Part 12

When all had been perform’d, the royal Goth Look’d up towards the chamber in the tower, Where gazing on the multitude below, Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye, For it was singling him amid the crowd; Obeying then the hand which beckon’d him, He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now, But arm’d with self-approving thoughts that hour. Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door, And turn’d to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread Her arms, and catching him in close embrace, Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son!... Ere long, controlling that first agony With effort of strong will, backward she bent, And gazing on his head now shorn and grey, And on his furrow’d countenance, exclaim’d, Still, still, my Roderick! the same noble mind! The same heroic heart! Still, still, my Son; ... Changed, ... yet not wholly fallen, ... not wholly lost, He cried, ... not wholly in the sight of Heaven Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine! She lock’d her arms again around his neck, Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace! And bow’d her head again, and silently Gave way to tears. When that first force was spent, And passion in exhaustment found relief, ... I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog Rose from my feet, and lick’d his master’s hand. All flash’d upon me then; the instinctive sense That goes unerringly where reason fails, ... The voice, the eye, ... a mother’s thoughts are quick, ... Miraculous as it seem’d, ... Siverian’s tale, ... Florinda’s, ... every action, ... every word, ... Each strengthening each, and all confirming all, Reveal’d thee, O my Son! but I restrain’d My heart, and yielded to thy holier will The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet Wean’d wholly from the world. What thoughts? replied Roderick. That I might see thee yet again Such as thou wert, she answer’d; not alone To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, ... Thy Crown, ... thy Country, ... all within thy reach; Heaven so disposing all things, that the means Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy. Methought I saw thee once again the hope, ... The strength, ... the pride of Spain! The miracle Which I beheld made all things possible. I know the inconstant people how their mind, With every breath of good or ill report, Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze; Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love, Generous and hasty, soon would they redress All wrongs of former obloquy ... I thought Of happiness restored, ... the broken heart Heal’d, ... and Count Julian, for his daughter’s sake, Turning in thy behalf against the Moors His powerful sword: ... all possibilities That could be found or fancied, built a dream Before me; such as easiest might illude A lofty spirit train’d in palaces, And not alone amid the flatteries Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed When all is sunshine, but through years of woe, When sorrow sanctified their use, upheld By honourable pride and earthly hopes. I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee Some young Theodofred, and see in him Thy Father’s image and thine own renew’d, And love to think the little hand which there Play’d with the bauble, should in after days Wield the transmitted sceptre; ... that through him The ancient seed should be perpetuate, ... That precious seed revered so long, desired So dearly, and so wonderously preserved.

Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left The trunk unflaw’d; ne’er shall it clothe its boughs Again, nor push again its scyons forth, Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike!... Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew Their growth, as for Manoah’s captive son, And I too on the miscreant race, like him, Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour, When in its second best nativity, My soul was born again through grace, this heart Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now Like evening clouds before me; if I think How beautiful they seem, ’tis but to feel How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in. But in that World to which my hopes look on, Time enters not, nor Mutability; Beauty and goodness are unfading there; Whatever there is given us to enjoy, That we enjoy for ever, still the same.... Much might Count Julian’s sword atchieve for Spain And me, but more will his dear daughter’s soul Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead In his behalf and mine. I knew thy heart, She answer’d, and subdued the vain desire. It was the World’s last effort. Thou hast chosen The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth There is a praise above the monarch’s fame, A higher, holier, more enduring praise, And this will yet be thine! O tempt me not, Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take That specious form to cheat us! What but this, Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven? The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content Of private life, the general good report, Power, reputation, happiness, ... whate’er The heart of man desires to constitute His earthly weal, ... unerring Justice claim’d In forfeiture. I with submitted soul Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod. Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, ... Only while offering up that name on earth, Perhaps in trial offer’d to my choice, Could I present myself before thy sight; Thus only could endure myself, or fix My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death Stands in the Gate of Heaven!... Time passes on, The healing work of sorrow is complete; All vain desires have long been weeded out, All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead, The soul is ripe and eager for her birth. Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will The inevitable hour, we die in peace.

So saying, on her knees he bow’d his head; She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child; Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced And claspt him to her heart, and cried, Once more Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!

XX.

THE MOORISH CAMP.

The times are big with tidings; every hour From east and west and south the breathless scouts Bring swift alarums in; the gathering foe, Advancing from all quarters to one point, Close their wide crescent. Nor was aid of fear To magnify their numbers needed now, They came in myriads. Africa had pour’d Fresh shoals upon the coast of wretched Spain; Lured from their hungry deserts to the scene Of spoil, like vultures to the battle-field, Fierce, unrelenting, habited in crimes, Like bidden guests the mirthful ruffians flock To that free feast which in their Prophet’s name Rapine and Lust proclaim’d. Nor were the chiefs Of victory less assured, by long success Elate, and proud of that o’erwhelming strength, Which, surely they believed, as it had roll’d Thus far uncheck’d would roll victorious on, Till, like the Orient, the subjected West Should bow in reverence at Mahommed’s name; And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores, Tread with religious feet the burning sands Of Araby, and Mecca’s stony soil. Proud of his part in Roderick’s overthrow, Their leader Abulcacem came, a man Immitigable, long in war renown’d. Here Magued comes, who on the conquer’d walls Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray’d, Planted the moony standard: Ibrahim here, He, who by Genil and in Darro’s vales, Had for the Moors the fairest portion won Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain’d, And to the Alpuxarras given in trust His other name, through them preserved in song Here too Alcahman, vaunting his late deeds At Auria, all her children by the sword Cut off, her bulwarks rased, her towers laid low, Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed, Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween’d, Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames The fire of retribution had gone forth Which soon should wrap him round. The renegades Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert; A spurious brood, but of their parent’s crimes True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill Train’d up. The same unnatural rage that turn’d Their swords against their country, made them seek, Unmindful of their wretched mother’s end, Pelayo’s life. No enmity is like Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst, As if that sacrifice might satisfy Witiza’s guilty ghost, efface the shame Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more Crowning a hideous course, emancipate Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear. This was their only care; but other thoughts Were rankling in that elder villain’s mind, Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew Who in this fatal visitation fell, The foulest and the falsest wretch that e’er Renounced his baptism. From his cherish’d views Of royalty cut off, he coveted Count Julian’s wide domains, and hopeless now To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils Against the father’s life, ... the instrument Of his ambition first, and now design’d Its victim. To this end with cautious hints, At favouring season ventured, he possess’d The leader’s mind; then, subtly fostering The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge He bade him warily regard the Count, Lest underneath an outward show of faith The heart uncircumcised were Christian still: Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey’d Her dear loved sire’s example, and embraced The saving truth? Else, wherefore was her hand, Plighted to him so long, so long withheld, Till she had found a fitting hour to fly With that audacious Prince, who now in arms, Defied the Caliph’s power; ... for who could doubt That in his company she fled, perhaps The mover of his flight? What if the Count Himself had plann’d the evasion which he feign’d In sorrow to condemn? What if she went A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers That when they met the Musselmen in the heat Of fight, her father passing to their side Would draw the victory with him?... Thus he breathed Fiend-like in Abulcacem’s ear his schemes Of murderous malice; and the course of things, Ere long, in part approving his discourse, Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight. For scarce on the Asturian territory Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear, Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force Would like a flood sweep all resistance down, Hasten’d to plead his merits; ... he alone, Found faithful in obedience through reproach And danger, when the madden’d multitude Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked The invincible in arms. Pelayo led The raging crew, ... he doubtless the prime spring Of all these perilous movements; and ’twas said He brought the assurance of a strong support, Count Julian’s aid, for in his company From Cordoba, Count Julian’s daughter came.

Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs; When instantly a stern and wrathful voice Replied, I know Pelayo never made That senseless promise! He who raised the tale Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy That ever hunted for Pelayo’s life Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch’d His name. The Baron had not recognized Till then, beneath the turban’s shadowing folds, Julian’s swart visage, where the fiery skies Of Africa, through many a year’s long course, Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought In quick excuse to say of common fame, Lightly believed and busily diffused, And that no enmity had moved his speech Repeating rumour’s tale. Julian replied, Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me Excuse is needed here. The path I tread Is one wherein there can be no return. No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine For time and for eternity is made, Once and for ever! and as easily The breath of vain report might build again The throne which my just vengeance overthrew, As in the Caliph and his Captain’s mind Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth. The tidings which thou givest me of my child Touch me more vitally; bad though they be, A secret apprehension of aught worse Makes me with joy receive them. Then the Count To Abulcacem turn’d his speech, and said, I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger By whom I may to this unhappy child Dispatch a father’s bidding, such as yet May win her back. What I would say requires No veil of privacy; before ye all The errand shall be given. Boldly he spake, Yet wary in that show of open truth, For well he knew what dangers girt him round Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge, For them in madness had he sacrificed His name, his baptism, and his native land, To feel, still powerful as he was, that life Hung on their jealous favour. But his heart Approved him now, where love, too long restrain’d, Resumed its healing influence, leading him Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said, Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between Me and Prince Orpas!... Known it is to all, Too well, what mortal injury provoked My spirit to that vengeance which your aid So signally hath given. A covenant We made when first our purpose we combined, That he should have Florinda for his wife, My only child, so should she be, I thought, Revenged and honour’d best. My word was given Truly, nor did I cease to use all means Of counsel or command, entreating her Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with threats Of an offended father’s curse to enforce Obedience; that, she said, the Christian law Forbade, moreover she had vow’d herself A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove To win her to the Prophet’s saving faith, Using perhaps a rigour to that end Beyond permitted means, and to my heart, Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood, Abhorrent. Silently she suffer’d all, Or when I urged her with most vehemence, Only replied, I knew her fix’d resolve, And craved my patience but a little while Till death should set her free. Touch’d as I was, I yet persisted, till at length to escape The ceaseless importunity, she fled: And verily I fear’d until this hour, My rigour to some fearfuller resolve Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal To each and all, and Orpas to thyself Especially, if, having thus essay’d All means that law and nature have allow’d To bend her will, I may not rightfully Hold myself free, that promise being void Which cannot be fulfill’d. Thou sayest then, Orpas replied, that from her false belief Her stubborn opposition drew its force. I should have thought that from the ways corrupt Of these idolatrous Christians, little care Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child, The example of a parent so beloved Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt Thou didst enforce with all sincerity And holy zeal upon thy daughter’s mind The truths of Islam. Julian knit his brow, And scowling on the insidious renegade, He answer’d, By what reasoning my poor mind Was from the old idolatry reclaim’d, None better knows than Seville’s mitred chief, Who first renouncing errors which he taught, Led me his follower to the Prophet’s pale. Thy lessons I repeated as I could; Of graven images, unnatural vows, False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests, Who making sanctity the cloak of sin, Laugh’d at the fools on whose credulity They fatten’d. To these arguments, whose worth Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach, I added, like a soldier bred in arms, And to the subtleties of schools unused, The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory, Where’er they turn’d, attested and approved The chosen Prophet’s arms. If thou wert still The mitred Metropolitan, and I Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race Thy proper business then might be to pry, And question me for lurking flaws of faith. We Musselmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath A wiser law, which with the iniquities Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this Its foulest practice! As Count Julian ceased, From underneath his black and gather’d brow There went a look, which with these wary words Bore to the heart of that false renegade Their whole envenom’d meaning. Haughtily Withdrawing then his alter’d eyes, he said Too much of this! return we to the sum Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say, In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith Having essay’d in vain all means to win My child’s consent, I may not hold henceforth The covenant discharged. The Moor replied. Well hast thou said, and rightly may’st assure Thy daughter that the Prophet’s holy law Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now; The messenger is here. Then Julian said, Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat Admittance to my child, where’er she be. Say to her, that her father solemnly Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged, Nor with solicitations, nor with threats, Will urge her more, nor from that liberty Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet’s law, Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all Indulges. Tell her that her father says His days are number’d, and beseeches her By that dear love, which from her infancy Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew. Nursed in our weal and strengthen’d in our woe, She will not in the evening of his life Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries Brought on her father’s head; let not her act Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her too, That when he pray’d her to return, he wept Profusely as a child; but bitterer tears Than ever fell from childhood’s eyes, were those Which traced his hardy cheeks. With faltering voice He spake, and after he had ceased from speech His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief Then to the messenger his bidding gave. Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels, Thus Abulcacem in the Caliph’s name Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven! Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war, Which conquering and to conquer must fulfil Its destined circle, rolling eastward now Back from the subjugated west, to sweep Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond Of unity all nations join, and Earth Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven, One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law. Jerusalem, the holy City, bows To holier Mecca’s creed; the Crescent shines Triumphant o’er the eternal pyramids; On the cold altars of the worshippers Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime; The African idolatries are fallen, And Europe’s senseless gods of stone and wood Have had their day. Tell these misguided men, A moment for repentance yet is left, And mercy the submitted neck will spare Before the sword is drawn: but once unsheath’d, Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword Accomplisheth its work! They little know The Moors who hope in battle to withstand Their valour, or in flight escape their rage! Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds Of heaven, ... wings do not save them! Nor shall rocks, And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord’s? And we, his chosen people, whom he sends To conquer and possess it in his name?

XXI.

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.

The second eve had closed upon their march Within the Asturian border, and the Moors Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim, Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light Among the trees, above whose top the smoke Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky. Ere long the stir of occupation ceased, And all the murmur of the busy host Subsiding died away, as through the camp The crier from a knoll proclaim’d the hour For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice, Thrice in melodious modulation full, Pronounced the highest name. There is no God But God, he cried; there is no God but God! Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord! Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great! There is no God but God!... Thus he pronounced His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth The audacious name accurst. The multitude Made their ablutions in the mountain stream Obedient, then their faces to the earth Bent in formality of easy prayer.

An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream There was a little glade, where underneath A long smooth mossy stone a fountain rose. An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade; Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then, Save when a bubble rising from the depth Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place, Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing, Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe, When, having drank there, he would bound across, Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet, And put forth half his force. With silent lapse From thence through mossy banks the water stole, Then murmuring hastened to the glen below. Diana might have loved in that sweet spot To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face It crown’d, reflected there. Beside that spring Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade; There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d, And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound Of voices at the tent when he arose, And lo! with hurried step a woman came Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged, And ere he could behold her countenance, Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground, Kiss’d her, and claspt her to his heart, and said, Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child! Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate May in the world which is to come, divide Our everlasting destinies, in this Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me! And then with deep and interrupted voice, Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears, My blessing be upon thy head, he cried, A father’s blessing! Though all faiths were false, It should not lose its worth!... She lock’d her hands Around his neck, and gazing in his face Through streaming tears, exclaim’d, Oh never more, Here or hereafter, never let us part! And breathing then a prayer in silence forth, The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.