The enemy, imagining the Irish too much fatigued with the battle they had just fought, to assault the town that night, were far from expecting an attack; but, encouraged by the successful opposition they had before made, they received the assault with firmness, and repulsed it with vigour. The cannon roared with tremendous fury on both sides, and whole columns of men were swept away as grass falls before the scythe. The impatience of Roderick increased every moment, and the discharge from a petard having set fire to the wooden bulwarks of the town, he threw himself upon the blazing breach, sword in hand, heedless of the crackling timbers and fast spreading flames, whilst Edric and some of his most devoted soldiers followed him, and they all warmly engaged with the Spaniards who opposed their entrance upon the walls. A loud shout from below, however, soon excited their attention; the besieged had made a sortie by means of the covered way; and Edric and his royal friend, finding their retreat would be cut off if they stayed, were reluctantly compelled to retire with their followers—and Roderick was struck down by a Spanish soldier, whilst in the act of leaping from the walls. The soldier, seeing the effect he had produced, was about to repeat his blow, and the Irish hero must have perished before he could have recovered himself, if Edric had not interposed, and received the gash instead of his friend; then instantly turning round, he cut down the soldier. In the meantime, Roderick had revived, and he and Edric fought their way back to the rest of the army. It was now getting quite dark, and the besieged falling back within the town, the army of the Irish Monarch returned once more to their camp.
“How provoking!” cried Roderick, the moment they entered his tent, taking off his helmet, and giving it to Alexis the Greek page: “I shall never be happy again, if they hurt the doctor. Take my sword also, Alexis: but what is the matter with the boy? methinks he looks wondrous pale. Does he not, Edric?” Then turning to Edric, he was excessively shocked at the change in his appearance. It has been before stated, that Edric received the blow the Spanish soldier intended for Roderick. The wound had bled profusely, but the blood having congealed, the flow stopped, and Edric, aided by his own courage, presence of mind, and firmness, had been enabled to sustain himself till he reached the tent. Now, however, that the necessity for exertion had ceased, his pallid looks and ghastly countenance bespoke what he suffered. He had received one horrid gash upon the temple, and the coagulated blood upon his face and hair contrasted frightfully with the whiteness of the rest of his face. In fact, he looked like the ghost of some poor murdered wretch appearing to implore vengeance upon his destroyer.
He seated himself at a table, resting his arms upon it, and supporting his head with his hands. He attempted to smile in answer to Roderick’s inquiries; but the effort was too much for his already exhausted strength, and his head fell heavily upon the table. Roderick flew to support him, and dispatched Alexis for a surgeon. “My dear! dear Edric!” cried he, “speak to me! for God’s sake, speak to me! Do not let me think that I have destroyed my friend. Oh, Edric! ’tis Roderick calls. Speak! speak, for God’s sake, speak!”
Edric was, however, incapable of speaking; and the torture of the Irish King, when he found his friend could not answer him, was beyond description.
“My beloved Edric!” exclaimed he, wringing his hands in an agony of grief, “I implore you to answer me. Alas! he cannot: he is no more. Curses on my folly! I might have been blessed and happy: but, in pursuit of the phantom Glory, I have sacrificed all I ever loved on earth. Oh! would to God that I had never visited Spain!”
A heavy groan behind him startled Roderick as he finished speaking; and turning round he beheld Alexis, who had now returned with the surgeon. The boy’s appearance was singular; his complexion was usually a clear, dark brown, with a rich glow of colour, and remarkably full rosy lips; now the deep colour on his cheeks remained unfaded; but his lips had assumed a ghastly livid hue, his limbs trembled with agitation, and a dark mysterious expression seemed to sit upon his features. Roderick looked at him with amazement and almost horror, as strange suspicions arose in his mind respecting him.
Before the Irish army had left Cadiz, it had been whispered that the Duke of Medina Celina’s claim to the throne was at least equal to that of the Prince whom Roderick was fighting to establish. The Duke, indeed, had many partisans, but his age and blindness enfeebled their efforts. An express from Cadiz had just brought intelligence that the Duke was dead; and as Zoe was his sole heiress, this extraordinary agitation in her page looked at least suspicious.
“I must beware of him,” thought Roderick, regarding him attentively; “for as Zoe knows that, notwithstanding my obligations to her, I shall never permit any monarch to reign
