XI. COUNT PEDRO’S CASTLE.

Twelve weary days with unremitting speed,

Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers

Pursued their way; the mountain path they chose,

The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread,

Where cistus shrubs sole-seen exhaled at noon

Their fine balsamic odour all around;

Strew’d with their blossoms, frail as beautiful,

The thirsty soil at eve; and when the sun

Relumed the gladden’d earth, opening anew

Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail,

Whiten’d again the wilderness. They left

The dark Sierra’s skirts behind, and cross’d

The wilds where Ana in her native hills

Collects her sister springs, and hurries on

Her course melodious amid loveliest glens,

With forest and with fruitage overbower’d.

These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left,

Where o’er the hazel and the quince the vine

Wide-mantling spreads; and clinging round the cork

And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves

Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit

Pendant, or clusters cool of glassy green.

So holding on o’er mountain and o’er vale,

Tagus they cross’d where midland on his way

The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream;

And rude Alverches wide and stony bed,

And Duero distant far, and many a stream

And many a field obscure, in future war

For bloody theatre of famous deeds

Foredoom’d; and deserts where in years to come

Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers

And stately temples rear their heads on high.

Cautious with course circuitous they shunn’d

The embattled city, which in eldest time

Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say,

Now subjugate, but fated to behold

Ere long the heroic Prince (who passing now

Unknown and silently the dangerous track,

Turns thither his regardant eye) come down

Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad

Her banner’d Lion, symbol to the Moor

Of rout and death through many an age of blood.

Lo, there the Asturian hills! Far in the west,

Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge,

Pre-eminent, their giant bulk display,

Darkening with earliest shade the distant vales

Of Leon, and with evening premature.

Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line

Extends beyond the reach of eagle’s eye,

When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove

Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before

The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise,

Bounding the land beloved, their native land.

How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul

Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d

Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace!

Youth of heroic thought and high desire,

’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprize

That with unequal throbbing hurries now

The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d;

’Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs

In that young breast the healthful spring of life;

Joy and ambition have forsaken him,

His soul is sick with hope. So near his home,

So near his mother’s arms; ... alas! perchance

The long’d-for meeting may be yet far off

As earth from heaven. Sorrow in these long months

Of separation may have laid her low;

Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor

Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth,

And he himself should thus have brought the sword

Upon his father’s head?... Sure Hoya too

The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy

Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow

Thus overcast with heaviness, and why

Looks he thus anxiously in silence round?

Just then that faithful servant raised his hand,

And turning to Alphonso with a smile,

He pointed where Count Pedro’s towers far off

Peer’d in the dell below; faint was the smile,

And while it sate upon his lips, his eye

Retain’d its troubled speculation still.

For long had he look’d wistfully in vain,

Seeking where far or near he might espy

From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought

Change in his master’s house: but on the hills

Nor goat-herd could he see, nor traveller,

Nor huntsman early at his sports afield,

Nor angler following up the mountain glen

His lonely pastime; neither could he hear

Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy,

Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound

Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.

Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door

Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard;

The next stands open, and the sparrows there

Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d

To seek what indications were within;

The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn,

As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh;

The recent fire had moulder’d on the hearth;

And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space

Where from the wall the buckler and the sword

Had late been taken down. Wonder at first

Had mitigated fear, but Hoya now

Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope,

And they prick’d forward joyfully. Ere long

Perceptible above the ceaseless sound

Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes,

As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off;

And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts

Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate

The human swarm were seen, ... a motley group,

Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age,

And wondering children and tumultuous boys,

Hot youth and resolute manhood gather’d there,

In uproar all. Anon the moving mass

Falls in half circle back, a general cry

Bursts forth, exultant arms are lifted up

And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate

Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d

For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on.

Fronting the gate the standard-bearer holds

His precious charge. Behind the men divide

In order’d files; green boyhood presses there,

And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul,

Intreats admission. All is ardour here,

Hope and brave purposes and minds resolved.

Nor where the weaker sex is left apart

Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance

Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes

Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears.

Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space

Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf,

And gazing round upon the martial show,

Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head,

And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill

Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy.

The page beside him holds his master’s spear

And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate

Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved

But mournful, for Favinia on his arm

Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back.

Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew!

She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words

Bereft thy faculty, ... she is crazed with grief,

And her delirium hath infected these:

But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share

The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind

Surveys the danger in its whole extent,

And sees the certain ruin, ... for thou know’st

I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man,

Why then for this most desperate enterprize

Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child?

Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee;

Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear

The face of death; and I should welcome it

As the best visitant whom Heaven could send.

Not for our lives I speak then, ... were they worth

The thought of preservation; ... Nature soon

Must call for them; the sword that should cut short

Sorrow’s slow work were merciful to us.

But spare Alphonso! there is time and hope

In store for him. O thou who gavest him life,

Seal not his death, his death and mine at once!

Peace! he replied: thou know’st there is no choice,

I did not raise the storm; I cannot turn

Its course aside! but where yon banner goes

Thy Lord must not be absent! Spare me then,

Favinia, lest I hear thy honour’d name

Now first attainted with deserved reproach.

The boy is in God’s hands. He who of yore

Walk’d with the sons of Judah in the fire,

And from the lion’s den drew Daniel forth

Unhurt, can save him, ... if it be his will.

Even as he spake, the astonish’d troop set up

A shout of joy which rung through all the hills.

Alphonso heeds not how they break their ranks

And gather round to greet him; from his horse

Precipitate and panting off he springs.

Pedro grew pale, and trembled at his sight;

Favinia claspt her hands, and looking up

To Heaven as she embraced the boy, exclaim’d,

Lord God, forgive me for my sinful fears;

Unworthy that I am, ... my son, my son!