her off from Cadiz until her return thither; also Richard's engagement
with the Turks; his liberality to the Christians; the promise they had
given each other to be husband and wife; the two years' delay agreed on,
and the news she had received of his death, which seemed to her so
certain, as to have nearly occasioned her taking the veil! She extolled
the liberality of the queen of England, the Christian faith of Richard
and his parents, and she concluded by saying, that Richard would relate
what had happened to him since he left London until that moment, when he
stood before them in the dress of a captive, and with the mark of having
been ransomed by charity. "I will do so," said Richard, "and briefly
relate the hardships I have undergone.
"I quitted London to avoid marrying Clisterna, the Scottish Catholic
lady, to whom Isabella has told you that my parents wished to unite me,
and I took with me Guillart, my page, the same who carried the news of
my death to London, as my mother stated in her letter. Passing through
France, I arrived in Rome, where my soul was gladdened, and my faith
fortified. I kissed the feet of the supreme pontiff, confessed my sins
to the grand penitentiary, obtained absolution, and received the
necessary certificates of my confession and penance, and of the
submission I had paid to our holy mother, the church. This done, I
visited the numberless holy places in that sacred city, and out of two
thousand crowns I had with me in gold, I deposited one thousand six
hundred with a money-changer, who gave me a letter of credit for them on
one Roqui, a Florentine, in this city. With the four hundred that
remained, I set out for Spain, by way of Genoa, where I had heard that
there were two galleys of that signory bound for this country. I arrived
with Guillart at a place called Aquapendente, which is the last town in
the pope's dominions on the road to Florence, and in an inn at which I
alighted, I met Count Ernest, my mortal enemy. He had four servants with
him, he was disguised, and was going, as I understood, to Rome, not
because he was a Catholic, but from motives of curiosity. I thought he
had not recognised me, and shut myself up in a room with my servant
Guillart, where I remained on my guard, intending to shift my quarters
at nightfall. I did not do so, however, for the perfect indifference
shown by the count and his servants made me confident that they had not
recognised me. I supped in my room, locked the door, looked to my sword,
commended myself to God, but would not lie down.
"My servant lay asleep, and I sat on a chair between asleep and awake;
but a little after midnight, I was near put to sleep for eternity by
four pistol shots fired at me, as I afterwards learned, by the count and
his servants. They left me for dead, and their horses being in
readiness, they rode off, telling the innkeeper to bury me suitably, for
I was a man of quality. My servant, awaking in terror at the noise,
leaped out of a window, and ran away in such mortal fear, that it seems
he never stopped till he got to London, for it was he brought the news
of my death.
"The people of the inn came up and found I had been struck by four balls
and several slugs, but none of the wounds in any vital part. Calling for
a confessor, I received all the sacraments as became a Catholic
Christian; but I gradually recovered, though it was two months before I
was able to continue my journey. I then proceeded to Genoa, but found no
other means of passage than two feluccas, which were hired by myself and
two Spanish gentlemen. One of them we employed to go before and pilot
the way, and in the other we ourselves embarked. In this way we pursued
our voyage, closely hugging the shore; but when we came to a spot on the
coast of France, called the Three Marias, two Turkish galleys suddenly
came out upon us from a creek, and one keeping to seaward of us, the
other more in shore, they cut off our escape to the land and captured
us. The corsairs stripped us to the skin, plundered the feluccas, and
having completely emptied them, let them drift ashore, instead of
sinking them, saying that they might serve to bring them more pickings
another time.
"You may well believe how bitterly I felt my captivity, and above all,
the loss of the certificates from Rome, which I carried in a tin case,
with the bill for the sixteen hundred ducats; but, by good fortune, they
fell into the hands of a Christian slave, a Spaniard, who kept them, for
if the Turks had got hold of them, they would have required for my
ransom at least the amount of the bill. They carried us to Algiers,
where I found that the fathers of the Most Holy Trinity were redeeming
Christian slaves. I spoke to them, told them who I was, and they, moved
by charity, ransomed me, though I was a foreigner. The price set upon me
was three hundred ducats; they paid down one hundred on the spot, and
engaged to pay the remaining two hundred as soon as the ship should
return with the contributions for the release of the Redemptorist father
who remained in Algiers in pledge for four thousand ducats, which he had
spent over and above the amount he had brought in hand; for so extreme
is the charity of these compassionate fathers, that they give their
liberty for another's, and remain in captivity that others may go free.
In addition to the happiness of obtaining my liberty, I recovered the
case with the certificates and the bill. I showed its contents to the
good father, and promised him five hundred ducats, in addition to the
amount of my ransom, as a contribution towards the payment of the sum
for which he was a hostage.
"It was nearly a year before the ship returned with the redemption
money. What befel me in that year would, of itself, furnish matter for
another history too long to relate at present. I will only say, that I
was recognised by one of the twenty Turks whom I liberated with the
Christians on the occasion already mentioned; but he was so grateful and
so honest, that he would not betray me, for had the Turks known me to be
the person who had sunk two of their galleys, and despoiled them of the
great Indian galleon, they would either have put me to death, or
presented me to the Grand Turk, in which case I should never have
recovered my liberty. Finally, the Redemptorist father came to Spain
with me, and fifty other ransomed Christians. We made a general
procession in Valentia, and from that place we dispersed and took each
his own several way, wearing this garb in token of the means by which we
had been released. For myself, I arrived to-day in this city, burning
with desire to see Isabella, my betrothed, and asked my way at once to
the convent, where I was to hear of her. What happened there you all
know. It now only remains for me to exhibit these certificates to
satisfy you of the truth of my strange story."
So saying, he produced the documents from a tin case, and placed them in
the hands of the vicar-general, who examined them along with the chief
justice, and found nothing in them to make him doubt the truth of what
Richard had stated. Moreover, for the fuller confirmation of his story,
Heaven ordained that among the persons present should be that very
Florentine merchant on whom the bill for sixteen hundred ducats was
drawn. He asked to see it, found it genuine, and accepted it on the
spot, for he had received advice of it several months before. Thereupon
Richard confirmed the promise he had made of contributing five hundred
ducats to the funds of the Redemptorist fathers. The chief justice
embraced him, Isabella, and her parents, and complimented them all in
the most courteous terms. So, too, did the vicar-general, who requested
Isabella to commit this whole story to writing, that he might lay it
before his superior, the archbishop, and this she promised to do.
The deep silence in which the audience had listened to this
extraordinary narrative was broken by thanksgivings to God for his great
marvels; and all present, from the highest to the lowest, congratulated
Isabella, Richard, and their parents, and prayed for their happiness as
they took leave of them. Eight days afterwards, Richard and Isabella
were united before the altar, their marriage being honoured by the
presence of the chief justice, and all the persons of distinction in
Seville. Thus, after so many vicissitudes, Isabella's parents recovered
their daughter, and re-established their fortune; and she, favoured by
heaven, and aided by her many virtues, in spite of so many crosses and
troubles, obtained for her husband a man so deserving as Richard, with
whom it is believed that she lives to this day, in the house facing
Santa Paula, which her father had hired, and which they subsequently
bought of the heirs of a gentleman of Burgos, named Hernando Cifuentes.
This tale may teach us what virtue and what beauty can effect, since
they are sufficient together, or either singly, to win the love even of
enemies; and how Heaven is able to bring forth our greatest happiness
even out of our heaviest misfortunes.
THE FORCE OF BLOOD.
One night, after a sultry summer's day, an old hidalgo of Toledo walked
out to take the air by the river's side, along with his wife, his little
boy, his daughter aged sixteen, and a female servant. Eleven o'clock had
struck: it was a fine clear night: they were the only persons on the
road; and they sauntered leisurely along, to avoid paying the price of
fatigue for the recreation provided for the Toledans in their valley or
on the banks of their river. Secure as he thought in the careful
administration of justice in that city, and the character of its
well-disposed inhabitants, the good hidalgo was far from thinking that
any disaster could befal his family. But as misfortunes commonly happen
when they are least looked for, so it chanced with this family, who were
that night visited, in the midst of their innocent enjoyment, by a
calamity which gave them cause to weep for many a year.
There was in that city a young cavalier, about two-and-twenty years of
age, whom wealth, high birth, a wayward disposition, inordinate
indulgence, and profligate companions impelled to do things which
disgraced his rank. This young cavalier--whose real name we shall, for
good reasons, conceal under that of Rodolfo--was abroad that night with
four of his companions, insolent young roisterers like himself, and
happened to be coming down a hill as the old hidalgo and his family were
ascending it. The two parties, the sheep and the wolves, met each other.
Rodolfo and his companions, with their faces muffled in their cloaks,
stared rudely and insolently at the mother, the daughter, and the
servant-maid. The old hidalgo indignantly remonstrated; they answered
him with mocks and jeers, and passed on. But Rodolfo had been struck by
the great beauty of Leocadia, the hidalgo's daughter, and presently he
began to entertain the idea of enjoying it at all hazards. In a moment
he communicated his thoughts to his companions, and in the next moment
they resolved to turn back and carry her off to please Rodolfo; for the
rich who are open-handed always find parasites ready to encourage their
bad propensities; and thus to conceive this wicked design, to
communicate it, approve it, resolve on ravishing Leocadia, and to carry
that design into effect was the work of a moment.
They drew their swords, hid their faces in the flaps of their cloaks,
turned back, and soon came in front of the little party, who had not yet
done giving thanks to God for their escape from those audacious men.
Rodolfo laid hold on Leocadia, caught her up in his arms, and ran off
with her, whilst she was so overcome with surprise and terror, that far
from being able to defend herself or cry out, she had not even sense or
sight left to see her ravisher, or know whither he was carrying her. Her
father shouted, her mother shrieked, her little brother cried, the
servant-maid tore her own face and hair; but the shouts and shrieks were
disregarded, the wailings moved no pity, the clawing and scratching was
of no avail; for all was lost upon the loneliness of the spot, the
silence of the night, and the cruel hearts of the ravishers. Finally,
the one party went off exulting, and the other was left in desolation
and woe.
Rodolfo arrived at his own house without any impediment, and Leocadia's
parents reached theirs heart-broken and despairing. They were afraid to
appeal for justice to the laws, lest thereby they should only publish
their daughter's disgrace; besides, though well born they were poor, and
had not the means of commanding influence and favour; and above all,
they knew not the name of their injurer, or of whom or what to complain
but their luckless stars. Meanwhile Rodolfo had Leocadia safe in his
custody, and in his own apartment. It was in a wing of his father's
house, of which he had the keys, a great imprudence on the part of any
parent. When Leocadia fainted in his arms, he had bandaged her eyes, in
order that she might not notice the streets through which she passed, or
the house into which he took her; and before she recovered her senses,
he effected his guilty purpose.
Apathy and disgust commonly follow satiated lust. Rodolfo was now
impatient to get rid of Leocadia, and made up his mind to lay her in
the street, insensible as she was. He had set to work with that
intention, when she came to herself, saying, "Where am I? Woe is me!
What darkness is this? Am I in the limbo of my innocence, or the hell of
my sins? Who touches me? Am I in bed? Mother! dear father! do you hear
me? Alas, too well I perceive that you cannot hear me, and that I am in
the hands of enemies. Well would it be for me if this darkness were to
last for ever, and my eyes were never more to see the light! Whoever
thou art," She exclaimed, suddenly seizing Rodolfo's hand, "if thy soul
is capable of pity, grant me one prayer: having deprived me of honour,
now deprive me of life. Let me not survive my disgrace! In mercy kill me
this moment! It is the only amends I ask of you for the wrong you have
done me."
Confused by the vehemence of her reproaches, Rodolfo knew not what to
say or do, and answered not a word. This silence so astonished Leocadia,
that she began to fancy she was dreaming, or haunted by a phantom; but
the hands she grasped were of flesh and blood. She remembered the
violence with which she had been torn from her parents, and she became
but too well aware of the real nature of her calamity. After a
passionate burst of tears and groans, "Inhuman youth!" she continued,
"for your deeds assure me that your years are few, I will forgive the
outrage you have done me, on the sole condition that you promise and vow
to conceal your crime in perpetual silence, as profound as this darkness
in which you have perpetrated it. This is but a small recompense for so
grievous a wrong; but it is the greatest which I can ask, or you can
grant me. I have never seen your face, nor ever desire to see it. It is
enough for me to remember the injury I have sustained, without having
before my mind's eye the image of my ravisher. My complaints shall be
addressed only to Heaven: I would not have them heard by the world,
which judges not according to the circumstances of each case, but
according to its own preconceived notions. You may wonder to hear me
speak thus, being so young. I am surprised at it myself; and I perceive
that if great sorrows are sometimes dumb, they are sometimes eloquent.
Be this as it may, grant me the favour I implore: it will cost you
little. Put me at once into the street, or at least near the great
church; for I shall know my way thence to the house of my parents. But
you must also swear not to follow me, or make any attempts to ascertain
my name or that of my family, who if they were as wealthy as they are
noble, would not have to bear patiently such insult in my person. Answer
me, and if you are afraid of being known by your voice, know, that
except my father and my confessor, I have never spoken with any man in
my life, and that I should never be able to tell who you were, though
you were to speak ever so long."
The only reply Rodolfo made to the unhappy Leocadia was to embrace her,
and attempt a repetition of his offence; but she defended herself with
hands, feet, and teeth, and with a strength he could not have supposed
her capable of exerting. "Base villain," she cried, "you took an
infamous advantage of me when I had no more power to resist than a stock
or a stone; but now that I have recovered my senses, you shall kill me
before you shall succeed. You shall not have reason to imagine, from my
weak resistance, that I pretended only to faint when you effected my
ruin." In fine, she defended herself with such spirit and vigour as
completely damped Rodolfo's ardour. Without saying a word he left the
room, locked the door behind him, and went in quest of his companions,
to consult them as to what he should do.
Finding herself left alone, Leocadia got out of bed, and groped about
the room, and along the walls, feeling for a door or window through
which she might make her escape. She found the door, but it was locked
outside. She succeeded in opening the window; and the moonlight shone in
so brightly, that she could distinguish the colour of some damask
hangings in the room. She saw that the bed was gilded, and so rich, that
it seemed that of a prince rather than of a private gentleman. She
counted the chairs and the cabinets, observed the position of the door,
and also perceived some pictures hanging on the walls, but was not able
to distinguish the subjects. The window was large, and protected by a
stout iron grating: it looked out on a garden, surrounded by high walls,
so that escape in that direction was as impossible as by the door.
Everything she observed in this sumptuous apartment showed her that its
master was a person of quality, and of extraordinary wealth. Among other
things on which she cast her eyes was a small crucifix of solid silver,
standing on a cabinet near the window. She took it, and hid it in the
sleeve of her gown, not out of devotion, nor yet with a felonious
intention, but with a very proper and judicious design. Having done
this, she shut the window as before, and returned to the bed, to see
what would be the end of an affair which had begun so badly. In about
half an hour, as it seemed to her, the door was opened; some one came
in, blindfolded her, and taking her by the arm, without a word spoken,
led her out of the room, which she heard him lock behind him.
This person was Rodolfo, who though he had gone to look for his friends,
had changed his mind in that respect, not thinking it advisable to
acquaint them with what had passed between him and the girl. On the
contrary, he resolved to tell them, that repenting of his violence, and
moved by her tears, he had only carried her half-way towards his house,
and then let her go. Having come to this resolution, he hastened back to
remove Leocadia before daylight appeared, which would compel him to keep
her in his room all the following day. He led her then to the Plaza del
Ayuntamiento, and there, in a feigned voice, speaking half Portuguese
and half Spanish, he told her she might go home without fear, for she
should not be followed; and he was already out of sight before she had
taken the bandage from her eyes.
Leocadia looked all round her: she was quite alone: no one was in sight;
but suspecting that she might be followed at a distance, she stopped
every now and then on her way home, which was not far, and looked behind
her. To baffle any spies that might perchance be watching her, she
entered a house which she found open; and by and by she went from it to
her own, where she found her parents stupefied with grief. They had not
undressed, or thought of taking any rest. When they saw her, they ran to
her with open arms, and welcomed her with tears. Choking with emotion,
Leocadi made a sign to her parents that she wished to be alone with
them. They retired with her, and she gave them a succinct account of all
that had befallen her. She described the room in which she had been
robbed of her honour, the window, the grating, the garden, the cabinets,
the bed, the damask hangings, and, last of all, she showed them the
crucifix which she had carried off, and before which the three innocent
victims renewed their tears, imprecated Heaven's vengeance on the
insolent ravisher, and prayed that he might be miraculously punished.
She told her parents, that although she had no wish to know the name of
him at whose hands she had received such cruel wrong, yet if they
thought fit to make such a discovery, they might do so by means of the
crucifix, by directing the sacristans of the several parishes in the
city to announce from the pulpits that whoever had lost such an image
would find it in the hands of a certain monk whom he should name. By
this means, they would discover their enemy in the person of the owner
of the crucifix.
"That would be very well, my child," replied her father, "if your plan
were not liable to be frustrated by ordinary cunning; but no doubt this
image has been already missed by its owner, and he will have set it down
for certain that it was taken out of the room by the person he locked up
there. To give him notice that the crucifix was in the hands of a
certain monk would only serve to make known the person who deposited it
in such keeping, but not to make the owner declare himself; for the
latter might send another person for it, and furnish him with all the
particulars by which he should identify it. Thus you see we should only
damage ourselves without obtaining the information we sought; though to
be sure we might employ the same artifice on our side, and deposit the
image with the monk through a third hand. What you had best do, my
child, is to keep it, and pray to it, that since it was a witness to
your undoing, it will deign to vindicate your cause by its righteous
judgment. Bear in mind, my child, that an ounce of public dishonour
outweighs a quintal of secret infamy; and since, by the blessing of God,
you can live in honour before the public eye, let it not distress you so
much to be dishonoured in your ownself in secret. Real dishonour
consists in sin, and real honour in virtue. There are three ways of
offending God; by thought, word, and deed; but since neither in thought,
nor in word, nor in deed have you offended, look upon yourself as a
person of unsullied honour, as I shall always do, who will never cease
to regard you with the affection of a father."
Thus did this humane and right-minded father comfort his unhappy
daughter; and her mother embracing her again did all she could to soothe
her feelings. In spite of all their tenderness her anguish was too
poignant to be soon allayed; and from that fatal night, she continued to
live the life of a recluse under the protection of her parents.