only a wide space like a boulevard separated the hostile camps. Don José
had long been expecting succour from his brother, Don Francisco, who had
sent word that he was marching to his relief with three thousand men and
stores of food and ammunition. But there was no sign of his near
approach as yet; and the city was in pitiful plight.
"Surrender! By capitulation alone can Zaragoza be saved."
Such was the haughty message from the French General Lefèbre, brought to
Don José and his exhausted men after the fall of the quarter of the city
called St. Engracia.
The Commander looked around upon the ring of gaunt men about him, and
over at the shattered buildings of the town. What answer was it his duty
to return? Was he justified in sacrificing all these brave lives? What
did the people of Zaragoza think of it themselves? They had at least a
right to be asked. It was they upon whom the brunt of these fearful days
fell.
"What answer shall we return to General Lefèbre?" he asked, looking from
one to the other; and the men themselves seemed scarce to know what
answer to make.
Then a voice from the crowd shouted out the words:
"Let us ask the Maid of Zaragoza!"
Don José's face lighted at the suggestion. He turned in the direction of
the speaker, and cried aloud:
"Go--ask the Maid of the Gun what answer we shall send back. By her word
we will abide!"
A strange thrill of enthusiasm ran through the whole city as the
messenger sped forth to the farther wall to ask of Agostina what the
Commander should answer. Strange as was the choice of such an umpire,
there was something fitting and dramatic about it that fired the
Spaniards, and wrought a strange kind of exultation among them.
Soon a gathering murmur in the distance, which increased to a perfect
roar as the crowd surged onwards, showed that the answer was being
brought back, and that it had stirred to the depths the impulsive and
excitable populace.
"War to the knife! War to the knife!" The words detached themselves at
last from the general clangour, and the soldiers, flashing out their
swords, took up the answer of the Maid of Zaragoza, and the welkin rang
with the shout--"War to the knife!"
A few days after those four words had been sent by Don José to General
Lefèbre, the longed-for help came; and the eyes of Agostina shone and
glowed as she watched from her gun upon the wall the French soldiers in
full retreat blocking the road to Pamplona. The siege of Zaragoza was at
an end; and the Commander came himself and fastened a medal of honour
upon the heroine's breast.
AGNES BEAUMONT
"Thou shalt never listen to the rogue again!"
"But, father----"
"Silence, girl! Have I not said it? Thou shalt never go to hear him
preach again! He is a pestilent knave. He will bring all who hear him to
trouble. Dost hear me, girl? Thou shalt not go!"
"Nay, but, sweet father!"
"Silence!" thundered the angry man. "I have spoken; let that be enough.
Thou shalt have no more of this preaching dinned into thine ears, and
neither will I. Thou shalt never hear Mr. Bunyan again. He has done harm
enough already."
Agnes was absolutely aghast at this sudden outbreak, for which she was
totally unprepared. She and her father had for some while been attending
with great interest and profit the teachings and preachings of the
notable Puritan, John Bunyan, whose wonderful personal experiences
brought home to his hearers a sense of reality which was often lacking
in other teachers.
Farmer Beaumont had, however, of late been strangely silent and morose,
so that his daughter had been rather afraid to speak to him. She had
noted that he had not mentioned the approaching preaching, which she was
most anxious to attend; but she had no idea that any great change had
come over him till he suddenly burst forth in this manner, as they were
sitting together at supper, after his return from the neighbouring town,
where he had spent the previous night.
Of course, Agnes was well aware that by many people this John Bunyan was
regarded as a dangerous man, and that these inveighed against him as a
preacher and teacher of strange new doctrines. Sometimes, she knew, it
was dangerous to attend these meetings. She had heard it whispered
before now that persons were often brought up before the authorities and
fined or otherwise punished for offences of this sort, but it never
occurred to her that her sturdy father would be frightened. She had no
fear for herself. She believed she heard Heaven-sent gospel from this
preacher, and she longed to hear him again.
It was plain to her that somebody had got hold of her father during his
absence from home, and had worked upon the fears that were beginning to
agitate him before. She knew that there was a lawyer there--a man she
especially disliked and distrusted. Once he had been suitor for her
hand; for Farmer Beaumont was reputed to be a warm man, and Agnes was
likely to come into the bulk of his property and savings at his death.
But the girl had repelled his advances with energy; having an intense
dislike to the sly, fox-faced man of the quill, and he now repaid her
dislike in kind, and she believed that on more than one occasion he had
sought to poison her father's mind against her.
She suspected that this was the case now. It was plain that the old man
was in a very angry mood.
After sitting awhile in glowering silence, he broke out again even more
fiercely than before.
"I'll have a promise from thee, girl; thou shalt promise me here and now
that thou wilt never go and hear one of his preachings more. Say the
words and have done with it."
"Oh, father, do not ask me to make such a promise as that!"
"Ay, but I will. I'll have no disobedient daughter in my house. I've had
a talk to Farry about it. Thou first will not have him for a husband at
my bidding; now thou art taking up with this pestilent preacher
Bunyan----"
"But, father, thou didst take me thyself to hear him, and said he was a
godly man. It is Farry's evil tongue that hath wrought this change in
thee. Prithee, pardon my boldness, but I dare not promise what is
against my conscience!"
"It is against thy conscience to obey thy father, girl?" raved the angry
farmer. "A pretty conscience in all sooth. I'll have that promise from
thee to-night, or else I'll drive thee from my doors, and disown thee
for my daughter!"
Agnes was in great distress, for she loved her father, and had always
been an obedient daughter; but the stern tenets of the Puritan divines
had penetrated deeply into her soul; and she was sorely afraid that by
obeying her father she would be trifling with her soul's salvation. Most
sincerely did she desire to do right; but it was so hard for her to know
what was most right.
At last after much deliberation and some silent prayer Agnes brought
herself to say, whilst her father had spent much of his energy in
railing and threats:
"Dear father, I will promise you this, that so long as you live I will
not go to one of these preachings without your consent; and I beg of you
not to ask me more than that."
On hearing these words spoken whilst the tears ran down her cheeks, the
father's rage suddenly abated. He kissed Agnes and told her that she was
a good girl after all; and the storm in the house died down to a calm.
But poor Agnes was very unhappy. It seemed to her as though in obeying
her father she had in some sort violated her conscience and betrayed her
Lord. When she consulted her married sister and brother-in-law on the
subject (all ardent admirers of Mr. Bunyan), she found that they also
took this view of the matter, and her trouble became very great.
It was now her chief aim and object to gain her father's consent to her
attending the approaching meeting, where John Bunyan was to preach and
afterwards to administer the Sacrament. It seemed to her equally
impossible to remain away or to break her word to her father; and her
only hope of real peace of mind lay in winning his consent to her going
there.
During the last two days he had been much kinder to her; but still she
was in great fear lest he was in the same mind with regard to Bunyan and
the preaching. She got her sister to come over to the farm the evening
before, and by talking and a certain amount of coaxing and argument,
they at last won the old man's permission that Agnes should accompany
her relatives to the meeting at Gamlinhay, they promising to get her
taken and returned, as the farmer had no mind to assist her by sparing
one of his own horses to carry her, and the distance was too far for her
to walk.
It was a great joy to Agnes to win this permission; and she was more
sure than ever that it was Lawyer Farry's jeering words and overbearing
arguments that had caused her father so to turn against her and the
preacher; for since he had been at home with her again, he had become
quiet and reasonable.
But she thought it would be wise to be off and away early upon the
morrow, lest he should in any wise change his mind; and so she rose with
the sun, set about her morning tasks with great energy, and had taken
her own breakfast and left everything in readiness for her father before
she slipped into her riding dress, and made her way across the fields to
her brother-in-law's house, without having caught a glimpse of the
farmer. Indeed, she had left the house before he was astir.
Her sister received her kindly, and told her that they had arranged for
her to ride behind Mr. Wilson, the minister of Hitchin, who would call
on his way at the house. But time went on, and there was no sign of him,
and poor Agnes's face grew pale with anxiety. Her brother had only one
horse and would take his wife behind him. Agnes could not burden them;
no horse could carry three riders. Strong as she was, she could not walk
the whole distance in the time, since they had waited now so long. It
seemed for a moment as though after all she must be left behind, when
suddenly her sister, who had been gazing down the road, cried out
eagerly:
"He is coming!--He is coming!--Surely, husband, that is Mr. Wilson on
his nag?"
For a few minutes all thought this; but Agnes suddenly gave a little
cry, and exclaimed:
[Illustration: Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon
his face.
_Page 283._]
"It is not Mr. Wilson--it is Mr. John Bunyan himself!"
"Then he shall carry you, Agnes!" cried her sister, "and you will have
the pleasure of his godly conversation on the road."
The heart of Agnes was full of joy at the bare thought of such an
honour; but when her brother ran out to the gate to make the request,
they heard Mr. Bunyan's voice say quite roughly:
"No; I will not take her."
Sudden tears rushed to the eyes of Agnes; she hid behind her sister that
he might not see her weep, and again she heard the tones of his
voice--the voice she had come to love so well.
"If I do, her father will be grievously angry. I have heard how he has
changed towards me. I will not set a man at variance with his children.
Children are an heritage from the Lord."
At that Agnes ran forward, and told him what had happened, and how her
father had consented that she should go to the preaching. Bunyan looked
down at her with rather a grim smile upon his face.
"Ay, child; but did he say you might ride pillion behind the preacher?"
Agnes made no reply; but her sister pleaded for her, and in the end
Bunyan consented to carry her, though he told her plainly:
"If I were you, maiden, I would go home to my old father, and seek to
soften his heart by childlike obedience and submission, rather than urge
him vehemently to gain mine own way."
They had not proceeded far on the road before they met a man on
horseback riding in an opposite direction. To her dismay and annoyance
Agnes saw that it was Lawyer Farry, and she felt certain he was on his
way to her father's house. She knew well how he would stir up the old
man against the preacher, and it could not be but that her father would
be very angry to hear that she had been seen riding behind Mr. Bunyan to
the preaching. Probably he would think this thing had been arranged
beforehand, and no doubt Farry would do his best to encourage that idea.
Bunyan, however, not knowing the lawyer, paid no heed to the stranger,
though he continued to give Agnes much good advice as to her relations
with her father, advice that the girl promised faithfully to follow.
"For, indeed, I have always loved him dutifully; and till lately he has
been a tender father to me. But he has been embittered against those
things which I hold so needful for my soul's salvation, and I am torn in
twain betwixt my duty to him and to God."
"Ay, ay, my child, thy path may be sometimes a difficult one; but
remember that faith in Christ is enough for salvation, and thou wilt
never imperil thy soul by abstaining from hearing some godly preaching,
albeit such preaching may strengthen and sustain thee. God gave thee thy
father and bade thee reverence and obey him. There is no doubt about
that duty, so look to it in the future."
This gentle counsel set Agnes thinking deeply; and since it came from
Mr. Bunyan himself, she could not but believe it good. Greatly as she
delighted in the preaching and meeting which she had made so great a
point of attending, she was possessed by a longing to be at home again,
to ask her father's pardon if she had thought too little of his wishes,
and to show him in the future a greater patience and affection than had
been possible of late.
At the close of the meeting she was in some perplexity how to get home,
since Mr. Bunyan was not going back that way; but at last she found a
young woman who gave her a mount behind her on her horse, and in this
way she reached her father's house, although it was now late, and her
sister counselled her to come home with her for the night.
But Agnes thought her duty was to go home, as perhaps her father would
be waiting for her. When she saw the house all dark and closed, her
heart sank somewhat; but she would not be daunted. Going up she knocked
at the door and then called aloud under the window of her father's
room, asking him to throw her down the key, which he always took up to
bed with him.
Suddenly a fierce voice came thundering from the lattice:
"Thou shalt never enter my house again. Thou art no daughter of mine.
Where thou hast been all day thou mayest go at night."
"But, father, father, you did give me leave to go," she pleaded.
"Did I give thee leave to ride behind Mr. Bunyan? Go to him, thou
disobedient girl; thou art no child of mine."
And so saying he banged to the lattice very fiercely, and Agnes was left
standing without in the cold and damp.
For a moment she thought she would go to her sister's house, but then
the memory of Bunyan's words came over her, and she resolved not to be
driven away by her father's harshness, but to pass her night in the barn
praying for him, and to seek on the morrow to soften him by her prayers
and to tell him of the advice Mr. Bunyan had given her. She longed to be
reconciled to him, and lead him back to the old paths by her filial
gentleness. And as she made her way to the barn, she said in her heart:
"That is the work of wicked Farry. He has been with father again,
poisoning his mind; but I will pray for him, and perchance on the
morrow he will hear me, and let me come to him once more."
But upon the morrow the old man seemed more implacable than ever. He was
rather startled at finding his daughter in the barn in her riding-dress;
but he would not hear a word from her. He poured out his fury upon her
in such ungoverned language that it was all the poor girl could do to
keep from turning and fleeing from him. Yet, mindful of her resolve to
bear all meekly, she continued to follow him about and plead to be taken
in; till at last the old man in a fit of ungovernable fury ran at her
with the pitch-fork that he had in his hand, and Agnes barely escaped
receiving a serious injury.
"I will go to Prudence's house for a while, father," she said gently
after this. "I trust by the morrow you will have forgiven me if I did
wrong in riding with Mr. Bunyan. Indeed, he was loth to take me; but I
was so anxious to go. Perhaps I was somewhat wrong to urge it so
vehemently; but one day you will forgive, and let me be your daughter
again."
Yet in spite of all the persuasions of the married daughter and
son-in-law, and the dutiful gentleness of Agnes, it was not till the
third day that the old man's fit of passionate fury spent itself, and he
rather sullenly consented that Agnes should come home once more.
When first she began her accustomed duties about the house, he was very
morose, and would scarcely speak to her; but gradually her gentleness
and sweetness seemed to soften him, and upon the day following he
appeared to have forgotten his ill-will, and they spent the evening
peacefully together in cheerful conversation.
But the old man complained of being cold, which, indeed, was scarcely to
be wondered at since the wind had changed and brought with it a fall of
snow. Agnes gave him his supper somewhat earlier than usual, and he went
to bed, she following his example only a little later.
Towards midnight she was awakened by the sound of dismal groaning from
her father's room, and rushing to him discovered that he was in sore
pain, and could scarcely draw his breath.
"I have been struck to the heart!" he gasped, "I am about to die. God be
merciful to me, a sinner, and forgive me the sins I have committed
towards you, my daughter!"
Agnes, in great alarm, flew about, kindling the fire, and making
something hot for her father to drink, hoping thus to soothe his pain
and restore him; but there was a grey, ashen look upon his face which
frightened her terribly; and she was all alone with him in the house.
The terrible spasm lasted about half an hour, and then the old man fell
back in a dying state. Agnes, so soon as she saw herself quite helpless
to assist him, rushed forth to her sister's house, and make known her
terrible plight. They all followed her back in great dismay; but only to
witness the last struggle as the old man passed into eternity.
Agnes was crushed to the earth by this blow; but she was not suffered to
mourn her dead in peace. The next day her brother-in-law came to her
with a very disturbed face, and said that Lawyer Farry desired speech of
her, and when Agnes would have refused to see him, she was told that it
would not be wise to do so, as the matter on which he had come was of
grave moment.
When she saw the lawyer's evil, shifty face, and the gleam of triumphant
malevolence in his eyes she felt her heart sink for a moment; but then
rallying her courage she met his gaze fearlessly, and asked him what his
business was with her.
"I have come to offer you the only hope of escaping the punishment of
your crime. There is one and only one way by which you can save yourself
from the awful doom that awaits you."
"You are speaking in riddles to me, sir," said Agnes; "I pray you say
plainly what you have come to say, and leave me."
His eyes looked more malevolent still as he came a step nearer.
"Girl," he said, in very low and terrible tones, "do you know that the
doom of the parricide is death at the stake?"
Agnes recoiled in horror from the word parricide. The colour forsook her
cheeks; she trembled as she stood. What awful thought had come into that
man's evil mind?
"Yes, guilty woman, you may well tremble and quail, now that your guilty
purpose is known. But listen yet. I am the only person who can bear
testimony against you, and I will save you on one condition: Be my wife,
and I will say nothing. The world will never know that Agnes Beaumont is
a murderess--a parricide!"
Suddenly the girl's righteous wrath blazed up. She saw the man's motive
in making this foul charge, this fearful threat. He knew that her father
had left her a rich woman, that all he died possessed of was to be hers.
To get her and her fortune into his power he was ready to perjure
himself in the most frightful way; she saw the fell purpose in his eyes;
but her spirit did not desert her. She stood for a moment in silent
prayer, and then said:
"I will never marry you. God knows that I am innocent of the awful sin
you lay at my door. I will trust to Him to save me from the malice of my
persecutors."
It was in vain that the man by every argument and threat in his power
sought to shake the steady courage of the girl, and to bend her to his
will. In vain he painted for her the horrors of the fiery death of the
parricide; in vain he sought to show her how impossible it would be to
prove her innocence. She stood looking fearlessly into his evil face,
and when he would have put out a hand to draw her nearer, she slipped
out of his reach, and with a quiet and lofty mien walked to the door,
turning round at the last to say:
"May God forgive you for the cruel deed you are about to do. Into His
hands I entrust my cause."
Later in the day her sister came to her in deep agitation.
"Agnes, Agnes, why wouldest thou not submit to his will? He is such a
crafty, cruel man. He will obtain thine undoing! Oh, sister, sister,
dost know what he is about to swear before the coroner to-morrow?"
"That I poisoned my father--he has said as much," answered Agnes
quietly; "but he can prove nothing that he says."
"Nay, but it is more than that. He has got such a story. He says that
Mr. Bunyan did give thee the poison, and that he saw you twain riding
together, and heard you speaking together of our father as he passed. He
says that when he got here poor father told him that he was sure you
meant him ill, and that you would find a way of getting rid of him,
since you only promised obedience to his wishes so long as he lived. Oh,
the story he has made of it! And then he points out how loth father was
to take you back, and that he turned you away and said you were no
daughter of his, and might go back to those you had come from. He
learned so many things from us, ere ever we knew the hideous thing in
his mind. Now he says his case is complete and that only by marrying him
can you escape that awful death. Oh, Agnes, Agnes, wilt thou not do his
bidding to save thyself from that fate?"
"Take a false vow of love and obedience to a man like that? Oh, sister,
how could I? And what would life be with him afterwards?"
"But they say it will be death at the stake!" wept Prudence.
"And has not the Lord promised 'When thou passest through the fire I
will be with thee'?" asked Agnes calmly. "I dare not be false to Him;
and I know He will not be false to me. Be not afraid; this trial may be
sent for some good purpose. But it cuts me to the heart that he should
bring in Mr. Bunyan's name. That is a needless piece of wickedness and
falsehood."
"It is all false together; but he vows that Mr. Bunyan wished to get
possession of father's money by wedding with you, and that therefore he
gave you the poison and bid you use it upon the first opportunity."
To the two inexperienced women, clinging together in their hour of
affliction, it seemed to them as though the doom of Agnes had already
well nigh gone forth. They knew how clever and unscrupulous Lawyer Farry
was, and how successful he generally proved in carrying through the
schemes to which he gave his mind. Already the neighbourhood was ringing
with the story that Agnes had poisoned her father, and although many
refused to believe in so monstrous a charge, yet it was very well known
how violent the old man's rage had been against his daughter, and that
he had died also immediately after Agnes had been taken back to his
house. This was not evidence, but it raised doubts and suspicions in
many minds.
The coroner and the jury had assembled, having first viewed the corpse,
and Mr. Hatfield, the surgeon, testified emphatically that he regarded
death as due to natural causes. The old man had long been suffering from
some cardiac derangement, and the excitement into which he had recently
thrown himself would be quite enough to account for the fatal seizure.
Agnes Beaumont, he added, had given him free leave to make a post-mortem
examination, but in his opinion the thing was not necessary.