Luxima, restored to life, was still feeble and exhausted: but though
faded, she was still lovely; and, being immediately recognized as a
_Hindu_, that peculiar circumstance awakened curiosity and surmise.
Those of her own nation and religion still shrank from her in horror,
and declared her to be a _Chancalas_, or outcast; the Moslems who beheld
her, sought not to conceal their rude admiration, and recognized her at
once for a _Cashmirian_ by her complexion and her beauty; but the
persons who seemed to observe her with most scrutiny, were _two
Europeans_, whose features were concealed by hoods, worn apparently to
shade off the ardour of the sun. Luxima was permitted to share the
_mohaffah_ or litter of a female seik who was going with her husband, a
dealer in gems, to Tatta. The Missionary was suffered to ascend the back
of a camel, whose proprietor had expired the day before in the desert.
Having declared himself a Portuguese of distinction, a Christian
missionary, and shewed the briefs which testified his rank, he found no
difficulty in procuring such necessaries as were requisite for the rest
of their journey, until his arrival at Tatta should enable him to defray
the debt of obligation which he of necessity incurred.
But though he had declared the nature of the relation in which he stood
to his Neophyte to those immediately about him, yet he fancied, that
the fact was, received by some with suspicion, and by others with
incredulity. He was evidently considered the seducer of the fugitive
Indian; and neither his innocence nor his dignity could save him from a
profound mortification, new and insupportable to his proud and lofty
nature: yet, trembling to observe the admiration which Luxima inspired,
he still hovered near her in ceaseless disquietude and anxiety. The
caravan was composed of five hundred persons of various nations and
religions;--Mogul pilgrims, going from India to visit the tomb of their
prophet at Mecca; merchants from Thibet and China, carrying the produce
of their native climes, the Western coasts of Hindostan; Seiks, the
Swiss of the East, going to join the forces of rebelling Rajahs; and
faquirs and dervises, who rendered religion profitable by carrying for
sale in their girdles, spices, gold-dust, and musk. Luxima, obviously
abhorred by those of her own religion, closely observed by some, and
suspected by all, felt her situation equally through her sex and her
prejudices, and shrunk from the notice she unavoidably attracted in
shame and in confusion: it was now that her forfeiture of cast for the
first time appeared to the Missionary in all its horrors, and he no
longer wondered that so long as the prejudice existed, with which it is
connected, it should hold so tyrannic an influence over the Indian mind.
His tenderness increasing with his pity, and his jealousy of those who
attempted to approach, or to address her, giving a new force and
character to his passion, he seldom left the side of her _litter_: yet
he endeavoured to moderate the warmth of feelings it was now more than
ever necessary to conceal. That passion, dangerous in every situation,
was now no longer solitary as the wilds in which it sprang, but
connected with society, and exposed to its observation; and the reserve
with which he sought to temper its ardour, restored to it all that
mysterious delicacy, which constitutes, perhaps, its first, and perhaps
its best charm.
The caravan proceeded on its route, and, having passed the Desert,
crossed the _Setlege_, and entered the _Moultan_, it halted at one of
its usual stations, and the tents of the travellers were pitched on the
shores of the Indus: the perils of the past were no longer remembered,
and the safety of the present was ardently enjoyed; while the views and
interests of the motley multitude, no longer subdued by personal danger,
or impeded by personal suffering, again operated with their original
force and activity. The merchants bartered with the traders, who came
from the surrounding towns for the purpose; and the professors of the
various religions and sects preached their respective doctrines to those
whom they wished to convert, or to those who already believed, all but
the Christian Missionary! Occupied by feelings of a doubtful and
conflicting nature, sometimes hovering round the tent which Luxima
shared with the family of the Seik, sometimes buried in profound
thought, and wandering amidst the depths of a neighbouring forest, where
he sought to avoid the idle bustle of those among whom he was
adventitiously thrown; anxious, unquiet, and distrustful even of
himself, he was now lost to that evangelic peace of mind, to that sober
tranquillity of feeling, so indispensable to the exercise of his
mission. Though buried in a reserve which awed, while it distanced,
there was a majesty in his air, and a dignified softness in his manner,
which daily increased that popular interest in his favour, which his
first appearance had awakened: to this he was not insensible; for, still
ambitious of distinction as saint or as man, he beheld his influence
with a triumph natural to one, who, emulous of unrivalled superiority,
feels that he owes it not to extraneous circumstance, but to that proud
and indefeasible right of supreme eminence, with which nature has
endowed him. But he could not but particularly observe, that he was an
object of singular attention to the two European travellers, who,
wrapped in mystery, seemed to shun all intercourse, and avoid all
observation; and, though they crossed him in his solitary walks, pursued
him to the entrance of Luxima’s tent, and hung upon his every word and
action, yet so subtilely had they eluded his notice, that he had not yet
obtained an opportunity of either distinctly seeing their features, or
of addressing them; all he could learn was, that they had joined the
caravan from _Lahore_, with two other persons of the same dress and
description as themselves, who had proceeded with the advanced troop of
the caravan, and that they were known to be Europeans and Christians. It
was not till the caravan had entered the province of _Sindy_, that one
of them, who rode near the camel of the Missionary, seemed inclined to
address him; after some observations he said, “It is understood that you
are a Christian Missionary! but, while in this mighty multitude the
professor of each false religion appears anxious to advance his
doctrine, and to promulgate his creed, how is it that the _apostle of
Christianity_ is alone silent and indifferent on the subject of that
pure faith, to the promulgation of which he has devoted himself?”--
The Missionary threw a haughty look over the figure of the person who
thus interrogated him; but, with a sudden recollection, he endeavoured
to recall the humility of his religious character, and replied: “The
question is natural--and the silence to which you allude is not the
effect of weakened zeal, nor the result of abated enthusiasm, in the
sacred cause to which I have devoted myself--it is a silence which
arises from a consciousness that though I spoke with the tongues of
angels, it _would be here but as the sound of tinkling brass_; for
_truth_, which always prevails over unbiassed ignorance, has ever failed
in its effect upon bigoted error--and the dogma most difficult to
vanquish, is that which is guarded by self-interest.”
“You allude to the obstinate paganism of the Brahmins?”
“I allude to the power of the most powerful of all human superstitions;
a superstition which equally presides over the heavenly hope, and
directs the temporal concern; and which so intimately blends itself with
all the relations of human life, as equally to dictate a doctrinal
tenet, or a sumptuary law, to regulate alike the salvation of the soul,
and fix the habits of existence.”
“It is the peculiar character of the zeal of Christianity to rise in
proportion to the obstacles it encounters!”
“The zeal of Christianity should never forsake the mild spirit of its
fundamental principles; in the excess of its warmest enthusiasm, it
should be tempered by charity, guided by reason, and regulated by
possibility; forsaken by these, it ceases to be the zeal of religion,
and becomes the spirit of fanaticism, tending only to sever man from
man, and to multiply the artificial sources of aversion by which human
society is divided, and human happiness destroyed!”
“This temperance in doctrine, argues a freedom in opinion, and a languor
in zeal, which rather belongs to the character of the heathen
philosophy, than to the enthusiasm of Christian faith; had its disciples
been always thus moderate, thus languid, thus philosophically tolerant,
never would the cross have been raised upon the remotest shores of the
Eastern and Western oceans!”
“Too often has it been raised under the influence of a sentiment
diametrically opposite to the spirit of the doctrine of him who
_suffered on it_, and who came not to _destroy_, but to _save_ mankind.
Too often has it been raised by those whose minds were guided by an evil
and interested policy, fatal to the effects which it sought to
accomplish, and who lifted to Heaven, hands stained with the blood of
those, to whom they had been sent to preach the religion of peace, of
love, and of salvation; for even the zeal of religion, when animated by
human passions, may become fatal in its excess, and that daring
fanaticism, which gives force and activity to the courage of the man,
may render merciless and atrocious, the zeal of the bigot.”
“You disapprove then of that energy of conversion which either by art or
force secures or redeems the soul from the sin of idolatry?”
“_Force_ and _art_ may indeed effect profession, but cannot induce the
conviction of faith; for the individual perception of truth is not to be
effected by the belief of others, and an act of faith must be either an
act of private judgment, or of free will, which no human artifice, no
human authority can alter or controul.”
“You disapprove then of the zealous exertions of the Jesuits in the
cause of Christianity, and despair of their success?”
“I disapprove not of the zeal, but of the mediums by which it manifests
itself: I believe that the coercion and the artifice to which they
resort, frequently impel the Hindus to a resistance, which they perhaps
too often expiate by the loss of life and property, but seldom urge
them to the abjuration of a religion, the loss of whose privileges
deprives the wretched apostate of every human good! It is by a previous
cultivation of their moral powers, we may hope to influence their
religious belief; it is by teaching them to love us, that we can lead
them to listen to us; it is by inspiring them with respect for our
virtues, that we can give them a confidence in our doctrine: but this
has not always been the system adopted by European reformers, and the
religion we proffer them is seldom illustrated by its influence on our
own lives. We bring them a spiritual creed, which commands them to
forget the world, and we take from them temporal possessions, which
prove how much _we live for it_.”
“With such mildness in opinion, and such tolerance towards the
prejudices of others, you have doubtless succeeded in your mission,
where a zeal not more pure, but more ardent, would have failed?”
The Missionary changed colour at the observation, and replied--“The zeal
of the members of the congregation of the Mission can never be doubted,
since they voluntarily devote themselves to the cause of Christianity;
yet to effect a change in the religion of sixty millions of people,
whose doctrines[11] claim their authority from the records of the most
ancient nations,--whose faith is guarded by the pride of rank, the
interest of priesthood, by its own abstract nature, by local habits, and
confirmed prejudices; a faith which resisted the sword of Mahmoud and
the arms of Timur,--requires a power seldom vested in man, and which
time, a new order of things in India, and the Divine will, can alone, I
believe, accomplish.”
“You return then to the centre of your mission without any converts to
your exertion and your eloquence?”
“No fruit has been indeed gathered equal to the labour or the hope; for
I have made but one proselyte, who purchases the truths of Christianity
by the forfeiture of every earthly good!”
“A _Brahmin_ perhaps?
“A Brahmin’s daughter! the chief priestess of the pagoda of Sirinagar,
in Cashmire, a prophetess, and _Brachmachira_; whose conversion may
indeed be deemed a miracle!”
“Your neophyte is then that young and beautiful person we first beheld
lifeless _in your arms_, in the desert?”
“The same,” said the Missionary, again changing colour: “She has already
received the rites of baptism, and I am conveying her to _Goa_, there
her profession of some holy order may produce, by its example, a
salutary effect, which her conversion never could have done in Cashmire;
a place where the Brahminical bigotry has reached its zenith, and where
her forfeiture of cast would have rendered her an object of opprobrium
and aversion!”--As the Missionary spoke, he raised his eyes to the face
of the person he addressed; but it was still shaded by the hood of his
cloak, yet he met an eye so keen, so malignant in its glance, that,
could he have shrunk from any mortal look, he would have shrunk from
this. Struck by its singular expression, and by the certainty of having
before met it, he remained for many minutes endeavouring to collect his
thoughts, and, believing himself justified by the freedom of the
stranger’s inquiries, to question him as to his country and profession,
he turned round to address him: but the strangers had now both moved
away, and the Missionary then first observed, that he who had been
silent during this short dialogue, and whom he still held in view, was
employed in writing on a tablet, as though he noted down the heads of
the conversation. This circumstance appeared too strange not to excite
some curiosity, and much amazement. The person who addressed him spoke
in the Hindu dialect, as it was spoken at _Lahore_; but he believed it
possible, that he might have been some emissary from the Jesuits convent
there, on his way to the Inquisitorial college at Goa: this for a moment
disquieted him; for his mind, long divided by conflicting passions, had
lost its wonted self-possession and lofty independence: he had been
recently accustomed to suspect himself; and he now feared that his zeal,
relaxed by passion, had weakened that severity of principle which once
admitted of no innovation, and thought it not impossible that he might
have expressed his sentiments with a freedom which bigotry could easily
torture into an evidence of heresy itself. He again sought the two
strangers, but in vain; for they had joined the advanced troop of the
caravan; while a feeling, stronger than any they had excited, still
fixed him in the rear, near the mohaffah of Luxima.
The caravan now pursued its toilsome route through the rich and varying
district of _Scindi_; and the fresh and scented gales, which blew from
the Indian sea, revived the languid spirits of the drooping Neophyte;
and gave to her eye and cheek, the beam and glow of health and
loveliness. Not so the Missionary:--as he advanced towards the haunts of
civilized society, the ties by which he was bound to it, and its
influence and power over his opinions and conduct, which a fatal
passion, cherished in wilds and deserts, had banished from his mind, now
rushed to his recollection with an overwhelming force--he gloomily
anticipated the disappointment which awaited his return to Goa; the
triumph of his enemies, and the discomfiture of his friends; the
inferences which might be drawn from the sex and beauty of his solitary
Neophyte; and, above all, the eternal separation from the sole object,
that alone had taught him the supreme bliss, which the most profound and
precious feeling of nature can bestow,--a separation, imperiously
demanded by religion, by honour, and by the respect still due to his
character and holy profession. It was his intention to place her in a
house of Franciscan Sisters, an order whose purity and mildness was
suited to her gentle nature. But, when he remembered the youth and
loveliness he was about to entomb, the feelings and affections he was
about to sacrifice--the warm, the tender, the impassioned heart he
should devote to a cold and gloomy association, with rigid and
uncongenial spirits--when he beheld her in fancy ascending the altar
steps, resigning, by vows she scarcely understood, the brilliant
illusions of her own imposing and fanciful faith, and embracing
doctrines to which her mind was not yet familiarized, and against which
her strong rooted prejudices and ardent feelings still revolted,--when
he beheld her despoiled of those lovely and luxuriant tresses which had
so often received the homage of his silent admiration, and almost felt
his own hands tremble, as he placed on her brow the veil which concealed
her from him for ever,--when he caught the parting sigh,--when his
glance died under the expression of those dove-like eyes, which,
withdrawing their looks from the cross, would still throw their
lingering and languid light upon his receding form!--then, worked up to
a frenzy of love and of affection, by the image which his fancy and his
feelings had pictured to his heart, he eagerly sought her presence as
though the moment was already arrived, when he should lose her love for
ever; and he hung, in such despairing fondness round her, that Luxima,
touched by the expression of his countenance, sought to know the cause
of his agitation, and to soothe his spirits. The Missionary leaned over
the vehicle, in which she reposed, to catch the murmurings of her low
and tender voice.
“Thou art sad,” she said, “and melancholy hangs upon thy brow, now that
danger is over, and suffering almost forgotten. Is it only in the midst
of perils, which strike death upon weaker souls, that _thine_ rejoices?
for amidst the conflicts of varying elements, thou wast firm; in the
burning desert, thou wast unsubdued--Oh! how often has my fancy likened
thee to the great _vesanti_ plant, which, when it meets not the mighty
stem round which it is its nature to twine and flourish, droops not,
though forsaken, but assuming the form and structure of a towering tree,
betrays its aspiring origin, and points its lofty branches towards the
heavens, whose storms it dares and thus doth thou seem greatest, when
most exposed and firmest, when least supported. Oh! father,” she added,
with an ardour she had long suppressed, “didst thou feel as I feel, one
look of love would chase all sorrow from thy heart, and sadness from thy
brow.”
“But Luxima,” returned the Missionary, infected by her impassioned
tenderness, as if that were almost love’s last look, “if, when every tie
was drawn so closely round the heart, that both must break together--if
the fatal conciousness of being loved, have become so necessary to
existence, that life seems without it, a cold and dreary waste--if under
the influence of feelings such as these, the moment of an eternal
separation dawns in all its hopeless and insupportable misery on the
soul, then every look which love bestows, mingles sadness with
affection, and despair with bliss.” Luxima turned pale; and she raised
her tearful eyes to his face, not daring to inquire, but by look, how
far that dreadful moment was yet distant. The Missionary pointed out to
her a distant view of Tatta, whence they were to sail for Goa; and,
stifling the emotions of the lover, and the feelings of the man, he
endeavoured to rally back his fading zeal; he spoke to her only in the
language of the Missionary and the Priest; he spoke of resigning her to
_God alone_; of that perfect conversion which his absence even _more_
than his presence would effect!--he described to her the nature and
object of the life she was about to embrace,--its peace--its
sanctity--its exemptions from human trials, and human passions--and
above all, the eternal beatitude to which it led;--he spoke to her of
their separation, as inevitable,--and, concealing the struggles which
existed in his own mind, he sought only to soothe, to strengthen, and
to tranquillize hers. Luxima heard him in silence: she made neither
objections nor reply. He was struck by the sudden change which took
place in her countenance, when she learned how soon they were to part,
and how inevitable was their separation; it was a look resolute and
despairing,--as if she defied the destiny, cruel as it was, which seemed
to threaten her. At some distance from Tatta, the ardours of a vertical
sun obliged the caravan to halt, and seek a temporary shade amidst the
umbrageous foliage of a luxuriant grove, refreshed by innumerable
streams, flowing into the Indus.
Luxima left her mohaffah, and, supported by the Missionary, sought those
shades, which so strongly recalled to her remembrance, the lovely
groves of Cashmire,--and the recollections so sad, and yet so precious,
which rushed on her mind, were opposed by those feelings which swelled
in her bosom, when a distant view of Tatta recalled to her memory the
approach of that hour which was so soon to lead her to Goa, to the
destined altar of her immolation!--She reflected on the past--she
anticipated the future;--and, for the first time, the powerful emotions
of which she was capable, betrayed themselves with a violence almost
irreconcilable with her gentle and tender nature.--Convulsed with
long-stifled feelings, to which she now gave vent, she bathed the earth
whereon she had thrown herself, with tears; and, with an eloquence
dictated by love and by despair, she denied the existence of an
affection which could voluntarily resign its object;--she upbraided
equally her lover and herself; and, amidst expressions of reproach and
remorse, was still less penitent than tender,--still less lamented her
errors, than the approaching loss of him, for whom she had committed
them.
“Thou sayest that I am dear to thee,” she said; “and yet I am
sacrificed; and by him for whom I have abandoned all, I am now myself
abandoned.--Oh! give me back to my country, my peace, my fame; or suffer
me still to remain near thee, and I will rejoice in the loss of
all.--Thou sayest it is the law of thy religion that thou obeyest, when
thou shalt send me from thee:--but, if it is a virtue in thy religion to
stifle the best and purest feelings of the heart, that nature implants,
how shall I believe in, or adopt, its tenets?--I, whose nature, whose
faith itself, was love--how from thee shall I learn to subdue my
feelings, who first taught me to substitute a human, for a heavenly
passion?--Alas! I have but changed the object, the _devotion_ is still
the same; and thou art loved by the _outcast_, as the Priestess once
loved Heaven only.”
“Luxima,” returned the Missionary, distracted equally by his own
feelings and by hers, “let us from the sufferings we now endure, learn
the extent of the weakness and the errors which we thus, be it hoped, so
painfully expiate; for, it is by despair, such as now distracts us,
that Heaven punishes the unfortunate, who suffers a passionate and
exclusive sentiment to take possession of the heart, for a creature
frail and dependant as ourselves. Oh! my daughter, had we but listened
to the voice of religion, or of reason, as we have hearkened to our own
passions, the most insupportable of human afflictions could not now have
befallen us; and that pang by which we are agonized, at the brink of
eternal separation, would have been spared to those souls, which a
divine and imperishable object would then have solely occupied and
involved.”
“I, at least,” said Luxima, firmly, yet with wildness, “I shall not long
endure that pang:--Thinkest thou that I shall long survive _his_ loss
for whom I have sacrificed all? Oh! no; it was _thou_ I followed, and
not thy doctrines; for, pure and sublime as they may be, they yet came
darkly and confusedly to my soul: but the sentiments thy presence
awakened in my heart, were not opposed by any previous thought or
feelings of my life; they were true to all its natural impulses, and, if
not understood, they were _felt_ and _answered_; they mingled with my
whole being, and now, even now, form an imperishable part of my
existence.--Shudder not thus, but pity, and forgive me! nor think that,
weak as I am, I will deprive thee of thy triumph:--yes, thou shalt lead
to the Christian Temple, the descendant of Brahma! thou shalt offer up,
a sacrifice on the Christian altar, the first apostate, drawn from the
most illustrious of the Indian casts,--a Prophetess! who for thee
abandoned the homage of a Divinity,--a woman, who for thee resisted the
splendours of an empire.--And this I will tell to the Christians in the
midst of their temple, and their congregation--that they may know the
single solitary convert thy powers have made, is more than all the
proselytes thy brethen e’er brought to kiss the Cross: this I shall do
_less in faith_ than _love_; not for _my_ sake, but for _thine_.--Yet,
oh! be thou near me at the altar of sacrifice; let me cling to thee to
the last--for, stern and awful as thy religion is, its severity will not
refuse me that: yet, if it punish thee, even for pitying--”
“And, thinkest thou,” interrupted the Missionary wildly, “that it is
_punishment_ I fear, or that if the enjoyment of thy love, fatal and
dear as thou art, could be purchased by suffering that I would shrink
from its endurance? No! it is not torture the most acute I shun--it is
_crime that I abhor_--and, equal to to sustain all sufferings but those
of conscience, I now live only in dread of myself! For oh! Luxima, even
yet I might spare myself and thee a life so cold, so sad and dreary,
that conscious virtue and true religion only can support us through
it,--even yet, escaping from every eye, save Heaven’s, we might together
fly to the pathless wilds of these delicious regions, and live in sinful
bliss, the commoners of nature:--But, Luxima, the soul of him who
loves, and who resists thee, is formed of such a temper, that it can
taste no perfect joy in weakness or in crime. Pity then, and yet
respect, him who, loving thee and virtue equally, can ne’er know
happiness without nor with thee,--who, thus condemned to suffer, without
ceasing, submits not to his fate, but is overpowered by its tyranny, and
who, alike helpless and unresigned, opposes while he suffers, and
repines while he endures; knowing only the remorse of guilt without its
enjoyments, and expecting its retribution, without daring to deprecate
its weight.” Exhausted and overpowered, he fell prostrate on the earth;
cold damps hung on his brow, and burning tears fell from his inflamed
eyes.--Luxima, terrified by his emotion, faint and trembling, crept
timidly and tenderly towards him; and, pressing his hands, she murmured
soothingly, yet with firmness, “Since then we can both only live to
suffer or to err, to be miserable or to be guilty, wherefore should we
not die?”
The Missionary raised his eyes to her face, and its expression of
loveliness and love, though darkened by despair, rendered her more
enchanting in his eyes, than she had ever yet appeared: he felt her
tears on his hands, which she pressed alternately to her eyes and to her
lips; and this eloquent though silent expression of an affection so
pure, which he believed was to be the last proof of love he might ever
receive, overwhelmed him.
Silent and motionless, he withdrew not his hands from the clasp of hers;
he gazed on her with unrestrained feelings of love and pity, his whole
soul seeming to diffuse itself through his eyes, over her countenance
and figure. It was in this transient moment of high-wrought emotions,
that they were suddenly surrounded by a group of persons who sprang from
behind a rock. Luxima was torn from the arms, which but now protectingly
encircled her; and the Missionary was seized with a violence, that, in
the first moment of amazement and horror, deprived him of all presence
of mind. But the feeble plaints of Luxima, who was borne away in the
arms of one of the assailants, recalled to his bewildered mind a
consciousness of their mutual sufferings, and situations:--he struggled
with all the strength of frenzy in the strong grasp of the two persons
who held him;--he shook them from him as creatures of inferior force and
nature; and looked so powerful, in his uncurbed rage, that a third, who
stood armed before him, attempted not to arrest his flight, as he sprang
forward to the rescue of Luxima, who lay lifeless in the arms of the
person who was carrying her away; but in the next moment his own
encircled her: the person from whom he had torn her, seemed no less
bold, no less resolved than he; drawing a pistol from beneath his robe,
he pointed it to the Missionary’s breast; and exclaimed, “To resist, is
but to increase your crimes, and to endanger your life.” The Missionary
gently disengaged himself from Luxima, who sunk to the earth, and,
springing like a lion on his opponent, he seized his arm;--closely
entwined in bonds of mutual destruction, they wrestled for life and
death, with a strength almost supernatural,--at last, Hilarion wresting
the pistol from the hand of his adversary, flung him against a rock, at
whose base he lay apparently without life.--His three associates now
came to the scene of action--armed, and with looks that threatened to
avenge the fate of their companion; but the Missionary stood firm and
unappalled, his eye lowring defiance, and raising Luxima in one arm,
while with the other he pointed the pistol towards them, he said boldly,
“Whoe’er you be, and whatever may have tempted you to this desperate
outrage, I shall not spare the life of him who dares approach one single
step.”
The persons looked in consternation on each other; but one of them,
whose face was till now concealed, threw back his hood and robe, and
discovered on his breast, the Badge which distinguishes _the officers of
the Inquisition_![12] It was then, that the Missionary recognized in
the European traveller the Coadjutor whom he had disgraced and dismissed
from his appointment, during their voyage to India. Amazed, confounded,
but not subdued, he met, with an undaunted look, the keen, malignant,
and avengeful glance, which was now directed at him: “Knowest thou me?”
demanded the Inquisitor scoffingly, “who, now high in power in the
highest of all human tribunals, was once covered with shame and
opprobrium, by thy superior excellence! Where now are all the mighty
virtues of the _man without a fault_? where now are the wonders which
his zeal and genius promised? what are the fruits of his unrivalled
Mission? Behold him! supporting on his bosom, the victim of his
seductive arts!--his sacrilegious hand, pointing an instrument of death
at those who are engaged in the duties of that holy office, whose
censure he has incurred by dreadful heresies, by breach of solemn vows,
and by his heretical defamation of a sacred Order!”--While the
Inquisitor yet spoke, several persons from the Caravan had arrived on
the spot, to witness a scene so singular and so unexpected: Luxima too,
who had recovered her senses, still trembling and horror-struck, clung
to the bosom, which now so wildly heaved to the emotions of rage and
indignation.
Silent for many minutes, the Missionary stood gazing with a look of
proud defiance and ineffable contempt upon his avengeful enemy: “And
know _you_ not me?” he at last exclaimed, with a lofty scorn--“you knew
me once, supreme, where _you_ dared not _soar_!--Such as _I then was_,
such _I now am_; in every thing unchanged--and still, in every thing,
_your_ superior!--Grovelling and miserable _as you are_ even in your
unmerited elevation--this you _still_ feel;--speak, then; what are your
orders!--tremble not, but declare them!--It is the Count of Acugna, it
is the Apostolic _Nuncio_ of _India_, who commands you!”--Pale with
stifled rage, the Inquisitor drew from his bosom the brief, by which he
was empowered to call those before the Inquisitorial Court, whose
conduct and whose opinions should fall under the suspicions of those
emissaries, which it had deputed to visit the Christian establishments
in the interior of India.--The Missionary glanced his eye over the awful
instrument, and bowed low to the Red Cross imprinted at its head: the
Inquisitor then said, “Hilarion, of the Order of St. Francis, and member
of the Congregation of the Mission;--I arrest you in the name of the
Holy Office, and in presence of these its ministers, that you may answer
to such charges as I shall bring against you, before _the tribunal_ of
the Inquisition.” At these words, the Missionary turned pale!--nature
stood checked by religion!--passion submitted to opinion, and prejudice
governed those _feelings_, over which _reason_ had lost all sway. He let
fall the instrument of death, which he had held in his hand till now;
the voice of the Church had addressed him, and all the powerful force
of his religious habits returned upon his soul: he, who till now had
felt only as a _man_, remembered he was a _religious_; he who had long,
who had so recently, acknowledged the precious influence of human
feeling, now recalled to mind that he had vowed the sacrifice of _all_
human feeling to Heaven!--and he who had resisted oppression, and
avenged insult, now recollected, that by the religion he professed, he
was bound when one _cheek was smitten, to turn the other_.
The rage which had blazed in the eyes of the indignant, the blood which
had boiled in the veins of the brave, no longer flashed in the glance,
or crimsoned the cheek of the Christian Missionary; yet still it was--
“Awe from above, that quelled his heart, nought else dismayed.”
The officers of the Inquisition now approached, to bind his arms, and to
lead him away; but Luxima, with a shriek of horror, threw herself
between them, ignorant of the nature of the danger which assailed her
lover and her friend, and believing it nothing less than death itself:
her wild and frenzied supplications, her beauty and affection, touched
the hearts of those who surrounded them. The Missionary had already
excited a powerful interest in his favour: the popular feeling is always
on the side of resistance against oppression--for men, however vicious
individually, are generally virtuous in the mass: his fellow-travellers,
therefore, boldly advanced, to rescue one, whose air and manner had
captivated their imaginations. The passions of a multitude know no
precise limit; the partisans of the Missionary only waited for the
orders of him whom they were about to avenge: they said, “Shall we throw
those men under the camels feet? or shall we bind them to those rocks,
and leave them to their fate?”
The Europeans shuddered, and turned pale!
The Missionary cast on them a glance of contempt and pity, and, looking
round him with an air at once dignified and grateful, he said, “My
friends, my heart is deeply touched by your generous sympathy; good and
brave men ever unite, of whatever region, or whatever faith they may
be: but I belong to a religion whose spirit it is to save, and not to
destroy; suffer then, these men to live; they are but the agents of a
higher power, whose scrutiny they challenge me to meet.--I go to appear
before that tribunal of that church, whose voice is my law, and from
which a Christian minister can make no appeal,--I trust I go to contend
_best_ with the _best_; prepared rather to suffer death myself, than to
cause the death of others.”
Then turning to the Inquisitor he said, pointing to Luxima, whom he
again supported in his arms, “Remember, that by a word I could have had
you mingled with the dust I tread on; but, as you prize that life I
have preserved, guard and protect this sacred, this consecrated
vestal!--_look at her!_--otherwise than pure and innocent, you dare not
believe her: know then, also, she is a Christian Neophyte, who has
received the Baptismal rites, and who is destined to set a bright
example to her idolatrous nation, and to become the future spouse of
God.”
Subdued and mortified, the officers of the Inquisition made no reply. He
whom the Missionary had wounded, now crawled towards the others--they
surrounded their unresisting prisoner, who bore along the feeble form of
the Indian: silent, and weeping, she was consigned to the mohaffah she
had before occupied; and, the Missionary having ascended the back of
his camel, the caravan was again in motion--two of the Inquisitors
remained with their prisoner--the other two had rode on before the
caravan to _Tatta_.