A great clapping of hands, and many thanks to Zora for the story, greeted its conclusion. The little Gothic maiden, who was very fond of Zora, cried at the fate of the poor princess starved to death. She is sure none of them were comelier than Zora; and in this she speaks truly. An African sun had dyed her skin to a ruddier colour, given symmetry to her limbs, and a dark fire to her eyes. As a stranger Zora is by turns laughed at and petted. And as the setting sun now catches the swarthy ebony of her long hair, and blazes on the rich brown of her cheek, the difference between her and the rest suddenly strikes a lively little playmate, who is forming a pattern on the ground from the coloured petals of roses.
“I should like to know,” says she, contemplating Zora, “which is prettier, dark Zora with the flashing eyes, or pale Florinda with the chestnut curls. In my opinion Zora is worth a whole bevy of us white-faced Goths.”
“No, no, no,” echoes from all sides, while poor Zora, put to shame, blushes under tawny skin and retreats to the farthest corner of the garden.
“I will not give the palm of beauty to Zora,” cries another voice, “but to Florinda. Where is she?” A general search is made for a long time in vain, but at last she is discovered fast asleep under a palm. Slumber has lent a lustre to her cheek, and her white bosom rises and falls under the transparent tissue of her bodice.
“Look!” cry the maidens exultingly, “can you compare Zora with Florinda?” And in their eagerness the giddy group tear asunder the sheltering draperies which cling about her.
Alas! little did they know, these joyous maidens, that the fate of the Gothic kingdom turned on the balance of their childish games, and that, mere puppets in the hands of fate, they were destined to be the instruments of destruction to their country!
In the gloom that precedes the setting of the sun, amid the dusky shadows of huge-leaved plants and myrtle hedges which broke the space into squares in every direction, Don Roderich had stolen from the Alcazar to enjoy the evening freshness and to visit the queen. Hearing from afar the bursts of girlish laughter, at the contest of beauty between dark and fair, he looked out from the latticed mirador of the pavilion, and beheld the undraped form of Florinda before she could escape from the hands of her companions.
That glance is fatal. Forgetful of the sacred pledges given to her father, forgetful of his honour as a knight and his gratitude as a king, a mighty passion rises within his breast. But Florinda gives no response; his fervid glances are met with downcast eyes, and a blush rises on her cheek as she involuntarily approaches him. This does but serve to fan his lawless love; and so great is his infatuation he cannot persuade himself that she does not return it. His whole soul is as a furnace, which consumes his life. Speak to her he must, and a wicked hope whispers it will not be in vain!
Meeting her one day, a little later, by chance in the queen’s antechamber, he called her to him, and presented to her his hand.
“Sweet one,” says he, in a voice he can scarcely command, every pulse within him beating tumultuously, “a thorn has sorely pricked me, can you draw it out?”