you now. There is no poison in that wine, though it be of an earthly
vintage; and God himself puts the cup in your hand; so take it, and be
comforted. Yet stay; have you patience for one word more?"
"For a thousand, if you will, my cousin."
"I know that in heart you share his--_our_ faith."
Juan shrank a little from his gaze.
"Of course," he replied, "I have been obliged to conceal my opinions;
and, indeed, of late all things have seemed to grow dim and uncertain
with me. Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I cannot tell what truth is."
"'He came not to call the righteous, but sinners,'" said Gonsalvo. "And
the sinner who has heard his call _must_ believe, let others doubt as
they may. Thank God, the sinner may not only believe, but love. Yes;
in that the beggar at the gate may take his stand beside the king's
children unreproved. Even I dare to say, 'Lord, thou knowest all
things; thou knowest that I love thee.' Only to them it is given to
prove it; while I--ay, there was the bitter thought. Long it haunted
me. At last I prayed that if indeed he deigned to accept me, all sinful
as I was, he would give me for a sign something to do, to suffer, or to
give up, whereby I might prove my love."
"And did he hear you?"
"Yes. He showed me one thing harder to give up than life; one thing
harder to do than to brave the torture and the death of fire."
"What is that?"
Once more Gonsalvo veiled his face. Then he murmured--"Harder to give
up--vengeance, hatred; harder to do--to pray for _their_ murderers."
"_I_ could never do it," said Juan, starting.
"And if at last--at last--_I_ can,--I, whose anger was fierce, and
whose wrath was cruel, even unto death,--is not that His own work in
me?"
Juan half turned away, and did not answer immediately. In his heart
many thoughts were struggling. Far, indeed, was he from praying for his
brother's murderers; almost as far from wishing to do it. Rather would
he invoke God's vengeance upon them. Had Gonsalvo, in the depths of his
misery, remorse, and penitence, actually found something which Don Juan
Alvarez still lacked? He said at last, with a humility new and strange
to him,--
"My cousin, you are nearer heaven than I."
"As to time--yes," said Gonsalvo, with a faint smile. "Now farewell,
cousin; and thank you."
"Can I do nothing more for you?"
"Yes; tell my sister that I know all. Now, God bless you, and deliver
you from the evils that beset your path, and bring you and yours to
some land where you may worship him in peace and safety."
And so the cousins parted, never to meet again upon earth.
XXXVI.
"The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle."[29]
"All have passed:
The fearful, and the desperate, and the strong.
Some like the barque that rushes with the blast;
Some like the leaf borne tremblingly along;
And some like men who have but one more field
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield--
Therefore they arm in hope."
HEMANS.
At earliest dawn next morning, Juan established himself in an upper
room of one of the high houses which overlooked the gate of the Triana.
He had hired it from the owners for the purpose, stipulating for sole
possession and perfect loneliness.
[29] So called by the Inquisitor, De Pegna.
At sunrise the great Cathedral bell tolled out solemnly, and all the
bells in the city responded. Through the crowd, which had already
gathered in the street, richly dressed citizens were threading their
way on foot. He knew they were those who, out of zeal for the faith,
had volunteered to act as _patrinos_, or god-fathers, to the prisoners,
walking beside them in the procession. Amongst them he recognized his
cousins, Don Manuel and Don Balthazar. They were all admitted into the
castle by a private door.
Ere long the great gate was flung open. Juan's eyes were rivetted to
the spot. There was a sound of singing, sweet and low, as of childish
voices; for the first to issue from those gloomy portals were the
boys of the College of Doctrine, dressed in white surplices, and
chanting litanies to the saints. Clear and full at intervals rose from
their lips the "Ora pro nobis" of the response; and tears gathered
unconsciously in the eyes of Juan at the old familiar words.
In great contrast with the white-robed children came the next in
order. Juan drew his breath hard, for here were the penitents:
pale, melancholy faces, "ghastly and disconsolate beyond what can
be imagined;"[30] forms clothed in black, without sleeves, and
barefooted--hands carrying extinguished tapers.
[30] Report of De Pegna.
Those who walked foremost in the procession had only been convicted
of such _minor_ offences as blasphemy, sorcery, or polygamy. But
by-and-by there came others, wearing ugly sanbenitos--yellow, with red
crosses--and conical paper mitres on their heads. Juan's eye kindled
with intenser interest; for he knew that these were Lutherans. Not
without a wild dream--hope, perhaps--that the near approach of death
might have subdued his brother's fortitude, did he scan in turn every
mournful face. There was Luis D'Abrego, the illuminator of church
books; there, walking long afterwards, as far more guilty, was Medel
D'Espinosa, the dealer in embroidery, who had received the Testaments
brought by Juliano. There were many others of much higher rank, with
whom he was well acquainted. Altogether more than eighty in number, the
long and melancholy train swept by, every man or woman attended by two
monks and a patrino. But Carlos was not amongst them.
Then came the great Cross of the Inquisition; the face turned towards
the penitent, the back to the _impenitent_--those devoted to the death
of fire. And now Juan's breath came and went--his lips trembled; all
his soul was in his eager, straining eyes. Now first he saw the hideous
zamarra--a black robe, painted all over with saffron-coloured flames,
into which devils and serpents, rudely represented, were thrusting
the impenitent heretic. A paper crown, or carroza, similarly adorned,
covered the victim's head. But the face of the wearer was unknown
to Juan. He was a poor artizan--Juan de Leon by name--who had made
his escape by flight, but had been afterwards apprehended in the
Low Countries. Torture and cruel imprisonment had almost killed him
already; but his heart was strong to suffer for the Lord he loved, and
though the pallor of death was on his cheek, there was no fear there.
But the countenances of those that followed Juan knew too well. Never
afterwards could he exactly recall the order in which they walked; yet
every individual face stamped itself indelibly on his memory. He would
carry those looks in his heart until his dying hour.
No less than four of the victims wore the white tunic and brown mantle
of St. Jerome. One of these was an old man--leaning on his staff for
very age, but with joy and confidence beaming in his countenance. The
white locks, from which Garçias Arias had gained the name of Doctor
Blanco, had been shorn away; but Juan easily recognized the waverer of
past days, now strengthened with all might, according to the glorious
power of Him whom at last he had learned to trust. The accomplished
Cristobal D'Arellano, and Fernando de San Juan, Master of the College
of Doctrine, followed calm and dauntless. Steadfast, too, though not
without a little natural shrinking from the doom of fire, was a mere
youth--Juan Crisostomo.
Then came one clad in a doctor's robe, with the step of at conqueror
and the mien of a king. As he issued from the Triana he chanted, in a
clear and steady voice, the words of the Hundred and ninth Psalm: "Hold
not thy peace, O God of my praise; for the mouth of the ungodly, yea,
the mouth of the deceitful, is opened upon me: and they have spoken
against me with false tongues. They compassed me about also with words
of hatred, and fought against me without a cause.... Help me, O Lord
my God: O save me according to thy mercy; and they shall know how that
this is thine hand, and that thou, Lord, hast done it. Though they
curse, yet bless thou." So died away the voice of Juan Gonsalez, one of
the noblest of Christ's noble band of witnesses in Spain.
All these were arrayed in the garments of their ecclesiastical
orders, to be solemnly degraded on the scaffold in the Square of St.
Francis. But there followed one already in the full infamy, or glory,
of the zamarra and carroza, with painted flames and demons;--with a
thrill of emotion, Juan recognized his friend and teacher, Cristobal
Losada--looking calm and fearless--a hero marching to his last battle,
conquering and to conquer.
Yet even that face soon faded from Juan's thoughts. For there walked
in that gloomy death procession _six_ females--persons of rank; nearly
all of them young and beautiful, but worn by imprisonment, and more
than one amongst them maimed by torture. Yet if man was cruel, Christ,
for whom they suffered, was pitiful. Their countenances, calm and
even radiant, revealed the hidden power by which they were sustained.
Their names--which deserve a place beside those of the women of old
who were last at his cross and first beside his open sepulchre--were,
Doña Isabella de Baena, in whose house the church was wont to meet;
the two sisters of Juan Gonsalez; Doña Maria de Virves; Doña Maria de
Cornel; and, last of all, Doña Maria de Bohorques, whose face shone
as the first martyr's, looking up into heaven. She alone, of all the
female martyr band, appeared wearing the gag, an honour due to her
heroic efforts to console and sustain her companions in the court of
the Triana.
Juan's brave heart well-nigh burst with impotent, indignant anguish.
"Ay de mi, my Spain!" he cried; "thou seest these things, and endurest
them. Lucifer, son of the morning, thou art fallen--fallen from thy
high place amongst the nations."
It was true. From the man, or nation, "that hath not," shall be taken
"even that which he seemeth to have." Had the spirit of chivalry,
Spain's boast and pride, been faithful to its own dim light, it might
even then have saved Spain. But its light became darkness; its trust
was betrayed into the hand of superstition. Therefore, in the just
judgment of God, its own degradation quickly followed. Spain's chivalry
lost gradually all that was genuine, all that was noble in it; until it
became only a faint and ghastly mockery, a sign of corruption, like the
phosphoric light that flickers above the grave.
Absorbed in his bitter thoughts, Juan well-nigh missed the last of the
doomed ones--last because highest in worldly rank. Sad and slow, with
eyes bent down, Don Juan Ponce de Leon walked along. The flames on his
zamarra were reversed; poor symbol of the poor mercy for which he sold
his joy and triumph and dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. Yet
surely he did not lose the glad welcome that awaited him at the close
of that terrible day; nor the right to say, with the erring restored
apostle, "Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee."
All the living victims had passed now. And Don Carlos Alvarez was not
amongst them. Juan breathed a sigh of relief; but not yet did his
straining eyes relax their gaze. For Rome's vengeance reached even to
the grave. Next, there were borne along the statues of those who had
died in heresy, robed in the hideous zamarra, and followed by black
chests containing their bones to be burned.
Not there!--No--not there! At last Juan's trembling hands let go the
framework of the window to which they had been clinging; and, the
intense strain over, he fell back exhausted.
The stately pageant swept by, unwatched by him. He never saw, what
all Seville was gazing on with admiration, the grand procession of
the judges and counsellors of the city, in their robes of office; the
chapter of the Cathedral; the long slow train of priests and monks that
followed. And then, in a space left empty out of reverence, the great
green standard of the Inquisition was borne aloft, and over it a gilded
crucifix. Then came the Inquisitors themselves, in their splendid
official dresses. And lastly, on horseback and in gorgeous apparel, the
familiars of the Inquisition.
It was well that Juan's eyes were turned from that sight. What avails
it for lips white with passion to heap wild curses on the heads of
those for whom God's curse already "waits in calm shadow," until
the day of reckoning be fully come? Curses, after all, are weapons
dangerous to use, and apt to pierce the hand that wields them.
His first feeling was one of intense relief, almost of joy. He had
escaped the maddening torture of seeing his brother dragged before
his eyes to the death of anguish and shame. But to that succeeded the
bitter thought, growing soon into full, mournful conviction, "I shall
see his face no more on earth. He is dead--or dying."
Yet that day the deep, strong current of his brotherly love was crossed
by another tide of emotion. Those heroic men and women, whom he
watched as they passed along so calmly to their doom, had he no bond
of sympathy with them? Was it so long since he had pressed Losada's
hand in grateful friendship, and thanked Doña Isabella de Baena for the
teaching received beneath her roof? With a thrill of keen and sudden
shame the gallant soldier saw himself a recreant, who had flaunted his
gay uniform on the parade and at the field-day, but when the hour of
conflict came, had stepped aside, and let the sword and the bullet find
out braver and truer hearts.
_He_ could not die thus for his faith. On the contrary, it cost him
but little to conceal it, to live in every respect like an orthodox
Catholic. What, then, had they which he had not? Something that enabled
his young brother--the boy who used to weep for a blow--to stand and
look fearless in the face of a horrible death. Something that enabled
even poor, wild, passionate Gonsalvo to forgive and pray for the
murderers of the woman he loved. What was it?
XXXVII.
Something Ended and Something Begun.
"O sweet and strange it is to think that ere this day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun;
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true--
And what is life that we should mourn, why make we such ado?"
TENNYSON.
Late in the afternoon of that day, Doña Inez entered her sick brother's
room. A glitter of silk, rose-coloured and black, of costly lace and
of gems and gold, seemed to surround her. But as she threw aside the
mantilla that partially shaded her face, and almost sank on a seat
beside the bed, it was easy to see that she was very faint and weary,
if not also very sick at heart.
"Santa Maria! I am tired to death," she murmured. "The heat was
killing; and the whole business interminably long."
Gonsalvo gazed at her with eager eyes, as a man dying of thirst might
gaze on one who holds a cup of water; but for a while he did not
speak. At last he said, pointing to some wine that lay near, beside an
untasted meal,--
"Drink, then."
"What, my brother!" said Doña Inez, reproachfully, "you have not
touched food to-day! You--so ill and weak!"
"I am a man--even still," said Gonsalvo with a little bitterness in his
tone.
Doña Inez drank, and for a few moments fanned herself in silence,
distress and embarrassment in her face.
At last Gonsalvo, who had never withdrawn his eager gaze, said in a low
voice,--
"Sister, remember your promise."
"I am afraid--for you."
"You need not," he gasped. "Only tell me _all_."
Doña Inez passed her hand wearily across her brow.
"Everything floats before me," she said. "What with the music, and
the mass, and the incense; and the crosses, and banners, and gorgeous
robes; and then the taking of the oaths, and the sermon of the faith."
"Still--you kept my charge?"
"I did, brother." She lowered her voice. "Hard as it was, I looked at
_her_. If it comforts you to know that, all through that long day, her
face was as calm as ever I have seen it listening to Fray Constantino's
sermons, you may take that comfort to your heart. When her sentence had
been read, she was asked to recant; and I heard her answer rise clear
and distinct, 'I neither can nor will recant.' Ave Maria Sanctissima!
it is all a great mystery."
There was a silence, then she resumed,--
"And Señor Cristobal Losada--" but the thought of the kind and skilful
physician who had watched beside her own sick-bed, and brought back her
babe from the gates of the grave, almost overcame her. Turning quickly
to other victims, she went on--
"There were four monks of St. Jerome. Think of the White Doctor, that
every one believed so good a man, so pious and orthodox! Another of
them, Fray Cristobal D'Arellano, was accused in his sentence of some
wicked words against Our Lady which, it would seem, he never said. He
cried out boldly, before them all, 'It is false! I never advanced such
a blasphemy; and I am ready to prove the contrary with the Bible in my
hand.' Every one seemed too much amazed even to think of ordering him
to be gagged: and, for my part, I am glad the poor wretch had his word
for the last time. I cannot help wishing they had equally forgotten
to silence Doctor Juan Gonzales; for it does not appear that he was
speaking any blasphemy, but merely a word of comfort to a poor pale
girl, his sister, as they told me. Two of them are to die with him--God
help them!--Holy Saints forgive me; I forgot we were told not to pray
for them," and she crossed herself.
"Does my sister really believe that compassionate word a sin in God's
sight?"
"How am I to know? I believe whatever the Church says, of course. And
surely there is enough in these days to inspire us with a pious horror
of heresy. _Pues_," she resumed, "there was that long and terrible
ceremony of degrading from the priesthood. And yet that Gonsalez passed
through it all as calm and unmoved as though he were but putting on
his robes to say mass. His mother and his two brothers are still in
prison, it is said, awaiting their doom. Of all the relaxed, I am told
that only Don Juan Ponce de Leon showed any sign of penitence. For the
sake of his noble house, one is glad to think he is not so hardened as
the rest. Ay de mi! Whether it be right or wrong, I cannot help pitying
their unhappy souls."
"Pity your own soul, not theirs," said Gonsalvo. "For I tell you Christ
himself, in all his glory and majesty, at the right hand of the Father,
will _stand up_ to receive them this night, as he did to welcome St.
Stephen long ago."
"Oh, my poor brother, what dreadful words you speak! It is a mortal
sin even to listen to you. Take thought, I implore you, of your own
situation."
"I _have_ taken thought," interrupted Gonsalvo, faintly. "But I can
bear no more--just now. Leave me, I pray you, alone with God."
"If you would even try to say an Ave!--But I fear you are
ill--suffering. I do not like to leave you thus."
"Do not heed me; I shall be better soon. And a vow is upon me that I
must keep to-day." Once more he flung the wasted hand across his face
to conceal it.
Irresolute whether to go or stay, she stood for some minutes watching
him silently. At length she caught a low murmur, and hoping that he
prayed, she bent over him to hear. Only three words reached her ear.
They were these--"Father, forgive them."
After an interval, Gonsalvo looked up again. "I thought you were gone,"
he said. "Go now, I entreat of you. But so soon as you know _the end_,
spare not to come and tell me. For I wait for that."
Thus entreated, Doña Inez had no choice but to leave him alone, which
she did.
Evening had worn to night, and night was beginning to wear towards
daybreak, when at last Don Garçia Ramirez, and those of his servants
who had accompanied him to the Prado San Sebastian to see the end,
returned home.
Doña Inez sat awaiting her husband in the patio. She looked pale and
languid; apparently the great holiday of Seville had been anything but
a joyful day to her.
Don Garçia divested himself of his cloak and sword, and dismissed
the servants to their beds. But when his wife invited him to partake
of the supper she had prepared, he turned upon her with very unusual
ill-humour. "It is little like thy wonted wit, señora mia, to bid a
man to his breakfast at midnight," he said. Yet he drank deeply of the
Xeres wine that stood on the board beside the venison pasty and the
manchet bread.
At last, after long patience, Doña Inez won from his lips what she
desired to hear. "Oh yes; all is over. Our Lady defend us! I have never
seen such obstinacy; nor could I have believed it possible unless I
had seen it. The criminals encouraged each other to the very last.
Those girls, the sisters of Gonsalez, repeated their Credo at the
stake; whereupon the attendant Brethren entreated them to have so much
pity on their own souls as to say, 'I believe in the _Roman_ Catholic
Church.' They answered, 'We will do as our brother does.' So the gag
was removed, and Doctor Juan cried aloud, 'Add nothing to the good
confession you have made already.' But for all that, order was given
to strangle them; and one of the friars told us they died in the true
faith. I suppose it is not a sin to hope they did."
After a pause, he continued, in a deeper tone, "Señor Cristobal amazed
me as much as any of them. At the very stake, some of the Brethren
undertook to argue with him. But seeing that we were all listening,
and might hear somewhat to the hurt of our souls, they began to speak
in the Latin tongue. Our physician immediately did the same. I am no
scholar myself; but there were learned men there who marked every word,
and one of them told me afterwards that the doomed man spoke with
as much elegance and propriety as if he had been contending for an
academic prize, instead of waiting for the lighting of the fire which
was to consume him. This unheard-of calmness and composure, whence is
it? The devil's own work, or"----he broke off suddenly and resumed
in a different tone, "Señora mia, have you thought of the hour? In
Heaven's name, let us to our beds!"
"I cannot go to rest until you tell me one thing more. Doña Maria de
Bohorques?"
"Vaya, vaya! have we not had enough of it all?"
"Nay; I have made a promise. I must entreat you to tell me how Doña
Maria de Bohorques met her doom."
"With unflinching hardihood. Don Juan Ponce tried to urge her to yield
somewhat. But she refused, saying it was not now a time for reasoning,
and that they ought rather to meditate on the Lord's death and passion.
(They believe in _that_, it seems.) When she was bound to the stake,
the monks and friars crowded round her, and pressed her only to repeat
the Credo. She did so; but began to add some explanations, which, I
suppose, were heretical. Then immediately the command was given to
strangle her; and so, in one moment, while she was yet speaking, death
came to her."
"Then she did not suffer? She escaped the fire! Thank God!"
Five minutes afterwards, Doña Inez stood by her brother's bed. He lay
in the same posture, his face still shaded by his hand.
"Brother," she said gently--"brother, all is over. She did not suffer.
It was done in one moment."
There was no answer.
"Brother, are you not glad she did not feel the fire? Can you not thank
God for it? Speak to me."
Still no answer.
He could not be asleep! Impossible!--"Speak to me,
Gonsalvo!--_Brother!_"
She drew close to him; she touched his hand to remove it from his face.
The next moment a cry of horror rang through the house. It brought the
servants and Don Garçia himself to the room.
"He is dead! God and Our Lady have mercy on his soul!" said Don Garçia,
after a brief examination.
"If only he had had the Holy Sacrament, I could have borne it!" said
Doña Inez; and then, kneeling down beside the couch, she wept bitterly.
So passed the beggar with the King's sons, through the golden gate into
the King's own presence-chamber. His wrecked and troublous life over,
his passionate heart at rest for ever, the erring, repentant Gonsalvo
found entrance into the same heaven as D'Arellano, and Gonsalez, and
Losada, with their radiant martyr-crowns. In the many mansions there
was a place for him, as for those heroic and triumphant ones. He wore
the same robe as they--a robe washed and made white, not in the blood
of martyrs, but in the blood of the Lamb.
XXXVIII.
Nuera Again.