can 
 never be our rest ; thus, too, we are best con- 
 soled when we reflect on those whom we have 
 loved and lost; theirs is the gain, the escape; 
 to be perfected in a short time is a great favour 
 of heaven : this is indeed a green and pleasant 
 world to those who walk in innocency, with that 
 perpetual feast, a merry heart. But who be 
 these unspotted ones ? Where are they ? And if 
 you find them, still sorrow is behind, dogging 
 them; some black misfortune, some fury passion, 
 lies sleeping in the grass beside them ; and death, 
 like a slow hound, tracks them through every 
 path, till at length he finds them stumbling in mid 
 career, or fainting sick, or lame with age, and his
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 39 
 
 fastened fangs pull them to earth, and they are 
 left to the glad worms. Regret not your boy, 
 but rather rejoice that he died, as the favourites 
 of heaven die, young, and too early to know 
 the meaning of a sigh. He would not have 
 found it perpetual sunlight here, as it is 
 there, above the stars. He left you, remember, 
 undecayed — in youth, and beauty, and strength ; 
 and the vision of him w T ill be among your 
 pleasant and fair thoughts for life, — a bright 
 memory of a bright being." 
 
 Summoned by the old domestic, the good 
 Father now left Eustace, bidding him good 
 night with that kind sincerity of tone, the value 
 of w r hich is well known to the lonely and the 
 sad. 
 
 Again Eustace descended to the garden, and 
 again he stood upon the grave of Henry. Never 
 was night more still, never did the moon-beams 
 shed about a brightness more silvery ; the air 
 was perfume, and the soft cool night-wind 
 played calm and kind, though so gently, that 
 not a branch was heard to rustle. 
 D 4
 
 40 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 It was here, now, with a full deep sense and 
 impression upon him of all the vanity of life, 
 that Eustace asked himself those solemn ques- 
 tions, which, standing by a grave, we all of us 
 at some period or other do ask. 
 
 "Am I ready, or willing to die ? do I wish it? 
 to be in the abode of spirits ? No ; the world, 
 against which I rail, is yet dear to me. Too well 
 I love it to dream of fitness for another. My 
 aspirations are heavenward, but my affections 
 walk the earth, and make for my heart soft 
 resting-places below. There is something strange 
 and mournful in this. Next to my beloved Caro- 
 line, Henry was an idol to me, her living 
 portrait. And was it but a seeming? Is the bright 
 shadow gone ? It is : and now to me the image 
 of the distant and living Caroline is nearest to 
 the mind and memory, and fancy paints it more 
 ruly to the eye. Already some confusion is at 
 work on that of Henry: I cannot gather all the 
 features in, or, if I do, the distortion of pain, the 
 pallor of death, and the guessed corruption of 
 the grave, do mar them sadly : but the voice 
 sounds still in mine ear, perfect as I heard it last
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 41 
 
 night in prayer. It is not dead, but it lives now, 
 and utters holy sounds in heavenly places, — "My 
 Henry, my Henry, as yesternight I pray with 
 thee ; " so saying, he fell upon his face, and 
 stretched him on the grave. 
 
 The light in his chamber had died away when 
 he returned there, and all, save where the 
 slanting moonbeam shone, lay in deep gloom 
 and shadow. He had scarcely entered, before 
 the whisper of many voices, and the stealing 
 sound of light footsteps in the garden, startled 
 him. Fearing some treachery, he buckled on his 
 sword, thrust a pistol into his belt, went softly 
 to the geranium trellice, and looking through it, 
 saw a party of six persons cloked, one of whom 
 had a small lantern. They passed slowly 
 down the garden to a door at the further end of 
 it, through which they disappeared. 
 
 The curiosity of Eustace was strongly excited, 
 and he felt something like alarm. Was foul 
 play designed him ? he could hardly think so, 
 after the conversation he had just held with the 
 priest Clemente. His actions, his language, his
 
 42 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 grey and bending head, seemed to forbid such 
 a suspicion : but yet- the Spaniards were ene- 
 mies,* deadly enemies. It might be, the family 
 was quitting the house to leave the field clear 
 for a band of assassins to set on him and his 
 servants : or, did this house conceal armed 
 Spaniards, who were going out to attack some 
 quarter of the troops ? or was there a general 
 rising on foot ? He determined to follow, and 
 watch them at a cautious distance ; and being 
 familiar with the danger and difficulty of such 
 service, from the many night-reconnoissances he 
 had made in the German wars, he moved 
 swiftly after them, and they were still in sight, 
 when he passed out at the garden door. 
 
 For nearly . half a mile they walked rapidly 
 and silently along a narrow lane, which turned 
 and winded between very lofty walls. That 
 these enclosed gardens, you might know from 
 fragrant and spicy odours, which were almost 
 oppressive ; and, here and there, the top of a 
 dark and stately palm rose so high as to be 
 clearly defined against the deep blue sky of
 
 THE SPANISH. BROTHER. 43 
 
 night, and mutely told of the Moor and other 
 times. 
 
 At last they stopped before the doors of a 
 small chapel, and opening them, passed in. 
 These were closed the moment they entered ; 
 but Eustace found that they had not locked or 
 otherwise secured them, as one of the folds 
 stood a little a jar. He paused a while, and 
 then walked slowly round the area, in which the 
 chapel stood, to ascertain that there was no other 
 way by which they could leave the building. 
 
 Under the eastern wall he found two large 
 mules tethered, and busy over a feed of Indian 
 corn which had been spread for them on a 
 brown cloak. Though they had scarce a dry 
 hair upon them, each gave a kick at the in- 
 truder, which, as he came suddenly upon them 
 round the corner, he narrowly escaped ; as also, 
 the worse fortune perhaps of alighting upon 
 their riders : for it was easy to guess that two 
 men, who stole a night visit to the city thus, 
 were no friends to its present occupants. 
 
 This circumstance, however, quickened his 
 curiosity, and increased his caution.
 
 44? THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 He listened at the door of the chapel for 
 several minutes, but heard no voices ; at length, 
 he softly pushed it open, and went in ; all was 
 gloom and silence ; upon the high altar, two 
 large tapers of yellow wax burned dim, and 
 cast their feeble rays upon a melancholy picture 
 of St. Francis in the desert. On either side 
 was a small shrine, and an altar, but no lamp 
 shone upon them. In the body of the chapel, 
 upon a black tomb, kneeled the figure of a 
 warrior, of some three centuries passed away. 
 It was of white marble, sculptured to the very 
 life, and it looked as though it prayed. The 
 huge and heavy sword of other days hung 
 sheathed by the warrior's side also of marble; the 
 hands were clasped together ; the face upraised 
 to heaven; a pale and tremulous lustre fell on 
 or from it ; and Eustace felt awed and solemn 
 in its sad presence. 
 
 Of the persons, however, whom he had dis- 
 tinctly seen enter the chapel, there was not the 
 slightest trace. From the situation of the chapel, 
 he felt quite certain that they could not have 
 quitted it without his knowledge ; and thinking
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 45 
 
 it possible that there was some cave or place of 
 concealment in the chapel, where they held 
 their secret meetings, he resolved to wait 
 quietly till they should reappear.
 
 46 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 " I do not think but all the ashes of 
 
 My ancestors do swell in their dark urns." 
 
 Shirley. 
 
 As thus he stood listening in the middle of the 
 chapel, ready for a quick concealment or re- 
 treat; a murmur, as of a chaunt, broke mournful 
 on his ear. The sound was low and distant ; it 
 seemed to come from behind or beneath the 
 high altar. He went up to it, but could see no 
 door in the chancel. Again, he heard the sound 
 in a direction behind the altar. He felt his 
 way to the back of it, and saw T , as it were in 
 the wall, the glimmer of a distant light : near 
 the chinks through which the light appeared to 
 come, a door yielded to his pressure, and he 
 discovered a long passage, at the end of which 
 stood a lamp upon the stone floor, burning. 
 
 Engaged thus far, he followed on with more 
 of awe but less of anxiety ; for the house and 
 the altar of the Lord, and the chambers of the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 47 
 
 grave, were places that he reverenced; and he 
 could not think that, upon hallowed ground, 
 even the most fierce and vindictive patriot would 
 imbrue his hands in blood. Still less did he 
 fear such fatal issue to his imprudent daring, as 
 he thought upon the mild Clemente, and as a 
 fragment of the mass for the dead, sublime in 
 itself, and doubly so from all circumstance of 
 time and place, came solemn and distinct upon 
 his ear : — 
 
 " Tuba, rnirum spargens sonum 
 Per sepulchra regionum, 
 Coget omnes ante thronum ; 
 Cum resurget creatura 
 (Mors stupebit, et natura) 
 Judicanti responsura." 
 
 There was a something in this solemn pre- 
 sentation to the mind of the final and fearful 
 gathering of all men before their Creator, that 
 made any conceivable situation of earthly peril 
 a nothing; further, indeed, than as it might, by 
 a suddenly-inflicted death, shorten for him the 
 time of preparation : but surely it were scarce 
 possible for any men to turn from chaunting 
 over the dead to slay the living. For himself,
 
 48 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 it seemed as if his sword and pistol were no 
 longer needed, no longer a defence ; for he 
 resolved, come what might, to endure it, even 
 death itself, should it be his appointed lot, and 
 to pass out of life, guiltless at least of shedding 
 blood in such a consecrated spot at such a 
 moment. The loneliness of the place, the 
 lateness of the hour, the concealment, evidently 
 desired by the parties, shed over these obsequies 
 a mysterious charm, and to resist the impulse 
 he felt to be an eye-witness of them was im- 
 possible. 
 
 At the end of the passage, a long and narrow 
 flight of steps led downwards; he descended 
 softly ; at the bottom there hung a heavy curtain 
 of brown leather, and pulling it in part aside, 
 the funereal group, with sunk heads, all absorbed 
 in their melancholy duty, or stood or kneeled 
 before him. 
 
 Never in the past life of Eustace had he 
 looked upon a picture of more touching and im- 
 pressive interest. The chapel in this crypt was 
 larger, though not so lofty as that above ; pillars 
 of black marble, and of red porphyry, gave it a
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 49 
 
 severe and gloomy character; a figure of the 
 world's Redeemer, hanging on the cross, in 
 white marble, and executed in a sad severe 
 taste, was the sole adornment of this subter- 
 raneous chapel, and was placed above the altar. 
 Upon the chequered pavement in the nave were 
 spread out two oblong pieces of black cloth, 
 side by side, as though they covered grave- 
 stones ; on either hand stood three Augustine 
 monks, in the gloomy habits of their order, with 
 large tapers lighted in their hands. 
 
 At the head of these pageant graves kneeled 
 a lady of most noble presence, and by her side 
 a younger (self as it were), so like to her mother 
 was the pale and lovely girl, whose dark eyes 
 gazed unlustrous upon vacancy. 
 
 Two youthful men, in the garb of peasants, 
 but with the features, forms, and grace of gentle 
 birth, kneeled also there; and, dividing them 
 from the two females, stood Father Clemente, a 
 thin and stooping figure, with a few grey hairs 
 on his fine forehead, and his benevolent eyes 
 raised in sad yet confiding supplication, 
 
 E
 
 50 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 At the bottom were an aged man and woman, 
 and a young girl, apparently domestics, not 
 simply on their knees, but bending low and 
 forward almost in prostration; from the girl 
 burst sobs, the older moaned ; but from the 
 lady and her daughter, the noble youths, and 
 Father Clemente, came not a sound, not even a 
 sigh. The marble ancestor who kneeled upon 
 the tomb above, was scarce a piece of stiller life 
 than they ; so motionless, so melancholy their 
 aspect. The sad and sallow monks sung the 
 deep strain with varying tones, now solemn and 
 sepulchral, now tremulous and feeble. Eustace, 
 concealed by the shadow of a large pillar close 
 to the curtain, gazed and listened with emotions 
 of intense anxiety. He rightly guessed that these 
 were the obsequies of Don Juan de Velasco and 
 his youngest son, and that the family of Velasco 
 kneeled before him ; and he doubted not, from 
 a very strong resemblance to the Donna and her 
 daughter, that one of these youths was the only 
 surviving son of Velasco, and the present repre- 
 sentative of his afflicted house.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 51 
 
 In the sanctus which followed, all rose and 
 joined in singing the Hosanna in excelsis, with 
 the most fervent expression ; their upraised 
 eyes seemed to look through death with a strong 
 and rejoicing faith, and almost to contemplate 
 the promised glories. 
 
 At the close of these rejoicing Hosannas, 
 again all humbly knelt, and Father Clemente, 
 in the accents of believing love, preferred the 
 last petitions, with which this most affecting 
 service concludes, beginning with, " Agnus Dei, 
 qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem ;" — 
 " Requiescant i?ipace," were the last soft words. 
 The deep Amen, the beaten bosoms, and the 
 slow and mournful rising up, marked impres- 
 sively the end of this solemnity. 
 
 The heart of Eustace was full of his departed 
 Henry ; a multitude of thoughts crowded on 
 his mind; distant persons and scenes came 
 fleeting up and past, as if to be taken leave of 
 for ever ; melancholy presages for the future 
 oppressed him ; it was no present, no immediate 
 danger that disturbed him ; but he was pos- 
 sessed with a notion that this requiem was a 
 e 2
 
 52 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 call, a warning, an announcement of coming 
 sorrow or of early death. 
 
 He was already about to retire, when he was 
 arrested by a voice of loud lament, and the 
 sound of fervent vows of vengeance, and of 
 frantic imprecations on France and Frenchmen. 
 
 " My noble father," cried the youth, whom 
 he had more especially remarked : " My noble 
 father and my boy brother, where are they ? 
 Where do they rest in peace ? where are their 
 bones ? Not here, not in the vault of their fore- 
 fathers, not crimsoned and buried in their life- 
 blood on any battle-field, not bleaching on 
 any well- won or well-defended mountain ; but 
 heaped with insult into some common pit dug 
 for a company of murdered outcasts ; nay not 
 outcasts; not the meanest of Madrid's coarse 
 rabble, but death in such goodly company 
 stamped honour on his name and memory for 
 ever. 
 
 " Spirit of my father, hear," and he drew his 
 gleamy sword, and pointed it to the vaulted 
 roof, to claim the witnessing of Heaven ; but, 
 ere he could give utterance to the vow for which
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 53 
 
 his heart was ready, there came hurrying down 
 the passage a scared figure of a peasant without 
 hat or cloak, with a hush upon his lip, and the 
 hoarse and hasty whispers, " Los inimigos, Los 
 inimigos ; machos ; cavalleria ; vienen ; vienen ; 
 aqui, aqui." * 
 
 How impotent is the " I will " of man ! 
 
 The faintness, as of despair, fell for a brief 
 moment over the spirit of young Velasco, and 
 was then as suddenly succeeded by the fierceness 
 of a resolute desperation. He would go up and 
 cut his way through the enemy ; but, when the 
 peasant told him that they had already seized 
 the mules, already filled the convent close by, 
 and were fast filling the chapel above, as by 
 this time he might plainly hear, his perplexity, 
 as well as that of the w r hole party, was extreme. 
 
 It was suggested by Father Clemente, who 
 was the calmest and most collected among 
 
 * The few words here and there given in Spanish and 
 other languages are such as most readers will translate at a 
 glance, and are designed (whether well or ill judged) to stamp 
 a verity on the scenes. 
 
 E 3
 
 54 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 them, that if they remained perfectly quiet and 
 patient where they were, it was highly probable 
 that their retreat would never be discovered, as 
 the troops might only halt there for a few hours, 
 or, at the farthest, a day. 
 
 This proposition was well received by all, 
 save him whose presence they were ignorant of, 
 and the difficulty and danger of whose situation 
 was not only greatly increased by this untoward 
 event, but who was embarrassed perhaps still 
 more by the thought, that at the dawn of day 
 he might be wanted for duty, and found absent 
 from his post. 
 
 Eustace had it in his power indeed to gain 
 the passage, and running up it to the door 
 behind the altar, to alarm the soldiers within 
 the chapel above, and secure his own release ; 
 but this he could not do without the chance 
 betrayal of the pitied and unhappy family before 
 him. 
 
 He could not answer for his authority over 
 the violent and lawless marauders of a corps, 
 of which he might have no personal knowledge, 
 and over whom, therefore, especially in the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 55 
 
 tumult of a night arrival, he could promise 
 himself little influence. 
 
 It still wanted, by his reckoning, about two 
 hours to the break of day. He decided, there- 
 fore, to stay patiently in the concealed position 
 which he had chosen till it was day, and then, 
 by seasonably presenting himself to the troops 
 above, effect the threefold object of his own 
 release, the secure departure of young Velasco 
 and his friend, and the safe return of the Lady 
 Cassilda and her household to their house of 
 sorrow. 
 
 The little party kneeled, lay, or sate about, 
 according to their respective frames of mind; 
 some in silent, some in whispered devotions, 
 some wrapt in thought, some in low-breathed 
 converse with the person next them. The Lady 
 de Velasco and Father Clemente kneeled before 
 the high altar ; Leonora and her brother half 
 lay, half leaned, reclining against a pillar, their 
 hands locked together in all that sweet anxiety 
 which fondness for an endeared object in danger 
 shared together, so naturally begets. 
 
 Eustace, apart and alone, stood breathless 
 e 4
 
 56 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 and still. To persons thus situated, the move- 
 ment of time is painfully slow. Sounds from 
 above, loud but confused, gave continual inter- 
 ruption, and, to some of the party, continual 
 alarm; while others sullenly muttered out " De- 
 monios" at every noise they heard from that 
 quarter, especially when it seemed, as it did 
 often, that of revelry and laughter.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 57 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 " Order me on, 'mid the whistling fiery shot, 
 
 Over the Rhine stream rapid and roaring wide, 
 A third of the troop must go to pot; 
 
 Without loss of time I mount and ride ; 
 But farther I beg very much, do you see, 
 That in all things else you would leave me free." 
 
 Wallensxein. 
 
 The scene above had already undergone that 
 common change, which the presence of the 
 wicked and the wanton soon effect in church or 
 chapel, palace or cottage, wherever, in fact, for a 
 brief breathing-time, victorious troops are suf- 
 fered to repose. 
 
 The soldiers, whose sudden arrival has been 
 related, belonged to a corps of hussars, just 
 brought in from the advanced posts, for a day 
 or two of refreshment in the city. 
 
 A convent near had been allotted as quarters, 
 and this chapel also had fallen into their lines, 
 as a convenient and snug post for a detached 
 troop.
 
 58 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Relief from out-post duty, rest, and above all, 
 rest in such a city as Cordova, with the prospect 
 of a bellyful of good rations, and a skinful of 
 any wine, or of aqua ardente, set the spirits of 
 the soldiers wildly afloat. 
 
 The chapel, through the still solemnity of 
 which Eustace had passed with such a heart- 
 throbbing awe at midnight, was already de- 
 secrated. 
 
 Upon the head of the noble kneeling statue 
 was stuck a hussar cap, cocked knowingly on 
 one side, while the joined and uplifted hands, 
 and the hilt of the marble sword, performed the 
 office of pegs for the pelisse and sabre of a noisy 
 order-giving, curse-uttering marechal de logis. 
 
 The young officer in charge of the troop had 
 taken possession of the high altar ; and, to re- 
 lieve the gloominess of the chancel, had lighted 
 all the holy candles, and enlivened the sombre 
 and pale visage of St. Francis with a pair of 
 black and bushy mustachioes. This last im- 
 provement he very simply effected by the aid of 
 a burnt stick, which the large fire, blazing 
 before the door of the chapel, furnished to his
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 59 
 
 acquainted and well-skilled hand. With the 
 same rude pencil he had already scrawled upon 
 the white walls, on either side, the number of 
 his regiment, the words Austerlitz and Jena 9 and 
 his favourite motto, " Le premier qui fut roi, 
 Jilt un soldat lieureux" also, his own hopeful 
 name and rank, not forgetting the Membre de 
 la Legion d'Ho?ineur. 
 
 With his temporary salle a manger, thus 
 decorated and embellished, he sat down at the 
 altar to a smoked sausage of Estramadura, and 
 some olives of Seville, plundered from a 
 muleteer that morning, with infinite relish and 
 appetite. 
 
 Horses without, and men within, were slum- 
 bering in the grey light of morning, when 
 Eustace escaped unseen from the crypt up the 
 the passage, to the door at the back of the 
 altar, which had been closed by the fugitive 
 peasant, and which was now, in answer to his 
 knock and bidding, almost immediately burst 
 open by the alert and wondering hussars. 
 
 Happily he was instantly recognised both by 
 the men and their officer ; and, being known
 
 60 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 and respected as an able and gallant soldier, he 
 had little difficulty in accounting for his own 
 appearance at such a place, and under such 
 circumstances, ascribing the whole to accidental 
 curiosity. He also secured their promise to 
 respect the feelings of the parties below, whom 
 he stated to have been engaged in celebrating a 
 midnight mass over the grave of some friend or 
 relative in the crypt beneath. 
 
 It was not quite so easy, however, to com- 
 municate this assurance of safety to the parties 
 below, in such a manner as to inspire con- 
 fidence, or with such caution, as might prevent, 
 on the part of young Velasco and the men 
 (under the notion that they were discovered, 
 and had no other hope), a brave defence, and a 
 despairing resistance. 
 
 To none other than himself would he entrust 
 this delicate service, and, taking a torch from 
 one of the hussars, he led the way down the 
 passage. He wished to descend alone, but this 
 they would not hear of; they followed close to 
 his heels, to his infinite annoyance, jesting and 
 laughing, and full of curiosity. It was in vain
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 61 
 
 he enjoined silence : the irrepressible spirits of 
 the young officer, by whom any adventure was 
 welcomed naturally enough, were not to be 
 restrained ; and he gave them vent in singing 
 out a snatch from a favourite song, which he 
 thought most happily applied to himself; 
 
 " Bon pour la guerre, 
 Bon pour ma chere, 
 Brave sabreur, 
 Joli danseur." 
 
 Thus loudly he sung, and literally danced his 
 way after Eustace, till sternly stopped by the 
 discharge of a pistol, the ball of which whizzed 
 close past his head, and the report of which, 
 in the narrow and vaulted passage, was loud 
 and stunning as the thunder of a cannon. Young 
 Velasco, in fact, the very moment he saw lights 
 and armed men approaching, had determined 
 to defend to the last the narrow entrance to the 
 crypt, and to fall with, if he could not defend, 
 his mother and Leonora ; over his body should 
 be the path of the enemy. 
 
 It was well for him, and for all the party, 
 that the calm and intrepid Eustace was at the
 
 62 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 head of these hot soldiers. There is in some 
 men a power, as of magic, in the very tone 
 of their voice: they speak, and are obeyed; 
 their authority is confessedly and at once ac- 
 knowledged. Thus was it with De Rochfort ; 
 at once, in Spanish and in French, he com- 
 manded " Silence ! " and cried " Peace ! " He 
 explained briefly to Father Clemente, his in- 
 tention and object, and stated, that for the quiet 
 conduct of the soldiers, ' he would be answer- 
 able. He treated the discharge of the pistol, as 
 the timid blunder of a frightened peasant, and, 
 so explaining it to the hussars, suppressed their 
 rising resentment : but he fixed his dark grave 
 eyes on young Velasco, with an expression of 
 clear intelligence, and even admiration, which 
 the youthful noble could not misunderstand, 
 especially when he added, " Give me your 
 pistol, peasant; it has luckily done no harm, 
 beyond the wounding of my old forage-cap," 
 which, in fact, it had blown from the head of 
 Eustace ; " and now, friends, follow me." 
 
 The soldiers faced about, and the Spaniards 
 walking softly, thankfully, and not a little
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 63 
 
 astonished, after Eustace, regained the chapel 
 above ; scarce observed the desecration of it ; 
 and passed out of the door in a close and 
 hurrying groupe, the monks, close cowled, 
 bustling to be soonest out of the danger; and 
 Velasco, his pride a little startled and softened, 
 with a sheltering motion for them, following im- 
 mediately behind the veiled women slow and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 Eustace had the satisfaction of seeing Father 
 Clemente literally force young Velasco and 
 his friend in one direction, while the good 
 Father took another with the family ; and the 
 black monks glided, with the rapidity of shadows, 
 down a narrow lane behind the Convent wall, 
 and were the first to disappear. For awhile 
 he paused, happy in the peaceful end of an 
 adventure, which might have been productive 
 of fatal consequences alike to himself and 
 others, and with a heart full of quiet thank- 
 fulness returned slowly to his quarter. 
 
 The Lady Cassilda, and Father Clemente, 
 were not a little puzzled at the part borne in 
 this adventure by their guest.
 
 64 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 They could not but suspect strongly that it 
 was he who had caused them to be watched, 
 and followed, and had finally surprised them in 
 the chapel. Yet, how to reconcile this with his 
 brave and generous bearing, they knew not. It 
 was strange ; to Leonora, it was passing strange : 
 the very moment, in the midst of their deadly 
 apprehensions at the tumultuous approach of 
 the soldiers, the very moment she heard the 
 voice of Eustace, she felt as safe as if an 
 angel's voice had spoken down out of heaven 
 words of supernatural power and deliverance ; 
 and she had ventured to look in his face, as he 
 addressed her brother, and read, as though it 
 had been written, all that ihe expression of his 
 countenance conveyed. 
 
 Poor Leonora ! she went away alone into 
 her chamber, and to her prayers. " Love your 
 enemies : " " do good to them that hate you," — 
 these had been precepts imprinted on her 
 heart as a child, by Father Clemente. She 
 thought of these words, to excuse and justify 
 her feeling; but it seemed not that they were 
 any help to her, — they did not even apply: this
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 65 
 
 Frenchman appeared not the enemy of any 
 human being: the passion of hate was mean, 
 and below him : to admire him, seemed only to 
 admire virtue in a noble personification of it. 
 
 Poor Leonora ! she sat alone in her chamber, 
 and forgot her country's cause ; and forgot — 
 no, she did not forget, she mourned over — the 
 war. For her slain father, for her murdered 
 play-fellow, for her mother and her brother she 
 mourned : and the dying countenance of the 
 young Frenchman, the night of the assault, rose 
 up before her ; and for him, too, she mourned, 
 and for those who loved him ; for this enemy, 
 this stranger : and then her heart sickened, as 
 with fear, and with a dread of sin, and she 
 kneeled down before the picture of the Virgin, 
 and called upon her as the mother of grief and 
 pity to help her troubled heart. 
 
 At what strange moments of our lives, under 
 what strange and contradictory circumstances, 
 amid what frowning difficulties and forbidding 
 sorrows, this love, this plant of Paradise, which 
 has survived the desolation of Eden, and which 
 buds and blossoms even in this wilderness of 
 
 F
 
 66 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 tears, will take root in the human heart ! Yet, 
 who, in the wide world, let me ask, who was 
 ever found to shut the heart against love ? It 
 matters not when it comes, or whence, — it is 
 welcomed. Where pure, it is a dove, the likest 
 of any thing upon earth to that holy One, which 
 can alone expel it from the bosom, where it has 
 once made its soft nest. Neither is it less 
 welcomed, because it cometh terrified and sick, 
 faint, and with a broken wing: — it is still a 
 dove : bears with it a branch of promise ; a 
 peace, not a perfect peace, but still a peace. 
 
 It may seem wonderful, that a hopeless love 
 should thus be welcomed; yet, so it is : although 
 it soundeth with its wail the presage of its 
 sorrows, clear as the prelude of a dirge or a 
 requiem. 
 
 When the great drama of any individual 
 life is to be a tragedy, it openeth the scene. 
 
 Such was the love that Leonora welcomed ; 
 such the feeling with which she welcomed it. 
 The springs of her thought and will lay deep 
 within her, — her own, — no eye might see 
 them : — she might love, purely, innocently
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 67 
 
 love ; and none reproach her, — for none could 
 know it ; — the pleasure of her love would 
 keep her still : — 
 
 " Sufficient to itself its own reward." 
 
 She gave up the struggle ; she rose from her 
 perplexed and distracted prayers. " It can be 
 no crime," said she, " to love this man ; I will 
 never tell my love ; it is not likely that such an 
 one as I am should ever attract his eye ; or if 
 I did, he never, never could be mine : still, in my 
 heart's depth, I may hide his image, treasure up 
 his voice, and gaze upon the one, and listen to 
 the other, when none are nigh. Her mind took 
 in the prospect of the future in all its cheerless- 
 ness : yet did this only confirm her in her sad 
 love ; its very purity confirmed her in it. The 
 Spanish female is no fluttering coquette, like her 
 of France ; and, unhappily, receives not in early 
 youth that restraining discipline, that tender 
 care, that full and free instruction, which 
 strengthens the female character in England. 
 Neither is the daily life in Spain so employed, 
 so diversified, as at any time to impart, still less, 
 when lost, to restore, health to the mind. 
 f 2
 
 68 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Religion in Spain has a character in all its 
 observances, which does rather solemnize than 
 soothe; superstition, with its raven wings, 
 broods over the whole land. Even Leonora 
 herself, though preserved from its most deadly 
 and withering influences by parents and a con- 
 fessor, who, for Spaniards and Catholics, were 
 singularly enlightened and tolerant, had not 
 entirely escaped that melancholy of devotion, 
 which too frequently oppresses the conscience 
 with gloom, and overshades the cheek of youth 
 with care and sorrow, which depresses, in fact, 
 while it is the end of true religion to cheer. 
 
 Leonora, the mourning, but proud and 
 patriotic, daughter of the noble and w r idowed 
 Lady Cassilda, was subdued back again into the 
 gentle, the pensive, the woman. 
 
 Eustace de Rochfort, conscious of having 
 done a duty by the unhappy family of Velasco, 
 and exhausted both in body and mind by the 
 scenes he had witnessed, and the feelings which 
 he had experienced during the last two nights, 
 learned with no common pleasure from the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 69 
 
 orders of the day, that he might devote it to 
 rest without fear of interruption. 
 
 The blessing of sleep came upon all beneath 
 that roof, even upon the agitated Leonora, and, 
 throughout a long and burning day of June, 
 the silence and repose of a welcome rest en- 
 folded in their still and sweet embrace alike the 
 wretched and the happy, — if any could be called 
 happy in that household of care and sorrow. 
 
 Eustace was the most happy — nay, he was 
 so; for, in his sweetest sleep, the image of 
 Caroline de la Bourdonnaye came and smiled 
 on him, — spoke to him, — took his hand, — and 
 pressed it to her heart, — and he felt it beat. The 
 colour of life and love was on her blushing 
 cheek; the sound of her voice was that very 
 tone which he knew to be the heart-music she 
 poured out on him, and him alone. 
 
 What mystery, what magic mingles with our 
 dreams ! They are heaven-sent visions ; their 
 joys, their terrors real; we see, we hear, we feel, 
 w T e laugh, we weep. 
 
 That dream was a leave of absence to Eustace, 
 — an interview with her whom he loved; and 
 p 3
 
 70 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 though, when he awoke, there was at first a 
 sigh, — still it had been sent in mercy, had done 
 its work of kindness on him, renewed his hopes 
 of earthly bliss, and opened a fair vista through 
 the clouds about his path. 
 
 Ah ! — "qu'il est doux d'aimer, et d'etre aime" !"
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 71 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 " The 'miserere' in responsive strains." 
 
 A few days after the capture of the city, when 
 the people began to feel some confidence in the 
 assurance that they might go about their daily 
 occupations without being molested, the bell 
 of the cathedral tolled out " Las animas /' and 
 every church and chapel in Cordova had a 
 written notice, above the basin of holy water, that 
 the day would be devoted specially to the relief of 
 the souls in purgatory. 
 
 It was a sad and solemn sight to see the whole 
 population gliding through the narrow and lofty 
 streets in mournful silence; the black mantilla 
 held close over the face of every female, and 
 the men, with cloak wrapped high above the 
 lips, and the sombrero pressed down over every 
 brow, and only showing the flashes of their dark 
 eyes in shadow. 
 
 F 4
 
 72 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 For the first time the ladies Velasco went 
 forth ; and, as he saw them pass, Eustace was 
 affected not a little by their appearance. They 
 wore grey penitential dresses that swept the 
 ground, and so effectually concealed both face 
 and figure, that he could not distinguish between 
 mother and daughter. 
 
 They passed him in the porch, and returned 
 his respectful salutation gracefully, without utter- 
 ing a word. 
 
 The Father Clemente, in his cassock and 
 cloak, accompanied them ; and his thin pale face, 
 strangely lost under the long, low, broad- 
 brimmed hat of the clergy, smiled on Eustace 
 with a benevolent but melancholy expression. 
 
 It said, as plain as a look could speak, " I 
 am in perfect charity with you, but what a 
 cruel miserable thing this war is : look at this 
 widow and this fatherless daughter, — and see 
 these penitential dresses ; we are going to pray 
 for the dead ; — these deaths, this desolation are 
 the work of your master." 
 
 Eustace bowed to him, and shame mantled 
 his cheek, and he turned aside his head in
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 7$ 
 
 trouble. He would at that moment have given 
 all his decorations to have been out of Spain. 
 
 His favourite resort daily had been the noble 
 alameda near the cathedral. The spacious 
 garden here, of a beauty peculiar to the south 
 of Europe, was the pride not only of the good 
 citizens of Cordova, but of all Andalusia. 
 
 Orange-trees of the largest size, thick with 
 their green and shining leaves, and rich with 
 their golden fruit ; cypresses black and monu- 
 mental ; and the palm of Africa feathery and 
 graceful with bent and drooping head, gave a 
 character to the spot of luxuriant beauty and of 
 impressive interest. The wide cool portico 
 that on three sides surrounded this large patio 
 seemed built for meditation, to which the mur- 
 muring waters of three marble fountains, as they 
 swelled and overflowed the patera which 
 crowned them, and fell into the capacious vase 
 beneath, did ever most soothingly invite. 
 
 Here, seated under a palm near the central 
 fountain, Eustace had sought a diversion of his 
 grief for Henry, by taking faithful sketches of 
 the Mezquita for his dear Caroline. Here he
 
 74? THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 had mused away many hours ; he had minutely 
 examined the wonderful interior of that strange 
 building, pacing about its numerous naves and 
 amid its forest of pillars, which, like a grove of 
 saplings, are set thickly in the form of the 
 quincunx all over this singular but encumbered 
 temple. These are of height unequal, — capitals 
 and bases monstrous and thick, — shafts slender 
 and even diminutive, but formed of every 
 coloured marble which the quarries of Grenada, 
 Murcia, and even Africa could furnish ; and 
 they force upon the gazer, — as he treads upon 
 mosaic pavement, looks up into the magnificent 
 cupola, and sees all about inscriptions in 
 Arabic from the Koran, — the memory of the 
 proud day of Abderaman ; and furnish to his 
 fancy the vision of a throng in turbans of as 
 many tints as the marble pillars, more appro- 
 priately filling up the scene than its present 
 black and silent worshippers. 
 
 Not only were such associations beguiling to 
 the mind of Eustace, but he had before him 
 upon the shrines, and above the altars, some of 
 the most exquisite productions of Spain's best
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 75 
 
 school of painting; and these had power to wrap 
 his spirit in a far deeper delight. 
 
 Instead of the cry of the muezzin, summoning 
 the faithful from the lofty minaret, there was 
 now heard a heavy and deep bell, that seemed 
 to knock at every heart in Cordova. Instead 
 of the golden and silver pomegranates, which, 
 glittering from its dome, guided the glad Mus- 
 sulmans as they threaded the narrow and wind- 
 ing streets; the huge cross surmounting it in 
 these days, and now hung with black in memory 
 of their recent losses, gave signal to the ap- 
 proaching traveller, ere he entered the gates, 
 that the city he was about to visit was no longer 
 the merry Cordova. 
 
 Eustace answered the iron summons, and 
 wandered slowly towards the cathedral ; he w r as 
 curious to see the congregation of mourners ; 
 he wanted to hear their voices. 
 
 It was with a gentle tread, with head bending, 
 with sword carefully upheld, and with a hand 
 pressed for breathlessness upon his heart, that 
 he entered the grand doors, whose enormous 
 leaves of brass were to-day thrown open.
 
 76 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Although he dipped not his hand in the basin 
 of holy water, and made no sign, yet the few 
 Spaniards near gave him a look, as it were of 
 thanks, for his quiet and grave deportment. 
 Not so looked they on a large groupe of French 
 officers, who came in soon after, each dipping 
 his orthodox finger in the basin, and making 
 the sign of the cross on his forehead with in- 
 fldel indifference. They proceeded up the great 
 nave with a stamping, and clank, and clatter, 
 which made the whole congregation to shrink 
 and shudder as one man, and to bow lower un- 
 der a sense of the insult, as though it were a 
 new infliction, and a very severe humiliation. 
 
 The object, however, of these insolent victors, 
 which was to get a sight of the beauties of 
 Cordova, was sadly disappointed; for aU the 
 women were closely mantled : — the dark eyes 
 of men alone turned, pursued, glared on them. 
 From altar, from stall, and from a kneeling 
 people, eyes, that looked not as eyes should 
 look in a church, rolled over their forms in 
 haughtiness and hate ; and somewhat discon- 
 certed by their position, they soon went away.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 77 
 
 Eustace, and here and there a like-minded fo- 
 reigner, remained. A respect for his worship 
 will always go far to soften the heart of a 
 Spaniard, and, indeed, of any man : this, and 
 nothing but this, enabled them to tolerate the 
 presence of a French uniform, especially on 
 such an occasion: — a day, which brought before 
 every eye the scarce-buried dead, — a service, 
 in which the gloomy fancy of the Papist follows 
 the shadowy forms of those he loves into a state 
 of suffering, fearful and undefined, — a state, 
 over which the master-craft of priestdom en- 
 courages him to believe his prayers, and alms, 
 and services on earth, have power. 
 
 And oh ! where it is believed, what power it 
 must, and will ever exercise ; and how sweet the 
 consolation to the fatherless, and the widowed, 
 the childless, and the bereaved of friend or 
 love, to keep up a fond and constant intercourse 
 with the unseen world, by the pious and tender 
 agency of solemn and daily intercession for 
 their souls ! 
 
 The scene before him made a deep im- 
 pression upon Eustace; two hours elapsed be-
 
 78 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 fore he could tear himself away, and he left the 
 mourning multitude upon their knees. So many- 
 females wore the penitential dress, that he 
 could not distinguish the ladies Velasco. 
 
 He would have been pleased that they should 
 have seen him at that service; he had felt for 
 them deeply : as a man, he had felt ; as a 
 Christian, his prayers had mingled with theirs. 
 In all common cases, "to be, and not to seem,' , 
 was his noble motto ; but when he thought of 
 himself as an individual of that host which 
 was afflicting and desolating their land, — more 
 especially, when the sad and severe bereave- 
 ment of the Lady Velasco presented itself to his 
 thoughts, — he did most earnestly desire to 
 stand in the sight of herself and family innocent 
 of blood. Moreover, he deemed it probable that 
 the sympathy of any one, even of an enemy, 
 would be soothing to their afflicted spirits. 
 
 The whole of that melancholy day, was 
 occupied in the same mournful services; the 
 cathedral was never empty : the people went 
 away and came again many times ; and, at the 
 hour of sunset, a vast congregation again
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 79 
 
 assembled to put up those prayers which are 
 only offered in seasons of great public calamity. 
 This service is styled the " Rogativa." 
 
 As Eustace was walking in the portico of the 
 Alameda, he observed the people again flocking 
 to the cathedral as in the morning; again he 
 followed them. As he was entering the door, a 
 pale deacon rattled in his ear a small tin box, 
 and holding up a lantern, on the t glass of 
 which was painted a naked figure struggling in 
 the flames of purgatory, called on him to re- 
 member " the souls," — " the friendless souls." 
 Never did he feel a more deep and shuddering 
 conviction of the impiety of this doctrine than 
 was conveyed by this appeal. The simple 
 words of it, — " the friendless souls." 
 
 In the morning he had been impressed with 
 a reverential awe to see a people praying for 
 those whom they had loved and lost; but this 
 appeal — " the frien dless souls," — this image, a 
 spirit in the region of spirits, having left on 
 earth no relative, no connexion, no friend, that 
 might have quitted a poor body in a dungeon, 
 in the desert, on the great waters ; that might
 
 80 THE LADY OF CORDOVA,* OR, 
 
 have perished in the fire, the earthquake, or the 
 plague, without any witness of its separation 
 from this world, or any that cared for it when 
 in the body; an immortal spirit in the world of 
 spirits, dependent for its release from excru- 
 ciating pains and tormenting fires upon the 
 copper coins of this world's cold charity, was 
 an idea that seemed at once to insult the reason, 
 and to wound the heart. 
 
 He pushed aside the box, the rattle of which 
 was like that of a chain. Such, indeed, it was, 
 
 — for no chain heavier than that which it binds 
 about the minds and consciences of a priest- 
 ridden population ; and, hurrying ungently past 
 the deacon, he entered again the great door of 
 the cathedral. 
 
 A gloom of the deepest shadowed every 
 object in that vast building. The tall candles 
 upon the high altar; the lamps that hung in 
 the lateral chapels, with here and there a solitary 
 taper burning in misty dimness before the shrine 
 of a saint, gave indeed a light, but it was sickly, 
 
 — worse than darkness. It was such a light 
 as that by which one would expect to meet wan
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 81 
 
 ghosts ; as that, by which is made visible upon 
 the gate of hell this sad inscription : 
 
 " Hope never enters here. 
 
 Nor was the sight presented sadder than the 
 sound ; in voices subdued, hollow, and plaintive, 
 a choir of hooded priests chaunted forth the 
 penitential psalms, and afterwards a solemn 
 litany, and then an imploring invocation to all 
 the saints. As each of these was named, from 
 ali present burst the " Or a pro nobis" This 
 prayerful response was mingled with sighs and 
 sobbings, with beatings of the breast, and 
 bowings down of the head. 
 
 It was indeed a service of terror and of tears, 
 and Eustace felt pity at the scene. It smote 
 him to the heart, humbled him to the dust with 
 a sense of his happier privileges, so little prized 
 by him in comparison of their worth, and the 
 unspeakable blessings they conferred. The 
 spiritual bondage of these unhappy mourners 
 deeply affected him ; he could not stay out the 
 service, but went forth with his heart and his 
 mind both full, and paced on the Alameda 
 alone. 
 
 G
 
 82 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Eustace De Rochfort had been educated in 
 the persuasion of his father, under a pastor of 
 solid character, and of strong and cheerful piety. 
 He had been instructed, both by word and 
 example, to cherish the free comforting influence 
 of a life-giving and a life-preserving faith in the 
 love and mercy of God, as manifested in a pro- 
 vided Atonement, a pure Example, a promised 
 Spirit. In this spirit, amid all the chances and 
 changes of his active life, he had clung to the 
 cross of his Redeemer. It was his hope, his 
 joy, and bore him up under the oppressive sense 
 of the sin and infirmity of his nature, the weak- 
 ness and the idolatry of his heart. 
 
 Let it not seem strange that such an one 
 should be found in the ranks of an army of 
 devastating conquerors. Eustace had been 
 drawn for the military service as a conscript ; 
 his father was too poor to provide a substitute 
 at the time, nor would he allow any effort to 
 be made to set him free; sooner or later he 
 knew he should be compelled to depart. He 
 had a vigorous frame, a manly heart, and cheer- 
 ful spirits ; he put a good face upon his fortunes,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 83 
 
 and made the best of them. He was brave, 
 intelligent, enterprising; of a character frank 
 and engaging ; he was soon distinguished, and 
 soon promoted. 
 
 During the wars of Italy and Germany, he 
 had been constandy on active service ; but amid 
 the noise of war, the remembered voices of his 
 parents and his pastor were dear to him : they 
 talked with him when alone, and in the silent 
 night, and the Bible they had given him was 
 always his treasured manual. * 
 
 They did not wonder "much, the stern dra- 
 goons, who looked in upon the death-bed of 
 Henry de la Bourdonnaye, to see De Rochfort 
 on his knees. They knew him strict and just 
 in quarters, brave and steady in the field ; and 
 they knew, as old soldiers always do, that 
 
 " A sad wise valour is the brave complexion 
 That leads the van, and swallows up the cities." 
 
 Eustace had never, till he entered Spain, 
 
 * Those to whom some authority for such invention may be 
 useful, will find it in the particular account given of Drouot, 
 general of the famous artillery of the imperial guard under 
 Napoleon. — Vide Baron Odeleben's Saxon Campaign. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR 
 
 quarrelled with his profession. He had grieved 
 over melancholy scenes in the various theatres 
 of war in which he had been employed ; but he 
 had always considered himself as contending for 
 the interests of France. He had believed that all 
 Europe sought her downfall, and that Napoleon 
 was the only man to save her ; that the hap- 
 piness and glory of France were his aim ; and, 
 regarding him as an able and intrepid genius, 
 a foe to bigotry and priestcraft, and as a pro- 
 tector of the civil and religious rights of his 
 Protestant subjects, he had long served with 
 heart as well as hand. 
 
 But the eyes of Eustace were now opened. He 
 saw that he was in the ranks of an ambitious 
 usurper ; that the eagle once so honoured, was 
 fierce and cruel in its clutch; that it had be- 
 come a vulture, flapping its stained wings over 
 fields of carnage and desolation with a horrid 
 joy. His pride, as a soldier of France, was gone. 
 He had been strangely moved by the scene he 
 had just quitted, and was endeavouring to find 
 comfort in the reflection that good might come 
 out of evil; that liberty might take root in
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 85 
 
 Spain; that her people, roused to resist an 
 usurper, might become enamoured of freedom ; 
 that the chilling despotism of the Spanish crown^ 
 and the withering influence of the Popish system, 
 might be shaken, if not destroyed. 
 
 As Eustace sate that evening in his chamber, 
 with his book and lamp before him, he was 
 visited by Father Clemente. 
 
 " Ah ! Senhor," said the venerable man, 
 " here is the secret ; it is from this blessed 
 volume that you have learned mercy." 
 
 " Yes, Father," said Eustace, " and truth. I 
 have learned that there are no 'friendless souls' 
 lying in torment." 
 
 " Hush, my son ; truth in this unhappy land 
 does only whisper ; truth is the pearl we prize 
 and treasure in our closets." So saying, he 
 touched a spring in the wall, which, opening, 
 discovered a secret closet : he took down from 
 the shelves the works of Luther, and the Com- 
 mentary on the Gospels, by Pasquier Quesnel, 
 with something like a feeling of shame that he 
 should seem so timid for the truth. There were 
 G 3
 
 86 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 various other prohibited books of piety on the 
 shelves. 
 
 " Senhor," he added, " you see and under- 
 stand our bondage ; the power, the tyranny of 
 our church ; she has driven numbers of her 
 clergy into a cold and infidel hypocrisy, num- 
 bers into gloomy and superstitious ascetics ; a 
 few, and a very few, have, by God's grace, made 
 their way through the rubbish which has been 
 heaped on the great corner-stone, and have laid 
 their sure foundation there ; but they are too 
 few to hazard, in a country like this, any effort 
 at reform. The times are in the hands of 
 Omnipotence andWisdom; and as to our people, 
 although they sin ignorantly in their super- 
 stitions, although they build much hay, wood, 
 and stubble on the foundation-stone, yet, hold- 
 ing it, they shall find mercy, and be saved \ as 
 by fire,' as thousands and thousands of their 
 fathers have been. For myself, I shall live and 
 die within the visible walls of my own church ; 
 but I well know that there is an invisible church, 
 of which I trust we are both members, whose
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 87 
 
 walls are not made with hands, but which abide 
 in strength and beauty for ever." 
 
 Thus spoke Clemente in the spirit of a 
 Fenelon, and Eustace grasped his hand at parting 
 with that pressure which conveys the heart's 
 warm and true sympathy. 
 
 c 4-
 
 88 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 " Ev'n thus life's rushing tide 
 
 Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
 
 Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void place 
 
 Filled up so soon!" 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 How soon the coarse calls of life bring back 
 again the common daily scene ! Their injuries 
 had sunk deep into the hearts of the inhabitants 
 of Cordova: of such, as felt their country's 
 wrongs ; of such, as mourned over gaps made 
 in their families and kindred ; of such, as stood 
 bereaved and despoiled of their little household 
 treasures ; of such, as had survived insult and 
 humiliation; of such, as loved those altars of 
 their religion, which the plunderer had pillaged, 
 and the scoffer had profaned. But, if even 
 with these there is an inclination to look about,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 89 
 
 and forward, rather tharfto dwell upon the past ; 
 if even these are glad to bury their dead out of 
 sight; to wash up the blood; to whiten the 
 stained wall ; to repair the broken door ; to 
 gather up the unspoiled fragments, and to save 
 out of the wreck of their little matters all that 
 may yet remain; if, even with these, it is 
 naturally so, much more is it the case with the 
 selfish, the sensual, and those who, on such an 
 occasion only, are not the slothful; for these 
 last want to escape from all reflections upon 
 death and suffering, from all contemplation of 
 past misery, from all thought of the future; they 
 want to hurry back to their personal ease, their 
 old daily habits, their full meals, their full cups; 
 their music, song, jest ; their wanton kissings ; 
 and they soon contrive it all : for, as the labourer 
 and the vine-dresser must again go to field and 
 vineyard ; as the vintner again hangs out that 
 bush, which he thought his good wine did not 
 need on the day of the assault ; as the barber 
 again hangs out his basin, that he may shave 
 away the beard of grief, and trim the musta- 
 chioes of recovered vanity; as sellers must
 
 90 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 bring provisions to market, and buyers must go 
 there ; and all this to obtain a living, to carry 
 on life, to get money to — die with ; why thus, 
 by degrees, all things come round again. The 
 glasses of the Valencian again tinkle upon the 
 shady Alameda, " Limonada" " Limonada .*" 
 " Qiiien bebe P " are again the welcome cries. 
 The girls go forth to the fountains for water, as 
 they were wont, at first frightened, then bolder, 
 at last confident ; and, if they were mincing in 
 their gait before, soon mincing again. The 
 Donnas come forth to mass, at first tapada, * 
 and with long garments, but soon again with 
 fan and dressed feet : again the itinerant 
 musician strikes his crazy guitar, and defends, 
 to the reproaching eye, his humble and idle 
 calling, with the old, wise, and undisputed 
 proverb : — 
 
 " Quien canta sus males espanta." 
 " A merry lay, drives care away." 
 
 It was even thus in Cordova : few guitars, in- 
 deed, were taken down from the wall, except by 
 
 * Muffled up.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 91 
 
 Frenchmen ; not a rattle of the castanets, that 
 sounded Spanish ; few ladies walked upon the 
 Alameda, though the dark eyes of some spark- 
 led through the lattices of their dwellings, on 
 the more youthful and handsome of the French 
 officers ; while, to do justice to the girls in 
 humbler life, not one adorned her glossy hair 
 with rose or pink, and few returned even a look, 
 as they passed, to the " Viva senhora" of the 
 lively Frenchman. Some, however, there were 
 of both classes, who, beneath the veil of night, 
 when no eye was on them, but the sleepless one 
 above, could play the false, and the faithless, to 
 the gallant dead, and to the vows of the brave 
 and the absent ; living for them in camps ; facing 
 for them, death; winning for them, laurels. 
 
 I speak not of such love as Leonora's ; but of 
 that passion, which usurps the name, and finds 
 the fittest portrait of its wantonness in the mad 
 and miserable Bacchante. It is no love — has 
 no true object; 'tis not the throbbing of the 
 heart — it is the beating of the blood. It would 
 shrink from its own Adonis, if pale and bleeding, 
 lacerated and dying, without there were still
 
 92 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 beauty in him; then, when the heart of true 
 love would, if it could, break its own bosom's 
 barrier, to embrace the sufferer more closely, 
 to fasten on its fellow heart, and mingle those 
 soft, those sighful swellings, which have in 
 them a language all apart from this our earth. 
 Can the grave destroy this ? Methinks, a some- 
 thing like the throbbing of a heart shall belong to 
 us for ever ! 
 
 But, here below, such hearts as idolize the 
 creature, are almost always broken : first broken, 
 then healed, and forgiven. Idolatry is man's 
 great sin : he is ever prone to it ; and the 
 idolatry of love is the most obstinate, the most 
 difficult of cure, the likest to a virtue ; and so 
 do we find it sternly dealt with. In pity thus 
 it is — a hidden mercy. Alas ! for Leonora. 
 
 After the night spoken of above, Eustace, by 
 request, paid the family a daily visit, generally 
 in the evening. He did not stay long : he said 
 but little : he could not but fear that the very 
 sight of his uniform would give pain to the lady 
 Velasco. What little conversation he addressed 
 to the ladies was always to the lady Cassilda.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 93 
 
 He never forced in the broad expressions of his 
 sympathy for them ; he let it appear in every 
 tone, in every look, in every gesture, — in the 
 manner in which he entered their apartment, 
 and that in which he rose to leave. 
 
 He had seen a great deal of life as it is, and 
 especially of that misery and those sorrows with 
 which all theatres of war unhappily abound. 
 He knew melancholy and affecting anecdotes; 
 and by the relation of them he stole away a 
 something from the weight and pressure of their 
 own sufferings, in awakening their sympathy for 
 others. He showed that the bitter cup goes 
 round, and that this world is in very deed to 
 multitudes a vale of tears. Religion was ever 
 with Eustace a theme for the inmost closet of his 
 secret meditations : his shrine and altar were in 
 his own bosom ; but here, it seemed, no other 
 were the links between them, than a common 
 mourning, and a common consolation, and so 
 he spoke out of his heart's fulness; — and the 
 heart's fulness, when it finds a voice, is always 
 listened to. Indeed they all listened to him. 
 
 She would sit, the lady Cassilda, with the
 
 94? THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 hand of Leonora locked in her own, her long, 
 dark eye-lashes fringed with dropping tears, — 
 tears which, as they fell upon her arm, Leonora 
 kissed quietly away. It was to Eustace a getting 
 above this noisy and polluted earth, and resting 
 for a while near heaven, to sit and look upon, and 
 listen to, and sigh with these sweet mourners ; 
 to hear Clemente's tones of mercy, and to see 
 the individuals of the small household pass in 
 and out with looks of quiet satisfaction, making 
 the long and permitted pause to catch the drop- 
 ped words of comfort and of peace. 
 
 There was a character of beauty, both in 
 mother and daughter, peculiar, hallowed. 
 
 The lady Cassilda did not appear to be more 
 than forty years of age; her features were noble, 
 her eyes large, and very black; there was no 
 fire, — no pride in them; their expression was 
 meekness, — not a timid meekness, — no, she 
 could have stood unshrinking by her husband's 
 side upon the perilous breach ; — she could have 
 stood over his dead body, and have defended 
 the dear possession against naked swords ; — 
 but, to have lost him as she had, quite, — and her
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 95 
 
 fond and favourite boy, — so suddenly, — so 
 sadly, — so totally, — not a remnant of them left 
 to her, — no comfort of last words, last looks, 
 or final parting, had struck her down. She 
 seldom raised her eyes at all ; veiled by their 
 lids of beauty, they gazed upon the ground : — 
 she was tall, her complexion pale, the nose 
 straight and prominent, the forehead broad, 
 not a lock of hair to be seen, — a band or fillet 
 of white linen was bound about her temples ; — 
 her arched eyebrows seemed as though a weight 
 was on them; — her lips were bloodless and 
 pensive. Her robe was black, and the large 
 black mantilla, which she always wore, covered 
 the top of her head, and fell in loose folds upon 
 her shoulders. She looked widowed; she looked 
 as though she were dressed ready for her grave. 
 Her daughter Leonora was the image of her 
 mother in features, — her cheek as pale, — her 
 eyes as melancholy, but less meek, — her black 
 hair, silken and luxuriant, was parted away from 
 a white forehead, that looked the chosen seat of 
 pure and generous thoughts, and was bound 
 lightly at the back of a fine-formed head in a
 
 96 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 simple Grecian knot. The ruby redness of her 
 well-cut lips told that she had the health and 
 blood of youth, which last indeed would at times 
 in sudden and faint glows tinge her fair cheek ; 
 her form was slight, but had the gentle fulness 
 of true and graceful proportion. Her black 
 dress was relieved by a stomacher and kerchief 
 of plain white lace ; her long sleeve concealed 
 her arm, and the vandyked bottom of her dress 
 fell upon her very instep. Her hand pressing 
 her dear mother's in affection, her eyes looking 
 up with watchful love to those of her mother, 
 she seemed like some lovely personification of 
 youthful pity consoling afflicted virtue. 
 
 " You might not dream of evil, seeing her." 
 
 The whole household had in their aspect a 
 something that partook of and increased the 
 interest. Theresa was an old grey-headed 
 housekeeper, wrinkled with age, — but hers was 
 the old age of a kindly life, — made much of, 
 confided in, and making much of all Velascos, 
 — a little care-w r orn with recent sorrows and 
 terrors, but still compassionate in look and 
 voice.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 97 
 
 Jacintha was a plump round lass, with brown 
 cheek and bright eyes ; sunburned with happy 
 bare-headed runnings in the garden and the 
 vineyard ; whose castanets had never lain silent 
 a day in her young life till this war, and these 
 deaths and battles ; who had shed floods of 
 tears since these things, but ever as exhausted 
 nature dried them looked, she could not help 
 it, pretty and in bloom. 
 
 The head of Anselmo, who had been a tall 
 fine man in his day, was quite bald, except a 
 few hairs behind and at the sides, of a black 
 gray, and his shoulders were bent with fifty 
 years of faithful service. Anselmo had lived in 
 his master's life, and was still wondering at his 
 death. To have outlived Velasco was to him to 
 live in a new world : he was bewildered, lost, 
 not knowing what to do, or think, or say. 
 Strange uniforms, and strong men in them, 
 moving all about Cordova, puzzled his old 
 brain. An enemy in the very house, that spoke 
 Spanish, called him " Amigo" called him " An- 
 selmo," and spoke kind and quiet — he could not 
 make it out ; it had calmed and subdued him 
 
 H
 
 98 iiir LADY OF CORDON I : OR, 
 
 wonderfully — it seemed mastic. The Father 
 Clemente told him it was God's good providence 
 and mercy. 
 
 Pauses in war's work so soft so SWeel as thlS 
 
 to such a spirit as IV Roch fort's are not 
 common, and thev last not ton?*
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. &9 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 Like the v.-indS bla.st ; r.ever renting. horseless. 
 
 WaLLEXSIEIX. 
 
 In the middle of one of those black nights of 
 
 the loud and pouring rain that come with 
 summer tempests. Leonora awoke from the 
 and kindest sleep which she had for mam- 
 weeks enjoyed, and. as she thought, heard a 
 sound like the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the 
 pavement beneath her window. She rose and 
 hurried to the lattice. Notwithstanding the rain 
 and the darkness, she caught the gleam of a 
 brazen helmet, and could just discern a tall 
 figure, wrapped in a cloak, mount slowlv on 
 horseback, and ride quietly away. Not a sound, 
 but the heavy dioppings of the de: _.:._ rain. 
 and the dull dead trample of the horse, as it 
 walked slow into the thicker darkness. Leonora 
 was faint with suspicions and fears of the truth. 
 h 2
 
 100 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 She took her lamp, and went into the corridor. 
 Here she met Father Clemen te. " They are 
 gone," said he ; " the enemy have marched : 
 they are all gone away in the direction of 
 Andujar. God grant, they may never return 
 but as prisoners ! Dupont is at his last shifts ; 
 and some of the patriots will be in to-morrow." 
 
 " You bade the Senhor farewell, Father ? " 
 said Leonora with a tone of timid inquiry. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure I did : he is a worthy man ; 
 he is too good to be among these ruffian 
 marauders." 
 
 " Did he say any thing, Father ?" 
 
 " No : what should he ? Nothing but an 
 adios to the Lady Cassilda, and the same with 
 a shake of the hand to myself. He was a good 
 man, and a Christian man, and I hope God will 
 preserve him." 
 
 " I hope he will, Father. Good night; it 
 is very chill." She hurried back into her 
 chamber, and threw herself into a chair, faint 
 and cold. He was gone, then — this strange 
 enemy gone ; she should see him no more ; the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 101 
 
 danger was past, and the pleasure, alas, too ; — 
 he was gone ! 
 
 Confessingly she poured out her grief and 
 humiliation for having so far sinned as to listen 
 to and look upon him with interest. Resolutely 
 she determined to begin a new life on the 
 morrow, to be a new person, and to think about 
 nothing but Spain and freedom ; to work for 
 the patriots, talk for them, beg for them, pray 
 for them ; to visit all such in the city, as, during 
 the stay of the French, had suffered loss or 
 insult from them ; to be regular in her visits to 
 the great hospital ; and to attend the Te Deum 
 of the morrow with her firmest and proudest 
 looks. 
 
 In the family of Velasco, owing to the en- 
 lightened views of Clemente, they read the 
 Holy Scriptures, and they were taught to build 
 on the one true foundation. But in Spain the 
 outward acts of worship are so artfully multi- 
 plied, that they form the great business of life. 
 The observance of these they dared not re- 
 nounce. No wonder, then, that all, in the 
 worship of their church, which could in any 
 H 3
 
 102 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 way be quietly yielded to or explained, which 
 could help or aid their devotion, soothe or 
 satisfy the mind, was welcome both to Lady 
 Cassilda and her daughter. Tender and 
 imaginative, they did not kneel before the 
 shrine of the Virgin without reverence. They 
 deemed of her as one that had been holy, and 
 alone among women ; as one that had been 
 honoured before all virgins, and blessed above 
 all mothers. In their services for the dead, too, 
 although they had been relieved from the hor- 
 rible fear that those whom they had loved were 
 subject to the flames of purgatory, they believed 
 them to be in the abode of departed spirits. 
 They felt, therefore, in these services, that they 
 held a kind of intercourse with the dead, and 
 mingled prayers together with them for the 
 consummation of all things, and the fulness of 
 their joy. 
 
 These persuasions broke for them in a manner 
 the weight of that yoke, otherwise insupportable, 
 which their vigilant and tyrannic church im- 
 posed.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 103 
 
 They were as frequent before shrines as any 
 of the blindest zealots in Cordova; but their 
 faith looked above and beyond them. 
 
 Thus it was to Leonora a comfort that me- 
 lancholy night to kneel before a picture of the 
 Virgin which hung over the crucifix in her 
 chamber. It was a masterpiece of Murillo's, 
 and the genius of the painter had transfused into 
 it all that was soft and tender and com- 
 passionate in the beauty of woman. It had 
 been a favourite picture of her father's, and 
 she remembered, on the festal morning of her 
 sixteenth birthday, it being brought in to her 
 as a gift, all garlanded with flowers, and hung 
 up there, whence it now looked down mer- 
 cifully upon her : and she remembered how, on 
 that morning of happiness, her father had kissed 
 her forehead, and poured out a blessing on her 
 young head. Her dear father, — no, he was not 
 forgotten : the void left bv his death was not, 
 and would not ever again be filled up to her. 
 She had loved him, doted on him, as a father. 
 She would, if she could, have revenged him. 
 
 She mourned him, and she did hate herself that 
 H 4
 
 104 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 any sight or sound or thought connected with 
 France and Frenchmen could give her comfort 
 or complacency so soon after his loss ; so early 
 in her sorrow, and so criminal, as it seemed, 
 amid the cruel wrongs of her bleeding and in- 
 sulted country. 
 
 Leonora could not sleep : strong in her new 
 resolves, and fancying herself free, she could 
 not indeed say happy, but yet fortunate in that 
 the great tempter of her soul was baffled by 
 these providential orderings, she threw herself 
 on her bed, and thought away the night. 
 
 The sun broke brightly out upon the towers 
 of Cordova, and not a bell of convent, church, 
 or chapel in all the city, but it rung out cheerily 
 as on the glad morning of a festival. 
 
 Once more all the citizens poured out into 
 the streets and plazas, and those open spaces 
 before church doors, and every one found a 
 voice. The passionate, who had held their 
 breath, now cursed out with their hoarsest 
 aspirations. The timid, who had ^stayed in 
 corners with their fear, and, when forced abroad, 
 had hurried through the streets with eyes upon
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 105 
 
 the ground, now looked up again, and laughed 
 out aloud. The true patriots, who had been 
 fow awhile silent and depressed, now met each 
 other with eyes lighted by noble hopes, and 
 were full of news, and opinions, and plans for 
 action. The aged and devout came with clasped 
 rosaries and eyes of gratitude to the shrines of 
 their patron saints. The girls of humble rank 
 stepped to and fro without mantillas, a blush- 
 ing rose or bright carnation in their shining 
 hair ; and ladies, who had been wont to gather 
 the mantilla close about their faces, let it fall 
 wide, and looked out again lovely and fearless. 
 
 High mass in the Mezquita, — in every chapel 
 mass of thanksgiving; and all priests, all monks, 
 all mendicants of Cordova again busy in the 
 sun. 
 
 Through a scene like this passed all the 
 household of Velasco to the cathedral. It was 
 a comfort to Leonora that she might walk close 
 veiled ; the recent losses in her family allowed 
 of such a mark of mourning, which, but for 
 this, had been considered, in this moment of the 
 joyous ebullition of public feeling, as a treason :
 
 106 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 indeed, joy hushed itself for a brief minute 
 wherever they passed, and the first words uttered 
 after they went by, were curses upon the base 
 murderers of Don Juan and his boy, and pro- 
 mises to revenge the wrong in the blood of 
 Frenchmen. 
 
 These curses and threats were heard by 
 Leonora : she tottered on, and was almost 
 happy when she found herself on her knees in 
 the cold shadow of the gloomy cathedral. Here 
 she might sigh ; here, throughout the whole of 
 the festive service, she did sigh. 
 
 The pealing organ, and the voices of praise, 
 which in the Gloria in excelsis had so often 
 made her heart swell with joy, and with an 
 affection which she had deemed heavenly in its 
 birth, fell now upon her ear with all the weight 
 of mournfulness, and filled her eyes with tears. 
 
 She came out with her mother at the close of 
 the service, with a conscience more burthened 
 than she had ever felt it. Poor Leonora ! the 
 measure of her anguish w r as not yet full. 
 
 They were suddenly checked upon the steps 
 in front of the great door, by the loud shouts
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 107 
 
 and noisy cries of a fierce mob hurrying up the 
 Alameda. 
 
 At their very feet, close hunted, the exhausted 
 object of pursuit, a solitary French soldier, who 
 was making for the sanctuary, sunk breathless 
 down. Swift feet were near him, the hands of 
 blood upon him ; some twenty knives gave each 
 a death, and the hot slayers lifted their red 
 blades and smeared hands with a loud Gratia s 
 a Dio, and went into the Mezquita to say a 
 paternoster, tinging the holy water with the 
 colour of their fierce revenge. 
 
 'Twas all sudden as the bursting of a clap of 
 thunder, and to Leonora it seemed some horrid 
 vision, the dread phantom of a dream : — she 
 stood astonied, was pushed aside by the eager 
 crowd, and fell faint and motionless at her 
 mother's feet. 
 
 Could woman, with yet one drop of Heaven's 
 pity in her heart, look on such a deed un- 
 moved ? — They came — women — from off their 
 knees, and stood exulting and kindling above the 
 dead; and some of the lowest classes among 
 them drew out the stilettoes stuck concealed in
 
 108 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 their garters, and struck them with savage 
 gestures into the breathless body, as though 
 they would hunt the precious life even beyond 
 the confines of this miserable world. 
 
 Leonora was carried home by some of the 
 crowd, with mingled feelings of compassion and 
 contempt. They thought a daughter of Velasco 
 had been made of sterner stuff: from her and 
 the Lady Cassilda they had looked for pale 
 smiles of satisfied revenge ; but the noble widow 
 had turned shuddering from the sight. The 
 cry of the unhappy victim, his last words, 
 " for the love of God, mercy ! mercy ! " and 
 the strong men, and the quick stabs that stifled 
 that vain appeal, sunk deep into her Christian 
 heart, and made themselves a sad place in her 
 memory for ever. 
 
 She had called aloud to spare him, unheard, 
 unheeded : — he had died many deaths before 
 she could repeat her prayer.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 109 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 The wretched are the faithful. — Byron. 
 
 "Who was it?" said Leonora, as,' lying on 
 her bed, she first recognized her mother and 
 Clemente. " Whom did they kill ? He had a 
 helmet like the Senhor Eustatio." 
 
 " It was a private dragoon of that regiment, 
 my dear, a prisoner taken from their rear guard, 
 and forced by the mob of the city from the pro- 
 tection of his escort." 
 
 " It is a horrid thing this war, Father." 
 
 He heaved a sigh of assent, and bade her lie 
 quiet and silent. 
 
 She did, and strove to sleep, but in vain : the 
 image of this massacred man, his haggard dread, 
 his hair falling wild, his helmet rolling at her 
 feet, possessed her, and her heart's fears were 
 busy with all the possibilities of mishap, and 
 misery, and death, that lay around the path of 
 Eustace.
 
 110 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 She could not dismiss him from her mind ; 
 it seemed a duty, and, alas ! it was a delight, to 
 think of him, fear for him, pray for him. 
 
 There was a mercy accorded to Leonora in 
 this her melancholy state. She fell sick : she 
 was for many weeks confined not only to her 
 chamber, but to her bed. 
 
 She was contented in her spirit to feel that 
 helplessness of body, and that corresponding 
 weakness of the mind, which is all unequal to 
 the labour of grief; that nighness to the grave, 
 that chance of death, which gives relief to the 
 wretched. 
 
 If there is pain upon a sick bed, and aching, 
 and if there are wakeful watches in the night, 
 still there is the serenity of silence ; joy may not 
 burst in upon you with noise and laughter to 
 disturb sad thoughts. There is the half-closed 
 shutter by day, the dim and shadowed lamp by 
 night. There is the soft tread of every one 
 that comes near you, and the whispered com- 
 fort, and the fond pressure of the kind hand, 
 and the frequent blessing; the hours and 
 hours of that most sweetly social silence, when
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. Ill 
 
 the dear invalid is watched in stillness and in 
 love ; and it was in love that the Lady Cassilda, 
 and Clemente, and every one beneath the roof 
 did in their several turns and relations visit and 
 watch, soothe and serve, the hapless Leonora. 
 
 It w 7 as an atmosphere of affection : she lay 
 a grateful receiver of the mercy ; she had felt 
 w r eary of the world, — of that world from which 
 this illness was now sheltering her ; that world of 
 shouts and blood as she last saw it, when sin, 
 and misery, and death acted their dark triumph 
 on those sunny steps, up which through her 
 young life she had been wont to go happy to her 
 prayers, and to drop her alms, and a soft word 
 with them, to the sick and lame, who knew her ; 
 that world,' where names and nations interfered 
 between heart and heart — where she might 
 love virtue, but not the virtuous, if kings said 
 nay — though the King of kings fashioneth all 
 hearts alike. 
 
 She would think, as she lay wakeful in the 
 night, of that country where all nations and 
 kindreds and tongues of the redeemed are to 
 meet, — of that large bright city, where all who
 
 112 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 enter are fellow-citizens for ever, —where there 
 is no marrying or giving in marriage, — where 
 all are as the angels of God. 
 
 In such moods she contemplated, with some- 
 thing like a hope or wish, the probability of 
 death. Poor girl ! she did not know herself; 
 she did not know the strength of the sentiment 
 which had taken root in her young bosom ; — it 
 burned on in secret, the door of her heart close 
 shut upon it : it was consuming all within ; but, 
 as it blazed not forth, there was no one to see 
 the ruin, or hurry to her succour. 
 
 She was just strong enough in her convales- 
 cence to bear the trial, when the news of the 
 surrender of the French army at Baylen reached 
 Cordova. The loud pealing of bells, the firing 
 of salutes, the acclamations that rent the air 
 almost incessantly throughout a long July day, 
 penetrated even to her pillow. Clemente told 
 her the news, and added that victory was almost 
 bloodless; and it was all to the tender and 
 Christian disposition of Leonora that he attri- 
 buted the kind of nervous and tearful gratitude
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 113 
 
 with which she listened to this part of his com- 
 munication. 
 
 The people, in their glad delirium, thought 
 that this blow was the final decisive triumph, 
 and that the war was already at an end. 
 
 They kissed each other in the public streets ; 
 they sang, they capered, they snapped their 
 fingers. The old and the ugly came in for 
 their share of honest smacks from the thick lips 
 of unwashed artificers, and were dragged out 
 near the bonfires, to jump clumsy boleros, and 
 scream out stunning seguidillas. The guitars 
 were not touched lightly, as by lovers, but their 
 strings were rudely and unmusically clashed by 
 the hot and hurried hand of vulgar rejoicing. 
 Whole wine-skins were emptied ; and groups 
 of muleteers, as dark as Moors, lay about lazy 
 and happy, and shouting to the dancers, who 
 rattled their castanets like mad, and roared out 
 love and patriotism together in rude couplets 
 readily improvised for the occasion. 
 
 The more substantial citizens had feasts in all 
 the principal houses, with all the priests, whether 
 fat or lean, for their guests, and sate noisy round 
 i
 
 J 14 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 the huge jar of brandy, drinking brimmers to 
 the memory of the Cid, to Fernando Septimo, 
 and all valorosos Espanoles. While, later in the 
 evening, in all the tertullias, there was as much 
 romping and laughing as in a Seville passage- 
 boat. 
 
 Leonora, too, lay peaceful on her pillow, 
 thankful to be alone and still with her thoughts, 
 and began to experience pleasure in the feelings 
 of convalescence, and the prospect of recovery ; 
 and perhaps her treacherous heart ran away for 
 moments into the future and the possible ; — the 
 possible. France and Spain had been in strict 
 alliance often, and might be again. 
 
 When she was again able to leave her cham- 
 ber, and move quietly about the house, she 
 sought an early opportunity to visit the apart- 
 ment which had been occupied by De Rochfort, 
 alone. 
 
 Strange thing the human heart! — the fond- 
 ness and the folly of its love, — giving itself to 
 sorrow, and always turning down to earth. The 
 creature love, " how strong it strikes the sense!" 
 
 It was with a panting heart, and a soft thrill
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 115 
 
 of pleasure, she opened the door of that room, 
 where, for a few days only, that stranger had 
 sojourned. 
 
 How gently she trode all about it, as if it was 
 a chapel ! — how earnestly and intently she gazed 
 on every thing in that chamber, — the heavy 
 table, the tall chairs, the carved press, the Mexi- 
 can cabinet, the pictures especially! — There were 
 two fine portraits by Velasquez ; in armour one, 
 bareheaded, and of noble presence; the other a 
 lad}', with the smile of beauty : on either side of 
 these hung two fine rich flower-pieces, by Zur- 
 buran ; and yet all these things she had known 
 from her childhood in this same chamber, — here 
 in slender girlhood had rattled her first pair of 
 castanets till the whole house rung with her 
 merriment. Yes; but the eyes which had lately 
 looked on them had left a new colouring on 
 every object: they were new in their relation, — 
 a link between her mind and the absent. There 
 was a light on them that soothed and charmed 
 her: — she should come and sit there often; — it 
 was a pleasanter room than she had ever thought 
 i 2
 
 116 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 it, — it opened on the garden, too, — it was the 
 very place for a convalescent. 
 
 As Leonora thus decided, something caught 
 her quick eye beneath the cabinet; something 
 that glittered : a slanting sunbeam rested on it ; 
 she stooped down, and drew out a small minia- 
 ture with a broken riband attached to it. 
 
 She had been forced to go upon her knees to 
 get her arm under the cabinet, and she had no 
 sooner cast her eyes upon the portrait in her 
 hand, than she sunk down there, where she was 
 upon the ground, and it was long before she had 
 strength to rise again. 
 
 The picture was that of a fair, fond-looking 
 girl, with a loving smile in her deep blue eyes, 
 and an expression of sweet content about a 
 pleasing mouth. In graceful unstudied curls 
 her light hair fell about, as though just shaken 
 off from her white forehead and cheeks of soft 
 carnation, to show them better. A comb, 
 adorned with pearls, confined the rich profusion 
 of her waving locks behind; a row of pearls 
 hung low upon her neck, and lay upon her 
 whiter bosom, that seemed to swell happy, as
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 117 
 
 though just filling with a pure permitted love, 
 on which Heaven smiled, and to which Hope 
 whispered. Alas for Leonora ! her eyes grew 
 dim, her heart faint, her head sick. She let it 
 fall from her hand, and leaned, where she lay, 
 against the foot of the cabinet. A long time she 
 lay thus, and when she did recover again, she 
 seized the miniature, and more closely ex- 
 amined it. Never in any dream of angels had 
 she pictured to herself a face more lovely. 
 "White was the tasteful dress ; a scarf of the very 
 palest blue was thrown negligently over one 
 shoulder ; one fair arm of rounded beauty was 
 resting on a balustrade, the other was half 
 raised and bent, and the little hand hung playful 
 and pretty, holding the large white gauntlet 
 glove of a warrior, surely that of Eustace. 
 Upon the back of the miniature, round the 
 enamelled edge of a locket, in which was a lock 
 of light hair braided, was engraved, — " Caroline 
 de la Bourdonnaye, the betrothed of Eustace de 
 Rochfort." 
 
 She hid it in her bosom, and returned 
 trembling to her chamber. 
 1 3
 
 118 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Queen of every moving measure, 
 Sweetest source of purest pleasure, 
 Music I why thy powers employ 
 Only for the sons of joy? — Jos. Warton. 
 
 Time does not exactly set all things right ; but 
 nevertheless time sheds over all scenes of sorrow 
 a hue of softer colouring, so that we can bear 
 to look upon them again. 
 
 Once more Father Clemente took his cus- 
 tomary walks in the direction of the chapel ; in 
 so far as he could, repaired the damage and 
 desecration, restored the decent appearance of 
 the altar, cleaned the picture of St. Francis, 
 and whitewashed the walls, which had been 
 defaced in every way that idleness and ignorance, 
 dulness and indecency could devise. But the 
 fine kneeling statue was coarsely mutilated 
 past repair; the nose broken off, the arms lay 
 blackened in a corner, with the hands still 
 pressed together palm to palm, as though the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 119 
 
 spoiler had spurned their silent and solemn 
 petitioning. This statue had been executed at 
 Naples two centuries before, was a beautiful spe- 
 cimen of art, and was, for many reasons, greatly 
 endeared to Clemente. He was attached to the 
 house of De Velasco, and the child of association. 
 It had been the silent witness of many of his 
 acts of prayer and praise ; it was the ghostly- 
 looking image that had secured to him at night- 
 fall the still hour of lonely worship, and scared 
 away, by its white chill presence, such idle 
 strangers as put their heads in meaning to 
 patter their Ave, but crossed themselves at the 
 very threshold, and went forth again. He sighed 
 over this marble toy ; but for his comfort, the 
 organ, on which he had loved to play, was 
 uninjured. It owed its preservation to some 
 gentle being, who had pencilled on it this record 
 of his human feelings : — 
 
 Music ! Child of love divine, 
 Descend to tliis thy hallow'd shrine ; 
 Wake thy softest melody, 
 And help my heavy heart to sigh. 
 
 I 4
 
 120 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 I hate the trumpet's haughty tone, 
 The victor shout, the vanquish'd groan, 
 The widow's wail, the virgin's cry, 
 The old man's curse, the orphan's sigh. 
 
 Music ! Child of love divine, 
 Descend to this thy hallow'd shrine ; 
 Wake thy kindest melody, 
 And help my heavy heart to sigh. 
 
 A Conscript. 
 
 To think of such a spirit among the tents of 
 Kedar, drew from the old man an exclamation 
 of praise to God, and blessing on the writer's 
 head. 
 
 It was not long before the good Father again 
 summoned Pedro, the deaf old Sacristan, his 
 patient bellowsman, again betook himself daily 
 to his accustomed post, and poured out his full 
 heart in psalms, and hymns, and thoughtful 
 voluntaries. No human witness of his song he 
 needed ; in solitary lays he poured out the 
 aspirations of his heart, and communed quietly 
 in peace and joy with Heaven. 
 
 Music had from her earliest years been the 
 delight of Leonora. She, too, could play upon 
 the organ, and was one of the very few ladies,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 121 
 
 if not the only one in Cordova, who possessed 
 a harp and a piano : still the guitar was her 
 favourite instrument ; it blended with her love 
 of country, and with all her household affec- 
 tions ; it was played without effort, at any 
 moment taken up, and touched to help the 
 sweet murmur of a voice soft as the sigh of 
 love. 
 
 She had long, however, discontinued the use 
 of her guitar : never, since the war began, had 
 she struck a single chord: but as Clemente 
 told how he had found the organ in the chapel 
 safe, and repeated to them the lines pencilled 
 on the instrument, and spoke of the unnatural 
 separation in this world between spirits clearly 
 kindred, and spoke of the sweet pleasure he 
 had in sympathising with this poor exile from 
 his own country, serving as an unwilling enemy 
 in theirs, while he sate playing alone, Leonora 
 caught quick at the promised comfort, and went 
 out to look for her guitar. Clemente did not 
 remotely suspect the war in her young bosom : 
 he thought that the late losses in the family, the 
 sorrows of her mother, the wrongs and afflictions
 
 122 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 of her country were enough to make her sad ; 
 to shake to their very foundations those airy 
 castles, which youth, by the aid of hope and 
 fancy, will always build, and to lift her desires 
 from earth to heaven. He had observed of late 
 with joy, that she was more earnest in her 
 enquiries, more serious in her petitions for the 
 true and only peace. He feared lest she should 
 fall into a gloomy and severe disposition, and 
 he was not sorry to see her go for her instru- 
 ment. " It will do her good," said he to Lady 
 Cassilda, " and you too; it will do us all 
 good." 
 
 Her guitar hung in the chamber which had 
 been occupied by Eustace : she sighed as she 
 took it down from the wall, and started as she 
 observed a paper beneath the strings. She 
 eagerly seized it, and read these lines written in 
 pencil : — 
 
 Lady, wake thy lute again, 
 
 Wake it to some hallow'd measure ; 
 Sweet the solace, pure the pleasure, — 
 
 Lady, wake thy lute again. 
 
 Music, gentle nurse of grief, 
 Gives trie swelling heart relief;
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 123 
 
 Music soothes despairing woe, 
 
 Makes the frozen tear to flow : 
 
 " Peace, and Goodwill," those words of love, 
 
 Came breathed in music from above : 
 
 Murmur'd low in plaintive air, 
 
 Music is the voice of prayer. 
 
 Lady, wake thy lute again, 
 
 Wake it to some hallow'd measure ; 
 Sweet the solace, pure the pleasure, — 
 
 Lady, wake thy lute again. 
 
 When Leonora had recovered from the sweet 
 surprise of finding another relic, and such an 
 one, of their departed enemy, she returned to 
 her mother and Clemente. The miniature she 
 had never shown to either ; it was to her as a 
 rival, and her secret would assuredly have been 
 betrayed. These lines she did show, and Father 
 Clemente immediately pronounced the hand- 
 writing to be the same with that which had 
 pencilled the lines before given on the organ. 
 The good Father, whose delicate ear was not 
 quite satisfied with these lines, observed that it 
 was evident the soldier was not accustomed to 
 write verse; but he would forgive the want of 
 poetry and harmony for sake of the peaceful
 
 124- THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 thoughts, and promised, when Spain should be 
 again free, to set them both to music in honour 
 of this enemy. 
 
 " And now, my dear child," said the old man, 
 " sins us that sweet air with the words of Luis 
 Gonzora, which is my favourite, or rather was, 
 for I scarce thought to have heard it again." 
 
 Leonora strung and tuned her guitar silently, 
 and dropping on it many tears. 
 
 The notes of her instrument, as at her touch 
 they awoke from their long slumber, pierced her 
 poor heart with the memory of the dead. Her 
 frame and her voice both trembled, as, with a 
 tone tender as the divine compassion and in- 
 viting mercy of which it sung, she breathed 
 forth the sacred air, 
 
 " Oveja perdida ven." 
 
 " Come, wandering sheep, O come ! 
 I'll bind thee to my breast ; 
 I'll bear thee to thy home, 
 
 And lay thee down to rest." * 
 
 The soft and repeated burthen of " Oveja 
 perdida ven" she gave in so true, so touching 
 
 * Spanish Romances, translated by John Bowring, Esq.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 125 
 
 a manner, that her mother's tears flowed freely, 
 and Clemente sat still, with clasped hands and 
 closed eyes, long after she had ceased ; and 
 silence fell kind upon them all.
 
 126 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 • We still have slept together, 
 
 Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together ; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
 Still we went coupled, and inseparable. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 As thus they sat, lost in those thoughts which 
 are known only to Heaven, and which in their 
 very nature partake of prayer, they were sur- 
 prised by the noise of an arrival at their door. 
 To the cautious and slow utterance of " Who 
 is there?" by old Anselmo, the " gente depaz" 
 was given back in a sweet and well-known voice, 
 and in a moment Miranda Garcias, the dearest 
 friend of Leonora, was fondly folded in her arms. 
 She was accompanied by her uncle, a veteran 
 officer, whose loss of sight and impaired health 
 had incapacitated him from serving; and who, 
 sick of the distractions and tumults of the theatre 
 of war, had determined to seek an asylum 
 in the south, till the enemy should be driven
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 127 
 
 out of Spain. Don Christoval Garcias, though 
 his senior by many years, had been the com- 
 panion in arms and the valued friend of De 
 Velasco. The nurse of young Miranda and a 
 gray-headed old black domestic of the Don's 
 led the old gentleman up stairs. Before, how- 
 ever, he had mounted half of them, the fair 
 girl was again by his side, and they entered the 
 apartment together. The Lady De Velasco 
 was much affected, at first, but gave them a 
 most cordial welcome. She loved and re- 
 spected Don Christoval, and, after her own 
 Leonora, there was not a girl in Spain that she 
 gave such heart-preference to as Miranda. Mi- 
 randa and her daughter had passed five years 
 together in the convent of Santa Clara at 
 Toledo, which was presided over, at that time, 
 by the dear and only sister of the Lady Cas- 
 silda — now no more. The girls were truly 
 happy to meet again. Miranda was about two 
 years younger than Leonora, a little fairy, sylph- 
 like figure, with a face of cheerful character ; so 
 cheerful that even in repose, and when it would 
 have looked sad, the brilliance of cheek, and
 
 128 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 lip, and eye forbade it. There was a soft sweet 
 impress all about the mouth of a kind and 
 playful temper. The eye brightly blue of the 
 deepest; the hair dark brown, and allowed to 
 fall about her without any thing to confine or 
 stay it; no curl, but a fine and shining wave upon 
 it that was given by nature. The eye that 
 rested on her gladdened, and the gazer's heart 
 beat happy in her presence ; happy without love; 
 happy to rest awhile near the bright creation. 
 One would have thought that her old uncle 
 must have had his sight, to gather such smiles 
 of fondness for her as seemed to play all over 
 his fine expressive countenance whenever she 
 spoke or moved near him. 
 
 Don Christoval was a stately ruin of a soldier; 
 his ample forehead, his firm lip, his fine stature 
 commanded respect; and though his hair was 
 thin and almost left him bald, yet a set of strong 
 white teeth in healthy preservation showed him 
 to have been a man of an excellent and vigorous 
 constitution. He bent a little in his walk; but, 
 when seated, his head sate erect and noble on 
 fine falling shoulders. He was sanguine about
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 129 
 
 the issue of the war ; his nephew, the brother 
 of Miranda, was serving with the army on the 
 Ebro, and her elder sister was the wife of a 
 colonel of artillery at Gerona. The war amid 
 its cruel devastations had as yet spared all the 
 kindred of Miranda : they had become dearer 
 and more precious to her from the fear of losing 
 them. Thus, when, in the form of some ter- 
 rible pestilence, death walks his rounds, the 
 inmates of such house as is passed over by the 
 destroying angel feel a full spring of thankful- 
 ness within them ; and are more fond, more 
 happy from the gift, as it then only seems, of 
 their security. 
 
 And now as she sat on the same chair with 
 her beloved Leonora, and embraced her, and 
 then threw back her beautiful head, that she 
 might gaze upon her face, she looked so radiant 
 with rejoicing gratitude, and she did so caress 
 her, and so smile around her, that Leonora 
 yielded up her sorrows, and the light of a joy 
 long untasted shone through her happy tears. 
 
 It was not till late after the hasty, but hot and 
 welcome, repast, that all retired to their cham-
 
 130 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 bers. The delight of the parties was mutual: 
 the one to have found such resting-place ; the 
 other to enjoy the society of friends so long 
 known and so well beloved. 
 
 But Leonora was now to be subjected to a 
 new, nor is it a light, trial, whatever it may be 
 thought of by those who have never known it. 
 She and Miranda had in their convent 
 
 " Slept together, 
 
 " Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together :" 
 
 and still as once, " coupled and inseparable," 
 again they shared the same pillow. 
 
 Again, in the wakeful hours of the dark night, 
 Miranda poured out her full heart in whispers 
 to her more than sister ; and she had much to 
 tell, and never-ending was the theme. She 
 loved and was beloved again. Yes, it is a theme 
 for youth to dwell on — a young requited love ! 
 How long, and how minutely, and how beauti- 
 fully did she describe her lover; — where first 
 they met, and how ; the first word, and the first 
 look ; and the chance meetings ; and the even- 
 ing they danced together, and sat after in the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 131 
 
 windowed niche ; the mystic silence, and the 
 sweet words that brake it; and the heart's flow 
 that followed on those words ; and their last 
 interview, and the plighting of their troth ; the 
 first, the last, the only time their chaste lips 
 met ; and how, when the troops rode forth upon 
 their march, Monteiro lingered last and late ; 
 and though he was far from her, and dared not 
 lift his hand, yet that she saw the farewell of his 
 fine eyes, and that his face was pale; and how 
 she watched him as at last he, on the sudden, 
 spurred his brave horse and sprung away ; and 
 how she fell — happy and sad— weeping, yet full 
 of hope, upon her knees, and prayed for Mon- 
 teiro, and for Spain. 
 
 All this, and more than this, repeated a thou- 
 sand times, told in a thousand ways, Leonora 
 listened to. 
 
 " My dear Leonora," would Miranda say, 
 and kiss her the while, " I worry you, I wear 
 you — your head is aching, you think me fool- 
 ish, but you will not when you see Monteiro. 
 Ah llama silly girl ; but I shall soon see you, 
 I hope, as silly, and as happy. I have often 
 k 2
 
 132 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 told Monteiro I should never have won his 
 precious heart had he seen you, and I have 
 plagued him by saying that he would not have 
 been half worthy of you. I know that you 
 will not be soon moved to love ; but when you 
 are, who will be happier?" 
 
 " Are lovers always happy, dearest Mi- 
 randa?" 
 
 " Not always, perhaps; but you will be, you 
 must, you shall be, and have the bravest and 
 noblest cavalier that comes back safe and in 
 glory from the war." 
 
 And so the girl would talk whole nights 
 away to the silent weeping Leonora. At times 
 a thought of Velasco's death checked her for a 
 night, and for two or three days after ; but yet 
 events had crowded on each other so rapidly 
 since the beginning of this fatal war, that it 
 seemed already a calamity long passed. 
 
 The themes by day were the same all over 
 Cordova : the last crimes of the French ; the 
 last successes and present hopes of the patriots ; 
 the latest proclamation. These last were read 
 aloud each day, as they arrived, to Don Chris-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 133 
 
 toval by the happy and animated Miranda, in 
 the presence of all the household. It was a 
 sight to see that aged patriot, and that widowed 
 lady, and that pale Leonora, and that blushing 
 Miranda, and the mild Clemente ; and a thing 
 to hear the hoarse anger or the glad exclaim of 
 the veteran, and the tones of bitter indignation 
 or proud tear-dropping emotion with which the 
 beautiful Miranda read ; she would kindle them 
 all into a patriotic warmth, and, but for now and 
 then a sigh, that fell heavy from Leonora, and 
 was thought sickness, nothing would the most 
 enthusiastic and exacting patriot have' found 
 wanting in the expression of that circle. 
 
 By the desire of her son, who was himself 
 serving with the army of the Ebro, the Lady 
 Cassilda again took up her residence in the old 
 family mansion immediately adjoining the grand 
 square : again, as heretofore, she opened her 
 apartments for the weekly tertullia : making her 
 invitations general to all the patriot officers in 
 Cordova, and to such of the nobles and gentry, 
 or hidalguia, as she had before visited, or who 
 now came forward as devoted supporters of the 
 K 3
 
 134 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 eause of Spain, and the sacrifices — as well as the 
 courage — of whose patriotism stamped true 
 nobility upon them. A common cause brought 
 all generous spirits in contact ; but it also com- 
 pelled them to tolerate in the same circle every 
 thing which wore the uniform of a Spanish of- 
 ficer* Even Miranda, whose large patriotism 
 was predisposed to admire them all, could not 
 altogether suppress a pretty pride, or a prettier 
 ridicule, at the many mean figures which, in 
 close and scantily-fitted uniforms, walked the 
 apartments of De Velasco's palace as erect as 
 they could, and talked in a vapouring and 
 boasting language about an enemy, whom as 
 yet they had not even seen. The Andalusians 
 are proverbially famous for a bullying tone, 
 especially those near Seville, and also in Grenada; 
 but in Cordova the people are of a graver cast, 
 resembling more the frank but melancholy 
 natives of Estramadura. It was not, therefore, 
 in a city like this, that the smoky menaces of a 
 set of lazy boasters from the streets of Seville 
 were much heeded ; but when the huntsman 
 wants a numerous pack, he will cheer on every
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 135 
 
 cur that has a tail — their cry goes for some- 
 thing. Night after night, the same scene, the 
 same tone — the paper cigar puffed with a 
 " maldito " as though it were a cannon ; the 
 fandango and bolero danced as a show of 
 patriotism, not as for simple pleasure. Although 
 the ordinary time of mourning for a parent, by 
 declining such offers, had long since gone by, 
 yet Leonora avoided, with quiet politeness, both 
 dance and guitar, and, so far as she could, con- 
 versation. The very aspect of the Lady Cas- 
 silda preserved at her assemblies a decorum, 
 which made them sufficiently insipid to all of 
 dissipated taste. They were received as a duty, 
 they came as a duty, and they were heartily 
 glad when the hour came to go away. " They 
 are proud those Velascos," said some ; — " they 
 have been dreadfully afflicted," said others, 
 " and are therefore to be respected and pitied: 
 such a mother and daughter you will scarce find 
 in the kingdom; — such a noble carriage, such 
 sad beauty;" — but all agreed that, were it not for 
 Miranda Garcias, who sweetly laid herself out 
 to please, to the very end that she might take 
 k 4
 
 136 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 the weight of this task from her beloved friends, 
 the tertullia at the Lady Cassilda's would be in- 
 supportably dull. 
 
 As for Leonora, it was a relief to her spirits to 
 steal away, alone, into some corner, when all 
 were gone, and strike her light guitar : — not to 
 such lively, such feeling, and, at times, such 
 passionate airs as her dear Miranda loved, and 
 as drew forth the applause of all who heard her; 
 but to the sweet and solemn invitation 
 
 " Oveja perdida, ven." 
 
 Leonora began to feel, more and more, every 
 day, that she was sadly astray in this world. It 
 looked very like a wilderness to her. To walk 
 about in it with thoughts she dare not tell, and 
 could not, by any effort, shake forth from those 
 cells, where memory had lodged and would often 
 revolve them, was a daily trial. It brought 
 her on her knees, and kept her there long; it 
 sent her to convent grate, and hospital beds, and 
 poor cottages. Her charity was busy, but not 
 peaceful in its fruit. Poor child ! Something 
 stood between the eye of her faith and that sun 
 which hath healing on its wings.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 137 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shared, 
 
 The sister's xov. s, the hours that we have spent, 
 
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time 
 
 For parting us, — O, and is all forgot? 
 
 All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream, 
 
 Time wore on; month after month rolled away; 
 battle upon battle was fought and lost by the 
 patriot armies ; place after place taken ; Sara- 
 gossa — the watchword, the rallying cry, the 
 fancied palladium of the liberty of Spain, lay in 
 honourable and glorious ruins, but the flag of 
 France waved in triumph over them. French 
 troops were again assembled upon the frontiers 
 of La Mancha, threatening the south ; and the 
 largest and finest army that the Spaniards had 
 as yet collected, moved from their positions in 
 the Sierra Morena to meet them. With this army, 
 lately appointed to it, and promising himself soon 
 to come and claim the hand of his beloved Mir- 
 anda, rode the young and gallant Monteiro.
 
 138 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Already distinguished both by his heroism and 
 skill, under the orders of General Reding, at the 
 memorable though fatal battle of Tudela, he was 
 hoping, with a vain anxiety, that the Spanish army 
 of La Mancha would retrieve the affairs of the 
 patriots, and restore that confidence in the sol- 
 diers, which repeated disasters had somewhat 
 shaken. 
 
 It was on the 22d of November 1809, that 
 the famous proclamation of the Seville Junta 
 came forth, dated from the Royal Alcazar on 
 the 21st. 
 
 It was well calculated to inflame every breast 
 with the spirit of undying resistance and impla- 
 cable hatred to the French. It prayed that 
 Spain might be free; or become one vast desert, 
 — one immense sepulchre. It gave a fearful, but, 
 alas ! too faithful a picture of the cruelties and 
 ravages of the enemy. It promised victory as 
 the sure reward of constancy ; appealing to the 
 example of Greece, of Rome, the Republics of 
 Switzerland, of Holland. It exhorted the nation 
 to submit to every privation, and to make all 
 sacrifices. " Perish," it said, " a thousand times,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 139 
 
 the wretch who can prefer his own interest to 
 the delivery of his country." It denounced 
 curses on the lukewarm, as on the traitor. It 
 stated that a sword had been drawn, never to be 
 sheathed ; a standard raised, never to be lowered. 
 " In spite," it said, " of the arts and the power 
 of this inhuman despot, we will render dim his 
 star, and be ourselves the creators of our own 
 destiny." 
 
 There was a great deal of bombast in some 
 of the threats contained in this long and furious 
 appeal ; but, at such a moment, the trumpet 
 must be loud, and give no uncertain sound. It 
 was read out in every cafe — in the squares — the 
 streets : at all corners there were groupes of 
 listeners giving the noisy and frequent interrup- 
 tion. Miranda read it to her uncle ; and she had 
 all the while a fire in her eye and upon her cheek, 
 as though she would have rode into the battle. 
 Why did Leonora, whose offerings had been 
 greater, in proportion, than any girl in Cordova, 
 why did she yet again contrive one, such as 
 none other had made, plucking from her finger 
 her last ring, the pledge of a father's love?
 
 140 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 She had returned from this last sacrifice with 
 her mother and Miranda, who had both been 
 making the offering of such trinkets as yet 
 remained to them, and was just closing the 
 small cabinet in her chamber, as Miranda came 
 behind her, and, catching a view of the minia- 
 ture, seized it with a smile, and said — " So, 
 dearest Leonora, you have one precious trinket 
 in reserve : — Methinks, the place for this should 
 be on your bosom, but you are afraid of me. — 
 Now I shall know your secret." 
 
 She did not observe the paler change on 
 Leonora's cheek, and before she had turned the 
 picture, which was lying on its face when she 
 caught it up, Leonora had recovered possession 
 of it. 
 
 " I cannot, Miranda, show you this minia- 
 ture, for it is not mine — for the same reason, I 
 cannot part with it." 
 
 " Leonora," said Miranda, with a glow of 
 sudden rage, " you cannot hide your shame ; 
 you are not a Spaniard — you are not a Velasco 
 — I saw the name — 'tis his whom I have heard 
 you all speak of — not often, indeed, but too
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 141 
 
 often by every time, and too well to please me 
 or my uncle." 
 
 " Miranda !" 
 
 " Who slew your father ? who slew your 
 brother? who bathed Cordova in blood and 
 tears ? who, for aught you know, but this miser- 
 able, this false and hateful Frenchman — this De 
 Rochfort?" 
 
 " Miranda, this is not the picture of De Roch- 
 fort : " — and her tone, and her pale lip, and 
 her raised hand, and her proud though mourn- 
 ful eye convinced Miranda that Leonora spake 
 true ; but still a suspicion had entered her mind, 
 and, as though she had the right of a rival or a 
 brother, she pursued it. 
 
 " Then it is your own picture, — but the name ! 
 what means the name?" 
 
 " Neither is it my picture. It is the property 
 of De Rochfort, — an enemy indeed, but late 
 an inmate in the house of my family, — and till it 
 can be restored to him, it shall be safe in the 
 keeping of a Velasco." 
 
 " Leonora," cried Miranda, with fresh anger, 
 " it is not his property, — it is confiscate, — it is
 
 142 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 that of Spain ; it is the price of a sword, of 
 many swords, — and it shall buy them ; and may 
 one and all of them find a way to his bosom, 
 and to that of every Gaul in the land." 
 
 Thus saying, she sprung forward to seize the 
 miniature again : in the struggle it fell upon its 
 back, and the face lay discovered. — " There," 
 said Leonora; " now you have seen it, I will leave 
 you alone in its company for a moment, and 
 return when Miranda is herself again." 
 
 It was not long that fair portrait in doing the 
 kind office for which it was so left, Miranda 
 would have seen a hecatomb of Frenchmen 
 slaughtered before her eyes, and have exulted 
 at the sight ; but a loving woman and a man 
 beloved were sacred things to her. The car- 
 casses of Frenchmen were to her as those of 
 wolves ; but the sundering of two hearts, the 
 crossing of a true love, seemed to her as a sin, — 
 a sacrilege, — a something that would bring a 
 blight upon the opening bud of her own young 
 hope ; and as she looked at the sweet smile of 
 Caroline de la Bourdonnaye, and saw the 
 braided lock of hair, even such a braid as she
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 143 
 
 had woven from her own dark tresses for Mon- 
 teiro, and read the word " betrothed ; " her 
 heart became womanly again — it filled and 
 flooded — and from her eyes fell a stream of 
 scalding tears. She flew after Leonora into the 
 garden, and with mute kiss, and quick sob, and 
 close embracing, asked, and did even so, without 
 a word, receive her pardon. — Their arms en- 
 circling each the other, they walked for a while 
 in perfect silence ; at last Leonora said, " Mi- 
 randa should have known me better.' , 
 
 " Leonora, I know you well — I shall never 
 forgive myself what you have already forgiven 
 me ; — but the war, and the peril, and the ab- 
 sence of my dear Monteiro, have made me bitter; 
 and they are so cruel and so hateful these 
 Frenchmen, as a body, that I cannot think of 
 the exceptions." 
 
 " Miranda, they have all sucked milk at a 
 woman's breast; — they smile and weep even as 
 we ; — pray when they are dying ; — and I have 
 heard one of them cry for mercy, — wildly 
 cry, — and in vain." 
 
 " What mercy have they ever shown to
 
 144 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Spain ? I cannot pity them. I would I were 
 a man to ride against them to the battle. You 
 do not know them. They are fierce as the tiger, 
 cruel as the cat, and false and faithless : they 
 grin too, and chatter, and dance like the Bra- 
 zilian monkies. — I hate them." 
 
 " Miranda, so soon again forgetting the sweet 
 thoughts of tenderness and mercy, which the 
 picture of that French damsel taught you ! — 
 We are not so fair. — Think you, were Spanish 
 armies warring in France, think you not that a 
 charming lovely countenance like hers might 
 steal from his cause some Spaniard's heart?'' 
 
 " Never a true Spaniard — never — but it is 
 a face to bewitch," said she, gazing on it. 
 
 " And would it be wonderful, Miranda, if a 
 girl of France were to fall in love with your dear 
 Monteiro?" 
 
 " Ah ! no, no, but — " 
 
 " But what, my dear Miranda ? — Be assured 
 she might, and probably would, if he is what 
 you describe him." 
 
 " O ! that you knew him, — that you could 
 see, that you could listen to him ;" and she was
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 145 
 
 happy and eloquent on her favourite theme, and 
 Leonora, as she yielded the apparent attention 
 of the ear, sent her mind away after Eustace de 
 Rochfort, supposed to be a prisoner ; — Eustace 
 separated from his country, from his young be- 
 trothed, and from the corps in which she knew 
 he was honoured ; but yet, with all this, safe, alike 
 from the open dangers of the field, and from 
 the more dreadful and secret perils of the am- 
 bushed assassin, and the poisoned meal. 
 
 There was a radiant light over the face of 
 Miranda, a flush and a glow upon her cheek, 
 so warm and glorious to look upon, and an 
 expression on the countenance of Leonora so 
 thoughtful and melancholy, that the painter 
 might have chosen them, as there they stood, 
 to personify a happy and a hopeless love. 
 
 Miranda saw not at first that the mind of her 
 friend was wandering, but she did perceive it 
 soon, and that some image, deeply, dangerously 
 dear, was present to the sad and vacant eye of 
 Leonora. " It is, it must be so, you dear, dear 
 girl," said Miranda ; " you love, — I know it by 
 that start, — that sigh which you are striving 
 
 L
 
 146 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 vainly to suppress; yes, it is this foeman, this 
 accursed de Rochfort who has wooed and won 
 you ; and, faithless as all Frenchmen are, has 
 given you up, as proof of his feigned devotion 
 to you, this picture of an injured and deserted 
 girl." 
 
 * Miranda, curse him not — to me he is and 
 can be nothings save one of God's creatures, 
 that hath something more of his Maker's image 
 than the many — neither could he so woo, as 
 you lightly fancy, nor I so be won. He is as a 
 vision, that has brightened for us all a few 
 hours of this dark war ; and one whom we may 
 hope and wish to meet again — not here; — this 
 is no scene where hope abides ; — but above, in 
 heaven. There be no wars in heaven." 
 
 " Infatuated, unhappy girl, — it is the fiend 
 deceives you — and it is one of his own dark 
 spirits whom you are mistaking for an angel of 
 light. You are not well, Leonora; come to 
 Miranda's heart. I feel for, and I will cherish 
 and shelter you ; and if others hear or see aught 
 of this, I will tell them you are crazed, and save 
 you from their scorn."
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 147 
 
 " No, Miranda ; none shall ever scorn Leo- 
 nora de Velasco. I think this stranger worthy 
 of a woman's love — but he is an enemy to Spain; 
 he is beloved by another — and he is of the 
 earth, Miranda, earthly. As I am a Spaniard, 
 and a woman, and a Christian, I may not, must 
 not, will not love him." — With that she kissed 
 Miranda, and added, in a broken voice, " Do 
 not breathe this subject again : — and, if you 
 think of it, when you are too happy in your 
 love, or too bloody in your hate, pray, Miranda, 
 pray t /or your enemies — and for me." 
 
 Tears dimmed the lustre of her black eyes as 
 thus she spoke, and she went away alone to her 
 chamber. 
 
 l 2
 
 148 THE LADY OF CORDOVA: OR, 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. 
 Enter our gates — dispose of us and ours — 
 For we no longer are defensible. 
 
 King Henry V. 
 
 The barbers of Cordova were scarce perfect 
 in the reading of the furious proclamation just 
 issued from Seville, when a courier from La 
 Mancha arrived in the city with the fatal news 
 that the army of Areizaga had given battle at 
 Ocana — was defeated, dispersed, and well-nigh 
 destroyed ; that some of the fugitives were nigh 
 at hand, hurrying over the Sierra Morena, with 
 the vanguard of the enemy close upon their rear, 
 who might soon be expected to enter the city, 
 where no stand either could or would be made. 
 The messenger, who brought this disastrous 
 news, was seated on his tall mule in the middle 
 of the Plaza, surrounded by an eager crowd, 
 whose sallow dismay alone, without their words, 
 would have communicated to the passer-by a 
 battle lost.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 1 49 
 
 It was on the afternoon of the very clay fol- 
 lowing the scene between Miranda and Leonora, 
 which we have described, that, as they were 
 crossing the square together, in their way from 
 a church, they observed the collected crowd, and 
 drew near to gather some account of the army, 
 from which they judged the courier to have just 
 arrived. The sanguine Miranda, full of high 
 and proud anticipations, was about to put her 
 question, when the curses vented by this mes- 
 senger upon the cavalry of Areizaga's force, 
 whom he represented as the chief cause of the 
 disgraceful defeat he was describing, caught her 
 ear. She knew Monteiro, — his every thought, 
 his impulses, his nature — and there came over 
 her spirits a dread so deadly, that she sunk upon 
 the breast of Leonora with a sigh, deep as 
 though she had seen him fall. It was some 
 minutes before she was sufficiently recovered to 
 be led home. In the interim, these two ladies 
 had attracted the attention of the crowd, and the 
 love and respect with which Leonora de Velasco 
 was regarded by all in Cordova, caused them to 
 bestow large sympathy upon her companion.
 
 150 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 " There is a dear friend of her family," 
 said Leonora, to account for her fainting, 
 " who is serving with that army, and she fears 
 he may have fallen." 
 
 " How do they call him, Lady?" said the 
 courier, who had taken off his broad sombrero, 
 and was wiping his brave brown forehead with 
 the kerchief inside. " I know all of any note 
 there ; and, blessings on their memory, the most 
 of them have given and gotten the death-blow, 
 and are safe out of the sorrow and the shame." 
 
 " It is but a young officer, one C aptain Mon- 
 teiro, of the hussars of Guadalaxara," replied 
 Leonora. " But I know him, and know him for 
 as brave a youth as ever pressed a stirrup or 
 drew a sword : small hope, Senhora, that he 
 lived through the day. O that the Spanish 
 cavaliers had been all Monteiros ! I tell you 
 that the vultures of La Mancha would have 
 long and fat feasting upon those full-fed 
 robbers from France, and King Boteilla had 
 been fain to seek another wine-cellar than the 
 Val de Penas." So saying, he took from the 
 hand of one of the crowd a full tumbler of
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 151 
 
 aqua ardente, and tossed it off with no gentle 
 imprecation upon the heads of all Frenchmen, 
 all cowards, and all traitors to the cause. 
 
 Leonora shuddered ; and as the eyes of 
 Miranda slowly opened, and she was again able 
 to stand without support, led her gently to their 
 house, which was not far distant. 
 
 It was an evening of deep and sad depres- 
 sion with them all. 
 
 The silence was only broken by the proud 
 and indignant lamentations of Don Christoval 
 over the disgrace of Spain, and by the season- 
 able and strengthening consolations of Cle- 
 mente, whose trust in the good and righteous 
 judgments of a merciful and faithful God never 
 once forsook him, and enabled him, in this 
 season of renewed trial and terror, to be a 
 pillar of support to the whole house. 
 
 Miranda lay upon a couch, apart, over- 
 whelmed with agony. She could not bear the 
 pressure of Leonora's hand ; she turned from 
 the compassion of her kind eyes ; she listened 
 not to her whispers of hope, or her words of 
 com fort. The picture of her Monteiro pale upon 
 L 4
 
 152 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 the ground, dying under the swords of French- 
 men, and the thought that one sentiment of 
 tenderness or pity for any one of that detested 
 nation should find a place in the bosom of her 
 friend, made it seem to her a treason alike to 
 Spain and to Love to lean upon it, or take com- 
 fort in those heavings of sympathy which had 
 been otherwise her sweetest solace. 
 
 Leonora passed little of the night in bed : 
 she was from midnight until dawn in the little 
 oratory adjoining her chamber. When at day- 
 break she re-entered her bed-room, Miranda 
 was gone, and had left this note on her table. 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " Leonora, be a niece to my uncle ; tell him 
 to fear nothing for me. Until I have found 
 Monteiro, or ascertained his fate, I cannot rest. 
 I do not feel deserted by hope, and I have all 
 the courage in my heart which a true daughter 
 of Spain, and the betrothed of Monteiro, should 
 have. Leonora, never forget that it is the pure 
 blood of a noble of Spain, which flows in your 
 veins — forget not the wives and mothers of
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 153 
 
 Zaragossa. Methinks our childish and our 
 youthful days are all over. I feel myself a 
 woman of care. Henceforth, for the rest of 
 my onward life, I will live for my country and 
 for Monteiro ; or, if he be lost to me, for his 
 memory. You will pray for me ; I know you 
 will. Miranda." 
 
 There was nothing in this act of Miranda 
 which at all surprised Leonora, although it 
 perplexed her with many anxieties and fears ; 
 and although there were expressions and alto- 
 gether a tone in the note towards herself as of 
 suspicion and reproach. Her first step was to 
 find whether she was gone actually beyond re- 
 call, and how ? for, although she was just doing 
 that which Leonora, in like circumstances, 
 would assuredly have done herself; yet, to 
 prevent Miranda, if possible, from a course 
 attended with so many difficulties, and beset by 
 so many dangers, was an imperative duty. She 
 had, it seemed, taken away a coarse black man- 
 tilla, and a brown dress of Jacintha's, which 
 hung in the balcony, and, from stains on a towel
 
 154 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OK, 
 
 in the dressing-closet, as also from the remain- 
 ing contents in a small phial near the basin, it 
 was evident that she had taken her measures 
 with resolution and prudence. Without the 
 disguise of her rank, and some little disfigure- 
 ment of her brilliant beauty, it would have been 
 impossible for her to proceed far without serious 
 and distressing inconvenience, even among 
 Spaniards. And she would rather have been 
 a leper than that a Frenchman should have 
 denied her with the gaze of admiration. 
 
 Leonora went with Jacintha all over the city, 
 but they could not trace her any where. No 
 such person had been seen to pass through the 
 La Mancha gate that morning. Several parties 
 of muleteers and ass-drovers had left the city 
 that morning two hours before the dawn-rosary. 
 Some of them had taken the route of Estrema- 
 dura, and others had gone away with the 
 design of taking one of the bridle paths across 
 the Sierra, which lie eastward, and to the right 
 of the grand pass above Carolina. By either 
 way, though that by Estremadura made it a
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 155 
 
 long detour ; yet, by either road, a traveller 
 might make his way into La Mancha. 
 
 Leonora visited all the posadas whence these 
 trains had taken their departure; they could 
 furnish no clue — with every party there had 
 been women. Not a man, nor an animal to 
 send after these trains, was to be hired in Cor- 
 dova: besides, they had so long a start, and 
 there hung such doubt over her being with 
 them, that Leonora would have felt little hope 
 of thus finding her. And now, moreover, the 
 city was fast filling with the fugitives from the 
 army of Areizaga, who came like a routed 
 rabble, marching without order or formation, 
 with lighted cigars in their mouths, the buts 
 of their muskets over one shoulder, and their 
 cloaks over the other ; so that the streets and 
 squares became scenes of the most noisy and 
 indifferent confusion. These soldiers were sul- 
 len in their looks and fierce in their language, 
 demanding food at every door, filling the wine- 
 houses with oaths and violence, and making 
 scanty payment, or none ; abusing the junta of 
 Seville, and thirsting for a massacre of traitors : —
 
 156 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 they terrified Leonora, and she returned through 
 these loud and angry runaways, with a fear she 
 would not have felt among the brave and 
 patriot dead who lay with their " hoof-beaten 
 bosoms" upwards on the ghastly field of 
 Ocana. 
 
 The intelligence of Miranda's departure nearly 
 bewildered Don Christoval — blind — aged — 
 helpless — unable to do any thing, or to devise 
 any course, whereby she might be served and 
 succoured ; terrified at the idea of the hardships 
 which she must undergo, and the peril to which 
 she was exposed, he was by turns reproachful 
 and supplicatory to all around ; and at last, 
 convinced by the reasoning of the good Father, 
 that the best and only way in which he could 
 assist Miranda, and soothe himself, was by 
 prayer to her God and his God, he sank into 
 silence, and sat throughout the day with mov- 
 ing lips, and head sunk upon his breast. The 
 night of this day was one of alarmed wakefulness 
 in the city, for the dispersed patriots were 
 crowding through it in great disorder, and freed 
 from what little discipline they had hitherto
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 157 
 
 preserved, committed many outrages both on 
 the persons and the property of the helpless 
 householders, under the pretence of seeking 
 quarters and rations. 
 
 A party of this retreating rabble filled the 
 house of the Lady Cassilda, not respecting even 
 the more private apartments. They broke into 
 her wine-cellar, and consumed all her slender 
 provision, pushed old Anselmo down the cellar 
 steps, and bloodied his grey hairs with a cut on 
 his defenceless head ; and the terrified Jacintha 
 would have certainly fallen the victim of one 
 ruffian, who lingered behind his comrades, had 
 she not mustered strength to escape from his 
 foul embrace, while she was succouring old 
 Anselmo, and found protection behind the chair 
 of the Lady Cassilda, whose majesty of look 
 drove the wretch, as though it were an angel's 
 sword, from his panting prey. 
 
 The memory of all that Cordova had suffered 
 in the last assault revived in the present moment, 
 and the inhabitants were full of the most painful 
 and anxious fears. 
 
 A mild November sun shone soft upon the
 
 158 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 city and gardens, which were now without one 
 single soldier or man in arms to make even the 
 show of resistance. With pale lips, and low 
 whisperings, and muffled cloaks, many of the 
 principal persons in the place assembled before 
 the gate, and a crowd of the poorer sort stood 
 about them in all the vacancy of helplessness 
 and fear. The larger portion of this crowd con- 
 sisted of women, looking pale and frightened 
 from out their black mantillas, with numbers 
 of silent children ; the rest were tradesmen, 
 mechanics, and labourers ; but not one young 
 or vigorous man among them : — a number of 
 priests, in their black cassocks, with their long 
 hats, stood apart in busy consultation — - among 
 these not one monk was to be seen — but the 
 parochial clergy, whom, of all classes in the 
 church, the French had most respected, came 
 hither to join themselves in deputation with some 
 of the chief men of the place, and go forth to 
 meet the French general, offering him the keys 
 of the citadel, and asking his clemency and pro- 
 tection. They had already chosen Clemente as 
 their spokesman, and screwed up their spirits,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 
 
 under shelter of his calm and Christian courage, 
 to move forward on the road, when the few 
 more hale and brave peasants, who had been 
 sent on to keep a look-out, came back running, 
 and waving their hats to the crowd, with the 
 signals for dispersion : — Signals speedily obeyed, 
 without any looking back, by all but some thirty 
 persons, among whom was Father Clemente, 
 and, strange to say, several poor, and some aged 
 women!' A few of these were indigent and pious 
 widows, who were in the habit of being shrived 
 by Clemente, and had learned from him such 
 lessons as enabled them now to stand still and 
 count their beads, and show a moral courage. 
 " Vienen ! Muchos, muclios ! Dr agones, dra- 
 gones ! " said the men, as they ran into the 
 remaining groupes, and stopped for breath. 
 Almost at the same instant, turning the corner 
 of the road, about a quarter of a mile from 
 them, and filling it in its noble width, with a 
 full front, a body of dragoons appeared advanc- 
 ing at a brisk trot. The gleam of the brazen 
 helmets, the flying of the black horse-hair 
 plumes, and the tossing heads of the chargers,
 
 160 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 as the spurs urged them, had a noble but fearful 
 look, and seemed as the menace of a slaughter. 
 The Spaniards fled back close to the wall, and 
 into the outer angle of the gate, to give them 
 way, and there stood to make their submission. 
 Within about a hundred yards of them, at a 
 trumpet-blast, the squadrons, checked as by a 
 spell, stood motionless and silent. 
 
 One officer, followed by an orderly and a 
 trumpet, cantered gently towards them — his 
 sword sheathed, his right hand holding a white 
 handkerchief; — his stately but quiet grace of 
 approach reassured the citizens, — and, crowding 
 forwards in an anxious groupe, they stood close 
 behind Father Clemente to catch what might 
 pass. 
 
 The officer did not stop till he was among 
 them ; and his first words were, " The general 
 promisesyou perfect security; — the French come 
 as your friends; — they expect to be received as 
 such ; — discipline will be preserved. The in- 
 surgents have been defeated and dispersed ; it 
 is well that none of them have remained to at- 
 tempt a resistance to the French arms; it would
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 161 
 
 have renewed the horrors of our last visit : — we 
 wish the memory of that to be blotted out ; our 
 troops will require bread ; the markets must be 
 opened, and held again immediately : — every 
 thing will be strictly paid for ; every French 
 soldier taking a thing by force will be severely 
 punished : — you have nothing to fear." This 
 the set speech, which he was forced to deliver, 
 and a very soft substitute for the insolent and 
 reproachful language with which his victorious 
 countrymen too often announced their mercies 
 to the unresisting cities of an invaded province, 
 was uttered in a grave, manly tone by the officer. 
 There was a something in his fine dark counte- 
 nance, which, in spite of its martial character, 
 gave it an expression of such sincerity and bene- 
 volence, that not a man or woman in that groupe 
 but felt all the comfort of reassurance. Cle- 
 mente replied for them, that the authorities 
 remaining in Cordova, and those present, ac- 
 knowledged gratefully the dispositions of the 
 French general ; — that the city had suffered 
 dreadfully during the war from heavy contri- 
 butions and sacrifices; that it had been plun- 
 
 M
 
 162 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; Olt^ 
 
 dered of all its plate and valuables on the me- 
 lancholy occasion, to which a reference had been 
 made; that the retreating Spaniards had just 
 emptied its stores of provision; that all efforts 
 would be made to meet the wants of his division; 
 and they trusted that an enemy, such as France, 
 would prove generous enough to make all con- 
 sideration for their unhappy circumstances." 
 
 " Certainly," was the answer made to this, in 
 a tone which now, for the first time, was recog- 
 nised by Clemente, who had listened and replied 
 to this messenger of peace without any parti- 
 cular examination of the face, which the falling 
 peak of the helmet above, and a large coarse 
 lock of black horse-hair lying on the cheek, 
 greatly shadowed and concealed. 
 
 The officer was no other than Eustace de 
 Rochfort. He had immediately recognised the 
 good and venerable father, even before he spoke 
 at all, but had felt that, for many reasons, it was 
 not the place or time to claim his old acquaint- 
 ance. Accordingly, turning about, he rode 
 back to the halted body, and, as the senior of- 
 ficer, put them in motion in parade order, in
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 163 
 
 obedience to the orders he had received when the 
 line of march had moved off in the morning ; 
 for, as my reader may conjecture, what between 
 the information of his spies and his own intel- 
 ligent calculations, the French general com- 
 manding the division, whereof these dragoons 
 formed part, was as well acquainted with the 
 state of Cordova, as also with the feelings and 
 only course of action for the citizens, as if he 
 had been present and taken part in their mourn- 
 ful deliberations. 
 
 It had been determined by the leaders of the 
 army which now crossed the Sierra Morena to 
 pursue a different and a far milder policy than 
 that which had been taken in other provinces 
 to the North, and which had not produced the 
 effect designed, but one the very opposite. — 
 Blows and exactions, cruelties and insults, so 
 far from intimidating the Spaniards, had filled 
 their bosoms with a deadly and vindictive hate, 
 which found a thousand secret and silent modes 
 of exhibiting its awful power. While the ve- 
 teran conquerors of Germany marched into the 
 battle fields of Spain with a laughing insolence, 
 m 2
 
 ]61« THE LADY OF CORDOVA,* OR, 
 
 which their easy victories and trifling losses 
 made natural, their ranks were daily thinned 
 and wasted by the stab of the stiletto and the 
 dose of poison ; by the massacre of sick and 
 stragglers; by the overpowering of small posts 
 and detachments ; the waylaying of small con- 
 voys ; the poisoning of wells ; and by the in- 
 credible number of deaths consequent upon the 
 watchfulness, the fatigue, the weary marches, 
 and the long and severe privations, which such 
 a state of things necessarily imposed. It was 
 now resolved, (but too late for any other pur- 
 pose, than securing to them, as however it did, 
 more peace and tranquillity, more rest and en- 
 joyment in the cities and towns in which for 
 a few weeks or months they sojourned,) to affect 
 the smiles and language of conciliation, and 
 that the discipline, the order, and, so far as it 
 could be, the imposing parade of a soldiery in 
 time of peace, should be again observed.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 165 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 The colours are unfurl'd, the cavalcade 
 Marshals, and now the buzz is hush'd, and hark ! 
 Now the soft peace-march beats. 
 
 Wallenstein. 
 
 These dragoons, therefore, with drawn swords 
 held peacefully glittering in the carried position, 
 and preceded by half-a-score of trumpets play- 
 ing in parts a fine parade march, — filed in 
 through the same gate of Cordova, which had 
 been burst through by their comrades in arms 
 the year before, with that wild and frenzied cry 
 of triumph, which is the sure prelude of the 
 sack and the slaughter. The inhabitants now 
 peeped from out their doors and lattices, and, 
 at the sight of the naked weapons, shrunk back 
 again, as if they saw their executioners. Of 
 the soldiers, some laughed at their terror, some 
 muttered out curses enough for them to thank 
 God the utterers had not their fierce wills; 
 while the greater part of the men looked thank- 
 M 3
 
 166 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OB, 
 
 ful and content at the prospect of good quarters 
 and repose. 
 
 Immediately following these dragoons came 
 a column of infantry, led by a corps of Yagers 
 from Hesse Darmstadt, — which, as a princi- 
 pality of the Rhenish confederation, furnished 
 a valuable contingent to the imperial army. 
 
 These Yagers had a band of music, such as 
 is only to be furnished by Germany. To a 
 symphony they marched, soft and plaintive, as 
 if it was a sweet wailing for fallen comrades, 
 and a distant land ; and it did so touch the 
 hearts of the terrified and saddened people 
 with its comforting and soothing sounds, that 
 they came out from their hiding-places as the 
 serpents are said to come at the pipe and the 
 voice of the charmer, and stood at their doors, 
 and looked at these fair-haired and blue-eyed 
 Germans as they marched by, listening, as it 
 should seem, to their own loved strains with a 
 softer foot-fall. They stood and gazed after 
 them, — nor moved till the clashing cymbals, 
 and doubling drums, and grating harshness of 
 the ill-played wind-instruments of the French
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 167 
 
 bands which came after, drove them in again 
 with some slight renewal of their fear, and the 
 recovery of all their hate. 
 
 Of the ladies of Cordova none had gone to 
 the gates. They had either remained in their 
 houses, or entered the churches to pass away 
 the time of suspense and anxiety, which pre- 
 ceded the entry of the French, in prayer. 
 
 The ladies, and Don Christoval, and the whole 
 household of Velasco, sat sadly expectant in 
 the same large chamber; and scarcely had the 
 messenger sent by Clemente to calm their fears, 
 by assuring them that " all was well, and that 
 the French troops were coming in peaceablv, 
 and there was nothing to fear," delivered his 
 errand, than the sound of the French trumpets 
 burst upon their ears. There is something 
 proud and haughty in the tone of a trumpet, 
 played even in the peace- march; and it drew 
 from Don Christoval a deep-breathed curse, 
 followed by a deep-drawn sigh, to think upon 
 his blinded and aged impotence; but, when the 
 clangour of the trump ceased, and was suc- 
 ceeded by the soft and murmuring measures of 
 
 m 4
 
 168 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 the melancholy air to which the Germans 
 moved, it seemed as though it called up all the 
 past and mellow sorrows of the old man's life, 
 and, as if it touched his present griefs, and 
 mourned Miranda for him; — and the veteran 
 wept. Tears rolled from his sightless eyes, 
 down cheeks withered, not so much by age as 
 by hardships, stained by the winds of tempests, 
 and scarred in the smoke of battles. The tear 
 of an old brave man, that has been strong and 
 valiant, is of all things the most affecting. 
 Leonora put her arm around his neck, and her 
 hand upon his agitated temple, and was herself 
 all trembling with the conflicting emotions 
 which that thrilling music awakened, when an 
 exclamation from old Theresa, who stood with- 
 out in the balcony, looking up the street, had 
 well-nigh caused her to fall down with the sad 
 and sick alarm. 
 
 " Maria Saniissima! — Maria Santissima ! the 
 senhor Eustatio — the good senhor ! We are 
 safe ! — there is no fear ! " 
 
 Old Christoval rose up like a blind lion in 
 his fury; his crutch was grasped, as though it
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 169 
 
 had been a true sword, convulsively about the 
 head, but the foot of it rested on the ground. 
 
 " Lady Cassilda," thundered the old man, 
 " I knew your husband Juan, — I knew your 
 boy, — I know your boy that lives, and you 
 and yours y and all that bear the name of 
 Velasco ; nay, the very likeness to them I have 
 loved. Juan and I fought and bled for Spain ; 
 at sea, on shore, in many places. Were he 
 living, he would open every vein for her now, 
 and, * to the knife's point ' war with these 
 hated Frenchmen till the soil of Spain was 
 purified by their blood, and not a footstep of the 
 Gaul that was not stamped out by the conquer- 
 or's tread. He was murdered by these demons ; 
 and shall I hear a Frenchman welcomed to the 
 house of Velasco ? Never ! May every curse 
 with which Heaven visits traitors and parri- 
 cides, visit and cleave to your false and wanton 
 house ! Your very servants welcoming a French- 
 man ! I will out of it, lest the roof fall, and go 
 find or beg a death by myself from foe or 
 friend, — a death in the open street, with no 
 shared judgments of the Heaven-stricken."
 
 170 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 He rushed out, the old man, with an energy 
 that conquered for a moment his infirmity, — 
 but, careless whither he was going, slipped 
 from the stair-head, and fell bruised and sense- 
 less at the bottom of the flight, which luckily 
 was not far, or he had been doubtless killed on 
 the spot. Leonora swooned above, and the con- 
 sternation of Lady Cassilda was not greater than 
 her suffering. A noble Spaniard, a devoted 
 widow, she could scarce believe that she had 
 heard aright ; — that it was upon the possibilities 
 of her life that such language should be address- 
 ed to her by a human being, who had even 
 heard of her. She was aghast and dumb, and 
 without any self-possession ; and had it not been 
 for Eustace de Rochfort, who dismounted at the 
 door in utter ignorance of whose the house was, 
 to examine its quarters, Don Christoval would 
 have lain unsuccoured where he fell. 
 
 De Rochfort found the unhappy veteran 
 lying insensible on the first landing-place, and 
 under an impression that some worthless soldier 
 had already entered the house, and committed 
 violence on the unfortunate object before him,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 171 
 
 he called to the marechal de logis behind to 
 look to the sufferer, and ran up to find and 
 punish the defaulter. The form of a female 
 extended upon the floor of the apartment, the 
 doors of which stood open before him, and the 
 appearance of Lady Cassilda bending over it, 
 whom, from the bent position of her head, he did 
 not recognise, confirmed him in his supposition, 
 and he eagerly demanded " where were the 
 wretches who had committed these outrages ?" 
 
 " Senhor," replied the Lady Cassilda, who 
 had now recovered her presence of mind, 
 " there has been no outrage. The sudden 
 entry of your troops has caused all that you 
 witness. Terror at the angry and despairing 
 act of that aged and bewildered friend overcame 
 my poor daughter. My recollection of you, 
 Senhor, assures me, that if it be possible to ex- 
 empt us from receiving troops, you will procure 
 us that indulgence, and relieve us from the sad 
 embarrassment which their presence would 
 create." With that she again turned to the 
 chafing of her daughter's temples. 
 
 " I know not," replied Eustace, with unaf-
 
 172 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OE 5 
 
 fected anxiety, " how I can so well meet your 
 wishes, Lady, and at the same time gratify my 
 own heart, as by again quartering myself upon 
 you; but while you are recovering your daughter, 
 I am forgetting the unfortunate gentleman be- 
 low." So saying, he again descended the few 
 steps, down which Don Christoval had fallen, 
 and, with the assistance of his marechal de logis, 
 brought him up, and laid him on a couch. He 
 had now opened his eyes, and by the dull glare 
 of his sightless balls, they perceived he was blind. 
 He recovered his voice, but his senses were wan- 
 dering : 
 
 " War to the knife's point — devils ! — well 
 done, Juan ! Let us die, old boy, as we lived, true 
 Spaniards. What's the matter with my eyes? — 
 Confound the smoke, how thick it is ! Let 'em 
 come close, men, — the closer the better. Don't 
 throw away your fire — blaze it in their faces, and 
 give them the bayonets. — That's it, that's it ! — 
 Now, how they drop ! On, on — leave 'em to the 
 women. Out with your knives, girls. Miranda, 
 dip your handkerchief, — it is French blood !" 
 
 " A tough old cock this, Captain," said the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 173 
 
 marechal de logis, "in his day. If his eyes 
 were good, and his head right, he is not one 
 that would be shaken out of a fort, except 
 through a hard-won breach ; and even then, 
 they would but find him in his blood, or see the 
 last of him flying up from a sprung mine." 
 
 " Yes, Breton," said Eustace to the brave old 
 Norman, who wore the chevrons of twenty years' 
 service on his arm : " Yes, Breton ; men will 
 fight hard and feel strongly for their country." 
 
 " And yet how the cowards ran at Ocana ! — < 
 I chopped the rascals with right good will, I was 
 so vexed with them." 
 
 " Ah ! it was but a panic, Breton ; and, at 
 their best, in the field what could they do against 
 our old moustaches, our discipline, and our staff? 
 Poor wretches ! I pity them ; and wish you and 
 I were back again looking Prussian cavalry in 
 the face — with fair odds, and clear fields, and 
 no favour." 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Captain ; I'll never strike 
 a death-blow at one of the runaway rogues 
 again — for it is not fighting — and there are 
 brave hearts among them. He was a fine young
 
 1 74- THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 fellow that, who led up one of their charges 
 with his sword-arm in a sling, and who tried 
 to rally them when they broke. I saw his 
 horse fall, poor fellow ! and if he lives, he must 
 be a prisoner." 
 
 " Happier dead, perhaps, Breton, though I 
 remember the youth — he owes his life to me 
 — but has a fractured leg, and must be lying 
 in some of our hospitals in misery." 
 
 A party of officers and their servants now 
 came tramping up the stairs, with noisy 
 laughter, to choose quarters, and, to the great 
 vexation of Eustace, a senior officer selected 
 this house for his at once. Leonora had re- 
 covered from her swoon, and had been seated 
 by her mother in a chair, who herself occupied 
 another by her side, so close, that the poor girl 
 might lean, as she did, upon her bosom. — She 
 had perfectly recovered her consciousness of 
 all that was passing round her ; — she heard 
 Don Christoval; she saw De Rochfort; — 
 but, as though she saw him not, she lay pale, 
 desolate, and silent. 
 
 "A capital quarter!" said the little fat major 
 who had chosen it, as he surveyed the noble
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 1?5 
 
 apartment, from which he designed most speedily 
 to eject the present proprietors. u Where is the 
 bed-room?" and he most unceremoniously open- 
 ed a door adjoining, and finding a chamber 
 furnished with that old heavy richness, which 
 promises both warmth and comfort in the 
 months of winter, repeated his exclamation, 
 " A capital quarter ! " adding, almost in the 
 same breath, to his servant, " Mouton, go fetch 
 the mules, and bring my baggage up here ; and 
 see, take out all those old petticoats. Excasez, 
 Madame" looking across rudely at the Lady 
 Cassilda ; " and Mouton," for Mouton was his 
 interpreter as well as his servant, " tell these 
 fontre Espagnol that I shall take these two 
 rooms." 
 
 Eustace, choking with wrath and disgust, 
 was yet, to gain the end he desired, compelled 
 to suppress these feelings, telling the Major 
 that he remembered the Donna de la Casa 
 when he was last in Cordova ; that she was 
 the widow of a brave officer, and a very esti- 
 mable lady ; also, that he must not heed the 
 poor old gentleman, who had just met with a
 
 176 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 severe accident, and was not in his right mind, 
 and might, therefore, say strange things. He 
 recommended them all earnestly to his consi- 
 deration, and quitted the house. 
 
 Vexed as he was, and afflicted indeed at the 
 state of sorrow and confusion in which he left 
 this family, Eustace reflected, with some little 
 contentment, on the little major aforesaid being 
 fixed as the inmate at the Velascos, rather than 
 very many others, to whose lot it might have 
 fallen. 
 
 Major Bouvillon lived but to eat, as well, as 
 often, and as much as he could. He would 
 not bore them with his company, for he could 
 not talk Spanish. He would not pain Leonora 
 by gallantries, for he cared not an empty nut- 
 shell for the assembled beauties of the earth, 
 The arrival of a Pate de Perigor*d would be 
 to him worth all the love-letters that ever w r ere 
 written ; and his little wife, well knowing her 
 man, suffered few convoys to pass Bayonne 
 without forwarding small baskets, some of which 
 actually found their way into New Castile, with 
 some seasoned pasty or delicacy for her absent
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER, 177 
 
 lord, whose letters to her were principally filled 
 with complaints of starvation and curses upon 
 the country, which, he declared with some show 
 of truth, had neither market, larder, or poultry- 
 yard. 
 
 To lose as little time as possible, the little 
 man, while his servant was gone, approached 
 the Lady Cassilda with a very eager enquiry — 
 about fowls, sausages, and white bread ; and 
 had she not been relieved by the entry of Father 
 Clemente, who, by the promise of a loaf of the 
 whitest, a few eggs, and the last skinny gallinha, 
 that Theresa had hidden in the wood-house, 
 pacified Major Bouvillon, and made him com- 
 placent, she would have been under the neces- 
 sity, with a heart that was well-nigh breaking, 
 to sustain a long colloquy with this little gour- 
 mand, concerning all the chances of good fare 
 which the produce of Cordova, and its fine 
 neighbourhood, might afford him.
 
 178 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 I have gone all night : — 'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. 
 But, soft ! no bedfellow : — O, Gods and Goddesses ! 
 These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ; 
 This bloody man the care on't — Cymbeline. 
 
 I must now, for a while, change the scene from 
 Cordova, and follow the afflicted Miranda. 
 Her purpose of going in person to seek, and, if 
 he needed it, to succour her dear Monteiro, was 
 conceived on that same evening, when she lay 
 apart on the couch, alike deaf and blind to the 
 sympathising words and looks of Leonora. Of 
 all the conversation, she had heeded nothing 
 save a few words which fell from Clemente, con- 
 cerning the comfort and trust to be always 
 obtained by a sense of God's presence, and an 
 implicit resigned faith in his goodness and 
 mercy in the hour of trial. These words came 
 to the aid of her weakness, as she thought upon 
 the enterprise she was revolving, and confirmed
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 179 
 
 and strengthened that courage to which love 
 had given birth. To believe what we hope is 
 natural ; and thus she possessed herself with the 
 sweet and strong belief that a betrothed damsel, 
 seeking the accepted lord of her young affections, 
 would be guided and guarded by Heaven. 
 
 That Leonora left her side at midnight for 
 her oratory, was hailed by her as a most favour- 
 able opportunity, and a happy omen. She rose, 
 and without otherwise performing her own 
 devotions than by constant and fervent ejacu- 
 lations, as she prepared herself for the under- 
 taking, she seated herself before a glass, and 
 commenced the most important part of her 
 transformation, by rubbing over her face and 
 throat, arms and hands, with a juice, which she 
 had long kept by her for the very purpose 
 to which she now applied it. Its stain was a 
 deep and a dirty brown, deeper than that of 
 any gitana in the land^ and without the trans- 
 parent clearness of their dark but glowing com- 
 plexion. Miranda had thought the time might 
 arrive when she should be the compelled resi- 
 dent in the same town with the French troops ; 
 n 2
 
 180 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 and, not unconscious of her charms, it had been 
 her secret resolve, if such event befel her, to 
 disguise them, as thus she might, from enemies, 
 whose character for licentiousness and profli- 
 gacy was widely known, and by every patriot 
 and every constant girl in Spain was dreaded. 
 
 It was after she had thus, for the same end, 
 but with a very different and far more severe 
 trial before her, effected in part, for in part only 
 was it possible, the concealment of her beauty; 
 and after she had completed the disguise of her 
 person, by the gown and mantilla of Jacintha, 
 that she penned the note which Leonora found 
 on her table, and then stopping for one moment 
 at the door of her uncle's room to breathe a 
 prayer, as she passed, quitted, for the first time 
 in her young life, the shelter of a home. 
 Scarcely, if ever, had she before passed the 
 threshold of a house alone : and now, she stood 
 alone in the streets of Cordova, with no 
 guardian, no guide but Him who made her, 
 but of whose protection the man that sees no 
 other, though he howl for it, and too often 
 makes little account or expectancy.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 181 
 
 Miranda, though love was prompting her, 
 though the object of that love was filling her 
 young heart, had nevertheless all the devotional 
 feelings of her country, her age and her sex ; 
 and, as she kneeled before the rude Madonna 
 in the dirty corner, whither the dull lamp upon 
 its shrine guided her, there was a kind of pant- 
 ing hopeful reliance that swelled her bosom with 
 the fervour of a willing trust. 
 
 After some little hesitation as to the route 
 she should take, she bethought herself of the 
 hermitages which lie on the brow of the Sierra, 
 about two leagues to the northward of the city ; 
 — these she knew to be deserted, for she had 
 one day rode there with Leonora to enjoy the 
 romantic site, and the rich and noble prospect 
 they command. As it was a spot only accessible 
 by a narrow bye-path, and as it commanded a 
 good view of all the roads which led from La 
 Mancha, it seemed the best post from whence 
 to watch her opportunity of a clear passage, and 
 take her departure. She should thus avoid 
 both the fugitive Spaniards and advancing 
 Frenchmen; moreover, she should baffle any 
 N 3
 
 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 direct pursuit, and be alone, which she less 
 dreaded than the chance-medley of a mule 
 train. 
 
 To those familiar with the night-walk it is 
 sweet; but weather and mind must be calm 
 and tranquil. Miranda was by nature timid and 
 delicate as a house-lamb, and she pursued her 
 way mournfully. It was light enough to see the 
 road ; but it was gloomy and chilly, with small 
 rain. For two miles, she passed between high 
 walls, enclosing gardens and vineyards. She 
 met no one, but, from beneath the gates, the 
 watch-dogs barked sudden and eager at her 
 near step, and growled sullen till it died away. 
 They startled her, and made her nervous ; and 
 she was glad to get out upon the more open 
 and rising ground. The ascent was slow and 
 gradual ; but stillness reigned over the heath 
 and rock, on which the path now lay clearly 
 denned, and with hushed fears she pressed on- 
 wards. 
 
 She was yet a mile from the hermitages when 
 the day dawned. The light broke out grey and 
 cold, and the misty rain still continued. She
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 183 
 
 felt very forlorn ; and when she gained the first 
 hermitage, which stood open and forsaken, after 
 bending her trembling knees and saying the 
 matin service before the wooden crucifix, which 
 still consecrated the rude dwelling to the service 
 of Heaven, she threw herself upon a low bed- 
 stead made of rude logs, and covered with cork, 
 and committing herself, with tears, to the pro- 
 tection of the blessed Virgin, she fell into a pro- 
 found sleep. 
 
 From this merciful and refreshing slumber 
 she was awakened by the pleasant light of a soft 
 sunshine, which shed its comforting rays upon 
 the doorway, and upon the wall opposite in the 
 wild romantic hut in which she had reposed. 
 
 The floor was a kind of rude mosaic, formed 
 of various coloured pebbles, and wrought after 
 the pattern of those arabesque pavements, where- 
 of there are many remains at Cordova as well 
 as in Grenada. The walls of this dwelling were 
 lined with cork. In the centre of the wall, 
 opposite the door-way, hung the crucifix, large, 
 and better executed than in such places it is 
 common to find that sacred symbol. On rude 
 N 4
 
 184 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 supports of rough-hewn timber stood a slab of 
 the grey marble of Carolina ; it seemed designed 
 as an altar. This was indeed evident from 
 there being two steps of red granite in front of 
 it, — blocks not exactly fitting, but answering 
 the purpose. On either side, the chamber ran 
 back into recesses wide of the door, so that 
 it was quite possible for any one standing 
 there not to observe a person in them, without 
 looking expressly and intently for such object ; 
 while, on the contrary, any one within could, 
 by a very slight effort, and such small exposure 
 of eye and head, as might well in the shadow be 
 unperceived, command a view of the door-wiiy, 
 and some space beyond. In one of these recesses 
 stood a low table of cork, scarce higher than the 
 trivet by its side ; also a large earthen jar of that 
 porous clay which answers as the water-cooler. 
 In the other was the rude stretcher of cork 
 where Miranda had slept, "pillowed, as she 
 now first observed, upon a small chest of iron, 
 over which some rushes had been spread. In 
 the corner, on the wall, hung a brown robe of 
 coarse woollen ; a long staff leaned beside it ;
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 185 
 
 and some scallop shells, which, from the holes 
 in them, had been worn on pilgrimage, were 
 placed carefully, one within the other, on a small 
 shelf at the bed- head. A slender rope hung 
 just above this couch, and communicated by iron 
 rings on the roof-tree with a bell, which was 
 suspended at the top of the door-way, visible 
 from within ; and was surmounted on the out- 
 side, as she remembered to have observed on 
 entering, by a plain wooden cross. 
 
 Miranda had scarce time to make this survey 
 of her temporary place of refuge, ere she was 
 terrified by the sound of a loud and horrible 
 curse, uttered by a hoarse deep voice ; this was 
 followed by the neigh of a mule, which instantly 
 received a weighty and silencing blow from a 
 large strong arm, beating up its head and reining 
 it back, so that it might be seen from Miranda's 
 pillow. It was a large, strong, tall animal, 
 frothing at the mouth and black with sweat ; it 
 had that light pack-saddle on which all classes, 
 save the nobles, ride, with the uncommon addi- 
 tion of rusty iron stirrups ; and a huge blunder- 
 buss hung from a hook on the fore part of it.
 
 186 THE LADY OF C3RD0VA; OR, 
 
 Miranda was somewhat alarmed ; but it was 
 at all events a Spaniard. She lay still, however, 
 and heard the following soliloquy : " I must cut 
 a notch for that white-livered thief in the night. 
 How the villain prayed, and how he trembled, 
 the bushy-whiskered rascal ! — bent his stubborn 
 knees to me ! I wonder whether he had ever 
 knelt before ; whether he ever bent his knees 
 to Heaven. The ruffian had a stolen crucifix 
 of gold in his big red breeches. Aye, sound 
 away with your infernal trumpets — sound away 
 — you cannot awake those I send to sleep — they 
 never join muster again — nineteen — my trusty 
 knife — send me, our lady of the seven wounds, 
 send me one, to make up the score, this blessed 
 day — guide me some bold straggler here, and 
 let me sacrifice him to thee here before the cross. 
 See, thou mother of grief, see them how they 
 go glittering along in the sun. Listen to their 
 laughter — how it comes up upon the wind, as they 
 pass the gate of merry Cordova — merry that 
 was : — that music will make me mad, if I hear 
 not some French robber sing his death-note be- 
 fore night-fall. A dozen candles to thy shrine, 
 lady, on the Sierra de Avila, for this grace."
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 187 
 
 There was a long silence, during which the 
 speaker was most probably engaged in watching 
 the French troops, as corps after corps, with 
 banner and eagle, with rolling drums, and the 
 noise of brazen and of softer instruments, at mo- 
 ments faintly heard in the pauses, they entered 
 the city below. 
 
 The sounds alone reached Miranda. There 
 was a something in this man's voice that fright- 
 ened and kept her still ; nor was her fear at all 
 diminished by the sight of him, as at length he 
 came in front of the door-way, and, dropping on 
 his knees before the crucifix within, performed 
 his brief devotions; but, though brief, they seemed 
 of intense fervour. His eyes either rested on the 
 earth, or rolled as though they saw heaven open 
 upwards ; — he beat his bosom, — he stretched 
 himself on his face, and kissed the earth ; and, 
 ever as he prayed, he passed nervously over his 
 fingers the rosary of a female. While he was 
 thus employed, Miranda had leisure to examine 
 the figure before her, which she did with intent 
 curiosity quickened by terror. 
 
 He was a man of that settled ferocity of coun-
 
 188 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 tenance, that even the self-abasement of his 
 posture and tone abated but little of its savage 
 expression. His eyes were a dull black, with a 
 yellowish white, and they were shadowed by 
 eyebrows of dark -grey hair, very thick and 
 bushy ; a nose broad and rather flat ; cheeks 
 wide and hard, as though they were leathern ; 
 a naked throat, that seemed from the size and 
 fulness of its muscles and veins short for his 
 height ; and a frame, that in trunk and in every 
 limb, in breadth and sinew, corresponded with 
 the idea of a strength terrible and resistless. A 
 Montero cap of black velvet lay on the ground 
 by his side. He had on a tarnished waistcoat, 
 of the same material, with buttons of silver, not 
 filigree, which is the more common fashion in 
 Andalusia, but broad and solid. His brown 
 jacket was hung loose over one shoulder ; its 
 party-coloured patchwork at the waist and on 
 the sleeve marking from its pattern a La Man- 
 chan. A broad cartridge-belt of black leather 
 was fastened about his body by a strong iron 
 buckle. He wore a red sash underneath this 
 wound loosely round, and bulging before with
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. ] 89 
 
 purse and tobacco-pouch ; brown breeches, 
 laced half-way down the thigh with red cord, 
 and greaves of black leather on his legs, as stiff 
 and impenetrable as ancient bucklers, and of 
 the very same fabric completed the costume 
 of this fierce patriot, with the exception of a long 
 knife that he wore sheathed in his girdle, and 
 the haft of another that was visible from out his 
 breeches-pocket. He had neither sword nor 
 pistol; and but for the short blunderbuss at his 
 saddle-bow, which, together with his cartridge- 
 belt, were more easily to be cloked or altogether 
 concealed than even a long trusty Toledo blade, 
 he presented on the road no other appearance 
 than that of a Spanish yeoman or farmer of the 
 more substantial class, having a vineyard and a 
 threshing-floor of his own. Such was the per- 
 son that young Miranda saw, and whose harsh 
 repulsive features, weapons, and dress, her 
 glance took in at once, — even in less time than 
 we, who have thus tediously described him, could 
 make a stroke of our pen. 
 
 As he rose from his knees, and replaced the 
 Montero cap upon his dark grizzled head, and
 
 190 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 turned round, he uttered the same curse that 
 she had first heard from his lips, as loud, as 
 hoarse, and more frightful, for it was fiercely 
 joyous ; — even as the roar of the lion when he 
 seeth his coming prey. 
 
 She was not left long in doubt as to the truth. 
 — " Mother of Mercy," said he, feeling in- 
 stinctively for the handle of his knife, " there 
 are two of these children of the devil even 
 now coming up the path : — they are stragglers 
 from that baggage guard ; — they are making 
 for these goats. Is it milk your senhorias 
 want? — or is it a kid? — I'll just drive these 
 goats over yonder brow. There's a nice shade 
 under the old cork-tree, and water, for I want 
 some drink myself, your senhorias, and, may 
 be ? your haversacks will find me a biscuit to 
 break my fast upon." So saying, he took his 
 mule by her halter, and passed higher up the 
 rock, at the back of the hermitage where Mi- 
 randa lay. She was in hopes she might escape 
 the observation of both parties, and kept her- 
 self still. 
 
 The path did not lie near the door, and she
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 191 
 
 heard the Frenchmen, as she thought, pass by. 
 They did so ; — but, from caprice or fatigue, 
 turned back and entered the hut. 
 
 " A prize," cried the first that entered who im- 
 mediately saw Miranda; — " a prize — a skin like 
 a camp-kettle, but a woman." Her distress by a 
 piercing shriek she would have made known, — 
 and catching at the rope, she rung out the bell, 
 which hung under the cross, with violence ; — 
 but her shriek died upon the air, and the bells 
 tinkled mournfully, none heeding. The soldier 
 who caught hold of her, bade her, with a curse, 
 be silent, lest he shot her, and proceeded quietly 
 to take off his knapsack: his comrade did the 
 same. They lit their pipes — and began abusing 
 her for a noisy gypsey, — and she was darkly 
 revolving a desperate effort to free herself or 
 perish, — when the same Spaniard we have just 
 described presented himself at the door of the 
 hermitage. 
 
 He almost laughed as he said quietly, " Your 
 senhorias are early plucking * the hen-turkey 
 this morning — early at your mass too, by the 
 
 * Pelar la pava — gallivanting or flirting
 
 192 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 pleasant bells." The soldiers, though they 
 were young men, and handsome, and active, 
 turned white as their belts at that swarthy smile. 
 " You are not loaded," said the La Manchan, 
 as he beat down a presented firelock ; and rush- 
 ing in on them, as they stood close together, 
 brained one against the grey marble altar-stone, 
 by a blow like the stroke of a hammer, and 
 seizing the other with his left hand by the col- 
 lar, he tripped him up, and threw him down on 
 the granite step at the foot of the altar. Here, 
 kneeling upon his breast, he drew out his knife, 
 and thus addressed the miserable victim, who im- 
 plored mercy in a tone so frantic, and with agaze 
 of such wild and vacant terror, that Miranda, 
 (Ah ! little thought she what it was to witness 
 the avenging of blood,) Miranda herself pleaded 
 for him, but in vain. " Howl not like a drown- 
 ing puppy, but die like one who deals out 
 death-shots, and is familiar with the grisly king. 
 Hear why you die. A year ago I was the 
 son of a father, — and the husband of a wife, — 
 and the parent of a family : — I have now no 
 father — no wife — no children, — I found my
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 193 
 
 homestead in ashes, — my innocents in their 
 cold gore, — my wife had slain herself: — not 
 a hand even polluted her. She slew herself, — 
 but, my grey father, my grey father, — look up, 
 Frenchman ; look at that holy crucifix : — the 
 bold and blasphemous barbarians crucified him, 
 crucified the old man. Shall not the mocked 
 Lord visit for these things? Wretch ! thy miser- 
 able life-blood is but as a drop to the staying 
 of my thirst for vengeance. Could I, at this 
 stroke, let flow the blood of all thy monster 
 comrades, it were a poor revenge to me. I 
 have a fever and a thirst will never quit 
 me while a Frenchman lives. Don't struggle 
 with thy coward hands — for all my looks, I 
 was accounted as kind a master and as kind a 
 man as ever sat on hearthstone in La Mancha 
 — and so I was — and I am still, in my re- 
 venge, a man. I never torture, not even a 
 Frenchman ; I only kill." With that he drew 
 his knife swift across his victim's throat — it 
 gushed out the young strong life in fast flowing 
 blood — and the steps of the altar were stained, 
 o
 
 194 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 and the floor of the peaceful hermitage was 
 cumbered with two corpses in their gore. 
 
 Miranda did not faint ; but she was sick as 
 death, and, escaping into the open air, sunk 
 down upon the greensward, unable to stand or 
 speak. 
 
 " What dost thou tremble at '?" said he, as, 
 coming out with the red knife in his hand, he 
 observed the consternation of Miranda. " They 
 would have robbed thee of all, perhaps, thou 
 hadst to lose, maiden, if, indeed, that name 
 belong to thee. I must go see how they cut 
 up." With that he went in, and returned, 
 bringing with him their knapsacks, and their 
 coats and caps. " Fat, fat, I perceive," he 
 cried, sitting down, and ripping the collar of 
 one of the coats, from whence fell several gold 
 doubloons. Yellow metal and right royal 
 Spanish. From the skirt lappets of the other 
 he cut a like prize ; — and after thrusting 
 his knife through the leathern top of the 
 schakos, to see whether they were furnished 
 with false crowns and hidden booty, he opened 
 and turned out the contents of the knapsacks. In
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 195 
 
 one, wrapped in a bit of heavy-flowered silk, that 
 had been a priest's cope, he found a gilt sacra- 
 mental cup, beaten flat with a hammer, and in the 
 same wrapper was a pack of dirty playing cards, 
 and some wooden dice. " Ah, thou mayest go 
 play for thy prize," he exclaimed; "thou 
 wilt meet dicers enough where thou art gone ! — 
 and now for thine arms." These he brake on 
 the ground, throwing the butts in one di- 
 rection, and the barrels in another, and breaking 
 the bayonet points between the fissures of the 
 rock. 
 
 He now again turned to Miranda, and throw- 
 ing her a gold piece, said, — " I counsel thee, 
 fly, gipsy ; for if the French find thee here, 
 and there will soon be some of them marauding 
 on this hill, thy life will answer for my deed." 
 
 " I do not want gold," said Miranda, in a 
 timid tone; " I only want a safe path, and that 
 Heaven alone can grant." 
 
 " Not want gold ! Thou art the first of thy 
 colour whose palm was not a loadstone to this 
 metal: — but now I look again, methinks that 
 o 2
 
 196 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 shoe tells tales. It was never made for the foot 
 of a tramper, but it seems to fit thine well 
 enough." 
 
 Miranda looked down, and seeing the neat 
 shoes of Cadiz on her feet, felt eonfused and 
 detected. 
 
 " As you are a true Spaniard," she cried, 
 " do not harm me. I am of gentle blood, the 
 betrothed of a brave man, who is fighting his 
 country's battles, or who has fallen perhaps in 
 the last sad battle. I go to seek and die with 
 him, or to sit upon his grave." 
 
 " Bartolome Perez harm thee ! Ah, lady, no ! 
 I have been a husband and a father. I have 
 had a wife that smiled, and children that prattled 
 on my knee. I will not harm thee." 
 
 As he spoke, his stern aspect relaxed into the 
 expression of one whose memory looks back 
 with a tender rnournfulness on the perished 
 objects of his love. 
 
 " No, lady, I will not harm thee ; I am not 
 all I seem. Nature cast me in a rough mould, 
 but she gave me a heart that once was gentle, and 
 that, to the unhappy, is gentle still. I'll serve
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 197 
 
 thee, lady, and give thee safe conduct on thy 
 way. There's not a path over the Sierra, and 
 not a house of safety in La Mancha, but Bar- 
 tholo can find them. Nay, look not doubtfully ; 
 I will wash these hands — it is but blood of 
 France ; — thy betrothed, I'll warrant him, has 
 shed it like water, and with joy, as I do. This 
 gold I must put up for Don Juan de Velasco, 
 'twill help him appoint his guerilla. Would I 
 had bethought me to hide the arms for him !" 
 
 " Don Juan de Velasco ! Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 " Well ! He has thrown up his commission 
 some months, and commands a small but brave 
 guerilla, that flies all over the country. He has 
 revenged his father's murder like a son. He 
 will soon be down after these rascals, and the 
 priest with him." 
 
 Miranda now told him of her connection with 
 the family of Velasco, and expressed her wonder 
 that the Lady Cassilda knew not of her son's 
 movements. Bartholo seemed not at all sur- 
 prised. 
 
 o 3
 
 198 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 " He has little time," said he, " for the writ- 
 ing of letters and thinking about mothers and 
 aunts. He lives on a horse's back, and sleeps, 
 when he does sleep, pillowed on a saddle. If I 
 joined any one, it should be him, or the priest ; 
 — but I like snaring my own game, and cutting 
 French throats by myself. By the way, this 
 very hermitage was the priest's dwelling-place 
 for five years ; but at the breaking out of the 
 war he left it, and was never heard of till four 
 months ago, when he started up in Castile, at 
 the head of some as sturdy paysanos as ever 
 trod in a sandal; and, strange to say, not a 
 hand has touched thing in this hut, nor has 
 friend or foe dared force the iron box that lies 
 at the bed-head. Did you see it, lady, and 
 mark the lines on the lid ?" 
 
 " I saw the box ; but did not mark any in- 
 scription." 
 
 " You did not see them, and you fear the 
 bodies. Well, I can say them. Many a time I 
 have conned them over, but never found courage 
 to open the chest.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 199 
 
 < Child of Sorrow, child of Sin, 
 A spirit pure is hid within ; — 
 A spirit of power, a spirit of love ; 
 'Twill guide thine heart to God above ; 
 But an if again thou look below, 
 As now to me, so then to thee, 
 'Twill whisper final misery, 
 Show Hell thy doom, and God thy foe.' 
 
 I have wondered no Frenchman forced it; — 
 but they were not in Cordova, last time, for 
 long, and may be the rushes hid it ; or even 
 among them there be some that fear God, 
 and felt the soft heart. The priest was ever a 
 gloomy man : — he looks to this day, except 
 when he is fighting, as though he was always in 
 a fearful dream, and listening to sounds in the 
 air Come, lady, follow me; we must set for- 
 ward ; but you look faint. I have found food 
 for you ; and after you are refreshed, you will 
 be the better able to bear the fatigue of a long 
 ride before nightfall." 
 
 Accordingly, bestowing the doubloons in a 
 strong leathern belt, which he wore beneath his 
 sash, and took off for the purpose, and taking 
 the gilt cup in his hand, he led the way over the 
 brow of a little rocky eminence near them. For 
 o 4
 
 200 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 a moment they both paused upon the summit, 
 and looked down on Cordova and its gardens, 
 lying fair and pleasant in the golden sunshine, 
 and away over the wide plain, which spread its 
 green carpet of fertility farther than the eye 
 might distinguish its colour, and was lost in one 
 direction in an horizon of calm and lovely blue ; 
 while, in another, the Sierra Nevada of the 
 kingdom of Granada lifted its pure diadem of 
 untrodden snows into the heavens, as if it were 
 the bright barrier of that better land, where 
 alone is peace. 
 
 " Espagna, Espagna /" uttered Bartholo, 
 with a deep-drawn sigh ; " my country, my 
 country ! Malditos Franceses !" 
 
 To Miranda the thought of her uncle and 
 Leonora came up vivid as though she heard 
 them speaking of her. What she had already 
 seen — what she might see — the fate of Mon- 
 teiro — mingled their shadows with that thought, 
 and, overpowered by her emotions, she shed a 
 torrent of warm tears. 
 
 " Are you faint-hearted, lady ? will you go 
 back ? " said Bartholo.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 201 
 
 " Oh, no ; I am ashamed of my tears ; but — " 
 " But — weep on, and freely, and no shame in it. 
 I wish tears would come to my relief — that will 
 never be again. Blood, blood, and then the 
 remnant of my days alone ; and then a grave, 
 and no mourners ! Come, lady." 
 
 She moved on, and soon they stopped under 
 an old knotted cork-tree, nigh to the root of 
 which, in a rocky channel, rushed a clear spark- 
 ling rivulet: its surface was all of pearly bubbles, 
 and its sound all gladness. The goatherd boy, 
 unconscious of all that had past, lay spreading 
 his young limbs in indolence beneath the shadow 
 of the tree. The mule was drinking from the 
 stream, whither, in spite of the tethered legs, 
 she had slowly made her way by jumps; and 
 upon the rocky height, that rose again imme- 
 diately above this small secluded nook, the goats 
 and kids browsed or gambolled, or placing 
 themselves on some little point that seemed too 
 small to give footing to a cat, stood staring 
 around, as if, with a playful vanity, they sought 
 to be seen as well as see. It was not a sight for 
 Miranda to heed, or her stern companion : they
 
 202 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 sat them down, he spreading his cloak upon 
 the ground for her. He now produced a loaf 
 of bread, and pulling out a leathern cup from 
 his pocket, which, though it looked flat as a 
 purse, opened into a size sufficient to contain a 
 pint of liquor, He made the young goatherd 
 fill it with milk, he holding it at the rock-foot, 
 while the urchin pressed the full udder of his 
 kindly bleating pet-goat. This he presented to 
 Miranda, who drank a little, and nervously 
 swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread. Bartholo 
 consumed the better half of a loaf, and drank 
 plentifully of the sweet water from the brimming 
 goblet of his joined and hollowed palms ; for the 
 leathern conveniency he carried only as a trophy, 
 having found it on the person of a French of- 
 ficer, and he himself spurning the use of it. He 
 would display and talk of it with contempt, as 
 an unsoldier-like substitute for the hand or the 
 helmet. After this he girted up the mule, pre- 
 sented her with the remainder of the bread, 
 placed Miranda carefully on her back, pointed 
 the mule's head down the path he designed her 
 to take, and giving her a hoarse word, and a
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 203 
 
 slap with his broad hand upon her haunch, she 
 moved off with her light and unaccustomed 
 burden briskly, followed at a stout pace by her 
 strong and satisfied master, who, at the first bit 
 of hilly and stony ground, where she was com- 
 pelled to slacken her fast walk, pulled out his 
 trusty knife from his girdle, and, taking the 
 other from his pocket, incised upon its handle 
 two more notches.
 
 204< THE LADY OF CORDOVA'. OR, 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 Sit, then, and talk with her ; she is thine own. 
 
 Tempest. 
 
 Miranda had now seen fulfilled a wish, which 
 she had often expressed : she had seen the blood 
 of Frenchmen spilled at her very feet ; and the 
 shedder of that blood, a man who seemed to live 
 for no other object, was now her companion, her 
 protector, her guide. Her spirit sunk as she 
 looked upon this Bartholo, and as she thought 
 upon the two youthful soldiers lying in their 
 gore at the very altar's foot. Her notion of 
 bloodshed had ever been associated with a brave 
 and open contest on a battle plain, or upon an 
 open breach ; to have stood by the side of her 
 Monteiro in some last and terrible assault, and 
 to have given such bright example of fortitude 
 and constancy amid the scene of carnage, as 
 might have proved her worthy to be the bride 
 of a patriot and a hero. This had been her day-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 205 
 
 dream, and her wish ; but this which she had 
 witnessed, — this disheartened and alarmed her, 
 discolouring life for ever. Miranda felt as cer- 
 tain as though a spirit had whispered it, that 
 she should laugh no more ; — and how they 
 had laughed, she and Leonora, when they 
 were a little younger, and knew T no war, but 
 that which with sugar-plums they waged at that 
 season of flowers and folly, the merry carnival. 
 As she mused heavily in her heart upon such 
 matters, Bartholo stopped the mule, and lifting 
 her off for a moment, so disposed his blunder- 
 buss and cartridge-belt, as to conceal them 
 under the coverlet of the saddle. This done, 
 he again threw across it his brown cloak, re- 
 placed her upon the animal, and, bidding her 
 not fear, told her they were now T going to enter 
 for a time on the main road, and should pro- 
 bably meet some of the enemy. He had scarce 
 warned her, when, at the distance of some 
 forty yards in front, she perceived a guard of 
 French soldiers, escorting several carts and 
 baggage-mules, pass along the main road leading 
 from Alcolea to Cordova. Bartholo caught
 
 206 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 the bridle of the animal, and leading it a little 
 on one side, where it might not readily be dis- 
 cerned from the road, bade her sit quiet, while 
 he went forward to see the coast clear before 
 them; — and "who knows," said he, with a 
 fierce smile, " but T may have another notch 
 to cut to-day, lady ? — luck never rains, but it 
 pours, be it good or bad." " Nay, pray friend," 
 said she, " think not of such a thing now — it 
 will endanger our journey sadly." — " You are 
 but a chicken-hearted girl to be the wife of a 
 soldier," replied Bartholo ; and moving on at as 
 stealthy a pace as was possible for a man of his 
 frame, he gained a large bush of the prickly 
 pear, close to the road-side, and stood behind 
 it in bending concealment to reconnoitre the 
 party. These last were marching at ease in 
 high spirits, singing out the snatch of a cam- 
 paign song, that begins with 
 
 " Mi madre non quiere soldados, aqui." 
 
 and promising themselves good billets, good 
 wine, and merry dances in Cordova. 
 
 They passed on in good order, well closed
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 20? 
 
 up, — not a straggler behind them; and 
 Bartholo, beckoning Miranda, she rode forward 
 to join him, and they turned into the high road. 
 They had not proceeded far before they met 
 a bareheaded boy with two goats in a string, 
 which, by pulling different ways, and struggling 
 either in play or in obstinacy, or for the casual 
 cropping of some shrub by the road-side, had 
 considerably retarded their vexed keeper, and 
 kept him so far in rear of the baggage, to which, 
 from a glance, Bartholo saw he belonged, as to 
 leave him out of sight and protection. 
 
 The boy was singularly ill-favoured in his 
 appearance ; his hair coarse and matted, his 
 eyes had both of them a cast or squint, his 
 cheeks were bony, his skin yellow, and 
 there were wrinkles upon his low forehead 
 that seemed formed by habitual shrinking ; his 
 shoulders were round, his arms and legs thin 
 and skinny : he no sooner caught the fierce look 
 and form of Bartholo, than he gave the shrug 
 of fear ; nor was it without reason, for Bartholo 
 immediately assailed him with a curse, and with 
 a demand.
 
 208 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 " Thou imp of dirt, thou cat of the devil, 
 what dost thou do dancing after these French 
 demons with stolen goats ? " 
 
 " The} 7 are not stolen," said the frightened 
 boy. — " Why, you young whelp, is not that a 
 French forage-cap thou hast got in thy hand, 
 trying to hide behind thy ragged breech? and 
 art thou not a follower, and a fitting and a will- 
 ing one, of these French rascals? and are not 
 these goats Spanish ? and was there no Spanish 
 blood spilt in the robbing of them ? " 
 
 The boy growing bolder said, rather doggedly, 
 " Are twenty dollars, think you, the worth of 
 them ? or, did you ever give twenty dollars to 
 a widow in her want? for that was what I saw 
 paid for them to a lone widow, and she, upon 
 her knees, fearing all the while for her life, and 
 then sending blessings after the generous cava- 
 lier that save her bread for her little ones." 
 
 " Why, you little traitor, is it of a Frenchman 
 you speak ? — I'll screw your scraggy neck off, 
 and leave you as carrion for the crows, if they'll 
 touch thee." 
 
 " I should have been carrion long ago but
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 209 
 
 for him I serve. He saved my life when other 
 lives were a losing ; and he has fed me when 
 no Spaniard would give me bread." 
 
 " Thou art not worth thy bread." 
 
 " So they have said to me, wherever I have 
 wandered since the burning of our village. 
 I have had many blows, hungry days, and 
 cold nights, and colder words since then, 
 till now, for these few weeks, and mine enemy 
 has looked kinder on me than my friends. Is 
 it strange, that without a home in Spain, 
 or without one Spaniard that cares for me, I 
 should take the world for my country, and a 
 man for my master ? " 
 
 " Thou spawn of a beggar, wast thou not 
 born on a Spanish dunghill ? and hast thou not 
 the heart to love and be faithful to those who 
 fight for thy dunghill ? " 
 
 " I will tell you what," said the boy ; " when 
 Presidonio begged bread in the camp of Cuesta, 
 they pelted him with bean-stalks, and said, he 
 was too ugly to be a patriot, and could not be 
 a Spaniard born."
 
 210 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 " It is such stuff they make a spy of ; but they 
 never shall of thee, young raven." 
 
 With these words he caught hold of the boy, 
 who cried for mercy, as did also Miranda, most 
 earnestly, and seemed only deliberating which 
 way to put him to death, when a small party of 
 French dragoons came trotting up from the 
 side of Alcolea ; and one of them, recognising 
 the boy as he approached, called out in a 
 cheerful tone, that bespoke habitual good hu- 
 mour, as did his open florid countenance, " Oh- 
 ho, Presidonio," playfully prolonging the sound ; 
 " Oh-ho, Presidonio, what do you here, you 
 young ragamuffin, with the Senhor Eustatio's 
 goats lagging in the rear, and he without milk 
 for his coffee ? " 
 
 The boy gave a look at Bartholo, as much as 
 to say, tables are turned, but I wont get you 
 harmed ; T am Spaniard enough in my heart for 
 that; and then catching up the cord of his 
 goats, which had been dropped when Bartholo 
 seized him, and driving them forward, he con- 
 trived, by some effort, to keep them in front of 
 the horsemen, whose leader had so addressed
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 211 
 
 him, and all of whom had reined up, and now 
 relaxed into a walk. 
 
 It was well for Bartholo that this party, 
 coming up with a strong wind blowing before 
 them, heard not the cries with sufficient distinct- 
 ness to regard them, and that the boy made no 
 complaint to them of his treatment ; for, in spite 
 of their cheerfulness, it had gone hard with him 
 for his life. 
 
 Bartholo, ill-pleased with this interruption, 
 and Miranda rejoicing at it, they went forward ; 
 the one silent, the other muttering to himself 
 the language of vexation, and the promise of 
 future victims. 
 
 Before, however, they reached the hill, on 
 which stands the town of La Carolina, where, 
 although it was occupied by the enemy, they 
 were to pass the night, at a house known to 
 Bartholo, he had recovered himself sufficiently 
 from his anger to re-assume a manner of respect 
 and kindness to his timid and unhappy charge. 
 
 She had been pondering on the name of 
 Eustatio, and the anecdote related of him ; and 
 p 2
 
 212 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 with this, the scene of her strange quarrel with 
 Leonora, and the fair portrait, which had been 
 the immediate cause of that unhappy difference, 
 arose to her mind, and filled her with doubts 
 and self-reproaches. Her separation from one 
 so gentle and beloved as Leonora, her asso- 
 ciation with one so fierce and full of vengeance 
 as her present conductor, affected her deeply, 
 and had well nigh shook her purpose, and 
 driven her to return ; but though her pride 
 could have yielded, her love was strong; and 
 the image of her fond Monteiro, dying, perhaps, 
 and none to succour him, — none, at all events, 
 who could so cheer his heart as she, or so gently 
 pillow his head as would her bosom, reconciled 
 her to all endurance and all hazard, so she 
 might attain her object. — She did. 
 
 It was upon the fourth evening of her journey, 
 that, as they were proceeding at a slow tired 
 pace across the plain, which lies near to the 
 town of Ocafia, her mule started, and when 
 Miranda looked round to see the cause, she 
 observed, with a shudder, a gorged vulture 
 standing by the half-consumed body of a man,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 213 
 
 which lay half sunken in a ditch of mud by the 
 road-side. 
 
 " 'Tis a Frenchman," said Bartholo, taking 
 up a stained fragment of cloth with a button 
 still attached having the impress of an eagle ; 
 " a Frenchman, thank God ! — the stomach of 
 the vulture be the grave of you all ! Here, lady, 
 do you see the mumbled bones all about, right 
 and left? It was here they fought, or should 
 have fought; and here lie the best and the bravest 
 of the army of Areizaga." 
 
 " It is very horrid," said Miranda, " very 
 horrid to look upon; do not let us stop." But, 
 at the same instant, an object caught her dis- 
 tracted gaze, at which she shrieked aloud, and 
 fell pale into the arms of Bartholo, who laid her 
 softly on a bank near, and with water from the 
 muddy and ensanguined pool bathed her temples 
 till she revived. No sooner did she open her 
 eyes, than they again took the same direction: 
 she pressed her hand wildly on her forehead, 
 threw back her hair, and, with dilated eye, 
 seeming to examine an object with an intentness 
 p 3
 
 214 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 that concentrated all her powers of mind and 
 feeling into her gaze, she repeated her sad shriek, 
 and relapsed again into total insensibility. When 
 she was again recovered, by the exertions of 
 Bartholo, she was able to satisfy his enquiry as 
 to her terror. 
 
 She pointed to the swollen carcass of a horse, 
 which lay but a few yards from them. " It was 
 Monteiro's," said she, faintly; " I knew it well — 
 the star on its forehead, and the speckles on its 
 crest." 
 
 The animal, as Bartholo observed, was marked 
 in too singular a manner to be readily forgotten, 
 being perfectly black, with the exception of a 
 broad and curious-shaped star on the front of 
 its head, and a few small spots of white on its 
 neck ; moreover, part of a bloody shabrack lay 
 by it, which, from the embroidery, must have 
 been an officer's, and, from the letters H. G., 
 might have belonged to the hussars of Guada- 
 laxara. 
 
 " My journey is ended," said Miranda, with 
 a despairing calmness ; " leave me here, friend ; 
 leave me among these bones and corpses : it
 
 THE SPANISH BKO'iHEJt, 215 
 
 may be Heaven will guide me to find his ; and 
 when I have put them beneath the ground, there 
 will be nothing on the face of this blank earth 
 that I should live for. Here shall be my resting- 
 place, — here soon my grave." 
 
 The stern eye of Bartholo softened as she 
 spoke, and he looked upon her and raised her 
 up slowly with compassion. 
 
 " Nay, lady, it follows not because the horse is 
 killed, that the rider is slain : thy cavalier may have 
 found another battle-horse, and be spurring him 
 against some rascally Frenchman now, while you 
 are breaking your heart with the thought of his 
 death : and likely enough he is to be doing so, 
 if the good saints preserved him ; for the head of 
 this gallant charger lies the right way, and, safe 
 or slain, thy lover was looking his foes bravely 
 in the face where this brave creature fell. And 
 indeed, lady, if he has fallen, not the quickest 
 eye that a true love ever gave to woman, would 
 recognise him among these fleshless forms of un- 
 clean bones about us. If he lives, this is no 
 place to gain tidings of him. Be ruled by me : 
 let us make for the hospitals in Toledo ; they 
 p 4
 
 216 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 are full of such wounded Spaniards as were 
 spared. There we shall learn if he survives, or 
 was among the killed. If he be dead, live to 
 avenge him — live upon blood : thou canst not 
 shed it ; but thou mayest see it shed, and listen 
 to groans, and feed upon them, as I do." 
 
 " There is a sound of hope about those 
 hospitals ; I will go to them. But do not, my 
 friend, talk about revenge; — what will it do for 
 me ? Will it give me back the dead ? will it 
 soothe my sorrow ? staunch the inward bleed- 
 ing of my heart ? will it fill up the void world 
 for me again ? What has it done for you ? has 
 it brought you back from the other world one 
 smile of grateful love? Does the shade of your 
 wife, think you, as you pass her rosary over your 
 bloody fingers, does it rejoice or shudder ? Is it 
 by a sacrifice of the blood and groans of beings, 
 sinful and miserable as ourselves, that we cause 
 to be released from the flames of purgatory the 
 souls of those we love ? Do you sleep better at 
 nights, and wake happier in the morning, for 
 your twenty notches ? do you pray the lighter 
 for them ? Can you ever know the blessing of
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 217 
 
 those tears which good men drop upon the cru- 
 cifix when they kiss it ? No ; if Monteiro be 
 dead, I will live for Heaven, and, through our 
 blessed Lady, we shall meet again !" 
 
 During this speech the fierce Bartholo stood 
 astonished. The deeds, for which alone he 
 seemed to endure life, — the deeds, which were 
 his sacred pride, thus questioned, and cast so 
 low ; and this too by an appeal to each query of 
 which he was forced to hang his bold head in 
 mournful confession that her inference was right. 
 All this produced so sudden a revolution of sen- 
 timent, and did so for the moment subdue him, 
 that he fell down upon his knees there where he 
 had been standing by the Frenchman's corpse, 
 and told his beads, and stretched himself on the 
 earth, calling with piercing and melancholy cries 
 upon the memory of his wife and little ones. 
 
 When he rose, he prevailed on Miranda 
 to go forward ; and they moved on as before, 
 she riding, and he walking behind her, in sad 
 and severe silence. They got shelter for that 
 night in a ruined and deserted house in the half- 
 destroyed town of Ocafia. Here, as they sat
 
 218 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 in one of the apartments, Miranda warming 
 herself by the fire which Bartholo had just made 
 for her, another party arriving, took possession 
 of the adjoining room. One of them asked per- 
 mission to bring an invalid of their company, 
 and place him by the fire of Bartholo, till their 
 own was kindled. This was of course granted ; 
 and two of them led in a weak, emaciated-look- 
 ing figure, shivering with an ague, leaning upon 
 a crutch, and having his right arm in a sling, and 
 placed him on the floor, putting two packsaddles 
 behind him for support. He lay thankful and 
 silent; his hands covering his eyes and the upper 
 part of his face, while the lower was disfigured 
 by the stubble of a neglected beard, as also by 
 the loosened and wrinkled skin of cheeks mi- 
 serably fallen away. Brown trowsers and coarse 
 shoes, without any stockings ; a brown doublet, 
 and a cloak of the same colour and quality, which 
 w r as very inferior, and none of which, save the 
 cloak, which is made for all sizes, seemed to fit 
 him, clothed, but could not conceal the rank of 
 this unhappy gentleman, whose hands alone 
 would have betrayed him. To a question from
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 219 
 
 Bartbolo, which satisfied him that he was in the 
 company of a loyal and trusty Spaniard, he an- 
 swered by stating that he was an officer of the 
 army of Areizaga, wounded in the late battle ; 
 that he had been made prisoner, and conveyed 
 to an hospital at Toledo, from whence, by the 
 assistance of some of Don Juan Velasco's gue- 
 rillas, he had just effected his escape ; that as 
 soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he was anx- 
 ious to make a secret visit to Cordova ; after 
 which he should join Velasco's people, and 
 harass the enemy whenever and wherever it was 
 possible, being persuaded, he said, that that was 
 the best and only warfare for the Spaniards, as 
 they had neither generals nor discipline to act in 
 armies. Exhausted with the effort of speaking, 
 he sunk into silence, and for many minutes 
 shook with his ague-fit most violently ; so that 
 Miranda feared to interrupt him by a question. 
 At length, in a pause between his coughings, she 
 asked him, did he know the hussars of Guada- 
 laxara, and Don Jose Monteiro of that corps, 
 and what had been his fate ? 
 
 " Miranda — " was the sole reply; the nerv-
 
 220 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 ous utterance — the stretched arms — the vain 
 effort to rise — and the sinking back again with 
 closed eyes and oppressive faintings, told Bar- 
 tholo who it was that Miranda rushed to, and 
 fell down upon, and flooded with sweet tears. 
 
 It was a moment to have lived for that meet- 
 ing. A pure and blessed overflow of true love, 
 granted and smiled upon by the great Father 
 of mercies. Monteiro and Miranda — a pair, 
 so formed and fashioned by the creating hand, 
 when prodigal of grace and beauty, that, as 
 they once moved together in the light dance, 
 all others would break off and gather round 
 them to admire. 'Twas with a kiss they sealed 
 their free betrothing, and kiss did never bind 
 a more loving or more lovely couple : and so 
 they parted ; and thus, within a little year, even 
 thus, they met again — the young Monteiro and 
 the fair Miranda.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 221 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 It is a basilisk unto mine eye — 
 
 Kills me to look on't : — Let there be no honour 
 
 "Where there is beauty ; — truth where semblance ; — love 
 
 Where there's another man. Cymbeline. 
 
 We return to Cordova. The confusion in 
 which we left the family of Velasco slowly sub- 
 sided ; but the mournful effects of it were 
 lasting. Don Christoval was confined to his 
 chamber and his bed ; he slowly recovered from 
 the injury on his head, and from the fever which 
 ensued ; but his reason never returned : and he 
 lay a sight melancholy to look upon, and a voice 
 melancholy to hear. — His old black attended 
 him with tears in his eyes, and Father Cle- 
 mente visited him many times a day, and prayed 
 for the poor unconscious sufferer the effectual 
 fervent prayer that availeth. The Lady Cas- 
 silda and Leonora, whom the good father would
 
 222 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 not allow to accompany him in these visits, 
 dwelt in the most retired apartment in the 
 house, and were very seldom visible. 
 
 Major Bouvillon and his man Mouton lorded 
 it over the mansion. There was always such a 
 fire as sadly disconcerted old Theresa; and, as 
 Major Bouvillon contrived, by a happy division 
 of his day, to find time for three regular meals, 
 and two little repasts, there was not a pot or 
 a stewpan in the house, but Mouton found some 
 use for it ; while, from morning till night, the 
 music of the frying-pan accompanied the bustling 
 movements and the cracked voice of Monsieur 
 Mouton, who soothed his labours by the eter- 
 nally-repeated couplet of 
 
 " Ce n'est pas de mauvais vin, 
 Mais ce n'est pas du Chambertin :" 
 
 and, not unfrequently, suited the action to the 
 words, by applying to his own greasy mouth 
 that of a large tin canteen, which he filled every 
 morning from the wine-house at the corner of 
 the square. 
 
 Eustace de Rochfort, partly that he might 
 protect it, and partly from association, and be-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 223 
 
 cause it suited his quiet taste, took up his quarters 
 in the garden-house of the Lady Cassilda, ex- 
 changing billets for that purpose with an officer 
 of another regiment, to whose lot it had fallen. 
 It had been left in the care of a labourer and 
 his wife, she keeping the little furniture in 
 order, and he working in the garden. Old 
 Anselmo was there daily, and thither too, very 
 often, most days indeed, Clementc bent his 
 steps, and never without exchanging some words 
 of courtesy or kindness with Eustace de 
 Rochfort. 
 
 The Lady Cassilda had been exceedingly 
 surprised and agitated by the painful scene 
 which took place on the morning that the 
 French entered. The language of Don Chris- 
 toval had wounded her pride, both as a Spaniard 
 and a devoted woman ; and it had, for the first 
 time, alarmed her fears as a mother. 
 
 Was it possible that Leonora had felt for the 
 noble enemy any sentiment more tender than 
 esteem ? No ; she rejected the suspicion at 
 once. Was not Leonora the daughter of her 
 own heart? and were not all their feelings
 
 224 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 kindred ? As she had thought of this stranger, 
 even so had her dear girl thought; and not one 
 emotion beyond a generous and grateful esti- 
 mate of unexpected worth in a foe could pos- 
 sibly have, even transiently, stirred the heart 
 of Leonora. They were all true Spaniards — 
 all true Velascos. The slight apprehension, 
 which had been for a moment admitted into her 
 mind, immediately after the accident of Don 
 Christoval, and while Leonora lay fainting at 
 her feet, was dissipated quickly by the events 
 that followed; and her feelings were for a time 
 absorbed in the sad calamity of her lamented 
 husband's venerable friend. 
 
 She was, however, well pleased that Eustace 
 De Rochfort was not an inmate in her present 
 residence ; and, satisfying her conscience in the 
 reflection that no opportunity would arise for 
 the possible misfortune of any attachment spring- 
 ing up between her daughter and the noble 
 Frenchman, she allowed herself to rejoice that 
 he occupied his old apartments in her garden- 
 house ; and seldom did an evening pass, as 
 Father Clemente, Leonora, and herself sat quiet
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER, 225 
 
 in the dusk together, that, in the way of some 
 enquiry made after or by him, or in the relation 
 of some anecdote connected with him, the name 
 of De Rochfort was not mentioned in their 
 circle. 
 
 Cordova was again become a scene of merri- 
 ment/ not indeed for the citizens, but for the 
 idle and well-fed soldiery. Their supplies were 
 abundant, and, save when a detachment or an 
 escort was called for, or a moveable column was 
 sent a few marches against a corps of guerillas, 
 the soldiers had nothing to do but wash their 
 white trowsers, clean their white belts, polish 
 up the eagles on their cap-plates and their 
 buttons, and turn out as smart as possible for 
 the senhoras. With most soldiers, next to the 
 pride of beating an enemy, comes the vanity of 
 winning a woman ; and a man who had seen the 
 French as they first rushed into Cordova with 
 naked bayonet, and flashing musquetry, and 
 cruel torch, would scarce have believed that the 
 smiling men standing up under shelter of the 
 porticoes, near their parades, to avoid a little 
 sprinkle of rain, and making the poor servant 
 Q
 
 226 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 girls laugh at their droll love-makings, in spite 
 of all their patriotism, were of the same species 
 with those who had so often braved the storm 
 of battle, stained their dress with blood, and 
 striven, amid " the fire-shower of ruin," for the 
 plunder of altars, and the compelled embrace 
 of the helpless and the senseless female. 
 
 Here they were all good humour, many of 
 them speaking Spanish well ; and, bringing with 
 it their own quick perceptions of humour, they 
 would so quote and apply the old Spanish pro- 
 verbs — so happily season their compliments — 
 so sing the songs, and so dance the dances of 
 Spain, that the humbler maidens would first listen 
 behind doors, and after peep beyond them, and 
 at length stand boldly out, and look the singing 
 enemies in the face. Alas ! for Cordova : its 
 young men all away in the wars — and music 
 every night in its streets — and young hearts in 
 young bosoms, that beat to it in their own 
 despite, and asked absolution at the confessionals 
 for the guilty throb ! 
 
 In all the city was not a heart more virtuous 
 or more chaste than Leonora's ; but she felt the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 227 
 
 strange unnatural state of things all* about her 
 very deeply. Directly opposite to the chamber 
 where the Lady Cassilda and herself constantly 
 sat, in the house of a painter, who, in this season 
 of distress, did nothing but pine for days of 
 returning peace and security, there were quar- 
 tered two young German officers of Yagers. 
 Their time was equally divided between books, 
 the flute, the pencil, and their pipes. These last 
 they smoked principally at night in the balcony. 
 Although the lattices of Lady Cassilda's apart- 
 ment were never opened, the habits of these neigh- 
 bours were unavoidably, and without any effort 
 of curiosity, discoverable. Certainly it was not 
 to be denied by either of the ladies, that of 
 Spanish officers there were few indeed who 
 either possessed or valued such quiet and rational 
 resources. Even as at night they sat out with 
 their pipes, it seemed but as an assistant to their 
 thoughts and their converse; and their tones 
 were always earnest, and often impassioned. 
 
 But the great trial was, when they breathed 
 upon their soft flutes the music of their distant 
 country. She would sit, Leonora, with her head 
 o 2
 
 228 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 averted from her mother, and bent over her 
 embroidery, and, as her heart was moved, let 
 fall the big and solitary tear in silence. There 
 was not a soft melodious cadence in their notes 
 but they spoke the name of Eustace, and seemed 
 allied by nature to it. All this she felt, and felt 
 it guilty ; and ever as at night she went alone to 
 her chamber, she would hang over the miniature 
 of the betrothed, and wonder at her happiness, 
 and gaze upon her beauty, and promise to herself 
 to contrive the returning of it on the morrow, — 
 and still the morrow came, and the rival still 
 lay imprisoned in the drawer. 
 
 The work upon which Leonora was engaged 
 was an altar-cloth for the chapel of San Francisco. 
 In this chapel the most renowned of her ances- 
 tors lay buried ; and her father had so peculiar a 
 veneration for it, that he seldom, save on occa- 
 sions of high ceremony in the Mezquita, per- 
 formed his devotions in any other place of 
 worship in Cordova. It was the natural desire 
 of her mother to restore this chapel to the same 
 state of solemn decency for which in the life- 
 time of Velasco it had been remarkable ; and
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 229 
 
 Leonora thought that, while engaged in the 
 task she had chosen, her mind would be led 
 mercifully to dwell upon the memory of her 
 father, the pride of her race, and the wrongs of 
 her country ; and, should these fail to produce 
 the effect she desired, she had yet the higher 
 and the better hope, that by the power of asso- 
 ciation she might be enabled, while engaged on 
 this consecrated work, to raise her affections 
 with more constancy and frequency to things 
 above. 
 
 Week after week rolled by — each monotonous 
 as the former. Never once, even in the street, 
 had she seen Eustace de Rochfort. Latterly 
 she learned from Clemente, that he w T as much 
 altered both in his appearance and manners ; his 
 spirits greatly depressed, and his health evi- 
 dently impaired ; that he spoke with the Father 
 seldom, and but few words at a time ; that these 
 had generally a reference to the consolations of 
 religion ; but that they were uttered with a sigh, 
 as if the bitterness of his sorrow was too heavy 
 for disclosure, and did even maintain a severe 
 struggle in his heart against the comfort of those 
 Q 3
 
 230 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 very hopes and promises on which he always 
 spoke as the very essence of life and peace. 
 
 Leonora could not but connect in her mind 
 the sorrow of De Rochfort, and the image of his 
 betrothed. She could not conceive of any grief, 
 that it would so entirely depress and subdue 
 him, if Caroline de la Bourdonnaye were happy 
 and in health. She could not but fancy that 
 some calamity had befallen this fair girl, and 
 that this it was which so deeply afflicted her 
 absent lover. She reproached herself greatly 
 for having so long retained the miniature which 
 she judged to be so precious to him. The idea 
 which most strongly possessed her was that 
 Caroline was ill, and that ceaseless anxiety for 
 her was preying upon the health of Eustace ; 
 which, by his distance from her, and the un- 
 avoidable delays of a correspondence with 
 France, might not soon be relieved. That 
 Caroline might be dead never once occurred to 
 her mind : she believed only what she wished ; 
 and she wished only the happiness of Eustace. 
 Therefore she thought of this fair and happy 
 betrothed, as one who was sick, not unto death,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 231 
 
 but sick with pining for the man she loved — the 
 sickness of a hope deferred. She determined 
 to seek an early opportunity of restoring the 
 miniature to De Rochfort, and to school her 
 tongue to the firm and cheerful utterance of a 
 word of encouragement and comfort. That she 
 might lose no chance which should henceforth 
 present itself, she always carried the picture 
 about her. Her first effort was a visit to the 
 garden-house : she was accompanied by old 
 Anselmo and Jacintha, whom she left closely 
 engaged in conversation with their fellow- 
 servants, and went in search of Eustace. She 
 knocked at the door of his apartment, first very 
 softly, then louder, and at last gently opened it 
 and looked in : it was empty. There was a 
 remarkable change in the aspect of the chamber. 
 The portrait of the smiling lady was taken down, 
 and placed leaning in a corner with its face 
 against the wall. In the room of it Eustace had 
 hung up the fine Madonna of Murillo, which 
 he had taken for the purpose from the closet of 
 Leonora. He was engaged, moreover, in mak- 
 ing a copy of this painting : the copy was far 
 Q 4
 
 232 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR 
 
 advanced, and executed in a manner, and with 
 a tone and feeling, that showed the hand of a 
 master. On his table there were books and 
 writing materials. She remarked a volume of 
 Don Quixote: it was open at the never-surpassed 
 scene of his death ; and it seemed, by a damp 
 and recent stain, as though a tear had dropped 
 on it. The Cancionero de Valencia lay by its 
 side, with many leaves turned down. She ob- 
 served only the Knight's Complaint ; a song on 
 absence ; and another, the burden of which ran, 
 " of unrequited love he died." 
 
 She lingered in the room several minutes, 
 and, following the impulse of her heart, she 
 kneeled down before the picture of the Madonna, 
 and prayed. She prayed for the peace of her 
 father's soul, and for that of her youthful brother, 
 for her widowed mother, her living brother, for 
 Clemente, Miranda, and the afflicted Chri^stoval; 
 for her miserable self she prayed, confessionally 
 deploring and bewailing her infirmity, and be- 
 seeching help and deliverance from the tyrannic 
 power of her idolatrous affection ; for the object 
 of it she prayed, invoking on his head temporal
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 233 
 
 felicity, and spiritual blessings, now and for 
 ever; for the betrothed she prayed, that she 
 might be restored to health, and preserved in 
 beauty ; that she might soon again fold Eustace 
 in her welcoming arms, and receive him to her 
 faithful bosom, as the happy and deserving 
 wife of a happy and noble husband. 
 
 Her prayer for this was as sincere as it was 
 fervent ; for she deemed it a duty to pray for 
 their bliss, and so, without a thought of self, to 
 share it. 
 
 With the passionate gesture of the people of 
 the south she bent forward and kissed the 
 ground, and shed tears. She was wholly ab- 
 sorbed in her devotions, and so entirely abstracted 
 from all other consciousness, that she had not 
 perceived the step of Eustace, who, about to 
 enter his chamber from the side of the veran- 
 dah, had been arrested at the door by the sight 
 of Leonora on her knees, and had remained 
 there, fixed in mute and melancholy amaze, 
 throughout the whole of her affecting petition. 
 
 " Lady," said Eustace, as having slowly ad- 
 vanced behind her, he bent down, and gently
 
 234? THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 took her hand ; " lady, be not alarmed — let 
 me help you to rise — you are unwell — pray 
 be seated : " with that he reached a chair with 
 his left hand, and raising her tenderly with his 
 right, placed her trembling in it. Her form,sup- 
 ported by its tall antique back, she sat, her pale 
 face covered by her pale hands, and her heart 
 beating full and audibly. One hand upon the 
 chair, the other advanced ready to support her 
 if she sank, Eustace stood anxious and troubled 
 by her side ; a hue of sadness was on his cheek, 
 and his lip quivered with emotion : but neither 
 of them ventured upon the utterance of a word 
 for a minute or more. Such minutes are long to 
 the mind ; in such brief pauses the past and fu- 
 ture of a life rush through it, torrent-like, with a 
 flood of thoughts and images, as many-coloured 
 as the summer sky, when storm-clouds and the 
 rainbow chequer it. 
 
 Upon the mind of Leonora, amid the multi- 
 tude of her sad thoughts, shot one all bright- 
 ness, — Eustace now knew her love. She would 
 never have told it ; but, thus discovered, thus 
 confessed, deplored, resolved against, she did
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 235 
 
 rejoice at the sweet thought, and her joy burst 
 in relieving tear-drops through the hands that 
 veiled her beauteous eyes. 
 
 To the mind of Eustace the face of his own 
 sorrow deepened into a heavier gloom at this 
 discovery. It showed him what love was, as he 
 could have felt it ; it showed him what it was 
 to be beloved by woman when faithful, though 
 wretched. It has always a certain sweetness in 
 it to know, when we see the big-beating of a 
 bursting heart, that it throbs for us. Perhaps 
 nothing but a fresh wound, like that under 
 which the very soul of Eustace lay dead in 
 anguish, would have made him insensible to the 
 rare and hallowed joy. A soft gleam, indeed, 
 of comfort at the sight played over his dreary 
 bosom; but it was transient as faint lightning 
 from a tropic night-cloud, when its light falls 
 only on a barren rock. 
 
 Leonora first recovered herself, and first 
 spoke. " Senhor, you will pardon my in- 
 trusion, when you know my object. I came 
 here expressly to seek you, and feared when I 
 found the apartment empty, that I should have
 
 236 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 been disappointed of an interview. What you 
 may have seen or heard, Senhor Eustace, or 
 how long you were present, and I unconscious 
 of it, I cannot tell ; but the nobility of your 
 nature satisfies me, that the subject of con- 
 fessions and prayers, which were only addressed 
 to the ear of Heaven, will be as sacredly re- 
 garded by you, as if they yet remained safe 
 and unsealed in my bosom." 
 
 " Lady, I heard your prayer," said Eustace. 
 
 "All of it?" 
 
 " All, lady !" and he took her fallen hand — 
 " all ! May it be paid back in blessings on your 
 own precious head ! I mean not any blessings in 
 this blank and treacherous world, but blessings 
 there — above — there, where thy father is — far 
 off — ' above desire and fear.' Would I were 
 there. Nothing this side of that blue arch above 
 us is worth the living for." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; many, many things are worth 
 the living for — to be made happy by God's best 
 earthly gifts, and live in thankfulness ; to make 
 others happy, and so thank Him ; — to see others 
 happy, and rejoice for them, and so thank Him.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 237 
 
 And such happiness shall be yours, and mine, 
 and hers whose fair and lovely portrait I now, 
 with a free full heart, restore to its right owner. 
 You left it in this very chamber, and it was found 
 by me." She drew it from her bosom, and 
 placed it in the hands of Eustace. Passively, for 
 a second, those hands held the miniature ; then 
 let it drop ; and the finger of an infant might 
 have pushed that strong man down, as he tot- 
 tered to the wall and leaned his forehead upon 
 his crossed arms against it. 
 
 Terrified as she felt, yet in a moment Leonora 
 recovered all her energy and self-possession. 
 She filled a glass of water, and bore it to him. 
 She reached her arm over, and pressed his shoul- 
 der with a beseeching, like a sister, that he 
 would turn and taste it, and sit down for a while 
 to recover himself, promising to leave him if 
 he would do so ; and repeating her entreaties till 
 he turned and drank ; and she took off his heavy 
 military stock as he sat down, and put her hand 
 kind and fearless upon his damp temples. 
 
 As soon as he felt able to speak, he thanked 
 her ; expressed concern that he should have so
 
 238 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 alarmed her ; but stated, in excuse, that he had 
 been weak and ill for several days past, and that 
 the least surprise disturbed and thus affected 
 him. 
 
 Leonora besought his pardon, for being the 
 innocent cause of his distress. Then having 
 picked up the miniature, and placed it on his 
 table, she turned to bid him " Farewell," and 
 was about to leave the room, when he suddenly 
 rose, and putting back the picture into her 
 hand, said, — " Take it with you, lady ; it is of 
 no value to me." 
 
 " Your sorrow has bewildered you," replied 
 Leonora. " You have no idea how much it will 
 soothe you ; how precious it will become to you 
 hereafter, when the first shock of looking upon 
 it is past. It is a great comfort to possess a 
 faithful portrait of one lost to us, whom in life 
 we loved." 
 
 " I tell you, lady, take the picture with you. 
 She, whom it too faithfully portrays, is not 
 dead ; she lives, and smiles upon another . She 
 plighted me her troth ; and she is married, lady, 
 married to another"
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 239 
 
 Leonora stood rooted to the spot — wonder- 
 ing, incredulous, unable to comprehend the 
 possibility of any woman being loved by the 
 man before her, and being faithless to him, and 
 to her own happiness. She put back the hair 
 from her forehead, as if to clear her mind, and 
 there came upon her a sorrow for Eustace, and 
 a burning indignation against the unknown Ca- 
 roline, and withal a joy, a sweet and secret joy, 
 that she was more free in her heart to love and 
 pity him. She was at a loss what to reply to 
 him, and paused irresolute and silent. 
 
 Eustace resumed : " Take it, lady. I will never 
 look on it again. Ah ! would it were as easy 
 to put the image of her beauty from out my 
 mind, as to put away this once-vaiued portrait 
 of her from my sight ! I see the hand which 
 deals me this sad blow. I know it is good : I 
 kiss the rod ; but the lamp of my life has lost its 
 oil, and will burn dim, and waste mournful into 
 death. Lady, she was lovely as truth; her 
 look, affection ; her voice, fondness ; and her 
 smile too bright for earth. I had garnered up
 
 24-0 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 my hopes in her. I could have borne her 
 death, she seemed so fit for heaven ; and I could 
 have lived on upon her memory, But this, 
 pardon, lady, it is the thought of her last smile 
 unmans me." As thus he spoke, tears rolled 
 down his manly face, and then, his eyes suddenly 
 assuming a wild and wandering expression, 
 " Who are you, woman ?" he exclaimed. How 
 came you here? and what do you look at me 
 for ? These are not tears, at least they are not 
 mine; are they yours? No, no; they cannot 
 be yours. You are a woman, and have no heart 
 for such hot tears of woe as these are. How came 
 you hither to see them ? Will you tell Caroline, 
 and laugh together ? Oh, I forgot — you are the 
 Lady Velasco, and brought the picture. You 
 are a good woman, and have known what it is 
 to be sad. You see I am very wretched ; but it 
 is all over now. Leave me: I shall do quite 
 well ; in a moment I shall be well." So say- 
 ing, he left the apartment, and passing through 
 the veranda, descended with a hurried step to 
 the garden, leaving Leonora at liberty to de-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 241 
 
 part, but so much agitated, that she was many 
 minutes before she recovered sufficient com- 
 posure to go away. At length she rose, and, 
 taking with her the miniature, returned home at- 
 tended as she came.
 
 242 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 I shall be married shortly. 
 
 Pis. To whom ? 
 
 Amu To one whom you have all heard talk of ; 
 Your fathers knew him well ; one, who will never 
 Give cause I should suspect him to forsake me ; 
 A constant lover, one, whose lips, tho' cold, 
 Distil chaste kisses. Shirlet. 
 
 Her interest concerning Eustace was, if pos- 
 sible, increased and strengthened by the circum- 
 stances of the late interview. Her pity for his 
 sufferings was of the gentlest. She had expe- 
 rience of a hopeless attachment, and she could 
 feel sympathy for an unrequited love. He, too, 
 was now acquainted with her unhappy passion ; 
 and, though many and impassable barriers se- 
 parated them, yet now there was no rival to 
 stand between their hearts. When Eustace 
 thought at all of Leonora, it might be with kind- 
 ness, and even tenderness, and the bright image 
 of this betrothed could no longer intervene. She
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 243 
 
 forgot, for a moment, how he had spoken of the 
 smile of Caroline ; and yet she might well have 
 known how imperishable such things are. For 
 a year after the French troops last left Cordova, 
 that grave sweet smile of De Rochfort's, whom 
 she never thought to see again, was present to 
 her mind's eye at all hours, and in all places, 
 and she felt that it would dwell with her till 
 she died. 
 
 She told her mother that she had seen Eus- 
 tace, and how ill he appeared ; but the same 
 weakness, which had caused her at first to con- 
 ceal the circumstance of her having found the 
 miniature, induced her still to withhold any 
 mention of it. 
 
 When Father Clemente came in, he seemed 
 in unusual spirits, and related to them that 
 a young Italian conscript, who had been 
 bred up in the workshop of a famous sta- 
 tuary in Venice, had assured him that if they 
 would furnish him with marble, he would 
 engage to repair the statue in the chapel of 
 San Francisco, in a way that would almost 
 deceive those who had long known it; that 
 r 2
 
 244? THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Eustace had promised to obtain permission 
 for the man to work at the chapel, and that 
 they had discovered in the crypt beneath two 
 blocks of fine white marble exactly suited to 
 their purpose. 
 
 Clemente was warm in his praise of De Roch- 
 fort, observing of him that all his sentiments 
 were noble : he again added, that he thought 
 him very unwell ; and remarked that he was 
 evidently unhappy and restless, and endeavour- 
 ing by eager occupation to beguile his sorrow. 
 " He has been borrowing books from me," said 
 he, " and is engaged in making a copy of the 
 Murillo at the garden-house, which he designs 
 for the altar of our lady in the chapel; that 
 altar-piece having never recovered the injuries 
 done to it last year." 
 
 And this, thought Leonora, is an enemy for 
 whom I may not avow my love ; — a man whom 
 a false and faithless girl has forsaken ; — a man 
 for whom I would gladly die. 
 
 As thus they sat together, now in quiet con- 
 verse, now interrupted by the loud calls of 
 Major Bouvillon, as he hastened the motions
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 245 
 
 of Mouton in the kitchen ; and now while he 
 was silently gorging himself alone, soothed by 
 the flutes of the German officers quartered oppo- 
 site, their attention was aroused by a voice that 
 seemed as though it were expressly disguised, 
 as imitating the peculiar tone of the wandering 
 songsters, who in more peaceful times abounded 
 in the south of Spain. It sung the following 
 fragment of a well-known song : 
 
 " My ornaments are arms, 
 My bed the flinty stone, 
 My rest is war's alarms, 
 My sleep to watch alone." 
 
 Bowring's Translations. 
 
 " It is Juan," said Leonora ; and in a mo- 
 ment her mantilla was thrown over her head, 
 and she flew down to the street. She checked 
 herself before she passed out of the door, re- 
 flecting that she might, by want of caution, 
 betray her brother, who would evidently not 
 visit them in disguise, and approach them with 
 such wariness, if he had no fear of being 
 discovered. 
 
 It was pain to her, as she descended on a 
 
 R 3
 
 246 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 sudden, to see a fair young officer of the German 
 Yagers release the hand of her poor and simple 
 Jacintha, who, with bent head, seemed listening 
 not unwilling to his whispers. Disturbed by 
 her step, he ran forth, and she suffered a minute 
 or two to elapse after this ; ere presenting herself 
 at the portal, she with her handkerchief beck- 
 oned the two men who stood beneath the bal- 
 cony, and one of whom was still continuing the 
 air on his guitar, as if about to recommence 
 singing. 
 
 It was a dark evening, so that she could not 
 discern their features till they entered the door, 
 within which a lamp was suspended ; and, but 
 for his voice and kiss, she would scarce have 
 believed that the strange figure before her was 
 her gallant and handsome brother, and the for- 
 bidding personage in his company his friend. 
 
 She led them up into the chamber above, and 
 in the next moment Juan was in the arms of his 
 fond and agitated mother. Long, close, and 
 fervent was the embrace of the Lady Cassilda. 
 Her first-born lay upon her bosom once again. 
 The first for whom she had endured the pain and
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 247 
 
 peril of child-birth, over whom, remembering no 
 more her travail, she had rejoiced with joy that 
 a man was born into the world ; and now, at 
 length, she held him a little off from her, and, 
 bending back her head, gazed earnestly upon 
 his face, as mothers gaze upon a son welcomed 
 back from the rough scenes of war. 
 
 " I am altered, my dear mother, altered in a 
 short year sadly ; but, although these features 
 have undergone a change, which makes me 
 waste less time over the mirror than was my 
 wont as a vain boy, my heart's likeness to my 
 noble father and to you remains the same. I 
 am the son of the Lady Cassilda — the son of 
 Juan de Velasco — true to my country — no 
 longer mine own, but hers." 
 
 As thus the young warrior spoke, he threw 
 off his hat — his cloak had already fallen by his 
 side — and he stood with his arms thrown back, 
 and his brave face exposed to a full scrutiny. 
 
 Poor child ! his mother had not known 
 
 him thus if chance encountered. A huge scar 
 
 had seamed his fine face with a deep-indented 
 
 line, which, though it had left the eye itself 
 
 r 4
 
 248 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 uninjured, had approached so near as to con- 
 tract and draw down the socket, and, passing 
 down the cheek, had crossed and divided both 
 lips at one corner of his mouth, and gashed the 
 chin below. The smile that was wont to play 
 about that expressive mouth, the love and 
 the laughter that always shone from his black 
 and happy eyes, were, as it seemed, chased 
 away for ever, and a new countenance had been 
 given him, suited to the melancholy fortunes of 
 his country, and to the stern resolve of a suffer- 
 ing and devoted patriot. Again he affectionately 
 embraced Leonora, and fell reverently upon the 
 neck of Clemente ; then seating himself by his 
 mother, he introduced his friend as a trusty and 
 true Spaniard, and motioned him to be seated 
 also. 
 
 If astonishment and sorrow had pervaded the 
 whole circle in witnessing the sad outward 
 change in their pride, their favourite, and the 
 last remaining hope of their house, there was a 
 something about the aspect of his companion 
 that increased their trouble and concern ; and 
 Leonora shrunk from him with fear.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 249 
 
 The stranger, who had gazed upon the whole 
 scene with a hard and haughty indifference, 
 took his seat by Clemente, with scarce a bend 
 of courtesy to any one. He sat cloked, and 
 did not remove his hat. He had a thin pale 
 face, and grey eyes sunk deep beneath a bony 
 brow. His look was at once cruel and wild. 
 
 " You must not stay long," he said ; " we 
 have work in the morning, remember, — not 
 lady's work," he added. 
 
 " I am a Spaniard, priest ; but I am also a 
 man," said Juan, with quickness. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! I see you are — a common man 
 of tears. I have done with all that many years. 
 I like to laugh. Ha, ha ! " and he laughed as a 
 fiend would again. 
 
 Leonora shuddered, and yet more, as she 
 learned, in the course of Juan's communica- 
 tion, that this man was associated with her 
 brother most closelv, each of them leading a 
 formidable guerilla, and combining their opera- 
 tions now to act against such detachments and 
 convoys of the enemy as might from time to 
 time be despatched either from or to the French 
 army of the south.
 
 250 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 Their object, on the present occasion, was to 
 gain intelligence concerning the route and 
 time of march of a large convoy expected to 
 move in a few days from Cordova to Madrid. 
 The man before her was a partisan, known 
 by the name of " II prete," or the priest, 
 from his previous occupation ; and, indeed, 
 according to office, it was still his proper de- 
 signation.* He was a minister of the message 
 of reconciliation — an ambassador for Christ — 
 a bearer of those glad tidings, " Peace on earth, 
 good-will towards men." Frenchmen were now 
 expunged from his gospel, and he breathed but 
 of slaughter and revenge; not, indeed, in what 
 he uttered, for he scarce spoke again, but in 
 what he looked ; and in the nod, the gesture, 
 and the deep-drawn Ah ! as Juan told out of 
 his service and his wound, how it was given him 
 when he stood bareheaded and defenceless in a 
 
 * Many priests in Spain led guerillas, and were usually- 
 known in the neighbourhood where they acted by their ordin- 
 ary appellation of priest. Some of these were true patriots, 
 others sanguinary men. I have chosen to portray one of the 
 latter, because to see a priest in arms, among shedders of blood, 
 is to me revolting.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 251 
 
 melee, where his horse was killed under him, 
 and his sword broken, and as he related various 
 acts of French violence and rapacity. 
 
 Clemente's pale cheek had a trembling on it, 
 which none save Leonora saw ; and there was 
 a little convulsive movement about his mouth, 
 which, if they had seen, none but Leonora 
 would have understood. His benevolent and 
 Christian spirit was lying prostrate and confiding 
 before the Throne of Mercy : it could not 
 breathe in the noxious air of hatred and revenge, 
 which was thickening about him. He was 
 mourning and praying alike for friend and foe ; 
 and the angel that watched over him was fixing- 
 the seal upon his brow, as one that mourned 
 for the wickedness of all. 
 
 Leonora felt as though she could now at once 
 have trod the dark valley of death cheerfully 
 by his side, as if nothing would have made her 
 shrink from the narrow flood ; but she went to 
 her brother's seat and shared it with him, and 
 kissed his scarred cheek, and wept on him, 
 and whispered in his ear, " Blessed are the 
 merciful, for thev shall obtain mercv." His fine
 
 252 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 ample forehead there, where at the top it yet 
 preserved its marble whiteness, coloured for the 
 moment crimson with a sudden indignation, 
 
 " I was furious with Miranda; but, after all, 
 there may be some truth in her fears," exclaimed 
 Juan. " Leonora, your father and your brother 
 sleep among the murdered. I live an object 
 hideous to others and myself. There is only one 
 place of assembly where I am counted handsome 
 now — the battle-field. The foe quails before 
 my very look, or ere I strike the good stroke 
 of vengeance. I should be handsome in your 
 eyes, and my good mother's, methinks. For Spain 
 and for you I bear these cowardly-inflicted 
 marks ; but they tell me there is a handsome 
 Frenchman has softened all your hearts, and you 
 are turned peace-makers ! " 
 
 " Hear me, Juan," said Leonora, falling at 
 his feet in an agony of anguish ; " hear me, my 
 brother ; hear your unhappy Leonora." As he 
 stood stern, where he had started up with his 
 up-drawn and half-folded arm refused to her 
 grasp, there sounded beneath the window a shrill 
 whistle. The companion of Juan sprung from
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 253 
 
 his seat to the casement and looked out; the 
 whistle was repeated ; and immediately, without 
 the farewell of a look, Juan and the priest hur- 
 ried from the apartment. 
 
 Leonora heard the clock of the Carmelites 
 in the adjoining street strike every quarter 
 throughout the long blank night of misery that 
 followed this painful visit of her brother. The 
 eyes, which had ached from the intensity of 
 thought, and had been moistened by no relieving 
 tears, told too plainly to the Lady Cassilda and 
 Clemente the distracted state of her afflicted 
 mind. They persuaded her to return to her bed 
 before noon. She drank a composing draught, 
 prepared by Clemente, and held to her colour- 
 less lips by her fond mother ; and she lay still 
 and motionless in her silent and darkened cham- 
 ber throughout the day and night ; and towards 
 the following dawn she slept for a few hours, 
 and awoke so far refreshed that she was able to 
 shed those soft tears, which flow so comfortingly 
 down the cheek of care. 
 
 But Leonora had received too many wounds, 
 and those of too severe a nature, to admit the
 
 254 THE LADY OF CORDOVA,* OR, 
 
 return of any tranquillity of spirit corresponding 
 to that outward composure, which, for the sake 
 of her beloved mother and revered confessor, 
 she again assumed. She lost her appetite, — 
 she fell away, — she no longer walked erect, — 
 her neck bowed, — her eyes became watery, 
 without one beam in their expression, — her 
 hair weak ; — and the Lady Cassilda saw that 
 the heart of her daughter was a ruin, — that it 
 was broken, past all binding up, all healing of 
 mortal hand. 
 
 She saw, what it is only strange that she had 
 never discovered before, that Leonora loved, — 
 that Eustace de Rochfort was the object of her 
 love ; — that it was a love she dared not avow, — 
 the very return of which she dared not to 
 desire, — the very indulgence of which she felt 
 it as criminal to admit, as it was impossible to 
 attain to ; — that her daughter was the victim of 
 a hopeless attachment. 
 
 She breathed not a word of this to her 
 Leonora, from a conviction that it were better 
 not to stir the feeling'by enquiry or sympathy; — 
 that argument would be vain ; — and that to
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 255 
 
 give her the opportunity of pouring out her 
 heart too freely might excite and injure her. 
 
 She therefore confined her attention to the 
 health of Leonora, — watched over her with 
 gentleness and solicitude, — prayed for her, — 
 and continually engaged her in conversation on 
 those subjects, the interest of which is abiding 
 and eternal. 
 
 In this she was more than assisted, she was 
 led and guided by the wisdom and love of 
 Clemente. To him she had freely opened her 
 fears; and the good father, now awakened to 
 the real state of things, both shared her appre- 
 hensions and confirmed them. 
 
 Many circumstances, apparently trifling when 
 they occurred, now arose to his mind, and, 
 when combined with this suspicion for the key 
 to them, gave him the mournful assurance that 
 this unhappy passion had grown with a growth, 
 and been strengthened by a strength, which no 
 power could subdue but that to which all things 
 are possible. 
 
 The physician, whom they consulted on her 
 declining state, recommended a decoction of
 
 256 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 the finest bitters to be taken every two hours ; 
 that her diet should be light, nourishing, and 
 set before her many times a day ; that she might 
 be tempted to eat often, and a little at a time. 
 He also prescribed daily exercise on a mule or 
 palfrey, that she might benefit by the fine air on 
 the hills above the city. 
 
 She consented to all this discipline, indifferent 
 herself to its end ; but yielding passively to the 
 adoption of all remedies proposed, as the me- 
 lancholy and the dying often will do, to meet the 
 wishes and reward the affection of those around 
 them. There came a change over her. Me- 
 dicine and exercise, in part, did their work. 
 Her appetite improved ; she slept better ; she 
 evidently grew stronger; she was able to con- 
 tinue in the saddle longer at a time ; to extend 
 her rides farther, and appeared to notice the 
 beauties of nature with interest and pleasure. 
 She rode one of those small grey palfreys, which, 
 from the lowness of their size, and their use- 
 lessness in war, was happily yet to be procured. 
 A hale stout peasant, whose walk was steady, 
 and yet swift, led it at the top of its amble, and
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 257 
 
 she was accompanied by Father Clemente, who 
 rode an old mule, the only animal still left 
 among the vacant stalls in the stables of the 
 Velasco palace. For the use of the palfrey, 
 Leonora was indebted to the kindness of the 
 lady abbess of a neighbouring convent. 
 
 Thus she went daily forth "tapada" while 
 in the streets: but the people well knew the 
 daughter of Velasco, and the way was given, 
 and the obeisance made, and the blessing fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 On one of those mild bright days, which 
 make the winter of southern climates so soft 
 and delicious to invalids, Leonora, in calmer 
 mood than wont, felt desirous of riding as far 
 as the hermitages above the city, that she might 
 enjoy the magnificent prospect from that fa- 
 vourite point of view. Now for long spaces 
 silent, now pointing right or left to an object 
 of interest, such as a fountain, a flower, a tree, 
 or a child happy in its glad play, Clemente rode 
 quiet by her side. 
 
 At last, passing up over the heath and rock, 
 which lay brightly illumined by the pleasant
 
 258 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 sun, and fanned by every breath of pure air 
 abroad, they reached the first of those hermitages, 
 of which mention has been made in a former 
 chapter. Here they dismounted, and remarked 
 with pain, that, all humble as it was, it had not 
 escaped the devastating hand of war. The 
 wooden cross over the door, and the remem- 
 bered crucifix within were gone ; and the mark 
 of fire-places and blackened stones against the 
 wall without, gave ready intimation of the pur- 
 pose to which they had been applied. The 
 bell had been taken away, and the wood- work 
 about it had shared the fate of the cross. The 
 slab of marble, which had formed the altar, 
 had been violently split asunder, as by a 
 weightier mass of stone ; and the blocks of red 
 granite which formed the steps had been 
 brought out, and placed on either side of the 
 door for benches. In fact, it had been for some 
 weeks a piquet-post of the enemy. The walls 
 were covered with cork no longer ; but with all 
 those rude essays at caricature, which, from the 
 day of the Roman legions to that of our own, 
 has always marked the watch-towers or the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 259 
 
 guard -houses of soldiers, — of men who sit loose 
 on life, and laugh, or pretend to laugh, at death. 
 Among the sketches on the wall were two, repre- 
 senting one the vigil of a warrior in the days of 
 chivalry. He was caricatured in outline, kneeling 
 bareheaded before a Prie-Dieu, with eyes upraised 
 and hands uplifted towards heaven, and his sword 
 lay unsheathed before him. Another super- 
 scribed, " Le brave de nos jours." This was the 
 figure of a hussar lying careless on the ground by 
 a bivouac fire, with a tumbler in his hand, a cigar 
 in his mouth, puffing at a figure of death, and 
 on a scroll issuing out of his mouth were the 
 words, 
 
 " Je veux partager ma vie 
 Entre l'amouret le vin." 
 
 Clemente looked at these things not with any 
 wonder, but with profound sorrow ; and there 
 was a feeling of indignation mingled with that 
 sorrow. He would have led Leonora aw r ay ; 
 but, fatigued with her exertion, she had seated 
 herself on a block of granite at the door, and 
 was losing a sense of all care, of all pain, 
 whether of heart or frame, for the moment, in 
 the contemplation of the glorious and enchant- 
 s 2
 
 260 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 ing scene before her. Her heart had found 
 wings and flown away to rest itself on the golden 
 peak of the Sierra Nevada, which looked afar 
 like a pure and bright alighting-place for the 
 angel-visitants of our crime-stained earth. He 
 would not break the spell of that happy rapture. 
 He looked upon her with the tenderest and 
 most compassionate sympathy. The spirit 
 beamed happily sad and devotionally eager 
 from out her dark and melancholy eyes, as 
 though it would burst the feeble tenement of her 
 frail and fragile form, and flee away at once and 
 for ever. 
 
 For many minutes thus fixedly and silently 
 she gazed; and, but for the heavings of her robe, 
 you might have thought her without life, so pale 
 she was, so still was her trance. At length her 
 eye-lids dropped dully over her dimming eye- 
 balls, and tears stood large upon the long eye- 
 lashes, and dropped heavily on the ground. 
 
 " Forgive me, Father," said she ; " forgive 
 me. I am very weak. Do not tell my mother 
 of these tears ; I cause her anxiety and sorrow 
 enough. If it were not for her, I should almost 
 wish to be taken away. My life is a long tempt-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 261 
 
 ation to me. My heart, Father, my heart is 
 broken." 
 
 " My daughter, have you forgotten Him who 
 came down into our world of sorrow to bind 
 up the broken-hearted ? I pity you, my dear ; 
 but none can pity you as He pities you. His 
 sheep are known of Him; He laid down his life 
 for them." 
 
 " Ah ! this it is ; there standeth between me 
 and His blessed throne a something that shut- 
 teth out His gracious form. I am very mi- 
 serable — I am almost mad." 
 
 Clemente sat down by her, and took her hand, 
 and entreated her to be calm and resigned. 
 " The soul, my child," said he, " the soul loses 
 itself by impatience. In faithfulness our God 
 afflicts his children : acquaint thyself with him, 
 and be at peace." 
 
 " It must be then in the grave, my father." 
 
 " Nay, daughter ; before, it must be, or it 
 never will be. The peace, my child, which I 
 speak of, is a peace not as this world giveth, but 
 it is an abiding peace ; a fountain of joy, with 
 which no stranger intermeddleth." 
 
 As thus he spoke, his eye caught the pierced 
 s 3
 
 262 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 scallop-shell of a pilgrim, lying dusty on the 
 ground. He took it up, and made it the sub- 
 ject of one of those affectionate and persuasive 
 exhortations which he seldom uttered in vain. 
 But, by the ordering of Providence, his endea- 
 vours to benefit his dear daughter, for even so 
 he regarded her, were to be yet more effectually 
 seconded by the circumstance which follows. 
 
 When Leonora was a child, she had been 
 often brought by her father to this very hermit- 
 age. At that time it was inhabited by a mild and 
 aged man, for whom her father had great rever- 
 ence and affection. This was the more extra- 
 ordinary, as Don Juan de Velasco was an 
 avowed enemy to all friars, black, white, and 
 grey, — to all priestcraft, and a despiser of all 
 fanatics and ascetics. His extreme fondness 
 for Sylvestre, the hermit, who once occupied 
 this cell, made a great impression on Leonora. 
 And now, before she returned, she went into 
 the hermitage to look about her, and gather up 
 the old and tender associations of that time. 
 Accordingly they entered the little building 
 together, and observed with concern its dirty 
 and desecrated state. Half concealed by straw
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 263 
 
 lay something of iron. Clemente cleared away 
 the straw, and they saw a small heavy chest of 
 iron ; it was broken and lay open ; the lid lay 
 loose and detached upon it. Engraven on it 
 were the lines before given : — 
 
 " Child of sorrow, child of sin, 
 A spirit pure is hid within ; — 
 A spirit of power, a spirit of love, 
 'Twill guide thine heart to God ahove ; 
 But an' if again thou look helow, 
 As now to me, so then to thee, 
 'Twill whisper final misery, 
 Show hell thy doom, and God thy foe." 
 
 They read these verses with some emotion ; 
 and Clemente, putting down his hand into the 
 chest, drew forth first a skull. He shuddered, 
 as he observed, boldly sketched upon it, a head 
 of Silenus, fat, jolly, crowned with flowers, and 
 laughing. 
 
 With grief and indignation he put it from 
 him; but perceiving a book in the chest, 
 took it out: little more than the covers re- 
 mained ; for leaf after leaf seemed to have been 
 torn out, and some appeared to have been 
 burned off yet more wantonly ; but the very 
 first words he alighted on, and which the eye 
 s 4
 
 264 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 of Leonora caught at the very same moment, 
 were these : — 
 
 " Beati ad ccenam nuptiarum Agni 
 Vocati." 
 
 Leonora pressed her hand upon her forehead, 
 as if smote by some new, weighty, and hitherto 
 unfelt, conviction. " Oh, may it, father, — can 
 it be," cried she, " that I should be purged and 
 cleansed from the idolatry of my heart, and 
 made a partaker of that blessing?" 
 
 " Read, my child, the lines upon the lid of 
 the iron casket, which contained the pearl of 
 God's word. Methinks, the writer knew a 
 something of its value. None, dear, can we call 
 blessed on earth, who have not the blessing of 
 this vocation ; and with this in possession by 
 promise, and in prospect by that hope which 
 maketh not ashamed, how light is all our mo- 
 mentary affliction ! " 
 
 " May I — dare I think myself called ? " 
 
 " All, my child, are freely called — but all 
 do not come — few are chosen." 
 
 " You have often, father, warned me against 
 superstition. This strange surprisal ; this open 
 Bible ; these words, and the beatitude declared 
 in them : may I — dare I appropriate them ? "
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 265 
 
 " It is never superstition, my daughter, to 
 believe that any word of invitation, indited by 
 the Spirit of God, which meets us on our life's 
 path, is addressed with an especial message of 
 mercy to us." 
 
 " But, father, I am an idolater — I am no 
 Christian : " and, as she spoke, she looked 
 wildly round, and said, " I will tell you what I 
 sing to my sad self, when I am alone: 
 
 * To love, and feel it sadness — 
 To love, and fear it madness — 
 To love — and know it vain ; 
 To lift the eye to heaven, 
 And pray to be forgiven, 
 
 And then — to love again, — 
 
 And idolize in vain, 
 
 With heart all pain, 
 
 And burning brain : 
 
 This doth the spirit wear, 
 
 And this begets despair.' 
 
 " But why do I confess my shame to you ; 
 to one above the world ; to one of calm and 
 holy thoughts ; to one, who never loved ? — And 
 yet it is not shame. My love is pure : — 'twas 
 but to mingle hearts and tears I wanted ; to 
 listen to his voice ; to press his hand with a free 
 fond grasp ; and once, once only, to let fall my
 
 266 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 aching head upon his noble breast, and breathe 
 out in a first last sigh the sweet confession of 
 my weakness." 
 
 " Leonora, I have loved, and the memory of 
 the tyrannous passion shakes me now. It was 
 the Isaac of my heart, this love ; but a voice 
 from heaven said, ' Slay it : ' — I brought it 
 forth — no angel appeared to arrest my hand — I 
 slew it — I offered it up in sacrifice — my faith, 
 by mercy, failed not ; it overcame the world in 
 my heart ; and there, then, after, when I had 
 consummated the sacrifice, and fell faint and 
 sinking on the bosom of the empty earth, the 
 dove descended, and abode with me, and com- 
 forted me : — and even so shall it be with you. 
 Come, my daughter, let us return, and take 
 with us this gracious invitation — 
 
 ' Beati ad coenam nuptiax-um Agni 
 Vocati.'" 
 
 So saying he placed the torn Bible-covers be- 
 neath the folds of his saddle, and, helping Leo- 
 nora to remount her palfrey, they returned silent 
 and thoughtful to the city.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 267 
 
 CHAP. XVIIL 
 
 I did ; and, going, did a rainbow note ; 
 
 Surely, thought I, 
 This is the lace of peace's coat ; 
 I will search out the matter. 
 But, while I look'd, the clouds immediately 
 Did break, and scatter. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Clemente well and wisely judged that it was 
 not a moment for pressing upon her conscience 
 heavily. The things which he had let fall 
 would, he was persuaded, make a deeper and 
 more salutary impression upon the troubled 
 heart of Leonora, if left to be shaped to its 
 bleeding wounds by her own heaven-sought 
 judgment. He therefore rode a little behind 
 her, lost in meditation and fervent prayer. 
 
 The bells of the city were chiming for vespers 
 as they entered the gate, and Leonora expressed 
 a wish to pass home by the chapel of San Fran- 
 cisco, and perform her devotions there. Cle-
 
 268 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 mente readily assented, and was indeed rejoiced 
 at the proposal ; for he thought the solemn asso- 
 ciations which must be necessarily connected in 
 her mind with the sacred spot where all her an- 
 cestors reposed, and where the funeral obsequies 
 of her father had been performed, would soothe 
 and compose her afflicted spirit. 
 
 Within a short distance of the chapel w r as the 
 house of a poor widow whom Clemente w r as in 
 the habit of visiting in his pastoral character. 
 She stood at her door, looking very ill, and 
 implored the good father to alight. He did 
 so, suffering Leonora to go forward with the at- 
 tendant who led her palfrey, and promising to 
 rejoin her before she had finished her devotions. 
 Leonora, leaving her attendant without, entered 
 the chapel alone. The very first object that 
 met her eyes was Eustace de Rochfort. He did 
 not observe her : he was leaning against the re- 
 paired statue in the centre of the chapel, and 
 apparently examining the effect of the Madonna 
 which hung over the altar of our Lady; the 
 tools of a sculptor lay upon the tomb, which 
 was covered with dust and chips of marble,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 269 
 
 but the artist was gone. Eustace was quite 
 alone ; and there was a kind and tender expres- 
 sion in his countenance. He seemed satisfied 
 with his work: — the original of this Madonna 
 was a picture of rare merit ; a portrait, it was 
 said, from the life, of an unhappy lady who 
 took the veil in consequence of an unrequited 
 attachment, and who, it was added, died soon 
 after in the flower of her age ; — the eyes were 
 mournful, and the mouth was pensive; — the 
 noble forehead bent pale and thoughtful upon 
 vacancy; — and there was a sweet colouring on 
 the cheek, faint as the fading rose, — and the 
 fair hand held a hyacinth that drooped. It had 
 been a pleasant task to Eustace to paint the 
 copy, and now his pleasant task was done, and 
 he was bidding his gentle work adieu. There 
 had been deep sympathy between him and this 
 beautiful shadow of an unfortunate, whom the 
 painter's art had rescued from the grave to com- 
 fort the lack-lustre eyes of melancholy men and 
 women. He went nigh to it, as though he could 
 have imprinted a parting kiss on the cold can- 
 vas ; then turned to leave the chapel, and as he
 
 270 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 did so, beheld Leonora, looking as though she 
 feared to take an onward step, or move a hand, 
 lest she should faint and fall; — her large and 
 lovely eyes gathered their gaze about him, and 
 seemed to take in no other object; — her lips 
 were parted, but not as though about to speak 
 only as if they meant an intent listening, a ner- 
 vous hush, lest the charm should break, and the 
 sweet interview so end. She had her wish, the 
 wild wish that she had breathed to Clemente — for 
 Eustace hurried to support her. Her head fell 
 upon his manly bosom, and a sigh escaped her 
 lips, as they pressed (for he felt them) the vest 
 above his throbbing heart. For a moment, for 
 a brief moment, he thought he could have loved 
 again ; — as if a second love were possible : — 
 but the unhappy Leonora was herself again. 
 By a strong effort of her virtuous will she 
 broke away from that sweet resting-place, and, 
 hastening out of the chapel, sprang with the 
 lightest aid into her saddle, and rode home- 
 wards. 
 
 What might have been the agitating exercises 
 of her mind on the events and utterances of the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 271 
 
 day, under other circumstances than those await- 
 ing her, we scarce can imagine ; but she was 
 probably saved much suffering by that necessary 
 diversion of thought, caused by the unexpected 
 arrival of her dear friend Miranda : for dear she 
 was to her ; nor less so for the pain she had 
 given her by her frantic anger ; nor less so for 
 the comparative happiness of her lot. She no 
 sooner entered the apartment of the Lady Cassil- 
 da than she found herself enfolded in the arms 
 of Miranda, and felt the warm tears of affection 
 falling on her, and saw kind eyes that rested 
 on her w T ith a sister's fondness. 
 
 Leonora was much overcome, and several 
 minutes elapsed ere she was conscious of the 
 presence of a stranger ; but when Miranda ob- 
 served her to recover, she led up the cavalier, 
 and by the simple words " Monteiro," — " Leo- 
 nora," uttered with emotion, she made them 
 known to each other. 
 
 " As my sister, lady, I have thought of you," 
 said Monteiro : " I rejoice to meet you. I come 
 to give you back your friend. For a while she 
 consents to be overruled by my entreaties ;
 
 272 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 and to you and your lady-mother I for the 
 present commit my treasure." 
 
 A nervous embracing of Miranda, — a sister's 
 kiss upon her tear-stained cheek, and a brief 
 " Senhor, you make me happy," formed the sole 
 reply of Leonora. 
 
 To the Lady Cassilda Monteiro turned, and 
 added, " My duty to Miranda is done ; and 
 now again for the service of my country. She 
 must forgive me this little time, of which I seem 
 to have robbed her ; but the state in which 
 Miranda found me, and the slowness of my 
 recovery, excuse my past absence from the field. 
 I go again to the bivouac, to hope against 
 hope — to fight against fortune." 
 
 " May the God of battles go with you !" said 
 the Lady Cassilda ; " but I would this melan- 
 choly war were at an end. However, we must 
 drink the cup, for our land has greatly sinned. 
 I remember me, my slain and honoured lord 
 told me, long years before his end, that the day 
 of trial would come. — It is come." 
 
 " Yes, lady, it is come : nor must I linger 
 here with my heart's treasure, while my fellow-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 273 
 
 patriots watch far from the delights of home 
 and love, in the wood and on the rock. And 
 you, my adored Miranda, remember how we 
 wedded. There was no music — there were 
 no roses — no voices about us of joy and glad- 
 ness — no songs of rejoicing — no laughter of 
 the merry-hearted. You gave me that dear hand 
 on the bed of sickness and suffering ; and your 
 first offices as wife were those of nurse. Bless- 
 ings on you ; blessings on you, my precious ! 
 May the first fruit of thy womb be a daughter 
 angelic as thyself! — I go — Remember you are 
 the wife of a soldier — remember you are the 
 wife of a Christian. To my God, and, under 
 him, to these kind friends, I leave you :" so 
 saying, he fell upon her neck — for a moment 
 leaned there; then placed her with a gentle 
 force upon a seat, and left the apartment. 
 
 Leonora gazed after him with admiring pit}'. 
 She had watched his expressive features as he 
 spoke, and marked the inward struggle. She 
 saw that his hope of earthly happiness was not 
 abiding, — that to be hurried to the strife of 
 death from love like this was agony, — that to 
 
 T
 
 274 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 go from the gentle voice of Miranda to the 
 dull and deafening tumult of war was a grief to 
 his inmost soul; — and again she looked into 
 her own heart, and read there, engraven by the 
 pen of love, " War is the eldest born of hell's 
 dark brood of curses." 
 
 Miranda had been two hours with Lady 
 Cassilda before the return of Leonora, who 
 learned from her mother that she had been 
 exceedingly affected at the state in which she 
 found Don Christoval ; and that, for a while, 
 her self-reproaches were of a nature the most 
 distressing. 
 
 They persuaded the poor sufferer to go to 
 bed ; and Clemente, who came in at the moment, 
 ministered largely to her comfort by those soft 
 and balmy words, which 6eem as though they 
 were whispered by the Spirit of peace itself, and 
 man only the organ of its utterance. 
 
 It was late before Leonora retired to rest 
 herself, and she wondered at her own composure. 
 The lines upon the iron chest came up to her 
 memory : — the beatitude which met her eye 
 when Clemente took out the torn fragment of
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 275 
 
 the Bible ; — and now, as she opened the sacred 
 volume in her closet, the first words she read 
 were, 
 
 " Venite ad me," * 
 
 and the rest of that gracious invitation. 
 
 She fell down before her crucifix, in a spirit 
 of repentance and confiding trust, so full, so 
 fervent, that she was strengthened beyond all 
 former precedent; and she passed her night in 
 calm and dreamless slumbers. 
 
 A bright kind sun shone into her chamber 
 the following morning ; and it tempted her to 
 rise earlier than usual. It was yet an hour 
 before the family would be stirring, save the 
 domestics ; and she thought to take a quiet walk 
 alone on the Alameda, that being a time of the 
 day when it was usually still and deserted. 
 
 The slanting sunbeams chequered the wide 
 portico on the Alameda with their pleasant light. 
 The palms and cypresses in the garden yet 
 glistened with the dew of night. The golden 
 orange shone cool and fresh among its dark 
 leaves ; and the little bee-eater, with its gay and 
 
 * Matt. xi. 28 . 
 T 2
 
 276 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 various plumage all burnished and bright with 
 nature's gilding, fluttered idle in the grove, 
 awaiting for those warmer beams which should 
 bring his industrious but tender prey abroad. 
 
 There was life in all the colours of the scene ; 
 deliciousness in the perfume around. 
 
 To look upon what she saw, to feel what she 
 felt, and dare repine at existence, Leonora con- 
 fessed to herself was sin. " I will live," she 
 exclaimed, " to Him who made me — who made 
 these things around, and called them { good.' 
 I will live to and for those with whom he places 
 me in contact. I will serve and succour all the 
 miserable I can. I will dry my own tears, and 
 rejoice with all the happy. I repent my crime 
 and my folly. I will begin life anew. I will live 
 to-day." 
 
 She had the portico and the garden all to 
 herself. The troops were at exercise ; — the 
 people were not abroad, save those who laboured, 
 and had gone out from early mass to field ; — 
 the priests were at their devotions in church or 
 closet ; — it was too early for the beggars. She 
 was alone. She was almost happy.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 277 
 
 She had been half an hour with these beauties 
 of nature, and with her own thoughts and 
 resolves, when she saw a French officer ap- 
 proaching on horseback. She would have con- 
 cealed herself; but he rode directly for the 
 portico, and dismounted, casting the bridle of 
 his steed over the branch of a shrub near. 
 He entered the portico, and advanced towards 
 her ; till he did so she had not recognised him. 
 It was De Rochfort. He was fully equipped 
 and armed ; his lofty helmet, and the black 
 horsehair that fell from it in a thick and waving 
 fold, gave a fearful and inexpressible nobleness 
 to his aspect ; his armed heel rung upon the 
 pavement ; and his heavy sword clanked, for- 
 gotten, by his side ; — forgotten — for both his 
 hands were spread out in a quieting action, as 
 he said, " Lady, be not alarmed ; you are the 
 person whom I seek, Jacintha directed me 
 hither. I have a favour to ask, and a few w r ords 
 to say to you, and I am happy to find you 
 alone." 
 
 " I know your errand," said Leonora; " I 
 thought the strength I feel was not given me 
 T 3
 
 278 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 without an especial purpose. You are going to 
 leave Cordova ; and I rejoice that it is so. I 
 know," she added, for it seemed vain to conceal 
 what she had twice so strangely avowed, " I 
 know that we are not created for each other. 
 Our countries lie wide — our paths through life, 
 through this life, lie wide ; but there is a point 
 at which these paths may meet, at which, per- 
 haps, they will." 
 
 " Lady, you have in part guessed aright my ob- 
 ject. I march from Cordova within an hour, and 
 I would say, ' Farewell;' but I have yetanother — " 
 
 " I know it," said Leonora, with intuitive 
 perception. "Love is strong as death;" and 
 she took from her bosom the miniature of Ca- 
 roline, and placed it in his trembling hands. 
 
 " It was even this I sought; lady, forgive — " 
 
 " Forgive, De Rochfort! I love — better than 
 you can love her. I love a thing without a 
 stain — a mind, a heart, a look, a voice ; — 
 a thing that is mine by common right, even 
 as that blue sky or this pure lily; — a thing 
 created to be loved, but not created to be mine. 
 But yet, De Rochfort, all creature-love is an
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 279 
 
 idolatry that wise mercy wars against ; and if 
 it be too strong, will, by its root, pluck forth 
 from the vain heart, and plant a better. May 
 it be so with us both, thou noble enemy ! Fare- 
 well." 
 
 " Farewell, thou gentle woman ; would that 
 we had earlier met, or never." 
 
 To his heart he pressed her, and as she 
 averted her sad face, he imprinted on her neck 
 a kiss, gentle as the air's soft breath. She sunk 
 upon the marble seat beside her, without an- 
 other word, and looked not up again. She 
 heard his quick receding step, the paw and 
 champ of his impatient charger as he was 
 mounting, and the quick and (cruel as she 
 deemed it) cruel gallop with which he rode fast 
 and for ever away. 
 
 Her heart felt dead and desolate, and she was 
 only aroused from the stupor of her grief by 
 the jarring sound of a laugh. She lifted up her 
 face quickly in fear; that fear became terror, 
 as she beheld, not many paces from her, a 
 priest, whose cold grey eyes were fixed upon 
 her with a mingled expression of cruelty and 
 T 4
 
 280 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 scorn. Although he wore his long black robe, 
 she observed that he had greaves upon his legs, 
 and she saw a pistol in his bosom. He had a 
 riding-whip in his hand, and a spur upon his 
 heel that was bloody : and Leonora recognized 
 him with a shudder, as the companion of her 
 brother. 
 
 He did not speak, but seemed to enjoy the 
 fear and the shrinking of this unhappy girl. 
 He came closer to her, and laughed again ; — 
 then passed out of the portico, and disap- 
 peared.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 281 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 We the reins to slaughter give, 
 Ours to kill and ours to spare : 
 
 Spite of danger he shall live : 
 
 (Weave the crimson web of war. ) 
 
 Xor poet, nor painter, nor lover in his musings, 
 would desire a more wild romantic glen to saun- 
 ter in than that called " the Valley of the Mill," 
 on the south side of the Sierra Morena, about a 
 league from the hamlet of Rio de las Piedras. 
 
 It takes its name from a mill now in ruins and 
 deserted, indeed scarce are the remains suffici- 
 ent to show what once the building was intended 
 for, save that it is situate just on the bank of a 
 mountain stream, and that tradition tells how that, 
 many years back, the miller's daughter drowned 
 herself in the torrent one winter's night, — and 
 afterwards, that the poor man broke his heart, 
 and went away !
 
 282 THE LADY OF CORDOVA J OR, 
 
 There is also a cross in this valley, marking 
 the sudden and violent death of a noble cavalier 
 of Seville, who was attacked and torn to pieces 
 here by a wolf, some twenty years after the 
 maiden's death, and whose body was found by 
 a muleteer, half-devoured, its very eyes having 
 been picked out by the ravens. 
 
 The cross is scarce a stone's cast from the 
 mill, and there are graven upon it the words — 
 " Heaven has avenged her." 
 
 The vale is now very lonely, and, save when 
 the noon-day sun illumines it, is almost gloomy. 
 The hills on either side rise broken and preci- 
 pitous, but they are woody and adorned with 
 blossoming shrubs, and many wild flowers 
 spring from the earth-filled crevices of the grey 
 rocks, and contrast very softly with their rugged 
 frowns. 
 
 A rapid stream rushes along the deep bottom 
 of the glen in a bed of rock, here babbling over a 
 shallow, there brawling round a mass of the 
 fallen cliff, or tumbling over a sudden fall. It 
 is a scene of rare beauty. 
 
 The sun was warm, and the sky clear ; and,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 283 
 
 but for the voice of waters, and the chirp of the 
 grashopper, and the rustling run of the happy 
 lizard, all was silent in the Valley of the Mill, 
 when the first horseman of the small body of 
 French dragoons, on their march from Cordova 
 to Madrid, entered the defile from the side of La 
 Carolina. He was close followed by a comrade ; 
 and, at a short interval, by about a score of 
 troopers, and an officer. The leading horse- 
 man and his fellow-scout directed keen glances 
 along the ridge of the heights on either side, 
 and to the front, when they first entered ; but all 
 was so sunny, so still, so lovely, that suspicion 
 gave place to a feeling of security and pleasure, 
 and the vanguard, followed close by a train of 
 mules laden with baggage and stores, and by a 
 party of invalids, some on foot, some mounted 
 on asses, moved forward without a check : the 
 main body, consisting of about eighty dragoons, 
 marched close in rear of them. At their head 
 rode Major Bouvillon, and by his side, in 
 thoughtful silence, Eustace de Rochfort. 
 
 In the rear of the column of baggage, and not 
 many paces before the horses' heads of these two
 
 284 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 officers, the boy Presidonio was driving his 
 goats ; but his eyes were continually wandering 
 right and left, and now back to his master, with 
 great disquietude and restlessness, 
 
 " What an imp it is !" said Major Bouvillon, 
 looking at the boy. 
 
 " In intelligence it is," replied Eustace, " for 
 the lad is singularly acute ; and in look he may 
 appear so to some ; but he is honest, affectionate, 
 and faithful, and I have no doubt that he has 
 good grounds for the fears he expresses. I told 
 you of them, major, before we started ; and, as 
 your second in command, I ventured to suggest 
 such precaution as you deem idle." 
 
 " If I did not know you to be a veteran, I 
 should fancy you a recruit," said the major ; and 
 with that he took from between his holsters a 
 leathern bottle, and applying it to his mouth, 
 took that comforter of his belly and silencer of 
 his fears, la goutte. Not that the little major 
 was a coward, but he was sluggish and sensual ; 
 — he loved ease, he hated anticipating difficulty 
 or danger, he could not bear having to think 
 either for himself or others, and for this reason
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 285 
 
 he particularly disliked command or responsi- 
 bility. As he returned the bottle to its place 
 in his armory — "I will bet you ten to one," 
 said he,, "that not a brigand dare look at our 
 horses' heads between this and Bayonne, where 
 I hope to eat an omelette au jambon before 
 six weeks are over; and long life to the em- 
 peror for recalling our regiment from this land 
 of starvation." 
 
 He spoke as he thought, and thought as he 
 wished ; he rested on chances, and was content. 
 He was therefore angry when Eustace said, that 
 he should have insisted -on having a detail of in- 
 fantry with him to the confines of La Mancha ; 
 and that not having them, he should have told 
 off half, or even two thirds of the dragoons, to 
 act dismounted with their carbines, if attacked 
 in such a defile as this, and have prepared them, 
 by previous instructions, for the chance of being 
 called upon so to act. 
 
 " As it is," added De Rochfort, " we might 
 be beaten by an ambuscade, well placed, in ten 
 minutes." 
 
 " I know my duty, Sir; and I beg to hear 
 no more of this troublesome fear."
 
 286 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 " It is for those poor helpless invalids, and 
 for these brave men whom we command, that 
 I feel, major," rejoined Eustace ; " and I again 
 tell you that they would be an easy prey to a 
 band of peasants as we are now marching. For 
 myself, I am too indifferent to life to be very 
 solicitous about my own fate; but I would not 
 willingly see the corps in which I serve dis- 
 credited." 
 
 They now proceeded in silence ; Eustace 
 grave, and Major Bouvillon very sullen. 
 
 With these fears and these feelings the sol- 
 diers, thoughtless and rejoicing, had nought to 
 do, and had no suspicion of their existence. 
 They saw no enemy, they heard no enemy. 
 The prospect of a return to France had put them 
 in good humour ; they sung, and whistled, — 
 they lifted their helmets from off their hot 
 brows to let the air cool them, — they leaned 
 down over the saddle-bow to pluck the rock- 
 rose, that grew fragrant beside their pleasant 
 path, and they joked about the lasses left behind 
 in Cordova. 
 
 'Twas laughter all, — and their horses, which
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 287 
 
 had enjoyed long rest and good quarters, and 
 had been drinking of that water of the Guadal- 
 quivir to which the old proverb ascribes a more 
 fattening power than the barley of other pro- 
 vinces, tossed their proud Norman heads kindly 
 up and down, as though they partook the plea- 
 sure of the march, and knew their destination. 
 
 Indeed it was a sight and scene that to a 
 friendly eye must have been very picturesque 
 and interesting. The gleam and motion of 
 the brazen helmets, —the large blood-red pan- 
 taloons of the soldiers, — the train of laden 
 mules with their drivers, must have so dressed 
 the landscape ; the bells of the animals, and 
 the song of the muleteers, with the tramp of the 
 war-horses, and the voices of the men, must 
 have given sounds so cheerfully corresponding to 
 that sight, that to look on it and listen to them 
 unmoved were almost impossible. 
 
 There were eyes looking on, and ears listen- 
 ing as they passed, — eyes that shone cold with 
 cruelty, or burned fierce with the spirit of re- 
 venge, or gazed upon them with that stifled and 
 regretted pity which the brave man feels for an
 
 288 THE LADY OF CORDOVA ; OR, 
 
 enemy thus meanly conquered : — and there 
 were ears too that listened eager for the signal 
 of attack. 
 
 Just as the van guard and the mule-train had 
 gained the farther end of the defile, and were 
 passing out of it, one solitary shot, the report 
 of which was reverberated by countless echoes, 
 halted the line of march as if by word of com- 
 mand ; and from the hills above, now populous 
 with menacing forms, and loud with cursing 
 voices, poured down a shower of balls; and 
 fragments of the loosened rock, and heavy stones 
 rolled ponderous from the summit, terrifically 
 bounded down, as though they lived, and 'willed 
 their destructive course. 
 
 The defeat and dispersion of the detachment 
 were instantaneous. More than half both of 
 horses and men lay prostrate beneath the first 
 discharge. The fate of Bouvillon was awful — 
 rider and horse were stricken by a huge round 
 mass of stone, that in its thundering course swept 
 them into the deep and hollow bed of the tor- 
 rent beneath, — and not one cry came up from 
 the place where they fell.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 289 
 
 Of the dragoons, some turned, and would 
 have retreated ; — in vain, — a cloud of peasants 
 were in possession of the mouth of the defile. 
 Many leaped from their horses, — and gathered 
 in small knots, — and stood bravely still — to 
 face, and, so long as they might, to resist their 
 fate. 
 
 And now, with ferocious shout, and brand- 
 ished knives, and pointed blunderbusses, the 
 serranos* hastened down the hill sides with sa- 
 vage speed to complete the work of slaughter : 
 — a motley band they were — some twenty fell 
 upon Eustace there, where he lay, his wounded 
 horse upon him, unable to get free. They 
 forced him up, and back against a rock — they 
 tore his clothes in tatters from him — their eyes 
 glared fierce on him — their knives' points were 
 almost, the muzzles of their fire-arms quite, 
 upon him. 
 
 " They called him the Peasant's Friend, in 
 Cordova," shrieked a shrill voice: "you must 
 not kill him :" — and with that the boy Presi- 
 donio, who had gotten between the legs of his 
 
 * Mountaineers. 
 U
 
 290 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 assailants, stood up in the midst, and clung to 
 Eustace, repeating loudly, — " You must not 
 kill him — God sees you ! — do you not fear 
 God ? " The rude serranos were arrested, in 
 spite of their warmed ferocity, by this strange 
 appeal, and the strange being who made it ; and 
 they stared in wonder at the spectacle of this 
 hideous and skinny child clinging to the manly 
 and noble form before them. But again the 
 thirst of blood possessed them ; and, tearing 
 away the shrieking child, they would have de- 
 stroyed Eustace, but for the timely arrival of 
 one who seemed a chief among them, and at 
 whose instance they consented to spare him. 
 This was no other than Monteiro, who, until he 
 had secured Eustace from further violence, was 
 not aware that he was only paying back a like 
 service rendered to himself by this very indivi- 
 dual, on the field of Ocana. 
 
 Bareheaded, and wrapped in a brown cloak, 
 with which, by the order of Monteiro, a peasant 
 had supplied him, Eustace, under the escort of 
 half-a-dozen wild-looking men, realising in dress 
 and arms the banditti of a painter's studio,
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 291 
 
 slowly ascended a rugged path that led up the 
 side of the mountain as a prisoner. 
 
 They were merciful enough, at his earnest re- 
 quest, to shoot his gallant horse, which lay 
 struggling with the agony of its many and severe 
 wounds on the road. 
 
 The faithful Presidonio followed his captive 
 master, and, at the first pause for rest, presented 
 him with a canteen of water, and sat down sor- 
 rowful at his feet. 
 
 From this spot Eustace commanded a full 
 view of the fatal valley. Already the shadows 
 had settled on the deep bottom, through which 
 the road and the stream ran side by side; al- 
 ready the dead lay naked and abandoned : — 
 and a ghastly sight it was to see them spread 
 along the bridle-path, in their paleness and their 
 blood ; and, beside most of them, their steeds 
 stretched stiff in death, or still feebly reacning 
 out their necks for something green to moisten 
 their parched mouths. 
 
 On the banks of the stream the rude victors 
 stood or sat shouting, laughing, washing them- 
 selves — dividing their booty — or mounted 
 u 2
 
 292 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 such of the captured horses as had escaped their 
 fire, and made them restive, and pranced proud 
 among their slain riders. 
 
 Of the brave detachment, save a part of the 
 vanguard, which effected their escape on the 
 La Mancha road, and one marechal de logis, 
 whose life was preserved by his captors, and, 
 like De Rochfort, was made prisoner, there were 
 no survivors. The invalids and sick had been 
 put to death with fierce cruelty ; and many of 
 the bodies were covered with wide red gashes, 
 that had run blood so quick and freely, they lay 
 in pools of it, which the rocky bed of the road 
 held unwasted for the wolf of night, and the 
 raven of the morrow. At the entrance of the 
 glen, some of the guerillas were busy hanging 
 on a large cork-tree, that stood alone, several of 
 the dead corpses — Tel fruit porte Varbre de la 
 guerre. 
 
 s 
 
 Sickening and indignant, Eustace turned 
 away, and blushed to feel himself a man — 
 tears in his heart he wept. There were good 
 and gallant soldiers whom he mourned, thus 
 suddenly, and terribly, and treacherously cut
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 293 
 
 off: and he could not but feel wrath at the man- 
 ner of their destruction ; yet well he knew the 
 wrongs of the Spaniard, and that there lay in 
 the path beneath among the dead some of his 
 own men, the very dogs of war, familiar with 
 dreadful deeds, who knew no pity — were never 
 merciful, and had found no mercy. 
 
 It was some relief to Eustace to be joined by 
 his fellow-prisoner, who proved to be Breton, 
 his own favourite non-commissioned officer. 
 Breton was led up by the man who had saved 
 his life, and whose look was to the eye that of 
 ferocity personified : and this he had been, but 
 a something unearthly had come over his fierce 
 spirit; and, of the assembled troop of their 
 enemies, the two gentlest now were Bartholomew 
 and Monteiro. Bartholo fought still, but he 
 assassinated no longer ; and when Presidonio 
 shrunk with instinctive terror as he approached, 
 fearing a death-blow, Bartholo gave him a look 
 and word of favour, and threw him down a loaf 
 from his haversack, saying, " Eat, and give thy 
 master." 
 
 The two prisoners were led forward about a 
 u 3
 
 294 THE LADY OF CORDOVA : OR, 
 
 league, to a village among the mountains, where 
 they were placed in an empty outhouse, and 
 strictly guarded. Some hour or two after the 
 guerillas arrived, with the loud tumults of men 
 who barbarously triumph. There were bonfires 
 at every corner ; the screaming of seguidillas at 
 them all, rude music, and coarse jests ; and the 
 cries of the drunken kept Eustace awake and 
 thoughtful through the night. 
 
 It was no surprise to either of the prisoners 
 to be led next morning before a rude council of 
 some dozen rough- looking personages, at the 
 head of which they found a thin-visaged priest, 
 with pistols in his girdle and greaves on his 
 legs, and to be told that they would be marched 
 that day in the direction of Cordova ; and that, 
 if the general would consent to the terms pro- 
 posed, they would be set at liberty ; if not, they 
 would be instantaneously shot or hung, though 
 it were in sight of the city and their own army.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 295 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 " Didst not hear 
 An angel call her ? " Shirley. 
 
 It was early in the night, but Leonora had 
 retired to her chamber — not to rest, however; 
 a lamp burned on her table — a large book 
 lay open before her — and she read it as those 
 who are in earnest read, with forehead leaning 
 thoughtful on her hand, and eye intently drink- 
 ing up the words ; and her lips making such 
 whispered sound as only herself could hear. 
 Now and then a sigh broke from her, or a tear 
 would gather and fall upon the page from which 
 she read ; and at such moments she would pause 
 and glance her eye upwards, with that look of 
 faith which penetrates within the veil, and sees 
 no dull and narrow roof between the heart and 
 Heaven. 
 
 An hour or more she sat thus alone and still. 
 There was happiness in the sweet and solemn 
 O 4
 
 296 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 exercise — the quiet joy of an imparted peace. 
 She closed the book with reverence. She sunk 
 gently and low upon her knees; and not a 
 breath was heard that could have waked the 
 most feverish and watchful sleeper, though she 
 pleaded long, and with fervour, before that 
 throne which is " high and lifted up," even in 
 the Heaven of heavens. 
 
 For a long time Leonora had not tasted so 
 blessed a calm as this night. Her devotions 
 ended, she rose and opened her casement, and 
 looked out upon the sky. 
 
 The stars shone solemn in their high places ; 
 and dark cloudlets of long and narrow form 
 belted the gloomy horizon. 
 
 She felt awe, — but not such awe as frighted 
 away tranquillity ; such, rather, as confirmed it, 
 and founded it aright. 
 
 " I am — or rather, I would be thine," she 
 cried. " Save me ! — I have sought thy pre- 
 cepts." 
 
 Never had she before so entirely resigned 
 her will, or felt it so subdued. Eustace was 
 gone : — It was well ! She had felt permitted
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 297 
 
 to pray for his happiness ; and so, through life, 
 innocently to serve him. 
 
 She had conquered her chilly fears about his 
 safety, and also of the cruel priest. It had been 
 reported in the city, and little doubted, that the 
 French horse passed the Sierra Morena un- 
 molested. She had therefore more especially 
 succeeded that evening in detaching her 
 thoughts from the past, save repentingly; and 
 pitying Heaven had sent down hope to be her 
 companion — that hope which hath its wings 
 set free from earth. 
 
 Upwards she gazed ; on earth she stood, 
 
 " But with her starry pinions on, 
 Dress'd for the flight, and ready to be gone : " 
 
 and the sad majesty of the heavens that night, 
 — their grave and golden aspect, did give a mar- 
 vellous strength to her late feeble heart. Still 
 late and long she stood wrapt at her window, and 
 looked with holy love to the unseen things above 
 the shining stars. 
 
 There came a step along the gallery towards 
 her chamber — one she did not know. It was
 
 298 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 light and stealthy; and, at another time, less 
 fortified by previous exercises and prayerful 
 thoughts, she would have been startled and 
 alarmed by the sound. Now, she opened her 
 door at the first tap, without hesitation ; but her 
 surprise was excessive, and she started at the 
 wild and hideous-looking child before her. 
 
 " Don't fear, lady — don't fear, lady," said the 
 boy, dropping humble on his knees, and bowing 
 down his face to hide it, unhappy in the conscious- 
 ness that it frightened her ; "don't fear, you know 
 Senhor Eustatio : — his life is in danger ; — you 
 can save it, save it by a word, lady." 
 
 " How ? where ? when ? — speak — tell me 
 all — did he send you to me ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! he did not send me to you, he 
 would be angry if he knew I came ; but he is a 
 prisoner, — not two leagues off; — and the Senhor 
 Velasco commands the serranos — and they will 
 shoot him at sunrise to-morrow if you do not 
 come. Here is an ass saddled at the door ; 
 don't fear, lady — don't fear, — I will drive it for 
 you, and show the way : " and with that the 
 boy looked up in her face, earnest and fearless
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 299 
 
 in his pleading, and told her his brief story, 
 and how he came to know her, and how it was 
 she had never seen him before ; and the love 
 and the faithfulness of this poor goat-boy, as 
 they lighted up his features, gave them a glory 
 beyond all comeliness. Leonora soon compre- 
 hended all, and she wrapped herself in a cloak, 
 and put a thick white mantilla on her head, 
 and took her beads, and followed the happy 
 Presidonio down ; and she mounting the animal 
 provided, he took it by the head, and they 
 moved off down the dark and silent lane to- 
 gether. 
 
 In their way through and out of the city they 
 met no one, but they passed close by the chapel 
 of the reformed or unshod Carmelite nuns : a 
 light glimmered in the windows, and the low 
 and mournful murmur of the penitential psalms, 
 as they chanted them at their midnight service, 
 struck the ear and the heart of Leonora, and 
 she could not altogether silence a foreboding 
 fear for the fate of Eustace ; her haughty bro- 
 ther and the cruel priest had both power over 
 it. There was help in Heaven, however, if none
 
 300 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 on earth : she passed her beads over her fingers, 
 and said her u Ave Maria " from habit, but her 
 prayers flew higher; and on, under the dim 
 starlight, she rode, with a sense that destiny was 
 about to turn over some awful and eventful page 
 in her life's history. 
 
 What can the feather on the -wave do ? what 
 the thistle -down against the mighty wind ? 
 what man against his fate ? against Providence ? 
 man, without a God to pray to ? Nothing. With 
 one, his fate is Heaven's ordering and Heaven's 
 care. Much, therefore, can he do through him 
 to whom all things are possible. Thus, and 
 only thus, " life or death are made the sweeter." 
 
 Such was the consolation of De Rochfort, as 
 he lay in the gloom of heavy midnight, " all abso- 
 lute for death " himself, and by Christian words 
 preparing for that bitter moment his brave fel- 
 low-prisoner. 
 
 A small detachment of the body of gueril- 
 las, by which they had been captured, had 
 brought them in the shades of evening to a spot 
 not far from Cordova. Velasco, Monteiro, and 
 the priest had marched hither with them, and
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 301 
 
 were sitting together at a fire not far distant 
 from their own chill resting-place on the wet 
 grass, where manacled with gyves of small cord 
 upon their galled wrists, and fetters of knotted 
 ropes about their ancles, the devoted prisoners 
 lay. 
 
 The light of the fire shone upon the faces of 
 this group, and distinctly showed the play and 
 expression of their features, although their words 
 could not be distinguished. 
 
 At other fires, in the same hollow, sat the 
 dark fierce men whom they commanded. Many 
 of them had handkerchiefs of red tied tight and 
 close round their heads ; and their swart skins 
 and black eyes, contrasting with this unwarlike 
 head-gear, gave them the pitiless look of execu- 
 tioners. 
 
 In the noble and compassionate, and at times 
 indignant, expression observable in the counte- 
 nance of Monteiro, the prisoners read the warm 
 pleadings, in their behalf, of a generous foe; but 
 the cold and crafty manner of the priest — his 
 whisperings in the ear of Velasco — and the red 
 and burning glovvings on the cheek of this last, 
 together with the angry resolve of his vindic-
 
 302 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 tive eye, told them plainly that his pleading was 
 in vain. 
 
 The word " traidor" at last caught them, 
 addressed by the priest to Monteiro, and in a 
 moment every one of their followers was on 
 his feet; and they crowded round their chiefs 
 inquiringly and tumultuously, and the two 
 sentinels seated by the prisoners dropped their 
 cigars, and, springing up, presented their blun- 
 derbusses at the heads of their helpless charge, 
 as though they had power to burst their bonds. 
 
 The dispute was short and warm, and many 
 voices took part in it, and knives were drawn, 
 but it did not come to bloodshed. It ended by 
 Monteiro declaring aloud, that he separated 
 himself from their cruel councils and horrid 
 warfare, and by Bartholo fiercely claiming the 
 disposal of his own prisoner ; and this last was 
 yielded to him, out of a fear they had of the 
 man ; and he came and cut the cords of Breton, 
 and bade him rise and follow him. 
 
 The brave and faithful Norman refused to 
 accept his life, and stated his resolve to remain 
 with and share the fate of his officer ; nor was it
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 303 
 
 until De Rochfort reminded the man that he 
 was a husband and a father, and that he had no 
 right to throw away the life thus offered, that 
 he consented to be saved. They parted, as 
 brave and true men part, with grasped hands 
 and averted faces. The corn for heaven is not 
 cut before 'tis ripe ; and Breton had heard 
 words that night from the whispering lips of 
 Eustace, that made the world assume a new 
 appearance to the veteran. 
 
 He went away with his stout preserver and 
 Monteiro, who, telling Eustace he half envied 
 him that very impending fate he had vainly 
 striven to avert, commended his soul to Heaven's 
 best mercy, and walked slowly after, a peasant 
 following with his horse, and a few, a very few 
 of the guerillas. 
 
 Some laughter and some curses were sent 
 after the merciful ; and several of the priest's 
 followers, by whom it chanced that De Rochfort 
 had been taken, or rather, by whom he would 
 then and there have been killed but for Monteiro, 
 especially exulted that the prize was theirs, and 
 the shedding of his blood their own fair right.
 
 304 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 They now removed De Rochfort to a small 
 building near, which he instantly recognised to 
 be a hermitage, whither he had occasionally 
 rode to enjoy the view, and where, except during 
 the period when it was occupied as a piquet- 
 post, he had often lingered for hours together, 
 with a book for a companion. 
 
 He had no book now — no companion now, — 
 but in the morning he was to be led out alone 
 to die : — and what was there in the world that 
 he should heave one sigh to leave it? But he 
 did sigh, then, there, on the very threshold of 
 his eternal dwelling-place. It is bitter the break- 
 ing up for ever of all earthly ties, all human 
 sympathies. Why, at such a moment, came 
 and looked in upon him that face of smiling 
 beauty, he had so long, so vainly loved ? 
 
 " He knew it was a iiend, 
 The miserable knight," — 
 
 and gat him to his knees ; but could not, — nay, 
 sought not to forget her there — only, with his 
 mind's eye, he stripped away her cheek of beauty, 
 and her eye of brightness, and followed her to 
 wrinkles and the dying bed, to the skeleton's eye-
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 305 
 
 less head and the dull grave ; and thus, when he 
 had reached, in thought, her invisible undying 
 soul, he prayed for it even as for his own ; and 
 'twas a solace to him, as fell his penitential 
 tears, hot with the warm shame of his infirmity, 
 to hope his prayer might draw some angel down 
 to guide and guard the author of his woe. 
 
 He was not suffered to pass his night in 
 peace. With a light of yellow wax, that should 
 have burned upon some gloomy shrine, the 
 priest came to him, and asked, with the true 
 sneer of infidelity, if he wanted to confess. 
 
 " I have confessed," said Eustace. 
 
 " To whom ?" asked his visitor. 
 
 " To Heaven." 
 
 " You are a heretic ?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " But you are a Frenchman, and no fool ; 
 tell me — you don't believe in such a place?" 
 
 " Yes ; and in a hell ; in the hell I merit, but 
 for mercy ; I have so little done to prove my 
 love of Heaven." 
 
 As he spoke, his foot struck upon a plate of 
 iron ; and the flame of the torch flashing on it, 
 x
 
 306 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 he saw that there were characters engraven on 
 it ; and taking it up, he read the lines we have 
 given in a former chapter. 
 
 The priest sat him down, with his head upon 
 his hands, for a minute's space or more ; then 
 raising it, with a wild and bitter smile, he said, 
 " There was a skull and a Bible beneath that 
 chest-lid once. It was a fancy of that doting 
 old fool, Sylvestre the hermit." 
 
 " It was a pious fancy. Did you know him ?" 
 " Know him ! yes. He was a good man, but 
 thought himself a reprobate. They say, how- 
 ever, that getting away from convents and 
 monkery cured him, and that he died in this 
 solitude happy. I was his successor in this 
 hermitage, but was no such fool, and found no 
 such happiness. A severe and avaricious father 
 made me an unwilling priest. I have been 
 behind the scenes. I know the jugglery. This 
 war I love, because I hate mankind. It is 
 delight to me to see women miserable, and to 
 cut the thread of young men's lives ; — this is 
 my pleasure. I call myself a patriot; but I 
 have shed Spanish blood before your emperor
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 307 
 
 assassin came to do it — young blood, that had 
 fed the rounded form and mantling cheek of 
 beauty. Beneath us lie the skeleton limbs." 
 
 Eustace cried to Heaven for help against " the 
 enemy of man," for sure none other could pos- 
 sess the horrid, though human form before him ; 
 and he turned his face to the wall. 
 
 But with the priest there succeeded to this 
 frenzied language of frantic confession an agony 
 of terror. Conscience that had been a monitor 
 unheeded in youth, and that, drugged with in- 
 fidel notions, had slept through a life of crime, 
 now woke as an accuser resistless, restless. He 
 took the iron tablet, and read it with a look as 
 fear-stricken as he who saw the hand (the soli- 
 tary hand) come forth upon the wall, and trace 
 his doom; and he sat with it on his knees 
 reading, reading, all night reading the fearful 
 burthen ; and his eyes were rivetted on the 
 writing, as though it had a fascination in it, 
 and were some charm. 
 
 With this wTetched visitant, Eustace passed 
 the melancholy hours preceding that appoint- 
 ed for his death. At times it crossed him, 
 x 2
 
 308 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 that the bewilderment and terror of this man 
 might cause some change, some respite ; but 
 this faint hope died with the breaking of the 
 dawn. It could not have been the first scene 
 of the sort, which the maddened criminal beside 
 him had gone through ; it could not have been 
 the first assault of his accusing spirit ; with the 
 morning came the cold, the cruel, and the go- 
 verned aspect, and he left the hermitage with 
 a settled look, so that Eustace did almost doubt 
 what he had listened to, and thought it was 
 perhaps some fit and fancy of a troubled brain 
 in its midnight and diseased moods. 
 
 He was soon summoned forth himself; two 
 stern-faced men led him out, and they fastened 
 him with cords to a solitary cross of stone that 
 stood upon a rock, above the hermitage about 
 two hundred yards. Here, after his execution, 
 they designed leaving his body in sight as it 
 were of the garrison of Cordova, as an insult 
 to the French arms. 
 
 About twenty paces from him stood six rude 
 musketeers in a rank, priming their pieces; 
 grouped to the left, as spectators, were all the
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 309 
 
 fierce band ; in front of these Velasco and the 
 priest, with fixed eyes and folded arms. 
 
 Already had the musketeers presented their 
 pieces ; already had the victim breathed his last 
 prayer, and, opening his eyes, was looking 
 steadily at his executioners, that he might see 
 their aim good and true before he gave the 
 signal ; when a cry of " Hold, for the love 
 of the most Holy Virgin ! hold !" arrested the 
 attention of all. Her mantilla fallen, her hair 
 loose, her arms uplifted, her cheek flushed with 
 the strugglings of hope and fear, Leonora de 
 Velasco, majestic as a bright angel of mercy, 
 rushed with winged speed, and when she found 
 herself in the midst, between Eustace and the 
 levelled arms, in presence of her brother and 
 his band, she suddenly stopped, and again 
 cried with a nervous tone, that went trembling 
 to many a hearer's heart, — " He shall not die ! 
 he shall not die ! Brother, he spared you the 
 night we kneeled and sung a requiem for our 
 father. He shall not die, brother ! he repaired 
 the great Velasco' s tomb. He shall not die." 
 x 3
 
 310 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 " Away ! unworthy Velasco, away ! " said 
 Juan, sternly. " Will no one remove the 
 girl?" 
 
 The priest ran and caught her arm to drag 
 her from the line of fire. With a strength lent 
 her by despair, she threw him far and violently 
 from her, — then turned, and was in a moment 
 at the cross, and placed herself before it. — 
 " Here," said the devoted girl, " here will I 
 stand ! here gladly fall, or for or with this noble 
 enemy ! — no enemy to me or living man ! — as 
 a brother, dear to me !" 
 
 " Fire ! " cried Juan, — he was not obeyed. 
 
 " As a thousand brothers dear to me ! " re- 
 peated Leonora. 
 
 " Daughter of my father ! you have lived too 
 long," thundered Juan, as with lightning swift- 
 ness he flew to her, and she fell stabbed at his 
 feet, — the blood of her stricken bosom flowing 
 forth upon them. 
 
 " Brother, brother ! " said she faintly, as soon 
 as she could recover from the shock : — " Juan, 
 you used to love me — kiss me, Juan:" — and 
 she supported herself on her arm, and lifted up
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 311 
 
 her pale lips, and kissed his murderous hand 
 that hung stained down. 
 
 " Leonora, confess ! speak, say that it was 
 true ! — say that you were guilty ! " 
 
 " Of many sins against high Heaven, Juan, 
 but none against my brother." 
 
 " Is not this enemy your lover ? Hath he not 
 abused you ? " 
 
 " Your sister is chaste and spotless as the un- 
 sunned snow," said the voice of Eustace, now 
 for the first time heeded ; though, from the in- 
 stant of Leonora's arrival, he had prayed her to 
 let death take its course upon him. 
 
 " Brother ! I forgive you more than my 
 death-blow — I forgive you this." 
 
 With slow and solemn utterance she spoke, 
 and paused, fainting at the close of this effort. 
 
 One more she made, — " Let it be that I have 
 died for this good man :" — and after there were 
 but murmurs not intelligible, and lips that 
 moved in prayer, — and her cold cheek felt not 
 the pressure of her brother's as he lay down by 
 her, prostrate in his despair. 
 
 The lady Cassilda and Clemente found her 
 x4
 
 312 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 as white and cold as marble when they arrived 
 at the foot of the cross ; — there, where she had 
 fallen, she lay dead. Leaning against the cross, 
 to which he was no longer bound, stood Eustace 
 like a statue of grief — the boy Presidonio at his 
 feet, kneeling before the cross, — Juan and the 
 priest and the guerillas were gone. 
 
 In the chapel of San Francisco, in Cordova, 
 there is a plain tablet of white marble to the me- 
 mory of Leonora de Velasco ; it records not the 
 manner of her death, but is simply inscribed 
 with her name; — above are the words 
 
 IN CiELO QUIES. 
 
 Beneath, 
 
 OVEJA PERDIDA VEN.
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 313 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 As I was sitting on a stone, last autumn, upon 
 the Malvern hills, I observed an unhappy-looking 
 foreigner walking alone, and talking mournfully 
 to himself. As soon as he noticed me, he ap- 
 proached, and said, " Oh ! Englishman, yours is 
 a happy country ! While I look down upon these 
 green and golden vales of fruitage and fertility, 
 which, during all the terrible wars of our day, 
 have lain peaceful and secure, I ask myself if 
 the happy dwellers in those cities and villages, 
 that shine glorious and pleasant in the sun, do 
 know and value the inestimable blessing of hav- 
 ing been exempted from the cruel visitations of 
 a hostile army ?" 
 
 " It is, indeed," said I, " a happy country. 
 I was just picturing to myself what a desolating 
 change in the aspect of those yellow fields and 
 blushing orchards the mere passage of an enemy, 
 or indeed of a friendly force, would effect ; and 
 what corresponding miseries would disturb or
 
 314 THE LADY OF CORDOVA; OR, 
 
 destroy the domestic happiness of many a loving 
 and virtuous family." 
 
 " You have then," he asked, " seen war ? — 
 Pray, where?" 
 
 " In Spain," I replied. 
 
 " Ah ! that is my country. Unhappy land ! 
 I remember her before the cup of bitterness was 
 put to her lips." 
 
 I rose and accompanied him to the Hereford- 
 shire beacon, and there, as we sat together upon 
 the green sward, in the old Roman encamp- 
 ment, he related to me the tale which I have now 
 given to my reader. It had for me a very pe- 
 culiar interest, as I remembered to have met on 
 the ramparts of Bayonne, in 1813, a French 
 officer of dragoons, whose appearance exactly 
 corresponded with the picture of Eustace de 
 Rochfort, and who was, as they told me, suffer- 
 ing under a profound melancholy, which had 
 troubled his reason, and was the cause of his 
 being invalided and sent back to France. 
 
 Of the other personages in this sad drama, I 
 learned that the wretched Juan soon threw away 
 his life in battle ; that the Lady Cassilda pined
 
 THE SPANISH BROTHER. 315 
 
 away slowly, and died about a year after the 
 event recorded ; that Clemente survived her 
 about four ; that the priest was living, and one 
 of the wealthiest and most wretched beings 
 in Cordova ; that the noble Monteiro, his 
 Miranda, and his children, were in exile and in 
 poverty. 
 
 « What's yet in this that bears the name of life ? "
 
 TALE OF THE WAR IN THE 
 TYROL.
 
 THE TYR0LER. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 ?' Jog on, jog on the footpath way, 
 And merrily hent the stile-a j 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a." 
 
 Song in Winter's Tale. 
 
 Hand never rested more lightly on a stile, nor 
 did the gathered feet ever clear a leap more 
 cleanly than those of Albert Steiner, as, late on 
 a pleasant and sunny evening early in April, 
 1809, he vaulted over the stone fence of a cattle- 
 yard, belonging to the good inn, the Golden 
 Crown, in the small post-town of Sterzingen. 
 He had been journeying all day; but his heart 
 was light, his rifle hung steady on his manly 
 shoulder, and his thoughts were running on 
 before faster than he could keep pace with 
 them to greet his dear Johanna, the kellerinn 
 of this clean and comfortable hostelrie.
 
 320 THE TYROLER. 
 
 It was a month, a long month, since he had 
 looked into her soft eyes, and he came as usual 
 by the mountain-path, and entered as was his 
 custom by this yard. Here he was not unfre- 
 quently met and smiled upon by the welcome of 
 Johanna ; but now, as he made his footing in 
 it, a very different scene was presented to him : 
 instead of the lowing kine, with the full udders, 
 waiting the milking hour, there were a dozen 
 or more fine stout tall chargers, with their 
 heads fastened up against a dead wall, and a 
 brawny Bavarian dragoon in forage cap and 
 stable dress with each. The jump of Albert, 
 and his sudden turning of the corner, made the 
 nearest horse start ; and the like motion being 
 instantly gone through by the whole squad of 
 these full-fed animals, there arose a volley of 
 rough curses, which, Albert was made sensible 
 by look and gesture, he was at liberty to appro- 
 priate. 
 
 Although a little startled himself, Albert rea- 
 dily recovered his self-possession. 
 
 " You have brave cattle, friends." 
 
 " Yes, friend," said the nearest soldier, a fierce
 
 THE TYROLER. 321 
 
 surly-looking giant, with sandy mustachoes o'er- 
 shadowing his mouth with their rude bristles ; 
 " yes, and good swords to boot." 
 
 " A good horse is more to my fancy," re- 
 joined Albert. 
 
 " I should guess so," said the soldier, " though 
 I suppose it's not much use you could make of 
 either. To be sure if you held the mane fast, 
 and put his head the right way, four legs would 
 carry you faster out of danger than two." 
 
 " Did you ever see a bear ? " asked Albert. 
 
 " What do you mean, you goat-herd ?" 
 
 " I mean that I have killed many a one in 
 these rocks above you, and made no words 
 about it." 
 
 The slow and surly Bavarian did not com- 
 prehend Albert's meaning to the full ; but, as 
 he looked into the blue and brilliant eyes of the 
 fair and fearless youth, who stood erect before 
 him with very evident contempt in his smile, he 
 saw that he was defied. 
 
 " I will tell you what, my jack bird," said he, 
 " you shall take your naked feet out of this 
 quicker than you brought them in, and by the 
 
 Y
 
 322 THE TYR0LER. 
 
 same road." With that he dropped the wisp of 
 straw from his hand, and, relying on his huge 
 size and superior strength, advanced towards 
 the youth to put his threat in execution. 
 Albert, stung by the sneering mention of his 
 mountain costume, for he wore the sandal on his 
 naked foot, and upon his graceful and well- 
 proportioned legs the half-stocking, without 
 feet, gartered beneath his small firm knee ; 
 stung by this, and eager for an essay of his 
 prowess against a Bavarian, he slipped his rifle 
 quietly on the ground behind him ; and, with 
 fixed eye, awaited his antagonist. The heavy 
 monster put out his broad and bony hands to 
 seize the shoulders of Albert, but, ere he had 
 a firm hold of him, the active youth with equal 
 courage and address had caught him behind 
 the knees, and threw T him prostrate in his cum- 
 brous length upon the puddly ground. 
 
 " There, bullock, lie there, and have a care 
 in future how you play tricks with naked-footed 
 mountaineers," exultingly cried the young Ty- 
 roler, and catching up his rifle he walked past the 
 man towards the house, before, stunned by the 
 shock, the soldier had breath to regain his legs
 
 THE TYROLER. 323 
 
 The loud laugh of his comrades galled the 
 savage soldier to madness, and with clenched 
 fists, and an arm raised as though collecting all 
 
 * Do 
 
 his strength for a ponderous blow, he ran after 
 Albert, who turned to face him, and, dexterously 
 avoiding the descent of it, had the fresh triumph 
 of seeing his clumsy assailant trip against a 
 stone, and fall prone upon his face. 
 
 With a fury as fierce and well nigh as blind 
 as Polyphemus of old, he roared out for his 
 sword, and swore he would have the young 
 brigand's blood ; but by this time an officer, who 
 had been spectator of the whole scene from a 
 window above, called out in anger to the Ser- 
 jeant below, and bade him place the infuriated 
 giant in confinement. This was not effected 
 without some little trouble, very loud remon- 
 strances, and an oath that, if it came to war, 
 he'd have the blood of as many of the raga- 
 muffin rock-goats as he could lay hands on. 
 
 Albert, who had just reached the back-door 
 of the inn kitchen, was dragged into it with 
 kindlv but earnest force by a tall and handsome 
 girl, whose alarmed and affectionate anxiety 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 ' THE TYROLER. 
 
 threw a light into her eyes, and spread a glow 
 over her cheeks, which heightened her come- 
 liness to all the warmth and brilliancy of 
 surpassing beauty. The tender and nervous 
 pressure of her trembling hand, as she drew 
 him in, thrilled through his happy frame, and 
 if he had had more long, more peaceful, more 
 wordy greetings from her before, nay, though 
 marked by the permitted embrace, yet none 
 had been so sweet, so softly sweet as this. His 
 heart beat strong in his brave young bosom, 
 and the flush of his late exertion, continued by 
 his present feelings, gave him that red bloom of 
 boyhood, which, but for his sun-tanned forehead 
 and throat, had been almost effeminately rosy. 
 
 Every body in the Golden Crown, from Dame 
 Margaret Kauffman herself down to the turn- 
 spit in the wheel, and the tame club-focted 
 raven in the scullery, who was helping to clean 
 plates and dishes, was in the full activity of bustle, 
 for the house was filled above with officers, and 
 below with servants and soldiers. 
 
 The house was so constructed that the great 
 common hall was not on the ground, but on the
 
 THE TYROLER. 325 
 
 second floor ; thither, therefore, as usual, Albert 
 ascended, Johanna whispering him to behave 
 himself, and be on his guard, and telling him in 
 a brief sentence that she was afraid there would 
 be fighting on the morrow, but that he would 
 hear more of that from one whom he would 
 find above. 
 
 The hall of the hostel was a large apartment, 
 irregular in shape, and, before the conversion 
 of the dwelling into an inn, had been a store- 
 room for the imported corn of Bavaria, and for 
 other foreign produce, with which the rugged 
 and unfertile country of Tyrol needs to be 
 supplied by its wealthier neighbours. A few 
 small chambers had been partitioned off for 
 sleeping in ; and more closets of like size were 
 laid out on either side of the wide passage, 
 leading back to those stairs by which you 
 descended to the kitchen. The front stairs from 
 the street entrance led directly up into the hall, 
 as into an open landing-place ; and the brown 
 balustrade, with its carved rails, formed a quaint, 
 not unpleasing, and picturesque adornment to 
 the spacious and many-cornered apartment. 
 Y 3
 
 326 THE TYROLER. 
 
 There was a large wide fire-place in a recess 
 formed on one side by the wall, near the front 
 window, and on the other by one of these par- 
 titioned sleeping-rooms. The window was a 
 bay-window, with small panes of glass ; and 
 the frame-work all about it was of curiously- 
 carved wood. In the corner, directly opposite 
 the fire-place, was reared an immense crucifix, 
 coarsely painted ; the rafters of the roof were 
 old and black ; the walls were in part plastered 
 and whitewashed, — in part, of the dark wains- 
 coting of the partitions. In various situations 
 around stood solid heavy tables, and weighty 
 settles near the walls, upon which, just over 
 them, hung common lamps of iron. Such was 
 the ordinary arrangement of this vast guest- 
 chamber; which, during the season of Sterzingen 
 fair, or the larger ones of Brixen and Botzen, 
 could accommodate some fifty or sixty travellers 
 with a floor soft enough for the weary to sleep 
 upon, especially when provided with night-caps 
 of the brown beer of Bavaria, or the luscious 
 wine of Roveredo. 
 
 As Albert came along the passage into this
 
 THE IYROLER. 327 
 
 hall, he observed that two tables, taken from 
 their usual places, occupied the middle space, 
 and were laid out for supper. Lounging from 
 the windows, lolling on the settles, or pacing 
 up and down the room, were about a dozen 
 officers of the Bavarian carabineers, some bare- 
 headed, some with flat and becoming forage- 
 caps. Their white uniforms, their high and 
 heavy boots, and their tall martial figures, struck 
 the youth with a something that he was vexed 
 to feel — admiration ; and, in spite of the feat 
 he had just performed in the yard, and his 
 ardent love of the Austrian, he passed through 
 them, to a table at the upper end, with a less 
 proud and steady tread than was his wont. 
 
 The officer, who had noticed Albert's conduct 
 from his window, and who was the veteran com- 
 manding these troops, came out of his private 
 room almost immediately after his entrance, 
 and called upon him to show his permission for 
 carrying arms. 
 
 This attracted the attention of all the officers, 
 who drew round him in a group, in the midst 
 of which, after a little fumbling in his pockets 
 Y 4,
 
 328 THE TY110LER. 
 
 and beneath the shot-belt about his waist, he 
 produced a paper, headed with the Bavarian 
 arms, and presenting it, said, with a proud smile, 
 " It's all right, I believe. The signature is a 
 good one. We Tyrolers know it as well as any 
 conscript in all Bavaria." 
 
 The colonel took glasses from his breast, and, 
 throwing them open, read slowly the name and 
 description, signed Rtttfurt, Lieut.- Colonel. 
 
 " They know him in the Fleims Thai," 
 said the youth, as the colonel read aloud his 
 name ; " and, saving your presence, sir colonel, 
 he is better known than loved." 
 
 " You chamois hunters are difficult people to 
 govern," said the veteran. 
 
 " The Kaiser Francis did not find us so." 
 
 " I should think he did, for he has given you 
 away." 
 
 " Nay, not given ; a good soldier does not 
 give away his shield, though he may be forced 
 to drop it ; however, it is a shield still, as bright 
 and strong a one as any that hangs on the 
 wall at Ambras." 
 
 " What should a lad like you know about 
 shields?"
 
 THE TYROLER. 329 
 
 " Not much ; but, since I was the height of 
 this rifle, I have heard that my country was the 
 shield of Austria ; and I remember seeing one 
 in the castle of Ambras, that belonged to 
 Frederic the son of Leopold, who fell at the 
 battle of Sempach." 
 
 " Why, you are quite an historian." 
 
 11 Nay, but I have an ear, and an eye, and a 
 heart for my father-land." 
 
 " I see you have : however, you must not 
 treat us as the Switzer did Frederic at Sempach ; 
 only keep a civil tongue, and don't give lessons 
 in wrestling in my stable-yard." So saying, he 
 dismissed Albert with the smile of a brave 
 benevolence ; for in his heart he approved the 
 boy's bearing, and very cordially detested the 
 measures of his government in many parts of 
 this fine country. 
 
 Albert saw the feeling, and had sense and 
 modesty enough not to try it further, but took 
 his seat at a table near the window, where an 
 elderly peasant stood up waiting to greet him. 
 
 Dusk soon fell upon them. The welcome 
 lamps were lighted ; and the more welcome
 
 330 THE TYROLER. 
 
 supper being served up, the Bavarians were 
 soon busily engaged over the coarse but plente- 
 ous fare spread before them. Many savoury 
 messes, cooked after camp-fashions by their 
 soldier-servants, had astonished Dame KaufFman 
 below, and spared her and her maidens not a 
 little trouble in preparation. By virtue of her 
 office as kelierinn, Johanna was forced to bring 
 in some of the dishes, and i;he wines, and to be 
 in attendance in the hall ; but she uttered no 
 " guten appetite" at the table of the Bavarians. 
 She put no broth or wine to her lips, after the 
 ancient and hospitable custom of the land. She 
 glided quickly and coldly about, with dexterous 
 shrinkings from the hands that w T ould have 
 caught her arm, and frowning evasions of the 
 gazes that would have won her smile. 
 
 But those who would have offered such 
 freedoms were very few, and soon and easily 
 repressed. Johanna, though a lowly girl, was 
 one of nature's noble women, and very beauti- 
 ful, and very modest, having that modesty which 
 seldom blushed, for it saw no cause for blushing 
 at kind words and kind looks, if they were
 
 THE TYROLER. 331 
 
 frank and chaste ; and her modesty sat on her 
 white forehead so like the seal of Heaven, that 
 the good revered, and the bad were awed by it. 
 There was a quiet grace, a captivating gentle- 
 ness, about all she did and uttered : her language 
 and address, all unaffected as they were, were 
 very superior to her station. Her fame as 
 a beauty was known at every inn from Salz- 
 burgh to Trent; and, in the Puster Thai and 
 Passeyr Thai, those who had ever travelled out 
 of them were wont to drink a health, at home, 
 to Johanna of Sterzingen. She was rather tall; 
 her eyes of a lively brown, quick in their motion, 
 but when they rested, soft and expressive in 
 their gaze ; her nose was feminine and small, 
 though prominent in form ; her mouth was 
 small, and softly cut : she never laughed, but 
 her smiles broke in bright wreaths about it ; and 
 the red lip, and white even teeth, shone clear 
 with health. Two braids of her luxuriant hair 
 were passed around her head, leaving her marble 
 forehead bare ; and the thicker fall behind was 
 rolled and gathered in a glossy knot at the back 
 of her fine-shaped head, and confined by a large
 
 332 THE TYROLER. 
 
 pin of silver. A collar of black velvet, to which 
 was appended a small gilt crucifix, adorned her 
 white throat. Her corset was a deep brown 
 with pink lacings ; her petticoat dark blue ; 
 stockings black, with pink clocks to them ; her 
 shoe-tyes were of pink : her form was of a slight 
 and graceful fulness; her hands and feet of 
 small and delicate proportions. 
 
 And this thing of fairness was but the maiden 
 of an inn, a simple kellerinn, always surrounded 
 by smilers, and yet had never loved but once, 
 and one. 
 
 Happy Albert ! she brought him his zuppen, 
 tasting it as she set it down, and put her lip to 
 the glass goblet, in which she poured out the 
 best wine of Dame Kauffman's cellar, and pre- 
 sented it with the still blessing of one who truly 
 loves. 
 
 Oh ! that sweet season of youth ! Some 
 twenty summers had shone over both of them : 
 for four, Johanna had filled her station here, 
 for two she had known Albert ; and though it 
 seldom happens in the Tyrol that a kellerinn 
 finds one bold enough to marry her, or can be
 
 THE TYROLEK. 333 
 
 deemed a fitting match for the youthful owner 
 of an alpine farm, still Johanna was, and felt 
 herself to be, an exception, though it was me- 
 lancholy to fear that grey parents and virtuous 
 sisters might not so consider her. 
 
 In a low and whispered conversation with 
 his neighbour, Albert had gathered that in a 
 very few days the burst might be expected. 
 That the French and Bavarians already looked 
 for such event, and would, perhaps, seek to 
 strike the first blow. That, unknown how- 
 ever to them, Hofer was this night to arrive 
 on the mountains near, with the men of the 
 Passeyr valley : to join Hofer had been Albert's 
 intent. He had come from one of those small 
 stations, which, though bordering on the Ziller 
 Thai, have a far more easy and more constant 
 communication with the distant Sterzingen. 
 He was a brave boy, and exulted at the 
 thought that his first essay in arms was so 
 near ; it quickened his attention to all that was 
 passing around him, and, with a fixed eager- 
 ness, he watched the Bavarian table. Their 
 supper had been despatched, — flasks, bottles,
 
 334 THE TYROLER. 
 
 wine-glasses, and large glass tankards of beer, 
 covered the table ; there were pipes in most of 
 their mouths, and they smoked, and talked, 
 and jested about many things — about horses, 
 dogs, operas, women, dancing, and hunting. 
 They cursed the Tyrol, because there were no 
 theatres, no balls, no plains for a gallop ; but 
 of war, or danger, or fear they never spoke 
 at all. 
 
 The colonel who had questioned Albert took 
 little part in this converse, but talked in a quiet 
 under voice with a young officer near him, and 
 soon left the table for his chamber. This 
 young officer particularly struck Albert : he was 
 by far the handsomest man, not only of the 
 party, but that Albert had ever seen ; he was 
 tall, wide in the chest, and admirably propor- 
 tioned ; his forehead was large and square ; 
 his complexion had been very fair; his hair of 
 the lightest brown, that upon his upper lip was 
 soft, and fair as a child's ; his lips were full, and 
 the under one had that leonine division which 
 marks strength and courage; his teeth, white, 
 strong, and firm set ; his eyes were very large,
 
 THE TYROLER. 335 
 
 and of that blue which is the mirror of grave 
 sad thoughts : a cross of merit hung upon his 
 breast, and, after the colonel quitted, he slowly 
 lit his pipe, and sat abstracted as among, not of, 
 the company. For the others, there was every 
 variety of Bavarian face, and all patterns of the 
 military mustachoe from the stiff bristles to the 
 short soft brush, and the soaped and twisted 
 corners. 
 
 The entrance of a stout athletic capuchin 
 friar, with an enormous bushy beard, of a fiery 
 red, who took his seat at the next table to Al- 
 bert and his friend, roused and amused them 
 not a little. The capuchin is ever a fertile 
 source of mirth to soldiers, and this one proved 
 more especially so, for he bore in his hand a 
 heavy wooden crucifix, about four feet in length, 
 and of considerable thickness ; and what with 
 his stature and bulk, and the redness of his 
 beard, they deemed him, and might justly, a 
 more fit subject for a porter's knot, or a prison- 
 workhouse, than a convent. Accordingly, one 
 drew his portrait in burnt cork on the table; 
 another recited with the most comic effect a
 
 336 THE TYROLER, 
 
 portion of the capuchin's sermon from the Wal- 
 lenstein of Schiller. 
 
 The stout young father was hungry, thirsty, 
 and tired : he ate like a wolf, drank like 
 a fish, yawned like a Venetian clown, and 
 smiled horribly, whether with contempt on 
 them, or thanks upon Johanna. He was not 
 to be diverted from his meal, or driven from 
 his post, not even by their final and grand 
 attack in the shape of that famous glee, which 
 four of them sung with admirable life and hu- 
 mour, called " Gran barba capucinorum." He 
 stood it all ; at last, rising and approaching 
 their table, he asked if any one of them could 
 lift the crucifix he had with him from the 
 ground, taking it by the extreme end, and 
 slowly raising it so as to hold it at arm's length. 
 The three stoutest and youngest of his tor- 
 mentors essayed, but in vain, swearing, that it 
 was made of lead, and as heavy as a battering- 
 ram. The gaunt friar, lifting and wielding it 
 with ease, left the room with a smile, saying, 
 11 This is the hammer that breaks the rock in 
 pieces, that bows the stubborn knees, that 
 makes the king's enemies to bite the dust."
 
 THE TYROLER. 337 
 
 During the greater part of this noisy merri- 
 ment, the young and handsome officer, of whom 
 we spoke, had been absent from the apartment 
 visiting the stables. He now returned, carrying 
 in his arms a beautiful little curly-headed child, 
 about two years old. The little fellow was too 
 young for a patriot, and he clung round the 
 neck of his new and smiling playfellow with close 
 and contented fondness ; and, with the pretty ca- 
 price of a spoiled and happy child, he would not 
 leave him. In vain came his grandmother, Dame 
 Kauffman, — in vain Johanna coaxed and 
 spread her arms, and pointed to Albert, his old 
 favourite : the boy had made his election of the 
 new neck and the new knee for the evening ; and 
 he kicked with delight, and shrieked in his glad 
 laughter. 
 
 Children are quick to see where children are 
 loved, and the little urchin knew that it was near 
 kind eyes; — of a truth, Felix Herman looked 
 nearly as much pleased, and talked quite as 
 much nonsense as the stammering toddler on his 
 knee, on which the boy was now going through 
 the delightful exercise of a ride, while Felix was 
 z
 
 338 THE TYROLER. 
 
 accompanying his movements with sundry repe- 
 titions of one fragment of a song, 
 
 « Dass Ross ist der Kaiser, 
 Der Reiter is mein — " * 
 
 and, at each close, he gave the little rider a kiss 
 to prove his assertion. 
 
 It was with a new, strange, and unwelcome 
 feeling that Albert witnessed the natural and 
 
 o 
 
 very innocent interest with which Johanna re- 
 garded this little scene. 
 
 The Bavarian looked very handsome ; the sun 
 had burned his fair skin with a fine war-stain, 
 and the very child had discovered and was 
 playing with his glittering decoration. He had 
 never compared himself with such a being be- 
 fore, for he had never seen such a one ; and he 
 was mortified that Johanna should have an op- 
 portunity of making the same comparison. 
 
 What a tormenting fiend is jealousy ! how 
 mean an inmate of the bosom is suspicion ! 
 This officer did interest Johanna, as a painting, 
 or a song, — nay, more, as a fellow-mortal of 
 kind and kindred feelings, — but not as her Al- 
 
 * " The horse is the Keser's, 
 The rider is mine."
 
 THE TYROLER. 339 
 
 bert, who had been as the bloom of her young 
 life to her. Oh, no ! it was no shadow of a 
 change to thee, Albert, but a sad thought of and 
 for thee, which made Johanna gaze upon the 
 young enemy with tearful eyes, and then again 
 at you, — which made her, when at last she car- 
 ried away the play-tired child to his crib, give a 
 kindly-pronounced " gutte naclit " to the hand- 
 some Bavarian, and suffer his common but soft 
 reply without a frown. 
 
 It seemed to her, that such men as Albert and 
 Felix should never be exposed to peril and to 
 death ; or, if so, that such beings should fight 
 side by side. 
 
 One after another the officers got up from 
 table ; two tramped up and down the hall, con- 
 tinuing an argument about the merits of an ac- 
 tress at the royal theatre of Munich; some 
 yawned away to their beds ; one burly subject 
 filled his pipe again, and, emptying all the liquors 
 on the table into one of those huge tumblers 
 that contain three pints of liquid, made a kind 
 of punch, that wanted no ingredient but water, 
 and sat down again to enjoy himself, by himself, 
 z 2
 
 340 THE TYROLER. 
 
 as residuary legatee of all the wine and beer 
 about him. 
 
 Felix leaned far out of the window, to escape 
 into a better solitude ; and Albert and his old 
 companion went away, with that look over their 
 shoulders with which the oppressed regard the 
 instruments of oppression, when the day of their 
 resolved deliverance is at hand. 
 
 " Why," said Albert, as he lingered at the 
 gate of the hostel to part with his Johanna — 
 " Why did you bid good night to that cursed 
 Bavarian ? Perhaps it may be his last — it shall 
 not be the fault of Albert Steiner if it is not ! " 
 
 " My dear Albert, talk not thus : — remember 
 we are parting, as we never did before. Albert, 
 my heart misgives me. 6 God and the Kaiser,' 
 is a fine cry — but not for a wedding : between 
 cup and lip I see a withered hand. Ah ! if it 
 must be war, I would it were well over. There 
 be no wars in heaven ! " 
 
 " I would old Andrew Hofer could hear thee: 
 he'd never drink to Johanna of Sterzingen 
 again. Out upon thy foolish fears ! Why, I 
 thought you had spirit enough to face a cannon 
 for Tyrol."
 
 THE TYROLER. 341 
 
 " And so I have : — but then, the withered 
 hand ! — I saw it, Albert, last night, by the holy 
 well. And I heard a chaunt — a requiem it 
 was ; and the rose that was in my hah' fell off, 
 and when I would have picked it up I trod on 
 it." 
 
 " Why, you don't wish to make me base- 
 hearted ?" 
 
 " No ! I cannot. If I could, you were not 
 dear to me. Go where your duty calls ; but 
 go at peace with every man, as a man — talk 
 not of singling one to kill." 
 
 " The Bavarian again ! — You are be- 
 witched ! " 
 
 " Nay, Albert ! It is a year, come Holy 
 Thursday, since we cut our troth upon the old 
 pine near the chapel of Saint Hubert, on the 
 Brenner: — 'twas then I was bewitched; — 'tis 
 now I am bewitched. And since then I have 
 thought, and think more of you than our good 
 Lady herself, — whose mercy pardon me ! " — 
 And with that she crossed herself, and mur- 
 mured a brief ejaculation; and then, with a 
 heavy sob, let fall her cheek upon his shoulder. 
 z 3
 
 342 THE TYROLER. 
 
 It looked holy in the shadow of the night, that 
 fair pale cheek ! 
 
 He did not dare do more than let his own 
 touch it, and softly rest there ; and their two 
 hearts, pressed together, spake in quick thick 
 beatings to each other, and said, " Farewell ! " 
 
 Albert tore himself away, and for some hun- 
 dred paces ran ; but, after, walked slowly and 
 wearily by the side of his less youthful com- 
 panion : and never had a league in his whole 
 life appeared to him so long and rugged as that 
 which now he traversed.
 
 THE TYROLER. 343 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 " All indistinctly apprehend a bliss 
 
 On which the soul may rest — the hearts of all 
 Yearn after it. " Dante, Carys Transl. 
 
 The gentle Johanna's was not the only heart in 
 Sterzingen that trembled with apprehension 
 and sorrow at the coming war. 
 
 About the same hour that we noticed the ar- 
 rival of young Albert in Sterzingen, in the 
 small church of St. James, in the northern sub- 
 urb, Father Christian Meiler was performing 
 the vesper service. The congregation was 
 small, and consisted, for the most part, of 
 women, with a few aged men sprinkled among 
 them. The melancholy which does ordinarily 
 belong to vespers, was yet increased here by the 
 deep and musical tones of a voice that was al- 
 ways melodious, and generally mournful. 
 
 The mournfulness this evening was well, or 
 rather in part, understood, by a few of Father 
 z 4
 
 344 THE TYROLEK. 
 
 Christian's flock; and most of them, aware of 
 the troublous times that were approaching, felt 
 more than usually impressed by his solemnity. 
 
 About the middle of the service, there came 
 in a Bavarian in uniform. He knelt — away — 
 apart, in the shadow of a pillar: — but there 
 reached the ear of Christian that sound which 
 belongs to the suppression of a bursting grief in 
 a strong man's bosom. Many were the low 
 murmurings of humble and pious voices ; — 
 sobs too there were, — and the dull beatings of 
 the breast in penitential fervour ; but this sound, 
 though lower than them all, seemed as though 
 it went up swifter and nigher to the gate of 
 Heaven, — and he who stood there, as Hea- 
 ven's minister, so deemed of it. At the close of 
 vespers all passed to their homes; and the 
 stranger went out also. Father, or rather Pas- 
 tor Christian, after putting off his robes, and 
 making the last genuflexion before the altar, 
 followed. 
 
 It was his wont each evening, at this hour, to 
 walk and meditate alone ; and this he did upon 
 a still and unfrequented path, that led above the
 
 THE TYROLER. S4«5 
 
 road to Inspruck, on which, about half a mile 
 distant, was a rude seat in the rock. Here, 
 evening after evening of his lonely life, he came 
 to say out the burdens of his heart ; or, with a 
 wise and passive piety, sit still and drink the 
 balmy air, and inhale the fragrance of the fresh- 
 ened flowers, and watch the dying day. 
 
 This evening, as he approached the spot 
 where he was accustomed to rest, he observed 
 that the seat was already occupied. A Bava- 
 rian lay, rather than sat, in it at his listless 
 length. He was talking loudly to himself — re- 
 citing it might be. Our good pastor paused ; 
 he was near, but not sufficiently near to distin- 
 guish the words: — he advanced slowly; sud- 
 denly there breathed a flute, and never fell upon 
 the ear a softer, sadder music ; words could not 
 tell so plaintively a tale of unrequited love, — for 
 such it was. Christian knew the air, and he 
 stood attent, as though it were an air from Hea- 
 ven to soothe earth's sickly weanlings. 
 
 Christian, though pastor of a parish, was 
 scarce six and twenty years of age, and tempted 
 in all respects like as other men — nay, more than
 
 346 THE TYROLER. 
 
 multitudes, as finer strung. He had been bred 
 at Padua, and his blue eyes, so early thoughtful 
 and so early dim, bespoke the soarings of a 
 lofty mind ; his cheeks were sallow, and the hair 
 around his tonsure thin and weak ; about the 
 corners of his mouth, which was singularly 
 expressive, you might observe large charity. 
 But for this, and his gentle eyes, he had been 
 called a plain man, and looked far older than he 
 was. He had not starved at Padua on the dry 
 chips of school divinity; he had browzed about 
 the numerous book-stalls for himself, and fed 
 his fancy and his heart ; and one vacation he had 
 gone a-foot to Rome, and fed his eye with 
 glories, and his ear with solemn and sweet 
 sounds. And now he was a priest, among a 
 rude and noble people, — happy in their igno- 
 rance, happy in their homes ; — and he had no 
 home, at least on earth, save perhaps this stone, 
 where he nightly came to sit alone with the holy 
 creation. 
 
 It ceased, the sweet music ; — the fainting 
 ravishment of Christian's sense remained, and 
 ere it left him calm again, the Bavarian, in a
 
 THE TYROLER. 347 
 
 mellow voice, sang mournfully the evening hymn 
 of Tyrol, 
 
 " Der lieben feuer stunde schlect." 
 
 Scarce conscious what he did, indeed he was 
 but as an instrument touched and played upon 
 by sympathies, Christian joined, and raised his 
 eyes to the mercy-seat as he sang; nor, till the 
 hymn was done, did he look upon his surprised 
 companion in that solitude. 
 
 " That is a beautiful hymn, good father," 
 said the stranger, who had risen ; " and methinks 
 this spot and hour are well suited to it ; and so 
 indeed is every spot throughout your romantic 
 land." 
 
 " Do you like our country ?" 
 
 " I have seen none like it — it suits the very 
 habit of my soul — it is a temple." 
 
 " It is ; and it was the temple of peace and 
 joy, but times are changed: — the temple is pol- 
 luted by the stranger's hostile foot." 
 
 " I know what you would say, — it must 
 end in war ; — it will — I see it — and that 
 soon."
 
 348 THE TYROLER. 
 
 " It is a horrid thing, war," sighed the father ; 
 " but 'for the altar and the hearth' has been 
 always accounted a sacred cry." 
 
 " And so it is a sacred cry," replied the 
 Bavarian. " I have heard it more than once, 
 and in more than one country." 
 
 He was a martial-looking man, very plain, 
 and of a " sad severe complexion." 
 
 " It is a sacred cry : but does the righteous 
 cause prosper on the earth ? Look to the eagle 
 of Napoleon, it is flying to the towers of Vienna. 
 It will come with its wing of glittering gold, and 
 the thunder in its iron talons, and it will perch 
 upon the white top of the Brenner, though the 
 torrents down its side should run blood. And 
 we, who hate the tyrant, fight for him : and you, 
 Tyrolers, who hate the Bavarian, are ceded to us 
 by the Austrian, whom you vainly love, like a 
 flock of cattle. And Tyroler and Bavarian 
 will soon begin to cut each other's throats ; — 
 and yet we have all had mothers, and sucked 
 human milk from human breasts ; and we have 
 knees to kneel with, and we shed tears, and 
 smile, moved by like griefs, pleasured by like
 
 THE TYROLER. 349 
 
 Christian stood wondering as the soldier spoke. 
 " And if you think thus," said he, " how is it 
 that you are found in arms ?" 
 
 " Because I have rode some five and twenty 
 years about the earth with battle horsemen — 
 because I know no other life, except as a sweet 
 vision — because I have no home save one of 
 dreams within." 
 
 " Stranger," said the pastor, " there is a 
 better, brighter home above. There is substance 
 in the hope of it ; and though its glories are 
 unseen, faith is their evidence. This is the 
 signal that points heavenwards : " and, as he 
 spoke, he pointed to a rude cross on a heap of 
 stones near, that marked some accidental death. 
 
 " You preach well," rejoined the soldier. 
 " Do you feel as you preach ? Are your wings 
 dressed, your pinions strong ? Do no vain 
 thoughts lodge in you ? Is there no idol in your 
 heart? Dost never feel the tempestuous winds, 
 or the voluptuous breathings of human passion 
 scatter your smoky prayers ? " 
 
 " You are he that was at vespers this even- 
 ing?"
 
 350 THE TYROLER. 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " It is time," said a voice on the road below. 
 u It is time," replied another ; and two figures, 
 not clearly discernible in the grey dusk, so met, 
 and so parted. 
 
 The words, the hour, the tone, made a deep 
 impression on both Christian and the soldier. 
 The causes of that impression were widely 
 different. To Christian the words had a distinct 
 and definite meaning ; to his companion they 
 sounded only as a sudden interruption, — the 
 breaking of a spell, which his own musings had 
 begun, and the chance encounter with Christian 
 had happily continued. 
 
 There is a family of men that are born, and 
 live, and die brothers, though they know it 
 not, though they are separated by space, and 
 country, language, and barriers, more rough, 
 and cold, and cruel still. These two were 
 brothers of that family, and felt a momentary 
 peace at the sweet thought ; but knew that the 
 separation must take place even there, just as 
 the discovered sympathies felt for each other — 
 just as the attuned hearts were set to harmony, 
 they must be torn apart.
 
 THE TYROLER. 351 
 
 " It is getting late," said Christian ; " I must 
 be moving homewards ; and you had best not be 
 too far from your quarters, stranger, at an hour 
 like this, among a peasantry so naturally hostile 
 to your nation. I am rather glad than sorry that 
 we have been interrupted by those passing voices, 
 for it is a mournful thing to form that friendship, 
 which one evening may do, and to know that it 
 must be broken off." 
 
 " Which less time has done, pastor," rejoined 
 the Bavarian. " These are never chance inter- 
 views ; they mingle sweetly with our after-exist- 
 ence, and cheer the lonely hour with the pleasant 
 memory of them." 
 
 " Yes, but — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It is time we part, stranger." 
 
 The soldier started at the expression " It is 
 time," now first noticed as any thing particular 
 by its third repetition, and by a certain mourn- 
 ful cadence with which the pastor uttered it. 
 
 " It is very strange," said he, " but often the 
 very word 4 Time' strikes heavily upon mine ear, 
 and fills me with a solemn image of its ceaseless
 
 352 THE TYROLER. 
 
 motion. It rolleth, majestically rolleth on. Its 
 million golden wheels in the calm sky roll si- 
 lent on; and yet momently each dying soul 
 outflits it, and loses sight of these heavens and 
 this earth, of sun and stars, and finds Eter- 
 nity." 
 
 The sound of bugles and trumpets was now 
 heard from the town. " The retreat" it was 
 that they were playing ; and the tones, mellowed 
 by the distance, were borne upon the chill air 
 to where they stood, with a magic power that 
 thrilled through Christian's bosom. To the 
 soldier it was a customary sound, but one he 
 l ove d • — one that always sank welcomed on his 
 heart, as the softest sensation belonging to the 
 camp life. 
 
 Their hearts were both full, and they walked 
 silently to the entrance of the town together. 
 There with the " Good night," and the clasped 
 hand, they parted. 
 
 As the pastor entered his lonely chamber, 
 and his old woman followed him in with the 
 lamp, she crossed herself with more than usual 
 gravity, and put into his hand a scrap of paper, 
 on which was written — " It is time."
 
 THE TYROLER. 353 
 
 " Who brought it ?" asked Christian. 
 
 " A woman from the valley of Passeyr, and she 
 has gotten one for every man in Sterzingen ; and 
 she says that the Kaiser himself is in Puster 
 Thai, and the people are so mad for joy they 
 can scarce keep quiet in the streets." 
 
 Christian sat down in his old oak chair with 
 a heavy sigh, and uttered never a word. The 
 kind, quiet old housekeeper, who knew his sad 
 and peaceful ways, brought him in his soup, 
 and a glass of spring water, and some brown 
 bread, and some olives ; and it did not surprise 
 her in a few minutes to hear his bell, and find 
 him walking up and down the room talking to 
 himself, and to find nothing touched but an 
 olive and a corner of the loaf broken off, and the 
 water drunk up. Christian loved his country. 
 He was no coward ; but he was a sad wise man. 
 He distrusted the Austrian, he feared for the 
 simple Hofer, he measured the subtle and 
 strong Napoleon, and he saw the melancholy 
 end. 
 
 For himself he had no fear, but he trembled 
 for all about him. Such little earthly happiness 
 
 A A
 
 354 THE TYROLER. 
 
 as he enjoyed, arose from the contemplation of 
 it in others. Bound to the service of a temple, 
 which devotes its priests to a life of cheerless 
 celibacy; the slave of a hierarchy, whose in- 
 fidelity, ambition, and intolerance were known 
 to him ; whose venality and corruption, whose 
 juggleries and deceits, were his abhorrence ; the 
 present and the prospective future of his life 
 below were alike cheerless, and without hope ; 
 but he had a hope which looked beyond this 
 scene of things, and he had some consolation 
 in reflecting on the simple and pious manners 
 of his flock. The rubbish of ceremonial ab- 
 surdities and of superstitious legends was great, 
 but it had not entirely concealed from them the 
 great Corner-stone; and this strong foundation 
 he secretly sought every opportunity of laying 
 bare to the hearts of his people ; not by op- 
 posing their deeply- rooted prejudices with vio- 
 lence or ridicule, but by winning them, now 
 with a sigh, and now with a smile of love, to 
 look to and lean upon the Great Shepherd, as 
 all in all. In fine, he was a quietist, looking in 
 hope above, and labouring in sadness below.
 
 THE TYROLER. 355 
 
 He loved gentleness, and all gentle things. 
 Resignation, to a lot lonely and mournful, it 
 was above all things his desire to evidence in 
 his temper and pursuits. He went about do- 
 ing good, as he had been taught by his great 
 Master ; he strove to be busy ; and his relax- 
 ations were of that nature which arose out of his 
 early studies and tastes. The poetry of nature, 
 of history, of life, common domestic life, was 
 his dear study ; and he sat and read alone, or 
 walked about alone, with eyes contemplative, 
 and very often dimmed by tears. The threat- 
 ening burst of war came upon his loving spirit 
 like a trial and a calamity : it was a harsh event, 
 and his keen sensibility, through all its depths, 
 was jarred by it. 
 
 He walked about his chamber, gathering up 
 all the strength of his intellect, and the courage 
 of his heart, for stepping into the dark and 
 troublous torrent of the times, and there was an 
 anticipation very awful to him that his indivi- 
 dual destiny would be driven headlong, by its 
 wild and perplexing fury, to some dreadful 
 and sunless depth of woe or crime ; and yet he 
 a a 2
 
 356 THE TYROLER. 
 
 did not fear the coward's fear, for he would 
 have welcomed the death shot, and the un- 
 broken quiet of a grave. Thus, as he mused, 
 and mourned, and prayed, there came a heavy 
 step along his passage, and a knock, and the 
 terrible pass-word — " It is time." 
 
 He opened his door, and the stout capuchin 
 friar, whose appearance at the hostelrie we no- 
 ticed, came in with an air of fierce delight. 
 
 <; ' Gran barba capucinorum 9 — ' Gran barba 
 capucinorum' — by the seven wounds of our 
 Lady, they shall sing the < pcenitet ' to-morrow, 
 if there is any holy virtue in this crucifix, or 
 any strength in this good right-arm ; " and with 
 that he lifted the hallowed symbol as though 
 it had been the battle-mace of a crusader, and 
 struck it down again with a violence on the 
 floor which shook Christian's apartment. 
 
 " What has happened, brother Peter, that 
 moves you to such carnal heat ? — This is no pos- 
 ture of mind or of body, methinks, for the 
 ministers of mercy to meet God's enemies, or 
 to expect his blessing against them." 
 
 " I'll tell you what, brother Christian," said 
 the nettled friar, " you may go kneel, and
 
 THE TYROLER. 357 
 
 sigh, and groan among the old women, who 
 stay safe under the altar of your patron saint ; 
 but I'll go where the saint himself rides on his 
 white horse, with old Hofer, to guide the good 
 bullets of Tyrol's best patriots to the breasts of 
 these Bavarian tyrants." 
 
 " Perhaps I shall go, brother, myself to the 
 battle, but it will not be to fight ; there will be 
 shrift to be given, and I would not that any of 
 my poor flock should die in their spilled blood, 
 without such comfort as my words and prayers 
 might afford them." 
 
 The friar, though he hated Christian, had 
 always feared him, and the fear came back 
 upon him at this rebuke. He knew the people 
 of his parish looked up to him, and loved him, 
 though they thought him weak, and easily im- 
 posed on, and had never reckoned on his aid 
 in war ; but there might be, though he could 
 scarce credit it, there might be more courage 
 in the pale thin form before him than he had 
 suspected ; besides, he felt awe of his intellect, 
 and there was a something holy in his calmness ; 
 so he excused himself by saying, 
 a a 3
 
 35S THE TYROLER. 
 
 " Well, brother, flesh is but flesh ; and the 
 young Bavarian bullies yonder bearded me. 
 They don't know though that Hofer is waiting 
 for them on the hill, and will fill their bellies 
 with powder and ball for breakfast to-morrow 
 morning. Your Sterzingers are some of them 
 on the way, and more are setting out now — by 
 two's and three's, quietly under cover of the 
 night. I go myself directly ; I shall tell Hofer 
 you are coming, without you decide to stay and 
 take care of the town : and this last, perhaps, 
 were best for you, and good service, and diffi- 
 cult, wanting a head like yours ; and, now I 
 think of it, you should do this, brother Christian, 
 — and mine was a senseless word about it." 
 
 " Oh ! brother," said the pastor, " I make no 
 man an offender for a word, especially where I 
 know he speaks without thinking." 
 
 The friar, whose head was as thick as his 
 convent-wall, had yet sense enough to perceive 
 that this speech of charity had a savour of con- 
 tempt in it, and having no power to bite, he 
 thought it as wise not to grin out his vexation ; 
 so, with the wonted blessing of " Peace be upon
 
 THE TYROLER. 359 
 
 you ! peace be upon this house ! " this rough, 
 red-bearded, athletic member of the church 
 militant took his departure, with a weighty tread 
 that made the flooring of the passage creak its 
 complaints beneath his broad sandal. 
 
 " Spirit of the loving John ! " exclaimed 
 Christian, " if thy grave were to be opened, and 
 thou couldst walk forth and see such men en- 
 trusted with the message of truth and love, 
 whither wouldst thou flee ? — ' Oh ! that I had 
 the wings of a dove ! ' " and he sat him down, 
 and opened the clasps of the heavy Bible on his 
 table, and, with his two hands supporting his 
 throbbing temples, he drank, in stillness, of the 
 water of life. 
 
 He had thus been seated in silence for half 
 an hour, indulging in " a brief Sabbath to his 
 soul," when a light tap at his door recalled him 
 to this lower world. He knew the tap, and it 
 knocked at his heart, and with the same sweet 
 though mourned tumults it was ever wont to do. 
 There was but one hand in Sterzingen that 
 ever gave so soft a notice of its visit, and sel- 
 dom had he the dangerous delight of hearing
 
 360 THE TYROLER. 
 
 it, — t- never had he before heard it at so late an 
 hour. " Come in, my child," said Christian, 
 rising ; and Johanna opened the door, and stood 
 before him pale and in trouble. " Father," 
 said the trembling girl, " there will be blood 
 a-spilling, and lives a-losing in the morning, I 
 fear." 
 
 " My child, I think so." 
 
 " Will you bless me, father, before I go to 
 the hill ? I grieve at this ; but I would not be 
 away when those I love are perilling their dear 
 lives." 
 
 " Are you mad, Johanna ? — You will hinder, 
 not help, the stern work that must be done to- 
 morrow ; — bide in your house and home, my 
 child, and pray for them ; — so will you best serve 
 them." 
 
 " And why should I stay behind, when so 
 many wives and mothers are gone up and 
 a-going there ? " 
 
 " You are not a wife nor a mother, child !" 
 
 " Nay, but I have a heart for those that are ; 
 and there is many a brave man I know with 
 Hofer."
 
 THE TYROLER. 361 
 
 " Yes, but not any one akin to you." 
 
 " What's nearer kin than he that has our 
 troth?" 
 
 A paleness, like to that of sickness and faint- 
 ing, overspread the melancholy face of Christian. 
 " And who," said he, " Johanna, has thine ? " 
 
 Something like a blush of confusion mounted 
 to her cheek, as she found her heart's sweet se- 
 cret on her lip, — something of a sweet pleading 
 beamed in her beauteous eyes beseeching his 
 discretion ; and, with that expression there was 
 mingled a soft gaze of pity, for she knew well 
 that she had inspired a more tender feeling into 
 the heart of Christian than was consistent with 
 his peace and duty, or pleasing, at any time, to 
 herself. But yet there was a something in the 
 trembling homage of a gifted man, like Chris- 
 tian, she could not despise ; and now, when all 
 her joyous anticipations of a near bright gar- 
 landed wedding were a little shaken ; when 
 care, and distrust, and sorrow were o'erclouding 
 her bright hopes, she felt the value of a friend 
 like Christian, so generous and so gentle in all 
 his sympathies.
 
 362 THE TYROLEli. 
 
 With all these emotions contending in her 
 swelled bosom, — " It is Albert Steiner," she an- 
 swered ; and burst into a flood of tears, and let 
 fall her head. 
 
 Christian took her hand, and she suffered it to 
 lie passively in his ; and passively endured his 
 convulsive pressure, as he replied — "I have 
 long suspected this : God bless your choice to 
 you ! my dear, dear Johanna ! He is very 
 young, and somewhat giddy, but I would hope 
 all good of him, and give my prayers that he 
 may prove worthy of you. But remember, Jo- 
 hanna, there is a solemn word which saith, ' If 
 any man love father or mother more than me, 
 he is not worthy of me — keep your heart from 
 idols;' — for if you make any thing an idol, and 
 you are a child of the Holy One, he will take it 
 from you." 
 
 " Oh, father ! I know it. Pray for Albert, 
 pray for him ! I do, but my prayers wander. 
 Pray for me, father ! You who have given all 
 your heart to our blessed Lord, pray for us ! — 
 He will hear you."
 
 THE TYROLER. 363 
 
 Convicted of all his own idolatry, Christian 
 covered his face with his hands, and deep and 
 dreadful were the sobbings of his wounded 
 spirit — tears burst between his fingers, and 
 stained his marble hands, and he sunk into his 
 chair in an agony, such as Johanna had never 
 witnessed. 
 
 When, at last, he in some degree recovered 
 his self-possession, he saw Johanna on her knees 
 before the ancient crucifix in his chamber, fervent 
 in prayer ; her lips moved in low murmurs, and 
 frequent were the signs of the cross which she 
 made over her down-bending face, and her 
 heaving breast. 
 
 " My innocent child," said the afflicted pas- 
 tor, — " innocent I call you, in this world's lan- 
 guage ; — for, in that of the angels who overlook 
 us, we are all chargeable with guilt and sin, — 
 for which free mercy, and free pardon, and the 
 spotless Lamb can alone prove any atone- 
 ment ; and, blessed be our Creator and Judge, 
 he has made that all-sufficient ; — my innocent 
 child, pray rather for me, your unhappy and 
 unfaithful shepherd."
 
 364- THE TYROLER. 
 
 This he spake, as she rose from her posture 
 of supplication, and then told her, that if she 
 was resolved on going to the hills, he should set 
 out himself at midnight, and would be the com- 
 panion on the dreary road of herself, and any 
 other of the friends of her weak sex that were 
 going up with the same affectionate, but, by 
 himself, regretted intention. 
 
 "Peace be with you, my child; peace:" — 
 and, u I am sorry to see you suffer so — and I 
 hope you will soon be well again,'' were the last 
 soft words of Johanna's reply, as Christian 
 gently closed the door after her, and was again 
 left alone with the Word and the Spirit of his 
 God. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 London: 
 
 Printed by A. & R. Snottiswoode, 
 
 New-Strect-Squarc.