“Thou art Ernani—I know it by the hate I feel sparkling in my eyes. Hate! Does the eagle hate the worm? No, he despises it. Rejoice—scourge of a peaceful country! Let thy meanness comfort thee. Wert thou greater, I would raise my hand to thy destruction. I have but to call, and thou art lost.”
“Thou knowest me and fearest me. I am so mean that thou hast robbed me of my fame;—so mean, that thou hast taken from me my wealth;—so contemptible, that thou hast slain my father! And now thou would’st rob me of my bride. What difference is there between us? Thou, noblest, with a crown on thy head and without risk of life—I risk my life to rob where I have been robbed. What difference is there between us? Cowardice! Now—let us be equal. Defend thyself.”
“Hark! some one is approaching,” cried Elvira, in an agony of fear—“forget your quarrel, at least for a little while,—if you are found here I am lost. So, please you, forget your hates, and leave me.”
Still, the two men moved not—still the footsteps nearer drew.
“If you love me, both of you—either of you—leave me—leave this place! Too late—too late!”
For at this moment the door was thrown open, and on the threshold stood the master of the castle—the Don Ruy—his attendants behind him—witnesses to his dishonor.
“Do I breathe?—here, in the sanctity of my house—to find two men quarreling—as though disputing for some poor booty!”
He was a grand old gentleman, with hair as white as honor. But his age had not brought him humility. He was as proud as he was grand, and as merciless as he was proud. Turning to his court—for this grandee retained a court—he continued: “You, Senors, witness this fall of mine! This woman whom I loved, but till now I thought as pure as the moonlight streaming on her through the window. As for these men—my hands are weak, but one can bear a sword—the other a shield. Yet not here within my house shall blood be spilt. Go, pass before me.”
The last few words were addressed to the king and Ernani, and then for the first time he looked upon them—but the light was too feeble for him to recognize even one of them.
“Gently—gently,” said one of these two. But the don cried out haughtily. “None but myself had right to speak.”