tumbling at their base, slight strong bridge of osiers—as if revealed by
a lightning flash. But now I know. It was some chance words of yours,
spoken then, ‘Our people trusted the Inca. And they knew that every way
he made for them would lead them safely to the Golden City.’”
José smiled, then murmured softly, “Yachani” (I know). He had still
a habit of dropping a word or two in his native tongue when anything
touched his heart. “I know” in Spanish only meant “I am aware.” “I know”
in Quichua meant, “_I feel_, _I am satisfied_.”
XXXV.
Easter-Day.
“Christ hath sent us down the angels;
And the whole earth and the skies
Are illumed by altar candles
Lit for blessed mysteries;
And a Priest’s hand through creation
Waveth calm and consecration.”
E. B. BROWNING.
It was Easter-day in the City of the Kings, the capital of the New World.
The bells of the Christian churches rang out glad peals of triumph;
banners and tapestry adorned the principal streets, which were thronged
by Spaniards, Creoles, and Indians in their gayest costumes. But in the
great Square the throng was thickest, and all were pouring onwards in a
steady stream towards the new cathedral.
This singular building stood before them, in all the glory of its painted
façade of glaring red and yellow, its lath and plaster towers, and its
three wide green doors, now thrown open for every one to enter. But
once within, the bad taste that planned the exterior was forgotten, and
nothing felt but admiration. Decorations of the most costly kind abounded
in rich profusion; and the numerous altars literally groaned beneath the
weight of silver vessels, massive enough for a monarch’s ransom.
It was very early, yet the spacious building was already filling
rapidly. Perhaps rather with eager sight-seers than with devout
worshippers or attentive hearers. For there was much to be seen that day,
if there was also something to be heard. Places were reserved in the
nave for the friars of the four great monasteries—the Dominicans, the
Franciscans, the Augustinians, and the Mercedarios; and by-and-by they
defiled slowly in, wearing their appropriate costumes. The Franciscans
looked the best satisfied and the most interested: the sermon of the day
was to be preached by a Franciscan monk.
Few Indians were visible; not that they would not have liked well enough
to witness the pageant, but the Spaniards and Creoles, as was natural,
had the best places, and left little room for their dusky brethren. One
Indian enjoyed, however, by special favour, an excellent seat, whence he
could both see and hear everything.
With a heart full of the deepest anxiety, José (who, with Fray Fernando,
had come in from Callao the day before) took his place amongst the
hearers of his patron’s Easter sermon. He knew that for some days
previously the monk had been continually in prayer. But he had spoken
little, indeed nothing whatever, about his own intentions, or the
possible issues of the day.
High Mass was first celebrated, with more than the usual pomp attendant
on that chief ceremonial of the Romish ritual. The solemn tones of the
organ, recently brought from Spain; the sweet chants of the white-robed
choristers; the gorgeous dresses of the priests, with the bright
harmonies of their varied colouring; the beautiful children swinging
censers; the clouds of fragrant incense;—all these filled the soul of
José—keenly susceptible of such influences—with exquisite pleasure.
He gave himself up without reserve to the spell that stole over him.
For the time—only for the time—he forgot all Fray Fernando’s anxious
questionings, all his great searchings of heart, about the sacrifice
of the Mass; and at the elevation of the Host he bowed himself to the
ground with as little scruple or hesitation as any man in the vast
congregation.
And very soon afterwards he enjoyed the proud triumph of seeing the
patre—still in the simple dress of his order, though waited upon by
gorgeously attired acolytes—ascend the stately pulpit in the sight of all.
For a few moments, heedless of the crowd beneath, Fray Fernando lifted
up his heart in silent prayer. Then in a voice, apparently not loud, but
clear enough to be heard throughout the great building, he repeated the
few simple words he had chosen for his text, “The Lord is risen indeed.”
The Lord is risen—_the Son of God_. Therefore all He said is true, and
His claim to Divine Sonship established for ever.
The Lord is risen—_the Redeemer of man_. Therefore the redemption is
accomplished, the debt paid to the uttermost farthing. For the prison
gate is thrown open, and the Surety has gone forth in triumph.
The Lord is risen—_the First-fruits of the Resurrection_. Therefore all
shall rise; earth and ocean shall give up their dead; not one lacking of
the countless millions that are slumbering there. For “since by man came
death, by man came also the resurrection from the dead.”
The Lord is risen—_the Head of the Church_. Therefore those who are His
body, made one with Him by a living faith, are already by faith risen
with Him. Let such “seek those things that are above, where Christ
sitteth at the right hand of God.”
These were the thoughts that, clothed in a rich drapery of imaginative,
perhaps even to a modern taste fanciful illustration, Fray Fernando
presented that day to thousands of wondering hearers. The manner was not
strikingly unlike that of his brethren—the gift of fervid eloquence was
shared by many amongst them—but the matter of the sermon was new and
startling.
Yet two at least of the truths he told, Rome has preserved well and
carefully amidst all her errors. Nor were the two others, as he stated
them, in any open contradiction to her teaching. But the utter absence
of much that they were wont to hear—and, even more, the power and
vital force that dwelt in what they heard—awed, impressed, amazed the
intelligent amongst his audience. If the comparison be not derogatory
to such high personages as the Archbishop and Chapter of Ciudad de los
Reyes, it may be said that they felt as felt the witch of Endor, when at
her call from the earth arose—no counterfeit, no pale shadowy image,—but
dread reality, the very prophet of Israel, come from the world of spirits
with a message of doom for those that awaked him.
José’s simple heart, meanwhile, beat high with exultation. Those truths,
whatever they might be to others, to him were life and joy and peace.
Christ was risen indeed for him.
The preacher also had a place in his thoughts. _Now_, at last, would all
men see how great, how wise the patre was! And, casting a triumphant
glance around, he read admiration in a thousand faces, whilst his own was
saying, “Is not the patre great?”
But amongst the faces upon which his eye rested, he marked _one_—unlike
the others—that of the Dominican from Cuba. It did not speak admiration:
it was doubtful, dark, anxious. And José felt as if from that moment
the light grew dim; and a chill mist of fear rose up and overshadowed
everything around.
In his cell in the Franciscan monastery, he had a strange dream that
night. He thought that it happened to him to go with the patre on board a
ship which lay at anchor in the bay. Alone, they drifted somehow out to
sea together. No mariners, no rudder, no compass there. Nothing but white
sails set, wild waves around, fast fading land behind. And they looked
each on the other in blank dismay.
Then suddenly, as things happen in dreams, the storm arose, the wild wind
shrieked and howled, the ship tossed helplessly. José stretched forth
his hands and cried aloud, “Lord, save, or we perish!”
When—behold! a Form appeared, treading the stormy deep. And a Hand
touched his;—with the thrill of _that_ touch José awoke, and lo! it was a
dream.
But he could not forget that dream.
XXXVI.
José’s Mistake.
“Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from Nature, shall unloose
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,
In the terrific face of armed law,
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.”
JOANNA BAILLIE.
About sunset one evening, a little more than a fortnight afterwards,
Fray Fernando and José were seated at their frugal meal of maize-flour
bread and fruit. “O José!” the monk exclaimed suddenly, laying down his
knife and looking at his companion with an air of distress, “I have quite
forgotten that starving family at Chorillos. I promised to bring them
food to-day. _Vae meâ culpa!_ God grant some of them are not dead by this
time. I must go to them immediately.” He rose, and began hastily to empty
their little store of maize into a cotton cloth.
José rose also, and quietly put on his cap and mantle. “I think I had
better take a little flask of sora; some one may be ill,” he said.
“_You!_” exclaimed the monk, looking up from his task of tying the
corners of the cloth together. “I am going myself.”
“Excuse me, patre; you know of old I run like the huanucu.”
Under the circumstances, this was an unanswerable argument. José was
permitted to depart, well-pleased to save the patre, who had had a hard
day’s work already.
Very quickly did his fleet footsteps traverse the rank grass and reeds of
the green fields, overhung with drooping willows, that separate Callao
from Chorillos, a little hamlet nestling beneath the bold cliff of Marro
Solar. He easily found the poor family of Mestizoes, for whom the food
was intended, performed his errand of mercy, and set out on his homeward
way.
But although he made good speed, the hour was late when he returned.
Still, he was rather surprised to see no light in the little latticed
window of Fray Fernando’s room. “The patre must have been tired,” he
thought, “or he would not have gone to rest ere my return. I am glad I
saved him the walk, which, for him, would have been a very long one.”
He knocked gently, and presently heard the approaching footsteps of the
old mulatto woman with whom they lodged. Instead of opening the door at
once, she stood and asked, with unusual caution, “Quien va?”
“I—Don José.” The door opened. José entered, and passing at once into
their little sitting-room, requested a light. When it was brought, he
looked around him in surprise and dismay. Where was the patre’s cloak?
Where was the Bible—the “Sum of Christian Doctrine”—the little box of
sandal-wood, the gift of a grateful mariner, in which the patre used to
keep the few papers he had? “What has happened?” he asked.
“About half an hour ago, two hidalgoes came here and took the padre away
with them,” said his sable hostess.
“Hidalgoes!” José repeated in amazement. “Friars perhaps you mean?”
“Friars, indeed! I hope I know a holy friar when I see him. I was a
Catholic Christian before you were born, young sir; and I have Catholic
blood in my veins, which is more than some can say who put ‘Don’ before
their names. I tell your Excellency they were Spanish gentlemen, with
swords and cloaks.”
“Some one ill, doubtless, on board one of the vessels,” thought José, as
he sat down to await the patre’s return. “I wish, however, they could
have waited till the morning.—Did he give you any message for me?” asked
José as the woman was leaving the room.
“Yes; I was forgetting. It was not much, at all events. He just bade me
say to you, ‘Every way He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City.’”
A pang of vague uneasiness shot through the heart of José. He feared—he
knew not what. He watched anxiously for the patre’s return. But hour
after hour passed away, and he came not. At last it was morning. José
threw on his yacollo, and went down to the beach. Few were stirring at
that early hour; and none could give him any tidings of Fray Fernando.
“He must have gone to the City,” he said to himself. “At the Franciscan
monastery they will surely be able to tell me what has become of him.
Perhaps he has suddenly received orders to go to some distant place.” But
his alarm was increasing every moment.
José had frequently visited the Franciscan monastery, both with Fray
Fernando and by himself; and he was very favourably regarded by its
inmates, as an interesting specimen of the educated and Christianized
Indian. Two of the brethren readily came to speak with him.
In his usual calm, unimpassioned manner, he told his story; but his
hearers gazed at him and at each other in evident blank dismay. Then a
rapid Latin colloquy passed between them: they were not aware that José
understood the language. “I have feared this for some time,” the elder
whispered. “Too clever—too mystical! Ah! the spite of those Dominicans!”
“Had he worn the black cowl, instead of the gray, he might have preached
with impunity all the heresies of Luther,” returned the other. “Well, the
Holy Office never had a better man or a truer Catholic in its dungeons.”
“Still, you cannot deny that he was very imprudent. _Miserere me!_ We are
helpless as sheep against these sons of St. Dominic. If good Fray Tomas
de San Martin were but here!”
“He could do nothing in a case of this kind. But—_tace!_ we are
forgetting our dark-faced friend.”
“Better he should not suspect the truth. Let us tell him quietly to go
his way.—My son,” he said, addressing José in Spanish, “we are led to
believe, by what you have told us, that the holy father has been sent, by
his spiritual superiors, on some mission of importance requiring haste
and secrecy. Where do your kindred reside? Be advised by us, and rejoin
them for the present. The Fray’s absence may be lengthened, for anything
we know to the contrary.”
José bowed. His lips were silent; nor did his impassive Indian
countenance express either the anguish or the resolution that filled his
heart. But he said within himself, “God do so to me, and more also, if I
go to my people and leave my father alone amongst his enemies.”
From the gate of the Franciscan monastery he went direct to that of
the grim dark pile of building called the Santa Casa. Here he rang the
bell, and requested an interview with one of their reverences the Lords
Inquisitors.
A request heard with surprise, yet granted promptly enough. The Indian
might have evidence to give, perhaps important revelations to make.
José glanced coolly around the room to which he was conducted, with its
sombre furniture and black tapestry. When the inquisitor, a Dominican
monk, made his appearance, he bowed like a Spanish hidalgo, and then with
the utmost self-possession preferred his petition. He was Fray Fernando’s
servant, he said. The holy father was used to his ministrations, and
could not well do without them, more especially as his health was feeble.
Might he entreat, therefore, to be permitted to share his imprisonment
and to wait on him?
José would gladly have stooped far lower to aid or comfort his adopted
father; for love casts out not only fear, but pride.
Whatever astonishment the inquisitor might have felt at his request, he
expressed none. He answered courteously that the petition should receive
the earliest attention of their reverences, and that he would himself use
his best interest to further it. He then asked several questions, which
José answered truly, but cautiously, for he was fully alive to the danger
of compromising the patre by his admissions.
“The honourable Table of the Holy Office sits to-day,” said this urbane
specimen of an inquisitor. “We will try what can be done for you. We
hold the character of Fray Fernando in much esteem, and are desirous of
showing him all the kindness and consideration in our power.”
“I have been, perhaps, needlessly afraid of these inquisitors,” thought
José, who had never heard of “the iron hand within the velvet glove.” He
said aloud, “When may I have the honour of waiting on your reverence, in
order to be informed of the decision of the holy fathers?”
“You may call to-morrow morning, an hour after matins. Good-day,
Señor José.” The last words were spoken with a slight but observable
hesitation. The holy father intended to be courteous, but he was really
at a loss in what manner to designate a person who adopted the style and
title of an Inca, yet described himself as the servant of a Franciscan
monk. “Señor José” was a harmless compromise between the much-coveted
and high-sounding “Don José” and plain unprefaced “José.”
Next morning, José presented himself at the Santa Casa precisely at the
appointed hour. Few ever entered its gloomy gates before or since so
willingly. He did not even shudder as he heard them close behind him, he
thought only how soon he might be permitted to see the patre.
Unaccountable folly!—are we ready to exclaim, with our ideas of the Holy
Inquisition. But from José’s point of view it was nothing of the kind. He
knew very well that the Holy Office could pretend to no authority over
Indians; the Bull to which it owed its existence in the New World having
expressly exempted them from its jurisdiction. Had he chosen to profess
a hundred heresies, the dread tribunal could not legally have called
him in question for one of them. He had, therefore, on his own account
no apprehensions whatever, whilst for Fray Fernando his apprehensions
amounted to an agony of fear. He was fully aware that his patron was
really guilty of what the inquisitors called heresy, and therefore in
deadly peril. Being, moreover, profoundly ignorant of the modes of
proceeding adopted by the Holy Office, he could only transfer to it his
own ideas of courts of justice and of criminal trials. He supposed that
judgment would be given and punishment inflicted speedily and sternly,
though possibly in secret. What then remained for love to do save to
gain access to the captive, to console, to strengthen, to minister to
him—perhaps even (who could tell?) to suggest and carry out some plan
of escape? This was the one faint hope he still dared to cherish. The
warders and turnkeys of the Santa Casa would surely be of Spanish blood?
And might not they be bribed?
It never occurred to him that their reverences the Lords Inquisitors,
being of Spanish blood, might be bribed also. So mean a thought of the
mysterious dread tribunal he would not have dared to entertain. This was
his fatal mistake. When he relinquished his liberty, he relinquished,
by the same act, his one real chance of rendering effectual help to Fray
Fernando.
He did not enjoy the privilege of a second interview with the suave
and courteous inquisitor who conversed with him the evening before.
A familiar, in a kind of semi-clerical dress, waited upon him in his
stead. This official informed him that his petition had been heard
favourably, and then conducted him into a little chamber resembling a
monk’s cell. Here he was locked in, and left alone hour after hour, to
his great perplexity and annoyance. Evening brought another familiar, who
supplied him with food; and of him he inquired the reason of this strange
treatment, but was told in answer that the servants of the Holy Office
were not permitted to converse with the prisoners.
“_Prisoners!_” José repeated in amazement. “I am no prisoner. I have come
here of my own free will.”
But the familiar was not to be entrapped into the violation of a prison
rule. He shook his head and left the cell, muttering, as he did so, “Then
go away of your own free will.”
As José had come to the Santa Casa with the intention of remaining there
(though certainly not as a prisoner), he had brought with him a few
necessaries for himself, and some comforts for Fray Fernando. He brought
writing materials also; nor did he omit to conceal about his person a
sufficient store of the gold he esteemed so necessary to his plans.
Accordingly, the next morning he gave the attendant a little note,
praying him to have it transmitted to any one of their reverences the
Lords Inquisitors. As the request was not unlawful in itself, and was
accompanied by a present, it was not refused; but no answer came, either
to that or to the numerous other notes that José sent in the same way,
first supplicating, then demanding, explanation and redress.
In this manner weary days passed away, growing at length to long, slow
weeks of misery. And José began to give way to despair. He made frequent
inquiries about Fray Fernando; and by dint of bribing the familiar who
attended him, succeeded in extracting a little information—just enough to
increase his uneasiness. The padre had been ill, but was better now. He
had undergone two examinations, both of them since José’s incarceration.
No one had the least idea what his fate might be. José might be allowed
to send him a few trifling presents; but to see him was impossible. It
would be as much as the attendant’s life, not to say his place, was worth.
José writhed and struggled like a wild creature caught in a net. It only
mocked his misery that he was well fed and carefully attended, and that
the few personal requests he thought it worth while to make (as for
fresh water and clean garments) were promptly granted. The silence which
reigned around him grew insupportable. Often did he compare himself to
a traveller in the desert suddenly enwrapped in the folds of a thick
mist,—hemming him in like a wall, clinging round him like a garment;
while in his wild alarm he calls, and calls again—but in vain—no voice
replies, for no human ear is reached by his despairing cry.
Did the last words that had come to him,—that perhaps would ever come
to him,—from the loved lips of his father and teacher, return upon his
bewildered mind in those dreary hours of pain and perplexity—“Every way
He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City”?
XXXVII.
A Disappointed Man.
“Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars;
And I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.”
LONGFELLOW.
Part of the Santa Casa was fitted up, with due pomp and luxury, as the
dwelling-place of his Reverence the Lord Inquisitor-General of the
Indies; and was not infrequently the scene of a stately hospitality
becoming the high position of its occupant. One day his lordship enjoyed
the honour of entertaining several distinguished guests. The party
consisted of the archbishop and a few of the canons, the priors of three
of the great monasteries, with a sprinkling of military and official
personages of exalted rank. But the place of honour was occupied by
a young man, a stranger in Lima, to whom all present seemed to pay
considerable deference.
The inquisitor’s guests did ample justice to a luxurious repast. They ate
the savoury flesh of the huanucu, the Peruvian partridge and wild duck,
the brains of the llama, the delicate “Manjar blanco”—compounded of the
breasts of capons beaten up with rose-water and white sugar—from dishes
of gold and silver; and they drank the choice and costly wines of Spain
cooled with the ice of the Andes. They were cheerful, even gay, though
within the limits of decorum and of stately Spanish reserve and dignity.
At last, however, they ceased even to toy with the luscious grapes and
fragrant melons that, newly introduced into that distant land, had a
sweetness far beyond their own for the lips of exiles. The table was
deserted, and most of the guests sought the garden, where the evening
breeze was blowing cool and fresh from the snow-clad mountains. But the
stranger lingered still, standing in the deep embrasure of a window. He
looked about thirty, but was really much younger;—a handsome man, with
a high, narrow forehead, scornful, petulant lips, and brows so often
knit in anger or impatience, that the contraction had almost become
permanent. Presently the sleek, good-humoured, sensual, yet intelligent
Lord Inquisitor glided softly to his side; the black cowl and white frock
of the Dominican making a picturesque contrast with the purple velvet and
gold lace of the Castilian noble.
They conversed together upon such topics as the inquisitor thought likely
to interest Don Francisco Solis de Toledo, nephew of the Viceroy of
Peru, now about to take command of the troops on board a stately Spanish
man-of-war.