In this dilemma he applied to his rival, the count, requesting him to procure leave for him to visit Saint Palais for a day or two, pledging himself solemnly to return within the given time. The Spaniard, although detesting Louis Lisle in his heart, offered readily to befriend him on this occasion—having two ends in view; first, to remove Lisle from the presence of Virginia; and secondly to do so effectually, by sending him to his long home by means of some of those continental assassins, whose daggers are ever at the service of the highest bidder. Through his interest the duke granted the leave, and long before break of day Louis and the donna were clear of the fortress,—the duke's written order satisfying the scruples of the sub commanding the barrier-guard. At a village-inn hard by they procured horses, and took the road direct for Cambo, where they hoped to find the curé of the village. The wily count had previously despatched two of his own servants, Valencians,—rogues who would have sold their chance of salvation for a maravedi,—to post themselves in ambush on the road leading to Saint Palais, whither he believed Lisle to have gone, with orders to shoot him dead the moment he appeared.
So full of joy was Don Felix at the expected revenge, that he found it impossible to retire to rest, and continued to pace his chamber all night. With the utmost exultation he heard the noise of his intended victim's departure in the morning, while it was yet dark, and long ere gun-fire. As the challenge of the sentinels and clang of the closing gate echoed through the silent fortress the satisfaction of the Spaniard increased, and he already imagined himself the master of Virginia's broad lands on the Nive, and her rich estates in Valentia, la Hermosa; and long he watched the road to Saint Palais, in hopes of seeing the death-shot gleam through the darkness.
An hour elapsed, and he felt certain that the victim must have fallen into the deadly snare; but his anxiety to behold the completion of his plot would not permit him to delay an instant longer. Ordering a soldier of the guard to saddle his horse, he stuck his pistols into his girdle, drew his hat over his eyes, and muffling himself in his mantle, he rode forth,—feeling the exhilarating influence of a gallop in the breezy morning air infinitely agreeable, after a night of feverish excitement and drinking in his close chamber. As he approached the spot where he had placed the assassins in ambush, he hid his face in his mantle, and rode more slowly forward, with a beating heart, scanning the roadway in expectation of seeing the corse of his rival stretched upon it. But he looked in vain! The winding road between the thickets was clear, and appeared so for many a mile beyond. Enraged to a pitch of madness at the idea of his escape, he dashed the rowels into his horse and galloped on; when lo! two carbines flashed from adjacent thickets,—one on each side of the way. A sudden exclamation of rage and agony escaped from him; his horse reared up wildly, and pierced by a two-ounce bullet the worthy Count of Aranjuez and Colmenare de Orija, knight of Calatrava and the Stole, &c. &c. fell to the earth, and almost instantly expired.
While Don Felix fell thus into his own snare, his more fortunate rival, with Donna Virginia, galloped along the bank of the Nive, pursuing the road to Cambo, where they arrived about sunrise, and sought without delay the house, or rather the cottage, of the village pastor. There fresh obstacles arose, as the reverend gentleman pretended to have many conscientious scruples about wedding a Catholic lady to a Briton and a heretic. But a few gold Napoleons overcame his qualms, and he consented to perform the important ceremony, with a description of which it is needless to tire the reader. Louis had no ordinary task to accomplish, in soothing the hesitation and terrors of Virginia, who was—
"Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike escape, pursuit;
Till love, victorious o'er alarms,
Hid fears and blushes in his arms."
There were no witnesses to the ceremony, so important to Louis and his bride, save a stout villager and his wife, who declared that Donna Virginia's black veil and velvet mantilla were contrary to all rule and established custom, as white drapery, pure as the virgin snow, and a coronet of white flowers and orange-buds, formed the bridal garb in France. But there was no help for it, and the donna became the Honourable Mrs. Lisle, in her high comb, braided hair, and long black veil, which swept the ground. Louis now remembered his father, whose existence he had almost forgotten in the excitement of the elopement; but he well knew that his indulgent relative would pardon the hasty union, considering the circumstances which urged it, and he longed for the time when he should present to him, and to his sister Alice, his beautiful Virginia, who, although the daughter of a traitor, was descended from one of the noblest houses in Old Castile.
The bride was too much agitated to return immediately to the château, and to encounter the wrath of that terrible old don her father, and so they remained that night at the cottage of the pastor of Cambo.
Early next morning Louis was aroused from the couch of his bride by the sound of French drums, near the village. He heard them rattling away at la bats de la rétraite (the retreat); then succeeded the "long roll," a sound which never fails to rouse a soldier. The noise of distant firing was heard, and he sprung from the side of the blushing and trembling Virginia, and threw open the casement. It was a beautiful morning: the sun shone brightly, and the birds chirped merrily; the dew was gleaming like silver from the branches of the leafless trees; the sky was clear and blue, and the bold outlines of the Pyrenees were seen stretching far away in the distance towards Passages and Bayonne. Dense columns of French infantry were crowding in confusion along the road which led to the bridge of Cambo, while the sharp-shooters of the advancing allies, hovering on their rear and flanks, kept up an irregular but destructive fire, which their chasseurs, who lined every wall and hedge, endeavoured to return.
Lisle saw that there was no time to be lost, if he would return to the château. The discomfited French were pouring across the bridge of Cambo, where a detachment of sapeurs were busy at work, undermining one of the piers. The main body of the allies were already in sight. The green and scarlet uniforms of the light infantry were seen at intervals, appearing and disappearing as they leaped from bush to hedge, and from hedge to wall, firing, and then lying flat on their faces to reload, and avoid the fire of the enemy. Mingled with other sharp-shooters he beheld the light company of his own regiment, and knew their tall green and black plumes as they floated on the morning wind. Wistfully did Lisle look towards them, and it was with no ordinary feelings of chagrin that he beheld his friends so near, and yet found himself under the disagreeable necessity of returning to the château, where he should be exposed to the insults and vengeance of an intractable old Spaniard, to whom he now stood in the relation of son-in-law.
Virginia, who was excessively terrified by the noise of the firing, which was now heard around Cambo on all sides, and not less alarmed at the rage and disorder which prevailed among the retreating French, with tears and caresses besought Louis to remain unseen in the little cottage of the curate, until the allies gained possession of the village. But that resolve was impossible. His word was pledged to her father, and he must return—even at the risk of certain death. He prepared without delay to cross the river. On entering the stable to caparison their horses, he found that the worthy pastor had decamped in the night, taking them with him, and every thing of any value,—leaving only a stubborn old mule. Venting a bitter malediction on the thief, Lisle tied a halter to the long-eared steed, and led him forth into the yard, just as the gate was dashed open by the French, whose rear-guard had commenced plundering and destroying the houses, to leave no shelter to the allies, who were now become invaders of France.