She walked one measure with Montilla, and then declined dancing
on the pretence of assisting her mother in receiving and entertaining
her guests. “After a sumptuous banquet, dancing was renewed in the spacious hall,
and Isidora followed the company thither with a beating heart. Twelve
was the hour at which Melmoth had promised to meet her, and by the
clock, which was placed over the door of the hall, she saw it wanted but
a quarter to twelve. The hand moved on--it arrived at the hour--the
clock struck! Isidora, whose eyes had been rivetted on its movements,
now withdrew them in despair. At that moment she felt her arm gently
touched, and one of the maskers, bending towards her, whispered, “I am
here!” and he added the sign which Melmoth and she had agreed on as the
signal of their meeting. Isidora, unable to reply, could only return the
sign. “Make haste,” he added--“All is arranged for your flight--there is
not a moment to be lost--I will leave you now, but meet me in a few
moments in the western portico--the lamps are extinguished there, and
the servants have neglected to relight them--be silent and be swift!” He
disappeared as he spoke, and Isidora, after a few moments, followed him. Though the portico was dark, a faint gleam from the splendidly
illuminated rooms disclosed to her the figure of Melmoth. He drew her
arm under his in silence, and proceeded to hurry her from the spot. “Stop, villain, stop!” exclaimed the voice of her brother, who, followed
by Montilla, sprung from the balcony--“Where do you drag my sister?--and
you, degraded wretch, where are you about to fly, and with whom?”
Melmoth attempted to pass him, supporting Isidora with one arm, while
the other was extended to repel his approach; but Fernan, drawing his
sword, placed himself directly in their way, at the same time calling on
Montilla to raise the household, and tear Isidora from his arms. “Off,
fool--off!” exclaimed Melmoth--“Rush not on destruction!--I seek not
your life--one victim of your house is enough--let us pass ere you
perish!”--“Boaster, prove your words!” said Fernan, making a desperate
thrust at him, which Melmoth coolly put by with his hand. “Draw,
coward!” cried Fernan, rendered furious by this action--“My next will be
more successful!” Melmoth slowly drew his sword. “Boy!” said he in an
awful voice--“If I turn this point against you, your life is not worth a
moment’s purchase--be wise and let us pass.” Fernan made no answer but
by a fierce attack, which was instantly met by his antagonist. “The shrieks of Isidora had now reached the ears of the revellers, who
rushed in crowds to the garden--the servants followed them with
flambeaux snatched from the walls adorned for this ill-omened festival,
and the scene of the combat was in a moment as light as day, and
surrounded by a hundred spectators. “Part them--part them--save them!” shrieked Isidora, writhing at the
feet of her father and mother, who, with the rest, were gazing in stupid
horror at the scene--“Save my brother--save my husband!” The whole
dreadful truth rushed on Donna Clara’s mind at these words, and casting
a conscious look at the terrified priest, she fell to the ground. The
combat was short as it was unequal,--in two moments Melmoth passed his
sword twice through the body of Fernan, who sunk beside Isidora, and
expired! There was a universal pause of horror for some moments--at
length a cry of--“Seize the murderer!” burst from every lip, and the
crowd began to close around Melmoth. He attempted no defence. He
retreated a few paces, and sheathing his sword, waved them back only
with his arm; and this movement, that seemed to announce an internal
power above all physical force, had the effect of nailing every
spectator to the spot where he stood. “The light of the torches, which the trembling servants held up to gaze
on him, fell full on his countenance, and the voices of a few shuddering
speakers exclaimed, “MELMOTH THE WANDERER!”--“I am--I am!” said that
unfortunate being--“and who now will oppose my passing--who will become
my companion?--I seek not to injure now--but I will not be detained. Would that breathless fool had yielded to my bidding, not to my
sword--there was but one human chord that vibrated in my heart--it is
broken to-night, and for ever! I will never tempt woman more! Why should
the whirlwind, that can shake mountains, and overwhelm cities with its
breath, descend to scatter the leaves of the rose-bud?” As he spoke, his
eyes fell on the form of Isidora, which lay at his feet extended beside
that of Fernan. He bent over it for a moment--a pulsation like returning
life agitated her frame. He bent nearer--he whispered, unheard by the
rest,--“Isidora, will you fly with me--this is the moment--every arm is
paralyzed--every mind is frozen to its centre!--Isidora, rise and fly
with me--this is your hour of safety!” Isidora, who recognized the voice
but not the speaker, raised herself for a moment--looked on
Melmoth--cast a glance on the bleeding bosom of Fernan, and fell on it
dyed in that blood. Melmoth started up--there was a slight movement of
hostility among some of the guests--he turned one brief and withering
glance on them--they stood every man his hand on his sword, without the
power to draw them, and the very domestics held up the torches in their
trembling hands, as if with involuntary awe they were lighting him out. So he passed on unmolested amid the groupe, till he reached the spot
where Aliaga, stupified with horror, stood beside the bodies of his son
and daughter. “Wretched old man!” he exclaimed, looking on him as the
unhappy father strained his glazing and dilated eyes to see who spoke to
him, and at length with difficulty recognized the form of _the
stranger_--the companion of his fearful journey some months
past--“Wretched old man--you were warned--but you neglected the
warning--I adjured you to save your daughter--_I best_ knew her
danger--you saved your gold--now estimate the value of the dross you
grasped, and the precious ore you dropt! _I stood between myself and
her_--I warned--I menaced--it was not for me to intreat. Wretched old
man--see the result!”--and he turned slowly to depart. An involuntary
sound of execration and horror, half a howl and half a hiss, pursued his
parting steps, and the priest, with a dignity that more became his
profession than his character, exclaimed aloud, “Depart accursed, and
trouble us not--go, cursing and to curse.”--“I go conquering and to
conquer,” answered Melmoth with wild and fierce triumph--“wretches! your
vices, your passions, and your weaknesses, make you my victims. Upbraid
yourselves, and not me. Heroes in your guilt, but cowards in your
despair, you would kneel at my feet for the terrible immunity with which
I pass through you at this moment.--I go accursed of every human heart,
yet untouched by one human hand!”--As he retired slowly, the murmur of
suppressed but instinctive and irrepressible horror and hatred burst
from the groupe.