Part 9

Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off Moving among the trees, and coming sounds Were heard as of a distant multitude. Anon a company of horse and foot, Advancing in disorderly array, Came up the vale; before them and beside Their torches flash’d on Sella’s rippling stream; Now gleam’d through chesnut groves, emerging now, O’er their huge boughs and radiated leaves Cast broad and bright a transitory glare. That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers; All sense of weariness, all wish for rest At once were gone; impatient in desire Of second victory alert they stood; And when the hostile symbols, which from far Imagination to their wish had shaped, Vanish’d in nearer vision, high-wrought hope Departing, left the spirit pall’d and blank. No turban’d race, no sons of Africa Were they who now came winding up the vale, As waving wide before their horses’ feet The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night. Helmet and breast-plate glitter’d as they came, And spears erect; and nearer as they drew Were the loose folds of female garments seen On those who led the company. Who then Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard The beating of his heart. But vainly there Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen That from some bloody conflict they return’d Victorious, ... for at every saddle-bow A gorey head was hung. Anon they stopt, Levelling in quick alarm their ready spears. Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred tongues Sent forth with one accord the glad reply, Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the lights, ... The people knew their Lord. Then what a shout Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests, Beneath the overbrowing battlements, Now first disturb’d, the affrighted martins flew, And uttering notes of terror short and shrill, Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke Wheel’d giddily. Then plainly was it shown How well the vassals loved their generous Lord, How like a father the Asturian Prince Was dear. They crowded round; they claspt his knees; They snatch’d his hand; they fell upon his neck, ... They wept; ... they blest Almighty Providence, Which had restored him thus from bondage free; God was with them and their good cause, they said; His hand was here.... His shield was over them, ... His spirit was abroad, ... His power display’d: And pointing to their bloody trophies then, They told Pelayo there he might behold The first-fruits of the harvest they should soon Reap in the field of war! Benignantly, With voice and look and gesture, did the Prince To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy Respond; and sure if at that moment aught Could for awhile have overpower’d those fears Which from the inmost heart o’er all his frame Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride, And sympathy of love and joy and hope, Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight Of his brave people, ready where he led To fight their country’s battles, and the thought Of instant action, and deliverance, ... If Heaven, which thus far had protected him, Should favour still, ... revived his heart, and gave Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought Amid that turbulent greeting to enquire Where Gaudiosa was, his children where, Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them; And how these women, thus with arms and death Environ’d, came amid their company? For yet, amid the fluctuating light And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.

Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her A willing and concerted prisoner. Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade On whom her loose and shameless love was bent, Had she set forth; and in her heart she cursed The busy spirit, who, with powerful call Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on In quick pursual, and victoriously Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay She recognized her brother, dreaded now More than he once was dear; her countenance Was turn’d toward him, ... not with eager joy To court his sight, and meeting its first glance, Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul; Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot chuse But look to what it fears. She could not shun His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d, With which she coldly drest her features, ill Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame. Sullenly thus upon her mule she sate, Waiting the greeting which she did not dare Bring on. But who is she that at her side, Upon a stately war-horse eminent, Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair; The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d; A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well It may be seen that sword hath done its work To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye, As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast Upon the turmoil round. One countenance So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn was there, That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee! Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried, Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy? Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, ... I too Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise, From whom the impulse came! That startling call, That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth With timely impulse now; for he had seen His Mother’s face, ... and at her sight, the past And present mingled like a frightful dream, Which from some dread reality derives Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d Rusilla at that moment that the child, For whom her supplications day and night Were offer’d, breathed the living air. Her heart Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief Deeper than time had left its traces there, Retain’d its dignity serene; yet when Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss’d Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down. As she approach’d the Prince, the crowd made way Respectful. The maternal smile which bore Her greeting, from Pelayo’s heart at once Dispell’d its boding. What he would have ask’d She knew, and bending from her palfrey down, Told him that they for whom he look’d were safe, And that in secret he should hear the rest.

XV.

RODERICK AT CANGAS.

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky The midnight Moon ascends! Her placid beams Through thinly scatter’d leaves and boughs grotesque, Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope; Here, o’er the chesnut’s fretted foliage grey And massy, motionless they spread; here shine Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. A lovelier, purer light than that of day Rests on the hills; and oh how awefully Into that deep and tranquil firmament The summits of Auseva rise serene! The watchman on the battlements partakes The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels The silence of the earth, the endless sound Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars, Which in that brightest moon-light well-nigh quench’d Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, Draw on with elevating influence Toward eternity the attemper’d mind. Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands, And to the Virgin Mother silently Prefers her hymn of praise. The mountaineers Before the castle, round their mouldering fires, Lie on the hearth outstretch’d. Pelayo’s hall Is full, and he upon his careful couch Hears all around the deep and long-drawn breath Of sleep: for gentle night hath brought to these Perfect and undisturb’d repose, alike Of corporal powers and inward faculty. Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope Than grief or anxious thoughts possess’d, ... though grief For Guisla’s guilt, which freshen’d in his heart The memory of their wretched mother’s crime, Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense Of some perpetual inward malady; And the whole peril of the future lay Before him clearly seen. He had heard all; How that unworthy sister, obstinate In wrong and shameless, rather seem’d to woo The upstart renegado than to wait His wooing; how, as guilt to guilt led on, Spurning at gentle admonition first, When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore From farther counsel, then in sullen mood Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate The virtuous presence before which she felt Her nature how inferior, and her fault How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because Humbled yet unrepentant. Who could say To what excess bad passions might impel A woman thus possess’d? She could not fail To mark Siverian’s absence, for what end Her conscience but too surely had divined; And Gaudiosa, well aware that all To the vile paramour was thus made known, Had to safe hiding-place with timely fear Removed her children. Well the event had proved How needful was that caution; for at night She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn Beheld Numacian’s soldiers at the gate. Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo’s heart For this domestic shame prevail that hour, Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down. The anticipated meeting put to flight These painful thoughts; to-morrow will restore All whom his heart holds dear; his wife beloved, No longer now remember’d for regret, Is present to his soul with hope and joy; His inward eye beholds Favila’s form In opening youth robust, and Hermesind, His daughter, lovely as a budding rose; Their images beguile the hours of night, Till with the earliest morning he may seek Their secret hold. The nightingale not yet Had ceased her song, nor had the early lark Her dewy nest forsaken, when the Prince Upward beside Pionia took his way Toward Auseva. Heavily to him, Impatient for the morrow’s happiness, Long night had linger’d, but it seem’d more long To Roderick’s aching heart. He too had watch’d For dawn, and seen the earliest break of day, And heard its earliest sounds; and when the Prince Went forth, the melancholy man was seen With pensive pace upon Pionia’s side Wandering alone and slow. For he had left The wearying place of his unrest, that morn With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow, And with its breath allay the feverish heat That burnt within. Alas! the gales of morn Reach not the fever of a wounded heart! How shall he meet his Mother’s eye, how make His secret known, and from that voice revered Obtain forgiveness, ... all that he has now To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace He lay his head resign’d? In silent prayer He supplicated Heaven to strengthen him Against that trying hour, there seeking aid Where all who seek shall find; and thus his soul Received support, and gather’d fortitude, Never than now more needful, for the hour Was nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near, And with a dim but quick foreboding met The good old man; yet when he heard him say My Lady sends to seek thee, like a knell To one expecting and prepared for death, But fearing the dread point that hastens on, It smote his heart. He follow’d silently, And knit his suffering spirit to the proof.

He went resolved to tell his Mother all, Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregs Of bitterness, receive the only good Earth had in store for him. Resolved for this He went; yet was it a relief to find That painful resolution must await A fitter season, when no eye but Heaven’s Might witness to their mutual agony. Count Julian’s daughter with Rusilla sate; Both had been weeping, both were pale, but calm. With head as for humility abased Roderick approach’d, and bending, on his breast He cross’d his humble arms. Rusilla rose In reverence to the priestly character, And with a mournful eye regarding him, Thus she began. Good Father, I have heard From my old faithful servant and true friend, Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue, That in the anguish of its spirit pour’d A curse upon my poor unhappy child. O Father Maccabee, this is a hard world, And hasty in its judgements! Time has been, When not a tongue within the Pyrenees Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick’s name, Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound, The vengeance of the honest multitude Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand For life-long infamy the lying lips. Now if a voice be raised in his behalf, ’Tis noted for a wonder, and the man Who utters the strange speech shall be admired For such excess of Christian charity. Thy Christian charity hath not been lost; ... Father, I feel its virtue: ... it hath been Balm to my heart; ... with words and grateful tears, ... All that is left me now for gratitude, ... I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers That thou wilt still remember Roderick’s name.

Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on, That when the actual point of trial came, Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew, And as the vital spirits to the heart Retreated, o’er his wither’d countenance, Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread. Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d, Even in such dull insensibility As gradual age brings on, or slow disease, Beneath whose progress lingering life survives The power of suffering. Wondering at himself, Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes, Then slowly shaking as he bent his head, O venerable Lady, he replied, If aught may comfort that unhappy soul, It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers. She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who alone On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime, She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing now Were all that he could ask, ... all that could bring Profit or consolation to his soul, If he hath been as sure we may believe, A penitent sincere. Oh had he lived, Replied Rusilla, never penitence Had equall’d his! full well I know his heart, Vehement in all things. He would on himself Have wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the height Of fleshly suffering ... yea, which being told With its portentuous rigour should have made The memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lost In shuddering pity and astonishment, Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise Seem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt The boundless mercy of redeeming love. For sure I trust that not in his offence Harden’d and reprobate was my lost son, A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought, Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness, When the ruin burst around me like a flood, Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fall An act of sudden madness; and this day Hath in unlook’d-for confirmation given A livelier hope, a more assurëd faith. Smiling benignant then amid her tears, She took Florinda by the hand, and said, I little thought that I should live to bless Count Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to me The last, the best, the only comfort earth Could minister to this afflicted heart, And my grey hairs may now unto the grave Go down in peace. Happy, Florinda cried, Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store! The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear, Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals The broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trust In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind, To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven. I too with Roderick there may interchange Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour Of my enlargement, is but a light part Of what my soul endures!... that grief hath lost Its sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ... One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ... May pass with me the portals of the grave, And with a thought, like sin which cannot die, Embitter Heaven. My father hath renounced His hope in Christ! It was his love for me Which drove him to perdition.... I was born To ruin all who loved me, ... all I loved! Perhaps I sinn’d in leaving him; ... that fear Rises within me to disturb the peace Which I should else have found. To Roderick then The pious mourner turn’d her suppliant eyes: O Father, there is virtue in thy prayers!... I do beseech thee offer them to Heaven In his behalf! For Roderick’s sake, for mine, Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful, That Julian may with penitence be touch’d, And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace Which ne’er was sought in vain. For Roderick’s sake And mine, pray for him! We have been the cause Of his offence! What other miseries May from that same unhappy source have risen, Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; ... But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds, That were eternal evil! Pray for him, Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers More fervent, as the deeper is the crime.

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay Before Rusilla’s feet, eyeing him long And wistfully, had recognised at length, Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds, His royal master. And he rose and lick’d His wither’d hand, and earnestly look’d up With eyes whose human meaning did not need The aid of speech; and moan’d, as if at once To court and chide the long-withheld caress. A feeling uncommix’d with sense of guilt Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill’d through the King; But he to self-controul now long inured, Represt his rising heart, nor other tears, Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall Than seem’d to follow on Florinda’s words. Looking toward her then, yet so that still He shunn’d the meeting of her eye, he said, Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man Hath not by his good Angel been cast off For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord Whose justice doth in its unerring course Visit the children for the sire’s offence, Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear The daughter’s prayer, and for her sake restore The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine In earnest and continual duty join.... How deeply, how devoutly, He will know To whom the cry is raised! Thus having said, Deliberately, in self-possession still, Himself from that most painful interview Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog Follow’d his footsteps close. But he retired Into the thickest grove; there yielding way To his o’erburthen’d nature, from all eyes Apart, he cast himself upon the ground, And threw his arms around the dog, and cried, While tears stream’d down, Thou, Theron, then hast known Thy poor lost master, ... Theron, none but thou!

XVI.

COVADONGA.