PART IV.--VENGEANCE.

Might is not always for the just. Were it so always, where would be the honor of virtue?

Maurico was conquered, and the castle fell into the hands of his enemy the Count Di Luna. The minstrel languished in prison, with but one consolation in this life--the presence of his mother. They were imprisoned together, that to their miseries might be added the pain of a last separation.

Upon the fall of the castle, the Lady Leonora took flight, hoping against hope. But when she heard he was condemned to death, she came weeping to the foot of the castle, and leant her face against its wall.

With her came the faithful soldier, who had ever been at Maurico’s right hand--who had told him of his mother’s capture, and who had escaped from the battle at the last moment, when he saw his master taken prisoner, and all hope had fled.

She bade her faithful escort leave her, and then hope whispered that perchance she could save him. And when she trembled she looked at a ring she wore, and found new courage.

Swelling on the night air came the dirge of the monks within the castle--

“Miserere for him whose death is nigh; Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled; Miserere for one who, a moment more, Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”

The solemn words made her tremble and look for a moment with fear upon the ring she wore; but the next instant she started forward with horror, for she heard his voice--

“Ah--death itself is slow When death itself is wooed-- When death itself is peace. Leonora--fare-thee-well!”

“Great Heaven!--can I believe my senses?”

Again the solemn voices of the monks arose--

“Miserere for him whose death is nigh; Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled; Miserere for one who, a moment more, Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”

Again his voice arose; his last words for her--

“Leonora--Leonora, a last farewell.”

And again she looked on the ring as she thought, “her love was as great as his.”

Then suddenly she heard footsteps, and she shrank into the shadow of the frowning tower.

The count passed over the very spot from which she had just fled. Then he turned and said to some person unseen by Leonora--

“Thou markest my will; when the day breaks--the scaffold for the son--the pile for the mother.”

Cruel, implacable as he was, he even blushed in the dark night as conscience whispered to him that this scaffold and this pile were but a poor return for his life, twice given him. But he had gone too far to recede; and, with a curse, he cried, “‘Twas fatality, and Leonora.” Then he asked himself where she was--where she had hidden herself, and, in an agony of hot, unrestrained passion, he cried out, “Leonora, Leonora, where art thou?”

“She is here!”

As he started at her voice she came forward, pale and trembling, from the shadow.

Asking himself how she could have reached the terrace, after an effort he said, “What wouldst thou?”

“Canst thou ask me? His life.”

“_His_ life! Ask me for mine own as well.”

“See, I kneel to thee.”

“Thou art mad.”

“Nay, see how humble I am; look on me--at thy very feet.”

“Look in my face; dost thou see pity there?”

“I cannot look upon thy face. Pity--I can say no more;--pity! Hath he not twice saved thy life? Wilt thou not render back half thy debt? Kill me if thou wilt, for I heard thee say ’twas by me thou art what thou art. Kill me, yet spare him.”

“As thou speakest, thou dost but ensure his fate. I would I could make him suffer a hundred deaths. As ardently thou lovest so fiercely do I hate. Let go your hold. Nothing can purchase his life.”

“No price?”

“No price.”

“Yes, there is one, and I do offer it to thee--myself.”

“What hast thou said?”

“What I do mean--myself.”

“I dream.”

“Nay, open his prison-door, and I am thine.”

“Wilt thou swear it?”

“By my dead mother’s name!”

“Enough--he is free.”

He strode quickly to the door of the tower, and spoke rapidly to the gaoler within it; but she had had time to offer herself a sacrifice to her honest love. She took the ring from off her finger, opened a little receptacle in it, removed from it a small grey pellet, and swallowed it. “Thou shalt have a dead bride,” she whispered. When he again turned towards her, her hands were pressed to her sides.

“Saved, saved,” she cried to herself, as the count--smiling now for the first time for a weary while--took her right hand and courteously led her to the grand hall of the castle.

* * * * *

Enter the hopeless prison, in which the gipsey and the troubadour were trying to console each other as each weary moment rolled away.

She was lying on the bare ground; he sitting at her feet, his hands crossed, and smiling as he looked upon her.

“Dost thou sleep, dear mother?”

“There is no time for sleep, my son.”

“Thou tremblest with cold.”

“This is a tomb. I would we could escape.”

“Escape!”

“Yet, fear not, son; they cannot torture me.”

“No; for art thou not a woman?”

“Oh, they would not fear to torture a woman. But look on my face, canst thou not read death there? Nay, cry not, ‘mother,’ as thou weepest. They shall come to bite their lips with anger; for they will find me dead.”

Then, as he buried his face in his hands, she was seized with unconquerable fear. “They come--they come. Save me--save thy mother. I am indeed, indeed thy mother.”

“No one cometh; all is quiet.”

“Fire! death by fire! I am afraid--I am afraid. I see her now--my mother. They dragged her and bound her to the stake. There! there! See, the flames have caught her hair; how it shrivels up! And her eyes--ah! she can see me no longer. Help! help! save me!”

And she fell back senseless upon the hard earth.

“Mother, if thou dost love me still--if thou wilt hear thy son’s prayers, be brave and calm.”

As he spoke, she came again to a knowledge of her fate.

“I am worn and weak; or thou shouldst not bid me be calm and brave. I am--very--worn-and--weak.”

And she fell peacefully to sleep, as in her native mountains; free as the wind, and surrounded by her tribe.

Then he knelt by her side, hardly daring to breathe, for fear of waking her.

No fear of awaking her; for she is aweary, and _will_ sleep. They shall come and bear him away from thee, and still thou shalt sleep on and peacefully; he shall bid thee his last farewell, and still thou shalt sleep unheedingly.

Suddenly he started, as a light fell upon the prison walls. He looked upon his sleeping mother, and thought it was her funeral pyre. But as he turned, he saw the light came from the door, upon the threshold of which stood the queen of mercy--his dear Leonora.

She ran to him, and nestled on his breast. Then she cried, “Thou shalt not die, for I have saved thee.”

“Thou hast saved me! how?”

“Nay,” and she hid her face, and pointed to the door.

“And thou--thou comest also.”

“My life--my hope--I must stay here.”

“Stay here!”

“I pray thee go, go.”

“Where thou goest I will also go; and where thou stayest, I will stay.”

“But if thou stayest thou diest.”

“Without thee what is life? Why do thy eyes turn from me; what is the price thou hast paid for my liberty?”

“No price is high for a dear human life. There is yet time. For my sake, go!”

“But he for whom that life is bought may cast the gift from him as I do, and as I also cast thee away.”

“Ah, Maurico--’tis not the hour to hate. Peace and good-will, peace and good-will.” She turned deadly pale, and rocked to and fro in agony.

His arms were about her in a moment. “My transient hate--my fears, were but excess of love.”

“Speak on, speak on, death vainly strives against the warmth of love. I feel for thee. Speak on, oh, my Maurico. But a little, and envious death shall have his will.”

“Leonora--Leonora, thou art dying!”

“Ah--yes, she goes to be thy herald. Unrelenting is the poison. If ’twill let me stay near thee but for a little, little while. Ah, place my cold hand against thy trembling lips, thou knowest now my wealth of love for thee. I did mean to save thee at my life’s expense; this was the price. No more, no less.”

“And _I_ fell back from thee--turned from thee. Mine eyes have fallen from my face. Leonora--look up, look up.”

“I am too weak. Keep your hands about me. So let me die! Ah, ’tis well as it is.”

At this moment the count came to the door to claim his bride.

“Good-bye--oh, good-bye!” and she sank exhausted in his arms.

Even this scene did not soften Di Luna. No reverence had he for the poor dead lady--no reverence had he for the maddened lover, straining his eyes upon the dear one’s face. The guards, who waited without, came in, and tore them asunder.

“Mother,” he cried, “mother.”

But she slept on unheedingly. Slept on while they bore her son away to death.

Again, as he was wrenched across the threshold, he cried, “Mother.” And now, she trembled in her sleep.

Again, and again, she trembled. Then with a shudder she awoke. She looked round quickly, and clasped her hands about her breast, as she no longer saw her son. Then her eyes rested on the count. With a bound she was by his side. “Thou hast stolen him--thou hast stolen while I slept.”

He stood immovable, and uttered not a word.

“Mercy--stay the axe--I will save him--I will save him.” And she clung, shrieking, about his feet.

“Save him--nought can save him--see there.”

He dragged her to the window, and she looked wildly forth.

“Dead--dead--dead!”

Then she turned from the window a changed woman. No tears. No horror. Smiling even a grim smile.

The noble stepped back in wonder. Then he thought that she was mad. But no.

Proud--erect--she stood before him.

“Have I not said--‘Vengeance shall be mine’--in thy tent, where thou didst cut my flesh with cords. _Vengeance_ IS _mine_. Thou look’st towards the window. Gazing through it--I say--_Vengeance is mine_. He is dead--thou sayest he is dead. Hear!--thou knowest me to be the gipsey who robbed thy father of thy younger brother. Ah well, I am indeed she--and that brother,--rejoice in the act,--and that brother--look again through the window--mark that body. THOU HAST SLAIN THY BROTHER. Shrink--shrink!--VENGEANCE IS MINE. Hadst thou but have let him wake me that he might say farewell, I should have pitied thee and saved him--but thou didst steal him from me while I slept. Dead!--he will carry thy murderous name with him. Have I not said, ‘VENGEANCE SHALL BE MINE?’”

And then her troubles were over, and the last she saw on earth was the bleeding body of him she called, and whom she loved, as a son.

While he, the triumphant count, stood there alone.

Alone. With remembrance. With remorse.

ERNANI. (VERDI.)