“By the footstool of Allah! that shall not be!” exclaimed Ibrahim. “The machinations of the Count of Arestino threw into the inquisition dungeons those two ladies whom ye delivered up to me last night; and it was my intention, when I spoke of releasing certain prisoners ere now, to stipulate for the freedom of all those whom the vengeance of that count has immured in your accursed prison-house. See then, my lords, that all those of whom I speak be forthwith brought hither into our presence!”
It may be proper to inform the reader that Flora had solicited her brother to save the Marquis of Orsini and the Countess Giulia, to whom the young wife of Francisco had been indebted for her escape from the Carmelite Convent; for, as the secrets of the torture chamber were never suffered to transpire, she was of course ignorant of the death of the guilty Giulia, and of the assassination of the Count of Arestino by the Marquis of Orsini.
At the command of Ibrahim Pasha, who spoke in a firm and resolute manner, the duke summoned a sentinel from the corridor adjoining the council chamber, and issued the necessary orders to fulfill the desire of the grand vizier. Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed during which one of the councilors drew up the guaranty of peace and of the commercial privileges demanded by Ibrahim. At length the door opened, and several familiars made their appearance, leading in Manuel d’Orsini and Isaachar ben Solomon, both heavily chained. The former walked with head erect, and proud bearing; the latter could scarcely drag his wasted, racked, and tottering limbs along, and was compelled to hang upon the arms of the familiars for support. Nevertheless, there was something so meek—so patient and so resigned in the expression of the old and persecuted Israelite’s countenance, that Ibrahim Pasha’s soul was touched with a sentiment of pity in his behalf.
“But these are not all the prisoners,” exclaimed the grand vizier, turning angrily toward the duke; “where is the Countess Giulia of Arestino?”
“My lord, she is no more,” answered the prince.
“And Heaven be thanked that she is indeed no more!” cried Manuel d’Orsini, in a tone of mingled rage and bitterness. “Fortunate is it for her that death has snatched her away from the grasp of miscreants in human shape and who call themselves Christians. My lord,” he continued, turning toward Ibrahim, “I know not who you are; but I perceive by your garb that you are a Moslem, and I presume that your rank is high by the title addressed to you by the duke——”
“Presume not thus to intrude your observations on his highness the grand vizier!” exclaimed one of the councilors in a severe tone.
“On the contrary,” said Ibrahim Pasha, “let him speak, and without reserve. My Lord of Orsini, fear not—I will protect you.”
“The remark I was about to make, illustrious vizier,” cried Manuel, “is brief, though it may prove not palatable to the patrons of the inquisition and the supporters of that awful engine of despotism and cruelty,” he added, glancing fiercely at the duke and the assembled councilors. “I was anxious to observe that the Christian Church has founded and maintained that abhorrent institution; and that there is more true mercy—more genuine sympathy—and more of the holy spirit of forgiveness in the breast of this reviled, despised and persecuted Jew, than in the bosoms of all the miserable hypocrites who have dared to sanction the infernal tortures which have been inflicted upon him. For myself, I would not accept mercy at their hands; and I would rather go in the companionship of this Jew to the funeral pile, than remain alive to dwell amongst a race of incarnate fiends, calling themselves Christians!”
“This insolence is not to be borne,” exclaimed the duke, starting from his seat, his countenance glowing with indignation.