Tales of the Wonder Club Volume III Part 5

[_Touching his sword hilt._

D. ALF. Chafe not thyself; the deed is done. No more Mar not the precious moments of our parting With fiery words, like braggadocio, Or vain lamentings of the fatal past, But let us rather draw unto the table, And o'er a merry flask of Val de Penas Strive to forget all sorrow.

D. PAS. So say I; [_Seating themselves at the table._ And here's to thy safe journey and return To thy most beloved Salamanca.

And here's to the eyes that await thee there.

Here's also to the delicate moustache----

D. ALF. Enough, enough, my friend. Such toasts as these Keep for thyself. I've other ends in view.

I have to carve my pa.s.sage through the world, To which no syren's eyes must be a hindrance.

Wish me but success in all my studies.

D. PAS. Ay, so I do, Alfonso, from my heart.

D. ALF. As to thyself, Pascual, as it seems Thou art but little formed for study, being Of a too warm and hasty temperament To find much solace in the student's page, Preferring lone rambles and sylvan sports To the uncertain fame a scholar seeks.

To thee, and such as thee, the love of woman Thy ardent nature will not fail to find Out of the many one whom thou canst love.

May she be virtuous as she is fair, And worthy of thy love as thou of hers.

D. PAS. I thank thee, but as yet my heart is whole.

May I dare hope yet that a time may come When a woman's love and a happy home To thee may not be all contemptible.

Heigho!

D. ALF. Thou sighest. Sure thou art in love.

D. PAS. Not so, my friend, not yet.

D. ALF. Then wherefore sigh?

D. PAS. Thou hast awoke strange mem'ries in my mind-- Events long past that I'd but all forgot.

'Tis nothing, thou'lt say--mere childish fancy.

Prithee, friend Alfonso, tell me one thing.

Dost really think I come of gipsy blood?

D. ALF. What! Is it there the shoe still pinches? Ha!

Fill up another b.u.mper of this wine And wash down the word, else it will choke thee.

D. PAS. Nay, I am serious, and would have thy word.

Tell me in honour, now, what thou dost think.

D. ALF. Bah! What matters it? Thou art somewhat dark; But, as thou well sayst, so are all our race.

D. PAS. True. But what think'st thou?

D. ALF. Faith! I cannot tell.

Perhaps over dark for a Castilian.

D. PAS. Ha! Say'st thou so? I've long thought so myself.

And what confirms me in the thought is this, That ever since my earliest youth I've felt A strange affection for these gipsy tribes-- A sympathy for their wild wandering life And fierce impatience at the cold restraints By which well-bred society doth cramp Our fervid pa.s.sions. Friend, thou knowest me well.

Thou sayest well I am not formed for study, That is to say, such studies as thine own-- Th' intricacies of law, philosophy, The mysteries of theology, and all The lore for which you students sap your youth.

My book is nature. In the open fields I've loved to lie at night and watch the stars, The various aspects of the changing moon, Or on the giddy mountain peak at morn To view the first beams of the rising sun As from the rosy horizon it climbs Up towards the purple zenith. At midday I love to rest me in the sylvan shade And watch the deer grazing on the rich turf, Or else in company of some jovial friends, Hunt these poor denizens from their peaceful haunts, And, heated with the chase, dismount and slake My parching thirst from out the neighbouring brook.

Full oft in my wild wanderings I have pa.s.sed Through desert places, where no dwelling was, And, overcome by hunger and fatigue, Have well nigh fainted, but in such cases, When human hospitality doth fail Nature comes to the rescue and procures Its roots and berries, sometimes luscious fruit: And thus I've journeyed often from my youth, Encountering many dangers in my path.

Twice captured by the brigands, nor set free Without heavy ransom. More than once I've 'scaped unaided from the blades of ruffians, But not unscathed, and fighting hand to hand.

I've also fallen in with the gipsy tribes, And lived among them, too, in early youth, Till I became familiar with their tongue, Their life and customs, for when yet a child They stole me from my friends, whoe'er they were, But I was rescued, and the dusky tribe Were driven out from that part of the land.

Among my early reminiscences I can recall the tall and bronzed form Of one who should have been the queen of them, For so I've heard her styled. I met her oft; And when I first remember her she bore A countenance as beautiful as day.

I have not seen her now for many years.

When last I met her I could plainly see That time and trouble and a roving life Had left their stamp upon her dusky brow.

But I had nought to fear from _her_. The crone Would call me to her and caress me, too; Call me endearing names, and, as a proof Of further love, she gave this ring to me; Made me swear it ne'er should leave my finger, And that some day it would protect my life.

For should I fall in with the gipsy band, On seeing this token they would let me pa.s.s Without let or hindrance, so she said.

For years I have not seen the gipsy band, And therefore have not put it to the proof; But still I've kept my vow, and from that time I ne'er have doffed it. And now tell me, friend, If what I've just told you does not prove Me sprung from gipsy blood?

D. ALF. We cannot help Our birth. What matters it our parentage?

D. PAS. Thou seest not, then, what it is that galls me.

List. If I be of gipsy origin, I must be likewise b.a.s.t.a.r.d, for whoe'er Did hear of legal marriage in a case Of love 'twixt Christian and a gipsy maid?

Knowest thou not what the term "b.a.s.t.a.r.d" means?

Could I once but meet my spurious father, He should account for sending me adrift And nameless through the world, or I'd know why.

For know, whate'er my origin may be, I have been brought up as a gentleman, And hope to marry one of gentle blood.

What proud Castilian family would mate A cherished daughter to a lineage soiled?

D. ALF. I do acknowledge thy perplexity.

But b.a.s.t.a.r.d though thou beest, thou'rt still a man.

Would'st 'rase the bar sinister from thy shield, Or, what is much the same, cast it i' the shade, So that it appear not for the l.u.s.tre Of thy many and resplendent virtues?

Make thy name famous. Fame, however bought, Hath ne'er failed to win the heart of woman.

A woman's heart being once securely won, The vict'ry's thine. Th' obstacles that follow Thou'lt find will not be insurmountable; I mean, to gain the parents' full consent.

But he must fight who'd win. And now, adieu I have no time to tarry longer. See, My mule is saddled, and I must away.

Detain me not, my friend, for I would fain Reach the adjacent township ere nightfall.

D. PAS. Bless thee, Alfonso, and fortune speed thee.

D. ALF. The like to thee, Pascual, from my heart.

[_They embrace. Exit Alfonso. Pascual remains behind and waves his handkerchief from the terrace._

D. PAS. Adios! He is gone. His ambling mule Has borne its gallant freight far out of sight.

Farewell, Alfonso. Fortune be thy guide, Truest of comrades, best of counsellors, Ride _thou_, my friend, towards fame, whilst I, Pascual, Like Cain, must roam the earth, a vagabond, Flying the face of man, by man pursued; A price set on my head. Not merely b.a.s.t.a.r.d, But vagabond! What was't he said of fame?

He mocked me. Fame for an outlawed gipsy!

An it be not such fame the gallows brings, Write me down lucky. Would not an attempt To bring my name to light sign my death warrant?

My friend thought not of this. For such as I The monast'ry's sequestered cell were good, Rather than fame. But courage yet! I feel The blood of our dark race boil in my veins, And cry shame on my fears. Then fame be it, But not that fame Alfonso wrings from books.

Not that for me. The valour of my arm, The patient wasting of my hardy frame Shall win the fame I seek. For I recall The words long spoken, and but all forgot, By that same gipsy queen when first she gazed Into my infant palm. "Hail to thee, child!

For thou beneath a lucky star was born.

Fortune," she said, "hath marked thee for her own."

These are the words. I cannot choose, but trust.

Shine out, my star, since thou dost lead me on, For as the loadstone draws the unwilling steel Unto itself, so man is led by fate.

Avaunt, base fear, and fortune, thus I seize thee. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_A wild ravine. Gipsies, headed by the Gipsy Queen, in ambush._

GIP. Q. This way she comes. Now to your work; but mark!

Exceed not my commands. Do her no harm, Show yourselves loyal to your queen, as men, And not wild beasts.