And where our father’s ashes be,
Our own may never lie.”—Byron.
“Then thou wouldst not leave this beautiful valley even with me, Josephine?”
“Nay, thou knowest thou dost but jest, Imri; thou wouldst not give me such a painful alternative?”
“How knowest thou that, love? Perchance I may grow jealous even of thy country, an it hold so dear a place in thy gentle breast, and seek a home elsewhere—to prove if thy love of Imri be dearer than thy love of land.”
“I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri; so play the threatening tyrant as thou mayest, I’ll not believe thee, or lessen by one throb the love of my land, which shares my heart with thee. I know too well, thy heart beats true as mine; thou wouldst not take me hence.”
“Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where we have roved, and learn their father’s faith uninjured by closer commune with its foes. Here, where the exiles of Israel for centuries have found a peaceful home, will we rest, my Josephine, filling the little hearts of our children with thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the wandering and the persecuted may repose in peace.”
“And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our country is so strong, so deep, that the thought of death is less bitter than the dream of other homes. We stand alone in our peculiar and most sainted creed, alone in our law, alone in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven. Our doom is to wander accursed and houseless over the broad earth, exposed to all the misery which man may inflict, without the power to retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely then, the home that is granted must be doubly dear—so sheltered from outward ill, so blessed with inward peace that it might seem we alone were the inhabitants of Spain. Oh! it is not only memory that hallows every shrub and stream and tree—it is the consciousness of safety, of peace, of joy, which this vale enshrines, while all around us seemeth strife and gloom. Dearest Imri, is it marvel that I love it thus?”
The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two- or three-and-twenty summers. There was a lovely finished roundness of form, a deep steady lustre in her large black eye, a full red ripe on her beautiful lip, a rose soft yet glowing as the last tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy of her words, upon a cheek usually more pale—all bespeaking a stage of life somewhat past that generally denominated girlhood, but only pressing the threshold of the era which follows. Life was still bright and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it; but in the heart there were depths and feelings revealed that were never known to girlhood. Her companion, some three or four years her senior, presented a manly form, and features more striking from their frankness and animation than any regular beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at some little distance from the lovers (for such they were), whose peculiar and affecting beauty would rivet the attention to the exclusion of all else. He was a slight boy, who had evidently not seen more than ten years, though the light in the dark blue eye, so deep, so concentrated in its expression, that it seemed to breathe forth the soul; the expression ever lingering round his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared to denote a strength and formation of character beyond his years. His rich chesnut hair, long and gracefully curling, fell over his light blue vest nearly to his waist, and, parted in the centre, exposed a brow of such transparent fairness, so arched and high, that it scarce appeared natural to his Eastern origin and Spanish birth. Long lashes, much darker than his hair, almost concealed the colour of the eye, save when it was fixed full on those who spoke to him, and shaded softly, yet with a mournful expression, the pale and delicate cheek, to which exertion or emotion alone had power to bring the frail and fleeting rose. An indescribable plaintiveness pervaded the countenance; none could define wherefore, or why his very smile would gush on the heart like tears. He was seated on the green sward, weaving some beautiful flowers into a garland or wreath, in perfect silence, although he was not so far removed from his companions as to be excluded from their conversation, could he have joined in it. Alas! those lips had never framed a word; no sound had ever reached his ear.
An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine’s last eager words; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking their emotion, whatever it might be, bounded towards them, placing his glowing wreath on the brow of Josephine with a fond admiring glance, calling on Imri by a sign to admire it with him; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in the same manner the subject of their conversation: and when told, there was no need of language to speak the boy’s reply. He glanced eagerly, almost passionately, around him; he stretched forth his arms, as if embracing every long-loved object, and then he laid his hand on his heart, as if the image of each were reflected there, and stretching himself on the mossy earth, as if there should be his last long sleep. He pointed to distant mountains, made a movement with his hands, to denote the world beyond them, then turned shudderingly away, and laid his head on the bosom of his nearest and dearest relative on earth.