did or could soften the Inquisitor's hard heart. Nor, had his wealth
been doubled, could he have hired one real poet to sing his praise
in strains worthy the ear of posterity. In an atmosphere so cold,
the most ethereal spirit would have frozen. But it was in his power
to buy flattery in rhyme, and it suited his inclination so to do.
He liked the trick of rhyme, at once so easy and so charming in the
sonorous Castilian tongue--it was a pleasure of the ear which he keenly
appreciated, as he did also those of the eye and the palate.
"I addressed to him," Fray Sebastian continued with becoming modesty,
"a little effort of my Muse--really a mere trifle--on the suppression
of heresy, comparing the Lord Inquisitor to Michael the archangel, with
the dragon beneath his feet. You understand, señor?"
Juan understood so well that it was with difficulty he refrained from
flinging the unlucky rhymester into the river. But of late he had
learned many a lesson in prudence. Still, his words sounded almost
fierce in their angry scorn. "I suppose he gave you in return--a good
dinner."
But Fray Sebastian would not take offence. He answered mildly, "He was
pleased to express his approval of my humble effort, and to admit me
into his noble household; where, except my poor exertions to amuse and
untire him by my conversation may be accounted a service, I am of no
service to him whatever."
"So you are clad in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every
day," said Juan, with contempt that he cared not to conceal.
"As to purple and fine linen, señor, I am an unworthy son of St.
Francis; and it is well known to your Excellency that by the rules of
our Order not even one scrap of holland---- But you are laughing at me,
as you used in old times, Señor Don Juan."
"God knows, I have little heart to laugh. In those old times you speak
of, Fray, there was no great love between you and me; and no marvel,
for I was a wild and idle lad. But I think you loved my gentle brother,
Don Carlos!"
"That I did, señor, as did every one. Has any evil come upon him? St.
Francis forbid!"
"Worse evil than I care to name. He lies in yonder tower."
"The blessed Virgin have pity on us!" cried Fray Sebastian, crossing
himself.
"I thought you would have heard of his arrest," Juan continued, sadly.
"I, señor! Never a breath. Holy Saints defend us! How could I, or any
one, dream that a young gentleman of noblest race, well learned, and
of truly pious disposition, would have had the ill luck to fall under
so foul a suspicion? Doubtless it is the work of some personal enemy.
And--ah, woe is me! 'the clattering horse-shoe ever wants a nail'--here
have I been naming heresy, 'talking of halters in the house of the
hanged?'"
"Hold thy tongue about hanging," said Juan, testily, "and listen to me,
if thou canst."
Fray Sebastian indicated, by a respectful gesture, his profound
attention.
"It has been whispered to me that the door of his reverence's heart may
be unlocked by a golden key."
Fray Sebastian assured him this was a foul slander; concluding a
panegyric on the purity of the Inquisitor's administration with the
words, "You would forfeit his favour for ever by presuming so far as to
offer a bribe."
"No doubt," answered Juan with a sneer, and a hard, worldly look in
his face that of late was often seen there. "I should deserve to pay
that penalty were I the fool to approach him with a bow, and, 'Here is
a purse of gold for your sanctity.' But 'one take is worth two I give
you's,' and there is a way of saying 'take' to every man. And I ask
you, for old kindness, to show me how to say it to his lordship."
Fray Sebastian pondered. After an interval he said, with some
hesitation, "May I venture to inquire, señor, what means you possess of
clearing the character of your noble brother?"
Juan only answered by a sorrowful shake of the head.
Darker and darker grew the friar's sensual but good-natured face.
"His excellent reputation, his brilliant success at college, his
blameless life should tell in his favour," Juan said at length.
"Have you nothing more direct? If not, I fear it is a bad business. But
'silence is called holy,' so I hold my peace. Still, if indeed (which
the Saints forbid) he has fallen inadvertently into error, it is a
comfort to reflect that there will be little difficulty in reclaiming
him."
Juan made no reply. Did he expect his brother to retract? Did he _wish_
him to do it? These were questions he scarcely dared to ask himself.
From any reply he could give to them he shrank in shuddering dread.
"He was ever gentle and tractable," Fray Sebastian continued, "and
ofttimes but too easy to persuade."
Juan rose, took up a stone, and threw it into the river. When the
circles it made in the water had died away, he turned back to the
friar. "But what can _I_ do for him?" he asked, with an undertone of
helpless sadness, touching from the lips of one so strong.
Fray Sebastian put his hand to his forehead, and looked as if he were
composing another poem. "Let me see, your Excellency. There is my
lord's nephew and pet page, Don Alonzo (where he has got the 'Don' I
know not, but Don Dinero makes many a noble); I dare say it would not
hurt the Donzelo's soft white hand to finger a purse of gold ducats,
and those same ducats might help your brother's cause not a little."
"Manage the matter for me, and I will thank you heartily. Gold, to
any extent that will serve _him_, shall be forthcoming; and, my good
friend, see that you spare it not."
"Ah, Señor Don Juan, you were always generous."
"My brother's life is at stake," said Juan, softening a little. But the
hard look returned as he added, "Those who live in great men's houses
have many expenses, Fray. Always remember that I am your friend, and
that my ducats are very much at your service also."
Fray Sebastian thanked him with his lowest bow. Juan's look changed
again; this time more rapidly. "If it were possible," he added, in low,
hurried tones--"if you could only bring me the least word of tidings
from him--even one word to say if he lives, if he is well, how he is
entreated. Three months it is now since he was taken, and I have heard
no more than if they had carried him to his grave."
"It is a difficult matter, a _very_ difficult matter that you ask of
me. Were I a son of St. Dominic, I might indeed accomplish somewhat.
For the black cowls are everything now. Still, I will do all I can,
señor."
"I trust you, Fray. If under cover of seeking his conversion, of
anything, you could but see him."
"Impossible, señor--utterly impossible."
"Why? They sometimes send friars to reason with the--the prisoners."
"Always Dominicans or Jesuits--men well-known and trusted by the Board
of the Inquisition. However, señor, nothing that a man may do shall be
wanting on my part. Will not that content your Excellency?"
"_Content_ me? Well, as far as you are concerned, yes. But, in truth,
I am haunted day and night by one horrible dread. What if--if they
should _torture_ him? My gentle brother, frail in mind and body,
tender and sensitive as a woman! Terror and pain would drive him mad."
The last words were a quick broken whisper. But outward expressions
of emotion with Don Juan were always speedily repressed. Recovering
apparent calmness, he stretched out his hand to Fray Sebastian,
saying, with a faint smile, "I have kept you too long from my lord's
supper-table--pardon me."
"Your Excellency's condescension in conversing with me deserves my
profound gratitude," replied the monk, in true Castilian fashion. His
residence at the Inquisitor's Court had certainly improved his manners.
Don Juan gave him his address, and it was agreed that he should call on
him in a few days. Fray Sebastian then offered to bring him on his way
through the garden and court of that part of the Triana which formed
the Inquisitor's residence. But Juan declined the favour. He could not
answer for himself when brought face to face with the impious pomp and
luxury of the persecutor of the saints. He feared that, by some wild
word or deed, he might imperil the cause he had at heart. So he hailed
a waterman who was guiding his little boat down the tranquil stream
in the waning light. The boat was soon brought to the place where the
Inquisitor had landed from his barge; and Juan, after shaking the dust
from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it.
The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the
word there rises before most minds the vision of a lean, pale-faced,
fierce-eyed monk, whose frame is worn with fasting, and his scourge
red with his own blood. He is a fanatic--pitiless, passionate,
narrow-minded, perhaps half insane--but penetrated to the very core of
his being with intense zeal for his Church's interest, and prepared in
her service both to inflict and to endure all things.
Very unlike this ideal were _most_ of the great persecutors who
carried out the behests of Antichrist. They were generally able men.
But they were pre-eminently men wise in their generation, men _of_
their generation, men who "loved this present world." They gave the
Church the service of strong hand and skilful brain that she needed;
and she gave _them_, in return, "gold, and silver, and precious stones,
and pearls; and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet; and
all sweet wood; and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of
vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and of iron, and marble;
and cinnamon, and odours, and ointment, and frankincense; and wine, and
oil, and fine flour, and wheat; and beasts, and sheep, and horses and
chariots, and slaves and souls of men." It was for these things, not
for abstract ideas, not for high places in heaven, that they tortured
and murdered the saints of God. Whilst the cry of the oppressed reached
the ears of the Most High, those who were "wearing them out" lived in
unhallowed luxury, in degrading sensuality. Gonzales de Munebrãga was a
good specimen of the class to which he belonged--he was no exceptional
case.
Nor was Fray Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was
amiable, good-natured, free from gross vices--what is usually called
"well disposed." But he "loved wine and oil," and to obtain what he
loved he was willing to become the servant and the flatterer of worse
men than himself, at the terrible risk of sinking to their level.
With all the force of his strong nature, Don Juan Alvarez loathed
Munebrãga, and scorned Fray Sebastian. Gradually a strange alteration
appeared to come over the little book he constantly studied--his
brother's Spanish Testament. The words of promise, and hope, and
comfort, in which he used to delight, seemed to be blotted from its
pages; while ever more and more those pages were filled with fearful
threatenings and denunciations of doom--against hypocritical scribes
and Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests--against great
Babylon, the mother of abominations. The peace-breathing, "Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do," grew fainter and more
faint, until at last it faded completely from his memory; while there
stood out before him night and day, in characters of fire, "Serpents,
generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?"
XXX.
The Captive.
"Ay, but for _me_--my name called--drawn
Like a conscript's lot from the lap's black yawn
He has dipped into on the battle dawn.
Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,
Stumbling, mute mazed, at Nature's chance
With a rapid finger circling round,
Fixed to the first poor inch of ground
To fight from, where his foot was found,
Whose ear but a moment since was free
To the wide camp's hum and gossipry--
Summoned, a solitary man,
To end his life where his life began,
From the safe glad rear to the awful van."
R. BROWNING.
On the night of his arrest, when Don Carlos Alvarez was left alone in
his dungeon, he stood motionless as one in a dream. At length he raised
his head, and began to look around him. A lamp had been left with him;
and its light illumined a cell ten feet square, with a vaulted roof.
Through a narrow grating, too high for him to reach, one or two stars
were shining; but these he saw not. He only saw the inner door sheathed
with iron; the mat of rushes on which he was to sleep; the stool that
was to be his seat; the two earthen pitchers of water that completed
his scanty furniture. From the first moment these things looked
strangely familiar to him.
He threw himself on the mat to think and pray. He comprehended his
situation perfectly. It seemed as if he had been all his life expecting
this hour; as if he had been born for it, and led up to it gradually
through all his previous experience. As yet he did not think that his
fate was terrible; he only thought that it was inevitable--something
that was to come upon him, and that in due course had come at last. It
was his impression that he should always remain there, and never more
see anything beyond that grated window and that iron door.
There was a degree of unreality about this mood. For the past
fortnight, or more, his mind had been strained to its utmost tension.
Suspense, more wearing even than sorrow, had held him on the rack.
Sleep had seldom visited his eyes; and when it came, it had been broken
and fitful.
Now the worst had befallen him. Suspense was over; certainty had come.
This brought at first a kind of rest to the overtaxed mind and frame.
He was as one who hears a sentence of death, but who is taken off
the rack. No dread of the future could quite overpower the present
unreasoning sense of relief.
Thus it happened that an hour afterwards he was sleeping the
dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Well for him if, instead of "death's
twin-brother," the angel of death himself had been sent to open the
prison doors and set the captive free! And yet, after all, _would_ it
have been well for him?
So utter was his exhaustion, that when food was placed in his cell
the next morning, he only awaked for a moment, then slept again as
soundly as before. Not till some hours later did he finally shake off
his slumber. He lay still for some time, examining with a strange kind
of curiosity the little bolted aperture which was near the top of
his door, and watching a solitary broken sunbeam which had struggled
through the grating that served him for a window, and threw a gleam of
light on the opposite wall.
Then, with a start, he asked himself, "_Where am I?_" The answer
brought an agony of fear, of horror, of bitter pain. "Lost! lost! God
have mercy on me! I am lost!" As one in intense bodily anguish, he
writhed, moaned--ay, even cried aloud.
No wonder. Hope, love, life--alike in its noblest aims and its
commonest joys--all were behind him. Before him were the dreary dungeon
days and nights--it might be months or years; the death of agony and
shame; and, worst of all, the unutterable horrors of the torture-room,
from which he shrank as any one of us would shrink to-day.
Slowly and at last came the large burning tears. But very few of them
fell; for his anguish was as yet too fierce for many tears. All that
day the storm raged on. When the alcayde brought his evening meal, he
lay still, his face covered with his cloak. But as night drew on he
rose, and paced his narrow cell with hasty, irregular steps, like those
of a caged wild animal.
How should he endure the horrible loneliness of the present, the
maddening terror of all that was to come? And this life was to _last_.
To last, until it should be succeeded by worse horrors and fiercer
anguish. Words of prayer died on his lips. Or, even when he uttered
them, it seemed as if God heard not--as if those thick walls and grated
doors shut him out too.
Yet one thing was clear to him from the beginning. Deeper than all
other fears within him lay the fear of denying his Lord. Again and
again did he repeat, "When called in question, I will at once confess
all." For he knew that, according to a law recently enacted by the Holy
Office, and sanctioned by the Pope, no subsequent retraction could save
a prisoner who had once confessed--he must die. And he desired finally
and for ever to put it out of his own power to save his life and lose
it.
As every dreary morning dawned upon him, he thought that ere its sun
set he might be called to confess his Master's name before the solemn
tribunal. At first he awaited the summons with a trembling heart. But
as time passed on, the delay became more dreadful than the anticipated
examination. At last he began to long for _any_ change that might break
the monotony of his prison-life.
The only person, with the exception of his gaoler, that ever entered
his cell, was a member of the Board of Inquisitors, who was obliged
by their rules to make a fortnightly inspection of the prisons. But
the Dominican monk to whom this duty was relegated merely asked the
prisoner a few formal questions: such as, whether he was well, whether
he received his appointed provision, whether his warder used him with
civility. To these Carlos always answered prudently that he had no
complaint to make. At first he was wont to inquire, in his turn, when
his case might be expected to come on. To this it would be answered,
that there was no hurry about the matter. The Lords Inquisitors had
much business on hand, and many more important cases than his to attend
to; he must await their leisure and their pleasure.
At length a kind of lethargy stole over him; though it was broken
frequently by sharp bursts of anguish. He ceased to take note of time,
ceased to make fruitless inquiries of his gaoler, who would never tell
him anything. Upon one occasion he asked this man for a Breviary, since
he sometimes found it difficult to recall even the gospel words that
he knew so well. But he was answered in the set terms the Inquisitors
taught their officials, that the book he ought now to study was the
book of his own heart, which he should examine diligently, in order to
the confession and repentance of his sins.
During the morning hours the outer door of his cell (there were two)
was usually left open, in order to admit a little fresh air. At such
times he often heard footsteps in the corridors, and doors opening
and shutting. With a kind of sick yearning, not unmixed with hope, he
longed that some visitant would enter his cell. But none ever came.
Some of the Inquisitors were keen observers and good students of
character. They had watched Carlos narrowly before his arrest, and they
had arrived at the conclusion that utter and prolonged solitude was the
best remedy for his disease.
Such solitude has driven many a weary tortured soul to insanity. But
that divine compassion which no dungeon walls or prison bars avail to
shut out, saved Carlos from such a fate.
One morning he knew from the stir outside that some of his
fellow-captives had received a visit. But the deep stillness that
followed the dying away of footsteps in the corridor was broken by a
most unwonted sound. A loud, clear, and even cheerful voice sang out,--
"Vençidos van los frailes; vençidos van!
Corridos van los lobos; corridos van!"
[There go the friars; there they run!
there go the wolves, the wolves are done!][19]
[19] Everything related of Juliano Hernandez is strictly true.
Every nerve and fibre of the lonely captive's heart thrilled responsive
to that strain. Evidently the song was one of triumph. But from whose
lips? Who could dare to triumph in the abode of misery, the very seat
of Satan?
Carlos Alvarez had heard that voice before. A striking peculiarity in
the dialect rivetted this fact upon his mind. The words were neither
the pure sonorous Castilian that he spoke himself, nor the soft gliding
sibilant Andaluz that he heard in Seville, nor yet the patois of the
Manchegan peasants around his mountain home. In such accents one, and
one alone, had ever spoken in his hearing. And that was the man who
said, "For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the
thirsty, light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and
heavy-laden, I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right
willingly."
Whatever men had done to the body, it was evident that Juliano
Hernandez was still unbroken in heart, strong in hope and courage. A
fettered, tortured captive, he was yet enabled, not only to hold his
own faith fast, but actually to minister to that of others. His rough
rhyme intimated to his fellow-captives that "the wolves" of Rome were
leaving his cell, vanquished by the sword of the Spirit. And that, as
he overcame, so might they also.
Carlos heard, understood, and felt from that hour that he was not
alone. Moreover, the grace and strength so richly given to his
fellow-sufferer seemed to bring Christ nearer to himself. "Surely God
is in this place--even here," he said, "and I knew it not." And then,
bowing his head, he wept--wept such tears as bring help and healing
with them.
Up to this time he had held Christ's hand indeed, else had he "utterly
fainted." But he held it in the dark. He clung to him desperately, as
if for mere life and reason. Now the light began to dawn upon him. He
began to see the face of Him to whom he had been clinging. His good and
gracious words--such words as, "Let not your heart be troubled," "My
peace I give unto you"--became again, as in old times, full of meaning,
instinct with life. He "remembered the years of the right hand of the
Most High;" he thought of those days that now seemed so long ago, when,
with such thrilling joy, he received the truth from Juliano's book.
And he knew that the same joy might be his even in that dreary prison,
because the same God was above him, and the same Lord was "rich unto
all that call upon him."
On the next occasion when Juliano raised his brave song of victory,
Carlos had the courage to respond, by chanting in the vulgar tongue,
"The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob
defend thee. Send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out
of Zion."
But this brought him a visit from the alcayde, who commanded him to
"forbear that noise."
"I only chanted a versicle from one of the Psalms," he explained.
"No matter. Prisoners are not permitted to disturb the Santa Casa,"
said Gasper Benevidio, as he quitted the cell.
The "Santa Casa," or Holy House, was the proper style and title of
the prison of the Holy Inquisition. At first sight the name appears
a hideous mockery. We seem to catch in it an echo of the laughter of
fiends, as in that other kindred name, "The Society of Jesus." Yet,
just then, the Triana was truly a holy house. Precious in the sight
of the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells. Many a lonely
captive wept and prayed and agonized there, who, though now forgotten
on earth, shall one day shine with a brightness eclipsing kings and
conquerors--"a star for ever and ever."
XXXI.
Ministering Angels.
"Thou wilt be near, and not forsake,
To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
The throbbing brow to cool;
Till, left awhile with Thee alone,
The wilful heart be fain to own
That he, by whom our bright hours shone,
Our darkness best may rule."
KEBLE.
The overpowering heat of an Andalusian summer aggravated the physical
sufferings of the captives. And so did the scanty and unwholesome
provisions, which were all that reached them through the hands of the
avaricious Benevidio.
But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the
rations he received, they usually proved more than enough for him;
indeed, the coarse food sometimes lay almost untasted in his cell.
One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed
through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door
being open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted
of white bread and good meat, of which he partook with mingled
astonishment and thankfulness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony
of his life, and the occupation the little circumstance gave his
thoughts, was much more to him than the welcome novelty of a wholesome
meal.