“Whom saidst thou, girl? Whom wouldst thou save?—speak, I command thee!” exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly endeavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt within their depths. “As thou hopest for mercy, speak!”
“Save! whom but my own, my plighted lord! Is there one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi—Luigi Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth? Oh, save—”
“Love! thou DAREST not tell me that he loves thee!—false—false—he does not love thee!” She sprang up, cheek, lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it chained.
“Thee! one like thee, poor foolish child! art thou one to bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely! Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee!—does he so love thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling, but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed on Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as if the deep emotion of another had stilled her into composure.
“Love me! yes, as none but Luigi can love; daughter of a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy of such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all to him, as he is all to me—love me! Oh! did they bid me die, or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio’s love!”
“And thou wouldst save him?”
“Aye, with my life—with all that they may deem precious, Constance of Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, Ferdinand would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Frederic’s unhappy offspring placed within his power; I am here; bid Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my brother. Ha! lady, noble lady, forgive the word; ’tis not for the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the judge. Grief makes the speech unwary—heed it not, heed it not; take my life, my liberty for his!”
“Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both! Gonzalvo wars not with women!” The princess threw herself at her feet, with a wild cry of gratitude: the strangeness of that voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew not, she only dreamed of hope.
“Aye, but I have not said how, girl; pardon, life, liberty, all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to Spain.”
“And he hath refused,” she interrupted; “oh! give me entrance to him—I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet till he hath done this; he will submit for me, he will hear me, live for Constance—let me but plead.”