Don Amador sought out the apartment of his kinsman, with a troubled
heart. A deep dejection, in part the effect of extreme fatigue, but
caused more by the strange and melancholy events of the last twenty-four
hours, weighed upon his spirits, and had increased, ever since the
spectacle of the divinity, notwithstanding the bustle and excitement of
the conflicts which ensued.
In the passage, before he had yet reached the chamber, he stumbled upon
Fabueno. The secretary looked confused and abashed, as if caught in a
dereliction of duty; but before the cavalier could upbraid him, he
commenced his excuses.
'The opiate was strong; the knight was in a deep slumber,' he said;
'and, as Marco was sitting at his side, he thought he might leave him
for a moment, to discover wherefore the soldiers had ceased fighting. He
hoped his noble patron would pardon him: he would presently return.'
"Seek thy pleasure now, Lorenzo," said the novice, with a heavy sigh.
"Return when thou wilt,--or not at all, if thou preferrest to rest with
thy companions of last night. I will now, myself, watch by Don Gabriel."
His head sunk upon his breast, as he went on, for his heart was full of
painful reflections. Near the door of the chamber, he was roused by a
step, and looking up, he beheld the padre Olmedo approaching.
"Holy father, it rejoices me to see thee," he said "I had, indeed,
thoughts to seek thee out, and claim thy benevolent counsels and
aidance, but that I deemed me there were many among the wounded, and
perchance the dying, who had stronger claims on thy good offices."
"Thou art not hurt, my son?"
"I have a scratch, made by the unlucky spear of a friend, but no harm
from the enemy," said the cavalier. "I had indeed a blow also on the
head, that made my brain ring; but both, I had quite forgotten. I am
well enough in body, reverend father; and perhaps may be relieved in
mind, if thou wilt vouchsafe me thy ghostly counsels."
The good Bartolome, making a gesture of assent, followed the youth into
the chamber.
The knight was, as Fabueno had declared, lost in a deep and, his kinsman
was pleased to see, a placid, slumber; but Marco, instead of watching,
lay sleeping full as soundly, hard by. This circumstance seemed to
embarrass the cavalier.
"Father," said he, "I thought no less than to find the serving-man
awake; and it was my intent to discharge him a moment from the chamber,
not fearing that what I might say to thee, would disturb my afflicted
friend. But I have not the heart to break the rest of this old man,--a
very faithful servant,--who closes not his eyes, except when to keep
them open would no longer be of service to Don Gabriel."
"He sleeps as soundly as his master," murmured the priest. "A good
conscience lies under his rough breast, or it would not heave so
gently."
"My father breathes gently, too," said Amador, mournfully.
"May heaven restore him," said the padre. "His guilt lies deeper in his
imagination than in his soul."
"Dost thou think so indeed, father?" said Amador warmly, though in a low
voice.
The father started--"The history of thy kinsman is not unknown to
thee?"
"What I know is but little, save that my friend is the unhappiest of
men," said the novice. "But heaven forbid I should seek to fathom the
secrets of the confessional. I was rejoiced to hear thee say, my kinsman
was not so miserable as he deems himself; for indeed I have begun to
think there is something in the blood that courses in both our veins, so
inclined to distemperature, that a small sin may bring us the pains of
deep guilt, and a light sorrow pave the way to madness."
The knight and the man-at-arms lay in a slumber not to be broken by the
whispers of confession. The father retired to the remotest corner of the
apartment, and Don Amador knelt humbly and penitentially at his feet. A
little taper shed a flickering ray over his blanched and troubled
forehead, as he bent forward to kiss the crucifix, extended by the
confessor.
"Buen padre," said he, "the sins I have to confess, I know thou wilt
absolve, for they are sins of a hot blood, and not a malicious heart. I
have been awroth with those who wronged me, and thirsted to shed their
blood. For this I repent me. But the sins of pride and vanity are deep
in my heart. I look about me for those acts of darkness, which should
have caused the grief wherewith I am afflicted; but, in my self-conceit,
I cannot find them. And yet they must exist; for I am beset with devils,
or bewitched!"
The father gazed uneasily from the penitent to the sleeping knight; but
the look of suspicion was unnoticed.
"We are all, as I may say, my son, beset by devils in this infidel land.
They are worshipped on the altars of the false gods, and they live in
the hearts of the idolaters. But if thou hast no heavy sin on thy soul,
these are such devils as thou canst better exorcise with the sword, than
I, perhaps, with prayers. I think, indeed, thou hast no such guilt; and,
therefore, no cause for persecution."
"Holy father, I thought so myself, till late. But cast thine eyes on
Don Gabriel. Thou seest him, once the noblest of his species, yet, now,
the shadow and vapour of a man,--a wreck of reason,--a living
death,--for his mind hath left him. This I say to thee with much
anguish. I could strike another who said it; but it is true--He is a
lunatic!--It is I that have robbed him of reason. This is my sin; and I
feel that it is heavy."
"Thou ravest, good youth. Thy love and devotion are well known; and he
hath, out of his own mouth, assured me, that thy affection surpasses the
love of man. Rest thee content. A deeper cause than this, and one
wherein thou hast no part, has afflicted him. An accident of war,
tortured, by a moody imagination, into wilful guilt, hath turned him
into this ruin."
"It _was_ an accident, then, and no murder!" said the cavalier,
joyously, though still in a whisper. "I thank God that my father is
unstained with the blood of a woman."
"I may not repeat to thee secrets revealed only to God," said the
confessor; "but this much may I say, to allay thy fears,--that the blow
which destroyed a friend, was meant for a foe; for rage veiled his eyes,
and the steel was in the hands of a madman. This will assure thee, that
thou hast had no agency in his affliction, but hast ever proved his
truest comfort."
"This indeed is the truth," murmured the novice, "and this convinces me,
that by robbing him of his comfort, I gave him up to the persecution of
those thoughts and memories, which have destroyed him. When I fought by
his side at Rhodes, when I followed at his back through Spain, his
malady was gentle. It brought him often fits of gloom, sometimes moments
of delirium; he was unhappy, father, but not mad. I had acquired the art
to keep the evil spirit from him; and, while I remained by him, he was
well. I left him,--at his command, indeed, but he did not command me to
forget him. The servant slept, and the sick man perished. While I was
gone, his infirmity returned; and the madness that brought him to this
infidel world, though I follow him, I am not able to remove. I found him
changed; and, by my neglect, he is left incurable."
"I think, indeed, as thou sayest," replied the confessor, mildly, "there
is something in thy blood, as well as in Calavar's, which inclines to
convert what is a light fault, into a weighty sin. Thou wrongest
thyself: this present misery is but the natural course of disease, and
thou hast no reason to upbraid thyself with producing it."
"Father, so thought I, myself, till lately," said the cavalier,
solemnly; "for we have ever in our hearts some lying spirit, that
glosses over our faults with excuses, and deludes us from remorse. But
it has been made manifest to me, by strange revealments and
coincidences, by griefs of my own as well as of others, that my neglect
was a grievous sin, not yet forgiven. And verily, now do I believe, that
had I remained true to my knight, much sorrow would have been spared to
both him and me."
"I cannot believe that thy unfaithfulness was a wrong of design," said
the father. "If it be, make me acquainted with it, and despair not of
pardon. Thou wert parted from the knight at his own command?"
"To gather him followers for the crusade meditated against the infidels
of Barbary," said the novice,--"a brave and pious enterprise, from which
the emperor was quickly diverted by other projects. This change being
proclaimed, there remained nothing for me to do, but, like a faithful
friend and servant, to return to my kinsman. Had I done so, what present
affliction and disturbing memories might not have been prevented! Know,
father, for I tell thee the truth, that it was my fortune, or rather my
unhappiness, to discover, at the sea-port in which I sojourned, a
Moorish maiden, of so obscure, and, doubtless, so base, a birth, that
even the noble lady who gave her protection, knew not the condition of
her parents. Yet, notwithstanding this baseness of origin, and the great
pride of my own heart, (for truly I am come of the noblest blood in the
land!) I was so gained upon by the beauty and excellent worth of this
maiden, (for I swear to thee, her superior lives not in the world!) that
I forgot even that she was the daughter of an idolater, and loved her."
"A Moorish infidel!" said the confessor. "It is not possible thou
couldst pledge thy faith to an unbeliever?"
"Holy father," said Don Amador, "this sin was at least spared me. The
maiden was a Christian, tenderly nurtured in all the doctrines of our
faith, and almost ignorant that the race from which she drew her blood,
knew any other; and, father, I thought, until this day, that the soul of
Leila dwelt among the seraphs. Moreover, if the plighting of troth be
sinful, I am again innocent; for, before I had spoken of love, she was
snatched away from me."
"She is dead, then?" demanded the padre.
"Surely, I think so," said the cavalier, mournfully; "yet I know not the
living creature that wots of her fate. Father! the sin of deserting my
kinsman was first visited to me through her; and because I was a sinner,
Leila perished.--_How_, father, I cannot tell thee. She vanished away by
night,--carried off, as some averred, by certain Moorish exiles, who,
that night, set sail for Barbary; or, as others dreamed, murdered by
some villain, and cast into the sea; for the veil she wore, was found
the day after, dashed ashore by the surf. But, whether she be dead, or
yet living, again I say, I know not; though I affirm on the cross which
I hold in my hand, I beheld her this day, or some fiend in her likeness,
under the similitude of a priestess, or a divinity, I know not which,
carried on the shoulders of the infidels, and by them worshipped!"
The confessor started back in alarm, surveying the excited features of
the penitent, and again cast his eyes towards Don Gabriel. Then, laying
his hand on the head of the cavalier, he said, gently, but warningly,--
"Cast such thoughts from thee, lest thou become like to thy kinsman!"
"Ay!" cried the cavalier, clasping his hands, and turning an eye of
horror on the father,--"thou speakest confirmation of mine own fears;
for I have said to myself, this is a frenzy, and therefore I have come,
at last, to be like my kinsman! The thing that I have seen, is _not_;
and the reason that made me a man, has fled from me!"
"Nay, I meant not that," said the padre, endeavouring to soothe the
agitation he had, in part, caused. "I desired only to have thee guard
thyself against the effects of thy fancy, which is, at present, greatly
over-excited. I believe that thou didst indeed see some pagan maiden,
strongly resembling the Moorish Leila;--a circumstance greatly aided by
the similarity of hue between the two races."
"And dost thou think," said the cavalier, his indignation rising in
spite of his grief, "that the adored and most angelic Leila could, in
any wise, resemble the coarse maids of this copper-tinted, barbarous
people? I swear to thee, she was fairer than the Spanish girls of
Almeria, and a thousand times more beautiful!"
"In this I will not contend with thee," said the father, benignantly,
well satisfied that anger should take the place of a more perilous
passion. "But I may assure thee, that, among the princesses of the royal
household, whom, I think, thou hast not yet seen, there are many
wondrous lovely to look upon; and, to show thee that even a barbarian
may resemble a Christian, it is only needful to mention that when, at
our first coming to these shores, the portrait of Cortes, done by an
Indian painter, was carried to Montezuma, he sent to us, by the next
messengers, with rich presents, a noble of his court so strongly
resembling Don Hernan, both in figure and visage, that we were all
filled with amazement."
"Well, indeed, thou speakest to me words of comfort," said Don Amador,
more composedly, though still very sadly; "but I would to heaven I might
look again on this woman, or this fiend, for I know not if she may not
be a devil! In truth, I thought I beheld a spectre, when she turned her
eyes upon me; and, oh father! you may judge my grief, when thus
thinking, and beholding her a spirit worshipped by idolaters, I knew she
must be of the accursed!"
"I have heard of this woman from others who beheld her," said the
father, "and, I doubt not, she is a mortal woman, esteemed holy, because
a priestess, and therefore received by the people with those marks of
respect, which thou didst mistake for adoration. It was reported to me,
that she was of marvellous great beauty."
"Marvellous, indeed!" said the youth. "But, father, here is another
circumstance that greatly troubled me; and, in good sooth, it troubles
me yet. It is known to thee that my kinsman had, until yesternight, a
little page,--a Moorish boy, greatly beloved by us both. As for myself,
I loved him because he was of the race of Leila; and I protest to thee,
unnatural as it may seem, I bore not for my young brother a greater
affection than for this most unlucky urchin. A foolish fellow charged
him to be an enchanter; and sometimes I bethink me of the accusation,
and suppose he has given me magical love-potions. Last night he was
snatched away, I cannot say how; but what is very wonderful, my kinsman
and two of his people saw, almost at the same moment, a terrific
phantom. Father, you smile! If it were not for my sorrow, I could smile
too, and at myself; for greatly am I changed, since I set foot on this
heathen land. A month since, I held a belief in ghosts and witchcraft to
be absurd, and even irreligious. At this moment, there is no menial in
this palace more given over to doubts and fears, and more superstitious.
Is not this the first breathing of that horrible malady?"
"It is the first perplexity of a scene of novelty and excitement.
Fatigue doth itself produce a temporary distraction, as is very evident
when we come to fling our over-worn bodies on our couches, to sleep.
This is the land of devils, because of idolaters; and I may not deny,
that the fiends have here greater power to haunt us with supernatural
apparitions, than in the lands of our true religion. Yet it is not well
to yield too ready a belief to such revelations; for heaven will not
permit them, without a purpose. Rather think that the infirmity of thy
kinsman, and the ignorance of his people, were deluded by an accidental
deception, which a cooler observer might have penetrated, than by any
real vision. But what wert thou saying of the Moorish page?"
"Father," said Amador, earnestly, "at the moment, when the train that
surrounded that wonderful priestess, alarmed to see me rush towards
them, (for that supernatural resemblance did greatly move me,) fled into
the temple, I heard the voice of Jacinto screaming aloud among the
infidels, as if, that moment, offered by them a victim to their accursed
divinities."
"God be with his soul, if it be so!" said the confessor, "for barbarous
and bloody in their fanaticism are the reprobates of Tenochtitlan. Yet I
would have thee, even in this matter, to be of good heart; for it is
believed among us, that Abdalla, his father, has been received into the
service of the Mexican nobles, to teach them how to resist our arts, and
how to compass our destruction; and it must be evident, that for that
traitor's sake, they will spare his boy, stolen away from us, as it
appears to me to be proven, by the knave Abdalla himself. But think thou
no more of the boy. He was born to inherit the perfidy of his race;
deception and ingratitude have rendered him unworthy of thy care; and
if, some day, the nobles should yield him to the priests for a victim,
it will be but a just punishment for his baseness. Give thy mind to
other thoughts, and refresh thy body with sleep; for much need have we
of all the assistance thou canst now render us. Sleep, and prepare for
other combats; for this day is but the prologue of a tragedy, whose end
may be more bloody and dreadful than we have yet imagined. Thy soul is
without stain, and heaven absolves thee of sin. Brood over no more
gloomy thoughts; believe that Providence overshadows thee; sleep in
tranquillity; and be prepared for the morning."
The good father concluded the rite of absolution with a blessing
parental and holy, and stole away from the chamber. Don Amador sighed
heavily, but with a relieved mind, as he rose from his knees. He gazed
upon the marble features of the sleeping knight, smoothed the covering
softly and tenderly about his emaciated frame, and then crept to his own
couch. His thoughts were many and wild, but exhaustion brought slumber
to his eyelids; and starting, ever and anon, at some elfin
representation of the captive page, or the lost maid of Almeria, bending
over him with eyes of wo, he fell, at last, into a sleep, so profound,
that it was no longer disturbed by visions.