Romantic legends of Spain

Both were natives of Toledo; together they had first borne arms; and on one and the same day, their eyes meeting those of Doña Inés, both had conceived a hidden and ardent love for her, a love that for some time grew in secrecy and silence, but at length came to an involuntary betrayal of itself in their actions and conversation.

At the tournaments in the Zocodover, at the floral games of the court, whenever opportunity was presented for rivalry in gallantry or wit, both knights had availed themselves of it with eagerness, desirous to win distinction under the eyes of their lady; and that night, impelled doubtless by the same passion, changing their helmets for plumes and their mail for brocade and silk, standing together by the seat where she rested a moment after a turn through the salons, they began to engage in a brilliant contest of exquisite and ingenious phrases or keen and covert epigrams.

The lesser stars of that sparkling constellation, forming a gilded semicircle around the two gallants, laughed and cheered on the delicate strife; and the fair lady, the prize of that word-tournament, approved with a scarcely perceptible smile the flashes of wit, elegantly phrased or full of hidden meaning, whether they fell from the lips of her adorers like a light wave of perfume flattering to her vanity, or leapt forth like a sharp arrow seeking to pierce the opponent in his most vulnerable point, his self-love.

Already with each sally the courtly combat of wit and gallantry was growing fiercer; the phrases were still civil in form, but terse and dry, and in the speaking, accompanied though it was by a slight curving of the lips in semblance of a smile, unconcealable lightnings of the eyes betrayed that repressed anger which raged in the breasts of the rivals.

It was a situation that could not be sustained. The lady, so perceiving, had risen to make another tour of the salons, when an incident occurred that broke down the barrier of formal courtesy which had hitherto restrained the two enamoured youths. Perchance intentionally, perchance through carelessness, Doña Inés had let fall upon her lap one of her perfumed gloves whose golden buttons she had amused herself in pulling off one by one during the conversation. As she rose, the glove slipped between the wide silken plaits of her dress and fell upon the carpet. Seeing it drop, all the knights who formed her brilliant retinue bent eagerly to recover it, disputing with one another the honor of a slight inclination of her head as a reward of their gallantry.

Noting the precipitation with which all stooped to pick up her glove, a half smile of satisfied vanity appeared on the lips of the haughty Doña Inés. With a gesture of general acknowledgment to the cavaliers who had shown such eagerness to serve her, the lady, with a lofty, arrogant mien and scarcely glancing in that direction, reached out her hand for the glove toward Lope and Alonso, the first to reach it. In fact, both youths had seen the glove fall close to their feet, both had stooped with equal haste to pick it up and, on rising, each held it seized by one end. On seeing them immovable, looking silent defiance each upon the other, and both determined not to give up the glove which they had just raised from the floor, the lady uttered a light, involuntary cry, stifled by the murmur of the astonished spectators. The whole presented a threatening scene, that there in the royal castle and in the presence of the king might be designated as a serious breach of courtesy.

Lope and Alonso, notwithstanding, remained motionless, mute, scanning each other from head to foot, showing no sign of the tempest in their souls save by a slight nervous tremor which shivered through their limbs as if they had been attacked by a sudden fever.

The murmurs and exclamations were reaching a climax. The people began to group themselves around the principal actors in the scene. Doña Inés, either bewildered or taking delight in prolonging the situation, was moving to and fro as if seeking refuge or escape from the eyes of the throng whose numbers were continually augmented. Catastrophe now seemed inevitable. The two young men had already exchanged a few words in an undertone, and each, while still with one hand holding the glove in a convulsive grip, seemed instinctively to be seeking with the other the golden hilt of his poniard, when the crowd of spectators respectfully opened and there appeared the king.

His brow was tranquil. There was neither indignation in his countenance nor anger in his bearing.

He surveyed the scene; one glance was sufficient to put him in command of the situation. With all the grace of the most accomplished page, he drew the glove from the young knights’ hands which, as though moved by a spring, opened without difficulty at the touch of their sovereign, and turning to Doña Inés de Tordesillas, who, leaning on the arm of a duenna, seemed about to faint, said with a firm though controlled voice, as he presented the glove:

“Take it, señora, and be careful not to let it fall again, lest when you recover it, you find it stained with blood.”

By the time the king had finished speaking, Doña Inés, we will not undertake to say whether overcome by emotion, or in order to retreat more gracefully from the situation, had swooned in the arms of those about her.

Alonso and Lope, the former crushing in silence between his hands his velvet cap whose plume trailed along the carpet, and the latter biting his lips till the blood came, fixed each other with a stubborn, intense stare.

A stare at that crisis was equivalent to a blow, a glove thrown in the face, a challenge to mortal combat.

II

At midnight, the king and queen retired to their chamber. The ball was at an end, and the inquisitive folk outside, who, forming groups and circles in the vicinity of the palace, had been impatiently awaiting this moment, ran to station themselves beside the steep road, up in the balconies along the route, and in the central square of the city, known as the Zocodover.

For an hour or two there reigned, at these points and in the adjacent streets, clamor, bustle, activity indescribable. Everywhere might be seen squires caracoling on their richly caparisoned steeds, masters-at-arms with showy vestments full of shields and heraldic devices, drummers dressed in gay colors, soldiers in shining armor, pages in velvet cloaks and plumed hats, footmen who preceded luxurious chairs and litters covered with rich cloth. The great, blazing torches borne by the footmen cast a rosy glow upon the multitude, who, with wondering faces, open mouths and frightened eyes, saw with amazement all the chief nobility of Castile passing by, surrounded on that occasion by fabulous splendor and pomp.

Then, by degrees, the noise and excitement subsided, the stained glass in the lofty ogive windows of the palace ceased to shine, the last cavalcade passed through the close-packed throngs, the rabble in their turn began to disperse in all directions, disappearing among the shadows of the puzzling labyrinth formed by those dark, narrow, tortuous streets, and now the deep silence of the night was broken only by the far-off call of some sentinel, the footsteps of some lingerer whose curiosity had left him to the last, the clang of bolts and bars in closing gates, when on the summit of the stone stairway which leads to the platform of the palace, there appeared a knight, who, after looking on all sides as if seeking some one who should have been expecting him, slowly descended to the Cuesta del Alcazar, by which he took his way toward the Zocodover.

On arriving at the square, he halted a moment and cast a searching glance around. The night was dark, not a star glistened in the sky, nor in all the square could a single light be seen; yet afar off, and in the same direction in which he began to perceive a slight sound as of approaching footsteps, he believed he saw the figure of a man, without doubt the same whom he had seemed to await with such impatience.

The knight who had just quitted the castle for the Zocodover was Alonso Carrillo, who, on account of the post of honor which he held near the person of the king, had been kept on attendance in the royal chamber until that hour. The man coming to meet him out of the shadows of the arcades which surround the square was Lope de Sandoval. When the two knights were face to face, they exchanged a few sentences in suppressed voices.

“I thought you would be expecting me,” said the one.

“I hoped that you would surmise as much,” answered the other.

“Where shall we go?”

“Wherever there can be found four handsbreadth of ground to turn around in and a ray to give us light.”

This briefest of dialogues ended, the two young men plunged into one of the narrow streets leading out from the Zocodover and vanished in the darkness like those phantoms of the night, which, after terrifying for an instant the beholder, dissolve into atoms of mist and are lost in the depth of the shadows.

A long time they went on, traversing the streets of Toledo, seeking a suitable place to end their quarrel, but the darkness of the night was so dense that the duel seemed impossible. Yet both wished to fight and to fight before the whitening of the east; for at dawn the royal hosts were to go forth, and Alonso with them.

So they pressed on, threading at random deserted squares, dusky alleys, long and gloomy passages, till at last they saw shining in the distance a light, a light small and waning, about which the mist formed a circle of ghostly, glimmering lustre.

They had reached the Street of the Christ, and the radiance discernible at one end seemed to come from the small lantern which illuminated then and illuminates still the image that gives the street its name.

On seeing it, both let escape an exclamation of joy and, quickening their steps toward it, were not long in finding themselves near the shrine in which it burned.

An arched recess in the wall, in the depths of which might be seen the image of the Redeemer, nailed to the cross, with a skull at his feet, a rude board covering for protection from the weather, and a small lantern hung by a cord, swaying with the wind and shedding a faint effulgence, constituted the entire shrine. About it clung festoons of ivy which had sprung up among the dark and broken stones forming, as it were, a curtain of verdure.

The cavaliers, after reverently saluting the image of Christ by removing their military caps and murmuring a short prayer, glanced over the ground, threw off their mantles and, each perceiving the other to be ready for the combat and both giving the signal by a slight motion of the head, crossed swords. But scarcely had the blades touched when, before either of the combatants had been able to take a single step or strike a blow, the light suddenly went out, leaving the street plunged in utter darkness. As if moved by the same thought, the two antagonists, on finding themselves surrounded by that instantaneous gloom, took a step backward, lowered the points of their swords to the ground and raised their eyes to the lantern, whose light, a moment before extinguished, began to shine anew at the very instant the duel was suspended.

“It must have been some passing gust that lowered the flame,” exclaimed Carrillo, placing himself again on guard, and giving warning to Lope, who seemed preoccupied.

Lope took a step forward to recover the lost ground, extended his arm and the blades touched once more, but at their touching the light again went out of itself, remaining thus until the swords separated.

“In truth, but this is strange!” murmured Lope, gazing at the lantern which had begun spontaneously to burn again. The gleam, slowly wavering with the wind, spread a tremulous, wonderful radiance over the yellow skull placed at the feet of Christ.

“Bah!” said Alonso, “it must be because the holy woman who has charge of the lamp cheats the devotees and scants the oil, so that the light, almost out, brightens and then darkens again in its dying agony.”

Thus speaking, the impetuous youth placed himself once more in attitude of defence. His opponent did the same; but this time, not only were they enveloped in a thick and impenetrable gloom, but simultaneously there fell upon their ears the deep echo of a mysterious voice like those long sighs of the south-west wind which seems to complain and articulate words as it wanders imprisoned in the crooked, narrow and dim streets of Toledo.

What was uttered by that fearful and superhuman voice never could be learned; but on hearing it, both youths were seized with such profound terror that their swords dropped from their hands, their hair stood on end, and over their bodies, shaken by an involuntary tremor, and down their pallid and distorted brows a cold sweat like that of death began to flow.

The light, for the third time quenched, for the third time shone again and dispelled the dark.

“Ah!” exclaimed Lope, beholding him who was now his opponent, in other days his best friend, astounded like himself, like himself pale and motionless, “God does not mean to permit this combat, for it is a fratricidal contest; because a duel between us is an offence to heaven in whose sight we have sworn a hundred times eternal friendship.” And saying this he threw himself into the arms of Alonso, who clasped him in his own with unspeakable strength and fervor.

III

Some moments passed during which both youths indulged in every endearment of friendship and love. Alonso spoke first and, in accents touched by the scene which we have just related, exclaimed, addressing his comrade:

“Lope, I know that you love Doña Inés; perhaps not as much as I, but you love her. Since a duel between us is impossible, let us agree to place our fate in her hands. Let us go and seek her, let her decide with free choice which of us shall be the happy one, which the wretched. Her decision shall be respected by both, and he who does not gain her favor shall to-morrow go forth with the King of Toledo and shall seek the comfort of forgetfulness in the excitement of war.”

“Since you wish it, so let it be,” replied Lope.

And arm in arm the two friends took their way toward the cathedral beneath whose shadow, in a palace of which there are now no remains, dwelt Doña Inés de Tordesillas.

It was early dawn, and as some of the kindred of Doña Inés, among them her brothers, were to march the coming day with the royal army, it was not impossible that early in the morning they could gain admittance to her palace.

Inspired by this hope they arrived, at last, at the base of the Gothic tower of the church, but on reaching that point a peculiar noise attracted their attention and, stopping in one of the angles, concealed among the shadows of the lofty buttresses that support the walls, they saw, to their amazement, a man emerging from a window upon the balcony of their lady’s apartments in the palace. He lightly descended to the ground by the help of a rope and, finally, a white figure, Doña Inés undoubtedly, appeared upon the balcony and, leaning over the fretted parapet, exchanged tender phrases of farewell with her mysterious lover.

The first motion of the two youths was to place their hands on their sword-hilts, but checking themselves, as though struck by a common thought, they turned to look on one another, each discerning on the other’s face a look of astonishment so ludicrous that both broke forth into loud laughter, laughter which, rolling on from echo to echo in the silence of the night, resounded through the square even to the palace.

Hearing it, the white figure vanished from the balcony, a noise of slamming doors was heard, and then silence resumed her reign.

On the following day, the queen, seated on a most sumptuous dais, saw defile past her the hosts who were marching to the war against the Moors. At her side were the principal ladies of Toledo. Among them was Doña Inés de Tordesillas on whom this day, as ever, all eyes were bent. But it seemed to her that they wore a different expression from that to which she was accustomed. She would have said that in all the curious looks cast upon her lurked a mocking smile.

This discovery could not but disquiet her, remembering, as she did, the noisy laughter which, the night before, she had thought she heard at a distance in one of the angles of the square, while she was closing her balcony and bidding adieu to her lover; but when she saw among the ranks of the army marching below the dais, sparks of fire glancing from their brilliant armor, and a cloud of dust enveloping them, the two reunited banners of the houses of Carrillo and Sandoval; when she saw the significant smile which the two former rivals, on saluting the queen, directed toward herself, she comprehended all. The blush of shame reddened her face and tears of chagrin glistened in her eyes.

THE WHITE DOE

IN a small town of Aragon, about the end of the thirteenth century or a little later, there lived retired in his seigniorial castle a renowned knight named Don Dionís, who, having served his king in the war against the infidels, was then taking his ease, giving himself up to the merry exercise of hunting, after the wearisome hardships of war.

It chanced once to this cavalier, engaged in his favorite diversion, accompanied by his daughter whose singular beauty, of the blond type extraordinary in Spain, had won her the name of White Lily, that as the increasing heat of the day began to tell upon them, absorbed in pursuing a quarry in the mountainous part of his estate, he took for his resting-place during the hours of the siesta a glen through which ran a rivulet leaping from rock to rock with a soft and pleasant sound.

It might have been a matter of some two hours that Don Dionís had lingered in that delectable retreat, reclining on the delicate grass in the shade of a black-poplar grove, talking affably with his huntsmen about the incidents of the day, while they related one to another more or less curious adventures that had befallen them in their hunting experiences, when along the top of the highest ridge and between alternating murmurs of the wind which stirred the leaves on the trees, he began to perceive, each time more near, the sound of a little bell like that of the leader of a flock.

In truth, it was really that, for very soon after the first hearing of the bell, there came leaping over the thick undergrowth of lavender and thyme, descending to the opposite bank of the rivulet, nearly a hundred lambs white as snow, and behind them appeared their shepherd with his pointed hood drawn over his brows to protect him from the vertical rays of the sun and with his shoulder-bag swung from the end of a stick.

“Speaking of remarkable adventures,” exclaimed on seeing him one of the huntsmen of Don Dionís, addressing his lord, “here is Esteban, the shepherd-lad, who has been now for some time more of a fool than God made him, which was fool enough. He can give us an amusing half-hour by relating the cause of his continual frights.”

“But what is it that happens to this poor devil?” exclaimed Don Dionís with an air of piqued curiosity.

“A mere trifle,” continued the huntsman in a jesting tone. “The case is this – that without having been born on Good Friday, or bearing a birthmark of the cross, or, so far as one can infer from his regular Christian habits, binding himself to the Devil, he finds himself, not knowing why or whence, endowed with the most marvellous faculty that any man ever possessed, unless it be Solomon, who, they say, understood even the language of birds.”

“And with what does this remarkable faculty have to do?”

“It has to do,” pursued the huntsman, “as he affirms, and he swears and forswears it by all that is most sacred, with a conspiracy among the deer which course through these mountains not to leave him in peace, the drollest thing about it being that on more than one occasion he has surprised them in the act of contriving the pranks they were going to play on him and after those tricks had been carried through he has overheard the noisy bursts of laughter with which they applaud them.”

While the huntsman was thus speaking, Constanza, as the beautiful daughter of Don Dionís was named, had drawn near the group of sportsmen and, as she appeared curious to hear the strange experience of Esteban, one of them ran on to the place where the young shepherd was watering his flock and brought him into the presence of his lord, who, to dispel the perturbation and evident embarrassment of the poor peasant, hastened to greet him by name, accompanying the salutation with a benevolent smile.

Esteban was a boy of nineteen or twenty years, robust in build, with a small head sunken between his shoulders, little blue eyes, a wavering, stupid glance like that of albinos, a flat nose, thick, half open lips, low forehead, complexion fair but tanned by the sun, and hair which fell partly over his eyes and partly around his face, in rough red locks like the mane of a sorrel nag.

Such, more or less exactly, was Esteban in point of physique. In respect to his character, it could be asserted without fear of denial on his own part or on that of any one who knew him, that he was an entirely honest, simple-hearted lad, though, like a true peasant, a little suspicious and malicious.

As soon as the shepherd had recovered from his confusion, Don Dionís again addressed him and, in the most serious tone in the world, feigning an extraordinary interest in learning the details of the event to which his huntsman had referred, put to him a multitude of questions to which Esteban began to reply evasively, as if desirous of escaping any discussion of the subject.

Constrained, nevertheless, by the demands of his lord and the entreaties of Constanza, who seemed most curious and eager that the shepherd should relate his astounding adventures, he decided to talk freely, but not without casting a distrustful glance about him as though fearing to be overheard by others than those present, and scratching his head three or four times in the effort to connect his recollections or find the thread of his narrative, before at last he thus began:

“The fact is, my lord, that as a priest of Tarazona to whom, not long ago, I went for help in my troubles, told me, wits don’t serve against the Devil, but mum! finger on lip, many good prayers to Saint Bartholomew – who, none better, knows his knaveries – and let him have his sport; for God, who is just, and sits up thereon high, will see that all comes right in the end.

“Resolved on this course I had decided never again to say a word to any one about it, – no, not for anything; but I will do it to-day to satisfy your curiosity, and in good sooth, if, after all, the Devil calls me to account and goes to troubling me in punishment for my indiscretion, I carry the Holy Gospels sewed inside my sheepskin coat, and with their help, I think that, as at other times, I may make telling use of a cudgel.”

“But, come!” exclaimed Don Dionís, out of patience with the digressions of the shepherd, which it seemed would never end, “let the whys and wherefores go, and come directly to the subject.”

“I am coming to it,” calmly replied Esteban, and after calling together, by dint of a shout and a whistle, the lambs of which he had not lost sight and which were now beginning to scatter over the mountain-side, he scratched his head again and proceeded thus:

“On the one hand, your own continual hunting trips, and on the other, the persistency of those trespassers who, what with snare and what with crossbow, hardly leave a deer alive in twenty days’ journey round about, had, a little time ago, so thinned out the game in these mountains that you could not find a stag in them, not though you would give one of your eyes.

“I was speaking of this in the town, seated in the porch of the church, where after mass on Sunday I was in the habit of joining some laborers who till the soil in Veratón, when some of them said to me:

“ ‘Well, man, I don’t know why it is you fail to run across them, since, as for us, we can give you our word that we don’t once go down to the ploughed land without coming upon their tracks, and it is only three or four days since, without going further back, a herd, which, to judge by their hoof-prints, must have numbered more than twenty, cut down before its time a crop of wheat belonging to the care-taker of the Virgen del Romeral.’

“ ‘And in what direction did the track lead?’ I asked the laborers, with a mind to see if I could fall in with the herd.