emissaries of the Inquisition, he was brought a prisoner to Valladolid,
and condemned to the stake. The cords which bound him having rapidly
been consumed, he leaped unconsciously on to the stage where the friars
were confessing some who had recanted at the last moment. The friars
immediately collected round him, and urged him to retract his errors.
Looking at the unhappy penitents who were risking their salvation to
escape a few moments' suffering, and then at the noble De Seso, standing
unmoved amid the rising flames, he walked deliberately back to the
stake, exclaiming, "I will die like De Seso." More fuel was brought,
and he was quickly in the joy of his Lord.
Numbers bore testimony to "the truth as it is in Jesus" by dying
fearlessly like De Seso. At the same time, eight females, of
irreproachable character, some of them of high rank, were burned alive;
among them Maria Gomez, who so nearly betrayed the Protestants during a
sudden fit of insanity. Having recovered her senses she returned to the
Protestant faith, and soon was brought before the Inquisitors. She
suffered with her three daughters and a sister. So hardened had the
populace become by similar scenes, that not a single expression of
sympathy escaped them as they thus witnessed the destruction of a whole
family. Year after year passed away, and the same horrors continued to
be enacted; the bloody-minded inquisitors being hounded on to their work
of death by the bigot king; that king who, it has truly been said, was
busily engaged in making Spain what she in a few years became, the
lowest and least influential among the nations of Europe; while as truly
was Elizabeth, by her wise measures, laying the foundation of England's
greatness and power.
CHAPTER NINE.
FREEDOM.
We must return once more to the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros. She was
seated on a rough bench in her dungeon beneath the halls of the
Inquisition. One gleam of light only was admitted by a small aperture,
leading into a courtyard, far above her head.
The gleam fell on her marble countenance, pale as that of one who has
ceased to breathe. Her once rich hair, now glistening like snow, hung
over her shoulders, while her figure was draped in the dark robe she was
doomed to wear. Heavy chains hung on her arms, which she could with
difficulty lift to her head, whenever she strove to press her hands upon
her burning brow. Even the agony of mind and body which she had endured
had scarcely dimmed her beauty. Though her eyes had lost their lustre,
yet in them was a fixed look of courage and resignation. Now she knelt
down on the cold stones before the stool, and lifted up her manacled
hands to heaven, towards which her countenance was turned, earnestly
imploring strength and resolution to withstand the fearful temptations
to which she was exposed. She was not disappointed. While she thus
knelt, the door of her dungeon grated on its hinges. Slowly, and not
without difficulty, she rose from her knees, and stood prepared to
receive her visitor, whoever he might prove to be. She dreaded lest she
should see the arch-fiend Munebrega; but instead of him, Don Francisco
de Vivers stood before her. He advanced a few paces into the vault, and
placed the lantern he bore on a stone shelf projecting from the wall on
one side of the cell. He did not speak till the door closed behind him.
He then stood before her with his plumed hat held in his hand, keeping
still at the distance of a few paces.
"Dona Leonor," he said, "I come to bid you farewell. The words you
spoke to me during my last visits to you sunk deep down in my heart.
The glorious truths you explained took root, and have since by God's
grace been abundantly watered. I obtained a copy of His blessed Word.
I sought for instruction from those able to give it, and I am now ready,
if it is His will, to add my testimony to the truth by my blood. I was
sent here to win you back to life, and to gain you over to the false
faith of Rome. You have been the cause of my becoming a thorough
Protestant, and being made willing, if called upon, to suffer death--
such death, that is, as man is able to inflict upon his fellow-man. Yet
I am young, and do not desire to die. I have therefore resolved to quit
my country for another land, where I may freely worship God according to
the dictates of my conscience. I knew that you would rejoice to hear
this. I therefore resolved, at every risk, to seek another interview
with you. Dear lady, you will pardon me for the words I spoke to you on
my former visits. I uttered them in my ignorance. I thought that I was
thus benefiting you, instead of endeavouring to deprive you of that joy
unspeakable which is prepared for those who truly love the Lord, and are
ready to give up all for Him."
"Oh, believe me, Don Francisco, when I say it, I have nothing to
pardon," replied Dona Leonor. "I rejoice to hear of your determination.
Alas! I fear you would not benefit our unhappy countrymen by remaining
among them. The spirit of evil has gained the supremacy; and while he
reigns, with the sanguinary inquisitors as his ministers, the truth can
never make progress in the country. Go, then, Don Francisco; my
prayers, day and night, will be offered up to the throne of mercy that
you may be protected from the dangers of your journey, and safely reach
the haven of rest. It is mockery to speak of joy, but such joy as I am
now capable of feeling will be mine when I hear that you have safely
reached your destination. And oh, Don Francisco, pray for me, not that
my life may be prolonged, but that I may have courage and support in the
trials I may be called upon henceforth to bear; and that it may be God's
will that I may, ere long, be emancipated from my bondage, not to go
forth into the world, but to be raised on wings of light to join my
martyred husband, now singing praises with the heavenly choir before the
great white throne of our loving Father."
"Dona Leonor, your wishes shall ever be a law to me," answered Don
Francisco. "I shall see you no more on earth. Even should I be
successful in escaping from this unhappy country, I believe that I shall
never again return to it; and even if I did, I should not be permitted
to see you. I hear that many Spanish Protestants are assembled at
Genoa, among whom are several who were once monks at San Isidoro.
Thither I have resolved to bend my steps, that I may worship with them,
and gain from them instruction and counsel."
"I thank our Heavenly Father that you have resolved on this step,"
answered Leonor, "and I pray that you may be more successful than were
my beloved Herezuelo and myself. Oh, that I had not believed the
falsehoods that were told me before that dreadful day when I last met
him on earth! Bitterly have I repented my weakness and want of faith.
I should have known that no human power would have induced him to deny
his Lord and Master, even for the sake of saving his life and being
reunited with me. Ah, how weak and faithless was I! but I thank my God
that, through the influence of the Holy Spirit, I had strength and power
given me boldly to declare my faith in the truth, even though my so
doing has brought me into this dungeon, and will ere long cast my body
amid those flames which consumed the mortal frame of my husband. Oh,
believe me, Don Francisco, to that day I look forward with eagerness and
joy. My heart will bound with thankfulness when I am told to prepare
for going forth to the stake."
Don Francisco stepped forward and raised the manacled hand of the
speaker to his lips. Then, casting one more glance of respect and
sorrow at that still lovely countenance before him, he hastened from the
cell, drawing his hat over his brow to conceal his agitation; then
wrapping his cloak around him, he took his way through the narrow
passages which led to the vaults, guided by one of the familiars of the
Inquisition, till he reached the door of an apartment, at which his
guide stopped and knocked. A voice desired him to enter. Don Francisco
passed through the doorway, and stood in the presence of the Archbishop
Munebrega.
"Do you expect to move her, Don Francisco?" asked the Archbishop, eyeing
him narrowly.
"My lord, I do not," answered Don Francisco, firmly; "yet I warn you
that severe treatment will not effect your purpose. For myself, I would
beg that I might not be again requested to visit her; but I yet entreat
that her chains may be removed, and that she may be placed in a room
where the light of day is allowed to enter, and be supplied with food
such as her delicate nature requires."
"Don Francisco, you ask what it may be impossible for me to grant,"
answered the Archbishop, again casting a penetrating glance towards him;
"but I will make known your request to my coadjutors, and, should they
see fit, it may be granted."
Don Francisco was glad when the interview with the Archbishop came to a
close. He well knew the character of the man with whom he had to deal,
and he dreaded lest any word he might incautiously drop should betray
him. He hurried home. Already he had made every preparation which was
possible for his journey. As the shades of evening drew on he left his
house, and all the comforts and luxuries it contained, feeling that he
should never return. Keeping his countenance concealed with his cloak,
he passed unquestioned through the gates. Now he hurried on at a rapid
pace for a league or more from the city. Then, turning on one side, he
entered a small wood. He had not gone far when he found, standing under
the trees, two horses, held by a short man in the costume of a muleteer.
"Ah! my friend Julianillo, I knew that I could trust you, and I am
thankful that you have not failed me. It is time, if I would save my
life, that I should leave Valladolid. Already the savage Munebrega
suspects me, and I have bidden farewell to her for whose sake alone I
should desire to remain in Spain. I could not bear to see her die; and
yet, knowing the savage hearts of her persecutors, and her own firm
resolve, I feel sure that, ere long, she will add another to the
glorious list of martyrs. She has bidden farewell to the world and her
fellow-creatures, and places her trust in One who alone can give her
strength to undergo the trials she may be called upon to endure."
"True, Don Francisco, true," answered Julianillo; "but we must not
delay. A few minutes may make the difference between life and safety,
and imprisonment and death. When our brother Don Domingo de Roxas
attempted to escape, from a short delay caused by his visit to the noble
De Seso, he fell into the power of the inquisitors. But you, I trust,
are not suspected, and we may in safety gain the borders of Spain
without impediment. It will be necessary, however, to use caution, and
above all things to trust to no one. There are guards on all the roads,
and spies at every inn, ready to entrap the unwary."
Saying this Julianillo held the stirrup while Don Francisco threw
himself into the saddle. He then mounted his own horse, and together
they rode out of the wood, and took the road towards the frontier.
Julianillo knew every part of the country. Each highway and every
by-path was as familiar to him as if he had it mapped down before his
eyes. Often and often he had travelled those roads, with his bales of
goods surrounding the copies of the Bible and the works of Luther and
others, which he had brought across the Pyrenees into Spain. He had, of
late, however, been compelled to give up bringing any more copies of
God's Word into the country. He had, instead, devoted himself to
assisting Protestants to escape from their persecutors. Those who had
trusted themselves entirely to his care and guidance he had never failed
to convey safely to their destination.
Their horses were fresh, and they were thus able to gallop in the
greater part of the night. When morning broke, Valladolid was many
miles behind them. As soon as the horses were rested they again
proceeded on their journey. They thus continued till they were within a
half-day's journey of the frontier.
"We are now approaching the most dangerous part of the road," observed
Julianillo to Don Francisco. "It would be safer for you not to appear
to be under my guidance. I may possibly be suspected, and as I am
well-known, I should certainly be seized, while you might be allowed to
continue your journey. But whatever happens, take no notice of me, and
let us appear to be total strangers to each other."
These remarks were made when the travellers were yet some distance from
the inn where they intended to stop. Julianillo rode on ahead, Don
Francisco following at a distance, so as just to keep him in view.
When Don Francisco entered the common room of the inn, Julianillo was
already there, seated among a number of muleteers and other persons,
laughing and joking with them. Don Francisco, on entering, took no
notice of him, but placed himself at an unoccupied part of the long
table, at the other end of the room. The guests were waiting for
dinner, and in a short time large dishes of fried beans and pork were
placed on the table. Don Francisco could with difficulty partake of the
rough fare put before him. He ordered, however, a flagon of wine, and
requested the host to partake of it, who, nothing loth, accepted his
offer.
The guests had only just seated themselves when a party of mounted
alguazils arrived at the inn, and, having stabled their horses, walked
in to partake of the dinner going forward. Julianillo appeared in no
way to be disconcerted. It was an anxious time for Don Francisco, for
he could not help fearing that the alguazils were in search of suspected
persons.
Having allowed time for the horses to rest, Julianillo started up, and
beginning to sing a well-known comic air, sauntered out of the inn
towards the stables. Don Francisco waited till he supposed his
companion was on the road, and then, paying his reckoning to the
landlord, begged that his horse might be brought round. Just as he was
mounting, the landlord whispered in his ear--
"Stop not till you have gained the other side of the border, and then be
not content till you are many leagues from it."
"I know not what you mean," answered Don Francisco, carelessly; "but
supposing the advice to be of value, I should be truly grateful to you
for it." Saying this he rode quietly through the street of the village.
He had not gone far when he heard the mounted guards who had entered the
inn following close behind. Instead of attempting to escape them he
drew in his rein to allow them to come up with him. It was a moment to
try the nerves of most men. They, however, rode by, saluting him as
they passed, when they continued at a rapid rate. Fearing, should he
show any inclination to push on, he might be stopped, he continued at a
leisurely pace in the direction taken by Julianillo.
In a short time the sound of horses approaching him reached his ears,
and he saw the very same party he had met before returning with someone
among them. As he drew near, great was his grief to recognise
Julianillo. Following the advice given him by that brave man, he
approached the troop with as unconcerned a countenance as he could
assume.
"Who have you got there?" he asked in a calm tone.
"A culprit who has long eluded us, but who has been caught at last, as
many others who now think themselves safe will be ere long," was the
answer.
Anxious as he felt to assist Julianillo, he was well aware of the
uselessness of making the attempt; the words he had just heard making
him more anxious than ever to escape from the country. He therefore
rode forward with the same unconcerned air which he had assumed on
approaching the emissaries of the Inquisition. Following the advice of
the innkeeper, as soon as he was out of sight of the party he put spurs
to his horse, and ere night closed in he was many leagues within the
territory of France. His adventures were like those of others who made
their escape from the Inquisition. Being well supplied with money, he
had, however, less difficulty than many others. He ultimately succeeded
in reaching Genoa. There, though he was at first looked upon with
suspicion, he was soon able to prove the sincerity of his conversion,
and was received as a faithful Protestant among the brethren assembled
in that city.
Meantime Julianillo was led by his captors to Seville. He was there
brought before the Inquisitors. With undaunted eye and firm countenance
he confronted his judges, who were at the same time his accusers. He
denied nothing. He was accused of having been one of the chief
instruments in disseminating the Gospel throughout Spain. He smiled
calmly at the words addressed to him.
"I should indeed be proud to have performed so excellent a work," he
answered; "but those who have far more influence than I possess have had
that honour. If I brought the Word of Life to those perishing for lack
of it, I merely performed the part of the baker's boy who brings the
loaves to the door. It depended upon the people whether they would take
the Bread of Life; and if they took it, whether they would feed on it.
Hear me, ye ministers of tyranny and falsehood: I glory in declaring
that I believe the only knowledge we possess of the perfect and
all-sufficient sacrifice which Christ offered up once for all on
Calvary, is that revealed to us in the Bible, and applied to our hearts
by the Holy Spirit. I believe that the Pope and priests of Rome are
ignorant of this great and glorious truth, that `the just shall live by
faith,' and faith alone. In this belief I have now for many years
lived, rejoicing also."
"Silence him! away with him!" cried the inquisitors, in deep and angry
voices. "He is hopelessly contumacious. A speedy death by fire must be
his doom."
Julianillo smiled calmly as he heard these words pronounced.
"For many years I have been prepared for this," he answered. "When I
undertook the work in which I have been engaged, I counted the cost. I
knew that I should have a rich reward, and all you can do is to hasten
the time when I am to wear that crown of glory prepared for me in the
skies; and, humble though I am, I feel well assured that it is a
brilliant and a glorious crown."
Before Julianillo could say more he was hurried away from the hall of
the Inquisition, and thrown into a dark and noisome dungeon, there to
remain till the day fixed for the next _auto-da-fe_, at which he was to
suffer the extreme penalty inflicted by the Inquisition. He was among
those who suffered on the day already described, when Don Carlo de Seso
received the crown of martyrdom. Though he boasted of no exalted rank
or lineage, yet, bold in the faith, he died as bravely as the most
noble.
On the morning of the _auto_, addressing his fellow-prisoners, he
exclaimed, "Courage, comrades! This is the hour in which we may show
ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ. Let us now bear faithful
testimony to His truth before men, and within a few hours we shall
receive the testimony of His approbation before angels, and triumph with
Him in heaven."
These words were repeated to the inquisitors, and they, knowing full
well his courage and determination, ordered him to be gagged, lest, when
marching forth among the other condemned criminals, he should address
the multitude, and perhaps gain their sympathy, or induce them to accept
the truth, for holding which he was condemned to suffer. In spite of
the gag, he continued by his gestures to encourage his companions
condemned to death with himself; and thus until the flames rose up
fiercely around him, he bore witness to the truth, and endeavoured to
support them to the last.
Meantime the unhappy Leonor de Cisneros lingered on in prison. Every
effort was made by the inquisitors and their familiars of high and low
degree to induce her to recant, but she continued contumacious. Once
only a gleam of satisfaction was seen to pass over her countenance; it
was when a few words, incautiously let drop by one of her visitors,
informed her that Don Francisco de Vivers had escaped from Spain, and
had arrived safely at Genoa.
Was it in mercy, because her bigoted persecutors yet hoped that she
would recant, that her life was still spared? or was it because their
vindictive feelings made them unwilling to liberate their captive, and
terminate her sufferings by consigning her to that death for which she
waited longingly? Often she exclaimed with the Apostle Paul, in sure
and certain hope of the resurrection of the just to happiness
unspeakable, "For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."
Year after year passed by, and still she remained a prisoner in those
dreadful dungeons. She had but numbered twenty-two summers when
consigned to them, and eight long winters of existence passed afterwards
over her head. During those weary years that heroic woman, with the
most perfect constancy, endured insults, torture, starvation, while
compelled to listen to all the arguments which cunning priests could
adduce to make her change her faith.
At length, once more she stood before the judgment-seat of the
inquisitors, among whom the Archbishop Munebrega presided. Did no
recollection of that young woman's mother, whom he had once fondly
loved, or thought he loved, cross his mind? Did he not remember Dona
Leonor herself, when in her early youth, radiant in beauty, he first
beheld her, and heard from her lips the startling acknowledgment that
she believed the simple Word of God and trusted to it? Now she stood
before him a pale wan woman, weighed down with grief and physical
suffering.
Again she was asked if she would recant, and reminded that it was for
the last time.
"Oh, no, no!" she answered, her heart bounding with joy at the
announcement. The captive was to be set free.
Now, in solemn mockery, the inquisitors arose, and pronounced Dona
Leonor de Cisneros hopelessly contumacious, and condemned her to the
flames.
A bright gleam rested on her countenance as she heard her sentence, but
she uttered not a word, she made not a movement till summoned to return
to her cell.
The 26th of September, 1568, at length arrived. Ere the dawn had broken
in the outer world she rose from her hard pallet. Yet, hard as it was,
her slumber had been calm and sweet. She knew not that it was her last
day on earth. Kneeling, she lifted up her hands in prayer. She prayed
for her persecutors. She prayed that the day-star might yet arise over
Spain, and the Gospel be preached throughout the length and breadth of
the land.
The door opened. A harsh voice ordered her to rise from her knees;
prayer was not for one whom the Church had excommunicated. She obeyed.
A monk, with a savage gleam in his eyes, stood before her. At the door
were several familiars.
The monk's errand was soon told. He had come to conduct her to the
courtyard where the victims destined to appear in the _auto-da-fe_ were
collecting. The cruelties, the mockeries, the blasphemies of those
hideous spectacles have often been described. All, all, Leonor endured,
not only with patience and courage, but with a rejoicing heart. Calm
and unmoved she listened to the long sermon poured forth by the Bishop
of Zamora, who, from a lofty pulpit, addressed himself both to the
victims and the populace.
When the blasphemous ceremonies were brought to a conclusion, joy
lighted up her countenance. Firmly she walked to the place of
execution, and submitted without a murmur to be bound to the stake. The
moment she had longed for had arrived! The flames rose up around her,
and her emancipated spirit flew to rejoin her beloved husband, and to be
for ever with their Lord.
THE END.