effect upon the worldly fortunes of Don Luis. He made a full declaration
of the whole matter, before the proper authorities; the Chapter of
the Order considered it one of those casual encounters of the Strada
Stretta, which were mourned over, but tolerated; the public, by whom
the late commander had been generally detested, declared that he had
deserved his fate. It was but three days after the event, that Don
Luis was advanced to one of the highest dignities of the Order, being
invested by the Grand Master with the priorship of the kingdom of
Minorca.
From that time forward, however, the whole character and conduct of Don
Luis underwent a change. He became a prey to a dark melancholy, which
nothing could assuage. The most austere piety, the severest penances,
had no effect in allaying the horror which preyed upon his mind. He was
absent for a long time from Malta; having gone, it was said, on remote
pilgrimages: when he returned, he was more haggard than ever. There
seemed something mysterious and inexplicable in this disorder of his
mind. The following is the revelation made by himself, of the horrible
visions, or chimeras, by which he was haunted:
"When I had made my declaration before the Chapter," said he, "and my
provocations were publicly known, I had made my peace with man; but it
was not so with God, nor with my confessor, nor with my own conscience.
My act was doubly criminal, from the day on which it was committed,
and from my refusal to a delay of three days, for the victim of my
resentment to receive the sacraments. His despairing ejaculation, 'Good
Friday! Good Friday!' continually rang in my ears. 'Why did I not grant
the respite!' cried I to myself; 'was it not enough to kill the body,
but must I seek to kill the soul!'
"On the night of the following Friday, I started suddenly from my sleep.
An unaccountable horror was upon me. I looked wildly around. It seemed
as if I were not in my apartment, nor in my bed, but in the fatal Strada
Stretta, lying on the pavement. I again saw the commander leaning
against the wall; I again heard his dying words: 'Take my sword to
Têtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of the
castle, for the repose of my soul!'
"On the following night, I caused one of my servants to sleep in the
same room with me. I saw and heard nothing, either on that night, or any
of the nights following, until the next Friday; when I had again the
same vision, with this difference, that my valet seemed to be lying at
some distance from me on the pavement of the Strada Stretta. The vision
continued to be repeated on every Friday night, the commander always
appearing in the same manner, and uttering the same words: 'Take my
sword to Têtefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel
of the castle for the repose of my soul!' On questioning my servant on
the subject, he stated, that on these occasions he dreamed that he was
lying in a very narrow street, but he neither saw nor heard any thing of
the commander.
"I knew nothing of this Têtefoulques, whither the defunct was so urgent
I should carry his sword. I made inquiries, therefore, concerning it
among the French chevaliers. They informed me that it was an old castle,
situated about four leagues from Poitiers, in the midst of a forest.
It had been built in old times, several centuries since, by Foulques
Taillefer, (or Fulke Hackiron,) a redoubtable, hard-fighting Count of
Angouleme, who gave it to an illegitimate son, afterward created Grand
Seneschal of Poitou, which son became the pro genitor of the Foulquerres
of Têtefoulques, hereditary Seneschals of Poitou. They farther
informed me, that strange stories were told of this old castle, in the
surrounding country, and that it contained many curious reliques. Among
these, were the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with all those of
the warriors he had slain; and that it was an immemorial usage with the
Foulquerres to have the weapons deposited there which they had wielded
either in war or in single combat. This, then, was the reason of the
dying injunction of the commander respecting his sword. I carried this
weapon with me, wherever I went, but still I neglected to comply with
his request.
"The visions still continued to harass me with undiminished horror.
I repaired to Rome, where I confessed myself to the Grand Cardinal
penitentiary, and informed him of the terrors with which I was haunted.
He promised me absolution, after I should have performed certain acts of
penance, the principal of which was, to execute the dying request of the
commander, by carrying the sword to Têtefoulques, and having the hundred
masses performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of his soul.
"I set out for France as speedily as possible, and made no delay in my
journey. On arriving at Poitiers, I found that the tidings of the death
of the commander had reached there, but had caused no more affliction
than among the people of Malta. Leaving my equipage in the town, I
put on the garb of a pilgrim, and taking a guide, set out on foot
for Têtefoulques, Indeed the roads in this part of the country were
impracticable for carriages.
"I found the castle of Têtefoulques a grand but gloomy and dilapidated
pile. All the gates were closed, and there reigned over the whole place
an air of almost savage loneliness and desertion. I had understood that
its only inhabitant were the concierge, or warder, and a kind of hermit
who had charge of the chapel. After ringing for some time at the gate,
I at length succeeded in bringing forth the warder, who bowed with
reverence to my pilgrim's garb. I begged him to conduct me to the
chapel, that being the end of my pilgrimage. We found the hermit there,
chanting the funeral service; a dismal sound to one who came to perform
a penance for the death of a member of the family. When he had ceased
to chant, I informed him that I came to accomplish an obligation of
conscience, and that I wished him to perform a hundred masses for the
repose of the soul of the commander. He replied that, not being in
orders, he was not authorized to perform mass, but that he would
willingly undertake to see that my debt of conscience was discharged. I
laid my offering on the altar, and would have placed the sword of the
commander there, likewise. 'Hold!' said the hermit, with a melancholy
shake of the head,'this is no place for so deadly a weapon, that has so
often been bathed in Christian blood. Take it to the armory; you will
find there trophies enough of like character. It is a place into which I
never enter.'
"The warder here took up the theme abandoned by the peaceful man of
God. He assured me that I would see in the armory the swords of all the
warrior race of Foulquerres, together with those of the enemies over
whom they had triumphed. This, he observed, had been a usage kept
up since the time of Mellusine, and of her husband, Geoffrey a la
Grand-dent, or Geoffrey with the Great-tooth.
"I followed the gossiping warder to the armory. It was a great dusty
hall, hung round with Gothic-looking portraits, of a stark line of
warriors, each with his weapon, and the weapons of those he had slain in
battle, hung beside his picture. The most conspicuous portrait was that
of Foulques Taillefer, (Fulke Hackiron,) Count of Angouleme, and founder
of the castle. He was represented at full-length, armed cap-a-pie, and
grasping a huge buckler, on which were emblazoned three lions passant.
The figure was so striking, that it seemed ready to start from the
canvas: and I observed beneath this picture, a trophy composed of many
weapons, proofs of the numerous triumphs of this hard-fighting old
cavalier. Beside the weapons connected with the portraits, there were
swords of all shapes, sizes, and centuries, hung round the hall; with
piles of armor, placed as it were in effigy.
"On each side of an immense chimney, were suspended the portraits of the
first seneschal of Poitou (the illegitimate son of Foulques Taillefer)
and his wife Isabella de Lusignan; the progenitors of the grim race of
Foulquerres that frowned around. They had the look of being perfect
likenesses; and as I gazed on them, I fancied I could trace in their
antiquated features some family resemblance to their unfortunate
descendant, whom I had slain! This was a dismal neighborhood, yet the
armory was the only part of the castle that had a habitable air; so I
asked the warder whether he could not make a fire, and give me something
for supper there, and prepare me a bed in one corner.
"'A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheerfully, most worthy
pilgrim,' said he; 'but as to a bed, I advise you to come and sleep in
my chamber.'
"'Why so?' inquired I; 'why shall I not sleep in this hall?'
"'I have my reasons; I will make a bed for you close to mine.'
"I made no objections, for I recollected that it was Friday, and I
dreaded the return of my vision. He brought in billets of wood, kindled
a fire in the great overhanging chimney, and then went forth to prepare
my supper. I drew a heavy chair before the fire, and seating myself in
it, gazed muzingly round upon the portraits of the Foulquerres, and the
antiquated armor and weapons, the mementos of many a bloody deed. As
the day declined, the smoky draperies of the hall gradually became
confounded with the dark ground of the paintings, and the lurid gleams
from the chimney only enabled me to see visages staring at me from the
gathering darkness. All this was dismal in the extreme, and somewhat
appalling; perhaps it was the state of my conscience that rendered me
peculiarly sensitive, and prone to fearful imaginings.
"At length the warder brought in my supper. It consisted of a dish of
trout, and some crawfish taken in the fosse of the castle. He procured
also a bottle of wine, which he informed me was wine of Poitou. I
requested him to invite the hermit to join me in my repast; but the holy
man sent back word that he allowed himself nothing but roots and herbs,
cooked with water. I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it as
much as possible, and sought to cheer my drooping spirits by the wine of
Poitou, which I found very tolerable.
"When supper was over, I prepared for my evening devotions. I have
always been very punctual in reciting my breviary; it is the prescribed
and bounden duty of all chevaliers of the religious orders; and I can
answer for it, is faithfully performed by those of Spain. I accordingly
drew forth from my pocket a small missal and a rosary, and told the
warder he need only designate to me the way to his chamber, where I
could come and rejoin him, when I had finished my prayers.
"He accordingly pointed out a winding stair-case, opening from the hall.
'You will descend this stair-case,' said he, 'until you come to the
fourth landing-place, where you enter a vaulted passage, terminated by
an arcade, with a statue of the blessed Jeanne of France; you cannot
help finding my room, the door of which I will leave open; it is the
sixth door from the landing-place. I advise you not to remain in this
hall after midnight. Before that hour, you will hear the hermit ring the
bell, in going the rounds of the corridors. Do not linger here after
that signal.'
"The warder retired, and I commenced my devotions. I continued at them
earnestly; pausing from time to time to put wood upon the fire. I did
not dare to look much around me, for I felt myself becoming a prey to
fearful fancies. The pictures appeared to become animated. If I regarded
one attentively, for any length of time, it seemed to move the eyes and
lips. Above all, the portraits of the Grand Seneschal and his lady,
which hung on each side of the great chimney, the progenitors of the
Foulquerres of Têtefoulque, regarded me, I thought, with angry and
baleful eyes: I even fancied they exchanged significant glances with
each other. Just then a terrible blast of wind shook all the casements,
and, rushing through the hall, made a fearful rattling and clashing
among the armor. To my startled fancy, it seemed something supernatural.
"At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and hastened to quit the
hall. Taking a solitary light, which stood on the supper-table, I
descended the winding stair-case; but before I had reached the vaulted
passage leading to the statue of the blessed Jeanne of France, a blast
of wind extinguished my taper. I hastily remounted the stairs, to light
it again at the chimney; but judge of my feelings, when, on arriving at
the entrance to the armory, I beheld the Seneschal and his lady, who had
descended from their frames, and seated themselves on each side of the
fire-place! "'Madam, my love,' said the Seneschal, with great formality,
and in antiquated phrase, 'what think you of the presumption of this
Castilian, who comes to harbor himself and make wassail in this our
castle, after having slain our descendant, the commander, and that
without granting him time for confession?'
"'Truly, my lord,' answered the female spectre, with no less stateliness
of manner, and with great asperity of tone; 'truly, my lord, I opine
that this Castilian did a grievous wrong in this encounter; and he
should never be suffered to depart hence, without your throwing him the
gauntlet.' I paused to hear no more, but rushed again down-stairs, to
seek the chamber of the warder. It was impossible to find it in the
darkness, and in the perturbation of my mind. After an hour and a half
of fruitless search, and mortal horror and anxieties, I endeavored
to persuade myself that the day was about to break, and listened
impatiently for the crowing of the cock; for I thought if I could hear
his cheerful note, I should be reassured; catching, in the disordered
state of my nerves, at the popular notion that ghosts never appear after
the first crowing of the cock.
"At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake off the vague
terrors which haunted me. I tried to persuade myself that the two
figures which I had seemed to see and hear, had existed only in my
troubled imagination. I still had the end of the candle in my hand, and
determined to make another effort to re-light it, and find my way to
bed; for I was ready to sink with fatigue. I accordingly sprang up the
stair-case, three steps at a time, stopped at the door of the armory,
and peeped cautiously in. The two Gothic figures were no longer in the
chimney corners, but I neglected to notice whether they had reascended
to their frames. I entered, and made desperately for the fire-place, but
scarce had I advanced three strides, when Messire Foolques Taillefer
stood before me, in the centre of the hall, armed cap-à-pie, and
standing in guard, with the point of his sword silently presented to
me. I would have retreated to the stair-case, but the door of it was
occupied by the phantom figure of an esquire, who rudely flung a
gauntlet in my face. Driven to fury, I snatched down a sword from the
wall: by chance, it was that of the commander which I had placed there.
I rushed upon my fantastic adversary, and seemed to pierce him through
and through; but at the same time I felt as if something pierced my
heart, burning like a red-hot iron. My blood inundated the hall, and I
fell senseless.
"When I recovered consciousness, it was broad day, and I found myself in
a small chamber, attended by the warder and the hermit. The former told
me that on the previous night, he had awakened long after the midnight
hour, and perceiving that I had not come to his chamber, he had
furnished himself with a vase of holy water, and set out to seek me. He
found me stretched senseless on the pavement of the armory, and bore me
to this room. I spoke of my wound, and of the quantity of blood that I
had lost. He shook his head, and knew nothing about it; and to my
surprise, on examination, I found myself perfectly sound and unharmed.
The wound and blood, therefore, had been all delusion. Neither the
warder nor the hermit put any questions to me, but advised me to leave
the castle as soon as possible. I lost no time in complying with their
counsel, and felt my heart relieved from an oppressive weight, as I left
the gloomy and fate-bound battlements of Têtefoulques behind me.
"I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the following Friday. At
midnight I was startled from my sleep, as I had formerly been; but it
was no longer by the vision of the dying commander. It was old Foulques
Taillefer who stood before me, armed cap-à-pie, and presenting the point
of his sword. I made the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished,
but I received the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I had felt in
the armory, and I seemed to be bathed in blood. I would have called out,
or have arisen from my bed and gone in quest of succor, but I could
neither speak nor stir. This agony endured until the crowing of the
cock, when I fell asleep again; but the next day I was ill, and in a
most pitiable state. I have continued to be harassed by the same vision
every Friday night; no acts of penitence and devotion have been able to
relieve me from it; and it is only a lingering hope in divine mercy,
that sustains me, and enables me to support so lamentable a visitation."
* * * * *
The Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away under this constant
remorse of conscience, and this horrible incubus. He died some time
after having revealed the preceding particulars of his case, evidently
the victim of a diseased imagination.
The above relation has been rendered, in many parts literally, from the
French memoir, in which it is given as a true story: if so, it is one of
those instances in which truth is more romantic than fiction.
* * * * *
LEGEND OF
THE ENGULPHED CONVENT.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.
At the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick the Goth and his
chivalry were overthrown on the banks of the Guadalete, and all Spain
was overrun by the Moors, great was the devastation of churches and
convents throughout that pious kingdom. The miraculous fate of one of
those holy piles is thus recorded in one of the authentic legends of
those days.
On the summit of a hill, not very distant from the capital city of
Toledo, stood an ancient convent and chapel, dedicated to the invocation
of Saint Benedict, and inhabited by a sisterhood of Benedictine nuns.
This holy asylum was confined to females of noble lineage. The younger
sisters of the highest families were here given in religious marriage to
their Saviour, in order that the portions of their elder sisters might
be increased, and they enabled to make suitable matches on earth, or
that the family wealth might go undivided to elder brothers, and the
dignity of their ancient houses be protected from decay. The convent was
renowned, therefore, for enshrining within its walls a sisterhood of the
purest blood, the most immaculate virtue, and most resplendent beauty,
of all Gothic Spain.
When the Moors overran the kingdom, there was nothing that more
excited their hostility than these virgin asylums. The very sight of a
convent-spire was sufficient to set their Moslem blood in a foment, and
they sacked it with as fierce a zeal as though the sacking of a nunnery
were a sure passport to Elysium.
Tidings of such outrages committed in various parts of the kingdom
reached this noble sanctuary and filled it with dismay. The danger
came nearer and nearer; the infidel hosts were spreading all over the
country; Toledo itself was captured; there was no flying from the
convent, and no security within its walls.
In the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given one day that a great
band of Saracens were spurring across the plain. In an instant the whole
convent was a scene of confusion. Some of the nuns wrung their fair
hands at the windows; others waved their veils and uttered shrieks from
the tops of the towers, vainly hoping to draw relief from a country
over-run by the foe. The sight of these innocent doves thus fluttering
about their dove-cote, but increased the zealot fury of the whiskered
Moors. They thundered at the portal, and at every blow the ponderous
gates trembled on their hinges.
The nuns now crowded round the abbess. They had been accustomed to look
up to her as all-powerful, and they now implored her protection. The
mother abbess looked with a rueful eye upon the treasures of beauty
and vestal virtue exposed to such imminent peril. Alas! how was she to
protect them from the spoiler! She had, it is true, experienced many
signal inter-positions of providence in her individual favor. Her early
days had been passed amid the temptations of a court, where her virtue
had been purified by repeated trials, from none of which had she escaped
but by a miracle. But were miracles never to cease? Could she hope that
the marvelous protection shown to herself would be extended to a
whole sisterhood? There was no other resource. The Moors were at the
threshold; a few moments more and the convent would be at their mercy.
Summoning her nuns to follow her, she hurried into the chapel; and
throwing herself on her knees before the image of the blessed Mary, "Oh,
holy Lady!" exclaimed she, "oh, most pure and immaculate of virgins!
thou seest our extremity. The ravager is at the gate, and there is none
on earth to help us! Look down with pity, and grant that the earth may
gape and swallow us rather than that our cloister vows should suffer
violation!"
The Moors redoubled their assault upon the portal; the gates gave way,
with a tremendous crash; a savage yell of exultation arose; when of a
sudden the earth yawned; down sank the convent, with its cloisters, its
dormitories, and all its nuns. The chapel tower was the last that sank,
the bell ringing forth a peal of triumph in the very teeth of the
infidels.
* * * * *
Forty years had passed and gone, since the period of this miracle. The
subjugation of Spain was complete. The Moors lorded it over city and
country; and such of the Christian population as remained, and were
permitted to exercise their religion, did it in humble resignation to
the Moslem sway.
At this time, a Christian cavalier, of Cordova, hearing that a patriotic
band of his countrymen had raised the standard of the cross in the
mountains of the Asturias, resolved to join them, and unite in breaking
the yoke of bondage. Secretly arming himself, and caparisoning his
steed, he set forth from Cordova, and pursued his course by unfrequented
mule-paths, and along the dry channels made by winter torrents. His
spirit burned with indignation, whenever, on commanding a view over a
long sweeping plain, he beheld the mosque swelling in the distance, and
the Arab horsemen careering about, as if the rightful lords of the soil.
Many a deep-drawn sigh, and heavy groan, also, did the good cavalier
utter, on passing the ruins of churches and convents desolated by the
conquerors.
It was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this wandering cavalier, in
skirting a hill thickly covered with forest, heard the faint tones of a
vesper bell sounding melodiously in the air, and seeming to come from
the summit of the hill. The cavalier crossed himself with wonder, at
this unwonted and Christian sound. He supposed it to proceed from one
of those humble chapels and hermitages permitted to exist through the
indulgence of the Moslem conquerors. Turning his steed up a narrow
path of the forest, he sought this sanctuary, in hopes of finding a
hospitable shelter for the night. As he advanced, the trees threw a deep
gloom around him, and the bat flitted across his path. The bell ceased
to toll, and all was silence.
Presently a choir of female voices came stealing sweetly through the
forest, chanting the evening service, to the solemn accompaniment of
an organ. The heart of the good cavalier melted at the sound, for it
recalled the happier days of his country. Urging forward his weary
steed, he at length arrived at a broad grassy area, on the summit of the
hill, surrounded by the forest. Here the melodious voices rose in full
chorus, like the swelling of the breeze; but whence they came, he could
not tell. Sometimes they were before, sometimes behind him; sometimes in
the air, sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth. At length
they died away, and a holy stillness settled on the place.