It was near daybreak ere he sought his couch and slept; but not for long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible; but there were sounds on the still air little in accordance with the lingering night. A dull, heavy, monotonous roar, as of a continued cannonade close at hand, was accompanied by sharp, vivid flashes of light playing athwart the casement; then followed the roll of many drums,—the shout “to arms,” “the foe! the foe!”—the clash of the alarum bell—the heavy trampling of a hundred feet—the shrill shrieks of woman’s terror, and other sounds of tumult and war. Vincenzio listened a moment as one still dreaming: but then La Palice’s warning flashing on his mind, he sprang to his feet and glanced beneath him. Far, far as his eye could reach, trampling down that fair scene of fertility and peace, there came band after band of armed men, rolling onward in such dense masses, that he felt at a glance resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, Gonzalvo de Cordova himself was upon them; and that name in its mighty eloquence was paralysing terror! A very brief interval sufficed to banish every thought from Luigi’s mind but fears for La Palice, by whose side he speedily was. The noise waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of disturbance, or even anxiety, on the governor’s open brow, as he gaily marshalled his little band of three hundred lances, to throw themselves into the first breach which Gonzalvo’s unceasing cannonade was rapidly making in the walls.
“Ha! welcome, comrade mine!” he cried, grasping Vincenzio’s hand. “Mark La Palice as a true prophet, and Nemours the most egregious blockhead that ever wrote himself a man. Ha! all compact there; ready! that’s well—to the right, forward!” and on they rushed through the town. Already every wall was manned, and showers of arrows and stones galled the Spaniards at every turn, but had no power on the immense mass at work against the ramparts. Already the walls were tottering, falling, borne down by the heavy cannonade. On the opposite side the walls had been scaled, and Spanish and French fought hand to hand on the summit. A yell of triumph soon after proclaimed the formation of an immense breach, into which Gonzalvo himself and his choicest troops poured like a mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it came, as if utterly to overwhelm the compact little phalanx which La Palice threw forward to oppose him. A very brief struggle sufficed to show how fruitless was every effort of the French; the immense odds speedily forced the breach; but still, hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender or defeat; struggling only to preserve their honour in their death, man after man fell, without yielding an inch, around his leader. Presently wilder and more deafening sounds arose; mingling indiscriminately the roar of artillery, the clang of steel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the shrill shrieks of women, so that not one could be distinguished from another. The town was forced, and every street, for a brief interval, became the scene of combat. Another hour, and the strife was at an end. La Palice, who had striven as if his individual efforts could avert defeat, had been overwhelmed with numbers, and brought to the ground with the crushing blow of a battle-axe; yet even then, with his own gay laugh, he flung his sword over the heads of his captors, that none should claim him as an individual prize. Vincenzio shared his fate, the capture of his friend removing from him all inclination to prolong the fruitless combat, and yet more exasperate the Spaniards against his ill-fated countrymen.
The close of that day beheld Ruvo deserted; the heavy banner of Spain waving above the ruined ramparts alone marked what had been; for the riches of Ruvo,—gold, treasure, horses and arms, the French prisoners, almost all of whom were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan citizens, were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta, the head-quarters of the great captain and his troops.
II.
Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished apartments of Barletta, bearing little trace either of the eager warrior or sagacious general; all other emotions merged in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned uppermost—love for the lovely, the transcendent being, who, in woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, splendid orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, fixed on his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his daughter Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero’s love that even in his foreign wars she was never known to be parted from his side.
“Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in answer to his entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom he had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to attend them. “La Palice is in truth a champion to gain guerdon of woman’s care.”
“But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one; thine must not pass to the wardence of our foes.”
“Nor shall it, father; it is thine, all thine!” and the rich burning flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was deemed by her father but the glow of sunset which played around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought it. “Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no selfish pangs shall bid me keep thee by my side; yet, methinks, thou as myself art difficult to please; the noblest and the best have bowed to thee in vain—thy heart was ice to all, and selfish as I am, I have rejoiced it was so.”
Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how painfully its colour varied. He did not feel the full, quick throb of that maiden heart: if her fond father penetrated not its secret, how may we?
In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no strange one), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds, speaking words of comfort and of hope, till—veiled as she was, her rank, even her name often unknown—the sound of her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each sufferer with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as might have marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered fancies deemed her.