all the same, heresy and heresy. But I was about to say, Pepe is a
gallant lad, a regular _majo_; his hand knows its way either amongst
the strings of a guitar, or on the hilt of a dagger. He has often
served caballeros who were out of nights serenading their ladies; and
he will go equipped as if for such an adventure. You, also, bind a
guitar on your shoulder (you could use one in old times, and to good
purpose too, if you have not forgotten all Christian accomplishments
together); bribe old Sancho to leave the gates open, and sally forth
to-morrow night when the clock strikes the midnight hour. Pepe will
wait for you in the Calle del Candilejo until one."
"To-morrow night?"
"I would have named to-night, but Pepe has a dance to attend. Moreover,
I knew not whether I could arrange this interview in sufficient time to
prepare you. Now, cousin," she added anxiously, "you understand your
part, and you will not fail in it."
"I understand everything, señora my cousin. From my heart I thank
you for the noble effort to save me. Whether in its result it shall
prove successful or no, already it is successful in giving me hope and
strength, and renewing my faith in old familiar kindness."
"Hush! that step is Don Garçia's. It is best you should go."
"Only one word more, señora. Will my generous cousin add to her
goodness by giving my brother, when it can be done with safety, a hint
of how it has fared with me?"
"Yes; that shall be cared for. Now, adios."
"I kiss your feet, señora."
She hastily extended her hand, upon which he pressed a kiss of
friendship and gratitude. "God bless you, my cousin," he said.
"Vaya con Dios," she responded. "For it is our last meeting," she added
mentally.
She stood and watched the retreating figure with tears in her bright
eyes, and in her heart a memory that went back to old times, when she
used to intercede with her rough brothers for the delicate shrinking
child, who was younger, as well as frailer, than all the rest. "He was
ever gentle and good, and fit to be a holy priest," she thought. "Ay de
mi, for the strange, sad change! Yet, after all, I cannot see that he
is so greatly changed. Playing with the child, talking with me, he is
just the same Carlos as of old. But the devil is very cunning. God and
Our Lady keep us from his wiles!"
XXV.
Waiting.
"Our night is dreary, and dim our day,
And if thou turn thy face away,
We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
And have none to look to and none to trust."
HOGG.
Thus was Carlos roused from the dull apathy of forced inaction. With
the courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and
simple preparations for his flight that were in his power. He also
visited as many as he could of his afflicted friends, feeling that his
ministry among them was now drawing to a close.
He rejoined his uncle's family as usual at the evening meal. Don
Balthazar, the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but soon
came in, looking so much disturbed that his father asked, "What is
amiss?"
"There is nothing amiss, señor and my father," answered the young man,
as he raised a large cup of Manzanilla to his lips.
"Is there any news in the city?" asked his brother Don Manuel.
Don Balthazar set down the empty cup. "No great news," he answered. "A
curse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar."
"What! more arrests," said Don Manuel the elder. "It is awful. The
number reached eight hundred yesterday. Who is taken now?"
"A priest from the country, Doctor Juan Gonzalez, and a friar named
Olmedo. But that is nothing. They might take all the Churchmen in all
the Spains, and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana for
me. It is a different matter when we come to speak of ladies--ladies,
too, of the first families and highest consideration."
A slight shudder, and a kind of forward movement, as if to catch what
was coming, passed round the table. But Don Balthazar seemed reluctant
to say more.
"Is it any of our acquaintances?" asked the sharp, high-pitched voice
of Doña Sancha at last.
"Every one is acquainted with Don Pedro Garçia de Xeres y Bohorques. It
is--I tremble to tell you--his daughter."
"_Which?_" cried Gonsalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on his
livid face and fierce eager eyes.
"St. Iago, brother! You need not look thus at me. Is it my fault?--It
is the learned one, of course, Doña Maria. Poor lady, she may well wish
now that she had never meddled with anything beyond her Breviary."
"Our Lady and all the saints defend us! Doña Maria in prison for
heresy--horrible! Who will be safe now?" the ladies exclaimed, crossing
themselves shudderingly.
But the men used stronger language. Fierce and bitter were the
anathemas they heaped upon heresy and heretics. Yet it is only just to
say that, had they dared, they might have spoken differently. Probably
in their secret hearts they meant the curses less for the victims than
for their oppressors; and had Spain been a land in which men might
speak what they thought, Gonzales de Munebrãga would have been devoted
to a lower place in hell than Luther or Calvin.
Only two were silent. Before the eye of Carlos rose the sweet
thoughtful face of the young girl, as he had seen it last, radiant
with the faith and hope kindled by the sublime words of heavenly
promise spoken by Losada. But the sight of another face--still, rigid,
deathlike--drove that vision away. Gonsalvo sat opposite to him at the
table. And had he never heard the strange story Doña Inez told him,
that look would have revealed it all.
Neither curse nor prayer passed the white lips of Gonsalvo. Not one of
all the bitter words, found so readily on slighter occasions, came now
to his aid. The fiercest outburst of passion would have seemed less
terrible to Carlos than this unnatural silence.
Yet none of the others, after the first moment, appeared to notice
it. Or if they did observe anything strange in the look and manner
of Gonsalvo, it was imputed to physical pain, from which he often
suffered, but for which he rejected, and even resented, sympathy, until
at last it ceased to be offered him. Having given what expression they
dared to their outraged feelings, they once more turned their attention
to the unfinished repast. It was not at all a cheerful meal, yet it was
duly partaken of, except by Gonsalvo and Carlos, both of whom left the
table as soon as they could without attracting attention.
Willingly would Carlos have endeavoured to console his cousin; but he
did not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he saw
the anguish of his soul.
One day still remained to him before his flight. In the morning,
though not very early, he set out to finish his farewell visits to his
friends. He had not gone many paces from the house, when he observed a
gentleman in plain black clothing, with sword and cloak, look at him
regardfully as he passed. A moment afterwards the same person, having
apparently changed his mind as to the direction in which he wished
to go, hurried by him at a rapid pace; and with a murmured "Pardon,
señor," thrust a billet into his hand.
Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him
of some danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding lanes with
which the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe from
observation, cast a hasty glance at the billet.
His eye just caught the words, "His reverence the Lord Inquisitor--Don
Gonsalvo--after midnight--revelations of importance--strict secrecy."
What did it all mean? Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousin
intended betraying him to the Inquisition? He did not believe it. But
the sound of approaching footsteps made him thrust the paper hastily
away; and in another moment his sleeve was grasped by Gonsalvo.
"Give it to me," said his cousin in a breathless whisper.
"Give you what?"
"The paper that born idiot and marplot put into thy hands, mistaking
thee for me. Curse the fool! Did he not know I was lame?"
Carlos showed the note, still holding it. "Is this what you mean?" he
asked.
"You have read it! _Honourable!_" cried Gonsalvo, with a bitter sneer.
"You are unjust to me. It bears no address; and I could not suppose
otherwise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read
the few disconnected words upon which my eye first chanced to fall."
The cousins stood gazing in each other's faces; as those might do that
meet in mortal combat, ere they close hand to hand. Each was pondering
whether the other was capable of doing him a deadly injury. Yet, after
all, each held, at the bottom of his heart, a conviction that the other
might be trusted.
Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the first
to come to a conclusion. Almost with a smile he handed the note to
Gonsalvo. "Whatever yon mysterious billet may mean to Don Gonsalvo,"
he said, "I am convinced that he means no harm to any one bearing the
name of Alvarez de Meñaya."
"You will never repent that word. And it is true--in the sense you
speak it," returned Gonsalvo, taking the paper from his hand. At that
moment he was irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or no. But the
touch of his cousin's hand decided him. It was cold and trembling. One
so weak in heart and nerve was obviously unfit to share the burden of a
brave man's desperate resolve.
Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Gonsalvo intended no ill
to him. But what then did he intend? Had he solicited the Inquisitor
for a private midnight interview merely to throw himself at his feet,
and with impassioned eloquence to plead the cause of Doña Maria? Were
"important revelations" only a blind to procure his admission?
Impossible! who, past the age of infancy, would kneel to the storm to
implore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage?
Perhaps some dreamy enthusiast, unacquainted with the world and its
ways, might still be found sanguine enough for such a project, but
certainly not Don Gonsalvo Alvarez de Meñaya.
Or had he a bribe to offer? Inquisitors, like other Churchmen, were
known to be subject to human frailties; of course they would not touch
gold, but, according to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invited
to throw it into their cowls. And Munebrãga could scarcely have fed his
numerous train of insolent retainers, decked his splendid barge with
gold and purple, and brought rare plants and flowers from every known
country to his magnificent gardens, without very large additions to the
acknowledged income of the Inquisitor-General's deputy. But, again,
not all the wealth of the Indies would avail to open the gates of the
Triana to an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of
"his Reverence" upon the merits of a _doubtful_ case. And even to
procure a few slight alleviations in the treatment of the accused,
would have required a much deeper purse than Gonsalvo's.
Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was "bitter of soul;" ready for
any desperate deed. What if he meant to accuse _himself_. Amidst the
careless profanity in which he had been too wont to indulge, many a
word had fallen from his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine
in the estimation of Inquisitors, comparatively lenient as they were to
_blasphemers_. But what possible benefit to Doña Maria would be gained
by his throwing himself into the jaws of death? And if it were really
his resolve to commit suicide, by way of ending his own miseries, he
could surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painful
manner.
Thus Carlos pondered; but in whatever way he regarded the matter, he
could not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerous
or fatal step. Gonsalvo was too still, too silent. This was an evil
sign. Carlos would have felt comparatively easy about him had he made
him shrink and shudder by an outburst of the fiercest, most indignant
curses. For the less emotion is wasted in expression, the more remains,
like pent-up steam, to drive the engine forward in its course.
Moreover, there was an evil light in Gonsalvo's eye; a gleam like that
of hope, but hope that was certainly not kindled from above.
Although the very crisis of his own fate was now approaching, and
every faculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was
haunted perpetually by the thought of his cousin. It continued to
occupy him not only during his visits to his friends, but afterwards in
the solitude and silence of his own apartment. We all know the strange
perversity with which, in times of suspense and sorrow, the mind will
sometimes run riot upon matters irrelevant, and even apparently trivial.
With slow footsteps the hours stole on; miserable hours to Carlos,
except in so for as he could spend them in prayer, now his only
resource and refuge. After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his
dear imprisoned brethren and sisters, he named Gonsalvo; and was led
most earnestly to implore God's mercy for his unhappy cousin. As he
thought of his misery, so much greater than his own; his loneliness,
without God in the world; his sorrow, without hope,--his pleading grew
impassioned. And when at last he rose from his knees, it was with that
sweet sense that God would hear--nay, that he _had_ heard--which is
one of the mysteries of the new life, the precious things that no man
knoweth save he that receiveth them.
Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simple
preparations, took his guitar (which had now lain unused for a long
time), and sallied forth from his chamber.
XXVI.
Don Gonsalvo's Revenge.
"Our God, the all just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty,
The secret chastening of the guilty heart;
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies--
Leave it with him. Yet make not that thy trust;
For that strong heart of thine--oh, listen yet!--
Must in its depths o'ercome the very wish
Of death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again."
HEMANS.
Don Manuel's house had once belonged to a Moorish Cid, or lord. It
had been assigned to the first Conde de Nuera, as one of the original
_conquistadors_ of Seville; and he had bequeathed it to his second son.
It had a turret, after the Moorish fashion, and the upper chamber of
this had been given to Carlos on his first arrival in the city; from an
idea that the theological student would require a solitary place for
study and devotion, or, at least, that it would be decorous to suppose
so. The room beneath had been occupied by Don Juan, but since his
departure it was appropriated by Gonsalvo, who liked solitude, and took
advantage of his improved health to escape from the ground-floor, to
which his infirmities had long confined him.
As Carlos stole noiselessly down the narrow winding stair, he noticed a
light in his cousin's room. This in itself did not surprise him. But
he certainly felt a little disconcerted when, just as he passed the
door, Don Gonsalvo opened it, and met him face to face. He also was
fully equipped in sword and cloak, and carried a torch in his hand.
"Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos," he said reproachfully; "after all, thou
couldst not trust me."
"Nay, I did trust you."
From fear of being overheard, both entered the nearest room--Don
Gonsalvo's--and its owner closed the door softly.
"You are stealing away from fear of me, and thereby throwing yourself
into the fire. Do it not, Don Carlos; be advised, and do it not." He
spoke earnestly, and without a shadow of the old bitterness and sarcasm.
"Nay, it is not thus. My flight was planned ere yesterday; and in
concert with one who both can and will provide me with the means of
safety. It is best I should go."
"Enough said then," returned Gonsalvo, more coldly. "Farewell; I seek
not to detain you. Farewell; for though we may go forth together, our
paths divide, and for ever, at the door."
"Your path is perhaps less safe than mine, Don Gonsalvo."
"Talk of what you understand, cousin. My path is safety itself. And now
that I think of it (if you could be trusted), you might aid me perhaps.
Did you know all, I dare not doubt that you would rejoice to do it."
"God knows how joyfully I would aid you if I could, Don Gonsalvo. But I
fear you are bound on a useless, and worse than useless, errand."
"You know not my errand."
"But I know to whom you go this night. Oh, my cousin, is it possible
you can dream that prayer of yours will soften hearts harder than the
nether millstone?"
"I know the way to one heart; and though it be the hardest of all, I
shall reach it."
"Were you to pour the wealth of El Dorado at the feet of Gonzales de
Munebrãga, he neither would nor could unloose one bolt of that prison."
Gonsalvo's wild look changed suddenly into one of wistful earnestness,
almost of tenderness. He said, lowering his voice,--
"Near as death, the revealer of secrets, may be to me, there are still
some questions worth the asking. Perchance _you_ can throw a gleam of
light upon this horrible darkness. We are speaking frankly now, and as
in God's presence. Tell me, _is that charge true_?"
"Frankly, and in the sense in which you ask--it is."
The last fatal words Carlos only whispered. Gonsalvo made no answer;
but a kind of momentary spasm passed across his face.
Carlos at length went on in a low voice: "She knew the Evangel long
before I did, though she is so young--not yet one-and-twenty. She was
the pupil of Dr. Egidius; but he was wont to say he learned more from
her than she did from him. Her keen, bright intellect cut through
sophistries, and reached truth so quickly. And God gave her abundantly
of his grace; making her willing, for that truth, to endure all things.
Oft have I seen her sweet face kindle and glow whilst he who taught us
spoke of the joy and strength given to those that suffer for the name
of Christ. I am persuaded He is with her now, and will be with her
even to the end. Could you gain access to her where she is, I think
she would tell you she possesses a treasure of peace of which neither
death nor suffering, neither cruelty of fiends nor worse cruelty of
fiend-like men, can avail to rob her."
"She is a saint--she will be a blessed saint in heaven, let them say
what they may," murmured Gonsalvo hoarsely. Then the fierce look
returned to his face again. "But I think the old Christians of Castile,
the men whose good swords made the infidels bite the dust, and
planted the cross on their painted towers, are no better than curs and
dastards."
"In that they suffer these things?"
"Yes; a thousand times, yes. In the name of man's honour and woman's
loveliness, are there, in our good city of Seville, neither fathers,
nor brothers, nor lovers left alive? No man who thinks the sweetest
eyes ever seen worth six inches of steel in five skilful fingers? No
one man, save the poor forgotten cripple, Don Gonsalvo Alvarez. But he
thanks God this night that he has spared his life, and left strength
enough in his feeble limbs to beat him into a murderer's presence."
"Don Gonsalvo! what do you mean?" cried Carlos, shrinking from him.
"Lower thy voice, an' it please thee. But why should I fear to tell
thee--_thee_, who hast good cause to be the death-foe of Inquisitors?
If thou art not cur and dastard too, thou wilt applaud and pray for me.
For I suppose heretics pray, at least as well as Inquisitors. I said
I would reach the heart of Gonzales de Munebrãga this night. Not with
gold. There is another metal of keener temper, which enters in where
even gold cannot come."
"Then you mean--_murder_?" said Carlos, again drawing near him,
and laying his hand on his arm. Gonsalvo sank into a seat, half
mechanically, half from an instinct that led him to spare the strength
he would need so sorely by-and-by.
In the momentary pause that followed, the clock of San Vicente tolled
the midnight hour.
"Yes," replied Gonsalvo steadily; "I mean murder--as the shepherd does
who strangles the wolf with his paw on the lamb."
"Oh, think--"
"I have thought of everything. And mark me, Don Carlos, I have but one
regret. It is that my weapon deals an instantaneous death. Such revenge
is poor and flavourless after all. I have heard of poisons whose least
drop, mingling with the blood, ensures a slow agonizing death--time
to learn what torture means, and to drain to the dregs the cup filled
for others--to curse God and man ere he dies. For a phial of such,
wherewith to anoint my blade, I would sell my soul to-night."
"O Gonsalvo, this is horrible! They are wild, wicked words you speak.
Pray God to pardon you!"
"I adjure him by his justice to prosper me," said Gonsalvo, raising his
head defiantly.
"He will not prosper you. And do you dream that such a mad achievement
(suppose you even succeed in it) will open prison-doors and set
captives free? Alas! alas! that we are not at the mercy of a tyrant's
_will_. For tyrants, the worst of them, sometimes relent; and--they are
mortal. That which is crushing us is not a living being, an organism
with nerves, and brain, and blood. It is a system, a THING,
a terrible engine, that moves on in its resistless way, cold and
lifeless, without will or feeling. Strong as adamant, it kills,
tortures, destroys; obeying laws far away out of our sight. Were Valdez
and Munebrãga, and all the Board of Inquisitors, dead corpses by the
morning light, not a single dungeon in the Triana would open its
pitiless gate."
"I do not believe _that_," replied Gonsalvo, rather more quietly.
"Surely there must be some confusion, of which advantage may be taken
by friends of the prisoners. This, indeed, is the motive which now
induces me to confide in you. _You_ may know those who, if they had the
chance, could strike a shrewd blow to save their dearest on earth from
torture and death."
But Gonsalvo read no answer in the sorrowful face of Carlos to the
searching look of inquiry with which he said this. After a silence he
went on,--
"Suppose the worst, however. The Holy Office sorely needs a little
blood-letting, and will be much the better for it. Whoever succeeds,
Munebrãga will have my dagger flashing in his eyes, and will take care
how he deals with his prisoners, and whom he arrests."
"I implore you to think of yourself," said Carlos.
Gonsalvo smiled. "I know I shall pay the forfeit," he said, "even as
those who slew the Inquisitor Pedro Arbues before the high altar in
Saragossa. But"--here the smile faded, and the stern set look returned
to his face--"I shall not pay more, for a man's triumphant vengeance,
than those fiends will dare to inflict upon a tender, delicately
nurtured girl for the crime of a mystic meditation, or a few words of
prayer not properly rounded off with an Ave."
"True. But then you will suffer alone. She has God with her."
"I _can_ suffer alone."
For that word Carlos envied him. _He_ shrank in terror from loneliness,
from suffering, shuddering at the very thought of the dungeon and the
torture-room. And just then the first quarter of his hour of grace
chimed from the clock of San Vicente. What if he and Pepe should fail
to meet? He would not think of that now. Whatever happened, Gonsalvo
_must_ be saved. He went on,--
"Here you can suffer alone and be strong. But how will you endure the
loneliness of the long hereafter, away from God's presence, from light
and life and hope? Are you content that you, and she for whom you give
your life, should be sundered throughout eternity?"
"Nay; I am casting my lot in with hers. If the Church curses her (pure
and holy as she ever was), its anathema shall fall on me too. If only
the Church's key opens heaven, she and I will both stand without."
"Yet you know she will enter heaven. Shall _you_?"
Gonsalvo hesitated. "It will not be the blood of a villain that will
bar my way," he said.
"God says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'"
"Then what will he do with Gonzales de Munebrãga?"
"He will do that with him of which, if you but dreamed, it would change
your fiercest hate into saddest, deepest pity. Have you realized what
a span is our life here compared with the countless ages of eternity?
Think! For God's chosen a few weeks, or months at most, of solitude and
fear and pain, ended perhaps by--but that is as he pleases; _ended_, at
all events. Then add up the million years, fill them with the joy of
victory, and the presence and love of Christ himself. Can they not, and
we for them, be content with this?"
"Are you content with it yourself?" Gonsalvo suddenly interrupted. "You
seek flight."