XIV. THE RESCUE.

Count, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign’d

Two sovereign remedies for human grief;

Religion, surest, firmest, first and best,

Strength to the weak and to the wounded balm;

And strenuous action next. Think not I came

With unprovided heart. My noble wife,

In the last solemn words, the last farewell

With which she charged her secret messenger,

Told me that whatsoe’er was my resolve,

She bore a mind prepared. And well I know

The evil, be it what it may, hath found

In her a courage equal to the hour.

Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs,

She in her children may be doom’d to feel,

Will never make that steady soul repent

Its virtuous purpose. I too did not cast

My single life into the lot, but knew

These dearer pledges on the die were set;

And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear

That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power

Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take

The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend

And the restoring Angel. We must rest

Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring,

Haply of comfort. Ho there! kindle fires,

And see if aught of hospitality

Can yet within these mournful walls be found!

Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off

Moving among the trees, and coming sounds

Were heard as of a distant multitude.

Anon a company of horse and foot,

Advancing in disorderly array,

Came up the vale; before them and beside

Their torches flash’d on Sella’s rippling stream;

Now gleam’d through chesnut groves, emerging now,

O’er their huge boughs and radiated leaves

Cast broad and bright a transitory glare.

That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers;

All sense of weariness, all wish for rest

At once were gone; impatient in desire

Of second victory alert they stood;

And when the hostile symbols, which from far

Imagination to their wish had shaped,

Vanish’d in nearer vision, high-wrought hope

Departing, left the spirit pall’d and blank.

No turban’d race, no sons of Africa

Were they who now came winding up the vale,

As waving wide before their horses’ feet

The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare

Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night.

Helmet and breast-plate glitter’d as they came,

And spears erect; and nearer as they drew

Were the loose folds of female garments seen

On those who led the company. Who then

Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard

The beating of his heart.

But vainly there

Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms

Beloved; and plainly might it now be seen

That from some bloody conflict they return’d

Victorious, ... for at every saddle-bow

A gorey head was hung. Anon they stopt,

Levelling in quick alarm their ready spears.

Hold! who goes there? cried one. A hundred tongues

Sent forth with one accord the glad reply,

Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the lights, ...

The people knew their Lord.

Then what a shout

Rung through the valley! From their clay-built nests,

Beneath the overbrowing battlements,

Now first disturb’d, the affrighted martins flew,

And uttering notes of terror short and shrill,

Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke

Wheel’d giddily. Then plainly was it shown

How well the vassals loved their generous Lord,

How like a father the Asturian Prince

Was dear. They crowded round; they claspt his knees;

They snatch’d his hand; they fell upon his neck, ...

They wept; ... they blest Almighty Providence,

Which had restored him thus from bondage free;

God was with them and their good cause, they said;

His hand was here.... His shield was over them, ...

His spirit was abroad, ... His power display’d:

And pointing to their bloody trophies then,

They told Pelayo there he might behold

The first-fruits of the harvest they should soon

Reap in the field of war! Benignantly,

With voice and look and gesture, did the Prince

To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy

Respond; and sure if at that moment aught

Could for awhile have overpower’d those fears

Which from the inmost heart o’er all his frame

Diffused their chilling influence, worthy pride,

And sympathy of love and joy and hope,

Had then possess’d him wholly. Even now

His spirit rose; the sense of power, the sight

Of his brave people, ready where he led

To fight their country’s battles, and the thought

Of instant action, and deliverance, ...

If Heaven, which thus far had protected him,

Should favour still, ... revived his heart, and gave

Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought

Amid that turbulent greeting to enquire

Where Gaudiosa was, his children where,

Who call’d them to the field, who captain’d them;

And how these women, thus with arms and death

Environ’d, came amid their company?

For yet, amid the fluctuating light

And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not.

Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her

A willing and concerted prisoner.

Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade

On whom her loose and shameless love was bent,

Had she set forth; and in her heart she cursed

The busy spirit, who, with powerful call

Rousing Pelayo’s people, led them on

In quick pursual, and victoriously

Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse

Unwelcome as unlook’d for. With dismay

She recognized her brother, dreaded now

More than he once was dear; her countenance

Was turn’d toward him, ... not with eager joy

To court his sight, and meeting its first glance,

Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul;

Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot chuse

But look to what it fears. She could not shun

His presence, and the rigid smile constrain’d,

With which she coldly drest her features, ill

Conceal’d her inward thoughts, and the despite

Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame.

Sullenly thus upon her mule she sate,

Waiting the greeting which she did not dare

Bring on. But who is she that at her side,

Upon a stately war-horse eminent,

Holds the loose rein with careless hand? A helm

Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair;

The shield is on her arm; her breast is mail’d;

A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well

It may be seen that sword hath done its work

To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve

Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye,

As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast

Upon the turmoil round. One countenance

So strongly mark’d, so passion-worn was there,

That it recall’d her mind. Ha! Maccabee!

Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried,

Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy?

Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, ... I too

Have not been wanting! Now be His the praise,

From whom the impulse came!

That startling call,

That voice so well remember’d, touch’d the Goth

With timely impulse now; for he had seen

His Mother’s face, ... and at her sight, the past

And present mingled like a frightful dream,

Which from some dread reality derives

Its deepest horror. Adosinda’s voice

Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem’d

Rusilla at that moment that the child,

For whom her supplications day and night

Were offer’d, breathed the living air. Her heart

Was calm; her placid countenance, though grief

Deeper than time had left its traces there,

Retain’d its dignity serene; yet when

Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss’d

Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down.

As she approach’d the Prince, the crowd made way

Respectful. The maternal smile which bore

Her greeting, from Pelayo’s heart at once

Dispell’d its boding. What he would have ask’d

She knew, and bending from her palfrey down,

Told him that they for whom he look’d were safe,

And that in secret he should hear the rest.