The leader's mind; then, subtly fostering The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge He bade him warily regard the Count, Lest underneath an outward show of faith The heart uncircumcised were Christian still: Else, wherefore had Florinda not obeyed Her dear-loved sire's example, and embraced The saving truth! Else, wherefore was her hand, Plighted to him so long, so long withheld, Till she had found a fitting hour to fly With that audacious Prince, who now in arms Defied the Caliph's power;-for who could doubt That in his company she fled, perhaps The mover of his flight? What if the Count Himself had planned the evasion which he feigned In sorrow to condemn? What if she went A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers That when they met the Musselmen in the heat Of fight, her father passing to their side

The tidings which thou givest me of my child
Touch me more vitally; bad though they be,
A secret apprehension of aught worse
Makes me with joy receive them.

Then the Count

To Abulcacem turned his speech, and said,
I pray thee, Chief, give me a messenger
By whom I may to this unhappy child
Dispatch a father's bidding, such as yet
May win her back. What I would say requires
No veil of privacy: before ye all
The errand shall be given.

Boldly he spake,

Yet wary in that show of open truth,
For well he knew what dangers girt him round
Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge,
For them in madness had he sacrificed
His name, his baptism, and his native land,
To feel, still powerful as he was, that life

Fiend-like in Abulcacem's ear his schemes

Of murderous malice; and the course of things,
Ere long, in part approving his discourse,
Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight.
For scarce on the Asturian territory

Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear,
Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force
Would like a flood sweep all resistance down,
Hastened to plead his merits;-he alone,
Found faithful in obedience through reproach
And danger, when the maddened multitude
Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low
With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked
The invincible in arms. Pelayo led

The raging crew,-he doubtless the prime spring
Of all these perilous movements; and 't was said
He brought the assurance of a strong support,
Count Julian's aid, for in his company

From Cordoba, Count Julian's daughter came.
Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs,
When instantly a stern and wrathful voice
Replied, I know Pelayo never made
That senseless promise! He who raised the tale
Lies foully; but the bitterest enemy
That ever hunted for Pelayo's life

Hath never with the charge of falsehood touched
Ilis name.

The Baron had not recognised
Till then, beneath the turban's shadowing folds,
Julian's swart visage, where the fiery suns
Of Africa, through many a year's long course,
Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought
In quick excuse to say of common fame,
Lightly believed and busily diffused,
And that no enmity had moved his speech
Repeating rumour's tale. Julian replied,
Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me
Excase is needed here. The path I tread
Is one wherein there can be no return,

No pause, no looking back! A choice like mine
For time and for eternity is made,
Once and for ever! and as easily

The breath of vain report might build again

The throne which my just vengeance overthrew,"
As in the Caliph and his captain's mind
Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth.

Approved him now, where love, too long restrained,
Resumed its healing influence, leading him
Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said,
Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between
Me and Prince Orpas!-Known it is to all,
Too well, what mortal injury provoked
My spirit to that vengeance which your aid
So signally hath given. A covenant
We made when first our purpose we combined,
That he should have Florinda for his wife,
My only child, so should she be, I thought,
Revenged and honoured best. My word was given
Truly, nor did I cease to use all means
Of counsel or command, entreating her
Sometimes with tears, and oft with menaces
Of direst anger and a father's curse,
To lead her to obey. The Christian law,
She said, forbade, and she had vowed herself
A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove
To win her to the Prophet's saving faith,
Using, perhaps, a rigour to that end
Beyond permitted means, and to my heart,
Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood,
Abhorrent. Silently she suffered all,

Or when I urged her with most vehemence,
Only replied, I knew her fixed resolve,
And craved my patience but a little while
Till death should set her free. Touched as I was,
I yet persisted, till at length to escape
The ceaseless importunity, she fled;
And verily I feared until this hour,
My rigour to some fearfuller resolve

Than flight had driven my child. Chiefs, I appeal
To each and all, and, Orpas, to thyself
Especially, if, having thus essayed

All means that law and nature have allowed
To bend her will, I may not rightfully
Hold myself free, that promise being void
Which cannot be fulfilled.

Leading the way; and yet I will not doubt
Thou didst enforce with all sincerity
And holy zeal upon thy daughter's mind
The truths of Islam.

Julian knit his brow,
And scowling on the insidious renegade,
He answered, By what reasoning my poor mind
Was from the old idolatry reclaimed,
None better knows than Seville's mitred chief,
Who first renouncing errors which he taught,
Led me his follower to the Prophet's pale.
Thy lessons I repeated as I could,
Of graven images, unnatural vows,

False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests,
Who making sanctity the cloak of sin,
Laughed at the fools on whose credulity

They fattened. To these arguments, whose worth
Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach,
I added, like a soldier bred in arms,
And to the subtleties of schools unused,
The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory,
Where'er they turned, attested and approved
The chosen Prophet's arms. If thou wert still
The mitred metropolitan, and I

Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race,
Thy proper business then might be to pry,
And question me for lurking flaws of faith,
We Musselmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath
A wiser law, which with the iniquities
Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this
Its foulest practice!

As Count Julian ceased,
From underneath his black and gathered brow
There went a look, which with these wary words
Bore to the heart of that false renegade
Their whole envenomed meaning. Haughtily
Withdrawing then his altered eyes, he said,
Too much of this! return we to the sum
Of
my discourse. Let Abulcacem say,

In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith
Having essayed in vain all means to win
My child's consent, I may not hold henceforth
The covenant discharged.

The Moor replied,
Well hast thou said, and rightly mayst assure
Thy daughter that the Prophet's holy law
Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now;
The messenger is here.

Then Julian said, Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat Admittance to my child, where'er she be. Say to her, that her father solemnly Aunuls the covenant with Orpas pledged, Nor with solicitations, nor with threats, Will urge her more, nor from that liberty Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet's law, Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all Indulges. Tell her that her father says His days are numbered, and beseeches her By that dear love, which from her infancy Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew, Nursed in our weal and strengthened in our woe, She will not in the evening of his life Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries

Brought on her father's head; let not her act

With faultering voice
He spake, and after he had ceased from speech
His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief
Then to the messenger his bidding gave.
Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels,
Thus Abulcacem in the Caliph's name
Exhorteth them: Repent and be forgiven!
Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war,
Which conquering and to conquer must fulfil
Its destined circle, rolling eastward now
Back from the subjugated west, to sweep
Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond
Of unity all nations join, and Earth
Acknowledge, as she sees one sun in heaven,
One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law.
Jerusalem, the holy City, bows

To holier Mecca's creed; the crescent shines
Triumphant o'er the eternal pyramids :

On the cold altars of the worshippers

Of fire moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime;
The African idolatries are fallen,

And Europe's senseless gods of stone and wood
Have had their day. Tell these misguided men,
A moment for repentance yet is left,
And mercy the submitted neck will spare
Before the sword is drawn; but once unsheathed,
Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword
Accomplishes its work! They little know
The Moors who hope in battle to withstand
Their valour, or in flight escape their rage!
Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds

Of heaven,-wings do not save them 156 Nor shall rocks,
And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save

These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord's?
And we, his chosen people, whom he sends
To conquer and possess it in his name?

XXI.

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST.

THE second eve had closed upon their march
Within the Asturian border, and the Moors
Hlad pitched their tents amid an open wood
Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim,
Their scattered fires shone with distincter light
Among the trees, above whose top the smoke
Diffused itself, and stained 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 kuoll proclaimed 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.

Au 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
Embossed the bank, and on their tufted bark
Grew plants which love the moisture and the shade--
Short ferus, and longer leaves of wrinkled green
Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind
Made itself felt, just touched with gentle dip
The glassy surface, ruffled ne'er but then,
Save when a bubble rising from the depth
Burst, and with faintest circles marked its place,
Or if an insect skimmed it with its wing,
Or when in heavier drops the gathered rain

Fell from the oak's high bower. The mountain roe,
When, having drunk 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 crowned, reflected there.

Beside that spring
Count Julian's tent was pitched upon the green;
There his ablutions Moor-like he had made,
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,
Kissed 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 destinics, 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 locked her hands
Around his neck, and gazing in his face
Through streaming tears, exclaimed, 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 restrained 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 gathered as he rose,
Darkened. O frown not thus! Florinda cried,
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 vowed 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 relaxed.
A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand
Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale!
In what old heresy hath he been trained?
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 proclaimed,
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, rejoined
The renegade, and freely mayst thou speak
To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke
Of Mecca easy, and its burthen light?-
Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied,
And groaning, turned 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 't was in quest of such a man as this
That the old Grecian searched by lanthorn light
In open day the city's crowded streets,
So rare he deemed 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, 't is 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 turned her eyes, beholding him through tears. The look, the gesture, and that silent woe, Softened 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 wilt bind it up,If, as I think, thou art not one of those Whose villany makes honest men turn Moors, Thou then wilt answer with unbiassed 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

In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies;
A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow,
By thy 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 untrained 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
Hlath never reached; 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, rejoined

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 walked
Regardlessly alike; faith being to each,-
For so far thou hast reasoned rightly,-like

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 acknowledgment
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 halleluiahs through the choir of Heaven!

Man! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou moved To this strange passion? I require of thee

Of mere inheritance,-no thing of choice
In judgment fixed, nor rooted in the heart.
Me have the arrows of calamity
Sore stricken; sinking underneath the weight
Of sorrow, yet more heavily opprest

Beneath the burthen of my sins, I turned
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 turned 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 sacked, her sons
Slaughtered, her daughters than thine own dear child
More foully wronged, 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 mayst 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 offered to the sword his willing breast,
With looks of passionate persuasion fixed
Upon the Count: who in his first access

Of anger, seemed as though he would have called
His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude
Disarmed 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 gathered 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 prayed 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 exclaimed,
Redeemer, heal his heart! It is the grief
Which festers there that hath bewildered 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
Exclaimed; 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 burnished 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 filled ;—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 seekëst 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 fashioned, 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 wouldst thou say Were there no world but this! the Goth replied. The happiest child of earth that e'er was marked 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 freshen'd roots;
The red-breast loves it for its wintry haunts;
And when the buds begin to open forth,
Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest;