“If I had been unfaithful to Sancho,” said she, “it was before thy birth, Garcia; for neither a gleam of Sancho’s goodness, nor a feature of his face, has descended to thee! Some devil betrayed me in my dreams, and left me his image to nurse at my bosom, and bring up at my knee.”
“Is this thy answer?” said Garcia, with a bitter smile; “this reviling of the first-born of thy king will not save thee from the stake.”
“The stake!” shrieked Elvira, “and is it to this thou bringest me?” And then rising, and standing before Garcia, she continued—“Man—for son I cannot call thee now—how canst thou be so cruel? Is there no voice in a mother’s misery to touch thy heart?”
Garcia answered not, but desired the officer to proceed and summon the next witness. The officer called out the name of Gonsalo!
Not alone Elvira, but the whole court were surprised to see the king’s second son presenting himself as his mother’s accuser. Gonsalo had a new series of alleged facts to produce. He had been allured by the promises of Garcia, and his avarice and love of power outweighed whatever feelings of reluctance he might otherwise have experienced. His courage failed him, however, as he perceived those looks of aversion among the spectators which it required more firmness than he possessed to disregard; and having closed his testimony, he was slinking away, in order to escape the glance of Elvira, when she called him back, and catching his hand, addressed him:—
“What have I done to thee, Gonsalo, that thou shouldst blast my fame and take away my life? I would not injure a hair of thy head! Three times I snatched thee from the grave before thy childhood was past, when thou wert ailing. I lost strength and sleep and beauty while bending over thy cradle. I would I had been in my grave before thou sawest the light! I will not curse thee—I will not even beg thy pity; but when thou hast children of thine own, thou mayest guess what thou hast made me suffer, and that will be curse enough—go!”
“The infante Don Fernando, appear!” cried the officer.
A pang, as if her brain had been pierced with a fiery needle, smote the wretched mother as the boy answered to his name. A loud buzz of disapprobation ran through the assembly, and Sancho himself seemed as if he could bear the unnatural scene no longer; but intense curiosity now prevailed with all, and overcame every other feeling. A dead silence ensued while Fernando stood confronting the queen.
He was a pale, light-haired lad, with exceedingly soft blue eyes, which he inherited from the pure stock of the Gothic sovereigns of Spain, descending to him unbroken from that glorious time when Pelayo swayed the strongest European sceptre, before Tarik led his conquering bands from Africa. His ringlets streamed down his shoulders as he bent his head and crossed his small white hands upon his breast in token of reverence towards the king. As he appeared there in the graceful dress suited to his years, he looked more like a creature of dreams, when holy imaginations colour them, than a false witness against his own mother. Elvira looked at him for full a minute without moving or speaking, until at length his innocent-looking beauty gave birth to some vague confidence in her that he was not coming to destroy her, but perhaps the contrary. The moment this feeling took possession of her, she bounded forward with a shriek of delight, and flinging herself on the ground before him, she clasped his knees, and letting her head sink between her arms, she endeavoured to stay so, while she wept for the first time since she entered the hall. Fernando, however, drew back violently, and disengaged himself from her embrace. The queen looked up at him half-vacantly as he did so; and then she arose, and in a solemn though flattering voice she said,
“What art thou going to do or to say, Fernando? They may take me away to the stake and burn me, if thou beliest me now, for thy crime will be worse torture to me than any they can inflict!”