Of the lady’s face nothing is seen. She holds her hands clasped over her eyes, as if to shut out the repellent visage of the Berber.
Taking in his hand, from a salver placed on the ground, one of the jewelled goblets which lay on it, and filling it with sherbet, Kerim rises to his feet.
“I drink,” he says, in a loud jarring voice, “to the success of the Goths and of Pelayo. Will you pledge me, Christian lady?”
No answer comes from the veiled figure, but the trembling of the drapery shows that she is convulsed with fear.
“Unhand the Infanta,” says Kerim to the Nubian, “and retire.”
Between them lay the scimitar, catching the light.
“Onesinda,” and Kerim seizes her passive hand, “listen! Kerim is not the senseless tyrant you deem him. But before I unfold my projects to your ear, I warn you to take heed. You are my prisoner, held by the right of war. A motion of my hand and that fair skin is dyed as crimson as the petals of the fiery pomegranate expanding in the heat of noon. As yet you have refused all speech with me. Urge me not too far, I warn you.”
“Alas!” answers Onesinda, speaking with quick breath, as she tears asunder the drapery which falls upon her face, and displays an ashy countenance belying her bold words, “I do not fear death, but infamy. Now, God be gracious to me, for the succour of man is vain.” As she spoke she drew herself back to the farthest limit of the curtained space in an attitude, not of resistance, for that was useless, but as one unwilling to provoke assault, yet if offered, resolved to repel it to the utmost of her power.
She who, were her brother dead, would be proclaimed by the small remnant of her people Queen of the Goths, was fair as became her race and of good proportions. A native loftiness in features and bearing took from her all notion of the insipidity which attaches itself to that complexion; her eyes were blue, untouched by the unnatural glitter so loved by the Moorish women, and her profuse flaxen hair fell in ringlets about her neck, on which a solid gold chain and heavy medallion rested. A kirtle over a vest, open at the throat, of blue taffetas worked in coloured silks, formed a loose robe lined with fur, and a veil of silk, falling at the back of her neck, concealed the snowy skin of her neck and bosom and served as a covering to her hair.
“You have no reason to fear me,” cries Kerim, but the base passion which looked out of his eyes gave to his words a very different interpretation.