The flickering flames of a wood fire, which shone on the faces of the wild band, paled before the coming day. But there was yet sufficient light to see Maurico, muffled in a cloak, lying at the feet of a stern-looking gipsey woman, whom they called Azucena.
Suddenly this woman started from her sleep—stood up—came a step or so forward—and cried, “Look—look ye! See how the flames dart at her, as she is dragged along. Look ye, how they all crowd about, and are merry over her trouble—a poor gipsey led to death! See how their faces are bathed in blood! There! she screams in her agony; and higher, and yet higher the mocking flames rise about her; and now I see her no longer. Gone—gone—gone!”
Suddenly she came to herself, and half whispered, “Vengeance! I will have vengeance.”
“Still that word, mother,” said the troubadour, Maurico, rising from his hard bed.
As the sun lit up the shadows in their dark skins, the gipsies moved away in various directions. Presently, the gipsey-mother and gipsey-son were alone together.
Suddenly she began again to speak of her terror. “She was accused of witchcraft—my mother; and they burnt her here—here, on this very spot. I see her, thick chains hanging about her limbs, dragged to this very spot. I stood near, holding thee in my trembling arms. In vain she sought to bless me; they struck down her hands, and drove her forward. Then it was she cried aloud, ‘Avenge me!’ And canst thou not read the words here—here on my face?”
“And thou didst obey, my mother?”
“I stole the old count’s son. The child wept and clung to me. Why should I pity him? They had shown her no mercy. Here with him I came—a fire blazing as when my mother died. I closed my angry eyes, raised high the child above my head, and dashed it screaming on the burning embers. Then, looking forth again, I saw—I saw—the count’s own child still living.”
“Then thou hadst destroyed—”
“My son—my own dear son.”