IX.

FLORINDA.

There sate a woman like a supplicant, Muffled and cloak’d, before Pelayo’s gate, Awaiting when he should return that morn. She rose at his approach, and bow’d her head, And, with a low and trembling utterance, Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within In privacy. And when they were alone, And the doors closed, she knelt and claspt his knees, Saying, a boon! a boon! This night, O Prince, Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother’s soul: For her soul’s sake, and for the soul of him Whom once, in happier days, of all mankind Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend, Oh for the sake of his poor suffering soul, Refuse me not! How should I dare refuse, Being thus adjured? he answer’d. Thy request Is granted, woman, ... be it what it may, So it be lawful, and within the bounds Of possible atchievement: ... aught unfit Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek. But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch Upon that string, and ask in Roderick’s name!... She bared her face, and, looking up, replied, Florinda!... Shrinking then, with both her hands She hid herself, and bow’d her head abased Upon her knee, ... as one who, if the grave Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself, Even like a lover, in the arms of Death.

Pelayo stood confused: he had not seen Count Julian’s daughter since in Roderick’s court, Glittering in beauty and in innocence, A radiant vision, in her joy she moved; More like a poet’s dream, or form divine, Heaven’s prototype of perfect womanhood, So lovely was the presence, ... than a thing Of earth and perishable elements. Now had he seen her in her winding-sheet, Less painful would that spectacle have proved; For peace is with the dead, and piety Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn O’er the departed; but this alter’d face, Bearing its deadly sorrow character’d, Came to him like a ghost, which in the grave Could find no rest. He, taking her cold hand, Raised her, and would have spoken; but his tongue Fail’d in its office, and could only speak In under tones compassionate her name.

The voice of pity soothed and melted her; And when the Prince bade her be comforted, Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe’er Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile Pass’d slowly over her pale countenance, Like moonlight on a marble statue. Heaven Requite thee, Prince! she answer’d. All I ask Is but a quiet resting-place, wherein A broken heart, in prayer and humble hope, May wait for its deliverance. Even this My most unhappy fate denies me here. Griefs which are known too widely and too well I need not now remember. I could bear Privation of all Christian ordinances, The woe which kills hath saved me too, and made A temple of this ruin’d tabernacle, Wherein redeeming God doth not disdain To let his presence shine. And I could bear To see the turban on my father’s brow, ... Sorrow beyond all sorrows, ... shame of shames, ... Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood, And throes of agony, in his behalf Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven. This I have borne resign’d: but other ills And worse assail me now; the which to bear, If to avoid be possible, would draw Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest, The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride. Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes My sacred woe, and woos me to his bed, The thing I am, ... the living death thou seest!

Miscreant! exclaim’d Pelayo. Might I meet That renegado, sword to scymitar, In open field, never did man approach The altar for the sacrifice in faith More sure, than I should hew the villain down! But how should Julian favour his demand?... Julian, who hath so passionately loved His child, so dreadfully revenged her wrongs!

Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me, And it hath, therefore, been his heart’s desire To see his ancient line by me preserved. This was their covenant when in fatal hour For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond Of union they combined. My father, stung To madness, only thought of how to make His vengeance sure; the Prelate, calm and cool, When he renounced his outward faith in Christ, Indulged at once his hatred of the King, His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope, Versed as he was in treasons, to direct The invaders by his secret policy, And at their head, aided by Julian’s power, Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which The priestly order else had barr’d his way. The African hath conquer’d for himself; But Orpas coveteth Count Julian’s lands, And claims to have the covenant perform’d. Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come To thee for succour. Send me secretly, ... For well I know all faithful hearts must be At thy devotion, ... with a trusty guide To guard me on the way, that I may reach Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free, And there discharge a vow, alas! too long, Too fatally delay’d. Aid me in this For Roderick’s sake, Pelayo! and thy name Shall be remember’d in my latest prayer.

Be comforted! the Prince replied; but when He spake of comfort, twice did he break off The idle words, feeling that earth had none For grief so irremediable as hers. At length he took her hand, and pressing it, And forcing through involuntary tears A mournful smile affectionate, he said, Say not that thou art friendless while I live! Thou couldst not to a readier ear have told Thy sorrows, nor have ask’d in fitter hour What for my country’s honour, for my rank, My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound In duty to perform; which not to do Would show me undeserving of the names Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This day Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me, And soon as evening closes meet me here. Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold Thy coming for a happy augury, In this most aweful crisis of my fate.