PART III.--THE GIPSEY’S SON.

Surely, mercy may sometimes be a fault, if extended to a heartless man.

The Count di Luna held his life by the great mercy of the gipsey stranger, but he determined to reduce the castle, whose master was that gipsey, hoping that he might yet destroy a hated rival. No breath of gratitude was in his heart. He thought only of revenge, and turned away his face from the light.

The count’s camp was pitched within a mile of the doomed castle. The count’s soldiers were lying about--playing, singing, gambling, and polishing up their arms--when the soldier, Ferrando, was seen to run quickly towards the count, who was walking moodily amidst the troopers.

“One hath seized a gipsey woman, general. She is a spy, perhaps.”

“Let her be brought hither,” said the count, and looking up as the sound of a tramping, mixed with smothering cries, reached his ears, he saw a middle-aged, stern-looking gipsey-woman being dragged towards him by half-a-dozen thick-bearded men. She showed no fear.

“Wherefore do ye thus treat me? What evil have I done ye?”

“Come hither, woman. Answer me truly.”

“That shall be as thy questions are.”

“Whither goest thou?”

“Whither the gipsies ever go. To the north or to the south, sometimes westward, yet ever gladly to the east.”

“What wouldst thou?”

“My son--I only crave my dear, dear son. He hath left me, and I seek him. Thou tremblest--perchance thou hast lost a mother.”

“I seem to know thy features. When my younger brother was stolen, the woman who did carry him was like thee.”

The noble seemed to be thinking aloud, rather than addressing the gipsey. “Fifteen years--fifteen long years since I lost my younger brother.”

“Thou art, then, the Count di Luna?”

She saw she had spoken hastily, as soon as she had uttered the words, so she prepared to fence with them.

“How knowest thou that?”

“They say the gipsies know all things, master. But let me go; I may trace him for thee.”

Suddenly the old soldier, Ferrando, cried out, as he peered towards the gipsey, “By our Lady, ’tis she herself!”

“She! who?” cried the count.

“May I never be absolved, general, if ’tis not the gipsey who stole your brother! Did I not see her carrying the child away, hid in her rags? Aye, marry, did I. Did I not tremble when I saw her but just now, as though I knew her? Aye, marry, twice did I.”

“She trembles; her lips betray her,” said the count. “Bind her--till the cords cut deep into her flesh. Ah! scream--scream; there is no help.”

“Help, Maurico!” cried the gipsey, in her agony. “Help, my son! help, my Maurico!”

“His mother--HIS mother!” said the count. And running to her, he raised his hand, as though he would strike her. But he had not yet fallen so low as that.

She looked at him fearlessly. “I defy thee! Thou--the base son of a base father. Frown--hope!--hate, thou monster. Vengeance shall be mine. List to that, I say--‘VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE!’”

He turned from her contemptuously. She to talk of vengeance! She a miserable, bound gipsey.

He to his splendid tent--she to imprisonment; and yet she had cried, “VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE.”

* * * * *

Turn we to Castellor, where are Maurico and Leonora.

As they stood near the balcony, all in all to each other, she heard the distant clash of arms. “Prythee, wherefore that sound?”

“Thou art so brave that I fear not to tell thee all. The Count di Luna is encamped but a short mile away. Before the night is gone he will have besieged this castle. Nay, trouble not--your courage and our swords will be victorious. It is, I know, a weary prelude to our marriage, dearest. Of victory I am sure--yet should I fall--my last thought will be of thee--only of thee--Hark!--they await us in the chapel.”

As he spoke, the chanting in the neighboring chapel reached their ears, and each knew that the priest was waiting to join their hands.

They were moving towards the holy place when a soldier ran quickly in, saying he had woeful news.

The gipsey Azucena--was taken.

“Azucena!”

“They say--she will be burnt!”

“Ah! the air grows hot and dark about me.”

The lady Leonora put her hand to the troubadour’s brow, but he put it aside and cried--“My mother--they would slay my mother.”

“Thy mother!”

Then she bade him take arms. No fear had she now. Victory must be with him who fought to save a mother! “Onward!” she cried. She buckled on his sword, and was the first to cry, “farewell.” Her last words were “love” and “victory!”