On her brow should have rested the pointed diadem worn by the Gothic queens; not on a Moorish stranger who could never learn the customs of the land. Ever hoping to attain the object of her desires she wilfully worked on the evil passions of her lord, before the calamity which befell Florinda came as a cause and a reason for treason.
No figure of that romantic period stands out in stronger relief than that of Frandina, who moves and speaks before us in her habit as she lived in spite of the long track of centuries.
Without news from Spain, knowing nothing of what has happened at Cordoba to her brother Opas or to her lord, she eats out her heart in ceaseless watching for some white-sailed felucca or swift-rowed trireme to bring her tidings. All day she has trod the battlements looking north-ward, and strained her eyes in vain. Now she sits in her chamber. An iron lamp casts a weird light on the tapestries which line the walls, the wind moans without about the turrets, and the dashing waves roll deep below.
Is it the hollow moan of the far-off tempest, or the screech of an owl which makes her start from her seat and eagerly listen?
There is no fall of feet upon the winding stairs, but a well-known voice comes to her so plainly that she rushes to the door. Ere she can reach it, her brother Opas stands before her, habited as she last saw him in the flowing vestments of an archbishop; not in aspect as he appeared in life, but as a wan and shadowy spectre unfolding itself to her sight in the darkness around. Before she can speak he waves her off. He is ghastly pale, and drops of blood seem to fall from his head. With one hand he points to the opposite wall where burns like orbs of fire the word, Beware!
“Touch me not, sister,” a hollow voice utters; “I am come from the grave to warn you. Guard well your son. The enemies of our house are near.” Thus speaking all disappears. His coming and going are alike mysterious. Brave as she is, a horror she never knew before comes over Frandina.
Next morning, in the fair sunlight, a swiftly rowing galley brings the news of Opas’s death and Julian’s flight. Not a moment is to be lost! There in the offing she descries the Moorish fleet, bearing the Emir from Cordoba. The wind blows fair for Africa—before noon he will be off the shore. Fifty Moors, who form part of the garrison, are put to death with incredible cruelty for fear of treachery; the city gates are closed.
Alabor, whose fury knows no bounds, for he has calculated on arriving before the news has reached Frandina, orders the castle to be assaulted on every side. The walls are carried. Frandina, shut up in the citadel with a forlorn hope, has no thought but for the safety of her son. How conceal him? A mother’s wit is keen. Among the living he is not safe, but surely they will not seek him with the dead. Passing down long flights of narrow steps she carries him below into a dark, damp chapel. Scarcely a ray of light penetrates the gloom.
“Are you afraid of the darkness, my boy?” she asks, kissing his warm cheek.
“No, mother. I shall fancy that it is night, and try to sleep.”