Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished apartments of Barletta, bearing little trace either of the eager warrior or sagacious general; all other emotions merged in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned uppermost—love for the lovely, the transcendent being, who, in woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, splendid orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, fixed on his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his daughter Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero’s love that even in his foreign wars she was never known to be parted from his side.
“Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in answer to his entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom he had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to attend them. “La Palice is in truth a champion to gain guerdon of woman’s care.”
“But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one; thine must not pass to the wardence of our foes.”
“Nor shall it, father; it is thine, all thine!” and the rich burning flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was deemed by her father but the glow of sunset which played around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought it. “Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no selfish pangs shall bid me keep thee by my side; yet, methinks, thou as myself art difficult to please; the noblest and the best have bowed to thee in vain—thy heart was ice to all, and selfish as I am, I have rejoiced it was so.”
Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how painfully its colour varied. He did not feel the full, quick throb of that maiden heart: if her fond father penetrated not its secret, how may we?
In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no strange one), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds, speaking words of comfort and of hope, till—veiled as she was, her rank, even her name often unknown—the sound of her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each sufferer with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as might have marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered fancies deemed her.
“And I have seen all?—thou art sure none other needs my tending?” she asked of an attendant. “Methinks those rooms we have not visited.”
“There are no prisoners of moment there, lady; but one room tenanted;—a poor Italian—Neapolitan, I should say—who, as he may bring little honour and less ransom to our leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious care; he will do well enough.”
“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he crouched beneath her flashing scorn. “Poor—friendless; the more he needs his captor’s care: lead on!”
She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man was reclining on a rude couch—his limbs stretched out, his head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandonment of complete repose; his long jetty hair had fallen as partly to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness, gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he had drawn around him. The opening of the door had not aroused him, and a moment the intruders paused; there was a start, a quick and choking breath, as if respiration had been suddenly impeded; and the Lady Elvira stood beside the slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why did she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless?—feared she to break those peaceful slumbers?—if so, her caution was in vain: the young man started, looked wildly round, then heavily and painfully arose, as if conscious he was in the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to give them homage.
“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, and must refuse all homage but obedience,” the lady said, calmly. “We must condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy knee.”
“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of one whose faintest smile was chivalry’s best fame—aye, e’en to Naples’ sons.”
“And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of Gonzalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no longer calls him friend? Nay, we have refused thine homage, as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for a brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort; Gonzalvo wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.”
Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier days had excited his young imagination in no ordinary degree; and the calm unimpassioned posture in which he stood till she departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than reverence and admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks; but long before ............