“And I have seen all?—thou art sure none other needs my tending?” she asked of an attendant. “Methinks those rooms we have not visited.”
“There are no prisoners of moment there, lady; but one room tenanted;—a poor Italian—Neapolitan, I should say—who, as he may bring little honour and less ransom to our leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious care; he will do well enough.”
“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he crouched beneath her flashing scorn. “Poor—friendless; the more he needs his captor’s care: lead on!”
She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man was reclining on a rude couch—his limbs stretched out, his head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandonment of complete repose; his long jetty hair had fallen as partly to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness, gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he had drawn around him. The opening of the door had not aroused him, and a moment the intruders paused; there was a start, a quick and choking breath, as if respiration had been suddenly impeded; and the Lady Elvira stood beside the slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why did she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless?—feared she to break those peaceful slumbers?—if so, her caution was in vain: the young man started, looked wildly round, then heavily and painfully arose, as if conscious he was in the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to give them homage.
“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, and must refuse all homage but obedience,” the lady said, calmly. “We must condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy knee.”
“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of one whose faintest smile was chivalry’s best fame—aye, e’en to Naples’ sons.”
“And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of Gonzalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no longer calls him friend? Nay, we have refused thine homage, as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for a brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort; Gonzalvo wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.”
Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier days had excited his young imagination in no ordinary degree; and the calm unimpassioned posture in which he stood till she departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than reverence and admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks; but long before that period, Luigi Vincenzio was not only convalescent, but permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta and its environs; unguarded, even by his parole. Whence came this extraordinary indulgence none knew; but all supposed, that as the great captain had repeatedly declared he warred not with the Neapolitans—not at least with those who chose to accept his friendship—and own the supremacy of his sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella—the young nobleman had accepted these conditions, and had been thus received into favour. Again, as had been the case before the capture of Ruvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the dull routine of military duty. Nemours, overcome with shame, at the consequences of his own folly, had retired to Canosa; and as Gonzalvo had not received the expected reinforcements, enabling him to change his mode of attack to the offensive, his officers, and many of the Neapolitans friendly to his interests, entered with spirit into all their general’s plans for military recreation, while the Lady Elvira resumed her station, as queen of the revels, crowning the victor with her own fair hand. Her influence had led Vincenzio there; she rallied him on his deep gloom, playfully demanding why he alone should scorn the prize she gave; he had professed such deep gratitude for the tender care she had so silently lavished on his sufferings, soothing him by the charm of her voice to health, more powerfully than the leech’s art, and yet he refused such trifling boon. And he obeyed; he joined the combatants, received bright wreaths of glory from her hand, and lingered by her side, but the smile she sought was not upon his lips; her step, her voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek, or light his eye with joy; but his to her!—the echo of his footstep, the faintest whisper of his voice, as the smouldering fire in the bosom of the volcano, seeming so still, so silent, till, roused to whelming might, they lay upon her heart.
Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had gathered on the brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy strides he paced his private cabinet about a month after Ruvo’s capture. He chafed not at fair and open fight, nay, gloried in the heat, the toil, the press of war; but conspiracy, treachery, or that which in the present excited state of his mind he deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had been discovered—ill formed, ill digested, but if correct in its details, in the names of its principals, involving many of those whom Gonzalvo had treated and trusted as friends—amid the Neapolitans to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards, to be free, and preserve their liberty at the sword’s point, till seconded by other cities, and encouraged by Nemours’ inactivity, Frederic himself might be recalled; this seemed their object, pledged to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo’s name was found upon their lists of victims, but all was dark and little tangible. Still warrants had been issued; those supposed the principal conspirators arrested and secured; and the great captain now chafed and fumed, unwilling to believe the whole tale true, from the heavy judgment it demanded, yet feeling to the full the tremendous responsibility devolved upon himself.
“My father! God in heaven! the tale is not false, then—yet—yet, they have dared to connect the innocent! Luigi—Vincenzio—he is not, he cannot be, of these! speak—speak, in mercy!” and the proud, the majestic daughter of Spain, whom it hath seemed no human power, no human emotion could bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping the robe of her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life depended on his answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who had been unconscious that for several minutes she had been in his presence reading his brow, ere she found words, vainly sought to raise and soothe her; she reiterated but those words, her tone becoming wilder and shriller in its agony, as the reply was evidently evaded.