“Reform!” he cried. “Ay, certainly; but what reform? Does Señor de la Rosa mean such reform as he helped to bring about? I bid him beware: these are no times for trifling. Here we stand, but a few paces from the deathbed of a powerful prince. He fettered this revolution or reform; but, señores, it was only for a while and in appearance. Like the mole, it has laboured and advanced, surely and unseen. Happy for our king if he expire before the vanity of his efforts, and the inutility of the bloodshed and misery they have occasioned, are demonstrated; before he learns that a principle never dies, though all the artillery of the world be brought to bear upon it. History judges the dead; nations judge the living. Let us so act that we may stand with honour before both tribunals.”
“The subject leads us too far,” said the poet and minister, rising from his chair and glancing at Federico, who, struck and delighted by Cambronero’s words, gazed at him with expanded brow and flashing eyes. “Let us beware of kindling fanaticism: coolness and prudence are becoming to men, and, God knows, we need both.”
He took Cambronero’s arm, and led him to the other end of the spacious apartment. The noblemen followed, and the conversation was resumed in a lower tone. So enthralling had been the interest with which Federico had listened to the words of these influential Liberals, that for an instant he had neglected Rosaura, who stood nearly concealed behind the swelling cushions and high gilt back of the throne-like chair. Her beautiful face wore an anxious, inquiring expression, which seemed to reproach him with forgetting her; but as he drew near, she smiled, and rays of love and hope broke from beneath her long dark lashes. And under the magic influence of those beaming eyes, Federico’s doubts and fears vanished like frost before the mid-day sun, and were replaced by a transport of blissful emotion.
“Rosaura!” he exclaimed, “what unspeakable joy is this! Strange, indeed, have been the events of the night! The wonders of Arabian tales are realised. A moment ago I awaited death in a dungeon; and behold, I am in a king’s chamber, and at your feet, Rosaura. Explain these things, adored mistress of my heart! How do we thus meet? How came you hither?”
“With our friend, Geronimo Regato,” replied the lady.
“The traitor!” indignantly exclaimed Federico. “No thanks to him if I escape with life.”
“Judge not so hastily,” cried Rosaura: “you know not all you owe Regato. From him I first heard your name. He was my confidant; he knew my aversion to the detested man, who considered me already his own. My father, of an old family, although not of the highest nobility, was President of the Burgos Tribunal, and by commercial transactions, in the time of the Constitution, he acquired great wealth. My hated suitor is also sprung from the people. My father was his friend, and at one time had to thank his influence for escape from persecution. Out of gratitude he promised him my hand, and, dying a year ago, left him my guardian. In that capacity he administered my estates, and had me in his power. But, thanks to the Virgin, I am at last free from his odious control.”
She gazed tenderly at Federico, and held out her hand, which he covered with kisses. But she hastily withdrew it, on becoming aware that their proceedings were observed by the group of politicians.
“Is this the time and place?” she said, with a smile of sweet confusion and arch reproach. “And yet, Federico, best beloved, why should I feign indifference, or conceal that my heart is wholly yours?”