Loud, too, in assent was heard the voice of Pelistes, moved to something like feeling, as the image of his friend, the noble Theodofredo, rose to his mind, condemned to a slow death within the very castle in which they stand. For the shifting of the Gothic Court to Cordoba, for the trial of Witica on the very spot where Theodofredo suffered was indeed a master-stroke on the part of Roderich to heighten to the utmost pitch of intensity not only the acuteness of his own vengeance, but the sanguinary passions of the Goths.
While each noble gives assent, the young Pelayo grows very pale. Was not Favila, his father, lord of the wide district of Cantabria, on the iron-bound coast, besides the range of the Asturian mountains, a Northern king in all but the name? Was not Favila also cruelly put to death. And had not Witica sought to lay his murderous hands on him also? Yet no man heeded. The death of Favila passed unnoticed, and Roderich, at best but a usurper, and Roderich’s wrongs are alone in every mouth! Too young to remonstrate with these elder chiefs, the heart of Pelayo chafes in silent indignation, and he swears to himself that if he lives, the day shall come when ancient Iberia shall ring with the forgotten name of his sire!
“And you, most venerable archbishop,” continues Roderich, turning to address himself to Opas, who, as if some claim of kindred had sounded at his heart, had further withdrawn himself when Witica appeared, and stood so placed as to conceal the view of the pathetic spectacle before him—“you who, by your presence here this day, give us so signal a proof of your loyalty, what seems to you just in this matter, so closely touching yourself? We would willingly carry the Church with us. Speak your mind freely, nor let our royal presence in aught prejudice the prisoner.”
“My lord,” answers Opas, in a voice which, spite of his efforts to steady it, still sounds scarcely in its natural tone, “my vote lies with my kinsman, Julian. In a matter so nearly concerning myself as a brother’s life and death, it fitteth best for me to be silent.”
Something in the familiar tones of his voice, some subtle affinity of blood betwixt brother and brother, struck the dull sense of Witica. As Opas spoke he raised his head, and, as he seemed to listen, a sickly smile played for a moment about his sunken lips, and a more human expression passed into his eyes. Listening, listening eagerly, as if expecting some help, a wistful gleam of hope striking across the depths of blank despair, his glance swept upwards with a pleading impotency terrible to behold, the vibration as it were of some subtle instrument set mysteriously in motion. Watching for what was to come, with open mouth and anxious eyes, thus he remained some time, then gradually the tension ceased, the heavy eye clouded, the jaw dropped, and the head, with its shaggy, unkempt locks, freely mixed with grey, once more sank hopelessly on his breast. All this occupied but the space of a few minutes.
Don Roderich spoke once more. “Witica,” says he, lowering his eyes to the level of the prostrate king, “you have heard the judgment of your kinsmen and those who were your former subjects. What have you to answer?”
An inarticulate sound breaks the silence. Witica makes a feeble effort to raise himself in the arms of the slaves, who have never withdrawn their hold, opens his mouth to answer, and then falls back speechless.
The Goths were ever a people cruel and savage in their laws, but so terrible a spectacle as that one, lately monarch in the land, should have fallen into such a strait might have touched even the heart of an enemy, how much more kinsmen so nearly allied to him? But it was not so, neither did any generous impulse move the king from his cruel purpose. With the kindling eye of vengeance Roderich contemplates what was left of that Witica whose kingdom he had seized, and proceeds to give sentence in clear, ringing tones, audible in every corner of the hall.
“Let the evil Witica has wrought on others be visited on himself. The eyes of my father Theodofredo were put out by his order, even so be it done with him. In the same dungeon here at Cordoba, where my father died, shall his life end. Away with the prisoner.”
The sounds of approval which follow these words, especially from the group of young courtiers, serve in some sort to drown the piercing shrieks which break from Witica when his dulled senses grasp the full meaning of the sentence. Quick as thought he is borne away, and the spot where he has lain is rapidly covered by the feet of the crowd of chiefs and princes who gather in groups in front of the throne.