Part 12 (1/2)
”Ah,” said Adrian, laughing; ”I fear me, Sir Knight, you have already bribed the umpire.”
Montreal's eyes and Adeline's met; and in that gaze Adeline forgot all her sorrows.
With a practised and skilful hand, Adrian touched the strings; and selecting a song which was less elaborate than those mostly in vogue amongst his countrymen, though still conceived in the Italian spirit, and in accordance with the sentiment he had previously expressed to Adeline, he sang as follows:- Love's Excuse for Sadness.
Chide not, beloved, if oft with thee I feel not rapture wholly; For aye the heart that's fill'd with love, Runs o'er in melancholy. To streams that glide in noon, the shade From summer skies is given; So, if my breast reflects the cloud, 'Tis but the cloud of heaven! Thine image gla.s.s'd within my soul So well the mirror keepeth; That, chide me not, if with the light The shadow also sleepeth.
”And now,” said Adrian, as he concluded, ”the lute is to you: I but preclude your prize.”
The Provencal laughed, and shook his head.-”With any other umpire, I had had my lute broken on my own head, for my conceit in provoking such a rival; but I must not shrink from a contest I have myself provoked, even though in one day twice defeated.” And with that, in a deep and exquisitely melodious voice, which wanted only more scientific culture to have challenged any compet.i.tion, the Knight of St. John poured forth: The Lay of the Troubadour.
1.
Gentle river, the moonbeam is hush'd on thy tide, On thy pathway of light to my lady I glide.
My boat, where the stream laves the castle, I moor,- All at rest save the maid and her young Troubadour!
As the stars to the waters that bore My bark, to my spirit thou art; Heaving yet, see it bound to the sh.o.r.e, So moor'd to thy beauty my heart,- Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie!
2.
Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath wealth for the vain; But Love breaks his bond when there's gold in the chain; Wilt thou fly from the world? It hath courts for the proud;- But Love, born in caves, pines to death in the crowd.
Were this bosom thy world, dearest one, Thy world could not fail to be bright; For thou shouldst thyself be its sun, And what spot could be dim in thy light- Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie?
3.
The rich and the great woo thee dearest; and poor, Though his fathers were princes, thy young Troubadour!
But his heart never quail'd save to thee, his adored,- There's no guile in his lute, and no stain on his sword.
Ah, I reck not what sorrows I know, Could I still on thy solace confide; And I care not, though earth be my foe, If thy soft heart be found by my side,- Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie!
4.
The maiden she blush'd, and the maiden she sighed, Not a cloud in the sky, not a gale on the tide; But though tempest had raged on the wave and the wind, That castle, methinks, had been still left behind!
Sweet lily, though bow'd by the blast, (To this bosom transplanted) since then, Wouldst thou change, could we call the past, To the rock from thy garden again- Bel' amie, bel' amie, bel' amie?
Thus they alternated the time with converse and song, as the wooded hills threw their sharp, long shadows over the sea; while from many a mound of waking flowers, and many a copse of citron and orange, relieved by the dark and solemn aloe, stole the summer breeze, laden with mingled odours; and, over the seas, coloured by the slow-fading hues of purple and rose, that the sun had long bequeathed to the twilight, flitted the gay fireflies that sparkle along that enchanted coast. At length, the moon slowly rose above the dark forest-steeps, gleaming on the gay pavilion and glittering pennon of Montreal,-on the verdant sward,-the polished mail of the soldiers, stretched on the gra.s.s in various groups, half-shaded by oaks and cypress, and the war-steeds grazing peaceably together-a wild mixture of the Pastoral and the Iron time.
Adrian, reluctantly reminded of his journey, rose to depart.
”I fear,” said he to Adeline, ”that I have already detained you too late in the night air: but selfishness is little considerate.”
”Nay, you see we are prudent,” said Adeline, pointing to Montreal's mantle, which his provident hand had long since drawn around her form; ”but if you must part, farewell, and success attend you!”
”We may meet again, I trust,” said Adrian.
Adeline sighed gently; and the Colonna, gazing on her face by the moonlight, to which it was slightly raised, was painfully struck by its almost transparent delicacy. Moved by his compa.s.sion, ere he mounted his steed, he drew Montreal aside,-”Forgive me if I seem presumptuous,” said he; ”but to one so n.o.ble this wild life is scarce a fitting career. I know that, in our time, War consecrates all his children; but surely a settled rank in the court of the Emperor, or an honourable reconciliation with your knightly brethren, were better-”
”Than a Tartar camp, and a brigand's castle,” interrupted Montreal, with some impatience. ”This you were about to say-you are mistaken. Society thrust me from her bosom; let society take the fruit it hath sown. 'A fixed rank,' say you? some subaltern office, to fight at other men's command! You know me not: Walter de Montreal was not formed to obey. War when I will, and rest when I list, is the motto of my escutcheon. Ambition proffers me rewards you wot not of; and I am of the mould as of the race of those whose swords have conquered thrones. For the rest, your news of the alliance of Louis of Hungary with your Tribune makes it necessary for the friend of Louis to withdraw from all feud with Rome. Ere the week expire, the owl and the bat may seek refuge in yon grey turrets.”
”But your lady?”
”Is inured to change.-G.o.d help her, and temper the rough wind to the lamb!”
”Enough, Sir Knight: but should you desire a sure refuge at Rome for one so gentle and so highborn, by the right hand of a knight, I promise a safe roof and an honoured home to the Lady Adeline.”
Montreal pressed the offered hand to his heart; then plucking his own hastily away, drew it across his eyes, and joined Adeline, in a silence that showed he dared not trust himself to speak. In a few moments Adrian and his train were on the march; but still the young Colonna turned back, to gaze once more on his wild host and that lovely lady, as they themselves lingered on the moonlit sward, while the sea rippled mournfully on their ears.
It was not many months after that date, that the name of Fra Monreale scattered terror and dismay throughout the fair Campania. The right hand of the Hungarian king, in his invasion of Naples, he was chosen afterwards vicar (or vice-gerent) of Louis in Aversa; and fame and fate seemed to lead him triumphantly along that ambitious career which he had elected, whether bounded by the scaffold or the throne.
BOOK IV. THE TRIUMPH AND THE POMP.
”Allora fama e paura di si buono reggimento, pa.s.sa in ogni terra.”-”Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. cap. 21.
”Then the fame and the fear of that so good government pa.s.sed into every land.”-”Life of Cola di Rienzi”.
Chapter 4.I. The Boy Angelo-the Dream of Nina Fulfilled.
The thread of my story transports us back to Rome. It was in a small chamber, in a ruinous mansion by the base of Mount Aventine, that a young boy sate, one evening, with a woman of a tall and stately form, but somewhat bowed both by infirmity and years. The boy was of a fair and comely presence; and there was that in his bold, frank, undaunted carriage, which made him appear older than he was.
The old woman, seated in the recess of the deep window, was apparently occupied with a Bible that lay open on her knees; but ever and anon she lifted her eyes, and gazed on her young companion with a sad and anxious expression.
”Dame,” said the boy, who was busily employed in hewing out a sword of wood, ”I would you had seen the show today. Why, every day is a show at Rome now! It is show enough to see the Tribune himself on his white steed-(oh, it is so beautiful!)-with his white robes all studded with jewels. But today, as I have just been telling you, the Lady Nina took notice of me, as I stood on the stairs of the Capitol: you know, dame, I had donned my best blue velvet doublet.”
”And she called you a fair boy, and asked if you would be her little page; and this has turned thy brain, silly urchin that thou art-”
”But the words are the least: if you saw the Lady Nina, you would own that a smile from her might turn the wisest head in Italy. Oh, how I should like to serve the Tribune! All the lads of my age are mad for him. How they will stare, and envy me at school tomorrow! You know too, dame, that though I was not always brought up at Rome, I am Roman. Every Roman loves Rienzi.”
”Ay, for the hour: the cry will soon change. This vanity of thine, Angelo, vexes my old heart. I would thou wert humbler.”