Might is not always for the just. Were it so always, where would be the honor of virtue?
Maurico was conquered, and the castle fell into the hands of his enemy the Count Di Luna. The minstrel languished in prison, with but one consolation in this life—the presence of his mother. They were imprisoned together, that to their miseries might be added the pain of a last separation.
Upon the fall of the castle, the Lady Leonora took flight, hoping against hope. But when she heard he was condemned to death, she came weeping to the foot of the castle, and leant her face against its wall.
With her came the faithful soldier, who had ever been at Maurico’s right hand—who had told him of his mother’s capture, and who had escaped from the battle at the last moment, when he saw his master taken prisoner, and all hope had fled.
She bade her faithful escort leave her, and then hope whispered that perchance she could save him. And when she trembled she looked at a ring she wore, and found new courage.
Swelling on the night air came the dirge of the monks within the castle—
“Miserere for him whose death is nigh;
Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled;
Miserere for one who, a moment more,
Must bid farewell to this dreary world.”
The solemn words made her tremble and look for a moment with fear upon the ring she wore; but the next instant she started forward with horror, for she heard his voice—
“Ah—death itself is slow
When death itself is wooed—
When death itself is peace.
Leonora—fare-thee-well!”
“Great Heaven!—can I believe my senses?”