Chapter 3

Luigi Vincenzio denied none of the charges brought against him, save that of the intended murder of the principal Spaniards in Italy. Such baseness he strenuously denied; they had decoyed him into the conspiracy, working on all his peculiar feelings of love of land and of his exiled king, who was not alone regally, but personally dear to him. The conspiracy appeared to him but a noble effort of some few bold hearts to throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner; and therefore he had joined it, and even now, in danger of death, of worse than death—the galleys, he persisted in the glory, the virtue of his cause. It was rumoured that Gonzalvo, in his still continued desire to conciliate the Neapolitan nobles, had offered to Vincenzio, not alone pardon but riches, and connection by marriage with one of the most powerful and noble families of Castile, though its name never transpired, if he would take a solemn oath to be true to the interests of Ferdinand of Arragon, and never seek Naples again, save in pursuance of that monarch’s interests; and these offers, more than usually magnanimous even for Gonzalvo, were, to the utter bewilderment of all, refused.

Scarcely a week after Vincenzio’s arrest, the unusually strict retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an earnest petition for a private interview, on the part of a Neapolitan boy, who, the attendant said, had been so urgent, and appeared so exhausted, that he could not refuse him entrance. He would not tell his business to any save the Lady Elvira. Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence, clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with the red picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his brow. He stood at the threshold of the apartment, his arms folded in his mantle, his head bent on his breast, as if either physical or mental strength had for the moment utterly failed him. “Retire,” was the first word that met his ear; and he perceived the Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who still lingered. “Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private audience, and I have promised it. Treachery! danger!—I fear them not!—begone!” and they obeyed. One searching glance the boy cast around, and ere the lady could address him, he had darted across the room, and flung himself at her feet, clasping her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony, struggling for words, but so ineffectually that nought but quivering anguish convulsed those parched lips, nought but agonized sobs found vent. Mantle and cap had both fallen in the quickness of the movement, and though the inner dress was still the boy’s, that exquisite face, that swelling bosom told a different tale.

“Ha! who art thou? What wouldst thou?—speak, silly trembler,” and even at the moment that an indescribable thrill passed through the heart of Gonzalvo’s daughter, she struggled to speak playfully. “In sooth, thou art too lovely to wander forth alone, save in this strange guise; speak—what is thy boon?”

“A life! a life they say is forfeited! Lady, kind, generous lady, oh, have mercy! I thought I had words to plead his cause, to beseech, implore, adjure thee, but I have none—none! Mercy, oh, have mercy!”

“Mercy! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor child! How may I serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst save?”

“Art thou not Elvira?—art thou not Gonzalvo’s daughter?—and will he not pardon at thy word? Oh, seek him! Tell him Constance, princess of Naples, is in his power! yields herself his prisoner, to be dealt with as he lists, let him but spare Luigi—Luigi, my own noble love! Give him but pardon, life, liberty! Lady, lady! plead for him! let them hold me prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus? Mercy, oh, have mercy—save him!”

“Whom saidst thou, girl? Whom wouldst thou save?—speak, I command thee!” exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly endeavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt within their depths. “As thou hopest for mercy, speak!”

“Save! whom but my own, my plighted lord! Is there one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi—Luigi Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth? Oh, save—”

“Love! thou DAREST not tell me that he loves thee!—false—false—he does not love thee!” She sprang up, cheek, lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it chained.

“Thee! one like thee, poor foolish child! art thou one to bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely! Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee!—does he so love thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling, but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed on Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as if the deep emotion of another had stilled her into composure.

“Love me! yes, as none but Luigi can love; daughter of a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy of such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all to him, as he is all to me—love me! Oh! did they bid me die, or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio’s love!”

“And thou wouldst save him?”

“Aye, with my life—with all that they may deem precious, Constance of Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, Ferdinand would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Frederic’s unhappy offspring placed within his power; I am here; bid Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my brother. Ha! lady, noble lady, forgive the word; ’tis not for the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the judge. Grief makes the speech unwary—heed it not, heed it not; take my life, my liberty for his!”

“Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both! Gonzalvo wars not with women!” The princess threw herself at her feet, with a wild cry of gratitude: the strangeness of that voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew not, she only dreamed of hope.

“Aye, but I have not said how, girl; pardon, life, liberty, all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to Spain.”

“And he hath refused,” she interrupted; “oh! give me entrance to him—I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet till he hath done this; he will submit for me, he will hear me, live for Constance—let me but plead.”

“Peace! there is more; he must be naturalized in Spain, WED one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that LOVES him; let him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that can make life glad. Ha! dost thou fail! bid him do this, and he shall live.”

“Yes, even this!” was the reply, after one single moment’s pause; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling frame, alone betrayed that young heart’s agony. “Let Luigi Vincenzio be free, be happy—for if she whom he must wed in truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be blessed—if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone? I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his fellows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh! so happy! Lady, I will do this.”

“Death! who spoke of death for thee? bid Luigi thus accept his life, and thine is secured, is free.”

“Free! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could exist apart from him—peace, peace—let me but save him, let him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry? I will do this, take me but to him.”

“Thou wilt SWEAR!” That low terrible whisper was a more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mournful, yet heroic suffering before her; one only feeling prompted Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil and the good; one whelming passion straggling for dominion over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before.

“Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him? aye, without one moment’s pause! Oh! lady, thou knowest not love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be witness of my truth; but oh! keep me no longer from him; let me save his life!”

Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the princess to follow her.