THE SILENT MEN IN BLACK
"Sing to us, Johnnie."
"_Mais oui, chantez, Monsieur_," said Madame La Motte.
Johnnie took up a chitarrone, the archlute, a large, double-necked
Spanish instrument, which lay upon a marble table by his side in the
courtyard.
He looked up into the sky, the painted sunset sky of Spain, as if to
find some inspiration there.
The hum of Seville came to them in an almost organ-like harmony. Bells
were tolling from the cathedral and the innumerable churches; pigeons
were wheeling round the domes and spires; occasionally a faint burst of
music reached them where they sat.
The young man looked gravely at the two women. His face at this moment
was singularly tranquil and refined. He was dressed with scrupulous
care--the long journey over, his natural habits resumed. He had all the
air and grace of a gallant in a Court.
He bowed to Madame La Motte and to his sweetheart, smiling gently at
them.
"By your patience, ladies," he said, "I will make endeavour to improvise
for you upon a theme. We have spent this day in seeing beauties such as
sure I never thought to see with my mortal eyes. We are in the land of
colour, of sweet odours; the balmy smells of nard and cassia are flung
about the cedarn alleys where we walk. We have sucked the liquid air in
a veritable garden of the Hesperides, and, indeed, I looked to see the
three fair daughters of Hesperus along those crisped shades and bowers.
And we have seen also"--his voice was almost dreaming as he spoke--"the
greatest church e'er built to God's glory by the hand of man. 'Tis
indeed a mountain scooped out, a valley turned upsides. The towers of
the Abbey Church at Westminster might walk erect in the middle nave;
there are pillars with the girth of towers, and which appear so slender
that they make one shudder as they rise from out the ground or depend
them from the gloomy roof like stalactites in the cave of a giant."
Madame La Motte nodded, purred, and murmured to herself. The whimsical
and studied Court language did not now fall upon her ears for the first
time. In the fashion of that age all men of culture and position learnt
to talk in this fashion upon occasion, with classic allusion and in
graceful prose.
But to sweet Elizabeth it was all new and beautiful, and as she gazed at
her lover her eyes were liquid with caressing wonder, her lips curved
into a bow of pride at such dear eloquence.
Johnnie plucked the strings of the chitarrone once or twice, and then,
his eyes half closed, began a simple improvisation in a minor key, the
while he lifted his voice and began to sing his ballad of evening
colours:
See! limner Phoebus paints the sky
Vermilion and gold
And doth with purple tapestry
The waning day enfold.
--The royal, lucent, Tyrian dye
King Philip wore in Thessaly.
The Lord of Morning now doth keep
Herald for Lady Night,
Whose robes of black and silver sweep
Before his tabard bright.
--All silver-soft and sable-deep,
As when she brought Endymion sleep!
Now honey-coloured Luna she
Hath lit her lamp on high;
And paleth in her Majestie
The twin Dioscuri.
--Set in gold-powdered samite, she--
Queen of the Night! Queen of the Sea!
His voice faded away into silence; the mellow tenor ceasing in an
imperceptible diminuendo of sound.
There was a silence, and then Lizzie's hand stole out and touched her
lover's. "Oh, Johnnie," she said, "how gracious! And did those lovely
words come into thy head as thou sangst them?"
"In truth they did, fairest lady of evening," he answered, bending low
over her hand. "And sure 'twas thy dear presence that sent them to me,
the musick of thy voice hath breathed a soul into this lute."
... They had arrived safely in Seville the night before, spending three
days upon the journey from Cadiz, but travelling in very pleasant and
easy fashion.
Mr. Mew, the mate of the _St. Iago_, had business in the city, and while
the vessel was discharging its cargo at Cadiz he went up to Seville and
took the four travellers with him on board an _alijador_--a long barge
with quarters for passengers, and a hold for cargo, which was propelled
partly by oars in the narrower reaches of the river, but principally by
a large lug sail.
Don Perez had remained in Cadiz, but the tall and sinister young fellow
whom Hull and Johnnie had rescued from the Atlantic came in the barge
also. The fugitives from England had little to say to him, knowing what
he was. Alonso--which was the man's name--had been profuse in his
gratitude. His profuseness, however, had been mingled with a continuous
astonishment, a brutish wonder which was quite inexplicable to
Elizabeth.
"He seemeth," she said once to her esquire, "to think as if such a deed
of daring as thou didst in thy kindness for a fellow-creature in peril
hath never been known in the world before!"
Madame La Motte and Commendone, however, had said nothing. They knew
very well why this poor wretch, who gained his food by such a hideous
calling, was amazed at his rescue. They said nothing to the girl,
however, dreading that she should ever have an inkling of what the man
was.
On the voyage to Seville, a happy, lazy time under the bright sun,
Johnnie could not quite understand an obvious friendship and liking
which seemed to have sprung up between Alonso and Mr. Mew, who spoke
Spanish very adequately.
"I cannot understand," he said upon one occasion to the sturdy man from
the Isle of Wight, "I cannot understand, sir, how you that are an
English mariner can talk and consort with this tool of hell."
Mr. Mew looked at him with a dry smile. "And yet, master," he said in
the true Hampshire idiom and drawl, "bless your heart, you jumped
overboard for this same man!"
"The case is different," Johnnie said; "'twas a fellow-creature, and I
did as behoved me. But that is no reason to be friendly with such a
wretch."
"Look you, Master Commendone," said Mr. Mew, "every man to his trade. I
would burn both hands, myself, before I'd live by sworn torturing. But,
then, 'tis not my trade. This man's father and his brother have been
doing of it almost since birth, and they do it--and sure, a good
Catholic like yourself," here he smiled dryly, "cannot but remember that
'tis done under the shield and order of Holy Church! The damned old Pope
hath ordered it."
Johnnie crossed himself. "The sovereign Pontiff," he said, "hath
established the Holy Office for punishment of heretics. But the
punishment is light and without harshness in the states of His
Holiness. In Spain 'tis a matter very different. It was under the Holy
Father Innocent IV that this tribunal was created, and the Holy Office
in Spain differed in no wise from the comparatively innocuous----"
"What is that, master? That word?"
"It meaneth 'harmless,' Master Mew. What was I saying? Oh, that it
differed nothing at all in Spain from the harmless Council which was to
detect heresy and reprove it. But during the reign of our good King
Edward IV the Holy Office was changed in Spain. The Ebrews were
plotting, or said to be plotting, against the realm, and they had come
to much wealth and power. Pope Sixtus made many protests, but the right
of appointing inquisitors and directing the operation of the Holy Office
in Spain was reserved to the Spanish Crown. And from this date, Master
Mew, Holy Church at any rate hath disclaimed to be responsible for it.
That was then and is now the true feeling of Rome. 'Tis true that in
Spain the Church tolerates the Inquisition, but its blood-stained acts
are from the Crown and such priests as are ministers of the Crown."
Father Chilches had taught Johnnie his history, truly enough. But it
seemed to make very little impression upon the mate.
"Art a gentleman," he said, "and know doubtless more than I, but such
peddling with words and splicing of facts are not to my mind. The
damned old Pope say I, and always shall, when it's safe to speak! But
the pith of our talk, Master Commendone, was that you would not have me
give comradeship with this Alonso. I see not your point of view. He is
of his time and must do his duty."
The mate snapped a tarry thumb and finger with a tolerant smile. "You've
saved him, so that he may go on with his torturin'," he said, "and I
like to talk with him because I find him a good fellow, and that is all
about it, Master Commendone."
Johnnie had not got much small change from his conference with the mate,
but when they arrived at Seville, he saw him and the man called Alonso
no more, and his mind was directed upon very other things.
They arrived at the city late at night, and their mails were taken to
the great inn of Seville known as the Posada de las Munecas, or house of
puppets, so called from the fact that in days gone by, at the great
annual Seville fair, a famous performance of marionettes had taken place
in front of it.
The Posada was an old Moorish palace, as beautiful under the sunlight as
an Oriental song, and when they rose in the morning and Johnnie had
despatched a serving-man to find if Don Jose Senebria was in residence,
he and his companions wakened to the realisation of a loveliness of
which they had never dreamed.
The sky was like a great hollow turquoise; the sun beat down upon the
Pearl of Andalusia with limpid glory, and played perpetually upon the
white and painted walls. The orange trees, only introduced into Spain
some five-and-twenty years before from Asia, were globed with their
golden fruit among the dark, jade-like leaves of polished green;
feathery palms with their mailed trunks rose up to cut the blue, and on
every side buildings which glowed like immense jewels were set to greet
the unaccustomed northern eye. The Posada was a blaze of colour, half
Moorish, half Gothic, fantastic and alluring as a rare dream.
Johnnie heard early in the morning that Don Jose would be away for two
days, having travelled to his vineyards beyond the old Roman village of
Sancios. The day therefore, and the morrow also, was left to them for
sight-seeing. Both he and Elizabeth had in part forgotten the cloud of
distress under which they had left their native land. The child often
talked to him of her father, making many half-shy confidences about her
happy life at Hadley, telling him constantly of that brave and stalwart
gentleman. But she now accepted all that had happened with the perfect
innocence and trustfulness of youth. Upon her white and stainless mind
what she had undergone had left but little trace. Even now she only half
realised her ravishment to the house with the red door, and that Madame
La Motte was not a pattern of kindness, discretion, and fine feeling
would never have entered Lizzie's simple mind. She was going to be
married to Johnnie!--it was to be arranged almost at once--and then she
knew that there need be no more trouble, no weariness, no further
searchings of heart. She and Johnnie would be together for ever and
ever, and that was all that mattered!
Indeed, under these bright skies, among the gay, good-humoured, and
heedless people of Seville, it would have been very difficult for much
older and more world-weary people than this young man and maid to be sad
or apprehensive.
It had all been a feast, a never-ending feast for eye and ear. They had
stood before pictures which were world-famous--they had seen that
marvellous allegory in pigment, where "a hand holds a pair of scales, in
which the sins of the world--set forth by bats, peacocks, serpents, and
other emblems--are weighed against the emblems of the Passion of Christ
our Lord; and eke in the same frame, which is thought to be the finer
composition, Death, with a coffin under one arm, is about to extinguish
a taper, which lighteth a table besprent with crowns, jewels, and all
the gewgaws of this earthly pomp. 'In Ictu Oculi' are the words which
circle the taper's gleaming light, while set upon the ground resteth a
coffin open, the corpse within being dimly revealed."
They had walked through the long colonnade in the palace of the Alcazar,
to the baths of Maria de Padilla, the lovely mistress of Pedro the
Cruel, "at the Court of whom it was esteemed a mark of gallantry and
loyalty to drink the waters of the bath after that Maria had performed
her ablutions. Upon a day observing that one of his knights refrained
from this act of homage, the King questioned him, and elicited the
reply, 'I dare not drink of the water, Sire, lest, having tasted the
sauce, I should covet the partridge.'"
All these things they had done together in their love and youth,
forgetting all else but the incomparable beauties of art and nature
which surrounded them, the music and splendour of Love within their
hearts.
... A serving-man came through the patio.
"_Puedo cenar?_" Johnnie asked. "_A que hora es el cenar?_"
The man told him that supper was ready then, and together with the
ladies Johnnie left the courtyard and entered the long _comedor_, or
dining-hall, a narrow room with good tapestries upon the walls, and a
ceiling decorated with heads of warriors and ladies in carved and
painted stucco.
It was lit by candle, and supper was spread for the three in the middle
of one great table, an oasis of fruit, lights, and flowers.
"_Este es un vino bueno_," said the waiter who stood there.
"It is all good wine in Spain," Johnnie answered, with a smile, as the
man poured out _borgona_, and another brought them a dish of grilled
salmon.
They lifted their glasses to each other, and fell to with a good
appetite. Suddenly Johnnie stopped eating. "Where is John Hull?" he
said. "God forgive me, I have not thought of him for hours."
"He will be safe enough," Madame La Motte answered, her mouth full of
_salmon asado_. "_Mon Dieu!_ but this fish is good! Fear not, Monsieur,
thy serving-man can very well take care of himself."
"I suppose so," Johnnie replied, though with a little uneasiness.
"But, Johnnie," Elizabeth said, "Hull told me that he was to be with
Master Mew, the mate of our late ship, to see the town with him, so all
will be well."
Johnnie lifted his goblet of wine; he had never felt more free,
careless, and happy in his life.
"Here," he said, "is to this sweet and hospitable land of Spain, whither
we have come through long toils and dangers. 'Tis our Latium, for as the
grandest of all poets, Vergil yclept, hath it, '_Per varios casus, per
tot discrimina rerum, tendimus in Latium, sedes ubi fata quietas
ostendunt_.'"
"And what may that mean, Monsieur?" asked Madame La Motte, pulling the
_botella_ towards her. "My Credo, my Paternoster, and my Ave are all my
Latin."
"It means, Madame," Johnnie answered, "that we have gone through many
troubles and trials, through all sorts of changes in affairs, but we
approach towards Latium, which the poet meaneth for Imperial Rome, where
the fates will let us live in peace."
"In peace!" Elizabeth whispered.
"Aye, sweetheart mine," the young man answered; "we have won to peace
at last. Thou and I together!"
For a moment or two they were all silent, and then the door of the
_comedor_ was suddenly opened, not quietly, as for the entrance of a
serving-man, but flung open widely and with noise.
They all turned and looked towards the archway of the door.
In a moment more six or seven people pressed into the room--people
dressed in black, people whose feet made no noise upon the floor.
Ere ever any of them at the table realised what was happening, they
found themselves gripped by strong, firm hands, though there was never a
word spoken.
Before he could reach the dagger in his belt--for he was not wearing his
sword--Johnnie's arms were bound to his side, and he was held fast.
It was all done with strange deftness and silence, Elizabeth and the
Frenchwoman being held also, each by two men, though their arms were not
bound.
Johnnie burst out in indignant English, then, remembering where he was,
changed to Spanish. "In God's name," he cried, "what means this outrage
upon peaceable and quiet folk?"
His voice was loud and angry, but there was fear in it as he cried out.
The answer came from a tall figure which came noiselessly through the
door, a figure in a cassock, with a large gold cross hung upon its
breast, and followed by two others in the dress of priests.
"Ah, Mr. Commendone, we meet again," came in excellent English, as the
man removed his broad-brimmed felt hat.
"You have come a long way from England, Mr. Commendone, you and
your--friends. But the arm of the King, the hand of the Church, which
are as the arm of God Himself, can stretch swiftly and very far."
Johnnie's face grew dead white as he heard the well-remembered voice of
Father Diego Deza. In a flash he remembered that King Philip's confessor
and confidential adviser had told him that he was to leave England for
Spain on the morning of the very day when he had rescued Elizabeth from
shame.
His voice rattled in his throat and came hoarsely through parched lips.
He made one effort, though he felt that it was hopeless.
"Don Diego," he said, "I am very glad to see you in Spain"--the other
gave a nasty little laugh. "Don Diego," Johnnie continued, "I have
offended nothing against the laws of England. What means this capture
and durance of myself and my companions?"
"You are not in England now, Mr. Commendone," the priest replied; "but
you are in the dominion of His Most Catholic Majesty; you are not
accused of any crime against the civil law of England or of this
country, but I, in my authority as Grand Inquisitor of the Holy Office
in Seville--to do which duty I have now come to Spain--arrest you and
your companions on charges which will be afterwards disclosed to you.
"Take them away," he said in Spanish to his officers.
There was a horrid wail, echoing and re-echoing through the long room
and beating upon the ear-drums of all who were there....
Madame La Motte had heard all that the priest had said in English. She
shrieked and shrieked again.
"Ah-h-h! _C'est vrai alors! L'inquisition! qui lance la mort!_"
With extraordinary and sudden strength she twisted herself away from the
two sombre figures which held her. She bent forward over the table,
snatched up a long knife, gripped the handle firmly with two fat white
hands, and plunged it into her breast to the hilt.
For quite three seconds she stood upright. Her face of horror changed
into a wonder, as if she was surprised at what she had done. Then she
smiled foolishly, like a child who realises that it has made a silly
mistake, coughed loudly like a man, and fell in heavy death upon the
floor.