Suddenly, high and loud in the air, sounded a herald’s trumpet.
And, within a moment or so, it was whispered among the crowd, still without the door, that it was a king’s messenger.
A lane was made for him by Don Ruy—who turned to the herald, imagining that he came to him. Following the herald came torch-bearers.
On came the herald. He did not salute the master of the castle—he did not even look at him. On past him, past one of the men found in the lady’s room—past the lady even—up to the second intruder, before whom he knelt.
“The King,” cried many, as the herald knelt, and above him stood, now in the full light of the torches, the brave man who bore a dagger sheath, but not a dagger.
Then said the king, “Don Ruy, I came to consult thy friendship for me.”
See! The proud Don Ruy has stooped his head; then he steps forward, and humbly welcomes to his house “the king.”
As they crowd about the king—as the latter receives their homage—the robber Ernani and the lady were forgotten, and they stood apart, whispering—
“Until the sun sinketh again in the deep
Resist the proud tyrant, nor yield to dismay;
For Ernani unbroken thy precious faith keep,
And to-morrow from peril I’ll bear thee away.”
———
“Thou knowest I’m thine—know also this steel
Can save me from tyrants—nor do I repine;
In wretchedness even ’tis solace to feel
That my heart—that my faith, will for ever be thine.”
See, now, the proud noble stoops to kneel before the outraged king, and entreats his pardon. And, graciously, the king accords it.