“Patience! patience! my good friend.”
“I have no patience, I can have no patience, when I hear my daughter scandalized—my poor motherless girl! Remember, if she should err, she lost her mother in her childhood—she has been always brought up with me, and as she has been the playfellow of your sons, from her earliest infancy, perhaps she may not act according to those rigid restraints imposed upon her sex, by those who have been secluded from the society of men. But she means well, Sir Ambrose, she means well I am certain, and I’d answer for her virtue with my life. Besides, you know, she has always been used to have an intimate friend of the other sex;—You know Edmund—”
“No one ever blamed her whilst Edmund was her friend.”
“And who dares blame her now? No one, I trust, whilst I have an arm and a sword ready to defend her.”
“My good friend, you reason like a fond father; who, though he sees, is willing to excuse the faults of his offspring: your judgment condemns Elvira, even more than mine.”
“No, no—if I thought her wrong, I should blame her as you do. Your partiality to Edmund blinds you, and you fancy my poor child has a thousand faults, because she was not sensible to the merit of your son.”
“You mistake me quite; my opinion of Elvira would be just the same if Edmund were not in existence: though I acknowledge frankly, that every time I see his fine noble countenance, worn with care—his pale cheeks and sunken eyes—I feel a pang through my inmost soul. It is a strange infatuation that she should repulse my noble boy, and yet elope so readily with a youth she scarcely knew.”
“Take care what you say, Sir Ambrose—take care what you say—I will not have my child insulted.”
“I do not wish to insult her—I speak but the truth—I do not even think her guilty, though the whole Court rings with her shame.”
“Guilt! shame! And this to me! Oh God! Oh God! I have lived too long! To hear my child thus basely slandered, and be unable to resent it!”
“Base! and is this the conclusion of our long friendship—Base! and have I lived to be called base, for merely blaming a coquettish wanton?”
“Wanton!” cried the Duke, and transported by his passion he struck Sir Ambrose violently. The aged baronet could not endure this insult; his sword flew from his scabbard, and in a few seconds these ancient friends were engaged in mortal combat.
It was a shocking thing to see these two old men, their white hair streaming in the wind—their venerable features wrinkled with age, and their feeble frames tottering for support—fighting with all the vindictive fury of youth. How fearful is the storm of passion! How vile the human heart when left to its own workings! Every gentler feeling was extinguished in the breasts of the two veterans, and only brutal rage remained. For some time victory was doubtful; but at last Sir Ambrose fell, and in another moment the sword of his antagonist would have passed through his bosom, had not a powerful arm arrested the stroke. It was Edmund! he had heard the clashing of swords at a distance, and, rushing to the spot, arrived just in time to prevent the fatal blow.
“Oh my father!” cried Edmund with a thrill of horror, “for God’s sake, do not die till you have forgiven me! He hears me not!” cried he, wringing his hands in unutterable anguish. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, speak! Do not destroy me.”
Sir Ambrose feebly opened his languid eyes: “Farewell,” said he, faintly: “God bless you!”
“Oh, do you forgive me!” shrieked Edmund, falling upon his knees.
“I do,” said Sir Ambrose: “and—the—Duke;” the words feebly ebbed from his lips; and, as he spoke, the fearful rattle of death gurgled in his throat, and with a convulsive sob he expired.
Sadly did the Duke now gaze upon his fallen foe, but when he found him dead he was distracted. Madly he tore his hair, and threw himself upon the corpse; but his agonies were in vain, the vital spark was extinct. Edmund stood also for some seconds gazing upon the body, without any distinct idea existing in his mind; but when the whole sad reality rushed upon him, he could not endure his own thoughts, and darted away with the velocity of lightning. The Duke heeded not his departure; he had thrown himself upon the body of his departed friend, and the whole universe seemed to contain for him only that bloody corpse. “I have killed him! I have killed him!” cried he, “I have killed him!”
His fearful shrieks soon drew many persons to the spot. “I have killed him!” screamed the Duke, in answer to all interrogations; “I have killed him!” Abelard was one of the first collected round this mournful spectacle. “What can we do?” said he to Father Murphy—“the case seems desperate.”
“I have killed him!” again screamed the Duke in agony.
“He’s entirely mad,” said Father Murphy, “and there’s no doubt of it.”
“I’ve killed him!” repeated the Duke, with a still more piercing shriek; “I’ve killed him!”
“Oh he is mad!” cried all the spectators, whilst they attempted to remove him from the spot. With infinite difficulty they succeeded, he still clinging to the corpse, and screaming “I’ve killed him!” till his voice was lost in the distance.
Whilst these scenes were transacting at the English Court, the army of Roderick marched through the kingdom without opposition, for the people everywhere, tired of the tyranny of her rival, received Elvira with open arms, and the chief nobility vied with each other in opening their houses to entertain her and her suite as she passed along.
It was a fine evening in March, and the night was clear, though
