XXI. THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.

The second eve had closed upon their march

Within the Asturian border, and the Moors

Had pitch’d their tents amid an open wood

Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim,

Their scatter’d fires shone with distincter light

Among the trees, above whose top the smoke

Diffused itself, and stain’d the evening sky.

Ere long the stir of occupation ceased,

And all the murmur of the busy host

Subsiding died away, as through the camp

The crier from a knoll proclaim’d the hour

For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice,

Thrice in melodious modulation full,

Pronounced the highest name. There is no God

But God, he cried; there is no God but God!

Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord!

Come ye to prayer! to prayer! The Lord is great!

There is no God but God!... Thus he pronounced

His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth

The audacious name accurst. The multitude

Made their ablutions in the mountain stream

Obedient, then their faces to the earth

Bent in formality of easy prayer.

An arrow’s flight above that mountain stream

There was a little glade, where underneath

A long smooth mossy stone a fountain rose.

An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs

O’ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots

Emboss’d the bank, and on their tufted bark

Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade;

Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green

Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind

Made itself felt, just touch’d with gentle dip

The glassy surface, ruffled ne’er but then,

Save when a bubble rising from the depth

Burst, and with faintest circles mark’d its place,

Or if an insect skimm’d it with its wing,

Or when in heavier drops the gather’d rain

Fell from the oak’s high bower. The mountain roe,

When, having drank there, he would bound across,

Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet,

And put forth half his force. With silent lapse

From thence through mossy banks the water stole,

Then murmuring hastened to the glen below.

Diana might have loved in that sweet spot

To take her noontide rest; and when she stoopt

Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen

Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face

It crown’d, reflected there.

Beside that spring

Count Julian’s tent was pitch’d upon the glade;

There his ablutions Moor-like he perform’d,

And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head

Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound

Of voices at the tent when he arose,

And lo! with hurried step a woman came

Toward him; rightly then his heart presaged,

And ere he could behold her countenance,

Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms

Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground,

Kiss’d her, and claspt her to his heart, and said,

Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child!

Howe’er the inexorable will of Fate

May in the world which is to come, divide

Our everlasting destinies, in this

Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me!

And then with deep and interrupted voice,

Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears,

My blessing be upon thy head, he cried,

A father’s blessing! Though all faiths were false,

It should not lose its worth!... She lock’d her hands

Around his neck, and gazing in his face

Through streaming tears, exclaim’d, Oh never more,

Here or hereafter, never let us part!

And breathing then a prayer in silence forth,

The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue.

Whom hast thou there? cried Julian, and drew back,

Seeing that near them stood a meagre man

In humble garb, who rested with raised hands

On a long staff, bending his head like one

Who when he hears the distant vesper-bell,

Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men,

Offers his homage in the eye of Heaven.

She answered, Let not my dear father frown

In anger on his child! Thy messenger

Told me that I should be restrain’d no more

From liberty of faith, which the new law

Indulged to all; how soon my hour might come

I knew not, and although that hour will bring

Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be

Without a Christian comforter in death.

A Priest! exclaimed the Count, and drawing back,

Stoopt for his turban that he might not lack

Some outward symbol of apostacy;

For still in war his wonted arms he wore,

Nor for the scymitar had changed the sword

Accustomed to his hand. He covered now

His short grey hair, and under the white folds

His swarthy brow, which gather’d as he rose,

Darken’d. Oh frown not thus! Florinda said,

A kind and gentle counsellor is this,

One who pours balm into a wounded soul,

And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal.

I told him I had vow’d to pass my days

A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart,

Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn

With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy heart, ...

It answers to the call of duty here,

He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord

Than at thy father’s side.

Count Julian’s brow,

While thus she spake, insensibly relax’d.

A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand

Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale?

In what old heresy hath he been train’d?

Or in what wilderness hath he escaped

The domineering Prelate’s fire and sword?

Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art!

A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied;

Brought to repentance by the grace of God,

And trusting for forgiveness through the blood

Of Christ in humble hope.

A smile of scorn

Julian assumed, but merely from the lips

It came; for he was troubled while he gazed

On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye

Before him. A new law hath been proclaim’d,

Said he, which overthrows in its career

The Christian altars of idolatry.

What think’st thou of the Prophet?... Roderick

Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp,

And he who asketh is a Musselman.

How then should I reply?... Safely, rejoin’d

The renegade, and freely may’st thou speak

To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke

Of Mecca easy, and its burden light?...

Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,

And groaning, turn’d away his countenance.

Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile

Regarding him with meditative eye

In silence. Thou art honest too! he cried;

Why ’twas in quest of such a man as this

That the old Grecian search’d by lantern light

In open day the city’s crowded streets,

So rare he deem’d the virtue. Honesty

And sense of natural duty in a Priest!

Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain!

I shall not pry too closely for the wires,

For, seeing what I see, ye have me now

In the believing mood!

O blessed Saints,

Florinda cried, ’tis from the bitterness,

Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks!

Hear him! and in your goodness give the scoff

The virtue of a prayer! So saying, she raised

Her hands in fervent action claspt to Heaven:

Then as, still claspt, they fell, toward her sire

She turn’d her eyes, beholding him through tears.

The look, the gesture, and that silent woe,

Soften’d her father’s heart, which in this hour

Was open to the influences of love.

Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one,

Said Julian, if its mighty power were used

To lessen human misery, not to swell

The mournful sum, already all-too-great.

If, as thy former counsel should imply,

Thou art not one who would for his craft’s sake

Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound,

Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust

That thou with virtuous balm will bind it up, ...

If, as I think, thou art not one of those

Whose villainy makes honest men turn Moors,

Thou then wilt answer with unbiass’d mind

What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus

The sick and feverish conscience of my child,

From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess

Her innocent spirit. Children we are all

Of one great Father, in whatever clime

Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life,

All tongues, all colours: neither after death

Shall we be sorted into languages

And tints, ... white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,

Northmen and offspring of hot Africa;

The All-Father, He in whom we live and move,

He the indifferent Judge of all, regards

Nations, and hues, and dialects alike;

According to their works shall they be judged,

When even-handed Justice in the scale

Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween,

Agree in this, and hold it orthodox.

Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused,

As if he waited for acknowledgement

Of that plain truth, in motion of assent

Inclined his brow complacently, and said,

Even so: What follows?... This; resumed the Count,

That creeds like colours being but accident,

Are therefore in the scale imponderable; ...

Thou seest my meaning; ... that from every faith

As every clime, there is a way to Heaven,

And thou and I may meet in Paradise.

Oh grant it, God! cried Roderick fervently,

And smote his breast. Oh grant it, gracious God!

Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he

And I may meet before the Mercy-throne!

That were a triumph of Redeeming Love,

For which admiring Angels would renew

Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven!

Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou moved

To this strange passion? I require of thee

Thy judgement, not thy prayers!

Be not displeased!

In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies;

A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow,

By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven,

So that the heart in its sincerity

Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself,

Am all untrain’d to subtleties of speech,

Nor competent of this great argument

Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee

Wide of the words, but to the purport home.

There are to whom the light of gospel truth

Hath never reach’d; of such I needs must deem

As of the sons of men who had their day

Before the light was given. But, Count, for those

Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn

Wilful in error, ... I dare only say,

God doth not leave the unhappy soul without

An inward monitor, and till the grave

Open, the gate of mercy is not closed.

Priest-like! the renegade replied, and shook

His head in scorn. What is not in the craft

Is error, and for error there shall be

No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name

The Merciful!

Now God forbid, rejoin’d

The fallen King, that one who stands in need

Of mercy for his sins should argue thus

Of error! Thou hast said that thou and I,

Thou dying in name a Musselman, and I

A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven.

Time was when in our fathers’ ways we walk’d

Regardlessly alike; faith being to each, ...

For so far thou hast reason’d rightly, ... like

Our country’s fashion and our mother-tongue,

Of mere inheritance, ... no thing of choice

In judgement fix’d, nor rooted in the heart.

Me have the arrows of calamity

Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight

Of sorrow, yet more heavily oppress’d

Beneath the burthen of my sins, I turn’d

In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross

Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found

Relief and comfort; there I have my hope,

My strength and my salvation; there, the grave

Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view

I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, ...

Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer,

Julian, ... God pardon the unhappy hand

That wounded thee!... but whither didst thou go

For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him,

Who saith, Forgive as ye would be forgiven

And that the Moorish sword might do thy work,

Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit

For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons

Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child

More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself,

Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps

The cup was sweet: but it hath left behind

A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul

Forget the past; as little canst thou bear

To send into futurity thy thoughts:

And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear....

However bravely thou may’st bear thy front, ...

Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy?

One only hope, one only remedy,

One only refuge yet remains.... My life

Is at thy mercy, Count! Call, if thou wilt,

Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me!

Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand

A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause,

A boon indeed! My latest words on earth

Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced,

Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven!

Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul

To intercede for thine, that we may meet,

Thou and thy child and I, beyond the grave.

Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if

He offer’d to the sword his willing breast,

With looks of passionate persuasion fix’d

Upon the Count, who in his first access

Of anger, seem’d as though he would have call’d

His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude

Disarm’d him, and that fervent zeal sincere,

And more than both, the look and voice, which like

A mystery troubled him. Florinda too

Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried,

O father, wrong him not! he speaks from God!

Life and salvation are upon his tongue!

Judge thou the value of that faith whereby,

Reflecting on the past, I murmur not,

And to the end of all look on with joy

Of hope assured!

Peace, innocent! replied

The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm.

Then with a gather’d brow of mournfulness

Rather than wrath, regarding Roderick, said,

Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced:

Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed

For Roderick’s crime?... For Roderick and for thee,

Count Julian, said the Goth, and as he spake

Trembled through every fibre of his frame,

The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw

His wrathful hand aloft, and cried, Away!

Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven

Contain my deadliest enemy and me!

My father, say not thus! Florinda cried;

I have forgiven him! I have pray’d for him!

For him, for thee, and for myself I pour

One constant prayer to Heaven! In passion then

She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face

Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim’d,

Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief

Which festers there that hath bewilder’d him!

Save him, Redeemer! by thy precious death

Save, save him, O my God! Then on her face

She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued

In silent throes her agonizing prayer.

Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count

Exclaim’d; O dearest, be thou comforted;

Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more!

Peace dearest, peace!... and weeping as he spake,

He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt;

Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith

That God will hear thy prayers! they must be heard.

He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine

May doubt of all things! Sainted as thou art

In sufferings here, this miracle will be

Thy work and thy reward!

Then raising her,

They seated her upon the fountain’s brink,

And there beside her sate. The moon had risen,

And that fair spring lay blackened half in shade,

Half like a burnish’d mirror in her light.

By that reflected light Count Julian saw

That Roderick’s face was bathed with tears, and pale

As monumental marble. Friend, said he,

Whether thy faith be fabulous, or sent

Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man,

Thy heart is true: and had the mitred Priest

Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held

The place he fill’d; ... but this is idle talk, ...

Things are as they will be; and we, poor slaves,

Fret in the harness as we may, must drag

The Car of Destiny where’er she drives,

Inexorable and blind!

Oh wretched man!

Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage

Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug,

Hell’s subtlest venom; look to thine own heart,

Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie

This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet

Through penitence to Heaven!

Whate’er it be

That governs us, in mournful tone the Count

Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah’s will,

Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same,

A world of evil and of misery!

Look where we will we meet it; wheresoe’er

We go we bear it with us. Here we sit

Upon the margin of this peaceful spring,

And oh! what volumes of calamity

Would be unfolded here, if either heart

Laid open its sad records! Tell me not

Of goodness! Either in some freak of power

This frame of things was fashion’d, then cast off

To take its own wild course, the sport of chance;

Or the bad Spirit o’er the Good prevails,

And in the eternal conflict hath arisen

Lord of the ascendant!

Rightly would’st thou say

Were there no world but this! the Goth replied.

The happiest child of earth that e’er was mark’d

To be the minion of prosperity,

Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind,

Honour and fame attending him abroad,

Peace and all dear domestic joys at home,

And sunshine till the evening of his days

Closed in without a cloud, ... even such a man

Would from the gloom and horror of his heart

Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all,

Oh! who could bear the haunting mystery,

If death and retribution did not solve

The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony

Reduce the seeming chaos!... Here we see

The water at its well-head; clear it is,

Not more transpicuous the invisible air;

Pure as an infant’s thoughts; and here to life

And good directed all its uses serve.

The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers

Bend o’er the stream that feeds their freshened roots;

The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts;

And when the buds begin to open forth,

Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest;

The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there

Invigorated draws his copious draught;

And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands,

Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt.

Through woodlands wild and solitary fields

Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course;

But when it reaches the resorts of men,

The service of the city there defiles

The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows

Through loathsome banks and o’er a bed impure,

Till in the sea, the appointed end to which

Through all its way it hastens, ’tis received,

And, losing all pollution, mingles there

In the wide world of waters. So is it

With the great stream of things, if all were seen;

Good the beginning, good the end shall be,

And transitory evil only make

The good end happier. Ages pass away,

Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds

Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone

Endures, and what she chuseth for herself,

The arbiter of her own destiny

That only shall be permanent.

But guilt,

And all our suffering? said the Count. The Goth

Replied, Repentance taketh sin away,

Death remedies the rest.... Soothed by the strain

Of such discourse, Julian was silent then,

And sate contemplating. Florinda too

Was calm’d: If sore experience may be thought

To teach the uses of adversity,

She said, alas! who better learn’d than I

In that sad school! Methinks if ye would know

How visitations of calamity

Affect the pious soul, ’tis shown ye there!

Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky

Sailing alone, doth cross in her career

The rolling Moon! I watch’d it as it came,

And deem’d the deep opake would blot her beams

But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs

In folds of wavey silver round, and clothes

The orb with richer beauties than her own,

Then passing, leaves her in her light serene.

Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate,

Beholding with fix’d eyes that lovely orb,

Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light

The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil

Of spirit, as by travail of the day

Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour.

The silver cloud diffusing slowly past,

And now into its airy elements

Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth

Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues

Her course appointed, with indifferent beams

Shining upon the silent hills around,

And the dark tents of that unholy host,

Who, all unconscious of impending fate,

Take their last slumber there. The camp is still;

The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs

The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare

At times a red and evanescent light,

Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame.

They by the fountain hear the stream below,

Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell,

Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned.

And now the nightingale, not distant far,

Began her solitary song; and pour’d

To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain

Than that with which the lyric lark salutes

The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song

Seem’d with its piercing melody to reach

The soul, and in mysterious unison

Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love.

Their hearts were open to the healing power

Of nature; and the splendour of the night,

The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay

Came to them like a copious evening dew

Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain.