But in the quiet Sabbath-keeping that remaineth for the people of
God, there will surely be leisure enough to talk over past trials and
triumphs. At present, however, he only saw the dark side--only knew
the bare and bitter facts of suffering and death. He had not merely
loved De Seso as his instructor; he had admired him with the generous
enthusiasm of a young man for a senior in whom he recognizes his
ideal--all that he himself would fain become. If the Spains had but
known the day of their visitation, he doubted not that man would have
been their leader in the path of reform. But they knew it not; and so,
instead, the chariot of fire had come for him. For him, and for nearly
all the men and women whose hands Carlos had been wont to clasp in
loving brotherhood. Losada, D'Arellano, Ponce de Leon, Doña Isabella
de Baena, Doña Maria de Bohorques,--all these honoured names, and many
more, did he repeat, adding after each one of them, "At rest with
Christ." Somewhere in the depths of those dreary dungeons it might be
that the heroic Juliano, his father in the faith, was lingering still;
and also Fray Constantino, and the young monk of San Isodro, Fray
Fernando. But the prison walls sundered them quite as hopelessly from
him as the River of Death itself.
Earlier ties sometimes seemed to him only like things he had read
or dreamed of. During his fever, indeed, old familiar faces had
often flitted round him. Dolores sat beside him, laying her hand on
his burning brow; Fray Sebastian taught him disjointed, meaningless
fragments from the schoolmen; Juan himself either spoke cheerful words
of hope and trust, or else talked idly of long-forgotten trifles.
But all this was over now: neither dream nor fancy came to break his
utter, terrible loneliness. He knew that he was never to see Juan
again, nor Dolores, nor even Fray Sebastian. The world was dead to him,
and he to it. And as for his brethren in the faith, they had gone "to
the light beyond the clouds, and the rest beyond the storms," where he
would so gladly be. Why, then, was he left so long, like one standing
without in the cold? Why did not the golden gate open for him as well
as for them? What was he doing in this place?--what _could_ he do for
his Master's cause or his Master's honour? He did not murmur. By this
time his Saviour's prayer, "Not my will, but thine be done," had been
wrought into the texture of his being with the scarlet, purple, and
golden threads of pain, of patience, and of faith. But it is well for
His tried ones that He knows longing is not murmuring. Very full of
longing were the words--words rather of pleading than of prayer--that
rose continually from the lips of Carlos that day,--"And now, Lord,
_what wait I for_?"
XL.
"A Satisfactory Penitent."
"How long in thraldom's grasp I lay
I knew not; for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day."
CAMPBELL.
Carlos was sleeping tranquilly in his dungeon on the following night,
when the opening of the door aroused him. He started with sickening
dread, the horrors of the torture-room rising in an instant before his
imagination. Benevidio entered, followed by Herrera, and commanded
him to rise and dress immediately. Long experience of the Santa Casa
had taught him that he might as well make an inquiry of its doors and
walls as of any of its officials. So he obeyed in silence, and slowly
and painfully enough. But he was soon relieved from his worst fear by
seeing Herrera fold together the few articles of clothing he had been
allowed to have with him, preparatory to carrying them away. "It is
only, then, a change of prison," he thought; "and wherever they bring
me, heaven will be equally near."
His limbs, enfeebled by two years of close confinement, and lame
from the effects of one terrible night, were sorely tried by what he
thought an almost interminable walk through corridors and down narrow
winding stairs. But at last he was conducted to a small postern door,
which, greatly to his surprise, Benevidio proceeded to unlock. The
kind-hearted Herrera took advantage of the moment when Benevidio was
thus occupied to whisper,--
"We are bringing you to the Dominican prison, señor; you will be better
used there."
Carlos thanked him by a grateful look and a pressure of the hand. But
an instant afterwards he had forgotten his words. He had forgotten
everything save that he stood once more in God's free air, and that
God's own boundless heaven, spangled with ten thousand stars, was
over him, no dungeon roof between. For one rapturous moment he gazed
upwards, thanking God in his heart. But the fresh air he breathed
seemed to intoxicate him like strong wine. He grew faint, and leaned
for support on Herrera.
"Courage, señor; it is not far--only a few paces," said the
under-gaoler, kindly.
Weak as he was, Carlos wished the distance a hundred times greater.
But it proved quite long enough for his strength. By the time he was
delivered over into the keeping of a couple of lay brothers, and
locked by them into a cell in the Dominican monastery, he was scarcely
conscious of anything save excessive fatigue.
The next morning was pretty far advanced before any one came to him;
but at last he was honoured with a visit from the prior himself. He
said frankly, and with perfect truth,--
"I am glad to find myself in your hands, my lord."
To one accustomed to feel himself an object of terror, it is a new and
pleasant sensation to be trusted. Even a wild beast will sometimes
spare the weak but fearless creature that ventures to play with it: and
Don Fray Ricardo was not a wild beast; he was only a stern, narrow,
conscientious man, the willing and efficient agent of a terrible
system. His brow relaxed visibly as he said,--
"I have always sought your true good, my son."
"I am well aware of it, father."
"And you must acknowledge," the prior resumed, "that great forbearance
and lenity have been shown towards you. But your infatuation has been
such that you have deliberately and persistently sought your own ruin.
You have resisted the wisest arguments, the gentlest persuasions,
and that with an obstinacy which time and discipline seem only to
increase. And now at last, as another Auto-da-fé may not be celebrated
for some time, my Lord Vice-Inquisitor-General, justly incensed at
your contumacy, would fain have thrown you into one of the underground
dungeons, where, believe me, you would not live a month. But I have
interceded for you."
"I thank your kindness, my lord. But I cannot see that it matters much
how you deal with me now. Sooner or later, in one form or other, it
must be death; and I thank God it can be no more."
While a man might count twenty, the prior looked silently in that
steadfast sorrowful young face. Then he said,--
"My son, do not yield to despair; for I come to thee this day with
a message of hope. I have also made intercession for thee with the
Supreme Council of the Holy Office; and I have succeeded in obtaining
from that august tribunal a great and unusual grace."
Carlos looked up, a sudden flush on his cheek. He hoped this unusual
grace might be permission to see some familiar face ere he died; but
the prior's next words disappointed him. Alas! it was only the offer
of escape from death on terms that he might not accept. And yet such
an ofter really deserved the name the prior gave it--a great and
unusual grace. For, as has been already intimated, by the laws of the
Inquisition at that time in force, the man who had _once_ professed
heretical doctrines, however sincerely he might have retracted them,
was doomed to die. His penitence would procure him the favour of
absolution--the mercy of the garotte instead of the stake: that was all.
The prior went on to explain to Carlos, that upon the ground of his
youth, and the supposition that he had been led into error by others,
his judges had consented to show him singular favour. "Moreover," he
added, "there are other reasons for this course of action, upon which
it would be needless, and might be inexpedient, to enter at present;
but they have their weight, especially with me. For the preservation,
therefore, both of your soul and your body--upon which I take more
compassion than you do yourself--I have, in the first place, obtained
permission to remove you to a more easy and more healthful confinement,
where, besides other favours, you will enjoy the great privilege of a
companion, constant intercourse with whom can scarcely fail to benefit
you."
Carlos thought this last a doubtful boon; but as it was kindly
intended, he was bound to be grateful. He thanked the prior
accordingly; adding, "May I be permitted to ask the name of this
companion?"
"You will probably find out ere long, if you conduct yourself so as to
deserve it,"--an answer Carlos found so enigmatical, that after several
vain endeavours to comprehend it, he gave up the task in despair, and
not without some apprehension that his long imprisonment had dulled his
perceptions. "Amongst us he is called Don Juan," the prior continued.
"And this much I will tell you. He is a very honourable person, who had
many years ago the great misfortune to be led astray by the same errors
to which you cling with such obstinacy. God was pleased, however, to
make use of my poor instrumentality to lead him back to the bosom of
the Church. He is now a true and sincere penitent, diligent in prayer
and penance, and heartily detesting his former evil ways. It is my last
hope for you that his wise and faithful counsels may bring you to the
same mind."
Carlos did not particularly like the prospect. He feared that this
vaunted penitent would prove a noisy apostate, who would seek to obtain
the favour of the monks by vilifying his former associates. Nor, on the
other hand, did he think it honest to accept without protest kindnesses
offered him on the supposition that he might even yet be induced to
recant. He said,--
"I ought to tell you, señor, that my mind will never change, God
helping me. Rather than lead you to imagine otherwise, I would go at
once to the darkest cell in the Triana. My faith is based on the Word
of God, which can never be overthrown."
"The penitent of whom I speak used such words as these, until God
and Our Lady opened his eyes. Now he sees all things differently.
So will you, if God is pleased to give you the inestimable benefit
of his divine grace; for it is not of him that willeth, nor of him
that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy," said the Dominican,
who, like others of his order, ingeniously managed to combine strong
predestinarian theories with the creed of Rome.
"That is most true, señor," Carlos responded.
"But to resume," said the prior; "for I have yet more to say. Should
you be favoured with the grace of repentance, I am authorized to hold
out to you a well-grounded hope, that, in consideration of your youth,
your life may even yet be spared."
"And then, if I were strong enough, I might live out ten or twenty
years--like the last two," Carlos answered, not without a touch of
bitterness.
"It is not so, my son," returned the prior mildly. "I cannot promise,
indeed, under any circumstances, to restore you to the world. For
that would be to promise what could not be performed; and the laws of
the Holy Office expressly forbid us to delude prisoners with false
hopes.[32] But this much I will say, your restraint shall be rendered
so light and easy, that your position will be preferable to that of
many a monk, who has taken the vows of his own free will. And if you
like the society of the penitent of whom I spoke anon, you shall
continue to enjoy it."
[32] But these laws were often broken or evaded.
Carlos began to feel a somewhat unreasonable antipathy to this
penitent, whose face he had never seen. But what mattered the
antipathies of a prisoner of the Holy Office? He only said, "Permit
me again to thank you, my lord, for the kindness you have shown me.
Though my fellow-men cast out my name as evil, and deny me my share of
God's free air and sky, and my right to live in his world, I still take
thankfully every word or deed of pity and gentleness they give me by
the way. For they know not what they do."
The prior turned away, but turned back again a moment afterwards, to
ask--what for the credit of his humanity he ought to have asked a year
before--"Do you stand in need of any thing? or have you any request you
wish to make?"
Carlos hesitated a moment. Then he said, "Of things within your power
to grant, my lord, there is but one that I care to ask. Two brethren
of the Society of Jesus visited me the day before yesterday. I spoke
hastily to one of them, who was named Fray Isodor, I think. Had I the
opportunity, I should be glad to offer him my hand."
"Now, of all mysterious things in heaven or earth," said the prior, "a
heretic's conscience is the most difficult to comprehend. Truly you
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel. But as for Fray Isodor, you may
rest content. For good and sufficient reasons, he cannot visit you
here. But I will repeat to him what you have said. And I know well that
his own tongue is a sharp weapon enough when used in the defence of the
faith."
The prior withdrew; and shortly afterwards one of the monks appeared,
and silently conducted Carlos to a cell, or chamber, in the highest
story of the building. Like the cells in the Triana, it had two
doors--the outer one secured by strong bolts and bars, the inner one
furnished with an aperture through which food or other things could be
passed.
But here the resemblance ceased. Carlos found himself, on entering,
in what seemed to him more like a hall than a cell; though, indeed,
it must be remembered that his eye was accustomed to ten feet square.
It was furnished as comfortably as any room needed to be in that warm
climate; and it was tolerably clean, a small mercy which he noted with
no small gratitude. Best perhaps of all, it had a good window, looking
down on the courtyard, but strongly barred, of course. Near the window
was a table, upon which stood an ivory crucifix, and a picture of the
Madonna and child.
But even before his eye took in all these objects, it turned to the
penitent, whose companionship had been granted him as so great a boon.
He was utterly unlike all that he had expected. Instead of a fussy,
noisy pervert, he saw a serene and stately old man, with long white
hair and beard, and still, clearly chiselled, handsome features. He
was dressed in a kind of mantle, of a nondescript colour, made like
a monk's cowl without the hood, and bearing two large St. Andrew's
crosses, one on the breast and the other on the back; in fact, it was a
compromised sanbenito.
As Carlos entered, he rose (showing a tall, spare figure, slightly
stooped), and greeted his new companion with a courteous and elaborate
bow, but did not speak.
Shortly afterwards, food was handed through the aperture in the
door; and the half-starved prisoner from the Triana sat down with
his fellow-captive to what he esteemed a really luxurious repast. He
had intended to be silent until obliged to speak, but the aspect and
bearing of the penitent quite disarranged his preconceived ideas.
During the meal, he tried once and again to open a conversation by some
slight courteous observation.
All in vain. The penitent did the honours of the table like a prince
in disguise, and never failed to bow and answer, "Yes, señor," or "No,
señor," to everything Carlos said. But he seemed either unable or
unwilling to do more.
As the day wore on, this silence grew oppressive to Carlos; and he
marvelled increasingly at his companion's want of ordinary interest in
him, or curiosity about him. Until at length a probable solution of the
mystery dawned upon his mind. As he considered the penitent an agent
of the monks deputed to convert him, very likely the penitent, on his
side, regarded _him_ in the light of a spy commissioned to watch his
proceedings.
But this, if it was true at all, was only a small part of the truth.
Carlos failed to take into account the terrible effect of long years
of solitude, crushing down all the faculties of the mind and heart.
It is told of some monastery, where the rules were so severe that the
brethren were only allowed to converse with each other during one hour
in the week, that they usually sat for that hour in perfect silence:
they had nothing to say. So it was with the penitent of the Dominican
convent. He had nothing to say, nothing to ask; curiosity and interest
were dead within him--dead long ago, of absolute starvation.
Yet Carlos could not help observing him with a strange kind of
fascination. His face was too still, too coldly calm, like a white
marble statue; and yet it was a noble face. It was, although not a
thoughtful face, the face of a thoughtful man asleep. It did not lack
expressiveness, though it lacked expression. Moreover, there was in it
a look that awakened dim, undefined memories--shadowy things, that fled
away like ghosts whenever he tried to grasp them, yet persistently rose
again, and mingled with all his thoughts.
He told himself many times that he had never seen the man before. Was
it, then, an accidental likeness to some familiar face that so fixed
and haunted him? Certainly there was something which belonged to his
past, and which, even while it perplexed and baffled, strangely soothed
and pleased him.
At each of the canonical hours (which were announced to them by the
tolling of the convent bells), the penitent did not fail to kneel
before the crucifix, and, with the aid of a book and a rosary, to read
or repeat long Latin prayers, in a half audible voice. He retired
to rest early, leaving his fellow-prisoner supremely happy in the
enjoyment of his lamp and his Book of Hours. For it was two years
since the eyes of the once enthusiastic young scholar had rested on a
printed page, or since the kindly gleam of lamp or fire had cheered
his solitude. The privilege of refreshing his memory with the passages
of Scripture contained in the Romish book of devotion now appeared an
unspeakable boon to him. And although, accustomed as he was to a life
of unbroken monotony, the varied impressions of the day had produced
extreme weariness of mind and body, it was near midnight before he
could prevail upon himself to close the volume, and lie down to rest on
the comfortable pallet prepared for him.
He was just falling asleep, when the midnight bell tolled out heavily.
He saw his companion rise, throw his mantle over his shoulders, and
betake himself to his devotions. How long these lasted he could
not tell, for the stately kneeling figure soon mingled with his
dreams--strange dreams of Juan as a penitent, dressed in a sanbenito,
and with white hair and an old man's face, kneeling devoutly before the
altar in the church at Nuera, but reciting one of the songs of the Cid
instead of _De Profundis_.
XLI.
More about the Penitent.
"Ay, thus thy mother looked,
With such a sad, yet half-triumphant smile,
All radiant with deep meaning."
HEMANS.
A slight incident, that occurred the following morning, partially
broke down the barrier of reserve between the two prisoners. After his
early devotions, the penitent laid aside his mantle, took up a besom
made of long slips of cane, and proceeded, with great deliberation and
gravity, to sweep out the room. The contrast that his stately figure,
his noble air, and the dignity of all his movements, offered to the
menial occupation in which he was engaged, was far too pathetic to
be ludicrous. Carlos could not but think that he wielded the lowly
implement as if it were a chamberlain's staff of office, or a grand
marshal's baton.
He himself was well accustomed to such tasks; for every prisoner of
the Santa Casa, no matter what his rank might be, was his own servant.
And it spoke much for the revolution that had taken place in his ideas
and feelings, that though taught to look on all servile occupations as
ineffably degrading, he had never associated a thought of degradation
with anything laid upon him to do or to suffer as the prisoner of
Christ.
And yet he could not endure to see his aged and stately fellow-prisoner
thus occupied. He rose immediately, and earnestly entreated to be
allowed to relieve him of the task, pleading that all such duties ought
to devolve on him as the younger. At first the penitent resisted,
saying that it was part of his penance. But when Carlos continued to
urge the point, he yielded; perhaps the more readily because his will,
like his other faculties, was weakened for want of exercise. Then,
with more apparent interest than he had shown in any of his previous
proceedings, he watched the rather slow and difficult movements of his
young companion.
"You are lame, señor," he said, a little abruptly, when Carlos, having
finished his work, sat down to rest.
"From the pulley," Carlos answered quietly; and then his face beamed
with a sudden smile, for the secret of the Lord was with him, and he
tasted the sweet, strange joy that springs out of suffering borne for
Him.
That look was the wire that drew an electric flash of memory from the
clouds that veiled the old man's soul. What that sudden flash revealed
was a castle gate, at which stood a stately yet slender form robed in
silk. In the fair young face tears and smiles were contending; but a
smile won the victory, as a little child was held up, and made to kiss
a baby-hand in farewell to its father.
In a moment all was gone; only a vague trouble and uneasiness remained,
accompanied by that strange sense of having seen or felt just the same
thing before, with which we are most of us familiar. Accustomed to
solitude, the penitent spoke aloud, perchance unconsciously.
"Why did they bring you here?" he said, in a half fretful tone. "You
hurt me. I have done very well alone all these years."
"I am sorry to incommode you, señor," returned Carlos. "But I did
not come here of my own will; neither, unhappily, can I go. I am a
prisoner like yourself; but, unlike you, I am a prisoner under sentence
of death."
For several minutes the penitent did not answer. Then he rose, and
taking a step or two towards the place where Carlos sat, gravely
extended his hand. "I fear I have spoken uncourteously," he said. "So
many years have passed since I have conversed with my fellows, that I
have well-nigh forgotten how I ought to address them. Do me the favour,
señor and my brother, to grant me your pardon."
Carlos warmly assured him no offence had been given; and taking the
offered hand, he pressed it reverently to his lips. From that moment he
loved his fellow-prisoner in his heart.
There was an interval of silence, then the penitent of his own accord
resumed the conversation. "Did I hear you say you are under sentence of
death?" he asked.
"I am so actually, though not formally," Carlos replied. "In the
language of the Holy Office, I am a professed impenitent heretic."
"And you so young!"
"To be a heretic?"
"No; I meant so young to die."
"Do I look young--even yet? I should not have thought it. To me the
last two years seem like a long lifetime."
"Have you been two years, then, in prison? Poor boy! Yet I have been
here ten, fifteen, twenty years--I cannot tell how many. I have lost
the account of them."
Carlos sighed. And such a life was before him, should he be weak enough
to surrender his hope. He said, "Do you really think, señor, that these
long years of lonely suffering are less hard to bear than a speedy
though violent death?"
"I do not think it matters, as to that," was the penitent's not very
apposite reply. In fact, his mind was not capable, at the time, of
dealing with such a question; so he turned from it instinctively.
But in the meantime he was remembering, every moment more and more
clearly, that a duty had been laid upon him by the authority to
which his soul held itself in absolute subjection. And that duty had
reference to his fellow-prisoner.
"I am commanded," he said at last, "to counsel you to seek the
salvation of your soul, by returning to the bosom of the one true
Catholic and Apostolic Church, out of which there is no peace and no
salvation."
Carlos saw that he spoke by rote; that his words echoed the thought
of another, not his own. It seemed to him, under the circumstances,
scarcely generous to argue. He spared to put forth his mental powers
against the aged and broken man, as Juan in like case would have spared
to use his strong right arm.
After a moment's thought, he replied,--
"May I ask of your courtesy, señor and my father, to bear with me for a
little while, that I may frankly disclose to you my real belief?"