THE PODESTA’S DAUGHTER. -
Original.
THE PODESTA’S DAUGHTER.
About four leagues distant from Savona, and on the road to Genoa, there is a pretty little spot, rather dark and secluded by reason of the dense shade of the forest that surrounds it: massive chestnuts and gigantic elms embowering the path, and mingling their leaves in a lofty arch of verdure. At the ex- tremity of this woody avenue rises an immense rock, which at first sight appears to block up the passage; but on coming up within a few feet of the precipice, the road curves suddenly around a projecting angle, and after describing a semi-circle, resumes its original course. A few stunted plants clinging to the side of the rock evidence the struggles of vegetation, but the summit is entirely barren, and presents a bold, black edge against the clear blue of the heavens.
About three hundred years ago, when the Republic of. Genoa was powerful among nations—when her superb gonfalon floated high amidst the banners of Christendom—and when her galleys were known by them of the Crescent, and feared by Venice herself, as they haughtily swept the Adriatic, an event occurred in thia quiet and retired scene sufficiently striking to be long held in remembrance, and bearing on it the impress of the manners and habits peculiar to the age.
A party of travellers to Genoa approached this valley on the morning of a bright summer day. In front rode two armed men on strong war-horses, that champed the bit and arched their necks proudly, as their riders held them in to the slow and easy gait of those who followed. On a small, light-limbed and graceful Spanish jennet rode a young girl of exceeding beauty; and at her side ambled lazily a sleek-sided, easy-pacing mule, bearing a personage whose habili- ments, no less than the plenitude of his proportions and unctuous visage, indicated an ecclesiastic high in office. Several female attendants followed; and two horsemen, fully equipped, formed the rear of the escort.—Full glad were the travellers to enter beneath the cool branches that overhung the valley, for the sun was gaining the meridian, and beamed with a torrid fierceness.
“But tell me, uncle,” said the lady, “why call you this the Valley of the Rock?”
“Look before you, fair niece,” replied his Reverence, pointing at the same time to the dark mass, which now suddenly reared its huge form, as it seemed, in the very path.
The lady gazed but a brief space, ere admiration gave way to surprise: a Moorish chieftain, swarthy as a demon, stood on the very verge of the precipice, his black gigantic figure swelling in bold relief on the bright sky beyond; while the sun, flashing on his green turban, his richly jewelled vest and broad Damascene sabre, heightened the fearful grandeur of his appearance. A fear came upon all; the lady trembled as she met the bold glance of the stranger, and sat motionless, inwardly presaging some sudden evil.
The Moor waved his sabre, and, as by magic im- pulse, there issued from the tangled copse the dark and savage corsairs of the ocean. Not a word was spoken; but there was the flashing of serpent-like eyes, and the rapid gleaming of sabres, ere they closed on the travellers. The men-at-arms died as brave men die, sword in hand and face to heaven; the uncle Cardinal’s “de profundis” prevailed not—and his deep, full voice, that so oft had thundered in the church of St. John a Latere, now died away before the sons of Islam. The fair girl was surrounded by beings before whose wild glances her heart quailed with an agony of fear; but as yet they touched her not, nor seized the fleet little courser on which she sat, trembling as an aspen leaf.
Presently came from behind the Rock their captain, mounted on a superb destrier; as he approached the lady, he spoke a few words to his followers, and they passed off towards the sea, bearing with them their prisoners; and the lady and the pirate alone remained.
“And now, pearl of my heart, know that I had been advised of thy intended passage to Genoa; and if men had told me. false of thy beauty, still should the proud Podesta have paid heavy ransom—but, by Allah! thou art beautiful as” The corsair ceased, and his black orbs flashed as if listening to some un- welcome sound. Jndistinct at first and distant, it grew nearer and more near: ‘twas the rushing of a heavy steed. The Moor cast oné glance where his faithful followers had disappeared, and then was aware of a Christian Knight, armed in proof, spurring his charger as on matter of life and death. “He seeks not us, lady,” said the Moor; “stand we aside until he pass;”—and reigning back the two coursers, he awaited the coming warrior with a stern and col- lected watchfulness.
The knight came on—pavused not in his wild career —and had already passed, when the lady, in the quick impulse of despair, bent forward and cried, “For the Holy Virgin’s sake, sir knight, save me!”
Nothing had he noted as his fiery steed whirled along in rapid course, but that cry thrilled through him with its plaintive tone; and riding up he beheld with surprise the lovely girl, her little hands clasped in supplication, and her large dark eyes wild with terror.
“Save thee, lady! ay, by St. Jude! were——Ha! traitor!”
Sparks flew from the clashing steel, as the Moor, tiger-like, sprang upon him; and truly, at first the knight bore back from the fearful sweep of the Mos- lem sabre. Cool and self-possessed, however, he parried with consummate skill each furious stroke, and suffered his foe to exhaust his energy in fruitless assault. Fierce, athletic, and powerful, the Moor had ever been victorious in combat; and now that he had met his equal, his burning rage and indignation knew no bounds. Suddenly the knight, raising aloft his good blade, rose to the blow, and struck as Coeurde- Lion struck for the sepulchre. In vain the Moor raised his arm to check his coming fate: the blue steel came down, shearing with keen and smiting edge full through his nervous wrist, and buried itself deep in his tarbaned forehead. A stifled curse, and his eyes assumed the ghastly, stony gaze of death; his powerful frame slowly reeled in the saddle, and falling heavily to the earth, the gigantic corsair lay a cold unconscious corpse.
“Another heathen dog to Eblis,” muttered the knight; and raising his vizor, he approached the lady: there she sat, pale with contending emotions, not a thought of flight had urged her to leave the bloody scene, but spell-bound by something more than fear, she had looked on with a high wrought excitement, like a Phidian sculpture, beautiful and motionless.
But now that the knight, with courtly phrase and no small eloquence, begged her to dispose of her faithful servant, the quick blood rushed up, tinging her face with blushes; and with a tremulous voice she thanked her preserver, and hastened to tell him that her father, the Podesta of Genoa, had sent his brother, the Cardinal Guiseppe, and a small escort, to
