Aréli laid his hand on the tomb, pointing to the name of Rachel

Castello, there simply engraved. The effect almost terrified him. The

stranger caught him in his arms—he pressed repeated kisses on his cheek,

his brow, his lips—clasping him, as if to release him were death. The

child returned his caresses without either impatience or

dissatisfaction. After a while the stranger again wrote—

“Thy sister, sweet boy—is it she who hath taught thee these things—doth

she live—is she happy?”

“Oh, so happy! and Imri, kind Imri, will make her happier still. Aréli

loves him next to Josephine, and grandfather and I am to live with them,

and we are all happy. Oh, how I love Josephine! I should have been so

sad—so sad, had she not loved me, taught me all; but come to her—she

will make thee happy too, and thou wilt weep no more. The evening meal

waits for us both—wilt thou not come? Josephine will love thee, for thou

lovest Aréli.”

A deep agonized groan escaped from the stranger, vibrating through his

whole frame. Several minutes passed ere he could make reply, and then he

merely wrote, in almost illegible characters—

“I am not good enough to go with you, my child. Pray for me—love me; I

shall remember thee.”

And then again he folded him in his arms, kissed him passionately, and

disappeared in the gloom, ere Aréli could detain him or perceive his

path, though he sprang forward to do so.

The child watered his flowers more hastily than usual, evidently

preoccupied by some new train of thought, which was shown by a rapid

return to his grandfather’s cottage, and an animated recital, through

signs and his tablets, of all that had occurred, adding an earnest

entreaty to Imri to seek and find him.

Josephine started from the table—the rich glow of her cheek faded into a

deathlike paleness, and, without uttering a syllable, she threw her

mantle around her and hastily advanced to the door. Imri and even the

aged Josef threw themselves before her.

“Whither wouldst thou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine? this is not

well—whom wouldst thou seek?”

“My _father_,” she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone betrayed her

emotion. “Shall he be lingering near, unheeded, uncared for by his

child? Imri, stay me not; I _must_ see him once again.”

“Thou must not, thou shalt not!” was Imri’s agonized reply, clasping her

in his arms to prevent her progress. “Josephine, thy life is no longer

thine own, to fling from thee thus as a worthless thing; it is mine—mine

by thine own free gift; thou shalt not wrest it from me thus.”

“My child, seek not this stranger; draw not the veil aside which he has

wisely flung around him. The penalty to both may not be waived—thou

mayest not see _him_, save to proclaim—or die. My child, my child, leave

me not in my old age alone.”

The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the passionate

appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near him, and burst into an

agony of tears. Aréli clung round her, terrified at the effect of his

simple tale; and for him she roused herself, warning him to repeat the

tale to none, but indeed to grant the stranger’s boon, and remember him

in lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited the morning,

dreading lest its light should betray the stranger; and thankfully did

they welcome the close of that day and the next without his

reappearance. A very different feeling actuated the afflicted Aréli; he

sought him with the longing wish to look on his face again, for it

haunted his fancy, lingered on his love—and a yet more hallowed spot

became his mother’s tomb.

The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri bearing from the

heart of Josephine its last lingering sadness, and enabling her to feel

the anguish her impetuosity might have brought not only on her father

and herself, but on all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal

morn, found her composed and smiling like herself. She had placed her

future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the keeping of Imri Benalmar,

for the tremors and emotions of modern brides were unknown to the

maidens of Eshcol; once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her

young brother had approached her, had clasped his arms about her neck,

and with glistening eyes had written his boyish love.

“Look at the sun, sweet sister; how brightly and beautifully he shines,

how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet flowers, and the little birds!

Oh, they all love thee, and can smile and sing their joy! and gentle

friends throng round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor Aréli

alone silent, when his heart is so full? But he can pray, sweet sister;

pray as thou hast taught him; and he will pray his Father to give back

to thee all which thou hast done for him.”

Was it marvel that Josephine’s tears should fall over those fond words?

But the boy’s caresses turned that dewy joy to softer smiles, as

surrounded by her youthful companions she waited the entrance of her

aged relative to conduct her to the temple.

Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled, marriages

among the Hebrews seldom being performed at an earlier hour. Twenty

young girls dressed alike, and half that number of matrons, attended the

bride; and proudly did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm

in all the grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, unconscious how

well it contrasted with his sinewy and athletic form; his silvery beard

and hair alone betrayed his four score and fourteen years. There was no

shadow of age upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick

sympathy, with all around him. The path was strewed with the fairest

flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while rich garlands,

interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned the trees. The whole

village wore the aspect of rejoicing, and every shade passed from the

brow of the young Aréli; the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the

intense blue of his beautiful eye so sparkled in light, that the eyes of

all were upon him, till they glistened in strange tears.

The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in the temple,

attended by an equal number. The little edifice was filled, for

marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in public; the number that

attended evincing the feelings with which the betrothed were regarded.

The ceremony commenced, and, save the voice of the officiating priest,

there was silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have been

distinguished.

As Josephine flung back her veil, at once to taste the sacred wine, and

prove to Imri that no Leah had been substituted for his Rachel, a

distant trampling fell clearly on the still air. The service continued,

but many looked up to the high casements as if in wonder. The sun still

poured down his golden flood of light; no passing cloud announced an

approaching storm, so to explain the unwonted sounds as distant thunder.

They came nearer and nearer still; the trampling of many feet seemed

echoing from the mountain ground; and at the moment Imri flung down the

crystal goblet on the marble at his feet, as the conclusion of the

solemn rites, the shrill blast of many trumpets and the long roll of the

pealing drum were borne on the wings of a hundred echoes, far and near.

Wild birds, whose rest had never before been so disturbed, rose

screaming from their haunts, darkening the air with their flapping

wings. Again and again, at irregular intervals, this unusual music was

repeated; but though alarm blanched many a maiden’s cheek, and the brows

of the sterner sex became knit with indefinable emotion, the afternoon

service, which ever follows the Jewish nuptials, continued undisturbed.

The eyes of Josephine were fixed on Imri more in wonder than alarm, and

Benalmar had folded his arm round her and whispered, “Mine, mine in woe

or in weal; mine thou art, and wilt be, love! whatever ill these martial

sounds forbode.”

A smile so bright, so confiding, was the answer, that even had he not

felt her cling closer to his heart, Imri would have been satisfied. A

sudden paleness banished the rich flush from the cheek of the deaf and

dumb; he relinquished his station under the canopy which had been held

over the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony, and drew closer to

them. He had _heard_ indeed no sound; but so keen are the other senses

of the deaf and dumb, that many have been known to _feel_ what they

cannot hear. Aréli could read, in a moment’s glance, the countenances of

those around him, and at the same instant he became conscious of a

thrilling sensation creeping through his every vein. He took the hand of

Imri and looked up inquiringly in his face. The answer was given, and

the child resumed the posture of devotion, which his strange feelings

had disturbed.

The last words of the presiding priest were spoken, and there was

silence; even the sounds without were hushed, and a voiceless dread

appeared to withhold those within from seeking the cause. There was

evidently a struggle ere the usual congratulations could be offered to

the young couple; and so preoccupied was the attention of all, that the

absence of Aréli was unnoticed, till, as trumpet and drum again pierced

the thin air, he darted back, and with hasty and agitated signs related

what he had beheld.

“Soldiers, many soldiers! It may be so; yet wherefore this alarm, my

children?” exclaimed the aged Asher, stepping firmly forward, and

speaking in an accent of mild reproof. “What can ye fear? Nazarene and

Mahommedan have oft-times found a shelter in this peaceful valley:

fearlessly they came, uninjured they departed. Wrong we have never done

to man: peace and goodwill have been our watchword; wherefore, then,

should we tremble to meet these strangers? My children, the God of

Israel is with us still.”

The cloud passed from the brows of his hearers. The young maidens

emulated the calm firmness of the bride, and gathering round her,

followed their male companions from the temple. The spot on which the

sacred edifice stood commanded a view of the village market-place,

which, from its occupying the only level ground half a mile square, was

surrounded by all the low dwellings of the artizans, and was often the

place of public meeting, when any point was discussed requiring the

suffrages of all the male population. This space was now filled with

Spanish soldiers, some on horseback, others on foot; while far behind,

scattered in groups amongst the rocks, many a steel morion flung back

the sun’s glistening rays. The villagers, startled and amazed, had

assembled on all sides, and even Josef Asher for a moment paused,

astonished.

“Let us on, my children,” he said, “and learn the meaning of this

unusual muster. Yet stay,” he added, as several young men hastened

forward to obey him; “they are about to speak; we will hear first what

they proclaim.”

Another flourish of drums and trumpets sounded as he spoke, and then one

of the foremost cavaliers, attired as a herald, drew from his bosom a

parchment roll. The officers around doffed their helmets, and he read

words to the following import:—

“From the most high and mighty sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella,

joint-sovereigns of Arragon and Castile, to whose puissant arms the

grace of God hath given dominion over all heretics and unbelievers,

before whose banner of the Holy Cross the Moorish abominations have

crumbled into dust—to our loyal subjects of every principality and

province, of every rank, and stage, and calling, of every grade and

every state, these—to which we charge you all in charity give good

heed.

“Whereas we have heard and seen that the Jews of our states induce

many Christians to embrace Judaism, particularly the nobles of

Andalusia; for THIS they are BANISHED from our domains. Four months

from this day, we grant them to forswear their abominations and

embrace Christianity, or to depart; pronouncing DEATH on every Jew

found in our kingdom after that allotted time.

_(Signed)_ FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.

“_Given at our palace of Segovia this thirtieth day of March, of

the year of grace one thousand four hundred and ninety-two._”

As a thunderbolt falling from the blue and cloudless sky—as the green

and fertile earth yawning in fathomless chasms beneath their feet, so,

but more terribly, more vividly still, did this edict fall on the

faithful hearts who heard. A sudden pause, and then a cry, an agonized

cry of horror and despair, burst simultaneously from young and old,

woman and child; and then, as awakened from that stupor of woe, wilder

shouts arose, and the fiery youth of Eshcol gathered tumultuously

together, and shrill cries of “Vengeance, vengeance! cut them down—rend

the lying parchment into shreds, and scatter it to the four winds of

heaven—thus will we defend our rights!” found voice amid groans and

hisses of execration and assault. A volley of stones fell among the

Spaniards, who, standing firmly to their arms, appeared in the act of

charging, when both parties were arrested by the aged patriarch of

Eshcol rushing in their very centre, heeding not, nay, unconscious of

personal danger, calling on them to forbear.

“Are ye all mad?” he cried. “Would ye draw down further ruin on your

devoted heads! Think ye to cope with those armed by a sovereign mandate,

backed by a mighty kingdom? Oh, for the love of your wives, your

children, your aged, helpless parents, keep the peace and let your

elders speak!”

Even at that moment their natural veneration for old age had influence.

Reproved and sorrowful, they shrunk back—the angry gesture calmed, the

muttered execration silenced. Surrounded by his brother elders, Asher

drew near the Spaniards, who struck by his venerable age and commanding

manner, consented to accompany him to the council-room near at hand,

desiring their men on the severest penalties to create no disturbance.

The edict was laid before them, its purport explained, enforced

emphatically, yet kindly; for the Spaniards felt awed, in spite of

themselves. But vainly the old men urged that the given cause of their

banishment could not extend to them. They had had no dealing with the

Nazarene; they lived to themselves alone; they interfered not with the

civil or religious government of the country, which had sheltered them

from age to age; they warred with none, offended none; their very

existence was often unsuspected; they asked but liberty to live on as

they had lived; and would the sovereigns of Spain deny them this? It

could not be. The Spaniards listened mildly; but the edict had gone

forth, they said, unto all and every class of Jews within the kingdom,

and not one individual was exempt from its sentence, save on the one

condition—their embracing Christianity. It was true that many of their

nation might be faithful subjects; but even did their banishment involve

loss to Spain, her sovereigns, impressed with religious zeal, welcomed

the temporal loss as spiritual gain. If, indeed, they could not comply

with the very simple condition, they urged the old men instantly to

depart, for one month out of the four had already elapsed, the edict

bearing date the last day but one of the month of March. They added, the

secluded situation of the valley had caused the delay, and might have

delayed its proclamation yet longer, had not chance led them to these

mountains in search of an officer of rank, who had wandered from them,

and they feared had perished in the hollows.

Even at that moment a chilling dread shot through the heart of the aged

Asher. Could that officer be he whom Aréli had seen but seven days

previous? He dared not listen to his heart’s reply, and gave his whole

attention to that which followed. A second edict, the Spaniards

continued to state, had been issued prohibiting all Christians to supply

the fugitives with bread or wine, water or meat, after the month of

April.

The old men heard: there was little to answer, though much to feel; and

sorrowing council occupied some time after the officers had retired.

They wished to learn the condition of their wretched countrymen, and the

real effects of this most cruel edict. The blow had descended so

unexpectedly, it seemed as if they could not, unless from the lips of an

eye-witness, believe it true, and they decided on sending twenty of

their young men to learn tidings, under the control of one, calm, firm,

and dispassionate enough to restrain those acts of violence to which

they had already shown such inclination. But who was this one? How might

they ask _him_?

The old men together sought the various groups, and, expressing their

wishes, all were eager to obey. Josef Asher alone approached his

children, who sat apart from their companions. He related all that had

passed between them and the Spaniards, and then awhile he paused.

“Imri,” he said at length, “my son, thou hast seen the misguided passion

of our youth; they must not go forth on this mission of unimpassioned

observation alone. Our elders, the wise and moderate, must husband their

little strength for their weary pilgrimage. Thou, my son, hast their

wisdom, with all the activity and energy of youth. We would that thou

shouldst head this band; but a very brief absence is needed. Canst thou

consent?”

A low cry of suffering broke from the pale lips of Josephine, and she

threw her arms round Imri, as thus to chain him to her side. “In such an

hour wilt thou leave me, Imri?” His lip quivered, his cheek paled, and

the few words he uttered were heard by her alone. “Yes, yes, thou shalt

go, my beloved; heed not my woman’s weakness. Thou wilt return; and

then—then we will _depart_ together.” Oh, what a world of agony did that

one word speak!

The instant departure of the younger villagers occasioned some surprise,

but without further interference. The Spaniards began to pitch their

tents amongst the rocky eminences, as preparing for some months’

encampment. Had not the inhabitants of Eshcol felt that their cup of

bitterness was already full to the brim, the appearance of an armed

force in the very centre of their peaceful dwellings would have added

gall; but every thought, feeling, and energy were merged in one

engrossing subject of anguish. Some there were who rejected all belief

in the edict’s truth. They could not be banished from scenes in which

they and their fathers had dwelt, from age to age, in peace and bliss.

Others felt their minds a void; they asked no question of their elders,

spoke not to each other, but in strange and moody silence awaited the

return of Imri and his companions. Nor could the obnoxious sight of a

huge wooden crucifix, which the next morning greeted the eyes of every

villager, rouse them effectually from the lethargy of despair.

And Josephine, did she weep and moan, now that the fate she so

instinctively dreaded had fallen? Her tears were on her heart, lying

there like lead, slowly yet surely undermining strength, and poisoning

the gushing spring of life. In sobs and tears her young companions

gathered round her, and she spoke of comfort and resignation, her gentle

kindness soothing many, and rousing them to hope, on the return of the

young men, things might not be found so despairing as they now seemed.

But when twilight had descended and all was hushed, Josephine led her

young brother to her mother’s grave. She looked on his sweet face, paled

with sympathetic sorrow, though as yet he knew not why he wept; and she

sought to speak and tell him all, but the thought that his young joys,

yet more than her own, were blighted—that, weakly and afflicted as he

was, he too must be torn from familiar scenes and objects which formed

his innocent pleasures, and encounter hardships and privation that stood

in dread perspective before her—oh, was it strange that that noble

spirit lost its firmness for the moment, and that, sinking on the green

sward, she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed in an intensity of

suffering which found not its equal even midst the deep woe around her?

Aréli knelt beside her; he clasped her cold hands within his own; he hid

his head in her lap—seeking by all these mute caresses, which had never

before appealed in vain, to restore her to composure. For his sake she

roused herself; she raised her tearful eyes to the star-lit heavens in

silent prayer, and drawing him closer to her, commenced her painful

task. Too well his ready mind conceived her meaning. His beautiful lip

grew white and quivering—the dew of suffering stood upon his brow; but

he shed no tear—nay, he sought to smile, as thus to lessen his sister’s

care. But when she told him the condition which was granted, and bade

him choose between the land of his love or the faith of his fathers—a

change came over his features: he started from her side, the red flush

rushing to his cheek; he drew his little Bible from his bosom, pressed

it fervently to his lips and heart, shook his clenched fist in direction

of the Spanish encampment, and then laid down beside the grave. “My boy,

my boy, there spoke the blessed spirit of our race!” and tears of

inexpressible emotion coursed down the cheek of Josephine, as she

clasped him convulsively to her aching heart. “Death and exile, aye,

torture, thou wilt brave rather than desert thy faith. My God, my God,

thou wilt be with us still!”

It was not till the ninth day from their departure that Imri Benalmar

and his companions returned. One glance sufficed to read their mournful

tale. On all sides, they said, they had beheld but cruelty and ruin,

perjury or despair. From every town, from every province, their wretched

brethren were flocking to the sea-coast—their homes, their lands left to

the ruthless spoiler, or sold for one-tenth of their value. They told of

a vineyard exchanged for a suit of clothes—a house with all its

valuables, for a mule. Their gold, silver, and jewels, prohibited either

to be exchanged or carried away with them, became the prey of their

cruel persecutors. Famine and horror on every side assailed them; many

they had seen famishing on the roads, for none dared give them a bit of

bread or a draught of water; and even mothers were known to slay their

own children, husbands their wives, to escape the agony of watching

their lingering deaths. Their illustrious countryman, Isaac Abarbanel,

Imri said, had offered an immense sum to refill the coffers of Spain,

emptied as they were by the Moorish war, would his sovereigns recall the

fatal edict. They had appeared to hesitate, when Thomas de Torquemada,

advancing boldly into the royal presence, raised high before them a

crucifix, and bade them beware how they sold for a higher price Him whom

Judas betrayed for thirty pieces of silver—to think how they would

render an account of their bargain before God. He had prevailed, and the

edict continued in full force.

On a towering rock, in the centre of the mourning populace, the aged

Asher stood. He stretched forth his hands in an attitude of

supplication, and tears and groans were hushed to a voiceless pause.

There was a deep-red spot on the old man’s either cheek, but his voice

was still firm, his attitude commanding.

“My children,” he said, “we have heard our doom, and even as our

brethren we must go forth. Let us not in our misery blaspheme the God

who so long hath blessed us with prosperity and peace, and pour down

idle curses on our foes. My children, cruel as they seem, they are but

His tools; and therefore, as to His decree, let us bow without a murmur.

Have we forgotten that on earth the exiles of Jerusalem have no

resting—that for the sins of our fathers the God of Justice is not yet

appeased? Oh, if we have, this fearful sentence may be promulgated to

recall us to Himself, ere prosperity be to us, as to our misguided

ancestors, the curse, hurling us into eternal misery. We bow not to man;

it is the God of Israel we obey! We must hence; for who amongst us will

deny Him? Tarry not, then, my children; we are but few days’ journey

from the sea, and in this are blest above our fellows. Waste not, then,

the precious time allowed us in fruitless sorrow. There are some among

ye who speak of weakness and timidity, in thus yielding to our foes

without one blow in defence of our rights. Rights! unhappy men, ye have

no rights! Sons of Judah, have ye yet to learn we are wanderers on the

face of the earth, without a country, a king, a judge in Israel? My

children, we have but one treasure, which, if called upon, we can DIE to

defend—the glorious faith our God himself hath given. To Him, then, let

us unite in solemn prayer, beseeching His guidance in our weary

pilgrimage—His forgiveness on our cruel foes; and fearless and faithful

we will go forth where His will may lead.”

The old man knelt, and all followed his example; and silence, deep as if

that wild scene were desolate, succeeded those emphatic words. A fervent

blessing was then pronounced by the patriarch, and all departed to their

homes.

And now day after day beheld the departure of one or two families from

the village. We may dwell no longer on their feelings, nor on those of

their brethren in other parts of Spain. We envy not those who feel no

sympathy in that devotedness to a persecuted faith, which could bid men

go forth from their homes, their temples, the graves of their fathers,

the schools where for centuries they had presided, honoured even by

their foes, and welcome exile, privation, misery of every kind, woes far

worse than death, rather than depart from it. If they think we have

exaggerated, let the sceptic look to the histories of every nation in

the middle ages, and they will acknowledge this simple narrative is but

a faint outline of the sufferings endured by the persecuted Hebrews, and

inflicted by those who boast their religion to be peace on earth and

goodwill to all men.

Reduced from affluence to poverty, from every comfort to the dim vista

of every privation, without the faintest consciousness where to seek a

home, or how to cross the ocean, did Imri Benalmar regret that he had

now a wife and a young, helpless boy for whom to provide? Nay; that

Josephine was his, ere this dread edict was proclaimed, was even at this

moment a source of unalloyed rejoicing. He knew her noble spirit, and

that, had not the solemn service been actually performed, she would have

refused his protection, his love, and, rather than burden him with such

increase of care, have lingered in that vale to die. That she was

inviolably his own, endowed him, however, with an energy to bear, which,

had he been alone, would have failed him. He thought but of her

sufferings; for, though from her lips they had never found a voice, he

knew what she endured. He told her there were some of their unhappy

countrymen, who, rather than lose the honourable situations they

enjoyed, the riches they possessed, had made a _public_ profession of

Christianity, and received baptism at the very moment they made a solemn

vow, in secret, to act up to the tenets of their fathers’ faith.

“Alas! are there indeed such amongst us, thus doubly perjured?” was the

sole observation of Josephine, looking up sorrowfully in his face.

“They do not think it perjury, my beloved: they say the God of Israel

will pardon the public falsehood, in consideration of their secret

allegiance to Himself.”

“But thou, Imri, canst thou approve this course of acting? Couldst thou

rest in such fatal security?”

“Were I alone, my Josephine, with none to love or care for, death itself

were preferable; but oh, when I look on thee, and remember thy deep love

for this fair soil—when I think on Aréli, on all that he must suffer—the

misery we must all endure—I could wish my mind would reconcile itself to

act as others do; that to serve my God in secret, and those of wood and

stone in public, were no perjury.”

“Oh, do not say so, Imri; think not of me, my beloved: I love not my

home better than my God—I would not accept peace and prosperity at such

a price! Had I been alone, death, even by the sword of slaughter, would

have been welcome, would have found me here, for I could not have gone

forth. But now I am thine, Imri, thine, and whither thou goest I will

go; and thou shalt make me another home than this, my husband, where we

may worship our God in peace and joy, and there shall be blessing for us

yet.”

She had spoken with a smile so inexpressibly affecting in its plaintive

sweetness, that her husband could only press her to his heart in

silence, and inwardly pray it might be as she said. Of Aréli she had not

spoken, and he guessed too truly wherefore. From the hour of their

banishment, a change had come over the spirit of the boy; his smiles

still greeted those he loved, but he was longer away than was his wont,

and Imri, following him at a distance, could see him ever lingering amid

his favourite haunts; and when far removed, as he believed, from the

sight of man, he would fling himself on the grass, and weep, till

sometimes, from very exhaustion, sleep would steal over him, and then,

starting up, he would make hasty sketches of some much-loved scenes, to

prove to his sister how well he had been employed.

These painful proofs of the poor boy’s sorrow Imri could conceal, but

not the decay of bodily strength; or deny, when Josephine appealed to

him, that his frame became yet more shadowy in its beautiful

proportions,—that the rose which had spread itself on either cheek, the

unwonted lustre of the eye, the increased transparency of his

complexion, told of the loveliness of another world; yet for him how

might they grieve?

It happened that one of the Spanish soldiers, a father himself, and less

violently prejudiced than his fellows, had taken a fancy to the

beautiful and afflicted boy always wandering about alone; and he thought

it would be doing a kind action to prevent his accompanying the

fugitives, by adopting him as his own; believing it would be easy to

rear him to the Catholic church, as one so young, and moreover, deaf and

dumb, could have imbibed little of the Jewish misbelief. Kindly and

tenderly he sought and won the child’s affection, and found means to

converse with him intelligibly.

Incapable of thinking evil, Aréli doubted not his companion’s kindness,

and though aware he was a Spaniard and a Catholic, artlessly betrayed

the deep suffering his banishment engendered. Fadrique worked on this;

he told him he should not leave them, that he would bring his family and

live there, and Aréli should be loved by all. He worked on the boy’s

fancy till he felt he had gained his point, then erecting a small

crucifix, bade him kneel and worship.

The film passed from the eyes of the child, indignation flashed from

every feature, and springing up, he tore the cross to the earth, and

trampled it into the dust. Ten or twelve soldiers who had been

carelessly watching Fadrique’s proceedings from a distance, enraged

beyond measure at this insult from a puny boy, darted towards him, flung

him violently to the earth, and pointed their weapons at his throat. At

that instant Josephine stood before them; for she too had watched, with

the anxious eye of affection, the designs of Fadrique.

“Are ye men!” she exclaimed, and the rude soldiers shrunk abashed from

her glance, “that thus ye would take the blood of an innocent helpless

child—one whose very affliction should appeal to mercy, denied as it may

be to others? On yourselves ye called this insult to your faith. How

else could he tell ye he refused your offers? You bade him acknowledge

that which his soul abhors; and was it strange his hand should prove

that which he hath no voice to speak? And for this would ye take his

life? Oh, shame, shame on your coward hearts!”

Sullenly the men withdrew, at once awed by her mien, and remembering

that in assaulting any Hebrew before the time specified in the edict was

over, they were liable to military severity. Fadrique lingered.

“This was not my seeking,” he said respectfully; “I sought but the

happiness of that poor child: I would save him from the doom of

suffering chosen by the elders of his race. Leave him with me, and I

pledge my sacred word his life shall be a happy one.”

“I thank thee for thy offer, soldier,” replied Josephine, mildly, “but

my brother has chosen his own fate; I have used neither entreaties nor

commands.”

The boy, who had betrayed no fear even when the deadly weapons were at

his throat, now took the hand of Fadrique, and by a few expressive signs

craved pardon for the insult he had been led to commit, and firmly and

expressively refused his every offer.

“Thou hast yet to learn the deep love borne to our faith by her

persecuted children, my good friend,” said Josephine, perceiving the

man’s surprise was mingled with some softer feeling; “that even the

youngest Jewish child will prefer slavery, exile, or death, to

forswearing his father’s God. May the God of Israel bless thee for the

kindness thou hast shown this poor afflicted boy, but seek him not

again.”

She drew him closer to her, and they disappeared together. A tear rose

to the Spaniard’s eye, but he hastily brushed it away, and then telling

his rosary, as if it were sin thus to care for an unbeliever, rejoined

his comrades.

The family of Imri Benalmar was the last to quit the vale. Each was

mounted on a mule, and there were two led or sumpter mules, on which was

strapped as much clothing as they could conveniently stow away, and

provisions which they hoped would last them till they reached the

vessel, knowing well they could procure no more. Some few valuables Imri

contrived to secrete, but his fortune, principally consisting in land

and its produce, was of necessity irretrievably ruined.

Josef Asher accompanied them; he had been active in consoling,

encouraging, and assisting his weaker brethren. Not a family departed

without receiving some token of his sympathy and love; and young and old

crowded round him, ere they went, imploring his blessings and his

prayers.

It was, however, observed that of his own departure, his own plans,

Asher never spoke. That he would accompany his children, all believed,

and so did Josephine herself; but all were mistaken.

On the evening of their first day’s journey, as they halted for rest and

refreshment, some unusual emotion was observable in the mien and

features of the old man. He asked them to join him in prayer, and as he

concluded, he spread his hands upon their heads, and blessed each by

name, emphatically, unfalteringly, as in his days of youth.

“And now,” he said, as they arose, “farewell, my beloved children. The

God of Israel go with ye, and lead ye, even as our ancestors of old,

with the daily cloud and nightly pillar. I go no further with ye.”

“No further! what means our father?” exclaimed Imri and Josephine

together.

“That I am too old to go forth to another land, my children. The God of

Judah demands not this from his old and weary servant. Fourscore and

fifteen years I have served Him in the dwelling-place of mine own

people, and there shall His Angel find me. My sand is well-nigh run out,

my strength must fail ere I reach the shore. Wherefore, then, should I

go forth, and by my infirmities bring down danger and suffering on my

children? Oppose me not, beloved ones; refuse not your aged father the

blessing of dying beside his own hearth.”

“Alone, untended, and perchance by the sword of slaughter? Oh, my

father, ask us not this!” exclaimed Josephine, with passionate agony

throwing herself at his feet and clinging to his knees.

“My child, the Spirit of my God will tend me: I shall not be alone, for

His ministering angels will hover round me ere He takes me to Himself;

and if it be by the sword of slaughter, ’twill be perchance an easier

passage for this sorrowing soul than the lingering death of age.”

“Then let me return and die with you!”

“Not so, my child! thy life hath barely passed its spring; ’twould be

sin thus to sport with death. The God who calls me to death, bids thee

go forth to serve Him—to proclaim His great name in other lands. Thy

husband, thy poor Aréli, both call on thee to live for them; thou

wouldst not turn from the path of duty, my beloved child, dark and

dreary as it may seem. See, thine Imri weeps; and thou, who shouldst

cheer, hast caused these unmanly tears.”

She turned towards her husband, and with a painful sob, sunk into his

extended arms. Asher gave one long lingering look of love, folded the

weeping Aréli to his bosom, and ere Imri could sufficiently recover his

emotion to speak, the old man was gone.

The death he sought was speedily obtained. The Spanish officers and

several of the men had quitted Eshcol, leaving only the lowest rank of

soldiery to keep watch lest any of the fugitives should return, and,

taking advantage of the secluded situation of the vale, set the edict at

defiance. Effectually to prevent this, the men were commanded to turn

the little temple to a place of worship for true believers. Workmen,

with images, shrines, and pictures, were sent to assist them, and a

pension promised to every Catholic family who would reside there, thus

to exterminate utterly all trace of heresy and its abominations.

The men thus employed, ignorant and bigoted, exulted in the task

assigned them, and only lamented that no human blood had been shed to

render their holocausts to their patron saints more efficacious still.

The return of Asher excited some surprise, but believing he would depart

ere the allotted period had expired, they took little heed of his

movements. The work continued, crosses were affixed to every side,

images decked the interior, and all promised fair completion, when one

night a wild cry of fire resounded, and hurrying to the spot, they

beheld their work in flames. It was an awful picture. The night was

pitchy dark, but far and near the thick woods and blackened heavens

suddenly blazed up with lurid hue. There were dusky forms hurrying to

and fro; oaths and execrations mingled with the stormy gusts which

fanned the flames into greater fury; and, amidst them all, calmly

looking on the work his hand had wrought, there stood an aged man, whose

figure, in that glow of light, appeared gigantically proportioned, his

silvery hair streamed back from his broad unwrinkled brow, and stern,

unalterable resolution was impressed upon his features. He was seen,

recognised, and with a yelling shout the murderers darted on their prey.

“Come on!” he cried, waving his arms triumphantly above his head. “Come

on, and wreak your vengeance on these aged limbs; ’tis I have done this!

Better flames should hurl it to the dust, than the temple of God be

profaned by the abominations He abhors. Come on, I glory in the deed!”

He spoke, and fell pierced with a hundred wounds. A smile of peculiar

beauty lighted up his features. “Blessed be the God of Israel, the sole

One, the Holy One!” he cried, and his spirit fled rejoicing to the God

he served.

Slowly and painfully did Imri’s little family pursue their way. They

chose the most secluded paths, but even there traces of misery and death

awaited them, and they shrank from suffering they could not alleviate.

There might be seen a group dragging along their failing limbs, their

provisions exhausted, and the pangs of hunger swallowing up all other

thoughts. There lay the blackening bodies of those who had sunk and

died, scarcely missed, and often envied by the survivors. Often did the

sound of their footsteps scare away large flocks of carrion birds, who,

screaming and flapping their heavy wings, left to the travellers the

loathsome sight of their half-devoured prey. And they saw, too, the

fearful fascinated gaze of those in whom life was not utterly extinct,

as they watched the progress of these horrible birds, dreading lest they

should dart upon them ere death had rendered them insensible. Josephine

looked on these things, and then on her young brother, whose strength

each day too evidently declined.

Aréli’s too sensitive spirit shrank in shuddering anguish from every

fresh scene of human suffering. He, whose young life had been so full of

peace and bliss, knowing but love and goodwill passing from man to man,

how might he sustain the change? He had no voice to speak those

feelings, no time to give them vent in the sweet language of poesy,

which, in happier hours, had been the tablet of his soul. As the

invisible worm at the root of a blooming flower, secretly destroying its

sap, its nourishment, and the flower falls ere one of its leaves hath

lost its beauty, so it was with the orphan boy. Each day was Imri

compelled to shorten more and more their journey, for often would Aréli

drop fainting from his mule, though the cheek retained its exquisite

bloom, his eye its lustre. Imri became fearfully anxious; from the

comparative vicinity of the sea-shore, he had believed their provisions

would be more than sufficient to last them on their way, but from these

unlooked-for delays, the horrors of famine, thirst, that most horrible

death, stood darkly before him. Josephine, his own, his loved, would she

encounter horrors such as they had witnessed? Imri shuddered.

One evening, Aréli lay calmly on the soft bed of moss and heath his

sister’s love had framed; his hand clasped hers; his eyes seemed to

speak the unutterable love and gratitude he felt. They were in the

wildest part of a thick forest in the Sierra Nevada; and Imri, unable to

look on the sufferings of his beloved ones, had wandered forth alone.

Distant sounds of the chase fell at intervals on the ears of Josephine;

but they were far away, and her soul was too enwrapt to heed them.

Suddenly, however, her attention was effectually roused by the large

crashing of the bushes near them, accompanied by low yet angry growls.

Aréli marked the sudden change in her features, his eye too had caught

an object by her still unseen. He sprang up with that strength which

energy of feeling so often gives when bodily force has gone, and grasped

tightly the hunting spear he held; scarcely had he done so, when a huge

boar sprung through the thicket, his flanks streaming with blood, his

tusks upraised, his mouth gaping, covered with foam, and uttering

growls, denoting pain and fury yet more clearly than his appearance. He

stood for a second motionless, then, as if startled by the agonized

scream of terror bursting from Josephine, he sprung upon the daring boy.

Undauntedly Aréli met his approach. His spear, aimed by an eye that

never failed, pierced him for a second to the earth, but, alas! the

strength of the boy was not equal to his skill. The boar, yet more

enraged, tore the weapon from the ground, which it had not pierced above

an inch. Once more he fell, struck down by a huge stick, which Aréli,

with the speed of lightning, had snatched up. Again he rose, and

fastened on the child. A blow from behind forced him to relax his

stifling hold; furious, he turned on the slight girl who had dared

attack him, and Josephine herself would have shared her brothers fate,

when the spear of Imri whizzed through the air, true to its mark, and

the huge animal, with a cry of pain and fury, rolled lifeless on the

ground.

The voice of his beloved had startled Imri from his mournful trance; the

roar which followed explained its source, and winged by terror, he

arrived in time. Josephine was saved indeed, but no word of thankfulness

broke from that heart, which, in grateful devotion, had never been dumb

before. She knelt beside the seemingly lifeless body of her Aréli,

scarcely conscious of the presence of her husband; his hands, his neck,

his brow, were deluged in blood; she bathed him plentifully with cold

water. Could she remember at such a moment that no springs were near,

and that, if overwhelmed with thirst, the pure element would be denied

them? Oh, no, no; she saw only the helpless sufferer, to whom her spirit

clung with a love that, in their affliction, had with each hour grown

stronger.

But death was still a brief while deferred, though so fearfully had

Aréli been injured, they could not move him thence. His wounds were

numerous and painful, and strength to support himself, even in a sitting

position, never again returned. Yet never was that sweet face sad; his

smiles, his signs were ever to implore his sister not to weep for him—to

take comfort and be happy in another land; that the blissfulness of

heaven was already on his soul—that if it might be, he would pray for

her before his God, and hover like a guardian spirit over her weary

wanderings, till he led her to a joyous home. For him, indeed, Josephine

might not grieve, but for Imri she felt the deepest anxiety. The horrors

to which this unlooked-for delay exposed him had startled her into

consciousness, and on her knees she besought him to seek his own safety;

she would not weakly shrink, but when all was over she would follow him,

and, in all probability, they would meet again in another land; not to

risk his precious life and strength by lingering with her beside the

dying boy. She pleaded with all a woman’s unselfish love, but, need we

say, in vain?—that Imri’s sole answer was to lift his right hand to

heaven and swear, by all they both held most sacred, NEVER to leave

her—they would meet their fate together? Days passed; their small

portion of food and water, economised as it was, dwindled more and more

away, and so did the strength of Aréli. It was a night of unclouded

beauty; millions and millions of stars spangled the deep blue heavens;

the moon in her full glory walked forth to silver many a dark tree, and

dart her most refulgent rays on that little group of human suffering.

Yet all was not suffering; the purest happiness beamed on the features

of the dying, and an unconscious calm pervaded the weary spirit of these

lonely watchers. Nature was so still, they spoke almost in whispers, as

fearing to disturb her.

A sudden change spread on the features of the dying boy. Imri started:

“Josephine, the chains are rent—he HEARS us!” he cried; and Josephine,

raising him in her arms, almost involuntarily spoke in uttered words,

“Aréli, my own, my beautiful!”

He HEARD; the film was removed one brief moment from his ear; her voice,

sweet as thrilling music, fell upon his soul: his lips moved, and one

articulate word then came, unearthly in its sweetness, “JOSEPHINE!” He

raised his clasped hands to heaven, and sunk back upon her bosom: his

soul had hovered on the earth one moment FREE, then fled for ever.

Imri and Josephine joined in prayer beside the loved. They neither

mourned nor wept, and calmly Josephine wrapped the fadeless flower in

the last garment of mortality, while Imri formed his resting-place. They

laid him in that humble grave, strewed flowers and moss upon it, prayed

that their God would in mercy guard his body from the ravening beasts,

then turned from that hallowed spot, and silently pursued their journey.

It wanted but two days to the completion of the allotted period, when,

faint, weak, and well-nigh exhausted, Imri and his Josephine stood on

the sea-shore, and there horrible indeed was the sight that presented

itself. Hundreds of the wretched fugitives lay famishing on the

scorching sands. Many who had dragged on their failing limbs through all

the horrors of famine, of thirst, of miseries in a thousand shapes,

which the very pen shrinks from delineating, arrived there but to die;

for there were but few vessels to bear them to other lands, and these

often sailed with half their number, either because the bribes they

demanded were refused (for the wretched victims had nought to give), or

that their captains swore so many heretics would sink their ships, and

they would take no more. Then it was that, with a crucifix in one hand,

and bread and wine in the other, the Catholic priests advanced to the

half senseless sufferers, and offered the one, if they acknowledged the

other. Was it marvel that at such a moment there were some who yielded?

Oh, there is a glory and a triumph in the martyr’s death! Men look with

admiring awe on those who smile when at the stake; but the faith that

inspired courage and firmness and constancy ’mid suffering which we have

but faintly outlined—’mid lingering torments ’neath which the _heart_,

yet more than the frame, was crushed—that FAITH is regarded with scorn

as a blinded, wilful misbelief. Could man endow his own spirit with this

devotedness? Pride might lead him to the stake, but not to bear what

Israel had borne, aye, and will bear till the wrath of his God is turned

aside. No; the same God who strengthened Abraham to offer up his son,

enables His wretched people to give up all for Him. Would He do this,

had they denied and mocked Him?

Imri saw the cold shuddering creeping over the blighted form of his

beloved, and he led her to a sheltering rock, whose projecting cliffs

partly concealed the wretched objects on the beach. There was one vessel

on the broad ocean, and in her he determined at once to secure a

passage, if to do so cost the forfeit of the few valuables he had been

enabled to secrete. He lingered awhile by the side of his Josephine, for

he saw, with anguish, the noble spirit, which had so long sustained and

consoled her, now for the first time appear to droop. The sudden

appearance of a Spanish officer, and his apparent advance towards them,

arrested him as he was about to depart. He was attired richly, his whole

bearing seeming to denote a person of some rank and consequence.

Josephine’s gaze became almost unconsciously riveted upon him. He came

nearer, nearer still; they could trace his features, on which sorrow or

care had fixed its stamp. A moment he removed the plumed cap from his

head, and passed his hand across his brow. An exclamation of recognition

escaped the lips of Imri, and in another moment Josephine had bounded

forward and was kneeling at his feet. “My father! my father!” she sobbed

forth. “O God, I thank Thee for this unlooked-for mercy. I have seen him

once again.”

“Thou—art thou my child, my Josephine, whom I left in such bright,

blooming beauty—whom I have sought in such trembling anguish from the

moment I might reach these shores? Child of my Rachel, art thou, canst

thou be? Oh, yes, yes, yes! ’Twas thus she looked when I departed. Could

I hope to see thee as I left thee, when blight and misery fell upon thy

native vale, as on all the dwellings of thy wretched race? And I—O

God!—my child, my child, curse me, hate me—I hurled down destruction on

thy house.”

But even as he spoke in those wild accents of ungovernable passion, but

too familiar to the ears that heard, he had raised and strained her

convulsively to his breast, covering her cheeks and lips with kisses,

till his burning tears of agonized remorse mingled with those of softer

feeling on the cheeks of Josephine. But not long might she indulge in

the blessed luxury of tears; shuddering, she repeated his last words,

gazing up in his face with eyes of horrified inquiry.

“Yes, I, even I, my child. I was not sufficiently wretched—the bitter

cup of remorse was not yet full. The edict was proclaimed. On all sides

there was but wretchedness and unutterable misery, beyond all this

woe-built world hath known. Then came a wild yearning to look again upon

my native vale—to know if in truth its concealed and sheltered caves had

escaped uninjured by the wide-spreading, devastating scourge that edict

brought—to look on thee, my child, if I might without endangering that

precious life—to know the fate of my unborn babe. I dared not dream my

wife yet lived. Josephine, I looked upon her tomb, and by its side

beheld my own, my beautiful, my unknown boy. O God! O God! my crime was

visited upon his innocent head; and where—oh, where is he? Why may I not

look upon his sweet face again?”

He ceased, choked by overwhelming emotion, and some minutes passed ere

either of his agitated listeners could summon sufficient composure to

reply. But the anguish of Castello seemed incapable of increase. For

several minutes, indeed, he was silent; the convulsive workings of his

features denoting how deeply that simple narrative had sunk.

When he spoke, it was briefly and hurriedly to relate how he had

lingered in the vicinity of Eshcol, till at length discovered by a party

of Spaniards sent to seek him, with a message from the sovereigns. His

wanderings had been tracked, and that which he had most desired to avert

he had been the means of accomplishing—the discovery of the vale. And

then convulsively clasping the hands of Josephine and Imri in his own,

he besought them to remove in part the load of misery from his heart—to

say they would not leave him more.

“Goest thou then forth, my father? Hast thou indeed tarried for us, that

we may seek a home together?” The father’s eyes shrunk beneath those

mild inquiring eyes.

“My child, I go not forth,” he said at length, and his voice trembled.

Josephine gently withdrew herself from his arms, and laid her hand on

her husband’s.

“My child! my noble child,” he said, in smothered accents, “I am not

perjured. I am still a son of Israel, though to the world a Catholic.

Oh, do not turn from me. Come with me to my home, and thou shall see how

the exiled and the persecuted can defy the power of their destroyers.

Life, with every luxury, shall be thy portion; thine Imri shall have

every dream of ambition and joy fulfilled. The children of Sigismund

Castello will be courted, cherished, and loved. ’Tis but to kneel in

public before the cross of the Nazarene—in private, we are sons of

Israel still.”

“Father, urge me not; it cannot be,” was her calm and firm reply.

“Hast thought on all that must befall thee in other, perchance equally

hostile, lands? My child, thou knowest not all thou mayest have to

endure.”

“It is welcome,” she answered; “the more rugged the path to heaven, the

more blessed will seem my final rest.”

“And thou wilt leave me to all the agonies of remorse; to struggle on

with the blackening thought, that not only have I murdered those I love

best on earth—my wife, my boy—but sent ye forth to poverty, privation,

and misery. Josephine, Josephine, have mercy!” and the father threw

himself before his child, grovelling in the sand, and clasping his hands

in the wild energy of supplication.

“Father, father, drive me not mad! I cannot, cannot bear this. Imri, my

husband, if thou wouldst save my heart from treachery, raise him—in

mercy raise him. I cannot answer with him there! God, God of Israel!

leave me not now. My brain is reeling—save me from myself.”

She staggered back, and terrified at those accents of almost madness,

her father sprang from the ground, he caught her again in his arms,

while Imri, kneeling beside her, chafed her cold hands in his, imploring

her to speak, to look on him again.

“My child, my child, wake, wake! I will not grieve thee thus again. But

oh, thy husband’s look would pray thee not to go forth! The God of love,

of pity, demands not this self-sacrifice. Imri, one word from thee would

be sufficient. Look on her. Think to what thou bearest her, when peace,

comfort, and luxuries await ye, with but one word. Speak, speak! Thou

canst not, wilt not take her hence.”

Though well-nigh senseless, well-nigh so exhausted alike in body and

mind that further exertion seemed impossible, Josephine roused herself

from that trance of faintness to gaze wildly and fearfully on the face

of her husband. It was terribly agitated. She threw herself on his neck,

and gasped forth, “Canst thou bid me do this thing, my husband?” He

struggled to answer, but there came no word. Strength, the mighty

strength of virtue, returned to that sinking frame. She stood erect, and

spoke without one quivering accent or one failing word.

“Imri, my husband! by the love thou bearest me, by all we both hold

sacred, by that great and ineffable name we are forbidden to pronounce,

I charge thee answer me truly. Didst thou stand alone—were Josephine no

more—how wouldst thou decide? The eye of God is upon thee—deceive me

not!”

He turned from that searching glance, his strong frame shook with

emotion; his voice was scarcely audible, yet these words came—

“I NEVER could deny my God! Exile and death were welcome—but for thee!”

“Enough, my husband!” she exclaimed, and throwing her arms around him,

she turned again to her father, a glow of holy triumph tinging her

pallid cheek. “And wouldst thou tempt him to perjury for my sake? On,

no, no! father, beloved, revered, from the first hour I could lisp thy

name, oh, pardon me this first disobedience to thy will! Did I linger,

how might I save thee from remorse; when each day, each hour, thou

wouldst see me fade beneath the whelming weight of perjury and falsity?

No, no! Bless me, oh, bless me, ere I go, and the prayers of thy child

shall rise each hour for thee!”

Again she knelt before him, and Castello, inexpressibly affected, felt

he dared urge no more. How might he agonize that heart; when in neither

word, nor hint, nor sign did she utter reproach on him? Again and again

he reiterated blessings on her sainted head; and when he could release

her from his embrace, it was to secure their speedy passage in the

vessel, which his command had detained in her moorings; though the hope

that he should once more look upon his child had well-nigh faded ere she

came.

The exiles stood upon the deck. A hundred other of the miserable

fugitives had found a refuge in this same vessel, whose captain,

somewhat more humane than many of his fellows, and richly bribed by

Castello, set food before the famishing wanderers directly they had

weighed anchor. But even the cravings of nature were lost in the one

feeling, that they gazed for the last time on the land they loved. There

were dark thunder-clouds sweeping over the sky, mingled with others of

brilliant colouring, that proclaimed the hour of sunset. The

ocean-horizon seemed buried in murky gloom; but the shores of Spain

stood forth bathed in a glow of warm red light, as if to bid the unhappy

wanderers farewell in unrivalled brilliance. For awhile there was

silence on the vessel, so deep, so unbroken, that the flapping of the

sails against the masts was alone distinguishable. It was then a wild

and wailing strain burst simultaneously from the fugitives; the young

and the old, the strong man and exhausted female, joined almost

unconsciously. In the language of Jerusalem they chanted forth their

wild farewell, which may thus be rendered in English verse.

Farewell! farewell! we wander forth,

Doom’d by th’ Eternal’s awful wrath;

With nought to bless our lonely path,

Across the stormy wave.

Cast forth as wanderers on the earth;

Torn from the land that hailed our birth,

From childhood’s cot, from manhood’s hearth,

From temple and from grave.

Farewell! farewell! thou beauteous sod,

Which Israel has for ages trod;

We leave thee to the oppressor’s rod,

Weeping the exiles’ doom.

We go! no more thy turf we press;

No more thy fruits and vineyards bless;

No land to love—no home possess,

Save earth’s cold breast—the tomb.

Where we have roamed the strangers roam;

The stranger claims each cherished home;

And we must ride on ocean’s foam,

Accursed and alone.

False gods pollute our holy fane,

False hearts its sacred precincts stain;

False tongues our fathers’ God profane;

But WE are still HIS OWN.

Farewell! farewell! o’er land and sea,

Where’er we roam, our soul shall be,

Land we have loved so long, with thee,

Though sad and lone we dwell.

Thou land, where happy childhood played;

Where youth in love’s sweet fancies strayed;

Where long our fathers’ bones have laid;

Our own bright land—farewell!

[Illustration]

Wilder and louder thrilled the strain until the last verse, when

mournfully the voices for a few seconds swelled, and then gradually died

away to silence, broken only by sobs and tears. Imri and Josephine alone

sat apart; they had not joined the melody, but their souls in silence

echoed back its mournful wailing. Josephine half sat, half reclined on a

pile of cushions, where she might command the last view of Spain. Imri

leaned against a mast, close beside her; but few words passed between

them, for each felt the effort to speak was made only for the other, and

they ceased to war thus with nature.

A sudden gloom darkened the heavens. The glow passed from the beautiful

shores. A heavy fall of dense clouds hung over them, and concealed them

from the eyes which in that direction lingered still. The last gleam of

light disclosed to Imri his Josephine in the attitude of calm and happy

slumber. Her head reclined upon her arm, and the long dark curls had

fallen over her face and neck. He rejoiced; for he thought nature had at

length found the repose she so much needed. His own eyelids felt heavy,

and his limbs much exhausted; but he remained watching, untired, the

sleep of his beloved. Heavy gusts now at intervals swept along the

ocean. The blackened waves rolled higher and higher at the call, now

crested by the snowy foam. The vessel rocked and heaved, and speedily

driven from her course, mocked every effort to guide her southward, one

moment riding proudly on the topmost wave, the next sinking in a deep

valley, as about to be whelmed by huge mountains of roaring water.

Distant thunder, mingled with the moaning gust, coming nearer and

nearer, till it burst above their heads, louder and longer than the

discharge of a hundred cannons. The foiled lightning streamed through

the ebon sky, illumining all around for above a minute by that blue and

vivid glare, and then vanishing in darkness yet more terrible.

The elements were at war around them, cries of human terror joined with

the roar of the ocean, the rolling thunder, the groaning blasts; but

there was no movement in the form of Josephine. Could she still sleep?

Could exhaustion render her insensible to sounds like these? Imri knelt

beside her and called her by name:—“Josephine, my beloved! Oh, waken!”

There was no answer. At that moment a bright flash darted through the

gloom, and sea and sky appeared on fire. A strange and crashing sound

succeeded, followed by a cry of agony, which, bursting from a hundred

throats, echoed far and near, drowning even the noise of the raging

storm, for it was the deep tone of human terror and despair. The topmast

fell, shivered by the lightning, in the very centre of the deck; flames

burst forth where it fell, and on went the devoted vessel, a blazing

pile on the booming waters.

Imri Benalmar moved not from his knee—he heard not the cries of

suffering echoing round—he knew not the cause of that livid glare, which

had so suddenly illumined every object—he knew nothing, felt nothing,

save that he gazed on the face of the DEAD.

* * * * *

A fearful sound, seeming distinct from the warring elements, called

forth many of the hardy inhabitants of Malaga from their homes. They

hurried to the beach, and appalled and startled, beheld one part of the

horizon completely bathed in living fire; sea and sky united by a sheet

of flame. Presently it appeared to divide, and borne onwards by the

winds and waves, a ball of fire floated on the water. It came nearer—and

horror and sympathy usurped the place of superstition, as a burning

vessel rose and fell with every heaving wave. The storm was abated,

though the sea yet raged, and many a hardy fisherman pushed out his boat

in the pious hope of saving some of the unfortunate crew. Their efforts

were in vain; ere half the distance was accomplished, there came a

hissing sound; the flames for one brief moment blazed with appalling

brilliance—then sunk, and there was a void on the wide waste of waters.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Escape._

A TALE OF 1755.

“Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us;

But nothing, till that latest agony

Which severs thee from nature shall unloose

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house;

In the terrific force of armed law;

Yea! on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee.”—JOANNA BAILLIE.

ABOUT the middle of the eighteenth century, the little town of Montes,

situated some forty or fifty miles from Lisbon, was thrown into most

unusual excitement by the magnificence attending the nuptials of Alvar

Rodriguez and Almah Diaz; an excitement which the extraordinary beauty

of the bride, who, though the betrothed of Alvar from her childhood, had

never been seen in Montes before, of course not a little increased. The

little church of Montes looked gay and glittering, for the large sums

lavished by Alvar on the officiating priests, and in presents to their

patron saints, had occasioned every picture, shrine, and image to blaze

in uncovered gold and jewels, and the altar to be fed with the richest

incense, and lighted with tapers of the finest wax, to do him honour.

The church was full; for, although the bridal party did not exceed

twenty, the village appeared to have emptied itself there; Alvar’s

munificence to all classes, on all occasions, having rendered him the

universal idol, and caused the fame of that day’s rejoicing to extend

many miles around.

There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of either bride or

bridegroom, except that both were decidedly more calm than such

occasions usually warrant. Nay, in the fine, manly countenance of Alvar,

ever and anon an expression seemed to flit, that in any but so true a

son of the church would have been accounted scorn. In such a one, of

course, it was neither seen nor regarded, except by his bride; for at

such times her eyes met his with an earnest and entreating glance, that

the peculiar look was changed into a quiet, tender seriousness which

reassured her.

From the church they adjourned to the lordly mansion of Rodriguez,

which, in the midst of the flowering orange and citron trees, stood

about two miles from the town.

The remainder of the day passed in festivity. The banquet and dance and

song, both within and around the house, diversified the scene and

increased hilarity in all. By sunset, all but the immediate friends and

relatives of the newly wedded had departed. Some splendid and novel

fireworks from the heights having attracted universal attention, Alvar,

with his usual indulgence, gave his servants and retainers permission to

join the festive crowds; liberty, to all who wished it, was given for

the next two hours.

In a very brief interval the house was cleared, with the exception of a

young Moor, the secretary or book-keeper of Alvar, and four or five

middle-aged domestics of both sexes.

Gradually, and it appeared undesignedly, the bride and her female

companions were left alone, and for the first time the beautiful face of

Almah was shadowed by emotion.

“Shall I, oh, shall I indeed be his?” she said, half-aloud. “There are

moments when our dread secrets are so terrible; it seems to forbode

discovery at the very moment it would be most agonizing to bear.”

“Hush, silly one!” was the reply of an older friend; “discovery is not

so easily or readily accomplished. The persecuted and the nameless have

acquired wisdom and caution at the price of blood—learned to deceive,

that they may triumph—to conceal, that they may flourish still. Almah,

we are not to fall!”

“I know it, Inez. A superhuman agency upholds us; we had been cast off,

rooted out, plucked from the very face of the earth long since else. But

there are times when human nature will shrink and tremble—when the path

of deception and concealment allotted for us to tread seems fraught with

danger at every turn. I know it is all folly, yet there is a dim

foreboding, shadowing our fair horizon of joy as a hovering

thunder-cloud. There has been suspicion, torture, death. Oh, if my

Alvar—”

“Nay, Almah; this is childish. It is only because you are too happy, and

happiness, in its extent is ever pain. In good time comes your venerable

guardian, to chide and silence all such foolish fancies. How many

weddings have there been, and will there still be, like this? Come,

smile, love, while I re-arrange your veil.”

Almah obeyed, though the smile was faint, as if the soul yet trembled in

its joy. On the entrance of Gonzolas, her guardian (she was an orphan

and an heiress), her veil was thrown around her, so as completely to

envelope face and form. Taking his arm, and followed by all her female

companions, she was hastily and silently led to a sort of ante-room or

cabinet, opening, by a massive door concealed with tapestry, from the

suite of rooms appropriated to the private use of the merchant and his

family. There Alvar and his friends awaited her. A canopy, supported by

four of the youngest males present, was held over the bride and

bridegroom as they stood facing the east. A silver salver lay at their

feet, and opposite stood an aged man, with a small richly-bound volume

in his hand. It was open and displayed letters and words of unusual form

and sound. Another of Alvar’s friends stood near, holding a goblet of

sacred wine; and to a third was given a slight and thin Venetian glass.

After a brief and solemn pause, the old man read or rather chanted from

the book he held, joined in parts by those around; and then he tasted

the sacred wine, and passed it to the bride and bridegroom. Almah’s veil

was upraised, for her to touch the goblet with her lips, now quivering

with emotion, and not permitted to fall again. And Alvar, where now was

the expression of scorn and contempt that had been stamped on his bold

brow and curling lip before? Gone—lost before the powerful emotion which

scarcely permitted his lifting the goblet a second time to his lips.

Then, taking the Venetian glass, he broke it on the salver at his feet,

and the strange rites were completed.

Yet no words of congratulation came. Drawn together in a closer knot,

while Alvar folded the now almost fainting Almah to his bosom, and said,

in the deep, low tones of intense feeling, “Mine, mine for ever now—mine

in the sight of our God, the God of the exile and the faithful; our

fate, whatever it be, henceforth is one;” the old man lifted up his

clasped hands, and prayed.

“God of the nameless and homeless,” he said, and it was in the same

strange yet solemn-sounding language as before, “have mercy on these

Thy servants, joined together in Thy Holy name, to share the lot on

earth Thy will assigns them, with one heart and mind. Strengthen Thou

them to keep the secret of their faith and race—to teach it to their

offspring as they received it from their fathers. Pardon Thou, them

and us, the deceit we do to keep holy Thy law and Thine inheritance.

In the land of the persecutor, the exterminator, be Thou their shield,

and save them for Thy Holy name. But if discovery and its horrible

consequences—imprisonment, torture, death—await them, strengthen Thou

them for their endurance—to die as they would live for Thee. Father,

hear us! homeless and nameless upon earth, we are Thine own!”

“Aye, strengthen me for him, my husband; turn my woman weakness into Thy

strength for him, Almighty Father,” was the voiceless prayer with which

Almah lifted up her pale face from her husband’s bosom, where it had

rested during the whole of that strange and terrible prayer; and in the

calmness stealing on her throbbing heart, she read her answer.

It was some few minutes ere the excited spirits of the devoted few then

present, male or female, master or servant, could subside into their

wonted control. But such scenes, such feelings were not of rare

occurrence; and ere the domestics of Rodriguez returned, there was

nothing either in the mansion or its inmates to denote that anything

uncommon had taken place during their absence.

The Portuguese are not fond of society at any time, so that Alvar and

his young bride should, after one week of festivity, live in comparative

retirement, elicited no surprise. The former attended his house of

business at Montes as usual; and whoever chanced to visit him at his

beautiful estate, returned delighted with his entertainment and his

hosts; so that, far and near, the merchant Alvar became noted alike for

his munificence and the strict orthodox Catholicism in which he

conducted his establishment.

And was Alvar Rodriguez indeed what he seemed? If so, what were those

strange mysterious rites with which in secret he celebrated his

marriage? For what were those many contrivances in his mansion, secret

receptacles even from his own sitting-rooms, into which all kinds of

forbidden food were conveyed from his very table, that his soul might

not be polluted by disobedience? How did it so happen that one day in

every year Alvar gave a general holiday—leave of absence for four and

twenty hours, under some well-arranged pretence, to all save those who

entreated permission to remain with him? And that on that day, Alvar,

his wife, his Moorish secretary, and all those domestics who had

witnessed his marriage, spent in holy fast and prayer—permitting no

particle of food or drink to pass their lips from eve unto eve; or if,

by any chance, the holiday could not be given, their several meals to be

laid and served, yet so contriving that, while the food looked as if it

had been partaken of, not a portion had they touched? That the Saturday

should be passed in seeming preparation for the Sunday, in cessation

from work of any kind, and in frequent prayer, was perhaps of trivial

importance; but for the previous mysteries—mysteries known to Alvar, his

wife, and five or six of his establishment, yet never by word or sign

betrayed; how may we account for them? There may be some to whom the

memory of such things, as common to their ancestors, may be yet

familiar; but to by far the greater number of English readers, they are,

in all probability, as incomprehensible as uncommon.

Alvar Rodriguez was a Jew. One of the many who, in Portugal and Spain,

fulfilled the awful prophecy of their great lawgiver Moses, and bowed

before the imaged saints and martyrs of the Catholic, to shrine the

religion of their fathers yet closer in their hearts and homes. From

father to son the secret of their faith and race descended, so early and

so mysteriously taught, that little children imbibed it—not alone the

faith, but so effectually to conceal it, as to avert and mystify all

inquisitorial questioning, long before they knew the meaning or

necessity of what they learned.

How this was accomplished, how the religion of God was thus preserved in

the very midst of persecution and intolerance, must ever remain a

mystery, as, happily for Israel such fearful training is no longer

needed. But that it did exist, that Jewish children, in the very midst

of monastic and convent tuition, yet adhered to the religion of their

fathers, never by word or sign betrayed the secret with which they were

intrusted; and, in their turn, became husbands and fathers, conveying

their solemn and dangerous inheritance to their posterity—that such

things were, there are those still amongst the Hebrews of England to

affirm and recall, claiming among their own ancestry, but one generation

removed, those who have thus concealed and thus adhered. It was the

power of God, not the power of man. Human strength had been utterly

inefficient. Torture and death would long before have annihilated every

remnant of Israel’s devoted race. But it might not be; for God had

spoken. And, as a living miracle, a lasting record of His truth, His

justice, aye, and mercy, Israel was preserved in the midst of danger, in

the very face of death, and will be preserved for ever.

It was no mere rejoicing ceremony, that of marriage, amongst the

disguised and hidden Israelites of Portugal and Spain. They were binding

themselves to preserve and propagate a persecuted faith. They were no

longer its sole repositors. Did the strength of one waver, all was at

end. They were united in the sweet links of love—framing for themselves

new ties, new hopes, new blessings in a rising family—all of which, at

one blow, might be destroyed. They existed in an atmosphere of death,

yet they lived and flourished. But so situated, it was not strange that

human emotion, both in Alvar and his bride, should, on their

wedding-day, have gained ascendency; and the solemn hour which made them

one in the sight of the God they worshipped, should have been fraught

with a terror and a shuddering, of which Jewish lovers in free and happy

England can have no knowledge.

Alvar Rodriguez was one of those high and noble spirits, on whom the

chain of deceit and concealment weighed heavily; and there were times

when it had been difficult to suppress and conceal his scorn of those

outward observances which his apparent Catholicism compelled. When

united to Almah, however, he had a stronger incentive than his own

safety; and as time passed on, and he became a father, caution and

circumspection, if possible, increased with the deep passionate feelings

of tenderness towards the mother and child. As the boy grew and

flourished, the first feelings of dread, which the very love he excited

called forth at his birth, subsided into a kind of tranquil calm, which

even Almah’s foreboding spirit trusted would last, as the happiness of

others of her race.

Though Alvar’s business was carried on both at Montes and at Lisbon, the

bulk of both his own and his wife’s property was, by a strange chance,

invested at Badajoz, a frontier town of Spain, and whence he had often

intended to remove it, but had always been prevented. It happened that

early in the month of June, some affairs calling him to Lisbon, he

resolved to delay removing it no longer, smiling at his young wife’s

half solicitation to let it remain where it was, and playfully accusing

her of superstition, a charge she cared not to deny. The night before

his intended departure his young Moorish secretary, in other words, an

Israelite of Barbary extraction, entered his private closet, with a

countenance of entreaty and alarm, earnestly conjuring his master to

give up his Lisbon expedition, and retire with his wife and son to

Badajoz or Oporto, or some distant city, at least for a while. Anxiously

Rodriguez inquired wherefore.

“You remember the Senor Leyva, your worship’s guest a week or two ago?”

“Perfectly. What of him?”

“Master, I like him not. If danger befall us it will come through him. I

watched him closely, and every hour of his stay shrunk from him the

more. He was a stranger?”

“Yes; benighted, and had lost his way. It was impossible to refuse him

hospitality. That he stayed longer than he had need, I grant; but there

is no cause of alarm in that—he liked his quarters.”

“Master,” replied the Moor, earnestly, “I do not believe his tale. He

was no casual traveller. I cannot trust him.”

“You are not called upon to do so, man,” said Alvar, laughing. “What do

you believe him to be that you would inoculate me with your own baseless

alarm?”

Hassan Ben Ahmed’s answer, whatever it might be, for it was whispered

fearfully in his master’s ear, had the effect of sending every drop of

blood from Alvar’s face to his very heart. But he shook off the

stagnating dread. He combated the prejudices of his follower as

unreasonable and unfounded. Hassan’s alarm, however, could only be

soothed by the fact, that so suddenly to change his plans would but

excite suspicion. If Leyva were what he feared, his visit must already

have been followed by the usual terrific effects.

Alvar promised, however, to settle his affairs at Lisbon as speedily as

he could, and return for Almah and his son, and convey them to some

place of greater security until the imagined danger was passed.

In spite of his assumed indifference, however, Rodriguez could not bid

his wife and child farewell without a pang of dread, which it was

difficult to conceal. The step between life and death—security and

destruction—was so small, it might be passed unconsciously, and then the

strongest nerve might shudder at the dark abyss before him. Again and

again he turned to go, and yet again returned; and it was with a feeling

literally of desperation he at length tore himself away.

A fearful trembling was on Almah’s heart as she gazed after him, but she

would not listen to its voice.

“It is folly,” she said, self-upbraidingly. “My Alvar is ever chiding

this too doubting heart. I will not disobey him, by fear and foreboding

in his absence. The God of the nameless is with him and me,” and she

raised her eyes to the blue arch above her, with an expression that

needed not voice to mark it prayer.

About a week after Alvar’s departure, Almah was sitting by the cradle of

her boy, watching his soft and rosy slumbers, with a calm, sweet

thankfulness that such a treasure was her own. The season had been

unusually hot and dry, but the apartment in which the young mother sat

opened on a pleasant spot, thickly shaded with orange, lemon, and almond

trees, and decked with a hundred other richly-hued and richly-scented

plants; in the centre of which a fountain sent up its heavy showers,

which fell back on the marble bed, with a splash and coolness peculiarly

refreshing, and sparkled in the sun as glittering gems.

A fleet yet heavy step resounded from the garden, which seemed suddenly

and forcibly restrained into a less agitated movement. A shadow fell

between her and the sunshine, and, starting, Almah looked hastily up.

Hassan Ben Ahmed stood before her, a paleness on his swarthy cheek, and

a compression on his nether lip, betraying strong emotion painfully

restrained.

“My husband! Hassan. What news bring you of him? Why are you alone?”

He laid his hand on her arm, and answered in a voice which so quivered

that only ears eager as her own could have distinguished his meaning.

“Lady, dear, dear lady, you have a firm and faithful heart. Oh! for the

love of Him who calls on you to suffer, awake its strength and firmness.

My dear, my honoured lady, sink not, fail not! O God of mercy support

her now!” he added, flinging himself on his knees before her, as Almah

one moment sprang up with a smothered shriek, and the next sank back on

her seat rigid as marble.

Not another word she needed. Hassan thought to have prepared, gradually

to have told his dread intelligence; but he had said enough. Called upon

to suffer, and for Him, her God—her doom was revealed in those brief

words. One minute of such agonized struggle, that her soul and body

seemed about to part beneath it; and the wife and mother roused herself

to do. Lip, cheek, and brow vied in their ashen whiteness with her robe;

the blue veins rose distended as cords; and the voice—had not Hassan

gazed upon her, he had not known it as her own.

She commanded him to tell her briefly all, and even while he spoke,

seemed revolving in her own mind the decision which not four and twenty

hours after Hassan’s intelligence she put into execution.

It was as Ben Ahmed had feared. The known popularity and rumoured riches

of Alvar Rodriguez had excited the jealousy of that secret and awful

tribunal, the Inquisition, one of whose innumerable spies, under the

feigned name of Leyva, had obtained entrance within Alvar’s hospitable

walls. One unguarded word or movement, the faintest semblance of secrecy

or caution, were all-sufficient; nay, without these, more than a common

share of wealth or felicity was enough for the unconscious victims to be

marked, tracked, and seized, without preparation or suspicion of their

fate. Alvar had chanced to mention his intended visit to Lisbon; and the

better to conceal the agent of his arrest, as also to make it more

secure, they waited till his arrival there, watched their opportunity,

and seized and conveyed him to those cells whence few returned in life,

propagating the charge of relapsed Judaism as the cause of his arrest.

It was a charge too common for remark, and the power which interfered

too mighty for resistance. The confusion of the arrest soon subsided;

but it lasted long enough for the faithful Hassan to escape, and, by

dint of very rapid travelling, he reached Montes not four hours after

his master’s seizure. The day was in consequence before them, and he

ceased not to conjure his lady to fly at once; the officers of the

Inquisition could scarcely be there before nightfall.

“You must take advantage of it, Hassan, and all of you who love me. For

my child, my boy,” she had clasped him to her bosom, and a convulsion

contracted her beautiful features as she spoke, “you must take care of

him; convey him to Holland or England. Take jewels and gold sufficient;

and—and make him love his parents—he may never see either of them more.

Hassan, Hassan, swear to protect my child!” she added, with a burst of

such sudden and passionate agony, it seemed as if life or reason must

bend beneath it. Bewildered by her words, as terrified by her emotion,

Ben Ahmed gently removed the trembling child from the fond arms that for

the first time failed to support him, gave him hastily to the care of

his nurse, who was also a Jewess, said a few words in Hebrew, detailing

what had passed, beseeching her to prepare for flight, and then returned

to his mistress. The effects of that prostrating agony remained, but she

had so far conquered, as to seem outwardly calm; and in answer to his

respectful and anxious looks, besought him not to fear for her, nor to

dissuade her from her purpose, but to aid her in its accomplishment. She

summoned her household around her, detailed what had befallen, and bade

them seek their own safety in flight; and when in tears and grief they

left her, and but those of her own faith remained, she solemnly

committed her child to their care, and informed them of her own

determination to proceed directly to Lisbon. In vain Hassan Ben Ahmed

conjured her to give up the idea; it was little short of madness. How

could she aid his master? why not secure her own safety, that if indeed

he should escape, the blessing of her love would be yet preserved him?

“Do not fear for your master, Hassan,” was the calm reply; “ask not of

my plans, for at this moment they seem but chaos, but of this be

assured, we shall live or die together.”

More she revealed not; but when the officers of the Inquisition arrived,

near nightfall, they found nothing but deserted walls. The magnificent

furniture and splendid paintings which alone remained, of course were

seized by the Holy Office, by whom Alvar’s property was also

confiscated. Had his arrest been deferred three months longer, all would

have gone—swept off by the same rapacious power, to whom great wealth

was ever proof of great guilt—but as it was, the greater part, secured

in Spain, remained untouched; a circumstance peculiarly fortunate, as

Almah’s plans needed the aid of gold.

We have no space to linger on the mother’s feelings, as she parted from

her boy; gazing on him, perhaps, for the last time. Yet she neither wept

nor sighed. There was but one other feeling strong in that gentle

bosom—a wife’s devotion—and to that alone she might listen now.

Great was old Gonzalos’ terror and astonishment when Almah, attended

only by Hassan Ben Ahmed, and both attired in the Moorish costume,

entered his dwelling and implored his concealment and aid. The arrest of

Alvar Rodriguez had, of course, thrown every secret Hebrew into the

greatest alarm, though none dared be evinced. Gonzalos’ only hope and

consolation was that Almah and her child had escaped; and to see her in

the very centre of danger, even to listen to her calmly proposed plans,

seemed so like madness, that he used every effort to alarm her into

their relinquishment. But this could not be; and with the darkest

forebodings, the old man at length yielded to the stronger, more devoted

spirit with whom he had to deal.

His mistress once safely under Gonzalos’ roof, Ben Ahmed departed, under

cover of night, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, to rejoin her

child, and to convey him and his nurse to England, that blessed land,

where the veil of secrecy could be removed.

About a week after the incarceration of Alvar, a young Moor sought and

obtained admission to the presence of Juan Pacheco, the secretary of the

Inquisition, as informer against Alvar Rodriguez. He stated that he had

taken service with him as clerk or secretary, on condition that he would

give him baptism and instruction in the holy Catholic faith; that Alvar

had not yet done so; that many things in his establishment proclaimed a

looseness of orthodox principles, which the Holy Office would do well to

notice. Meanwhile he humbly offered a purse containing seventy pieces of

gold, to obtain masses for his salvation.

This last argument carried more weight than all the rest. The young

Moor, who boldly gave his name as Hassan Ben Ahmed (which was

confirmation strong of his previous statement, as in Leyva’s information

of Alvar and his household the Moorish secretary was particularly

specified), was listened to with attention, and finally received in

Pacheco’s own household, as junior clerk and servant to the Holy Office.

Despite his extreme youthfulness and delicacy of figure, face, and

voice, Hassan’s activity and zeal to oblige every member of the Holy

Office, superiors and inferiors, gradually gained him the favour and

goodwill of all. There was no end to his resources for serving others;

and thus he had more opportunities of seeing the prisoners in a few

weeks, than others of the same rank as himself had had in years. But the

prisoner he most longed to see was still unfound, and it was not till

summoned before his judges, in the grand hall of inquisition and of

torture, Hassan Ben Ahmed gazed once more upon his former master. He had

attended Pacheco in his situation of junior clerk, but had seated

himself so deeply in the shade that, though every movement in both the

face and form of Alvar was distinguishable to him, Hassan himself was

invisible.

The trial, if trial such iniquitous proceedings may be called,

proceeded; but in nought did Alvar Rodriguez fail in his bearing or

defence. Marvellous and superhuman must that power have been which, in

such a scene and hour, prevented all betrayal of the true faith the

victims bore. Once Judaism confessed, the doom was death; and again and

again have the sons of Israel remained in the terrible dungeons of the

Inquisition—endured every species of torture during a space of seven,

ten, or twelve years, and then been released, because no proof could be

brought of their being indeed that accursed thing—a Jew. And then it was

that they fled from scenes of such fearful trial to lands of toleration

and freedom, and there embrace openly and rejoicingly that blessed

faith, for which in secret they had borne so much.

Alvar Rodriguez was one of these—prepared to suffer, but not reveal.

They applied the torture, but neither word nor groan was extracted from

him. Engrossed with the prisoner, for it was his task to write down

whatever disjointed words might escape his lips, Pacheco neither noticed

not even remembered the presence of the young Moor. No unusual paleness

could be visible on his embrowned cheek, but his whole frame felt to

himself to have become rigid as stone; a deadly sickness had crept over

him, and the terrible conviction of all which rested with him to do

alone prevented his sinking senseless on the earth.

The terrible struggle was at length at an end. Alvar was released for

the time being, and remanded to his dungeon. Availing himself of the

liberty he enjoyed in the little notice now taken of his movements,

Hassan reached the prison before either Alvar or his guards. A rapid

glance told him its situation, overlooking a retired part of the court,

cultivated as a garden. The height of the wall seemed about forty feet,

and there were no windows of observation on either side. This was

fortunate, the more so as Hassan had before made friends with the old

gardener, and pretending excessive love of gardening, had worked just

under the window, little dreaming its vicinity to him he sought.

A well-known Hebrew air, with its plaintive Hebrew words, sung

tremblingly and softly under his window, first roused Alvar to the sense

that a friend was near. He started, almost in superstitious terror, for

the voice seemed an echo to that which was ever sounding in his heart.

That loved one it could not be, nay, he dared not even wish it; but

still the words were Hebrew, and, for the first time, memory flashed

back a figure in Moorish garb who had flitted by him on his return to

his prison, after his examination.

Hassan, the faithful Hassan! Alvar felt certain it could be none but he;

though, in the moment of sudden excitement, the voice had seemed

another’s. He looked from the window; the Moor was bending over the

flowers, but Alvar felt confirmed in his suspicions, and his heart

throbbed with the sudden hope of liberty. He whistled, and a movement in

the figure below convinced him he was heard.

One point was gained; the next was more fraught with danger, yet it was

accomplished. In a bunch of flowers, drawn up by a thin string which

Alvar chanced to possess, Ben Ahmed had concealed a file; and as he

watched it ascend, and beheld the flowers scattered to the winds, in

token that they had done their work, for Alvar dared not retain them in

his prison, Hassan felt again the prostration of bodily power which had

before assailed him for such a different cause, and it was an almost

convulsive effort to retain his faculties; but a merciful Providence

watched over him and Alvar, making the feeblest and the weakest,

instruments of His all-sustaining love.

We are not permitted space to linger on the various ingenious methods

adopted by Hassan Ben Ahmed to forward and mature his plans. Suffice it

that all seemed to smile upon him. The termination of the garden wall

led, by a concealed door, to a subterranean passage running to the banks

of the Tagus. This fact, as also the secret spring of the trap, the old

gardener in a moment of unwise conviviality imparted to Ben Ahmed,

little imagining the special blessing which such unexpected information

secured.

An alcayde and about twenty guards did sometimes patrol the garden

within sight of Alvar’s window; but this did not occur often, such

caution seeming unnecessary.

It had been an evening of unwonted festivity among the soldiers and

servants of the Holy Office, which had at length subsided into the heavy

slumbers of general intoxication. Hassan had supped with the gardener,

and plying him well with wine, soon produced the desired effect. Four

months had the Moor spent within the dreaded walls, and the moment had

now come when delay need be no more. At midnight all was hushed into

profound silence, not a leaf stirred, and the night was so unusually

still that the faintest sound would have been distinguished. Hassan

stealthily crept round the outposts. Many of the guards were slumbering

in various attitudes upon their posts, and others, dependent on his

promised watchfulness, were literally deserted. He stood beneath the

window. One moment he clasped his hands and bowed his head in one

mighty, piercing, though silent prayer, and then dug hastily in the

flower-bed at his feet, removing from thence a ladder of ropes, which

had lain there some days concealed, and flung a pebble with correct aim

against the bars of Alvar’s window. The sound, though scarcely loud

enough to disturb a bird, reverberated on the trembling heart which

heard, as if a thousand cannons had been discharged.

A moment of agonized suspense, and Alvar Rodriguez stood at the window,

the bar he had removed, in his hand. He let down the string, to which

Hassan’s now trembling hands secured the ladder and drew it to the wall.

His descent could not have occupied two minutes, at the extent; but to

that solitary watcher what eternity of suffering did they seem! Alvar

was at his side, had clasped his hands, had called him “Hassan!

brother!” in tones of intense feeling, but no word replied. He sought to

fly, to point to the desired haven, but his feet seemed suddenly rooted

to the earth. Alvar threw his arm around him, and drew him forwards. A

sudden and unnatural strength returned. Noiselessly and fleetly as their

feet could go, they sped beneath the shadow of the wall. A hundred yards

alone divided them from the secret door. A sudden sound broke the

oppressive stillness. It was the tramp of heavy feet and the clash of

arms; the light of many torches flashed upon the darkness. They darted

forward in the fearful excitement of despair; but the effort was void

and vain. A wild shout of challenge—of alarm—and they were surrounded,

captured, so suddenly, so rapidly, Alvar’s very senses seemed to reel;

but frightfully they were recalled. A shriek, so piercing, it seemed to

rend the very heavens, burst through the still air. The figure of the

Moor rushed from the detaining grasp of the soldiery, regardless of

bared steel and pointed guns, and flung himself at the feet of Alvar.

“O God, my husband—I have murdered him!” were the strange appalling

words which burst upon his ear, and the lights flashing upon his face,

as he sank prostrate and lifeless on the earth, revealed to Alvar’s

tortured senses the features of his wife.

How long that dead faint continued Almah knew not, but when sense

returned she found herself in a dark and dismal cell, her upper garment

and turban removed, while the plentiful supply of water, which had

partially restored life, had removed in a great degree the dye which had

given her countenance its Moorish hue. Had she wished to continue

concealment, one glance around her would have proved the effort vain.

Her sex was already known, and the stern dark countenances near her

breathed but ruthlessness and rage. Some brief questions were asked

relative to her name, intent, and faith, which she answered calmly.

“In revealing my name,” she said, “my intention must also be disclosed.

The wife of Alvar Rodriguez had not sought these realms of torture and

death, had not undergone all the miseries of disguise and servitude, but

for one hope, one intent—the liberty of her husband.”

“Thus proving his guilt,” was the rejoinder. “Had you known him

innocent, you would have waited the justice of the Holy Office to give

him freedom.”

“Justice!” she repeated, bitterly. “Had the innocent never suffered, I

might have trusted. But I knew accusation was synonymous with death, and

therefore came I here. For my faith, mine is my husband’s.”

“And know you the doom of all who attempt or abet escape? Death—death by

burning! and this you have hurled upon him and yourself. It is not the

Holy Office, but his wife who has condemned him,” and with gibing laugh

they left her, securing with heavy bolt and bar the iron door. She

darted forwards, beseeching them, as they hoped for mercy, to take her

to her husband, to confine them underground a thousand fathoms deep, so

that they might but be together; but only the hollow echo of her own

voice replied, and the wretched girl sunk back upon the ground, relieved

from present suffering by long hours of utter insensibility.

It was not till brought from their respective prisons to hear pronounced

on them the sentence of death, that Alvar Rodriguez and his heroic wife

once more gazed upon each other.

They had provided Almah, at her own entreaty, with female habiliments;

for, in the bewildering agony of her spirit, she attributed the failure

of her scheme for the rescue of her husband to her having disobeyed the

positive command of God, and adopted a male disguise, which in His eyes

was abomination, but which in her wild desire to save Alvar she had

completely overlooked, and she now in consequence shrunk from the fatal

garb with agony and loathing. Yet despite the haggard look of intense

mental and bodily suffering, the loss of her lovely hair, which she had

cut close to her head, lest by the merest chance its length and

luxuriance should discover her, so exquisite, so touching, was her

delicate loveliness, that her very judges, stern, unbending as was their

nature, looked on her with an admiration almost softening them to mercy.

And now, for the first time, Alvar’s manly composure seemed about to

desert him. He, too, had suffered almost as herself, save that her

devotedness, her love, appeared to give him strength, to endow him with

courage, even to look upon her fate, blended as it now was with his own,

with calmness in that merciful God who called him thus early to Himself.

Almah could not realize such thoughts. But one image was ever present,

seeming to mock her very misery to madness. Her effort had failed; had

she not so wildly sought her husband’s escape—had she but waited—they

might have released him; and now, what was she but his murderess?

Little passed between the prisoners and their judges. Their guilt was

all-sufficiently proved by their endeavours to escape, which in itself

was a crime always visited by death; and for these manifold sins and

misdemeanours they were sentenced to be burnt alive, on All Saints’ day,

in the grand square of the Inquisition, at nine o’clock in the morning,

and proclamation commanded to be made throughout Lisbon, that all who

sought to witness and assist at the ceremony should receive remission of

sins, and be accounted worthy servants of Jesus Christ. The lesser

severity of strangling the victims before burning was denied them, as

they neither repented nor had trusted to the justice and clemency of the

Holy Office, but had attempted to avert a deserved fate by flight.

Not a muscle of Alvar’s fine countenance moved during this awful

sentence. He stood proudly and loftily erect, regarding those that spake

with an eye, bright, stern, unflinching as their own; but a change

passed over it as, breaking from the guard around, Almah flung herself

on her knees at his feet.

“Alvar! Alvar! I have murdered—my husband, oh, my husband, say you

forgive—forgive—”

“Hush, hush, beloved! mine own heroic Almah, fail not now!” he answered,

with a calm and tender seriousness, which seeming to still that crushing

agony, strengthened her to bear; and raising her, he pressed her to his

breast.

“We have but to die as we have lived, my own! true to that God whose

chosen and whose firstborn we are, have been, and shall be unto death,

aye, and _beyond_ it. He will protect our poor orphan, for He has

promised the fatherless shall be His care. Look up, my beloved, and say

you can face death with Alvar, calmly, faithfully, as you sought to live

for him. God has chosen for us a better heritage than one of earth.”

She raised her head from his bosom; the terror and the agony had passed

from that sweet face—it was tranquil as his own.

“It was not my own death I feared,” she said, unfalteringly, “it was but

the weakness of human love; but it is over now. Love is mightier than

death; there is only love in heaven.”

“Aye!” answered Alvar, and proudly and sternly he waved back the

soldiers who had hurried forward to divide them. “Men of a mistaken and

bloody creed, behold how the scorned and persecuted Israelites can love

and die. While there was a hope that we could serve our God, the Holy

and the only One, better in life than in death, it was our duty to

preserve that life, and endure torture for His sake, rather than reveal

the precious secret of our sainted faith and heavenly heritage. But now

that hope is at an end, now that no human means can save us from the

doom pronounced, know ye have judged rightly of our creed. We are those

chosen children of God, by you deemed blasphemous and heretic. Do what

ye will, men of blood and guile, ye cannot rob us of our faith.”

The impassioned tones of natural eloquence awed even the rude crowd

around; but more was not permitted. Rudely severed, and committed to

their own guards, the prisoners were borne to their respective dungeons.

To Almah, those earnest words had been as the voice of an angel, hushing

every former pang to rest; and in the solitude and darkness of the

intervening hours, even the thought of her child could not rob her soul

of its calm, or prayer of its strength.

The first of November, 1755, dawned cloudless and lovely, as it had been

the last forty days. Never had there been a season more gorgeous in its

sunny splendour, more brilliant in the intense azure of its arching

heaven than the present. Scarcely any rain had fallen for many months,

and the heat had at first been intolerable, but within the last six

weeks a freshness and coolness had infused the atmosphere and revived

the earth.

As it was not a regular _auto da fé_ (Alvar and his wife being the only

victims), the awful ceremony of burning was to take place in the square,

of which the buildings of the Inquisition formed one side. Mass had been

performed before daybreak, in the chapel of the Inquisition, at which

the victims were compelled to be present, and about half-past seven the

dread procession left the Inquisition gates. The soldiers and minor

servitors marched first, forming a hollow square, in the centre of which

were the stakes and huge faggots piled around. Then came the sacred

cross, covered with a black veil, and its body-guard of priests. The

victims, each surrounded by monks, appeared next, closely followed by

the higher officers and inquisitors, and a band of fifty men, in rich

dresses of black satin and silver, closed the procession.

We have no space to linger on the ceremonies always attendant on the

burning of Inquisitorial prisoners. Although, from the more private

nature of the rites, these ceremonies were greatly curtailed, it was

rather more than half an hour after nine when the victims were bound to

their respective stakes, and the executioners approached with their

blazing brands.

There was no change in the countenance of either prisoner. Pale they

were, yet calm and firm; all of human feeling had been merged in the

martyr’s courage, and the martyr’s faith.

One look had been exchanged between them—of love spiritualized to look

beyond the grave—of encouragement to endure for their God, even to the

end. The sky was still cloudless, the sun still looked down on that

scene of horror; and then was a hush—a pause—for so it felt in nature,

that stilled the very breathing of those around.

[Illustration]

“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is ONE—the Sole and Holy

ONE; there is no unity like His unity!” were the words which broke that

awful pause, in a voice distinct, unfaltering, and musical as its wont;

and it was echoed by the sweet tones from woman’s lips, so thrilling in

their melody, the rudest nature started. It was the signal of their

fate. The executioners hastened forward, the brands were applied to the

turf of the piles, the flames burst up beneath their hand—when at that

moment there came a shock as if the very earth were cloven asunder, the

heavens rent in twain. A crash so loud, so fearful, so appalling, as if

the whole of Lisbon had been shivered to its foundations, and a shriek,

or rather thousands and thousands of human voices, blended in one

wild-piercing cry of agony and terror, seeming to burst from every

quarter at the self-same instant, and fraught with universal woe. The

buildings around shook, as impelled by a mighty whirlwind, though no

sound of such was heard. The earth heaved, yawned, closed, and rocked

again, as the billows of the ocean were lashed to fury. It was a moment

of untold horror. The crowd assembled to witness the martyr’s death

fled, wildly shrieking, on every side. Scattered to the heaving ground,

the blazing piles lay powerless to injure; their bonds were shivered,

their guards were fled. One bound brought Alvar to his wife, and he

clasped her in his arms. “God, God of Mercy, save us yet again! Be with

us to the end!” he exclaimed, and faith winged the prayer. On, on he

sped; up, up, in direction of the heights, where he knew comparative

safety lay; but ere he reached them, the innumerable sights and sounds

of horror that yawned upon his way! Every street, and square, and avenue

was choked with shattered ruins, rent from top to bottom; houses,

convents, and churches presented the most fearful aspect of ruin; while

every second minute a new impetus seemed to be given to the convulsed

earth, causing those that remained still perfect to rock and rend. Huge

stones, falling from every crack, were crushing the miserable fugitives

as they rushed on, seeking safety they knew not where. The rafters of

every roof, wrenched from their fastenings, stood upright a brief while,

and then fell in hundreds together, with a crash perfectly appalling.

The very ties of nature were severed in the wild search for safety.

Individual life alone appeared worth preserving. None dared seek the

fate of friends—none dared ask, “Who lives?” in that one scene of

universal death.

On, on sped Alvar and his precious burden, on, over the piles of ruins;

on, unhurt amidst the shower of stones, which, hurled in the air as

easily as a ball cast from an infant’s hand, fell back again laden with

a hundred deaths; on, amid the rocking and yawning earth, beholding

thousands swallowed up, crushed and maimed, worse than death itself, for

they were left to a lingering torture—to die a thousand deaths in

anticipating one; on, over the disfigured heaps of dead, and the

unrecognised masses of what had once been magnificent and gorgeous

buildings. His eye was well-nigh blinded with the shaking and tottering

movement of all things animate and inanimate before him; and his path

obscured by the sudden and awful darkness, which had changed that bright

glowing blue of the sunny sky into a pall of dense and terrible

blackness, becoming thicker and denser with every succeeding minute,

till a darkness which might be felt, enveloped that devoted city as with

the grim shadow of death. His ear was deafened by the appalling sounds

of human agony and Nature’s wrath; for now, sounds as of a hundred

water-spouts, the dull continued roar of subterranean thunder, becoming

at times loud as the discharge of a thousand cannons; at others,

resembling the sharp grating sound of hundreds and hundreds of chariots

driven full speed over the stones; and this, mingled with the piercing

shrieks of women, the hoarser cries and shouts of men, the deep terrible

groans of mental agony, and the shriller screams of instantaneous death,

had usurped the place of the previous awful stillness, till every sense

of those who yet survived seemed distorted and maddened. And Nature

herself, convulsed and freed from restraining bonds, appeared about to

return to that chaos whence she had leaped at the word of God.

Still, still Alvar rushed forwards, preserved amidst it all, as if the

arm of a merciful Providence was indeed around him and his Almah,

marking them for life in the very midst of death. Making his rapid way

across the ruins of St. Paul’s, which magnificent church had fallen in

the first shock, crushing the vast congregation assembled within its

walls, Alvar paused one moment, undecided whether to seek the banks of

the river or still to make for the western heights. There was a moment’s

hush and pause in the convulsion of nature, but Alvar dared not hope for

its continuance. Ever and anon the earth still heaved, and houses opened

from base to roof and closed without further damage. With a brief fervid

cry for continued guidance and protection, scarcely conscious which way

in reality he took, and still holding Almah to his bosom—so

supernaturally strengthened that the weakness of humanity seemed far

from him, Rodriguez hurried on, taking the most open path to the

Estrella Hill. An open space was gained, half-way to the summit,

commanding a view of the banks of the river and the ruins around.

Panting, almost breathless, yet still struggling with his own exhaustion

to encourage Almah, Alvar an instant rested, ere he plunged anew into

the narrower streets. A shock, violent, destructive, convulsive as the

first, flung them prostrate; while the renewed and increased sounds of

wailing, the tremendous and repeated crashes on every side, the

disappearance of the towers, steeples, and turrets which yet remained,

revealed the further destructiveness which had befallen. A new and

terrible cry added to the universal horror.