Carlos, is to say little. Willingly would he have lived for a month
on black bread and brackish water, if that could have even mitigated
his fate. But the very intensity of his desire to help him was fast
making him incapable of rendering him the smallest service. Munebrãga's
flatterer and favourite might possibly, by dint of the utmost
self-possession and the most adroit management, have accomplished some
little good. But Fray Sebastian was now consciously forfeiting even the
miserable fragment of power that had once been his. He thought himself
like the salt that had lost its savour, and was fit neither for the
land nor yet for the dunghill.
Absorbed in his mournful reflections, he continued unconscious of the
presence of such an important personage as Don Alonzo de Munebrãga, the
Lord Vice-Inquisitor's favourite page. At length, however, he was made
aware of the fact by a loud angry shout, "Off with you, varlets, scum
of the people! How dare you put your accursed fishing-smack to shore in
my lord's garden, and under his very eyes?"
Fray Sebastian looked up, and saw no fishing-boat, but a decent
covered barge, from which, in spite of the page's remonstrance, two
persons were landing: an elderly female clad in deep mourning, and her
attendant, apparently a tradesman's apprentice, or serving-man.
Fray Sebastian knew well how many distracted petitioners daily sought
access to Munebrãga, to plead (alas, how vainly!) for the lives of
parents, husbands, sons, or daughters. This was doubtless one of them.
He heard her plead, "For the love of Heaven, dear young gentleman,
hinder me not. Have you a mother? My only son lies--"
"Out upon thee, woman!" interrupted the page; "and the foul fiend take
thee and thy only son together."
"Hush, Don Alonzo!" Fray Sebastian interposed, coming forward towards
the spot; and perhaps for the first time in his life there was
something like dignity in his tone and manner. "You must be aware,
señora," he said, turning to the woman, "that the right of using
this landing-place is restricted to my lord's household. You will be
admitted at the gate of the Triana, if you present yourself at a proper
hour."
"Alas! good father, once and again have I sought admission to my lord's
presence. I am the unhappy mother of Luis D'Abrego, he who used to
paint and illuminate the church missals so beautifully. More than a
year agone they tore him from me, and carried him away to yonder tower,
and since then, so help me the good God, never a word of him have I
heard. Whether he is living or dead, this day I know not."
"Oh, a Lutheran dog! Serve him right," cried the page. "I hope they
have put him on the pulley."
Fray Sebastian turned suddenly, and dealt the lad a stinging blow
on the side of his face. To the latest hour of his life this act of
passion remained incomprehensible to himself. He could only ascribe it
to the direct agency of the evil one. "I was tempted by the Devil," he
would say with a sigh, "Vade retro me, Satana."
Crimson to the roots of his perfumed hair, the boy sought his dagger.
"Vile caitiff! beggarly trencher-scraping Franciscan!" he cried, "you
shall repent of this."
But apparently changing his mind the next moment, he allowed the dagger
to drop from his hand, and snatching up his jerkin, ran at full speed
towards the house.
Fray Sebastian crossed himself, and gazed after him bewildered; his
unwonted passion dying as suddenly as it had flamed up, and giving
place to fear.
Meanwhile the mother of Abrego, to whom it did not occur that the
buffet bestowed on the page could have any serious consequences,
resumed her pleadings. "Your reverence seems to have a heart that can
feel for the unhappy," she said. "For Heaven's sake refuse not the
prayer of the most unhappy woman in the world. Only let me see his
lordship--let me throw myself at his feet and tell him the whole truth.
My poor lad had nothing at all to do with the Lutherans; he was a good,
true Christian, and an old one, like all his family."
"Nay, nay, my good woman; I fear I can do nothing to help you. And I
entreat of you to leave this place, else some of my lord's household
are sure to come and compel you. Ay, there they are."
It was true enough. Don Alonzo, as he ran through the porch, shouted to
the numerous idle attendants who were lounging about, and some of them
immediately rushed out into the garden.
In justice to Fray Sebastian, it must be recorded, that before he
consulted for his personal safety, he led the poor woman back to the
barge, and saw her depart in it. Then he made good his own retreat,
going straight to the lodging of Don Juan Alvarez.
He found Juan lying asleep on a settle. The day was hot; he had nothing
to do; and, moreover, the fiery energy of his southern blood was dashed
by the southern taint of occasional torpor. Starting up suddenly, and
seeing Fray Sebastian standing before him with a look of terror, he
asked in alarm, "Any tidings, Fray? Speak--tell me quickly."
"None, Señor Don Juan. But I must leave this place at once." And the
friar briefly narrated the scene that had just taken place, adding
mournfully, "Ay de mi! I cannot tell what came over me--_me_, the
mildest tempered man in all the Spains!"
"And what of all that?" asked Juan rather contemptuously. "I see
nothing to regret, save that you did not give the insolent lad what he
deserved, a sound beating."
"But, Señor Don Juan, you don't understand," gasped the poor friar. "I
must fly immediately. If I stay here over to-night I shall find myself
before the morning--_there_." And with a significant gesture he pointed
to the grim fortress that loomed above them.
"Nonsense. They cannot suspect a man of heresy, even _de levi_,[25] for
boxing the ear of an impudent serving-lad."
[25] Lightly.
"Ay, and can they not, your worship? Do you not know that the gardener
of the Triana has lain for many a weary month in one of those dismal
cells; and all for the grave offence of snatching a reed out of the
hand of one of my lord's lackeys so roughly as to make it bleed?"[26]
[26] A fact.
"Truly? Now are things come to a strange pass in our free and royal
land of Spain! A beggarly upstart, such as this Munebrãga, who could
not, to save himself from the rack, tell you the name of his own
great-grandfather, drags the sons and brothers--ay, and God help us!
the wives and daughter--of our knights and nobles to the dungeon and
the stake before our eyes. And it is not enough for him to set his
own heel on our necks. His minions--his very grooms and pages--must
lord it over us, and woe to him who dares to chastise their insolence.
Nathless, I would feel it a comfort to make every bone in that urchin's
body ache soundly. I have a mind--but this is folly. I believe you are
right, Fray. You should go."
"Moreover," said the friar mournfully, "I am doing no good here."
"No one can do good now," returned Juan, in a tone of deep dejection.
"And to-day the last blow has fallen. The poor woman who showed him
kindness, and sometimes told us how he fared, is herself a prisoner."
"What! she has been discovered?"
"Even so: and with those fiends mercy is the greatest of all crimes.
The child met me to-day (whether by accident or design, I know not),
and told me, weeping bitterly."
"God help her!"
"Some would gladly endure her punishment if they might commit her
crime," said Don Juan. There was a pause; then he resumed, "I had been
about to ask you to apply once more to the prior."
Fray Sebastian shook his head. "That were of no use," he said; "for it
is certain that my lord the Vice-Inquisitor and the prior have had a
misunderstanding about the matter. And the prior, so far from obtaining
permission to deal with him as he desired, is not even allowed to see
him now."
"And yourself?--whither do you mean to go?" asked Juan, rather abruptly.
"In sooth, I know not, señor. I have had no time to think. But go I
must."
"I will tell you what to do. Go to Nuera. There for the present you
will be safe. And if any man inquire your business, you have a fair and
ready answer. _I_ send you to look after my affairs. Stay; I will write
by you to Dolores. Poor, true-hearted Dolores!" Don Juan seemed to fall
into a reverie, so long did he sit motionless, his face shaded by his
hand.
His mournful air, his unwonted listlessness, his attenuated frame--all
struck Fray Sebastian painfully. After musing a while in silence, he
said at last, very suddenly, "Señor Don Juan!"
Juan looked up.
"Have you ever thought since on the message _he_ sent you by me?"
Don Juan looked as though that question were worse than needless. Was
not every word of his brother's message burned into his heart? This
it was: "My Ruy, thou hast done all for me that the best of brothers
could. Leave me now to God, unto whom I am going quickly, and in peace.
Quit the country as soon as thou canst; and God's best blessings
surround thy path and guard thee evermore."
One fact Carlos had most earnestly entreated Fray Sebastian to withhold
from his brother. Juan must never know that he had endured the horrors
of the Question. The monk would have promised almost anything that
could bring a glow of pleasure to that pale, patient face. And he had
kept his promise, though at the expense of a few falsehoods, that did
not greatly embarrass his conscience. He had conveyed the impression
to Don Juan that it was merely from the effects of his long and cruel
imprisonment that his brother was sinking into the only refuge that
remained to him--a quiet grave.
After a pause, he resumed, looking earnestly at Juan--"_He_ wished you
to go."
"Do you not know that next month they say there will be--_an Auto_?"
"Yes; but it is not likely--"
They gazed at each other in silence, neither saying _what_ was not
likely.
"Any horror is _possible_," said Juan at last. "But no more of this.
Until after the Auto, with its chances of _some_ termination to this
dreadful suspense, I stir not from Seville. Now, we must think for you.
I know where to find a boat, the owner of which will take you some
miles on your way up the river to-night. Then you can hire a horse."
Fray Sebastian groaned. Neither the journey itself, its cause, nor its
manner were anything but disagreeable to the poor friar. But there was
no help for him. Juan gave him some further directions about his way;
then set food and wine before him.
"Eat and drink," he said. "Meanwhile I will secure the boat. When I
return, I can write to Dolores."
All was done as he planned; and ere the morning broke, Fray Sebastian
was far on his way to Nuera, with the letter to Dolores stitched into
the lining of his doublet.
XXXV.
The Eve of the Auto.
"It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth
He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it upon
him.
He putteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be hope."
LAMENTATIONS iii, 27-29.
On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville wore a festive appearance.
The shops were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers
in their gay holiday apparel. For it was the eve of the great
Auto, and the preliminary ceremonies were going forward amidst the
admiration of gazing thousands. Two stately scaffolds, in the form of
an amphitheatre, had been erected in the great square of the city,
then called the Square of St. Francis; and thither, when the work was
completed, flags and crosses were borne in solemn procession, with
music and singing.
But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place.
Outside the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly
Quemadero--the great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered
human sacrifices to the God of peace and love. Thither came long files
of barefooted friars, carrying bushes and faggots, which they laid in
order on the place of death, while, in sweet yet solemn tones, they
chanted the "Miserere" and "De Profundis."
Very close together on those festive days were "strong light and deep
shadow." But our way leads us, for the present, into the light. Turning
away from the Square of St. Francis, and the Prado San Sebastian, we
enter a cool upper room in the stately mansion of Don Garçia Ramirez.
There, in the midst of gold and gems, and of silk and lace, Doña Inez
is standing, busily engaged in the task of selecting the fairest
treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival of the following
day. Doña Beatriz de Lavella, and the young waiting-woman who had been
employed in the vain though generous effort to save Don Carlos, are
both aiding her in the choice.
"Please your ladyship," said the girl, "I should recommend rose colour
for the basquina. Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord's late
gift, my lady will be as fine as a duchess; of whom, I hear, many will
be there.--But what will Señora Doña Beatriz please to wear?"
"I do not intend to go, Juanita," said Doña Beatriz, with a little
embarrassment.
"Not intend to go!" cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise. "Not
go to see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year!
Worth a hundred bull-feasts! Ay de mi! what a pity!"
"Juanita," interposed her mistress, "I think I hear the señorita's
voice in the garden. It is far too hot for her to be out of doors.
Oblige me by bringing her in at once."
As soon as the attendant was gone, Doña Inez turned to her cousin. "It
is really most unreasonable of Don Juan," she said, "to keep you shut
up here, whilst all Seville is making holiday."
"I am glad--I have no heart to go forth," said Doña Beatriz, with a
quivering lip.
"Nor have I too much, for that matter. My poor brother is so weak
and ill to-day, it grieves me to the heart. Moreover, he is still so
thoughtless about his poor soul. That is the worst of all. I never
cease praying Our Lady to bring him to a better mind. If he would only
consent to see a priest; but he was ever obstinate. And if I urge the
point too strongly, he will think I suppose him dying."
"I thought his health had improved since you had him brought over here."
"Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father's house. But
of late he seems to me to be sinking, and that quickly. And now, the
Auto--"
"What of that?" asked Doña Beatriz, with a quick look, half suspicious
and half frightened.
Doña Inez closed the door carefully, and drew nearer to her cousin.
"They say _she_ will be amongst the relaxed,"[27] she whispered.
[27] Those delivered over to the secular arm--that is, to death.
"Does he know it?" asked Beatriz.
"I fear he suspects something; and what to tell him, or not to tell
him, I know not--Our Lady help me! Ay de mi! 'Tis a horrible business
from beginning to end. And the last thing--the arrest of the sister,
Doña Juana! A duke's daughter--a noble's bridge. But--best be silent.
'Con el re e la Inquisicion,
Chiton! Chiton!'"[28]
[28]
"With the King or the Inquisition,
Hush! Hush!"
_A Spanish Proverb._
Thus, only in a few hurried words, spoken with 'bated breath, did Doña
Inez venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible
tragedies in that time of horrors. Nor shall we do more.
"Still, you know, amiga mia," she continued, "one must do like one's
neighbours. It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day.
Besides, every one would talk."
"That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I
would not go. For not to look sorrowful, when thy father, Don Manuel,
and my aunt, Doña Katarina, are both doing their utmost to drive me out
of my senses, would be past my power."
"Have they been urging the suit of Señor Luis upon thee again? My poor
Beatriz, I am truly sorrow for thee," said Doña Inez, with genuine
sympathy.
"Urging it again!" Beatriz repeated with flashing eyes. "Nay; but they
have never ceased to urge it. And they spare not to say such wicked,
cruel words. They tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother's
crime. Dishonoured, forsooth! Think of dishonour touching him! After
the day of St. Quentin, the Duke of Savoy was not of that mind, nor our
Catholic King himself. And they have the audacity to say that I can
easily get absolved of my troth to him. Absolved of a solemn promise
made in the sight of God and of Our Lady, and all the holy Saints! If
_that_ be not heresy, as bad as--"
"Hush!" interrupted Doña Inez. "These are dangerous subjects. Moreover,
I hear some one knocking at the door."
It proved to be a page bearing a message.
"If it please Doña Beatriz de Lavella, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos
y Meñaya kisses the señora's feet, and most humbly desires the favour
of an audience."
"I go," said Beatriz.
"Request Señor Don Juan to have the goodness to untire himself a
little, and bring his Excellency fruit and wine," added Doña Inez. "My
cousin," she said, turning to Beatriz as soon as the page left the
room, "do you not know your cheeks are all aflame? Don Juan will think
we have quarrelled. Rest you here a minute, and let me bathe them for
you with this water of orange-flowers."
Beatriz submitted, though reluctantly, to her cousin's good offices.
While she performed them she whispered, "And be not so downcast, amiga
mia. There is a remedy for most troubles. And as for yours, I see not
why Don Juan himself should not save you out of them once for all." She
added, in a whisper, two or three words that more than undid all the
benefit which the cheeks of Beatriz might otherwise have derived from
the application of the fragrant water.
"No use," was the agitated reply. "Even were it possible, _they_ would
not permit it."
"You can come to visit me. Then trust me to manage the rest. The truth
is, amiga mia," Doña Inez continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her
cousin's dark glossy hair, "what between sickness, and quarrelling, and
the Faith, and heresy, and prisons, there is so much trouble in the
world that no one can help, it seems a pity not to help all one can. So
you may tell Don Juan that if Doña Inez can do him a good turn she will
not be found wanting. There, I despair of your cheeks. Yet I must allow
that their crimson becomes you well. But you would rather hear that
from Don Juan's lips than from mine. Go to him, my cousin." And with a
parting kiss Beatriz was dismissed.
But if she expected any flattery that day from the lips of Don Juan,
she was disappointed. His heart was far too sorrowful. He had merely
come to tell his betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow--that
dreadful morrow! "I have secured a station," he said, "from whence
I can watch the whole procession, as it issues from the gate of the
Triana. If _he_ is there, I shall dare everything for a last look and
word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled. If even his dust is there,
I shall stand beside it till all is over. If not--" Here he broke off,
leaving his sentence unfinished, as if in that case it did not matter
what he did.
Just then Doña Inez entered. After customary salutations, she said, "I
have a request to make of you, my cousin, on the part of my brother,
Don Gonsalvo. He desires to see you for a few moments."
"Señora my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his."
Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonsalvo lay.
And at the special request of the sick man, they were left alone
together.
He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence,
but with a look of compassion. For it needed only a glance at his face
to show that death was there.
"I should be glad to think you forgave me," he said.
"I do forgive you," Juan answered. "You intended no evil."
"Will you, then, do me a great kindness? It is the last I shall ask.
Tell me the names of any of the--the _victims_ that have come to your
knowledge."
"It is only through rumour one can hear these things. Not yet have I
succeeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst
them."
"Tell me--has rumour named in your hearing--Doña Maria de Xeres y
Bohorques?"
Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Doña Inez had but recently
confided to his betrothed. He therefore answered, without hesitation,
though in a low, sad tone, "Yes; they say she is to die to-morrow."
Don Gonsalvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great
silence.
Which the awed and wondering Juan broke at last. Guessing at the truth,
he said, "It may be I have done wrong to tell you."
"No; you have done right. I knew it ere you told me. It is well--for
her."
"A brave word, bravely spoken."
"Nigh upon eighteen months--long slow months of grief and pain. All
ended now. To-morrow night she will see the glory of God."
There was another long pause. At last Juan said,--
"Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate?"
Gonsalvo half raised himself, and a flush overspread the wan face that
already wore the ashy hue of approaching death. "Share _that_ fate?" he
cried, with an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and
measured utterance. "Change with _them_? Ask the beggar, who sits all
day at the King's gate, waiting for his dole of crumbs, would he gladly
change with the King's children, when he sees the golden gate flung
open before them, and watches them pass in robed and crowned, to the
presence-chamber of the King himself."
"Your faith is greater than mine," said Juan in surprise.
"In one way, yes," replied Gonsalvo, sinking back, and resuming his
low, quiet tone. "For the beggar dares to hope that the King has looked
with pity even on _him_."
"You do well to hope in the mercy of God."
"Cousin, do you know what my life has been?"
"I think I do."
"I am past disguise now. Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare
speak the truth, though it be to my own shame. There was no evil, no
sin--stay, I will sum up all in one word. _One_ pure, blameless life--a
man's life, too--I have watched from day to day, from childhood to
manhood. All that your brother Don Carlos was, I was not; all he was
not, I was."
"Yet you once thought that life incomplete, unmanly," said Juan,
remembering the taunts that in past days had so often aroused his wrath.
"I was a fool. It is just retribution that I--I who called him
coward--should see him march in there triumphant, with the palm of
victory in his hand. But let me end; for I think it is the last time
I shall speak of myself in any human ear. I sowed to the flesh, and
of the flesh I have reaped--_corruption_. It is an awful word, Don
Juan. All the life in me turned to death; all the good in me (what God
meant for good, such as force, fire, passion) turned to evil. What
availed it me that I loved a star in heaven--a bright, lonely, distant
star--while I was earthy, of the earth? Because I could not (and thank
God for that!) pluck down my star from the sky and hold it in my hand,
even that love became corruption too. I fulfilled my course, the
earthly grew sensual, the sensual grew devilish. And then God smote me,
though not then for the first time. The stroke of his hand was heavy.
My heart was crushed, my frame left powerless." He paused for a while,
then slowly resumed. "The stroke of his hand, your brother's words,
your brother's book--by these he taught me. There is deliverance even
from the bondage of corruption, through him who came to call not the
righteous, but sinners. One day--and that soon--I, even I, shall kneel
at his feet, and thank him for saving the lost. And then I shall see my
star, shining far above me in his glorious heaven, and be content and
glad."
"God has been very gracious to you, my cousin," said Juan in a tone
of emotion. "And what he has cleansed I dare not call common. Were my
brother here to-day, I think he would stretch out to you the right
hand, not of forgiveness, but of fellowship. I have told you how he
longed for your soul."
"God can fulfil more desires of his than that, Don Juan, and I doubt
not he will. What know we of his dealings? we who all these dreary
months have been mourning for and pitying his prisoners, to-morrow to
be his crowned and sainted martyrs? It were a small thing with him
to flood the dungeon's gloom with light, and give--even here, even
now--all their hearts long for to those who suffer for him."
Juan was silent. Truly the last was first, and the first last now.
Gonsalvo had reached some truths which were still far beyond _his_ ken.
He did not know how their seed had been sown in his heart by his own
brother's hand. At length he answered, in a low and faltering voice,
"There is much in what you say. Fray Sebastian told me--"
"Ay," cried Gonsalvo eagerly, "what did Fray Sebastian tell you of
_him_?"
"That he found him in perfect peace, though ill and weak in body. It is
my hope that God himself has delivered him ere now out of their cruel
hands. And I ought to tell you that he spoke of all his relatives with
affection, and made special inquiry after your health."
Gonsalvo said quietly, "It is likely I shall see him before you."
Juan sighed. "To-morrow will reveal something," he said.