at nightfall through the jealous grating of one of the few windows of
Don Manuel's house that looked towards the street, told Juan that he
was at liberty to seek admission the next day. He was permitted to
enter; but he explored the patio and all the adjacent corridors and
rooms without seeing the face of which he was in search. He did not,
indeed, meet any one, not even a domestic; for it was the eve of the
Feast of the Ascension, and nearly all the household had gone to see
the great tabernacle carried in state to the Cathedral and set up
there, in preparation for the solemnities of the following day.
He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visit
the apartment his brother had been wont to occupy. In spite of what his
uncle had said to the contrary, and indeed of the dictates of his own
reason, he could not relinquish the hope that something which belonged
to him--perhaps even some word or line traced by his hand--might reward
his careful search.
He ascended the stairs; not stealthily, or as if ashamed of his
errand, for no one had the right to forbid him. He reached the turret
without meeting any one, but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair
that led to its upper apartment, when a voice called out, not very
loudly,--
"Chien va?"
It was Gonsalvo's. Juan answered,--
"It is I--Don Juan."
"Come to me, for Heaven's sake!"
A private interview with a madman is not generally thought particularly
desirable. But Juan was a stranger to fear. He entered the room
immediately, and was horror-stricken at the change in his cousin's
appearance. A tangled mass of black hair mingled with his beard, and
fell neglected over the pillow; while large, wild, melancholy eyes
lit up the pallor of his wasted face. He lay, or rather reclined, on
a couch, half covered by an embroidered quilt, but wearing a loose
doublet, very carelessly thrown on.
Of late the cousins had been far from friendly. Still Juan from
compassion stretched out his hand. But Gonsalvo would not touch it.
"Did you know all," he said, "you would stab me where I lie, and thus
make an end at once of the most miserable life under God's heaven."
"I fear you are very ill, my cousin," said Juan, kindly; for he thought
Gonsalvo's words the offspring of his wandering fancy.
"From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God's hand; and he is just."
"Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?"
With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered--"I
have no physician."
"This must be one of his delusions," thought Juan; "or else, since he
cannot have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see
any one else."
He said aloud,--"That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought
not to neglect lawful means of cure. Señor Sylvester Areto is a very
skilful physician; you might safely place yourself in his hands."
"Only there is one slight objection--my father and my brothers would
not permit me to see him."
Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to
extract from him some additional information respecting his brother, he
turned the conversation.
"When did this malady seize you?" he asked.
"Close the door gently, and I will tell you all. And oh! tread softly,
lest my mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out with
watching, should wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and my
anguish unconfessed to the grave."
Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin's couch.
"Sit where I can see your face," said Gonsalvo; "I will not shrink even
from _that_. Don Juan, I am your brother's murderer."
Juan started, and his colour changed rapidly.
"If I did not think you were mad--"
"I am no more mad than you are," Gonsalvo interrupted. "I _was_ mad,
indeed; but that horrible night, when God smote my body, I regained my
reason. I see all things clearly now--too late."
"Am I to understand, then," said Juan, rising from his seat, and
speaking in measured tones, though his eye was like a tiger's--"am I to
understand that you--_you_--denounced my brother? If so, thank God that
you are lying helpless there."
"I am not quite so vile a thing as that. I did not intend to harm a
hair of his head; but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the means
of escape provided, and but for me would have been in safety ere the
Alguazils came."
"Well for both of us your guilt was not greater. Still, you cannot
expect me--just yet--to forgive you."
"I expect no forgiveness from man," said Gonsalvo, who perhaps
disdained to plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos.
Juan had by this time changed his tone towards his cousin, and assumed
his perfect sanity; though, engrossed by the thought of his brother, he
was quite unconscious of the mental process by which he had arrived at
this conclusion. He asked,--
"But why did you detain him? How did you come to know at all of his
intended flight?"
"He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend--I know not
whom," said Gonsalvo, in reply. "He was going forth at midnight to seek
it. At the same hour I also"--(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly
went on)--"was going forth--to plunge a dagger in my enemy's heart. We
met face to face; and each confided his errand to the other. He sought,
by argument and entreaty, to move me from a purpose which seemed to
him a great crime. But ere our debate was ended, God laid his hand in
judgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking words of
comfort--brave and kind, though vain--the Alguazils came, and he was
taken."
Juan listened in gloomy silence.
"Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?" he asked at last, in a
low voice.
"Yes; one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met
his terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, 'Vaya
con Dios, Don Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!' With
one long mournful look, that haunts me still, he said, '_Tell Ruy!_'"
Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept. They
were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him--almost the
first that he ever remembered shedding. Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.
"Weep on," he said--"weep on; and thank God that thy tears are for
sorrow only, not for remorse."
Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they were
the only sounds that broke the stillness. At length Gonsalvo said,
slowly,--
"He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee."
Juan looked up. Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion
from beneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine
holland; then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like
an accidental rip, and, not without some trouble, drew out a small
volume. Juan seized it eagerly: well did he know his brother's Spanish
Testament.
"Take it," said Gonsalvo; "but remember it is a dangerous treasure."
"Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it?"
"I deserve that you should say so," answered Gonsalvo, with unwonted
gentleness. "But the truth is," he added, with a wan, sickly smile,
"nothing can part me from it now, for I have learned almost every word
of it by heart."
"How could you, in so short a time, accomplish such a task?" asked
Juan, in surprise.
"Easily enough. I was alone long hours of the day, when I could read;
and in the silent, sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what I
read during the day. But for that I should be in truth what they call
me--mad."
"Then you love its words?"
"I _fear_ them," cried Gonsalvo, with strange energy, flinging out
his wasted arm over the counterpane. "They are words of life--words
of fire. They are, to the Church's words, the priest's threatenings,
the priest's pardons, what your limbs, throbbing with healthy
vigorous life, are to mine--cold, dead, impotent; or what the living
champion--steel from head to heel, the Toledo blade in his strong right
hand--is to the painted San Cristofro on the Cathedral door. Because
I dare to say so much, my father pretends to think me mad; lest,
wrecked as I am in mind and body, I should still find one terrible
consolation,--that of flinging the truth for once in the face of the
scribes and Pharisees, and then suffering for it--like Don Carlos."
He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlike
countenance. After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,--
"Some words are good--perhaps. There was San Pablo, who was a
blasphemer, and injurious."
"Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand that
you shared his faith."
"Oh, did he?" A quick flush overspread the wan face. "But hark! a step
on the stairs! My mother's."
"I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here," said Don Juan.
"My poor mother! She has shown me more tenderness of late than I
deserved at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble."
Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some words
of condolence upon his cousin's illness. But he saw that the poor lady
was terribly disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence
there. And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might
have followed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found Juan in
communication with Gonsalvo. She conjured him to go, adding, by way of
inducement,--
"Doña Beatriz is taking the air in the garden."
"Availing myself of your gracious permission, señora my aunt, I shall
offer her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet.--Adiõs, Don
Gonsalvo."
"Adiõs, my cousin."
Doña Katarina followed him out of the room.
"He is not sane," she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm;
"he is out of his mind. You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?"
"Certainly I shall not dispute it, señora," Juan answered, prudently.
XXIX.
A Friend at Court.
"I have a soul and body that exact
A comfortable care in many ways."
R. BROWNING.
Don Juan's peril was extreme. Well known as he was to many of the
imprisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that, amongst the
numerous confessions wrung from them, no mention of his name should
occur. He knew himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they
were suffering--the one unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome.
Moreover, unlike his brother, whose temperament would have led him to
avoid danger by every lawful means, he was by nature brave even to
rashness, and bold even to recklessness. It was his custom to wear
his heart on his lips; and though of late stern necessity had taught
him to conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor
his habit to disguise what he felt. Probably, not even his desire to
aid Carlos would have prevented his compromising himself by some rash
word or deed, had not the soft hand of Doña Beatriz, strong in its
weakness, held him back from destruction. Not for one instant could
he forget her terrible vow. With this for ever before his eyes, it is
little marvel if he was willing to do anything, to bear anything--ay,
almost to feign anything--rather than involve her he loved in a fate
inconceivably horrible.
And--alas for the brave, honest-hearted, truthful Don Juan Alvarez!--it
was often necessary to feign. If he meant to remain in Seville,
and to avoid the dungeons of the Inquisition, he must obviate--or
remove--suspicion by protesting, both by word and action, his devotion
to the Catholic Church, and his hatred of heresy.
Could he stoop to this? Gradually, and more and more, as each day's
emergency made it more and more necessary, he _did_ stoop to it. He
told himself it was all for his brother's sake. And though such a
line of conduct was intensely repugnant to his character, it was not
contrary to his principles. To conceal an opinion is one thing, to deny
a friend quite another. And while Carlos had found a Friend, Juan had
only embraced an opinion.
He himself would have said that he had found Truth--had devoted himself
to the cause of Freedom. But where were truth and freedom now, with all
the bright anticipations of their ultimate triumph which he had been
wont to indulge? As far as his native land was concerned (and it must
be owned that his native eye scarcely reached beyond "the Spains"),
a single day had blotted out his glowing visions for ever. Almost at
the same moment, as if by some secret preconcerted signal, the leading
Protestants in Seville, in Valladolid, all over the kingdom, had been
arrested and thrown into prison. Swiftly, silently, with the utmost
order and regularity, had the whole thing been accomplished. Every name
that Juan had heard Carlos mention with admiration and sympathy was now
the name of a helpless captive. The Reformed Church of Spain existed no
longer, or existed only in dungeons.
In what quarter the storm had first arisen, that burst so suddenly upon
the community of the faithful, Don Juan never knew. It is probable the
Holy Office had long been silently watching its prey, waiting for the
moment of action to arrive. In Seville, it is said, a spy had been set
upon some of Losada's congregation, who revealed their meeting to the
Inquisitors. While in Valladolid, the foul treachery of the wife of one
of the Protestants furnished the Holy Office with the means of bringing
her husband and his friends to the stake.
Don Juan, whose young heart had lately beat so high with hope, now
bowed his head in despair. And despairing of freedom, he lost his
confidence in truth also. In opinion he was still a decided Lutheran.
He accepted every doctrine of the Reformed as against the Roman
Catholic creed. But the hold he once had upon these doctrines as living
realities was slackened. He did not doubt that justification by faith
was a scriptural dogma, but he did not think it necessary to die for
it. Compared with the tremendous interest of the fate of Carlos and the
peril of Beatriz, and amidst his desperate struggles to aid the one and
shield the other, doctrinal questions grew pale and faint to him.
Nor had he yet learned to throw himself, in utter weakness, upon a
strength greater than his own, and a love that knows no limits. He did
not feel his weakness: he felt strong, in the strength of a brave heart
struggling against cruel wrong; strong to resist, and, if it might be,
to conquer his fate.
At first he cherished a hope that his brother was not actually in the
secret dungeons of the Inquisition. For so great was the number of the
captives, that the public gaols of the city and the convent prisons
were full of them; and some had to be lodged even in private houses.
As Carlos had been one of the last arrested, there seemed reason to
suppose that he might be amongst those thus accommodated; in which case
it would be much easier both to communicate with him, and to alleviate
his fate, than if he were within the gloomy walls of the Triana; there
might be, moreover, the possibility of forming some plan for his
deliverance.
But Juan's diligent and persevering search resulted at last in the
conviction that his brother was in the "Santa Casa" itself. This
conviction sent a chill to his heart. He shuddered to think of his
present suffering, whilst he feared the worst for the future, supposing
that the Inquisitors would take care to lodge in their own especial
fortress those whom they esteemed the most heinous transgressors.
He engaged a lodging in the Triana suburb, which the river, spanned by
a bridge of boats, separated from the city. There were several reasons
for this choice of residence; but by far the greatest was, that those
who lingered beneath the walls of the grim old castle could sometimes
see, behind its grated windows, spectral faces raised to catch the few
scanty gleams of daylight which fell to their lot. Long weary hours did
Juan watch there, hoping to recognize the face he loved. But always in
vain.
When he went into the city, it was sometimes for other purposes than
to visit Doña Beatriz. It was as often to seek the precincts of the
magnificent Cathedral, and to pace up and down that terrace whose
massive truncated pillars, raised when the Romans founded a heathen
temple on the spot, had stood throughout the long ages of Moslem
domination. Now the place was consecrated to Christian worship, and yet
it was put to no hallowed use. Rich merchants, in many a varying garb,
that told of different nations, trod the stately colonnade, and bought
and sold and made bargains there. For in those days (strange as seems
to us the irreverence of the so-called "ages of faith") that terrace
was the royal exchange of Seville, then a mercantile city of great
importance. Don Juan Alvarez diligently resorted thither, and held many
a close and earnest conversation with a keen-eyed, hawk-nosed Jew, whom
he met there.
Isaac Osorio, or more properly, Isaac ben Osorio, was a notorious
money-lender, who had often "obliged" Don Manuel's sons, not unfairly
requiring heavy interest to counter-balance the hazardous nature of his
investments. Callings branded as unlawful are apt to prove particularly
gainful. The Jew was willing to "oblige" Don Juan also, upon certain
conditions. He was not by any means ignorant of the purpose for which
his money was needed. Of course he was himself a Christian in name,
for none other would have been permitted to live upon Spanish ground.
But by what wrongs, tortures, agonies worse than death, he and those
like him had been forced to accept Christian baptism, will never be
known until Christ comes again to judge the false Church that has
slandered him. Will it be nothing in his sight that millions of the
souls for whom he died have been driven to hate his Name--that Name so
unutterably precious?
Osorio derived grim satisfaction from the thought that the Christians
were now imprisoning, torturing, burning each other. It reminded him
of the grand old days in his people's history, when the Lord of hosts
was wont to stretch forth his mighty arm and trouble the armies of the
aliens, turning every man's hand against his brother. Let the Gentiles
bite and devour one another, the child of Abraham could look upon
their quarrels with calm indifference. But if he had any sympathy, it
was for the weaker side. He was rather disposed to help a Christian
youth who was trying to save his brother from the same cruel fangs
in which so many sons of Israel had writhed and struggled. Don Juan,
therefore, found him accommodating, and even lenient. From time to time
he advanced to him considerable sums, first upon the jewels he brought
with him from Nuera, and then, alas! upon his patrimony itself.
Not without a keen pang did Juan thus mortgage the inheritance of his
fathers. But he began to realize the bitter truth that a flight from
Spain, and a new career in some foreign land, would eventually be the
only course open to him--if indeed he escaped with life.
Nor would the armies of Spain henceforth be more free to him than her
soil. Fortunately, the necessity for rejoining his regiment had not
arisen. For the brief war in which he served was over now; and as the
promised captaincy had not yet been assigned to him, he was at liberty
for the present to remain at home.
He largely bribed the head-gaoler of the inquisitorial prison, besides
supplying him liberally with necessaries and comforts for his brother's
use. Gaspar Benevidio bore the worst of characters, both for cruelty
and avarice; still, Juan had no resource but to trust implicitly to his
honour, in the hope that at least some portion of what he gave would be
allowed to reach the prisoner. But not a single gleam of information
about him could be gained from Benevidio, who, like all other servants
of the Inquisition, was bound by a solemn oath to reveal nothing that
passed within its walls.
He also bribed some of the attendants and satellites of the
all-powerful Inquisitor, Munebrãga. It was his desire to obtain a
personal interview with the great man himself, that he might have the
opportunity of trying the intercession of Don Dinero, to whose advances
he was known to be not altogether obdurate.
For the purpose of soliciting an audience, he repaired one evening to
the splendid gardens belonging to the Triana, to await the Inquisitor,
who was expected shortly to return from a sail for pleasure on the
Guadalquivir. He was sick at heart of the gorgeous tropical plants that
surrounded him, of the myrtle-blossoms that were showered on his path;
of all that told of the hateful pomp and luxury in which the persecutor
lived, while his victims pined unpitied in loathsome dungeons. Yet
neither by word, look, nor sign dared he betray the rage that was
gnawing his heart.
At length the shouts of the populace, who thronged the river's side,
announced the approach of their idol; for such Munebrãga was for the
time. Clad in costly silks and jewels, and surrounded by a brilliant
little court, composed both of churchmen and laymen, the "Lord
Inquisitor" stepped from his splendid purple-decked barge. Don Juan
threw himself in his way, and modestly requested an audience. His
bearing, though perfectly respectful, was certainly less obsequious
than that to which Munebrãga had been accustomed of late. So the
minister of the Holy Office turned from him haughtily, though, as Juan
bitterly thought, "his father would have been proud to hold the stirrup
for mine." "This is no fitting time to talk of business, señor," he
said. "We are weary to-night, and need repose."
At that moment a Franciscan friar advanced from the group, and with his
lowest bow and most reverent manner approached the Inquisitor. "With
the gracious permission of my very good lord, I shall address myself
to the caballero, and report his errand to your sanctity. I have the
honour of some acquaintance with his Excellency's noble family."
"As you please, Fray," said the voice accustomed to speak the terrible
words that doomed to the rack and the pulley, though no one would have
suspected this from the bland, careless good-nature of its tones. "But
see that you tarry not so as to lose your supper. Howbeit, there is
little need to caution you, or any other son of St. Francis, against
undue neglecting of the body."
The son of St. Francis made no answer, either because it was not
worth while, or because those who take the crumbs from the rich man's
table must ofttimes take his taunts therewith. He disengaged himself
from the group, and turned towards Juan a broad, good-humoured, not
unintelligent face, which his former pupil recognized immediately.
"Fray Sebastian Gomez!" he exclaimed in astonishment.
"And very much at the service of my noble Señor Don Juan. Will your
Excellency deign to bear me company for a little time? In yonder walk
there are some rare flowers of rich colouring, which it were worth your
while to observe."
They turned into the path he indicated, while the Lord Inquisitor's
silken train swept towards that half of the Triana where godless luxury
bore sway; the other half being consecrated to the twin demon, cruelty.
"Will it please your worship to look at these Indian pinks?" said the
friar. "You will not see that flower elsewhere in all the Spains, save
in the royal gardens. His Imperial Majesty brought it first from Tunis."
Juan all but cursed the innocent flowers; but recollected in time that
God made them, though they belonged to Gonzales de Munebrãga. "In
Heaven's name, what brings you here, Fray Sebastian?" he interrupted
impatiently. "I thought to see only the black cowls of St. Dominic
about the--the minister of the Holy Office."
"A little more softly, may I implore of your Excellency? Yonder
casement is open.--Pues,[18] señor, I am here in the capacity of a
guest. Nothing more."
[18] Well, or well then
"Every man to his taste," said Juan, drily, as with a heedless foot he
kicked off the beautiful scarlet flower of a rare cactus.
"Have a care, señor and your Excellency; my lord is very proud of his
cactus flowers."
"Then come with me to some spot of God's free earth where we can talk
together, out of sight of him and his possessions."
"Nay, rest content, señor; and untire yourself in this fair arbour
overlooking the river."
"At least, God made the river," said Juan, flinging himself, with
a sigh of irritation and impatience, on the cushioned seat of the
summer-house.
Fray Sebastian seated himself also. "My lord," he began to explain,
"has received me with all courtesy, and is good enough to desire my
continual attendance. The fact is, señor, his reverence is a man of
literary taste."
Juan allowed himself the solace of a quiet sneer. "Oh, is he? Very
creditable to him, no doubt."
"Especially he is a great lover of the divine art of poesy."