birth; though not exactly the provision the world might have expected the
Viceroy to make for his sister’s son. But Don Francisco Solis was not a
man easily provided for. He was overbearing, impracticable, and obstinate
to a degree which made him the terror of his friends and patrons. These
qualities were in some degree inherent in his character; but a different
training might have subdued or softened them. If ever the wholesome
discipline of a life amongst equals might have been beneficial to any
man, that man was Don Francisco Solis. But it had never been his. Ere
his boyhood was over, he had been sent out to the New World to play the
tyrant;—a conqueror amongst a nation of slaves. And the curse of the
tyrant fell upon him, and ate into his soul. He became at last unable to
do anything, save to tyrannize.
Repeated experiments convinced the Viceroy, to his cost, that his brave
and gifted young kinsman—for brave and gifted he really was—had utterly
incapacitated himself for any career that necessitated his working under
any one, or with any one. An exploring expedition into the interior of
the country might have brought him fame and fortune, but it could not
be undertaken without money and without companions. What was to be done
with a man who was sure to quarrel with the moneylenders, and to fight
duels with the gentlemen who volunteered to serve under him? Rich as the
Viceroy was, he could not provide each of his needy kinsmen with a silver
mine for his sole private use. He was glad, therefore, to relieve himself
at last of the troublesome Don Francisco by appointing him to the command
of the _Trionfo_.
To return then to the inquisitor. He had just been asking, with much
courtesy, after the health of his Excellency’s noble lady, the Princess
Doña Victoria,—by which stately name Coyllur nũsta was now known.
Having expressed his gratification at the intelligence that the lady was
in good health, the churchman continued, “A young Indian nobleman has
been brought under my notice lately, who is, as I believe, a relative, or
at least a connection, of the illustrious princess.”
Don Francisco, who regarded all his wife’s relatives with profound
disdain, looked just the degree of interest that politeness demanded, and
played with the costly lace ruffle which half covered his white hand.
The inquisitor resumed, “I must not conceal from your Excellency that the
young man I speak of is in rather an unfortunate situation at present. It
has been found necessary to place him, for the good of his own soul and
the interests of Holy Church, under a degree of restraint.”
“I thought,” said Don Francisco, who would not have cared if the
inquisitor had announced that it had been found necessary to hang him,—“I
thought your august tribunal did not interfere with ‘los Indios.’”
“True,” replied the churchman. “We cannot prosecute an Indian as a
criminal; but we may lawfully employ one as a witness,—and for that
purpose we may detain him, if necessary. At first it was in that way that
we found it convenient to place the young man I speak of under a light
and temporary restraint; but the case in which we expected to require his
testimony having taken a turn that renders it superfluous, he might have
been set at liberty, but for certain weighty considerations.”—Here the
churchman paused, heaved a little sigh, and looked as if doubtful whether
he ought to proceed any further.—However, he presently added, “His name
is Don José Viracocha; and he claims the right to quarter the sun proper
on the shield tierce in fess.[52] Do you know him, most illustrious
señor?”
Don Francisco started, and the colour flashed to his white face. “I have
reason to know him,” he said. “He is my enemy.”
“Indeed!” returned the inquisitor, with just as innocent a look
of surprise as if he had not been aware of the fact, and made the
communication for that very reason. “Don Francisco Solis pays the Indian
a higher compliment than any of his race could have expected ever to
deserve, when he condescends to call him _his_ enemy.”
Don Francisco bowed, then smiled bitterly. “We have good authority,
reverend father,” he said, “for esteeming serpents the enemies of the
human race. Indians wound like serpents. I believe that young man—who, I
have heard, had once the intolerable presumption to consider himself _my_
rival—could give account, if he pleased it, of certain treasures which
ought to have been my wife’s portion.”
“Ah, how is that, señor? But forgive my curiosity, if, unfortunately, it
should appear impertinent.”
“No forgiveness needed, father. I am not ashamed of aught that concerns
me. I leave that to those who climb up to heaven upon crooked ladders.”
(He did not mean anything personal by this remark.) “_Pues_, reverend
father, I heard a great deal about the golden hoards of the old Inca
noble, my wife’s grandfather and guardian. He was called Yupanqui, or
some such barbarous name; and he remained a pestilent heathen almost to
the end of his days. And I, as a Christian gentleman of Spain, thought
that those heathen spoils of his would come well to hand, and in good
time, to give retaining fees to a hundred stout free lances, and to find
them arms and horses, for a little expedition I contemplated. St. Jago!
with a troop like that at my back, I might have shown my illustrious
uncle that there are men yet left alive, though Cortez and Pizarro
and Hernan de Soto are with the saints. Perhaps, too, that there are
barbarian kings and kingdoms yet to conquer, though Tupac Amaru has lost
his head,—as he well deserved. But the malice of fortune, who has always
shown herself my enemy, would not permit me so much satisfaction. Of old
Yupanqui’s boasted treasures, all that ever came my way was a dungeon
of a house, all walls and no windows, and a few paltry gold and silver
ornaments.”
“Does the noble lady, your Excellency’s wife, know nothing?”
“_Nothing._ That was soon ascertained.”
“Who were most in the confidence of the old Inca?”
“This Viracocha was as a son to him.”
The inquisitor paused. Then he said, very quietly, and without looking
at Don Francisco—“For many reasons, I think it will be our wisest
course to send the young man to Spain. I have ascertained that he is
in the confidence of all the members of the Inca family who are here
at present; and that he spends much of his time in secret cabals
and consultations with them, Such proceedings _must_ be stopped.—You
understand me, señor?—Yet we have no authority to deal with him after
any summary fashion; while to detain him in prison here would cause
remark and inquiry, perhaps create a scandal. It is an evil world, Señor
Don Francisco. We are closely watched, and have to be careful—very
careful—not to expose our Holy Office to obloquy by the slightest,
the very slightest overstepping of our legitimate powers. ‘Wise as
serpents’—you recollect, señor? Furthermore, there is another prisoner
also, whose case we may see it advisable to refer to the authorities at
home.—The _Trionfo_ is to form one of this year’s Plate fleet, I believe,
most illustrious señor?”
Don Francisco bowed.
“For humanity’s sake,” the inquisitor continued, in a low voice, and
still without looking at Don Francisco—“for humanity’s sake, I could wish
to send these unfortunate persons to Spain in a good and large vessel.
The voyage is long, and the precautions rendered necessary by their
unhappy position—”
Here Don Francisco said, suddenly and sharply, though still with an air
of affected indifference, “You had better fling the wretches into the sea
at once, and have done with them. They will never survive such a voyage
under such circumstances.”
“I should be sorry to think that, señor and your Excellency,” said the
Dominican. “For I have quite a personal regard for the last-mentioned
prisoner, who is a Spaniard and an ecclesiastic. Since we are speaking
freely and in confidence, I may acknowledge that it is from motives of
clemency, and to give him a chance of saving his life, that we have
decided upon referring his case to the Table at Valladolid. As to the
Indian”—the inquisitor mused a little—“if he could only be removed to
a safe distance from his brethren—sent amongst the barbarians, for
instance—nothing more would be required. We really wish him no harm; our
object is to get him out of the country without creating a scandal.”
Perhaps it was the position in which he stood, with his back turned
to the light, which gave a pallid look to the face of Don Francisco.
Yet this could not account for the sudden flush that passed over it,
vanishing again as quickly. But after a moment’s pause he answered, in
tones of icy coldness, “If your reverence thinks proper to send prisoners
to Spain in the _Trionfo_, I shall do myself the honour of introducing
the master of the ship to your notice. You can communicate with him at
your pleasure. I hear he is a very worthy fellow, well acquainted with
his business.” Then he added languidly, “How hot it is, father! Has not
this been a very unhealthy season in Ciudad de los Reyes?”
The inquisitor understood that the subject was dismissed, and performed
his part in keeping up the conversation which Don Francisco thus directed
into another and indifferent channel. Less than half his active mind
sufficed for the effort, leaving the rest at liberty to pursue more
interesting subjects. Whilst therefore he talked of the weather, the
mists, the sunstrokes, and the calentures, an undercurrent of thought
ran on, somewhat after this fashion: “Don Francisco Solis is scarcely
grateful for one of the fairest chances a man was ever given of
recovering a lost or buried fortune. Still, he is a Toledo; one may trust
his honour. If he gets the truth out of this Viracocha, whether by fair
means or by foul, he will not forget Mother Church. And he shall not want
a broad hint or two on the subject of her claims, seasonably administered.
“As to poor Fray Fernando—unhappy man!—it is the only way of saving
him from the fire, into which he is too willing to throw himself, even
without the friendly aid of some of my colleagues, who have more zeal
than discretion. A curse on their officiousness, beginning with that of
our meddlesome brother from Cuba! What good end will it serve to bring
upon us and our holy tribunal the suspicion and ill-will of all the
Franciscans in the country? And what harm could the poor friar’s heresies
have done to a pack of negroes and Indians? The sacrament of baptism
is valid, even though administered by a heretic; and that is all they
require.”
Don Francisco meanwhile was thinking, for his part: “I wonder who was
his reverence’s grandfather? Some low person, I doubt not, with a taint
of infidel blood in his veins. Every nobody from the Old World sets up
here as ‘Don,’ and ‘Excellency,’ and ‘most illustrious.’ Probably he
was engaged in trade. This reverend father, beneath his black cowl, has
the soul of a trader. As for that Viracocha,—I hate him. I could better
pardon him for hiding the old Inca’s treasures, than for his insufferable
presumption in supposing that I—_I_—would actually have condescended to
fight with him! If ‘los Indios’ begin to take such airs, to Spaniards
and gentlemen, this country will very soon become—” (Here Don Francisco
said a strong word to himself.) “The inquisitors might as well stretch a
point, for once, and fling the wretch into the fire for worshipping his
abominable idols, as no doubt they all do in secret. Still, he may burn,
hang, or drown, for aught I care. _I_ shall not soil my fingers with him.
No! my Lord Inquisitor forgot whom he addressed, when he presumed to hint
that I might degrade myself to the part of torture-master, to wring from
this luckless wretch the possession of his secret. No! not for all the
gold in Peru. My life for gold, any day; my honour for gold—_never!_”
Other Castilian nobles, in Don Francisco’s place, might have read
differently the laws of honour. The means that Spanish knights and
gentlemen did not scorn to employ in seeking for the hidden treasures of
the New World, are not pleasant to contemplate: witness the well-known
story of the heroic Mexican Emperor Guatimozin.
The light by which Don Francisco Solis guided his footsteps was a dim,
earth-born glimmer. It was not sunlight, not true starlight even; only
the gleam of the red planet Mars, called the “star” of chivalry. Yet, for
once, it sufficed to make him aware of a deep pit of moral degradation
cunningly dug right across his path. And it taught him to avoid it.
XXXVIII.
Fray Fernando’s Words.
“’Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hear at least each other’s speech,
And each turn comforter to each.”
BYRON.
José’s long agony of suspense had an end at last. One evening after
nightfall, the familiar who attended his cell conveyed to him a
courteously-worded but peremptory order to put on his cap and mantle
and follow him forthwith. José obeyed, wondering; and was yet the more
surprised to see the attendant make a package of the clothes and other
matters belonging to him which were lying about the cell, preparatory to
taking them away.
“Are they going to set me free at last?” he asked.
But, as bitter experience might have led him by this time to anticipate,
he received no answer. The familiar, carrying a torch and the packet he
had made up, conducted him to a side-door of the Santa Casa. This was
opened immediately, and he saw—though dimly, for the night was dark—a
little troop of horsemen waiting outside. Then a horse, ready saddled,
was brought to the door, and a person who seemed to be the leader of the
band directed him to mount; adding, however, as he hesitated a moment
before obeying,—
“Be not afraid, Indian; one of these gentlemen shall hold your bridle.”
“I am not afraid,” said José, who, though he had never been on horseback
in his life, scorned to show reluctance or timidity before these
strangers; “but I should like to know whither you are about to take me.”
The officer bent down from his saddle, and whispered—“Let well alone,
Indian. You have been most mercifully dealt with by their reverences.
Learn that ‘silence is holy,’ and that your tongue may hurt but cannot
mend your case.”
Having given José this significant hint, he turned to the still open
door, where the alguazil was standing, torch in hand.
“How long are we to be kept waiting here?” he asked impatiently.
“He is coming, señor,” said the attendant.
José mounted without further demur. Then another horse was brought to the
door, and held in readiness for another rider. After a brief delay, one
came slowly forth, wrapped in a Franciscan monk’s gray cowl and mantle.
José half uttered a cry of surprise, perhaps of joy. It was the patre.
But the officer again interposed.
“_Quiton!_” he said, and touched his sword.
Nor was Fray Fernando permitted to utter a word. The rapid ride from
Lima to Callao was accomplished in perfect silence. The two captives
soon found themselves on the seashore. They were then transferred to a
little boat, which conveyed them to a stately galleon lying moored in the
bay. They were put on board; and a guard of soldiers received them. One
steep ladder after another had then to be descended by their unwilling
footsteps, until at last the ship’s hold was reached,—and there they lay
in midnight darkness, and for a time, it may almost be added, in despair.
Even their reunion, after so long a separation, failed to kindle joy or
hope: they seemed brought together again only to die. Fray Fernando was
the first to recover himself so far as to speak.
“_You_ here, my son José! Why this? Of what have they accused _you_?” he
asked.
“In truth, I know not,” José answered, in a weary, hopeless tone. “I was
never informed—never tried—never judged.”
“What! never even examined? That, indeed, is strange.”
“I had an interview once with two black monks.”
“Well, and what said they to you?”
“They asked if I could repeat my Credo. I answered,—‘Will your reverences
hear it in Quichua, in Spanish, or in Latin?’ In the next place, they
inquired if I knew the doctrines of the Catholic faith. I told them they
might question me therein. Then, did I detest the wicked idolatries
for which my forefathers had gone into everlasting fire? I made answer
promptly—‘As for my forefathers, Christ shall judge them, not you; as for
myself, I thank His grace that I have turned from dumb idols to serve the
living and true God.’ Then—But what does it all matter now?” said José
wearily, while the momentary animation of his tone and manner quickly
died away.
“It matters much to me, José; for I fear it is on my account you have
suffered all this misery.”
“Nay, patre; do not think it. It was—But why seek for reasons? Enough—I
am an Indian. The hatred they bear my race—my poor doomed race!—accounts
for all.”
After a gloomy pause, he resumed—“And you, patre? You have been ill. I
fear—”
“Fear nothing for me. I am well—now,” said the monk. But his faint and
broken tones gave the lie to his words of cheer.
Then José shook off the dull lethargy that had well-nigh overpowered him,
and roused himself to attend to the one duty that yet remained to him. He
drew close to the patre, embraced him tenderly, and from that moment took
him completely into his charge. With some of his own clothing he managed
to contrive a tolerably comfortable resting-place for his wasted form.
He bathed his burning brow; he held his hand in his; he bore the jar of
water that had been left in their dungeon once and again to his fevered
lips,—but he scarcely spoke a word.
They had before this become aware that the vessel had weighed anchor, and
was in motion. By-and-by food was brought to them, and José requested
the use of a lamp. He had still the means of bestowing a bribe, as the
usual custom of searching prisoners on entering or leaving the Santa
Casa, and depriving them of their money and valuables, had been dispensed
with in his case. The lamp made its appearance accordingly; a supply of
oil was even promised. But at first the light that revealed their faces
each to other appeared a doubtful boon: so ghastly, worn, and death-like
did Fray Fernando look to José; and such settled, hopeless sorrow did he
read in the dusky countenance of his Indian friend. Yet between the two
there was a marked difference—like the difference between the morning
and the evening twilight. Ill and feeble as Fray Fernando was, he seemed
to carry some light within that, as time passed on, kindled into greater
brightness hour by hour; while José simply faded.
“Have you no wish, José, to learn whither we are going, and with whom?”
Fray Fernando asked, wondering at his apparent indifference to all
things save one—Fray Fernando’s own bodily comfort and well-being.
“I can tell you somewhat;—though but little, it is true. My case, I
have been informed, has been referred to the Table of the Holy Office
at Valladolid; though how and wherefore you have been involved in my
misfortunes, I am ignorant as yet. But this, at least, I know: we are at
present in the _Trionfo_—a great and brave galleon, which is making her
voyage, with the rest of the Plate fleet, to the mother country.”
“We shall never reach it,” said José.
“God only knows,” Fray Fernando answered; and the conversation dropped.
A day or two afterwards Fray Fernando resumed it:—
“One of us, at least, will scarcely see the shores of Spain. José—my son
José!”
“I am here, patre, close beside you.”
“Come closer yet. Take my hand in yours; let your loving eyes look into
mine. I have somewhat to say to you.”
José obeyed. His hand did not tremble and no tear dimmed his eye as he
answered, “Speak on, my father.”
“Some there are who die in the face of day, ten thousand eyes to witness
their suffering and their patience, ten thousand hearts to judge their
cause. José, for years and years my thoughts dwelt upon such a death.
I feared it—shuddered at it—fled from it. Ay, when God sent you to me
first, a little child, your innocent talk dispelled many a frightful
vision of the hideous zamarra, the gazing multitudes, the burning pile.
You know all now, José. It is true, you cannot know—but you can guess,
far off and dimly—the dark remorse, the haunting terror, of those dreary
years.
“Then at last, through God’s great mercy, the burden was lifted from
me. I was no murderer. The mark of Cain was gone from my brow. I could
go forth erect, and walk amongst my fellow-men, no longer a solitary
being, held apart by the awful loneliness of a great crime and a bitter
retribution. And then, as if all this had been little in His sight,
He gave me more a thousandfold than deliverance, than liberty, than
even the brother of my heart restored to me from the dead—He gave me
Himself. You know how the light of His presence dawned, grew, brightened
around me. You know, for you shared that light. But a strange thing was
wrought within me that was hidden even from you, José. The doom that for
years had been the haunting terror of my life came back again upon my
mind,—but transfigured; no more a terror—a secret thrilling hope. It was
as if some veiled, shadowy form, that I thought a demon, had haunted my
footsteps night and day, and then suddenly coming up beside me, dropped
off the shrouding veil, and stood radiant, an angel of light. No longer
did the burning pile mean shame and horror: it meant glory, martyrdom,
an abundant entrance into the home and the kingdom prepared for me. It
meant His seal—the signet of the King whose purpose none may change—set
at last upon my poor spoiled life, in token that He claimed and owned it.
It meant fire from heaven consuming the accepted sacrifice. Even when I
stood very close to it I felt no fear. And, José, I tell you now, that it
was well worth while to stand there face to face with death. God was so
near—nearer far than you are—though your hand holds mine, and your breath
is on my cheek.
“But after that there came a bitter hour. A dark cloud rose up suddenly
and hid Him from me. They, who thought themselves the arbiters of my
fate, determined, in mercy as they believed, to spare me the doom of
fire. Instead of pronouncing my sentence themselves, they would send me a
captive to the mother country. Of course, in this dungeon, and to a man
whose strength is wasted as is mine, that means death,—unless God should
work a miracle for me. José, I longed to die for Him; but in my own way,
not in His. I longed to show forth His mercy and truth with my last look,
if not with my last breath, in the great congregation. With the lot that
He appointed for me I was not content. Fain would I have escaped it by
any means—save _one_. So I mourned bitterly before Him. Then He turned
away His face from me, and my heart was cast down within me.
“But He is wiser than I,—and oh, how tender with His wayward child! The
first word by which He brought me comfort was thine, José: ‘Every way He
makes for us leads safely to the Golden City.’ Still, though comforted,
I was not at peace, until at last there came another word, borne softly
into the depths of my heart—a brief, simple word, but a word of His—‘Come
unto Me.’—‘Unto Me.’ That is enough. That one thought fills all my soul.
I care not for the way, since He—He Himself—is the end. I am satisfied. I
need no more. Thou hast dealt well with Thy servant, O Lord, according to
Thy word!”
XXXIX.
José’s Words.
“Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid sea, and with the storm alone;
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human souls?—the o’ermastering wave,
Who shall tell how it rushed, and none to save?”
HEMANS.
Without a word of lamentation, without a tear or sigh, José heard all. He
fully comprehended the patre’s situation, and his own. He believed that
he must soon close the eyes of his father and his friend; and that duty
done, that he must linger on in his frightful prison alone, until Death,
the deliverer, should come to him also. It never occurred to him that,
after all, he might live to see those distant alien shores towards which
his enemies were bearing him. No Child of the Sun, he told himself, could
live on for dreary months and months without his Father’s smile, deprived
of light and air and liberty.