PART II.--THE GUEST.

With the next day’s sun came Elvira’s marriage day. No hope of flight--fate was against her, and so her envious women dress her for the sacrifice.

The great hall of the castle is filling with lords and ladies, retainers and vassals. There is a sudden stir--’tis the entrance of the duke, dressed grandly, and wearing all his orders. He walks gravely to his grandee’s chair, and sits down as the crowd do homage.

In those days--four hundred years ago--it was the custom to give shelter to any pilgrim who should demand it. Hence scarcely a day passed without “the castle” containing many guests of this sort.

The don had hardly sat down when a servant approached and said that a pilgrim was at the gate, craving hospitality.

Gravely and readily was given the order to let the pilgrim enter. The next moment a tall, upright man, dressed in the pilgrim’s loose sombre dress, came forward and up to the don as he sat in state.

“I greet thee, noble knight.”

“Good pilgrim, be at ease. Nor whence thou comest, nor who thou art, we do not ask. Be welcome for this day and night. My hospitality I promise thee.”

“The deepest thanks I have are thine!”

“We do not ask for thanks--the guest is as the lord. But stand aside, good pilgrim.” And the don rose and walked quickly to the door to meet a lady dressed in bridal garments.

“My bride,” he murmured.

“His bride,” said the pilgrim, throwing his cowl from his head a little, so that those who had chosen to look might have seen a handsome, brave face within it. “His bride.”

“Senor--as well as others, a poor pilgrim should offer thee a marriage gift--I offer one of price--my head. Let no one fear--I will no resistance offer--I am Ernani!”

“He lives--he lives,” said the bride to herself.

The don’s face contracted angrily as he saw the pilgrim standing--his gown flung off--fearless among them.

“Deliver me to the king--a price is on my head. Hark! they have tracked me even here. I hear the horsemen near the castle gate. Deliver me, and thou shalt gain a high sum for my head!”

In those old times a brutal ferocity was atoned for by a kind of honor of which, in these degenerate days, we have but slight idea. Above all, the promise of hospitality was sacred, and to keep it inviolate the accorder would run all risk and dangers. When life was so unhesitatingly taken, perhaps this sacredness of hospitality was the only means whereby men lived in society. But for it each man would have kept to his own home as a wild beast does to its lair, and no more have trusted himself in his neighbor’s stronghold than that same beast would besiege another’s den.

Hence the don, having promised to give hospitality to the pilgrim without conditions--awarding it to him no matter whence he came, or who he was, he was bound to save this guest from his pursuers, even though they were the royal troops themselves.

So far this man whom he abhorred--whom he recognized as the intruder of the night before--for this man the very marriage was stayed, and he, the grandee, left his hall for his ramparts. And soon there was heard the clicking of the lowering portcullis, and the raising of the drawbridge.

As he left the great hall the gentlemen followed him; and the only man left in the room was the false pilgrim, standing in the midst of the frightened women.

Their chief, the Donna Elvira, motioned them away, and soon she stood alone with the robber.

“Ernani--Ernani--they told me thou wert dead!”

“And thou didst believe them.”

“Yet I hoped--I would have hoped even to the altar.”

“And then--then thou wouldst have sworn to love Don Ruy.”

For all answer she showed him the dagger she had wrested from the king. So, she would have hoped till living death were forced upon her, and then she would have welcomed death itself.

“The king--the king!”

Again the cry was heard, “The king was at the gate.” The king demanded that it should bow to him, and again the clicking sound was heard as the bridge was lowered before the king.

But ere the king reached the great hall, the lady and the robber had left it. The don returning, discovered them together.

Again, despairingly, the robber offered his life, but the don was inflexible; hospitality he had promised, and hospitality he would grant. True, the very necessity of this hospitality would nerve his hand to greater vengeance when the time came. But now his guest’s life was as his own; so the trembling Elvira saw the don open a secret sliding door, and her lover was safe.

“Begone to thy rooms, Elvira--the king--the king.”

No second bidding needed she. And when Carlos came proudly into the great hall he found there only the grandee, humbly bowing.

“Fair cousin, why in arms, we are not at war? You bow--enough. Let it be known there is but one king of Castille. When his sword is in its sheath all swords must sleep.”

“Your Majesty can never think a Silva dreams rebellion.”

“Prove yourself loyal. The chief of the rebels has sought refuge here in your castle. His men destroyed, he seeks to save himself by your protection. Deliver him!”

“If the king will hear his subject. A pilgrim came and entreated hospitality, which I promised. The loyalty I bear the king will not allow me to betray his subject.”

“Thou wouldst lose thy head, fair cousin.”

“Rather than mine honor.”

The king turned and gave some orders to the gentlemen about him. Then again his eyes were upon the door. “Thy head or his, my lord?”

“Mine own.”

Yet a little, and the gentlemen of the king’s suite returned, saying the royal troops had searched the castle through and could not find the rebel.

“Thy head, I say.”

But as he spoke, the king’s eyes turned from the grandee, and rested upon the Donna Elvira, coming towards him with hands clasped, and white open lips.

“Mercy--mercy--king!”

“Mercy, fair lady! Thou art mercy’s self, and even kings must here obey. But thou shalt be the don’s best hostage for his loyalty.”

“Nay! my king. Is there no other hostage for a loyalty yet unshaken? She is my only hope, my only joy. I have loved her from her very birth. My king, thou wilt--thou wilt not take her from me?”

“Then Ernani. One or the other.”

“Nay, I am steadfast in my loyalty. Therefore--please you, my king--take her--my hope, my life.”

“Come, lady,” said the king, seizing the hand of the luckless lady. “Come, I’ll strew thy path with flowers. Time shall bring thee no heavy hours. Rather let smiles be where now are tears and whitened cheeks. Come, come.”

So with his prey the Christian king departed, leaving the old lord bent and wretched with grief.

But not for long--not for long. Now, his eyes sparkled, for hate was there. His head was erect again, and his breath came and went in short angry catches. He ran to the secret door, and as though calling to a dog, he bade the robber chief come forth.

As Ernani stepped into the room, the grandee ran to the wall, and took down a couple of swords.

“Now, robber, doubly robber, vengeance is mine.”

“What! will a grandee fight with a poor bandit?”

“At least, thou wast born noble, even if now thou art vile. Follow me!”

“No, no.”

“What--has all nobility left thee?”

“I am still too noble to fight with age, Senor.”

“See--is my hand firm?”

“Again, thou hast saved my life!”

“That I might take it from thee.”

“Ah, well! Kill me, thou hast the right, perhaps.”

“Kill thee.” And the old lord raised his sword as though a rat were before him.

“Kill, kill. Yet hear a prayer of mine.”

“Prayers are for heaven, not man.”

“‘Tis a prayer to man--to thee.”

“Speak on.”

“But once again, but once again, let me see Elvira.”

“If thou wouldst see her, thou must travel. The king has torn her from me.”

“The king, the KING! Old man, the king loves Elvira.”

“Loves--loves Elvira! The king loves Elvira! Vassals, vassals,” he weakly called as he staggered to a seat.

“Nay, call me vassal, and the strength of this strong heart and arm is thine.”

“Stand from me. Aid from thee--from thee! Thou who art doomed to die.”

“My life is thine. I know my life is thine. At any time my life is thine. But let me live to hate where now thou hatest so strongly.”

“Thy life at _any_ time is mine. True. Well, wilt thou promise me thy life at any time I ask it?”

The other hesitated for a moment. Then took from his side his hunting-horn, and placed it in the unwilling hands of the old lord.

“Take thou this horn, when from it sounds a blast, ’Twill tell Ernani that his days are past.”

“Upon what dost swear that oath?”

“The memory of my murdered father.”

“So be it. Let heaven’s darkness fall on thee if thou dost break thy word.”