“Peace! there is more; he must be naturalized in Spain, WED one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that LOVES him; let him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that can make life glad. Ha! dost thou fail! bid him do this, and he shall live.”
“Yes, even this!” was the reply, after one single moment’s pause; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling frame, alone betrayed that young heart’s agony. “Let Luigi Vincenzio be free, be happy—for if she whom he must wed in truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be blessed—if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone? I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his fellows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh! so happy! Lady, I will do this.”
“Death! who spoke of death for thee? bid Luigi thus accept his life, and thine is secured, is free.”
“Free! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could exist apart from him—peace, peace—let me but save him, let him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry? I will do this, take me but to him.”
“Thou wilt SWEAR!” That low terrible whisper was a more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mournful, yet heroic suffering before her; one only feeling prompted Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil and the good; one whelming passion straggling for dominion over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before.
“Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him? aye, without one moment’s pause! Oh! lady, thou knowest not love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be witness of my truth; but oh! keep me no longer from him; let me save his life!”
Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the princess to follow her.
IV.
The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to a low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel of Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry. An iron grating, however running in the centre from roof to floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded unusual care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio; although the evening following the interview above described about ten soldiers were then assembled, occupying the farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in a circle, enjoying their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer and their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military cloak, and cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood leaning against the stone pillar to which the grating was affixed by thick iron rings, parted only by that open railing from the prisoner, and consequently enabled not alone to hear all that passed between him and the lovely being whom he was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every change in the countenance of each.
What had already passed between those loving ones it is needless to record; nor the deep suffocating emotion which had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards were present; that she was not permitted to see him alone, save to smile at Gonzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him means to escape? He felt nothing but her presence, drinking in for the first few moments the sweet faint accents of her beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery could touch him more. But soon, oh! how much too soon, the sweet dream fled, and but one truth remained—that he was doomed to death, to close his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever! A shudder had convulsed his frame, a deep groan had been wrung from him by that thought, and Constance had heard and guessed its import. She knew not at first what she said, but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct upon her mind; all else was confused and painful, as if a dark cloud had folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but the letters of fire in which that one stern necessity was written.