Fear not now the fever’s fire,
Fear not now the death-bed groan;
Pangs that torture, pains that tire
Bed-rid age with feeble moan.
MASON.
“The first examination of Isidora was conducted with the circumspective
formality that has always been known to mark the proceedings of that
tribunal. The second and the third were alike strict, penetrating and
inoperative, and the holy office began to feel its highest functionaries
were no match for the extraordinary prisoner who stood before them, who,
combining the extremes of simplicity and magnanimity, uttered every
thing that might criminate herself, but evaded with skill that baffled
all the arts of inquisitorial examination, every question that referred
to Melmoth.
“In the course of the first examination, they hinted at the torture.
Isidora, with something of the free and nature-taught dignity of her
early existence, smiled as they spoke of it. An official whispered one
of the inquisitors, as he observed the peculiar expression of her
countenance, and the torture was mentioned no more.
“A second--a third examination followed at long intervals--but it was
observed, that every time the mode of examination was less severe, and
the treatment of the prisoner more and more indulgent--her youth, her
beauty, her profound simplicity of character and language, developed
strongly on this singular emergency, and the affecting circumstance of
her always appearing with her child in her arms, whose feeble cries she
tried to hush, while she bent forward to hear and answer the questions
addressed to her--all these seemed to have wrought powerfully on the
minds of men not accustomed to yield to external impressions. There was
also a docility, a submission, about this beautiful and unfortunate
being--a contrite and bending spirit--a sense of wretchedness for the
misfortunes of her family--a consciousness of her own, that touched the
hearts even of inquisitors.
“After repeated examinations, when nothing could be extorted from the
prisoner, a skilful and profound artist in the school of mental anatomy,
whispered to the inquisitor something about the infant whom she held in
her arms. “She has defied the rack,” was the answer. “Try her on _that
rack_,” was rejoined, and the hint was taken.
“After the usual formalities were gone through, Isidora’s sentence was
read to her. She was condemned, as a suspected heretic, to perpetual
confinement in the prison of the Inquisition--her child was to be taken
from her, and brought up in a convent, in order to----
“Here the reading of the sentence was interrupted by the prisoner, who,
uttering one dreadful shriek of maternal agony, louder than any other
mode of torture had ever before extorted, fell prostrate on the floor.
When she was restored to sensation, no authority or terror of the place
or the judges, could prevent her pouring forth those wild and piercing
supplications, which, from the energy with which they are uttered,
appear to the speaker himself like commands,--that the latter part of
her sentence might be remitted--the former appeared to make not the
least impression on her--eternal solitude, passed in eternal darkness,
seemed to give her neither fear or pain, but she wept, and pleaded, and
raved, that she might not be separated from her infant.
“The judges listened with fortified hearts, and in unbroken silence.
When she found all was over, she rose from her posture of humiliation
and agony--and there was something even of dignity about her as she
demanded, in a calm and altered voice, that her child might not be
removed from her till the following day. She had also self-possession
enough to enforce her petition by the remark, that its life might be the
sacrifice if it was too suddenly deprived of the nourishment it was
accustomed to receive from her. To this request the judges acceded, and
she was remanded to her cell. * * * * * * *
“The time elapsed. The person who brought her food departed without
uttering a word; nor did she utter a word to him. It was about midnight
that the door of her cell was unlocked, and two persons in official
habits appeared at it. They seemed to pause, like the heralds at the
tent of Achilles, and then, like them, forced themselves to enter. These
men had haggard and livid faces--their attitudes were perfectly stony
and automaton-like--their movements appeared the result of mere
mechanism--yet these men were touched. The miserable light within hardly
shewed the pallet on which the prisoner was seated; but a strong red
light from the torch the attendant held, flared broadly on the arch of
the door under which the figures appeared. They approached with a motion
that seemed simultaneous and involuntary--and uttered together, in
accents that seemed to issue from one mouth, “Deliver your child to us.”
In a voice as hoarse, dry, and natureless, the prisoner answered, “Take
it!”
“The men looked about the cell--it seemed as if they knew not where to
find the offspring of humanity amid the cells of the Inquisition. The
prisoner was silent and motionless during their search. It was not
long--the narrow apartment, the scanty furniture, afforded little room
for the investigation. When it was concluded, however, the prisoner,
bursting into a wild laugh, exclaimed, “Where would you search for a
child but in its mother’s bosom? Here--here it is--take it--take it!”
And she put it into their hands. “Oh what fools ye were to seek my child
any where but on its mother’s bosom! It is your’s now!” she shrieked in
a voice that froze the officials.--“Take it--take it from me!”
“The agents of the holy office advanced; and the technicality of their
movements was somewhat suspended when Isidora placed in their hands the
corse of her infant daughter. Around the throat of the miserable infant,
born amid agony, and nursed in a dungeon, there was a black mark, which
the officials made their use of in representing this extraordinary
circumstance to the holy office. By some it was deemed as the sign
impressed by the evil one at its birth--by others as the fearful effect
of maternal despair.
“It was determined that the prisoner should appear before them within
four-and-twenty hours, and account for the death of her child. * * * * *
* * *
“Within less than half that number of hours, a mightier arm than that of
the Inquisition was dealing with the prisoner--an arm that seemed to
menace, but was indeed stretched out to save, and before whose touch the
barriers of the dreaded Inquisition itself were as frail as the fortress
of the spider who hung her web on its walls. Isidora was dying of a
disease not the less mortal because it makes no appearance in an
obituary--she was dying of that internal and incurable wound--a broken
heart.
“When the inquisitors were at last convinced that there was nothing more
to be obtained by torture, bodily or mental torture, they suffered her
to die unmolested, and granted her last request, that Fra Jose might be
permitted to visit her. * * * * * *
“It was midnight, but its approach was unknown in that place, where day
and night are the same. A dim lamp was substituted for that weak and
struggling beam that counterfeited day-light. The penitent was stretched
on her bed of rest--the humane priest sat beside her; and if his
presence gave no dignity to the scene, it at least softened it by the
touches of humanity. * * * * * * * *
“My father,” said the dying Isidora, “you pronounced me
forgiven.”--“Yes, my daughter,” said the priest, “you have assured me
you are innocent of the death of your infant.”--“You never could have
believed me guilty,” said Isidora, raising herself on her pallet at the
appeal--“the consciousness of _its_ existence alone would have kept me
alive, even in my prison. Oh, my father, how was it possible it could
live, buried with me in this dreadful place almost as soon as it
respired? Even the morbid nourishment it received from me was dried up
when my sentence was read. It moaned all night--towards morning its
moans grew fainter, and I was glad--at last they ceased, and I was
very--happy!” But, as she talked of this fearful happiness, she wept.
“My daughter, is your heart disengaged from that awful and disastrous
tie that bound it to misfortune here, and to perdition hereafter?” It
was long before she could answer; at length she said in a broken voice,
“My father, I have not now strength to search or to struggle with my
heart. Death must very soon break every tie that was twined with it, and
it is useless to anticipate my liberation; the effort would be
agony--fruitless agony, for, while I live, I must love my destroyer!
Alas! in being the enemy of mankind, was not his hostility to me
inevitable and fatal? In rejecting his last terrible temptation--in
resigning him to his destiny, and preferring submission to my own, I
feel my triumph complete, and my salvation assured.”--“Daughter, I do
not comprehend you.”--“Melmoth,” said Isidora, with a strong effort,
“Melmoth was here last night--within the walls of the Inquisition--within
this very cell!” The priest crossed himself with marks of
the profoundest horror, and, as the wind swept hollowly through
the long passage, almost expected the shaken door would burst open, and
disclose the figure of the Wanderer. * * * * * * *
“My father, I have had many dreams,” answered the penitent, shaking her
head at a suggestion of the priest’s, “many--many wanderings, but this
was no dream. I have dreamed of the garden-land where I beheld him
first--I have dreamed of the nights when he stood at my casement, and
trembled in sleep at the sound of my mother’s step--and I have had holy
and hopeful visions, in which celestial forms appeared to me, and
promised me his conversion--but this was no dream--I saw him last night.
Father, he was here the whole night--he promised--he assured me--he
adjured me to accept of liberation and safety, of life and of felicity.
He told me, nor could I doubt him, that, by whatever means he effected
his entrance, he could also effect my escape. He offered to live with me
in that Indian isle--that paradise of ocean, far from human resort or
human persecution. He offered to love me alone, and for ever--and then I
listened to him. Oh, my father, I am very young, and life and love
sounded sweetly in my ears, when I looked at my dungeon, and thought of
dying on this floor of stone! But--when he whispered the terrible
condition on which the fulfilment of his promise depended--when he told
me that”----
“Her voice failed with her failing strength, and she could utter no
more. “Daughter,” said the priest, bending over her bed, “daughter, I
adjure you, by the image represented on this cross I hold to your dying
lips--by your hopes of that salvation which depends on the truth you
utter to me, your priest and your friend--the conditions proposed by
your tempter!” “Promise me absolution for repeating the words, for I
should wish that my last breath might not be exhaled in uttering--what I
must.”--“_Te absolvo_,” &c. said the priest, and bent his ear to catch
the sounds. The moment they were uttered, he started as from the sting
of a serpent, and, seating himself at the extremity of the cell, rocked
in dumb horror. “My father, you promised me absolution,” said the
penitent. “_Jam tibi dedi, moribunda_,” answered the priest, in the
confusion of thoughts using the language appropriated to the service of
religion. “Moribunda indeed!” said the sufferer, falling back on her
pallet, “Father, let me feel a human hand in mine as I part!”--“Call
upon God, daughter!” said the priest, applying the crucifix to her cold
lips. “I loved his religion,” said the penitent, kissing it devoutly, “I
loved it before I knew it, and God must have been my teacher, for I had
no other! Oh!” she exclaimed, with that deep conviction that must thrill
every dying heart, and whose echo (would God) might pierce every living
one--“Oh that I had loved none but God--how profound would have been my
peace--how glorious my departure--_now_--_his_ image pursues me even to
the brink of the grave, into which I plunge to escape it!”
“My daughter,” said the priest, while the tears rolled fast down his
cheeks--“my daughter, you are passing to bliss--the conflict was fierce
and short, but the victory is sure--harps are tuned to a new song, even
a song of welcome, and wreaths of palm are weaving for you in paradise!”
“Paradise!” uttered Isidora, with her last breath--“_Will he be there!_”