Part 3

It was a few hours earlier in the same day when a noble knight sat in a hostelry of the little seaport town of ——. He was of a singularly imposing cast of countenance. His features were of the true Norman outline, with a lofty intellectual brow, shaded by locks of the richest chesnut hue. His cheek was embrowned by a Syrian sun until it was of the darkest olive color, but the clear white of his forehead, which had been protected from exposure by his helmet, betrayed the original purity of his complexion. He had an eye whose glance can only be likened to that of an eagle. His form was tall and commanding. He sat apparently absorbed in thought, but was aroused from his reverie by the entrance of a retainer.

“Are the horses ready?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the man.

“We will mount into the saddle at once then; how far did they say it was to Bourdonnois?”

“Six leagues.”

“We shall reach it before nightfall; lead on.”

The party which set forth from the inn was a gallant sight to behold. Knights, squires, men-at-arms and other retainers swelled the escort of the young Count to the number of nearly four-score, while the pennons waving on the air, and the occasional sound of a trumpet, gave a liveliness to the escort which attracted the attention of the passer by, of every rank and sex, and drew many a sigh of envy from them. But who might pretend to be the equal of the renowned Count Garonne, a crusader of untarnished fame, a gallant still in the flower of his youth, and the lord of half a score of castles scattered over the wide domain of France?

At the head of the proud array rode the Count himself, conversing gaily with a knight at his side, whom he familiarly called cousin.

“Ay, by St. Denis!” said the Count, “she is a divinity such as even our sunny Provence doth not afford. Such eyes, such hair, and then, by my faith, such a voice! It pained my heart to part from my sweet Zillah—but she would have it so—and so she comes in company with father Ambrose and a score of my best knights. Her maidenly modesty dictated this, and I was forced to submit. We were separated, however, by that heathenish storm, and I suppose her galley put into Genoa. You know she will be given away by none but the Holy Father himself,” and the glad lover reined his horse, while the animal, as if partaking of its master’s joy, curvetted gaily.

“I long to see your princess, nor do I wonder at your love, since she freed you from a Moslem prison; when shall I greet my future cousin?”

“We shall reach Bourdonnois to-night, and to-morrow—let me see—to-morrow we shall keep on to Trouchet; in another day we shall arrive at Genoa, and there we will await her, if her galley is not already arrived.”

“I am all impatience to behold her—but look at the knave coming over yonder hill. He rides like the fiend himself.”

“Ay! and by St. Denis he is a blackamoor, a scarcer thing here than in Syria. Holy Father, how he dashes on!”

Even while they spoke the horseman rapidly approached, and, before many minutes, drew in the rein of his foaming steed at the side of the Count, whom he appeared to know. The recognition was mutual. The man instantly spoke in a strange tongue, and with violent gestures, while, with an agitated voice, the Count appeared to question him. But a few minutes had elapsed, however, before the Count turned around to his cousin, and exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, but with an attempt at composure,

“Zillah has been wrecked, and only she and two of her train, with a few common sailors, have escaped. Her strange companions, her foreign tongue, but, more than all, the accursed perjuries of a thieving innkeeper, have brought on her the charge of sorcery, a tumult has been raised, she has been arrested, and—God of my fathers!—may even now be suffering on the rack or at the stake. Oh! why did I ever submit to leave her? But, by the mother of God! if a hair of her head is harmed, I will hang every knave of Bourdonnois.”

“Let us on at once, then; we may yet arrive in time.”

“Pass the word down the line,” exclaimed the Count. “On, knights and gentlemen; we must not draw rein until we reach Bourdonnois.”

After a few minutes of hurried consultation with the servant, who stated that he and his fellow had escaped in the height of the tumult, and each, by different roads, sought the port where they supposed the Count to be, the gallant array set forward at a rapid pace, and in a few moments nothing but a cloud of dust in the valley and on the hill-side was left to tell of their late presence.

It was already high noon in Bourdonnois. A little out of the town, in a gentle valley, was the place chosen for the infliction of the horrid sentence. For more than an hour—indeed ever since the condemnation of the accused—the populace had been pouring thither in crowds, until now a vast multitude, comprising nearly the whole population of the town, surrounded the place of execution, and covered the encircling hills, like spectators in an amphitheatre.

At length the procession came in sight. First marched a body of soldiery; then followed the magistrates of the town; directly after appeared several monks; and then, clad in white, with her pale face bent on the ground, and her hands tightly pressed together, came the victim. She made no answer, it was observed, to the words of the monks on either hand, but ever and anon she would kiss a crucifix which she carried, and raise her swimming eyes to Heaven. In that hour of bitterest agony, what must have been her emotions? She, the daughter of an Emir, and the affianced bride of one of the proudest nobles of France, to be hissed at by a mob, and end her life in unheard-of torments at the stake! Oh! if her lover, she thought, only knew of her peril! But alas! he was far away. Well might she raise her streaming eyes to Heaven as to her only hope, and well might she turn away from the ministers of religion who sanctioned her sacrifice, and trust only in that cross which was her lover’s gift, and the emblem of the sufferings of one whom that lover had taught her was the only true God.

“Oh!” she murmured to herself, “if Henri only knew my peril, he would yet rescue me. But there is no hope; and I must not forget that I am the daughter of a warrior. Henri shall hear that I died as became his affianced bride;” and her figure seemed to dilate and her walk to grow more majestic as she thought.

At length they reached the fatal stake. But if Zillah shuddered at its sight, the feeling was checked before it could be seen by the populace. Calm and collected, though pale as the driven snow, she stood proudly up while the fatal chain was affixed around her slender waist, and, with eyes upraised to Heaven, appeared to be only an indifferent spectator, instead of the chief person in the fatal tragedy. Not a repining word broke from her lips. The first agony of death had passed away, and she had steeled her heart to her fate.

At length all was prepared. Over the vast assembly gazing on her, hung the silence of the dead. Men’s breaths came quick, and their hearts fluttered when they felt that in another minute the awful tragedy would be begun. Every eye was bent intently on the fatal stake as the executioner approached with the fiery brand. For the last time, Zillah opened her eyes to take a final look on that earth to which she was soon to bid farewell forever. But what sent that sudden flush to her cheek? Why that cry of thrilling joy, the first audible sound which had left her lips since her sentence? She sees a troop of fiery horsemen, covered with dust and foam, thundering over the brow of the hill in front of her, and in the very van of the array she recognizes the pennon of the Count of Garonne, waving in the noonday sun.

Onward came the rescuers. Horse on horse, knight after knight, retainer following retainer, they swept like a whirlwind down the hill, shouting their war-cry, “Garonne—a St. Denis and Garonne!” the panic-struck crowd opening to the right and to the left before them. In vain the soldiery who guarded the victim attempted to resist the rush of the assailants. They might as well have withstood the ocean surges in their might. The shock of the horsemen was irresistible. Foremost among them, cleaving his way like a giant, rode the Count himself, his tall figure and powerful charger rendering him conspicuous over all. Nothing could resist him. He seemed like an avenging spirit come to the aid of the suffering victim, nor were those wanting who saw in the sudden appearance of the rescuers, and their indomitable courage, proofs of supernatural agency. A universal panic seized on the crowd. Soldiers as well as populace broke and fled. In a few minutes the Count had gained the stake, when, springing from his steed, he rushed forward, and, with one blow of his huge sword, had severed the chain which bound the victim to the stake.

“Oh! Henri!” hysterically said the rescued girl, as she sprang forward and fell fainting into her lover’s arms.

“Zillah! God be praised that you are safe. Curses on the villains. She faints. Ho, there! water, you knaves, or I cleave you to the chine.”

But the maiden had only fainted from excess of joy, and when restoratives were applied, she speedily recovered.

Our story is done. The terror of the populace; the humble apologies of the magistracy; the merited punishment of the perjured publican; and the speedy union of the Count and the converted princess—are they not all written in the chronicles of the noble house of Garonne?

* * * * *

WOMAN’S DOWER.

BY L. J. PIERSON.

She sat, oppress’d with cruel care, And bow’d with agonizing pain, And the cold sceptre of despair Lay where her dearest hopes had lain; And bitter drops, from Marah’s spring, Bedew’d the pale rose on her cheek, And fierce disease was torturing Her vitals with a vulture’s beak: And taunting words were in her ears— “Thou first in sin! Frail cause of all The cares and toils that waste our years, The pangs that change our joys to gall; Thou gav’st the sceptre unto Death! Thy hand unbarr’d the insatiate tomb, And wak’d and arm’d the fiery wrath That deals the sinner’s final doom!” She rais’d her meek wet eyes to Heaven, And all her pray’r was one long sigh; It told how deep her heart was riven, And won an angel from on high. “Daughter! thy lot is hard to bear,” The spirit said, with healing tone, “Submission, agony, and care, Endur’d in silence and alone: These are thy lot, and Mercy’s power May not reverse the just decree; Yet have I brought a priceless dower, A gem from God’s own crown, to thee. Hide the rich jewel in thy breast, Deep in thy bosom’s holiest bow’r: Its warmth and light shall make thee blest, E’en in thy darkest, loneliest hour. Its light shall throw around thy form An atmosphere of joy and peace, And fill thy home with radiance warm— A glowing flood of magic bliss. When thy young heart to man is given, And the white bride-rose wreathes thy brow, This live coal from the fires of Heaven Shall with ecstatic rapture glow; And when thy new-born infant lies In helpless beauty on thy breast, Thy heart shall thrill with ecstacies Sweet as the transports of the blest. This living beam of perfect love— Pure love, that lives without return: This sparkle from the bliss above— Forever in thy soul shall burn. Not all the fiends of earth shall wrench This treasure from thy heart away, Nor all the waves of sorrow quench, Within thy soul, the deathless ray. Life’s dearest tie may prove a chain, And gall thy heart through weary years; Thy hopes maternal may prove vain, And sink beneath a flood of tears; And haggard cares may round thee crowd— Yet this rich gift shall light thy gloom, And throw a rainbow on the cloud That darkens o’er thy dear one’s tomb.” Yes, _perfect_ love is woman’s dower, Her brightest charm, her richest gem, Her shield from every cruel power, Her sceptre, and her diadem. Let her beware, lest earth-born fires Touch the pure altar where it glows: Dim the pure light with low desires, And sink her soul in torturing woes.

* * * * *

LOVERS’ QUARRELS.

BY PERCIE H. SELTON.

“Mary!” said the low voice of Henry Ashton. The maiden looked up.

“Mary! I have much to tell you—will you listen to me awhile, only for a moment!” and he spoke fast and eagerly.

“A moment only, you say—well, I suppose I must,—but what a beautiful butterfly is that. Oh! the dear, sweet, tiny thing; do, pray, try and catch it for me.”

Ashton was stung to the heart. He had been on the point of declaring his long-cherished passion for Mary Derwentwater, and he felt that she knew, not only the depth of his affection, but that the words trembling on his lips were an avowal of his love. Her light-heartedness at once changed the whole current of his feelings. Often had he heard others say that his beautiful cousin was a coquette, and more than once had she trifled with his own feelings. He had hoped that her conduct was the result only of a momentary whim, but this last act displayed a confirmed heartlessness of which an hour before he would not have deemed her capable. He sighed, and was silent.

“Oh! dear, how ungallant you are,” continued his cousin, “the beautiful creature will really escape, and I do so love butterflies.”

“It is gone.”

“So it is. I shall never forgive you. Don’t ask me to,” said Mary affectedly.

“Then we must part without it,” said Henry carelessly. “I leave here to-morrow, and shall visit Europe before I return. It may be years—it may be forever that I shall be absent.”

“Why—Harry—you jest,” said his companion, struggling to appear composed, although she felt how cold and pale her cheek had grown. “I never heard of this before. You are not in earnest,” and she laid her soft white hand—that hand, whose touch made every nerve of Ashton thrill—on her lover’s arm, looking up into his face with her dark, and now melting eye. But the chord had been stretched until it had snapped, and her influence over Ashton was gone. He half averted his head, as he answered coldly,—

“I do not jest, especially with a friend.”

The tone, the emphasis, the manner, all stung the pride of Mary. She felt that his censure was just, and yet she spurned it. Her hand fell from his arm, and emulating his own coldness, she said,—

“Then I will not ask you to stay. But as it is late, and you will have your preparations to make, I will not intrude on your time,” and curtesying, she withdrew.

“And this is the being in whom I had garnered up all my heart’s best affections,” exclaimed Ashton, when he found himself alone. “This the divinity I have adored with a fervor no mortal bosom ever yet felt, and she could talk, heartlessly talk of the merest trifle, when she saw that my whole heart was bound up in her. Oh! would we had never met. But my delusion is over. I will fly. Mary! Mary! little did I dream that my love would meet with such a return.”

Mary hurried to her chamber, and locking the door, she flung herself upon the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. How bitterly she reproached herself that her momentary coquetry had lost her the love of the only being for whom she cared. She did not disguise from herself her affection; she could scarcely tell why she had yielded to the impulse of that fatal moment; but she felt that she had lost irretrievably the esteem and the affections of her cousin. She would have given worlds to have recalled the last hour. Even now she might, by seeking him, and throwing herself at his feet, perhaps, regain his love. She rose to do so. But when her hand was on the lock she thought that he might spurn her. She hesitated. In another moment her pride had regained the mastery.

“No—I cannot—I dare not. He will turn away from me. He will despise me. Oh! that I had never, never said those idle words,” and flinging herself again on the bed, she wept long and bitterly.

Mary appeared that evening at the supper table, but in the cold and averted looks of Ashton, she saw only new causes for pride. The evening passed off heavily. As the time came for retiring, Henry approached her to bid her farewell. She thought her heart would burst her boddice, but commanding her emotion by a violent effort, she returned his adieu as calmly as it was given.

And they parted, both in seeming carelessness, but one at least in agony.

Henry Ashton had known his lovely cousin scarcely two years, but during that time, she had been to him a divinity. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined a countenance more surpassingly beautiful than hers, and to her, accordingly, he had given his heart, with a devotion which had become a part of his nature. But much as he adored his cousin, he was not wholly blind to her faults. He saw that she loved admiration, and he feared she was too much of a flirt. Yet his love had gone on increasing, and, he fancied, not without a return. Led on by his hopes, he had, during a temporary visit at her father’s house, seized an opportunity to declare his passion, but how the half breathed avowal was checked, we will not recapitulate. Need we wonder at his sudden resolution to fly from her presence, and, by placing the ocean between them, to eradicate a passion for one whom he now felt to be unworthy of him? Few men could be more energetic than Ashton. In less than a week, he had sailed for Europe.

Oh! how Mary wept his departure! A thousand times she was on the point of writing to recall him, but her pride as often prevented the act. She hoped he might yet return. Surely—she said—he who had once loved her so deeply, and who must have known that his affection was returned, would not leave her forever. Hour after hour she would sit watching the gate for his return, and hour after hour she experienced all the bitterness of disappointment. When, at length, she read in the newspaper that he had really sailed, she gave one long, loud shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. A fever, that ensued, brought her to the very brink of the grave.

Ashton went forth upon the world an altered, almost a misanthropic man. His hopes were withered: his first dream of love had vanished: he felt as if there was nothing for him to live for in this world. His mind became almost diseased. He loathed society, then he veered to the other extreme, and craved after excitement. He sought relief in travel. He crossed the steppes of Tartary—he traversed the deserts of Arabia—he lived among the weird and ruined monuments of Egypt,—and for years he wandered, a stranger to civilization, seeking only one thing—_to forget_. He never inquired after America. His family were all dead, and he wished never to think of Mary. Like the fabled victim, in the olden legend, he spent years in the vain search after that Lethe whose waters are reserved for death alone. He found it not.

And Mary, too, was changed. She rose from that bed of sickness an altered being. Never had she known the full depth of her affection until the moment when she found herself deserted. The shock almost destroyed her; and though she recovered after a long and weary sickness, it was to discard all her old habits, and to assume a quieter—yet, oh! how far more beautiful demeanor than in her days of unmitigated joy. She felt that Henry was lost to her forever, yet she derived a melancholy pleasure in living as if the eye of her absent lover was upon her. She directed her whole conduct so as to meet his approbation. Alas! he was far away: she had not heard from him for years; perhaps, too, he might be no more; then why this constant reference of all she did to his standard of excellence? It was her deep abiding love which did it all.

Four years had passed when Ashton found himself again in America, and sitting, after dinner, with one of his most intimate friends, at the table of the —— hotel. For some time the bottle passed in silence. At length his companion spoke.

“You have not seen Mary Derwentwater yet—have you, Harry?”

Ashton answered calmly, with a forced effort, in the negative.

“You must not positively delay it. Do you know how beautiful she has grown?—far more beautiful than when you went away, although then you thought her surpassingly lovely.” He paused.

“I have not heard from the family for years,” said Ashton at length, feeling that his companion expected some reply.

“Then you know nothing of her?—push us some of the almonds—why, my dear fellow, she is irresistible. But she is different from what she used to be; her beauty is softer, though not so showy, and whereas she once would flirt a little—mind, only a little, for she is a great favorite of mine—she now goes by the name of the cold beauty. A married man, like myself, can speak thus warmly, you know, without fear of having his heart called in as the bribe of his head. And do you know that my wife suspects you of having worked the reformation?”—Ashton started, and was almost thrown off his guard—“for it began immediately after a long illness, that happened a few weeks after you sailed.”

Ashton was completely bewildered. He had now for the first time heard of Mary’s sickness. His eye wandered from that of his companion, and he felt his cheek flushing in despite of himself. He covered his embarrassment, however, by rising. His companion continued,

“And now, Harry, let us stroll down Broadway, for, to tell the truth, I promised my wife to bring you home with me. Besides, Mary is there, and I’ve no doubt,” he continued, jocularly, “you are dying to meet her.”

Ashton could not answer; but he followed his friend into the street, conscious that Mary and he must meet, and feeling that the sooner it was done the better. His companion, during their walk, ran on in his usual gay style, but Harry scarcely heard a word that was said. His thoughts were full of his cousin. Had she indeed become cold to all other men from love to himself? Strange and yet delicious thoughts whirled through his mind, and he woke only from his abstraction on finding himself in Seacourt’s drawing-room, and in the presence of his cousin.

Mary was on a visit to Mrs. Seacourt, and did not know of Ashton’s intended coming until a few minutes before he made his appearance. Devotedly as she loved her cousin, she would have given worlds to escape the interview; but retreat was impossible, without exposing the long treasured secret of her heart. She nerved herself, accordingly, for the meeting, and succeeded in assuming a sufficiently composed demeanor to greet her cousin without betraying her agitation. He exchanged the common compliments of the occasion with her, and then took a seat by Mrs. Seacourt, who had been one of his old friends. Mary felt the neglect; she saw he did not love her. That night she wept bitter tears of anguish.

“And yet I cannot blame him. Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “it is all my own fault. He once loved me, and I heartlessly flung that affection from me which I would give worlds now to win. But I must dry these tears; I must not betray myself. We shall meet daily, for he cannot help coming here, and to shorten my visit would lead to suspicions. I must therefore school myself to disguise the secret of my heart.”

And Ashton did come daily, and although his conversation was chiefly devoted to Mrs. Seacourt, he neither seemed to seek nor to avoid his cousin. Now and then he found himself deep in a conversation with her, and he thought of old times. But the memory of their last interview came across him at such moments like a blight.

“How wonderfully Ashton has improved since his travels,” said Mrs. Seacourt one morning, as she and Mary sat _tête-à-tête_, sewing; “and do you know,” continued she, looking archly at her companion, “that I deem myself indebted to you for his charming visits.”