raving?” He said aloud,—“You will reach it easily, patre, when you have
had a day or two of rest. Would I dare leave you alone, and I would run
and fetch help for you. If God would but send some traveller this way!
Patre, how does your head feel?”
“It still throbs wildly,” said the monk, feebly raising his hand to it.
“What hour is it? How long have I slept?”
José answered both questions with as near an approach to accuracy as he
could. Then the monk added,—
“I have an impression that I talked in my sleep. Did I?” he asked
uneasily.
“Never a word, patre. You only moaned, like one in pain. Patre, I wish
you would eat some of my coca-leaves; they would do you good. Woe is me!
I have nothing else to give you, save cold water and maize.”
“Away with your coca!” said the monk sternly. “It would be a sin for me
to touch or taste it.”
“As the patre pleases,” returned José, with apparent indifference. “But,
I pray you, try to eat a little maize—just a few grains. I will make them
hot for you in a minute; see what a good fire I have kindled!”
“Eat the maize yourself, my son; you must have needed it ere this.”
“Oh no, patre; I have had abundance,” said José, whose code of morality
was not too high to permit what is often, though erroneously, called “a
white lie.”
The day wore on. In the afternoon the monk seemed better; and José, who
keenly felt the discomfort, not to say the peril, of remaining longer in
their present position, ventured to ask if he might not run at least to
the nearest village to obtain food and other necessaries.
“I will run like the Inca’s chasquis,” he pleaded; “my foot shall not
bend the blades of ychu as I pass.”
He did not dream—how could he?—that his patron was struggling, not alone
with bodily pain, but with sore anguish and bitterness of soul. In this
hour of weakness, Fray Fernando could not face the thought of being left
to himself amidst that dreary solitude. In proportion as the world of
man seemed far away, the spirit-world seemed near. José could not, at
best, return before the shades of evening fell. And Fray Fernando _dared_
not meet the darkness, with its strange
“Voices and visions from the sphere of those
That have to die no more,”
without the comfort and support of a human presence.
“Wait till next morning, José,” he said. “Then I shall be better or
worse. In either case, I promise to let you go.”
José waited, with the patience of his race. Hour after hour he sat by the
fire, watching Fray Fernando as he dozed, and trying to put together the
disjointed fragments of meaning gathered up from that wonderful psalm.
The more he pondered, the more certain he felt that it told of an Inca—a
King who should reign in righteousness, and be the Friend of the poor.
But who was He? Had He reigned long ago over the Jews? Or, peradventure,
was He still to come? José knew well that the Psalms contained many
prophecies of future events. He would ask the patre the interpretation of
this one. But he would take care so to veil his questions that the patre
should never guess their real drift and object. For José, who loved Fray
Fernando well enough to die for him, would yet rather have died than have
allowed him to suspect certain hopes and dreams that lay hidden in the
depths of his heart.
Towards evening the monk appeared so much easier that José ventured to
propose reading to him.
“You may, if you like,” was the answer. And José quietly began,—“_Deus,
justicium_.”
“You mistake,” Fray Fernando said at once. “You read that before. This is
the fifteenth evening of the month.”
“Is it, patre?” José asked innocently. “Yes—no; I do not think I read
this one. Not in Spanish, at least ‘Give justice, O God.’”
Fray Fernando’s nerves were in that miserable condition in which the
slightest jarring touch means torture. He felt it intolerable to lie
still and listen to José’s blunders. By way of correcting him, he began
the familiar words himself,—“‘Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy
righteousness to the king’s son.’”
“Ah, that is easy to understand,” said José. “But when I change the words
for myself, I lose the first word before I find the second. If the patre
would only go on, and recite it all for me!”
Fray Fernando had no objection. It was indeed far less troublesome to
recite the well-known words himself than to hear José stumble over
them. Coldly and monotonously enough, for his thoughts were far away,
he repeated the words of that sublime psalm—words first of prayer—such
prayer as any righteous king might fitly offer for his son and successor;
then kindling and rising into a grand prophecy of a greater King than
Solomon, a holier and more enduring reign than his; and ending at last
with that fervent burst of thanksgiving, the noble and appropriate close
to the prayers of David, the son of Jesse.
Crouched on the ground by Fray Fernando’s side, and with eager eyes that
never stirred from his face, the Indian youth drank in every word.
This was what he heard:—“‘Give the king thy judgments, O God, and thy
righteousness unto the king’s son. He shall judge thy people with
righteousness, and thy poor with judgment. The mountains shall bring
peace to the people, and the little hills, by righteousness. He shall
judge the poor of the people, he shall save the children of the needy,
and shall break in pieces the oppressor. They shall fear thee as long as
the sun and the moon endure, throughout all generations. He shall come
down like rain upon the mown grass; as showers that water the earth. In
his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so long as
the moon endureth. He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from
the river unto the ends of the earth. They that dwell in the wilderness
shall bow before him, and his enemies shall lick the dust. The kings of
Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents; the kings of Sheba and
Seba shall offer gifts. Yea, all kings shall fall down before him, all
nations shall serve him. For he shall deliver the poor when he crieth;
the needy also, and him that hath no helper. He shall spare the poor
and needy, and shall save the souls of the needy. He shall redeem their
souls from deceit and violence; and precious shall their blood be in his
sight.’”
No longer could the delighted hearer keep silence. “Ranti, ranti! Capac
Inca, Huacchacuyac!” (Hail, hail! mighty Inca, Friend of the poor!) he
cried, springing suddenly to his feet.
“What is it, José?” asked the startled Fray Fernando, whose thoughts were
recalled from the ends of the earth by this impassioned interruption.
“Nothing, patre,” said José, resuming his seat, and his habitual manner.
“Will it please the patre to go on? They are good words.”
The patre went on: “‘He shall live, and to him shall be given of the gold
of Sheba; prayer shall be made for him continually, and daily shall he be
praised. There shall be an handful of corn in the earth upon the top of
the mountains.’”—(And here the Inca’s son beheld, through the happy tears
that filled his eyes, the terraced hills of his fathers’ land, with their
waving handfuls of maize on the narrow ledges at the top, sure tokens of
the industry and the prosperity of the nation.)—“‘The fruit thereof shall
shake like Lebanon; and they of the city shall flourish like grass of the
earth. His name shall endure for ever: his name shall be continued as
long as the sun, and men shall be blessed in him: all nations shall call
him blessed. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, who only doeth wondrous
things. And blessed be his glorious name for ever: and let the whole
earth be filled with his glory. Amen, and Amen!’”
“Amen, and Amen!” José echoed. Then he said softly, “Thank you, patre,”
and without another word went out.
He stood on the brink of the precipice overhanging the current. The moon
was pouring a flood of light over the rocks, the mountains, the bridge;
even the waters of the river, far beneath, caught the silver radiance,
and glistened as they flowed along. José knew that his fathers called
that stream the Apurimac—the Great Talker—because they dreamed of mystic
murmurings in its noisy path, which, duly interpreted, would reveal the
secrets of the future. Would that the Oracle would speak to him—but this
once—and tell him who was that great Inca, that King of the East, who
would deliver the poor when he cried! Had He reigned long ago, like King
David, who was dead and buried in Jerusalem? No; for it was said, “They
shall fear Thee as long as the sun and the moon endure.” Was He still
to come? Or could it be that He was reigning even now? In the valleys
amongst his own people, mysterious rumours passed from lip to lip about
pale-faced bearded strangers, with golden hair, who should come from
beyond the Mother Sea, and avenge the wrongs of the Children of the Sun
upon the cruel Spaniards. Some called these people English, but perhaps
they meant Jews, as when men said Castilians they meant Spaniards. The
Spaniards slandered these their rivals, as was natural; saying that they
were not Catholics, that they did not adore the Holy Cross, and that they
roasted Indians and ate them. But those who knew better bore witness
that they were always just and kind to the people of the lands where
they came, and never did them any harm. Probably the tale that they were
governed by a _coya_, or empress, came from the Spaniards also; for how
could a woman govern a great and brave nation? Surely they must have a
king! Why not the great King that David described in the psalm?
If he might only find that King, lay the wrongs of his people at His
feet, implore His help for them! To accomplish this, peril would be
light, difficulty nothing. Gladly would he do what none of his race had
done yet of their free will—cross the Mother Sea, and plant his foot on
the strange shores of which his fathers had never dreamed. Gladly would
he die, slain by the sword or burned to ashes at the stake, like others
of his people, if that would bring deliverance to Tahuantin Suyu, and set
the rainbow banner of the Incas free once more to wave in the sunshine.
Surely the Great King, if once he could but find Him, would be pitiful,
for He should judge the poor and needy; and He would be strong to save,
for His dominion should be from sea to sea, and from the river to the
ends of the earth.
Once more he looked down at the foaming Apurimac. But in all its noisy
tones there was no voice for him. Well he knew that the dreams of his
fathers were but dreams, baseless and unsubstantial, to vanish when the
morning light arose. Then he looked up to heaven. Quilla, the silvery
spouse of Ynty, could tell him as little as the babbling stream below.
But above—far above? There dwelt the Great God, who made Indian and
Spaniard alike, who was blessed and praised in that wonderful psalm, and
to whom, Fray Fernando told him, men might pray for help in every time
of need. He knelt down, and clasping his hands, prayed his first real
prayer,—“O God, teach me about the Great King, and help me to find Him.”
That was all he said. But as he rose from his knees, and quietly
re-entered the tampu, a calmness and a strength, never felt before,
came down upon his perplexed, bewildered mind. It had its root in two
persuasions, not clear enough to be expressed in words, but real enough
to sink deep into his heart—that God would hear his prayer; and that he
had now a purpose worth living for, and, if need be, worth dying for.
XII.
What they did Beyond the Mother Sea.
“On my soul there fell
A horror of great darkness, which shut out
All earth, and heaven, and hope.”
HEMANS.
All was still within the tampu, and José had been asleep for some time,
when Fray Fernando softly called him.
He started up quickly. “Is anything wrong, patre?” he asked.
“No; if you are not sleeping, I should like to talk with you.”
“Chachau!” (willingly and gladly!) said José, good-humouredly, as he
threw the remains of his store of dry sticks on the fire, and seated
himself beside it. The night was frosty, and his yacollo, or cloak, was
beneath Fray Fernando.
Except for the dim light thrown out by the smouldering brands, the place
was in darkness. Like most of the Peruvian buildings, it had no windows,
and the door was closed.
Fray Fernando’s voice came out of the gloom,—a little lower, slower, more
restrained than usual. “I should like to tell you a tale of the things
that happen in my country,” he said.
“I like well to hear those tales, patre,” José answered.
“You will not like this one. It is sad as death—sadder!—sad as life.”
José understood him. He knew what were the lives of the mitayos in the
obregas and the mines.
Fray Fernando went on, still in the same quiet tone, like one treading
the crust of a volcano with light and wary footsteps, lest perchance he
should disturb the hidden fires beneath:—“In that land beyond the Mother
Sea where I was born, José, is a great and fair city called Seville.
There are noble churches and stately marble palaces, glittering white
in the sunshine; and there are fragrant orange-groves and delicious
gardens, fringing the banks of the bright river, loved of all Spanish
hearts, the peerless Guadalquivir.” And on that bleak mountain, at the
other side of the world, Fray Fernando paid the tribute of a passing
sigh to the memories of his sunny native land. “In that fair city,” he
went on, “dwelt the two boys whose story I wish to tell you. They were
foster-brothers. One was of noblest lineage, and bore an honoured name;
his father’s father had been amongst the conquistadors.”
“I call not such lineage noble, but base,” said José, forgetting for a
moment his habitual caution.
“There you err,” the monk returned. “The conquistadors of Seville were
brave men, who rescued the city from the Infidels, and planted the Cross
where the Crescent had glittered for centuries, to the shame of Christian
Spain. The memories of such a conflict stir the heart of youth like the
sound of a trumpet, and the noble’s son I speak of had his training in
the midst of them. His foster-brother shared them also; his parents,
though poor, were old Christians, respected by all in the district where
they dwelt. That district was—but I shall have to speak of it hereafter.
Pleasanter is it to speak of Melchior—gallant Melchior, with his handsome
face, curling black hair, bright dark eyes, brave yet gentle heart.
Fearless always, quick to resolve, strong to do and dare, impetuous yet
persevering. He grew up a regular _majo_.”
“What is that, patre?”
“A gallant youth of Seville, who ruffles it on the Prado or in the
street, resplendent in velvet and silver lace, his dagger in his belt,
his guitar on his shoulder, ready for a fight, a bull-feast, or a
dance, and always ready to do homage to bright eyes and fair faces. Yet
Melchior, gay as he seemed, was simple and pious, kind to his troop of
young brothers and sisters, and never forgetting in his wildest moods to
say his prayers, or to bring his offering to the Virgin’s shrine.—Ay de
mi!”
“Patre, you are forgetting the other lad, the young noble. You have not
even told me his name.”
“It was—Don Alfonso. Had they been brothers in blood, they could not have
loved each other more. They shared the same sports, practised the same
exercises. Together they rode at the ring, wrestled, played with canes.
Sometimes one excelled, sometimes the other; but they were never jealous,
their love was too true. Together they dreamed of the future, and planned
deeds of daring and high emprize. Sometimes Africa, sometimes Ireland or
Flanders, oftener your wild Western World, José, was to be the scene of
their exploits. Vain, idle dreams! One of them, at least, lived to thank
God for the veil wherewith His mercy hides the coming days. But for it,
life would be all suffering from its dawn to its close.
“As for Melchior, no shadowy forebodings dimmed his bright young spirit.
He early gave his heart to a lovely girl, the beauty of the district
where they lived, and accounted as good as she was beautiful. Great was
his joy when, after an anxious wooing, he came at last to tell his friend
that she had consented to bestow her hand upon him; and Señor Don Alfonso
had to promise forthwith to dance the cachuco at their wedding. He was
nothing loath, for he knew and liked the pretty little Juanita, and
sincerely rejoiced in Melchior’s happiness. He had dreams of his own at
this time, moreover. There were sweet blue eyes, whose gleam made summer
in his heart, and golden hair—”
“I did not think people of your nation had golden hair, patre,” José
interrupted.
“It is rare amongst us, and therefore perhaps more highly prized.—But to
return to Melchior. Between him and the fulfilment of his hopes there
was one great barrier. You cannot understand, José, how sorely, in the
lands beyond the sea, men and women ofttimes suffer for the lack of those
morsels of gold and silver you treat with such disdain.”
“I understand very well, patre. They were poor. But why did they not ask
the king? Surely he would have given them a little piece of land, enough
to live upon.” With José, the king was the “Deus ex machina,” who was to
solve every difficulty, and set right every wrong.
“That is not the custom in Spain,” said Fray Fernando. “Nor do we think
it the king’s business to provide for all his needy subjects.”
“Then,” thought José, “_he_ assuredly is not the King who will deliver
the poor when he crieth, the needy also, and him that hath no helper.” He
asked aloud, “What, then, could they do?”
Fray Fernando answered,—“Don Alfonso at length suggested a plan
which seemed feasible. His sisters, at his request, obtained a place
for Juanita as waiting-woman to a noble lady, who was both rich and
liberal; so it was hoped that after a year or two spent in her service,
Melchior’s bride would have something to call her own besides her velvet
bodice and her silver ear-rings. Melchior, too, had his plans. He had
already distinguished himself by coolness and daring in more than one
bull-feast.—I have told you of the bull-feasts of Spain, José?”
“Yes,” said José briefly. They were, to him, amongst the many
incomprehensible things on the other side of the sea.
“Melchior dreamed of winning gold as well as glory by his feats as
matador. In truth, he was far too daring. I sometimes warned him that he
might tempt fortune once too often. An hour came when I wished to God
that he had bled his young life out beneath the horse-hoofs on the sand
of the arena!”
“Then you knew those foster-brothers, patre?” asked José with interest.
“Yes,” Fray Fernando answered. He resumed after a pause, and in an
altered tone, “What comes next is not easy to tell. Yet it must be told.
You know what heresy is, José?”
“Anything against the Catholic Faith—such as what the Jews believe,” José
replied promptly.
“Right. In Seville, just before the time I speak of, there had been many
heretics, but they were discovered and punished by the Holy Inquisition.”
“I pray you tell me, patre, what is the Holy Inquisition?”
“A tribunal for the discovery, trial, and punishment of heretics.”
“Are people, then, in your country punished for believing wrong?”
“Most assuredly. What can be more necessary and proper?” said Fray
Fernando with decision, and perhaps with a little sharpness. “The lady
whom Juanita served,” he continued, “though to all outward seeming truly
pious, was in heart a confirmed heretic. And she dropped the subtle
poison of her false faith day by day into the unsuspecting ear of the
simple peasant-girl. Poor Juanita thought her words good and holy, and
very comforting to the heart. In truth, these people often begin with
good words, such as no Catholic could object to, and thus they deceive
the unwary. You know what the Gospel says of wolves in sheep’s clothing,
José! Juanita used to remember what she heard, and repeat it all to
Melchior, who dreamed of harm no more than she did. They were children,
playing at the mouth of a volcano, gathering flowers unconscious of the
fire that slumbered beneath, ready to break forth and overwhelm them.
“One day Don Alfonso came home from walking on the Prado. He was light
of heart; the solid earth seemed air beneath his feet; for those blue
eyes of which I spoke had beamed graciously upon him. He said within
himself, ‘I will cross the bridge of boats to Melchior’s dwelling, and
tell him.’ But as he took again the montero he had laid aside, his little
foot-page came to say, ‘Melchior del Salto is in the patio, desiring to
see you.’ Gladly did he go thither, but on entering, his mood changed in
an instant. There sat Melchior on the settle, his head bowed upon its
oaken arm, over which his curled hair fell in disorder. His attitude
spoke despair; and neither at the step nor at the voice of his friend did
he move or look up. Don Alfonso’s anxious and repeated questions at last
drew forth the murmured answer, ‘She’s gone!’
“‘Gone!’ reiterated the other, in utter bewilderment.
‘Gone!—whither?—when?’
“Melchior spoke again,—‘At midnight—the alguazils of the Holy Office.’
“José, you know not the despair, the dread despair, where _that_ doom
falls upon a loved one. They who sit and weep beside their dead,—they it
is who are envied then. For we know, at least, that the dead are safe
from the troubles of this miserable world—that they are in the hands of
God, not of man. But years may pass before the watcher without hears so
much as a whisper of the fate of him—or her—upon whom the gates of the
Triana once have closed.”
“O patre!” cried José in horror, “is that the justice they do in your
country?”
Fray Fernando now became conscious that he had said more than he ought to
the unlearned Indian youth, thus “offending one of the little ones,” as
his class were wont to speak. So he drew the monk’s frock over the man’s
beating heart, and hastened to explain:—“You must not think there is any
injustice, José. God forbid. Their reverences, the lords inquisitors, are
wise and holy men. Heresy is fearful sin, and when the Church has to deal
with it, as one of her ablest doctors has most truly said, ‘Severity is
mercy, and mercy severity.’”
José listened with becoming awe. “But then, patre,” he ventured to say,
“that poor girl meant no harm. It seems hard she should suffer thus.”
“You cannot understand,” said Fray Fernando wearily. “Indians never can
understand.”
José was not at all convinced of the natural disabilities of his race,
but he was very anxious for the rest of the story. So he said presently,
“Tell me about Melchior, patre.”
“The dark hour that saw the gate of the Triana closed behind Juanita
changed Melchior into another man. He grew moody, restless, sometimes
even fierce. No more bull-feasts, no more gay walks on the Prado, no
more dances in the evening—one absorbing occupation filled every moment
snatched from work or sleep. Love alone could teach the patience with
which day after day, night after night, he used to take his stand beneath
the wall of that gloomy fortress. Not quite in vain. The first tears that
relieved his breaking heart fell as he told his friend how he caught a
glimpse of the face he loved—pale and changed—behind the bars of a grated
window.