CHAPTER VI.
"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned—'tis too late:
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."
BYRON.
AGAIN 'twas night; but this time deepening into morn. In a spacious chamber, furnished with all the appliances of opulent luxury, sat a man, upon whose massive brow forty winters had traced many a deep and rugged line. He seemed one who had not been slighted by fortune, for the insignia of several illustrious orders hung upon his breast. A small cabinet table, upon which were strewed gorgeously bound books and written papers of various kinds, was drawn up beside him. The materials for writing were also there; but he heeded them not, but sat with his head leaning upon his hands apparently in abstracted meditation.
He remained in this position for full an hour, not moving a single muscle, and more like a dead than a living thing. Then he arose suddenly, and paced the apartment with a vigorous and hasty step. His limbs were firm and his form athletic; it was his head only that looked old. This also lasted some time, and then he sat down once more, and, unlocking a concealed drawer, drew forth a letter and a miniature. Upon the letter he gazed long and earnestly, his look assuming an expression of mingled terror and dejection piteous to behold. Laying down the picture with a sigh, he then opened the billet and began to read, his countenance becoming each moment more careworn and haggard. And it was not strange it should be so; for it is a mournful thing to look upon the letters that once told of the throbbing affection of some friend or loved one, when the friendship is dead or merged in a deeper feeling for another, or the love is banished forever from its chosen temple. To recall the words that dropped on the page; archangels proclaiming with trumpet notes that we were the idol of one beating heart at least; to bring up again our old smile, and find it gleams, and with no Promethean power, upon affection's corse. Ah me, 'tis sad, indeed! The reader muttered to himself ever and anon, but his words were disjointed and unintelligible. He sighed, too, frequently and deeply, and even groaned aloud as he read the following passage:—
"Oh, believe me, your highness, it is fate, and not my own will, that makes me seem ungrateful! The gratitude your priceless favor has engendered in my breast is so warm, so fervid, that my life would be cheerfully given in requital; but when you ask my heart, alas! I can only say, I have it not to give. Years ago, ere I had seen your highness, or dreamed of the possibility of our ever meeting, Love had in my heart a Minerva birth, and, though the object of it lies in a bloody grave in a stranger's land, it will live in my own weary soul while it remains on earth, and accompany it when it flees to join him. You say, 'Perhaps I have not yet been fortunate enough to win your love or attract your regard but let me beseech you at least to receive and weigh the depth, the purity, the strength of my devotion against that of other men ere you decide.' Monseignor, you compel, even were I not willing to accord, my 'esteem;' my worthless 'regard,' and all the love my father and the dead do not claim, you also have; but were I to consent to your request, and become your wife, at his own altar should I send up a perjured vow to God."
Carefully, he placed both letter and picture in the drawer from whence he had taken them; but, instead of locking it, drew forth another "billet." It was much shorter, a mere note, in fact, but seemed to contain matter as pregnant with agitation as its predecessor. He paused some time over the following postscript:—
"You tell me that the grave, in closing over the object of my love, severed the tie between him and me forever—that death pronounced a divorce which gave me liberty to form another attachment. You know not woman's love to say so. It is impossible, when once ignited, to quench it entirely. It may be unseen, the ashes may be cold; but a spark certainly slumbers beneath them, and will never, never die! Oh, your highness, let me entreat you to select some worthier object than myself upon which to lavish your affections! I can never be yours!"
The man read this to the end. When he had finished, there was a smile of mockery upon his face; but a spasmodic shudder which convulsed his frame evinced the pain which it was meant to hide. How we learn to cheat ourselves by playing the hypocrite to others! The letter fell from his grasp to the floor. His head assumed its old position on his hand, and he gazed on vacancy. He remained in this posture so long that the candles one by one flickered and went out, not even perceiving, so great was his abstraction, the glare they gave just before they expired. The large gothic window immediately opposite to where he sat was open, and the air grew cooler and cooler each moment. It seemed, however, as if there were no stars in the sky—all was darkness. Suddenly, a terrific flash of lightning illumined earth and heaven, and cast a strong ruddy glare upon every object in the apartment. A tremendous peal of thunder followed, and the man started to his feet and advanced to the window. The rain was now coming down in large drops, and flash after flash of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder followed each other with astounding rapidity. The wind, which had lain motionless and dead previous to the beginning of the storm, now at one moment went rushing by with extreme violence, and the next sank into a low moan that was awful enough to blanch the cheek and palsy the heart of the stoutest. It was like the wailing voice of a God sorrowing over the sins of man, or the spirit of earth singing a dirge over vanished time.
The tenant of the chamber stood with folded arms, regardless of the fierce gusts that ever and anon dashed the heavy rain-drops in his face, and the ghastly blue tint cast upon his countenance by the lightning made him look unearthly enough to be the arbiter of the dreadful contest then raging between the shrieking storm fiends. His eye grew brighter and more glistening. There seemed a sympathy between the unchained elements in their rage and his own proud spirit. His form dilated, and he seemed to look with a strange delight upon the swaying trees bending beneath the terrific blasts of wind, and to list to the crashing thunder with a fierce joy. A magnificent oak, which had resisted every attempt of the tempest to more than shake its smaller limbs, was suddenly torn up by the very roots, and, with a rushing noise, fell to the ground. The very earth seemed to groan as it fell.
"Thus would I die," exclaimed the looker on, exultingly—"thus would I die! Amid a world's agonizing throes, when the mountains seem to bend their scathed tops, and the ocean roars its submission to the storm."
As he spoke, he advanced, heedless of the elements, through the casement, and stood upon the extreme edge of the battlemented parapet. A shrill, mocking laugh greeted his concluding words, and a voice, that seemed to his excited imagination preternaturally hollow, exclaimed—
"And die thus you shall!"
For a moment he stood perfectly paralyzed; but a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to meet the glare of two eyes that shone as if lit with fire from hell. The person from whom the glance proceeded held in a threatening position a long, keen-looking dagger, and the blade gleamed brightly in the electric light with which a sudden flash of lightning illumined the scene. The man who had a moment before looked defiantly upon the wrathy heavens shrank from the danger which now threatened him from a human foe. It was, however, but for a moment. He saw in the implacable countenance of the man who had so strangely come upon him, sufficient evidence of some dark and evil purpose to make him look for mischief. He suspected the existence of a danger that would tax his every energy. He turned upon the intruder a look of inquiry, firm and proud, and somewhat rebuking in its aspect. The next moment, however, recollecting that, in the intervals between the flashes, all was invisible, he put the question audibly, which before he had mutely expressed. A tremendous peal of thunder drowned the words in its frightful reverberations, and the lightning that followed showed him the arm of his foe raised to strike. Even as the blade touched his breast he caught his adversary's wrist and threw himself upon him. Powerful he found him beyond all expectations, and his cheek turned ghastly pale, for he felt hope deserting him.
The struggle was terrible; a look of vengeful despair sat on the beaded brow of one, and deep, dark, unmitigable hate gleamed in the strained eyeballs of the other. The assailed man chafed like a maimed lion in the hunter's toils, and his efforts bore that character of ruthless savageness which is the consequence of hopeless fear—of rayless despair. The other, in the proud consciousness of tried strength, dashed his dagger into the bosom of the clouded chaos that formed the atmosphere in which they fought, and, by the exertion of resistless bodily power, bore his victim back towards the verge of the parapet. Too pale to seem human, like the animated statues of two contending gladiators, they rocked to and fro on its extremity. A momentary strife ensued, in which the muscles of each seemed cracking with the might of their exertions. For a single instant, the assailant seemed to give way, and the heart of his victim beat with a hope that intensity made an agony; but the relaxation was but the prelude to a more violent effort. Again they were upon the verge of the battlement—they balanced upon the edge—and then sank into the darkness. A wild, sardonic laugh, and a cry of agony that seemed to freeze the very elements and hush their destructive howl into silence, went up to heaven, succeeded by a dull, heavy sound that announced the departure of two souls to judgment.
The next day the patrol discovered, beneath the postern that opened upon the castle fosse, two mangled bodies, quite dead. The one was the Prince Carlos, Regent of Spain, and the other the Count Carlo Zanotti.