Gómez Arias
CHAPTER VII.
Padre mio, caro padre, E tu ancor m'abbandoni!
_Guarini._
I know not how to tell thee; Shame rises in my face and interrupts The story of my tongue.
_Otway._
Bermudo, the renegade, having received instructions from El Feri soonafter the affair of the Sierra Bermeja, returned to Alhaurin, where hefound Caneri in an extacy of uncontrollable joy. His late extravagancehad of course been considerably augmented by the news of the recentsuccess. So elated were his spirits, and so confident did he feel of thehappy results which would attend all the future operations of the Moors,that, forgetting a secret dislike he always entertained to actualstrife, he talked of heading a body, and meeting the Christians, whowere rapidly advancing upon Alhaurin: but the renegade broughtdifferent injunctions from El Feri, who was now looked upon, by commonconsent, as the supreme arbitrator of the Moorish cause. Caneri wasordered, unfortunately for the display of his present ebullition ofvalour, to fortify himself in Alhaurin, and prepare a retreat forMohabed, in case the rash expedition of that chief against Gomez Ariasshould prove unsuccessful.
All El Feri's persuasions had been thrown away upon Mohabed, who, quiteinexperienced in war, and highly flushed by their recent victory, haddescended the Sierra Bermeja with a strong division to offer battle tothe Spaniards. Caneri submissively followed the orders of his brother incommand. Indeed in his present exhilaration of spirits, he would submitalmost to any thing, except to renounce the outward show of dignity, forCaneri was one of those good-natured soldiers, who can be satisfied withthe shadow, whilst other leaders possessed the substance of power.
In every age and country, there needs must be warriors of alldescriptions; some are designed by nature to encounter perils, andacquire a name to be enrolled in the temple of immortality, and thereare others whose noble achievements entitle them to the same honor,though traced in different characters; there is also a third class ofmilitary men, who, being neither sanguinary nor heroic, are yet intendedto shine in a more peaceful warfare,--generals of undoubted militarycapacity, of extraordinary genius for the enactment of regulations andorders, with a clear judgment for the various qualifications of staffofficers, and bearing an exceedingly martial and appropriate carriage incourts, reviews, and parades. Now, to this last class Caneri mostassuredly belonged: his talents for military parade and shew no onecould dispute. He now approached the renegade, and in as affable amanner as his arrogant dictatorial manner would permit:--
"Alagraf," he said, "these are joyful times for the Moors."
"Provided they last," coldly returned the renegade.
"Last," rejoined the Moor, with indignant surprise. "Behold!" and hepointed to his men, all arrayed and equipped in a martial style, as theywere standing in review, "those men are not likely to tarnish thelaurels already culled by their companions of the Sierra Bermeja. Butyou are ever sullen, Alagraf; no victory, no fortune can efface thegloom which pervades every action of your life."
"Yours, at all events, Caneri," replied the renegade, sneeringly, "isexcessively gay; the love of your country must certainly be great, sinceit can occasion such extraordinary marks of satisfaction for a temporarysuccess."
"My country and religion are dear to me," returned Caneri, with dignity,"very dear, and sacred. But then," he added, relaxing, "my heart is notwholly absorbed in the love of my country."
"That I believe," replied Bermudo, significantly. "It will easily admitof division, and in the distribution of your lore, I dare swear you havereserved a considerable share for yourself."
Caneri laughed affectedly, then drawing nearer to the renegade, andtaking him gently by the hand--
"My friend," he said, "much as I love myself, still have I a store leftfor such as love me well, and when a lady fair----"
"Eh!" exclaimed the renegade, "what lady fair is this?"
"Oh, Alagraf," returned Caneri, unable any longer to contain himself, "Iam the happiest of men--Theodora--the beautiful Theodora has at lengthyielded to the soft persuasions of love, and it is to you, my goodAlagraf, that I stand chiefly indebted for such favorable results."
The renegade started back in visible consternation. Caneri's words sentdaggers to his heart. Could it be possible? the amiable and elevatedTheodora, sunk to the base minion of so worthless a character! and allhis plans overturned for ever! It appeared unaccountable--impossible.Theodora could not look kindly upon the object of her late mortalabhorrence.--Such a transition was abrupt--unnatural--unless, indeed,her reason had fallen a sacrifice to her accumulated distress.
Terrible thoughts coursed over the troubled and darkened brow of therenegade, whilst his whole person manifested strong marks of the passionthat agitated his bosom.
"Alagraf, what means this emotion? why, you appear thunderstruck."
"Yes;" replied the renegade, assuming his composure, "with surprise. Butyou said it was to my good offices you stood indebted for your success.Now would you favour me with the particulars of such an extraordinaryconquest?"--
"Aye, my friend," returned vauntingly Caneri; "Fortune is verycapricious. She never works progressively, but by starts, and thenaccording to the mood she is in, a man is either overpowered with miseryor with bliss. Some time since both the affairs of my country and thoseof my heart went on desperately; the scales are now turned, and I amblessed in a double triumph.
"But," cried the renegade, "the nature of your triumph I would fainlearn."
"It is complete," replied Caneri with complacency.
"Complete!" re-echoed the renegade with emotion--"complete! how?"
"At least by anticipation," returned the Moor. "Complete byanticipation. Nothing is yet concluded."
The renegade recovered from the suspense of agony.
"The triumph of which I speak," continued Caneri, "is yet to come,though it is already beyond a doubt. Theodora, until now so resolutelybent against me--Theodora, who at the very sight of me shrunk back withhorror and abhorrence--Theodora at last receives me not only withoutreluctance, but even with kindness. My visits no longer create disgustand dread, and every symptom foretels a speedy and grateful terminationto my fondest hopes." He then added with conceited vanity,--"And Imarvel how else an affair of this nature could terminate? Theodora was alovely woman, a woman in affliction; but she was a woman still, andcould not be expected to continue eternally in the same mind. Constancyin any thing is against the very nature of woman; perseverance is a foeshe could never successfully withstand."
To this sapient observation the renegade made no reply. A glance ofscorn was the only sign by which he evinced his value of the chiefsopinion. He allowed him a free range to his hopes, and when the vainMoor had satisfied himself with aerial happiness, the renegade in abitter bantering tone wished him joy of his conquest, and hurried awayto certify upon what basis were founded the expectations of the Moor.
Caneri retired to his couch, when to his waking dreams succeeded thoseof night, which though not wilder in their nature, were still by theirflattering prospects the source of unspeakable satisfaction. He rose,therefore, the next morning if possible in greater exhilaration ofspirits than before, and immediately sent for his confidant therenegade; but his confidant came not, and Caneri was in absolutenecessity of a person to whom he might communicate his hopes and hisplans. Malique was accordingly ordered into his presence.
"Malique, where is Alagraf?" inquired the chief.
"Alagraf!" exclaimed the astonished Malique; and he remained for sometime as if struck by a thunderbolt.
"Alagraf!"
"Alagraf! yes Alagraf," repeated impatiently Caneri. "What means thisconfusion? speak. Where is the renegade?"
"The renegade is gone," answered the trembling Malique.
"Gone!" echoed Caneri with superadded agitation.--"Gone! where? when? towhat purpose?--gone! without my knowledge!"
"The purport of his mission," replied Malique, "
I know not; nor was Imade acquainted with his departure until this morning. The guards of thenight allowed him to pass. Possessed as Alagraf was of your secrets andunbounded confidence, it was naturally supposed that he acted under yourinstructions: his egress from the town therefore caused neither surprisenor alarm."
"My instructions!" cried fiercely the chief; "I gave him noinstructions; it is an act of insubordination. That man was ever tooproud; his accursed Christian blood still remained in his veins, whenhis mouth pronounced a recantation of his creed. He renounced hiscountry; but could not renounce his character. By the mighty Allah! heshall severely suffer for this breach of discipline if Caneri has poweramongst the Moors. Yes, he shall feel the bitter consequences of hisimprudence upon his return."
"Return!" cried Malique, despondingly, "If he acted not according toyour orders, I much apprehend he will never return; for his companionsin flight leave no doubt as to the motives that have directed him."
"Companions!" exclaimed Caneri, in breathless anxiety. "Whatcompanions?"
"Even the fair captive, and the menial Roque," replied Malique, aftersome hesitation.
"What! Theodora gone! gone with the renegade!--hell! furies!--unsaythose words, Malique! tremble for the villains that allowed him to leavethe town--nay, tremble for your own life!"
The fury of Caneri knew no bounds, upon the confirmation of Malique'sintelligence. He stamped and raved like a madman, and plucked his beardin very ire: then, in the summary way of distributing Moorish justice,he caused the chief and two or three of the guards of the night to beslaughtered in his presence. Indeed, Malique himself would have sharedthe same fate, had not the private interest of the Moor superseded hisfrenzied revenge. But Caneri considered Malique as totally devoted tohis person, and he was loath to part with a man of whose aid andcounsel he stood in greater need than ever. Thus the life of Malique wasspared by the despot, as those of many other humble slaves had beforebeen and will again, by their despotic masters, not for the serviceswhich they have already rendered, but in consideration of those whichthey might still afford.
"Malique, quick," cried Caneri, "take the best of my troops, thefleetest of my horses, and speed after that accursed renegade; bringhim, dead or alive;--alive, if possible; and ask for any recompence,any, how great soever, which I can grant.--Begone!--fly!"
In a moment the faithful Malique with a chosen band was mounted, and ina moment they started rapidly with the velocity that a hope ofrecompence or a dread of punishment inspires. They sped in the directionreported to be taken by the fugitives, but it was too late; the renegadehad devised the necessary precautions to insure success in hisundertaking. He had the advantage of a whole night's journey, and hadbesides prudently changed his route as soon as he found himself out ofsight.
Thus the efforts of Malique proved as abortive as the ravings of hismaster. After a day spent in fruitless pursuit, the party was compelledto retreat before an advancing band of Christians, and returned toAlhaurin, to witness the extravagant rage of Caneri, who was alternatelythe prey of shame, disappointment, and vexation. Indeed, all the Moorsevinced signs of discontent at the disappearance of the renegade. Some,because his presence animated their courage, and others because theydreaded the despotic temper of Caneri, now rendered doubly formidable bythis untoward event. All the Moors were, therefore, in dismay at theflight of the renegade, all but one, and that was Aboukar, who foundwith no less surprise than joy, that amongst the companions of therunaway was included his spouse, Marien Rufa.
Meantime, the fugitives were rapidly approaching the town of Guadix,the native place of Theodora. But with what throbbing hearts thetravellers proceeded on their journey, and how different were thefeelings that gave expression to their features! A thousand sensationsagitated the bosom of Theodora; fear, hope, and filial love, alternatelydisputed the mastery, whilst the countenance of the renegade evincednought but a dreary isolation of feeling; revenge alone reigned in hisheart uncontrolled, and undisputed. The two inferior personages werelikewise indulging in reflections consonant to their nature and habits.A vacant joy, a happy riddance from a state of fear and thraldom,predominated in the heart of Roque, whilst a curious amalgamation ofgratified spite and returning superstition claimed that of Marien Rufa.But, however different the sentiments by which they were actuated, thetravellers evinced an equal joy when their anxious look caught the firstglimpse of Guadix, which now stood before them softly enveloped in thetwilight shadows.
"Welcome! dear lady," cried Roque, joyfully, "once more behold yourhome."
Home, delightful thrilling word! It went to the heart of Theodora in atumultuous flow of pleasing, yet painful sensations. She now returned tothe scenes of her innocence and happiness, but it was also the theatreof her disgrace and sorrow. What agitation did she feel as every wellknown object presented itself with powerful associations to her mind.Already she descried the stately appearance of her father's mansion,rising majestically in the shades of approaching night. Though distantshe clearly perceived every object, every feature of the surroundingscene.
Tranquil and quiet the country and the city lay in religious silence,and the gentle hum of humanity that softly stole upon the ear, and thetinkling of a bell, or the social bark of a dog, every well-known soundstruck with a congeniality of feeling on the trembling heart ofTheodora. She returned to her home like the happy traveller after alapse of many years, to whose memory charged with numberless objectsthat have intervened since his departure, these infant scenes mustreturn in a confused, fading, yet pleasing sensation of delight.Theodora came; she drew near the place of her birth with anxiety anddread. Around she beheld every object as she had left it. Nature hadproceeded undisturbed in her accustomed rotation. Green were the fields,and the boundless heavens still displayed their majestic grandeur. Yet,all around, to the eyes of Theodora, bore a tint of strangeness shecould not well define. Alas! the change was not in those places, but inthe tone of mind with which she considered them. Guadix and its gardens,and its groves, and its fountains, were still the same, but Theodora waschanged. She had left those happy scenes in all the glory of youth andbeauty. She returned experienced in grief in the beginning of life, andbearing in those heavenly features the iron stamp of premature decay.She had left them in the wild delirium of love,--in the intoxicatingbliss of a first all-powerful affection, lavishly bestowed, andabundantly requited. She returned with a heart desolate and forlorn,the pure springs of which were envenomed by the baneful effects ofpassion, and embittered with shame and grief. She had left them in thehappy society of a fond lover, full of present joy and glowing hopes offuture happiness. She returned full of disappointment and remorse, underthe protection of an apostate, the dark enemy of her country. These sadimages obtruded upon her mind, and to such dismal thoughts wassuperadded the load of fear and anxiety arising from the uncertainty ofher offended parent's reception. She was his only child, tenderly lovedand cherished; but yet, would not this very love offer obstacles to areconciliation? Would not her father's unbounded kindness serve to setoff in blacker colours her own cruel ingratitude?
With these gloomy ideas she at length reached the threshold of thepaternal dwelling. There was a melancholy calm that smote her heart--theponderous casements were closed--a dismal silence prevailed, and as theyentered the _Zaguan_, the echo of their steps was sent back in amournful sound that seemed to rebuke the intruders. The old favorite dogof Don Manuel lay in a corner dozing a dull slumber, and Theodora, asshe fondly called him by his name, received no sign of pleasedrecognition. The animal slowly raised his head, and mechanically fixedhis heavy eyes on the speaker, but he neither leaped briskly to hail anold friend, nor resented the approach of an unwelcome stranger. Theservants, too, were long in making their appearance, and when at lastPedro, the old major-domo, advanced to meet the party, he bore on hiscountenance deep lines of affliction: for some time he gazed vacantly onthe strangers, and then in a harsh, inhospitable tone, inquired theirbusiness.
"Pedro!" said Theodora, with faul
tering emotion; "Pedro, don't you knowme?"
At the sound of that voice Pedro started, and made the sign of thecross--he gazed in astonishment, applied his hand to his dim eyes, andthen in a sort of wild stupor--
"_Santo cielo!_" he exclaimed, "Is this a dream, or a miracle? Surelyit must be an apparition!--My lady Theodora, here!"
"Yes, good Pedro," mournfully replied Theodora, "this is no delusion. Iam, in truth, Theodora, thy young mistress. But the announcement shocksyou! What means this confusion?" Her emotion redoubled--she trembled andhad scarcely strength to cry--"My father!--where is my father?"
Pedro heaved a sigh, and shook his head despondingly--"Alas! yourfather!"
"What! speak!" shrieked Theodora, struck with horror--"He is notdead!--Speak!"
"No, not dead," replied the old man, "but it seems that heaven sends youto close his eyes, and witness his departure from this world.--Oh!" headded, sobbing violently, "sorrow hath bowed down his venerable head:since his daughter fled from him, this has been the home of grief anddesolation."
Theodora covered her face with her hands; the consciousness of her guiltcame with additional force to pierce her heart, as the melancholyresults of her dereliction were revealed to her. Roque and Marien Rufawere much affected, and even the stern features of the renegade seemedto be softened by a tinge of pity.
Theodora now could be detained by no consideration. The powerful impulseof nature rose superior to the suggestions of fear. She hurried to herfather's chamber--she crossed the long corridor and reached her ownsaloon without opposition. There she threw a melancholy glance on theobjects around, and heaved a bitter sigh when she beheld every thing inwhich she formerly took delight remaining in the same situation as whenshe had left them. Her books were scattered about, and her guitar wasthrown carelessly upon the sofa where she had last sung a mournfulromance previously to her meeting her lover in the garden. It was arapid glance Theodora cast, and yet, alas! what a world of keensensations did it produce. Every thing around bespoke the disconsolatetranquillity of a deserted home. Theodora at length gained her father'sapartment; the door was closed, but she listened, and distinctly heardthe murmur of disease. She gently knocked; an old female attendantopened the door--Theodora rushed in, and threw herself at the feet ofMonteblanco's couch.
"Oh! my father!" she cried, and her agony denying her the powers ofutterance, silent she sank by the bedside; yet the violent respirationand the smothered groaning which escaped from her bosom but too plainlytold the full measure of her sorrow.
"Who is this?" feebly inquired the old man, as those sounds of distresssnatched him from the feverish and troubled slumber of disease.
"Your daughter! your guilty, your unfortunate Theodora! Oh, my father, Icome but to crave your forgiveness and die."
Prostrate and weakened as Don Manuel was, the sound of his daughter'svoice, and her pathetic appeal, awakened all his latent feelings, andgave a new impulse to his decaying frame.
"Theodora! my child! my child!" he cried, raising himself on the couch;and as the sombre reflection of a dim lamp fell on the form before him,he was chilled with horror and amazement. He saw his Theodora; for theeyes of a father will always recognise his child, spite of the blastinginfluence of misfortune in disguising the features. He recognised hisdaughter, but alas! how changed was that model of female loveliness andbeauty. Sunk was that eye, and quenched its pure and brilliant fire; thesmile of innocence had fled from those lips, and the soft delicate tintof her countenance was chased away by a deadly paleness. But stillTheodora was interesting and lovely; still Monteblanco gazed on her withthe tender fondness of a parent. He rose superior to the malady whichconfined his withered frame to the couch of sickness; the film ofdecaying nature was upon his eyes; but yet he fixed them intensely onthat fading form that bore the resemblance of his once-beloved child. Hecould not speak, nor did his daughter attempt to break this pause ofdreadful solemnity. Her overpowering grief burst with impetuouseffusion; in briny showers the tears fell, and her bosom seemed readyto break under the pressure of heavy and tumultuous groans. Monteblancowas moved to tears; his parched eyelids, which appeared unused to thesetestimonies of sympathy, were bathed in moisture. He wept, while insoothing accents he endeavoured to raise his daughter from the ground.But she struggled to preserve her humble position.
"Oh, my father!" she cried in an agonizing tone, "your kindness willkill me more than cruelty. I am unworthy of so much tenderness;forgiveness, only forgiveness, is the melancholy boon that the wretched,the guilty Theodora craves from her venerable and injured parent."
The recollection of some dark dream seemed now to absorb the senses ofthe old man. The debility to which sickness had reduced his mental andphysical powers, and the overpowering efficacy of a first impression ofpleasure and surprise, had entirely banished from his mind the dreadfulimage of a parent's just indignation. At first he only saw his lostchild returned to his arms, nor in that moment of agitation did herecur to the cause of her absconding, to the state in which shereturned. All the sensations which might naturally spring in the bosomof an injured cavalier were deadened by the more powerful feelings of afather's love.
But now that the first emotion had subsided, and that the voice of theguilty Theodora sounded distinctly in his ear, the attention of DonManuel was promptly recalled to images of a painful nature. Hisdaughter's desertion and the misery consequent on this first act ofguilt, rushed upon his mind in deepened and aggravated colours. Herudely drew back the hand which the unfortunate Theodora was bathingwith her tears, and in a tone of indignant feeling--
"Say," he cried, "art thou come to hasten my departure from a wretchedstate of existence?--Speak, guilty as thou art; unfold the horrid tale;and when I am doubly cursed, when I have seen thee thus forlorn andblasted by guilt and misfortune, then let me die!"
"Oh my father," she exclaimed with heart-rending emotion, "I am acriminal daughter--a wretch unworthy of the name I bear--yes, I amplymerit your wrath and malediction. But oh! in pity do not deny me yourforgiveness, for I have drunk deep of sorrow; if my guilt has beengreat, so have likewise been the tortures that have rent the heart ofyour child, since the moment of her first transgression."
"Unfold to me those horrors," exclaimed the desolate father, in afrantic tone; "perhaps their disclosure may break my heart, and bestowon me the only comfort I can now expect--yes, speak, and let the lastwords I hear from my daughter be my passport to the tomb!"
"Father, speak not thus--on me alone let the vengeance of the offendedheavens fall--I alone must expiate the guilt, for shame cannot be joinedwith the name of Monteblanco; but you, oh! father, live--live to supportthe dignity of that name."
"You have disgraced it," interrupted Don Manuel, "but I will heartranquilly--ere I deeply curse, I will deliberately examine the extentof your guilt."
He seemed suddenly to acquire a dreadful composure, and Theodora, assoon as her emotion would permit, told in the strains of deepest woe theparticulars of her sorrowful history. It was interrupted repeatedly byher disconsolate father: rage, pride, pity, and resentment, by turnsswelled his breast, according as the circumstances related excited thosedifferent feelings. But when the harrowing recital was finished, hischaracter seemed to assume a tone of energy uncongenial with his presentstate of malady. Family pride, a sense of degradation and of injuryunrevenged, rose paramount in his mind, and stifling for the moment allthe pleadings of pity and parental tenderness, he felt an equal degreeof horror and resentment against the betrayer and his unfortunatevictim.
In the first impulse, therefore, of his rage, Monteblanco fixed hisdespairing eyes on his daughter, and in a tone of bitterness, enough tobreak the fibres of her heart, he cried out imperiously--
"Begone from my sight for ever--begone, and let me die in peace--let medescend to my grave without the additional pang which the presence of anungrateful child inflicts upon me--rise and begone; and may the stingsyou have planted in this withered heart, and the shame you have heapedon my head, be your
companion to the latest moment of your ignominiouslife."
"Oh horror! horror!" shrieked Theodora: "Father! father, you do not--youcannot curse your hapless child. Oh! my expiation has beenboundless--the justice of Heaven itself must be satisfied, and the heartof a father cannot deny forgiveness to the poor wretch whose miseriesare far--far superior to her guilt. Oh pity me!--grant me yourpardon--repulse me not thus from your heart, and I will immediatelyspeed to bury my sufferings and my shame amidst the gloom of acloister."
She ceased, and the wildness of her manner, a fitful tremor that shookher frame, and the unearthly hue that overspread her already pallidcountenance, exhibited in glowing tints the havoc that such deep anguishhad made. Her trembling arms were extended, and the thin cold fingersclasped in agony; loosely her dishevelled tresses fell on her father'scouch, as in the earnestness of grief she appealed to him for mercy.
Monteblanco looked on her, intensely looked on that harrowing picture ofdistress, and felt the burning tears that descended in copious streamsfrom their swollen springs. The vivid signs of her repentance, and theexcess of her affliction were inconsistent with depravity. Error morethan guilt was there, and Don Manuel could not behold unmoved his oncebeloved daughter, the pride and solace of his declining years, reducedto her present state of utter wretchedness. Dreadful was the conflictwhich the noble and high-minded cavalier had to sustain between thestern dictates of worldly prejudice, and the tender pleadings of nature.But happily to the father's honour, nature at length prevailed. He wassoftened, and in an extacy of mingled grief and affection, he claspedhis sorrowing child in his trembling arms.
Monteblanco appeared now partially relieved from a load of anguish. Heconsoled the poor forlorn culprit that pathetically clung to hisprotection, and his fondness for the once beautiful and accomplishedTheodora, seemed to return with additional force for the unfortunatebeing that stood before him.
But now new feelings took possession of his breast. As he gazed with amelancholy joy on his restored child--as he considered with the smile ofsadness the mournful devastation which one man's treachery had wroughtthere, all his thoughts were forcibly drawn into one predominant idea,whilst the decaying energies of his frame received a new impulse tosecond the resolutions of his working mind. The cold and unnaturalatrocity of Gomez Arias burned in his brain; he felt the agonized throbof his injury run corrosive through his veins, and impart anuncontrollable desire of revenge; the fever of excitement rose superiorto that which had laid him prostrate, and he seemed impatient at theweakness that confined him to his couch.
"Before I die, poor suffering mourner," he said, turning soothingly tohis daughter, "I shall see your wrongs redressed, and my insulted honoramply revenged; this sacred duty links me yet to life, and I hopefervently in God that my existence may be protracted until that period."
The renegade was there; for when revenge was the word, how could Bermudobe absent from the essence of his life? Theodora, overpowered with theemotion which her meeting with her father had produced, retired tocompose her disordered spirits, and in the mean time, Don Manuel had ashort but terrible explanation with the renegade: in few words this manof darkness unfolded his powers of seconding Monteblanco's plans ofvengeance.
The heated mind of the old cavalier, though in need of no stimulus,nevertheless gathered fuel from the insinuating eloquence of therenegade. A plan was concerted, and an immediate appeal to the queenresolved upon; but the state of Monteblanco's health did not allow himto put in execution his determination with a promptitude consonant withhis feelings. The renegade was therefore prudently concealed for thepresent, to avoid the danger of inquisitive curiosity, whilst the onlyobstacle that retarded the departure of Monteblanco for Granada, was thesickness which still confined him to his couch.