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.