_CONSPIRATORS._
"It is the shame," that was the burden of the low and emphatic
consultation that was being held by the group of men, gathered
privately in the palace of one of the indignant nobles of Aragon.
Little more than twenty-four hours had passed since the disappointed
deputation to Rome had returned, in time to witness the full horrors of
the cruel tribunal they had so vainly tried to abolish, and the feeling
of humiliation was keen.
And shame, indeed, there was for the brave, proud Aragonese, that the
despotic tyranny of the Inquisition should hold sway amidst their
boasted freedom and high culture.
"We are not alone in our indignation," added Montoro de Diego after
a pause, and with a keen, swift glance around at the faces of his
companions to satisfy a lurking doubt whether the muffled voice at his
elbow, yesterday, had not indeed belonged to one of them.
But every face present was turned to his suddenly, with such vivid,
evident curiosity at the changed and significant tone of his voice,
that the shadowy supposition quickly faded, and with a second cautious
but sharp glance, this time directed at doors and windows instead of
at the room's occupants, the young nobleman replied to the questioning
looks by a sign which gathered them all closer about him as he repeated:
"No; we are not alone in our just resentment. The spirit of
disaffection is rife in Saragossa."
"The Virgin be praised that it is so," muttered one of the grandees
moodily, while another asked hastily:
"But how know you this? What secret intelligence have you received?"
"And when?" put in a third questioner somewhat jealously.
The new system was already beginning to grow its natural fruit of
general suspicion and distrust. But Diego speedily disarmed them as
regarded himself on this occasion. His voice had been low before, it
sank now to a scarcely audible whisper as he answered:
"One, I know not who--even the voice was a disguised one I
believe--spoke to me yesterday in the crowded streets; one who must
have marked the anger and mortification of my countenance I judge, and
thence dared act the tempter."
"But how?" "In what way?" came the eager, impatient queries.
"In the intimation that the world were well rid of Arbues de Epila."
As those few weighty words were rather breathed than spoken, those
self-controlled, impassible grandees of Spain started involuntarily,
and stifled exclamations escaped their lips.
Arbues de Epila! The day was hot with brilliant sunshine. Even in
that carefully-shaded room the air was heavy with warmth, and yet--as
Montoro de Diego muttered the hinted threat against Arbues de Epila,
the crafty, cruel, unsparing Inquisitor--those brave, dauntless,
self-reliant men felt chill. They were in a close group before, but
involuntarily they drew into a still closer circle, and looked over
their shoulders. In open fight with the impetuous Italians or with the
desperate Moors of Granada, no more fearless warriors could be found
than those grandees of Spain, but against this new, secret, lurking,
unaccustomed foe their haughty courage provided them no weapons. To be
snatched at in the dark, torn secretly from home, fame, and family,
buried in oblivion until brought forth to be burnt; and branded,
unheard with the blackest infamy--these were agonies to fill even those
stout hearts with horror.
Stealthy glances, of which until the present time they would have
been altogether disdainful, were cast by each and all of them at one
another. Who should say that even in their own midst there might not be
standing a creature of the Inquisition, bribed to the hideous work by
promises of titles, lands, position, or Paradise without Purgatory?
Quailing beneath these strangely unaccustomed fears all maintained a
constrained silence for some time. But meanwhile the suggestion thrown
out yesterday, and now repeated, worked in those fevered brains, and
at length the fiercest of the number threw back his head, folded
his arms across his breast, and spoke. Not loudly indeed, but with
a concentrated passion that sent each syllable with the force of an
alarum into the hearts of his hearers.
"The stranger was right. We have been cravens--children kissing the
rod, with our petitions. Now we will be men once more, judges in our
own cause, and Arbues shall die."
As he pronounced that last dread word he held out his hand, and his
companions crowded together to clasp it, in tacit acceptance of the
declaration. But there was one exception. One member of the group drew
back. Montoro de Diego stretched forth no consenting hand, but stood,
pale and sorrowful, gazing at his friends. They in turn gazed back at
him with mingled astonishment, fear, and fury. But he never blenched.
His lip indeed curled for a moment with something of scorn as he
detected the expression of terror in some of the gleaming eyes turned
on him. But scorn died away again in sadness as he said slowly:
"Is it so then, truly, that we nobles of Aragon have already yielded
ourselves voluntarily for slaves, accepting the despicable sins of
slaves--cowardice and assassination! Now verily it is time then to weep
for the past of Aragon, to mourn over its decay."
But bravely and nobly as Montoro de Diego spoke, he could not undo the
harm of his incautious repetition of the stranger's fatal hint. Some
of his companions had already their affections lacerated by the loss
of friends, torn from their families to undergo the most horrible of
deaths, the others were full of dark apprehensions for themselves, or
for those whose lives were more precious to them than their own. And
the thought of getting quit of the cruel tormentor took all too swift
and fast hold of the minds of that assembled group.
"It is very evident," muttered one of the party with a scarcely stifled
groan--"it is very evident, my Diego, that you count amongst the number
of your friends none of those whose names, or position, or country,
place them in jeopardy."
"Ah! indeed," added another, without perceiving the flush that suddenly
deepened on the young noble's cheeks, "and it is easy enough to
discover, even if one had not known it, that Diego has neither wife nor
child for whose sake to feel a due value for his life and lands."
Again that sudden flush on the handsome face, but Montoro stood in
shadow, and none marked it. The gathering of men, now turned into a
band of conspirators, was more intent on learning from Montoro de
Diego whether he meant to betray their purpose, than in taking note of
his own private emotion, and once assured of his silence they let him
depart, while they remained yet some time longer in secret conclave,
to concert their plans for destroying Arbues and the Inquisition both
together.
"There cannot be much difficulty one would imagine," muttered one of
the conspirators, "in compassing the death of a wretch held in almost
universal odium."
But others of the party shook their heads, while one, more fully
acquainted with the state of affairs than the rest, replied moodily:
"Nay then, your imagination runs wide of the mark. The difficulty in
accomplishing our undertaking will be as great as the danger we incur.
The cruel are ever cowards. Arbues wears mail beneath his monastic
robes, complete even to bearing the weight of the warrior's helmet
beneath the monk's hood. And his person is diligently guarded by an
obsequious train of satellites."
"Then we must bribe the watch-dogs over to our side," was the stern
remark of the haughty Don Alonso, who had been the first to seize upon
the suggestion thrown out by the unknown voice in the crowd.
Immediately after that declaration the noblemen dispersed, for it was
not safe just at that time for men to remain too long closeted together.