To live with the Saints in Heaven
Is untold bliss and glory;
But to live with the saints on earth
Is quite another story.
When I—meanly currying favour—beg her to remember that I have ever stood her friend, she replies with proud humility: “I will remember naught that I have seen, or heard, or suffered in Granada; and therein lies your safety.”
The rôle of Isabella of Castile was played by Frances Fenton, a large, fair girl, with a round face, a slow voice, and an enviable placidity of disposition; a girl habitually decorated with all the medals, ribbons, and medallions that the school could bestow for untarnished propriety of behaviour. She wore a white frock of noticeable simplicity (“so great a soul as Isabella,” said Madame Rayburn, “could never stoop to vanity”), a blue sash, and a gold crown, which was one of our most valued stage properties. Foremost among the ladies who surrounded her was Marie, otherwise the Marchioness de Moya, mother of Inez, and also—though this has still to be divulged—of the long-lost Ayesha. It is while the marchioness is clasping Inez in her maternal arms, and murmuring thanks to Heaven, and all the other Spanish ladies are clasping their hands, and murmuring thanks to Heaven, that Zara sees her opportunity to stab the unsuspecting queen. She steals cautiously forward (my throbbing heart stood still), and draws the dagger—a mother-of-pearl paper knife—from the folds of her dress. But Ayesha, rendered suspicious by conversion, is watching her closely. Suddenly she divines her purpose, and, when Zara’s arm is raised to strike, she springs forward to avert the blow. It pierces her heart, and with a gasp she falls dying at Isabella’s feet.
Every word that followed is engraven indelibly upon my memory. I have forgotten much since then, but only with death can this last scene be effaced from my recollection. It was now that Elizabeth was to make her vehement recantation, was to be converted with Shakespearian speed. It was now she was to fall upon her knees, and abjure Mohammedanism forever. She did not fall. She took a step forward, and knelt quietly and decorously by Ayesha’s side, as if for night prayers. Her volcanic language contrasted strangely with the imperturbable tranquillity of her demeanour.
Zoraiya. Oh! Zara, thou hast slain her, slain the fair flower of Granada. The darling of Hiaya’s heart is dead.
Spanish Lady. The girl speaks truth. ’Twas Zara’s arm that struck.