Old Court Life in Spain (Vol.1&2). Frances Minto Elliot
impostors called fakirs, who wander over the face of the land in the East, and profess to read the future by the stars.
After listening to all the Emir had to say, the Fakir began his incantation. First sand was sprinkled, then squares and circles and diagrams were drawn upon the floor; then, while standing in the midst, he affected to read the lines of fate from a parchment covered with cabalistic characters. “O Emir,” he said, “your words of wisdom are justified. Beware of the apostates.”
“Enough,” replied the Emir. “They shall die.”
At that time Julian was still at Cordoba in great grief for the recent death of Florinda. “Tell my lord,” he said, in reply to the earnest invitation of Alabor, “I pray him to hold me excused from coming to visit him. Such of my followers as can aid him in any warlike project I freely send; but for myself I am unable.”
This was enough for Alabor; here was ample confirmation of the Fakir’s prediction. So, not to be behindhand with the voice of fate, he at once condemned to death that wily churchman and renegade, Archbishop Opas, Frandina’s brother, who had turned the battle of the Guadalete against Roderich, and with him the two sons of Witica, as possible pretenders to the crown.
Still Julian escaped him by a rapid flight into Aragon. But his wife Frandina and his only son could be reached.
The castle of Ceuta, which formed part of the Gothic (Iberian) African possessions, then called Tingitana, stood on an extreme point, a cape of rocky altitude, with bastions and mullioned walls; in the midst rose a central tower or citadel, in which the governor had his abode. Few casements there were, and those looking over the tossing billows of that unquiet Strait which flows between the two continents, so that each coming vessel could be noted long before it touched the quay; a place wholly of defence, and which had therefore been chosen to shelter Julian’s wife and son.
Frandina, a woman of masculine courage and keen understanding, had at all times fanned the flame of her husband’s ambition. No longer young, she still bore traces of that radiant beauty which had held her lord faithful in the dissolute courts of Witica and Roderich.
On her brow should have rested the pointed diadem worn by the Gothic queens; not on a Moorish stranger who could never learn the customs of the land. Ever hoping to attain the object of her desires she wilfully worked on the evil passions of her lord, before the calamity which befell Florinda came as a cause and a reason for treason.
No figure of that romantic period stands out in stronger relief than that of Frandina, who moves and speaks before us in her habit as she lived in spite of the long track of centuries.
Without news from Spain, knowing nothing of what has happened at Cordoba to her brother Opas or to her lord, she eats out her heart in ceaseless watching for some white-sailed felucca or swift-rowed trireme to bring her tidings. All day she has trod the battlements looking north-ward, and strained her eyes in vain. Now she sits in her chamber. An iron lamp casts a weird light on the tapestries which line the walls, the wind moans without about the turrets, and the dashing waves roll deep below.
Is it the hollow moan of the far-off tempest, or the screech of an owl which makes her start from her seat and eagerly listen?
There is no fall of feet upon the winding stairs, but a well-known voice comes to her so plainly that she rushes to the door. Ere she can reach it, her brother Opas stands before her, habited as she last saw him in the flowing vestments of an archbishop; not in aspect as he appeared in life, but as a wan and shadowy spectre unfolding itself to her sight in the darkness around. Before she can speak he waves her off. He is ghastly pale, and drops of blood seem to fall from his head. With one hand he points to the opposite wall where burns like orbs of fire the word, Beware!
“Touch me not, sister,” a hollow voice utters; “I am come from the grave to warn you. Guard well your son. The enemies of our house are near.” Thus speaking all disappears. His coming and going are alike mysterious. Brave as she is, a horror she never knew before comes over Frandina.
Next morning, in the fair sunlight, a swiftly rowing galley brings the news of Opas’s death and Julian’s flight. Not a moment is to be lost! There in the offing she descries the Moorish fleet, bearing the Emir from Cordoba. The wind blows fair for Africa—before noon he will be off the shore. Fifty Moors, who form part of the garrison, are put to death with incredible cruelty for fear of treachery; the city gates are closed.
Alabor, whose fury knows no bounds, for he has calculated on arriving before the news has reached Frandina, orders the castle to be assaulted on every side. The walls are carried. Frandina, shut up in the citadel with a forlorn hope, has no thought but for the safety of her son. How conceal him? A mother’s wit is keen. Among the living he is not safe, but surely they will not seek him with the dead. Passing down long flights of narrow steps she carries him below into a dark, damp chapel. Scarcely a ray of light penetrates the gloom.
“Are you afraid of the darkness, my boy?” she asks, kissing his warm cheek.
“No, mother. I shall fancy that it is night, and try to sleep.”
On one side of a narrow marble aisle, held up by clustered pillars, is the freshly built tomb of Florinda, whose body has been carried here from Cordoba.
“Do you fear your dead sister, my boy?” again Frandina asks.
“No, mother; the dead can do no harm. Why should I fear Florinda?”
Unbarring the entrance which leads into the vault, Frandina stands on the threshold, her arms around her son.
“Listen,” she says, and her kisses rain upon his cheek as she strains him to her bosom in an agony of fear. “The Moors from Spain have sailed over to murder you. Stay here with your dead sister, dear child; her spirit will guard you. Lie quiet for your life!”
The boy kissed his mother, and fearlessly descended the steps, to where the marble coffin holding Florinda’s body lay on a still uncovered stand. The faded wreaths cast on it gave out a stale perfume.
All that day and the next and the following night the brave boy lay still.
Meanwhile, the troops of the Emir penetrated into the citadel, and Alabor himself forced his way into the chamber of the countess.
“My lord,” she said, rising from the ponderous chair in which she was seated, a sarcastic courtesy in her tone and in the low obeisance with which she greeted him, “you are pleased to profit somewhat ungallantly by the absence of my lord. Do you deem this a fitting way to enter the stronghold of him to whom you owe the conquest of Spain?”
The Emir, surprised by the dignified calm of her demeanour, would have withdrawn, but the Fakir who had followed him, pulled the sleeve of his garment, and whispered in his ear: “Ask for her son.”
Low as the words were spoken, she heard them and turned pale. “My son, great Alabor, is with the dead. Let him rest in peace.”
“Wife of Don Julian,” cried the Emir, “you trifle with me. Where is he? Tell me, or torture shall make you.”
“Emir,” she spoke again, and her calm face showed no trace of fear, “if I have not spoken the truth, may everlasting fire be my portion. He is with the dead.”
Alabor was confounded by the composure of her answer. So great was her courage and the dignity with which she faced him, that he was just about to retire, when the Fakir again broke in:
“Let me deal with her, my lord,” he said. “The heart of the Emir is too tender. I will find the boy. Soldiers, search the vaults of the castle.”
No trace upon the countenance of Frandina betrayed alarm. She herself led the way to the different subterranean chambers within the citadel. When the searchers and the grim old Fakir, hideous and naked, save for a ragged cloth about his loins, but esteemed all the more holy from his filth, descended the winding stairs leading to the chapel, Frandina did not falter. In her presence every corner was ransacked by the aid of torches. Nothing was found. But as all were leaving, and she stood already under the arch of the door, to see them all file safely by, some gleam