calculated to charm the senses, ensnare the feelings, and dissolve the
heart into tenderness. Don Ambrosio was a master of the subtle arts of
seduction. His very mansion breathed an enervating atmosphere of
languor and delight. It was here, amidst twilight saloons and dreamy
chambers, buried among groves of orange and myrtle, that he shut
himself up at times from the prying world, and gave free scope to the
gratification of his pleasures.
The apartments were furnished in the most sumptuous and voluptuous
manner; the silken couches swelled to the touch, and sunk in downy
softness beneath the slightest pressure. The paintings and statues,
all told some classic tale of love, managed, however, with an
insidious delicacy; which, while it banished the grossness that might
disgust, was the more calculated to excite the imagination. There the
blooming Adonis was seen, not breaking away to pursue the boisterous
chase, but crowned with flowers, and languishing in the embraces of
celestial beauty. There Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade, with the
Sicilian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them. There were
depicted groups of fauns and dryads, fondly reclining in summer
bowers, and listening to the liquid piping of the reed; or the wanton
satyrs, surprising some wood-nymph during her noontide slumber. There,
too, on the storied tapestry, might be seen the chaste Diana,
stealing, in the mystery of moonlight, to kiss the sleeping Endymion;
while Cupid and Psyche, entwined in immortal marble, breathed on each
other's lips the early kiss of love.
The ardent rays of the sun were excluded from these balmy halls; soft
and tender music from unseen musicians floated around, seeming to
mingle with the perfumes that were exhaled from a thousand flowers. At
night, when the moon shed a fairy light over the scene, the tender
serenade would rise from among the bowers of the garden, in which the
fine voice of Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished; or the
amorous flute would be heard along the mountain, breathing in its
pensive cadences the very soul of a lover's melancholy.
Various entertainments were also devised to dispel her loneliness, and
to charm away the idea of confinement. Groups of Andalusian dancers
performed, in the splendid saloons, the various picturesque dances of
their country; or represented little amorous ballets, which turned
upon some pleasing scene of pastoral coquetry and courtship. Sometimes
there were bands of singers, who, to the romantic guitar, warbled
forth ditties full of passion and tenderness.
Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and voluptuousnesss; but the
heart of Inez turned with distaste from this idle mockery. The tears
would rush into her eyes, as her thoughts reverted from this scene of
profligate splendour, to the humble but virtuous home from whence she
had been betrayed; or if the witching power of music ever soothed her
into a tender reverie, it was to dwell with fondness on the image of
Antonio. But if Don Ambrosio, deceived by this transient calm, should
attempt at such time to whisper his passion, she would start as from a
dream, and recoil from him with involuntary shuddering.
She had passed one long day of more than ordinary sadness, and in the
evening a band of these hired performers were exerting all the
animating powers of song and dance to amuse her. But while the lofty
saloon resounded with their warblings, and the light sound of feet
upon its marble pavement kept time to the cadence of the song, poor
Inez, with her face buried in the silken couch on which she reclined,
was only rendered more wretched by the sound of gayety.
At length her attention was caught by the voice of one of the singers,
that brought with it some indefinite recollections. She raised her
head, and cast an anxious look at the performers, who, as usual, were
at the lower end of the saloon.
One of them advanced a little before the others. It was a female,
dressed in a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the character she was
sustaining; but her countenance was not to be mistaken. It was the
same ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path, and given her
mysterious intimations of the lurking mischief that surrounded her.
When the rest of the performances were concluded, she seized a
tambourine, and, tossing it aloft, danced alone to the melody of her
own voice. In the course of her dancing, she approached to where Inez
reclined: and as she struck the tambourine, contrived dexterously to
throw a folded paper on the couch. Inez seized it with avidity, and
concealed it in her bosom. The singing and dancing were at an end; the
motley crew retired; and Inez, left alone, hastened with anxiety to
unfold the paper thus mysteriously conveyed. It was written in an
agitated, and almost illegible handwriting: "Be on your guard! you are
surrounded by treachery. Trust not to the forbearance of Don Ambrosio;
you are marked out for his prey. An humble victim to his perfidy gives
you this warning; she is encompassed by too many dangers to be more
explicit.--Your father is in the dungeons of the inquisition!"
The brain of Inez reeled, as she read this dreadful scroll. She was
less filled with alarm at her own danger, than horror at her father's
situation. The moment Don Ambrosio appeared, she rushed and threw
herself at his feet, imploring him to save her father. Don Ambrosio
stared with astonishment; but immediately regaining his
self-possession, endeavoured to soothe her by his blandishments, and
by assurances that her father was in safety. She was not to be
pacified; her fears were too much aroused to be trifled with. She
declared her knowledge of her father's being a prisoner of the
inquisition, and reiterated her frantic supplications that he would
save him.
Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in perplexity, but was too adroit to
be easily confounded. "That your father is a prisoner," replied he, "I
have long known. I have concealed it from you, to save you from
fruitless anxiety. You now know the real reason of the restraint I
have put upon your liberty: I have been protecting instead of
detaining you. Every exertion has been made in your father's favour;
but I regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which he stands
charged have been too strong to be controverted. Still," added he, "I
have it in my power to save him; I have influence, I have means at my
beck; it may involve me, it is true, in difficulties, perhaps in
disgrace; but what would I not do, in the hope of being rewarded by
your favour? Speak, beautiful Inez," said he, his eyes kindling with
sudden eagerness; "it is with you to say the word that seals your
father's fate. One kind word--say but you will be mine, and you will
behold me at your feet, your father at liberty and in affluence, and
we shall all be happy!"
Inez drew back from him with scorn and disbelief. "My father,"
exclaimed she, "is too innocent and blameless to be convicted of
crime; this is some base, some cruel artifice!" Don Ambrosio repeated
his asseverations, and with them also his dishonourable proposals; but
his eagerness overshot its mark: her indignation and her incredulity
were alike awakened by his base suggestions; and he retired from her
presence, checked and awed by the sudden pride and dignity of her
demeanour.
The unfortunate Inez now became a prey to the most harrowing
anxieties. Don Ambrosio saw that the mask had fallen from his face,
and that the nature of his machinations was revealed. He had gone too
far to retrace his steps, and assume the affectation of tenderness and
respect; indeed, he was mortified and incensed at her insensibility to
his attractions, and now only sought to subdue her through her fears.
He daily represented to her the dangers that threatened her father,
and that it was in his power alone to avert them. Inez was still
incredulous. She was too ignorant of the nature of the inquisition, to
know that even innocence was not always a protection from its
cruelties; and she confided too surely in the virtue of her father, to
believe that any accusation could prevail against him.
At length Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow to her confidence,
brought her the proclamation of the approaching auto da fé, in which
the prisoners were enumerated. She glanced her eye over it, and beheld
her father's name, condemned to the stake for sorcery!
For a moment she stood transfixed with horror. Don Ambrosio seized
upon the transient calm. "Think, now, beautiful Inez," said he, with a
tone of affected tenderness, "his life is still in your hands; one
word from you, one kind word, and I can yet save him."
"Monster! wretch!" cried she, coming to herself, and recoiling from
him with insuperable abhorrence: "'Tis you that are the cause of
this--'tis you that are his murderer!" Then, wringing her hands, she
broke forth into exclamations of the most frantic agony.
The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her soul, and anticipated
from it a triumph. He saw that she was in no mood, during her present
paroxysm, to listen to his words; but he trusted that the horrors of
lonely rumination would break down her spirit, and subdue her to his
will. In this, however, he was disappointed. Many were the
vicissitudes of mind of the wretched Inez; at one time, she would
embrace his knees, with piercing supplications; at another, she would
shrink with nervous horror at his very approach; but any intimation of
his passion only excited the same emotion of loathing and detestation.
At length the fatal day drew nigh. "To-morrow," said Don Ambrosio, as
he left her one evening, "to-morrow is the auto da fé. To-morrow you
will hear the sound of the bell that tolls your father to his death.
You will almost see the smoke that rises from the funeral pile. I
leave you to yourself. It is yet in my power to save him. Think
whether you can stand to-morrow's horrors without shrinking! Think
whether you can endure the after-reflection, that you were the cause
of his death, and that merely through a perversity in refusing
proffered happiness."
What a night was it to Inez!--her heart already harassed and almost
broken, by repeated and protracted anxieties; her strength wasted and
enfeebled. On every side, horrors awaited her; her father's death, her
own dishonour--there seemed no escape from misery or perdition. "Is
there no relief from man--no pity in heaven?" exclaimed she. "What
--what have we done, that we should be thus wretched?"
As the dawn approached, the fever of her mind arose to agony; a
thousand times did she try the doors and windows of her apartment, in
the desperate hope of escaping. Alas! with all the splendour of her
prison, it was too faithfully secured for her weak hands to work
deliverance. Like a poor bird, that beats its wings against its gilded
cage, until it sinks panting in despair, so she threw herself on the
floor in hopeless anguish. Her blood grew hot in her veins, her tongue
was parched, her temples throbbed with violence, she gasped rather
than breathed; it seemed as if her brain was on fire. "Blessed
Virgin!" exclaimed she, clasping her hands and turning up her strained
eyes, "look down with pity, and support me in this dreadful hour!"
Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key turn softly in the door
of her apartment. She dreaded lest it should be Don Ambrosio; and the
very thought of him gave her a sickening pang. It was a female clad in
a rustic dress, with her face concealed by her mantilla. She stepped
silently into the room, looked cautiously round, and then, uncovering
her face, revealed the well-known features of the ballad-singer. Inez
uttered an exclamation of surprise, almost of joy. The unknown started
back, pressed her finger on her lips enjoining silence, and beckoned
her to follow. She hastily wrapped herself in her veil, and obeyed.
They passed with quick, but noiseless steps through an antechamber,
across a spacious hall, and along a corridor; all was silent; the
household was yet locked in sleep. They came to a door, to which the
unknown applied a key. Inez's heart misgave her; she knew not but some
new treachery was menacing her; she laid her cold hand on the
stranger's arm: "Whither are you leading me?" said she. "To liberty,"
replied the other, in a whisper.
"Do you know the passages about this mansion?"
"But too well!" replied the girl, with a melancholy shake of the head.
There was an expression of sad veracity in her countenance, that was
not to be distrusted. The door opened on a small terrace, which was
overlooked by several windows of the mansion.
"We must move across this quickly," said the girl, "or we may be
observed."
They glided over it, as if scarce touching the ground. A flight of
steps led down into the garden; a wicket at the bottom was readily
unbolted: they passed with breathless velocity along one of the
alleys, still in sight of the mansion, in which, however, no person
appeared to be stirring. At length they came to a low private door in
the wall, partly hidden by a fig-tree. It was secured by rusty bolts,
that refused to yield to their feeble efforts.
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the stranger, "what is to be done? one moment
more, and we may be discovered."
She seized a stone that lay near by: a few blows, and the bolt flew
back; the door grated harshly as they opened it, and the next moment
they found themselves in a narrow road.
"Now," said the stranger, "for Granada as quickly as possible! The
nearer we approach it, the safer we shall be; for the road will be
more frequented."
The imminent risk they ran of being pursued and taken, gave
supernatural strength to their limbs; they flew, rather than ran. The
day had dawned; the crimson streaks on the edge of the horizon gave
tokens of the approaching sunrise; already the light clouds that
floated in the western sky were tinged with gold and purple; though
the broad plain of the Vega, which now began to open upon their view,
was covered with the dark haze of morning. As yet they only passed a
few straggling peasants on the road, who could have yielded them no
assistance in case of their being overtaken. They continued to hurry
forward, and had gained a considerable distance, when the strength of
Inez, which had only been sustained by the fever of her mind, began to
yield to fatigue: she slackened her pace, and faltered.
"Alas!" said she, "my limbs fail me! I can go no farther!"
"Bear up, bear up," replied her companion, cheeringly; "a little
farther, and we shall be safe: look! yonder is Granada, just showing
itself in the valley below us. A little farther, and we shall come to
the main road, and then we shall find plenty of passengers to protect
us."
Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get forward, but her weary
limbs were unequal to the eagerness of her mind; her mouth and throat
were parched by agony and terror: she gasped for breath, and leaned
for support against a rock. "It is all in vain!" exclaimed she; "I
feel as though I should faint."
"Lean on me," said the other; "let us get into the shelter of yon
thicket, that will conceal us from the view; I hear the sound of
water, which will refresh you."
With much difficulty they reached the thicket, which overhung a small
mountain-stream, just where its sparkling waters leaped over the rock
and fell into a natural basin. Here Inez sank upon the ground,
exhausted. Her companion brought water in the palms of her hands, and
bathed her pallid temples. The cooling drops revived her; she was
enabled to get to the margin of the stream, and drink of its crystal
current; then, reclining her head on the bosom of her deliverer, she
was first enabled to murmur forth her heartfelt gratitude.
"Alas!" said the other, "I deserve no thanks; I deserve not the good
opinion you express. In me you behold a victim of Don Ambrosio's arts.
In early years he seduced me from the cottage of my parents: look! at
the foot of yonder blue mountain, in the distance, lies my native
village: but it is no longer a home for me. From thence he lured me,
when I was too young for reflection; he educated me, taught me various
accomplishments, made me sensible to love, to splendour, to
refinement; then, having grown weary of me, he neglected me, and cast
me upon the world. Happily the accomplishments he taught me have kept
me from utter want; and the love with which he inspired me has kept me
from farther degradation. Yes! I confess my weakness; all his perfidy
and wrongs cannot efface him from my heart. I have been brought up to
love him; I have no other idol: I know him to be base, yet I cannot
help adoring him. I am content to mingle among the hireling throng
that administer to his amusements, that I may still hover about him,
and linger in those halls where I once reigned mistress. What merit,
then, have I in assisting your escape? I scarce know whether I am
acting from sympathy and a desire to rescue another victim from his
power; or jealousy, and an eagerness to remove too powerful a rival!"
While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its splendour; first
lighting up the mountain summits, then stealing down height by height,
until its rays gilded the domes and towers of Granada, which they
could partially see from between the trees, below them. Just then the
heavy tones of a bell came sounding from a distance, echoing, in
sullen clang, along the mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound. She
knew it to be the great bell of the cathedral, rung at sunrise on the
day of the auto da fé, to give note of funeral preparation. Every
stroke beat upon her heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang.
She started up wildly. "Let us begone!" cried she; "there is not a
moment for delay!"
"Stop!" exclaimed the other; "yonder are horsemen coming over the brow
of that distant height; if I mistake not, Don Ambrosio is at their
head.--Alas! 'tis he! we are lost. Hold!" continued she; "give me your
scarf and veil; wrap yourself in this mantilla. I will fly up yon
footpath that leads to the heights. I will let the veil flutter as I
ascend; perhaps they may mistake me for you, and they must dismount to
follow me. Do you hasten forward: you will soon reach the main road.
You have jewels on your fingers: bribe the first muleteer you meet, to
assist you on your way."
All this was said with hurried and breathless rapidity. The exchange
of garments was made in an instant. The girl darted up the
mountain-path, her white veil fluttering among the dark shrubbery,
while Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather new terror, flew to
the road, and trusted to Providence to guide her tottering steps to
Granada.
All Granada was in agitation on the morning of this dismal day. The
heavy bell of the cathedral continued to utter its clanging tones,
that pervaded every part of the city, summoning all persons to the
tremendous spectacle that was about to be exhibited. The streets
through which the procession was to pass were crowded with the
populace. The windows, the roofs, every place that could admit a face
or a foothold, were alive with spectators. In the great square, a
spacious scaffolding, like an amphitheatre, was erected, where the
sentences of the prisoners were to be read, and the sermon of faith to
be preached; and close by were the stakes prepared, where the
condemned were to be burnt to death. Seats were arranged for the
great, the gay, the beautiful; for such is the horrible curiosity of
human nature, that this cruel sacrifice was attended with more
eagerness than a theatre, or even a bull-feast.
As the day advanced, the scaffolds and balconies were filled with
expecting multitudes; the sun shone brightly upon fair faces and
gallant dresses; one would have thought it some scene of elegant
festivity, instead of an exhibition of human agony and death. But what
a different spectacle and ceremony was this, from those which Granada
exhibited in the days of her Moorish splendour! "Her galas, her
tournaments, her sports of the ring, her fêtes of St. John, her music,
her Zambras, and admirable tilts of canes! Her serenades, her concerts,
her songs in Generaliffe! The costly liveries of the Abencerrages,
their exquisite inventions, the skill and valour of the Alabaces, the
superb dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, and Gomeles!"[10]--All these
were at an end. The days of chivalry were over. Instead of the prancing
cavalcade, with neighing steed and lively trumpet; with burnished
lance, and helm, and buckler; with rich confusion of plume, and scarf,
and banner, where purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every
gay colour, were mingled with cloth of gold and fair embroidery;
instead of this, crept on the gloomy pageant of superstition, in cowl
and sackcloth; with cross and coffin, and frightful symbols of human
suffering. In place of the frank, hardy knight, open and brave, with
his lady's favour in his casque, and amorous motto on his shield,
looking, by gallant deeds, to win the smile of beauty, came the shaven,
unmanly monk, with downcast eyes, and head and heart bleached in the
cold cloister, secretly exulting in this bigot triumph.
[Footnote 10: Rodd's Civil Wars of Granada.]
The sound of the bells gave notice that the dismal procession was
advancing. It passed slowly through the principal streets of the city,
bearing in advance the awful banner of the Holy Office. The prisoners
walked singly, attended by confessors, and guarded by familiars of the
inquisition. They were clad in different garments, according to the
nature of their punishments; those who were to suffer death wore the
hideous Samarra, painted with flames and demons. The procession was
swelled by choirs of boys, different religious orders and public
dignitaries, and above all, by the fathers of the faith, moving "with
slow pace, and profound gravity, truly triumphing as becomes the
principal generals of that great victory."[11]
[Footnote 11: Gonsalvius, p. 135.]
As the sacred banner of the inquisition advanced, the countless throng
sunk on their knees before it; they bowed their faces to the very
earth as it passed, and then slowly rose again, like a great
undulating billow. A murmur of tongues prevailed as the prisoners
approached, and eager eyes were strained, and fingers pointed, to
distinguish the different orders of penitents, whose habits denoted
the degree of punishment they were to undergo. But as those drew near
whose frightful garb marked them as destined to the flames, the noise
of the rabble subsided; they seemed almost to hold in their breath;
filled with that strange and dismal interest with which we contemplate
a human being on the verge of suffering and death.
It is an awful thing--a voiceless, noiseless multitude! The hushed and
gazing stillness of the surrounding thousands, heaped on walls, and
gates, and roofs, and hanging, as it were, in clusters, heightened the
effect of the pageant that moved drearily on. The low murmuring of the
priests could now be heard in prayer and exhortation, with the faint
responses of the prisoners, and now and then the voices of the choir
at a distance, chanting the litanies of the saints.
The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and disconsolate. Even those
who had been pardoned, and wore the Sanbenito, or penitential garment,
bore traces of the horrors they had undergone. Some were feeble and
tottering, from long confinement; some crippled and distorted by
various tortures; every countenance was a dismal page, on which might
be read the secrets of their prison-house. But in the looks of those
condemned to death, there was something fierce and eager. They seemed
men harrowed up by the past, and desperate as to the future. They were
anticipating, with spirits fevered by despair, and fixed and clenched
determination, the vehement struggle with agony and death which they
were shortly to undergo. Some cast now and then a wild and anguished
look about them, upon the shining day; the "sun-bright palaces," the
gay, the beautiful world, which they were soon to quit for ever; or a
glance of sudden indignation at the thronging thousands, happy in
liberty and life, who seemed, in contemplating their frightful
situation, to exult in their own comparative security.