“Don Ruy—I love him—I love him! Mercy, dear guardian, mercy!”
“That thou lov’st him is thy fault. Hasten, Ernani, if thou art of Spanish blood.”
“Elvira—do not plead—it weakens my weak arm’”
But she was too loving to obey—too terror-stricken to look upon her husband. She still remained upon the ground pleading hopelessly to the don for mercy. Mercy, she could not tell for what; yet mercy she saw he had the power to give.
“I knew it. Fate hath but spread this feast before mine eyes to make yet blacker the bare truth. Don Ruy—if—if—”
“‘Take thou this horn—when from it—’”
“Ah—”
There was a dull thud, a swingeing sound, and the bridegroom was on the ground, pressing his hand upon his side.
Spanish honor was appeased—he had paid the debt of the life he had placed in the grandee’s hands, and which he had refused to purchase in the catacombs.
“Farewell—dear love—farewell. Nor seek to follow me. Thou dead, who is there left in all the world to love or think of me? As thou dost love me, live for me—weep for me—guard my grave! Our happiness was but a phantom. I knew ’twould vanish. Farewell—farewell!”