PART I.--THE DUEL.

In the fifteenth century, and away in Spain, lived the Count di Luna--he was as handsome as he was implacable, and folks said he was as implacable as death.

In the fifteenth century too, and in Spain, a great lord was a petty king, and would as frequently make war against his neighbor on his own account, as on account of their common country.

But proud and implacable as he was, he had bowed to the power of love, and weak and pliant in the presence of the Lady Leonora.

His castle was always well defended--for attacks might be made on it when least expected. Attached to his castle was a palace with superb grounds. On the approach of danger both palace and grounds were deserted, and all communication between them and the castle was cut off by the up-heaving of heavy draw-bridges.

One night the guard-room of the palace was filled, as usual, with soldiers off duty and various servants; but both soldiers and servants were half asleep. This being observed by Ferrando, he woke them up by saying it was near the count’s time for passing through the room.

Said a man, One had better sing or tell tales if he would have “us” keep awake.

The proposal being generally approved of by the company, Ferrando settled himself easily in his seat, and told them the old, old tale.

“Draw about me--all of ye. Thus it was. The old count had two dear sons--the cares of his heart. Well--they were sleeping peacefully--their good nurse near them, when she awoke and saw--now, my comrades--what did she see?”

“Go to!”--and “go on!”

“A hag--of a verity, a hag! And, of a verity, she screamed aloud, which brought about her a score or so of frightened men, who bestruck themselves strong enough to drive forth the hag with many a blow. Well, what then, my comrades?”

“Aye--what then?”

“The child dwindled till his flesh was as colorless as the white of thine eye, Gomez. Nay, start not, man. And he hath screamed, as child has never screamed before. Wherefore and thereupon, my comrades, they did search out the hag--fall upon her bravely, and fitly burn her. But, my faith, she had a daughter. By the rood, such a daughter! She hath sworn, my comrades, as I, man-at-arms, would never so beswear myself, she hath sworn to destroy the little one; and she hath done it;--for he is lost--gone--and there’s an end, on’t.”

“And therefore hath the old count died?”

“He hath died o’ heart-crack, a sore complaint, my comrades.”

“And the living count----?”

“Interpose not thy remarks, youth. The living count hath sought for his brother, and hath not found him. And I will wager my chain here, which I won in honest fight,--that never shall human eyes see him again. But mark you this:--I could tell the thief--I could tell her--yea--marry, could I.”

The castle bell began to toll, whereat a marvellous trembling came upon the men-at-arms. Then was heard the roll of a drum. The time to relieve guard had arrived, so the story-telling crowd dispersed.

* * * * *

Go we now to the gardens of the palace, where the moon looked down upon two female forms, the lady Leonora and Ines, her confidante. Leonora had been telling Ines of her love for some unknown knight. She had seen him at the last tournament--where he appeared in dark mysterious garments and carried a shield without armorial bearings. He gained the laurel; and she,--she placed that laurel crown upon his brow. But, alas!--almost immediately after, came news of a civil war, the assembly within a day dispersed, and with the rest went the unknown warrior. But--but a few nights since she heard, near her casement, the plaintive notes of a guitar and words of a plaintive song. Drawing near, she heard her own name sighed,--again and yet again; till the very air seemed to breathe forth the name of Leonora.

“‘Twas he--by the pale moonlight she saw ’twas he.”

“I would, lady, that you forgot him.”

“Counsel easily given, Ines, but not kindly taken. Come, let us return to the palace.”

Scarcely had they departed when the Count di Luna came softly towards the palace windows, that he might be near his beloved Leonora. The garden was bathed in the light of the virgin moon.

As he approached a window, from which streamed the rays of a taper, he started; for a voice he well knew began to carol forth a song--the voice of the troubadour, who had dared approach the palace windows, night after night, for many nights.

“O’er the lands of the earth He hath wandered from birth; He hath much--wants no more, Does this same troubadour. He hath treasure, I’m told, Quite surpassing all gold, ’Tis a lady--no more. He’s a rich troubadour.”

Hardly had the last words floated away on the air than the window, behind which was the taper, opened on to the broad terrace. The next moment the Lady Leonora was softly coming down the broad steps to the green lawn.

As she reached the foot of the marble stairs, she saw a manly figure. Guessing it to be that of the singer, she ran and put her arms about the new comer’s neck.

“Thou art late. I have counted the moments for thy coming.”

But the voice of her lover sounded many steps away, crying, “Faithless one!”

And then, by the light of the moon, which had seemed darkness to her, coming from the illuminated chamber, she perceived how terrible had been her mistake.

“Manrico, thy Leonora thought this man to be thyself; he hath not yet spoken; by his voice I should have learnt my fault.”

The count, in a whirl of rage, cried, “He is but a coward or a sinner who wears a mask--remove that mask.”

The troubadour took off his mask.

“Thou, Maurico,” said the count. “Thou!--proscribed--condemned to death--a rebel.”

“Defeat thy rival, count, by calling here thy guards.”

“The only guard I call is this--an honorable one.”

And the noble drew his sword. “Thou shalt degrade its blade.”

The troubadour quickly drew his sword, and the count was rushing upon him, when cried the former, “Softly, count. Brave men quarrel not in the presence of trembling women.”

“Follow me!” cried the count; and, spite of all the entreaties of the lady, the rivals strode on to some secluded spot that one might slay the other.