Chapter 4

The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to a low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel of Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry. An iron grating, however running in the centre from roof to floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded unusual care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio; although the evening following the interview above described about ten soldiers were then assembled, occupying the farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in a circle, enjoying their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer and their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military cloak, and cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood leaning against the stone pillar to which the grating was affixed by thick iron rings, parted only by that open railing from the prisoner, and consequently enabled not alone to hear all that passed between him and the lovely being whom he was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every change in the countenance of each.

What had already passed between those loving ones it is needless to record; nor the deep suffocating emotion which had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards were present; that she was not permitted to see him alone, save to smile at Gonzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him means to escape? He felt nothing but her presence, drinking in for the first few moments the sweet faint accents of her beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery could touch him more. But soon, oh! how much too soon, the sweet dream fled, and but one truth remained—that he was doomed to death, to close his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever! A shudder had convulsed his frame, a deep groan had been wrung from him by that thought, and Constance had heard and guessed its import. She knew not at first what she said, but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct upon her mind; all else was confused and painful, as if a dark cloud had folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but the letters of fire in which that one stern necessity was written.

“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi? Oh! then thou will grant my boon; thou wilt not let thy Constance plead to thee in vain,” said she, after many, many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune, and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head to earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness.

“Boon—in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there aught thou canst ask Luigi will deny?”

“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by hallowed vow—I claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse me?”

Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fearfully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon his bosom.

“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt live—be free—thou shalt not die!”

He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were spared to her? no, no, it could not be. “Live! Constance, my blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is forfeited!”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on conditions easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant my boon—to do my bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be! Speak not; hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle; make peace with whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore shouldst thou pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand?—Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”

“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his bosom, while his own frame shook, “Constance, were this the sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor, unhappy country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?”

“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever! Yet—yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, he heard them all, and not he alone.

“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou bidst me live! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee; I will not wed another.”

“Thou wilt—thou shalt! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but a brief, a brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh! do not think this moment’s agony will never, never pass away. The hero’s glory,—the warrior’s fame,—the statesman’s pride—all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with her hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness, and then to peace; and she—she, who will be thy bride,—oh, if she love thee as they say she does, even she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my own, my own, why dost thou turn from me? Speak, oh, speak; tell me thou wilt live!” She sunk on her knees before him, as if that action should continue the entreaty for which voice for the moment had utterly failed.

“Constance, Constance! Dost thou urge me? Thou—wilt thou give me to another? Is it thou who bidst me thus be happy? No, no, thou knowest not how much I love thee!”

“Do I not love thee, Luigi?—Oh! it is only thus that I can save thee,—only thus they will grant thy life,—and what care I for my happiness? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst thou love me,—guard me as thou wouldst? Oh, live, live!-in my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know thou wilt be,—honoured, loved—aye, and in time so blessed! Let the bright thought be mine,—that I, even I, poor simple Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn not away. Thou canst not refuse me,—thou DAREST not—thou art SWORN!”

The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more terribly agitated,—he struggled to break from her hold; but the grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him with a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power, and chained him there. He sought to speak; but only unintelligible murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned appeal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to madness. It bade him live; she might need his friendship, though denied his love, when time permitted such intercourse innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as stricken by a mighty wind: a moment, and he had caught her to his bosom, had murmured some inarticulate words, and a burst of passionate weeping convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm passed, he was alone; soldiers, officers, Constance, all were gone.