Farther, perhaps, more lonely, on some high turret, on some distant eminence, striving to hide her sorrows from the eye of the world, is seen the trembling virgin, whose pure heart has received the first impression of love, and whose charmed ear has listened with fondness to the soft tale of promised bliss. Now, with restless and agitated glance, she surveys the numerous host in the vain hope of distinguishing the dear object of all her tenderest affections, torn from her arms to exchange her smile for scenes of bloodshed and desolation. Alas! how numerous and various are the fears that agitate her gentle breast! She may never more see him: he may sleep his last sleep on the field of horror; or he may return triumphant but false to his vows, with a proud heart, to scorn the love of her who mourned for his absence.
But women, likewise, there might be seen more high-minded and more heroic in their thoughts and feelings; some who, like Leonor de Aguilar, offered their tears at the shrine of glory and patriotism, and who, while they trembled for the life of the object of their affections, were still more anxious for his honor; some, whose passion received a spark of heavenly fire that elevated them above their kind, and who gloried in the sight as they beheld their lovers marching onwards to fame and victory.
Such scenes, such sensations, with others which as powerfully affect the heart, but which the pen would vainly attempt to portray, are generally attendant on a departing army. Fear, perhaps, holds its dominion in the breasts of the many and interesting beings who are left behind; but hope steals gently forward, and gilds with its bright illusion the most fearful anticipations.
Meantime the soldier marches on gaily and reckless, and with a light heart he takes his farewell of those whom he is, perhaps, doomed never more to behold; and the tears that accompany his departure, tears of sympathy and affection, will soon, alas! be changed for the bitter drops of grief and despair.
CHAPTER III.
Mer. Ce sont là de mes moindres coups,
De petits souflets ordinaires.
Sos. Si j'étois aussi prompt que vous,
Nous ferions de belles affaires.
Molière.
No nos rompas la cabeza
Hombre——Pero Ay Dios mio!
Pored un freno a mi lengua;
Y ojala que esta no fuese
La menor de mis flaquezas.
Cruz.
"Valga me el cielo!" exclaimed Roque, "Oh Maria, oh Rufa! Oh Rufa, oh Maria! nearly a week have I been with you, and yet I cannot, for the soul of me, believe what I see. There must be witchcraft in this; to find the old crony of my late mother, que en paz descanse![43] to find Maria Rufa, whom I had supposed dead, and her soul dwelling with the saints, amongst the rebels—amongst the Moors I mean, and herself a Moor: well, nothing shall make me wonder for the future."
Such were the words that our reader's friend Roque addressed to dame Aboukar, as they were advancing toward the town of Alhaurin in a cavalcade, of which they made a part. The venerable and sour spouse of the ex-master of the household, was rather nettled at the valet's impertinent freedom: he had been during the way most assiduous in favouring her with the benefit of his remarks, which he happened to convey with such an extraordinary licence of tongue, that the dame's patience, which it is believed was not of the most enduring kind, at last became completely exhausted. With much tartness and asperity, therefore, in a discordant voice, she exclaimed, "Out upon thee, most saucy and ungracious varlet; curb that licence of tongue, and learn to behave in a proper manner to thy elders and betters."