Are you called forth, from out a world of men,
To slay the innocent? What is my offence?
Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?
What lawful quest have given their verdict up
Unto the frowning judge?--_Richard III_.
"You have trifled long enough," said the commissioner; "declare what
you know, or you shall be dealt with summarily."
A long journey, manacled like a felon, and guarded by dragoons with
loaded carbines; a rigorous imprisonment, already five months
protracted; repeated examinations before a military tribunal;
cross-questionings, threats, and insults, to extort his supposed
secrets;--all these had formed a sharp transition from the halcyon
days of Vassall Morton's prosperity.
"Declare what you know, or you shall be dealt with summarily."
"I know nothing, and therefore can declare nothing."
"You have held that tone long enough. Do you imagine that we are to be
deceived by your inventions? Tell what you know, or in twenty minutes
you will be led to the rampart and shot."
"I am in your power, and you can do what you will."
The commissioner spoke in German to the corporal of the guard, who
took Morton into custody, and was leading him from the room.
"Stop," cried the official, from his seat.
Morton turned.
"You are destroying yourself, young man."
"It is false. You are murdering me."
"Do not answer me. I tell you, you are murdering yourself. Are you the
fool to fling away your life in a fit of obstinacy?"
"Are you the villain to shoot innocent men in cold blood?"
The commissioner swore a savage oath, and with an angry gesture sent
the corporal from the room.
The corporal led his prisoner along the corridor, which had grown
ruefully familiar to Morton's eye; but instead of following the way
which led to the latter's cell, he turned into a much wider and more
commodious passage. Here, at his open door, stood Padre Luca,
confessing priest of the castle.
Padre Luca had mistaken his calling, when he took it upon him to
discharge such a function. He was too tender of heart, too soft of
nature; ill seasoned, moreover, to his work, for he had been but a
week in the fortress, and this was the first victim whom it behooved
him to prepare for death. And when he saw the young prisoner, and
learned the instant doom under which he stood, his nerves grew
tremulous, and he found no words to usher in his ghostly counsels.
Corporal Max Kubitski, with a face unperturbed as a block, unfettered
Morton's wrists, left him with the confessor, and withdrew, placing a
soldier on guard at the door without. Morton sat silent and calm. The
hand of Padre Luca quivered with agitation.
"My son," he began; and here his voice faltered.
"I trust," he said, finding his tongue again, "that you are a faithful
child of our holy mother, the church, and that the heresies and
infidelities of these times----"
"Father," said Morton, willingly adopting the filial address to the
kind-hearted priest, "I am a Protestant. I was born and bred among
Protestants. I respect your ancient church for the good she has done
in ages past, and for the good men who have held her faith; but I do
not believe her doctrine, nor approve her practice."
The priest's face betrayed his discomposure.
"My son, my dear son, it is not too late; it is never too late. Listen
to the truth; renounce your fatal errors. I will baptize you; and when
you are gone, I will pray our great saint of Milan to intercede for
you, and I will say masses for your soul."
Morton smiled faintly, and shook his head.
"I thank you; but it is too late for conversion. I must die in my
heresy, as I have lived."
"So young!" exclaimed Padre Luca; "and so calm on the brink of
eternity! Ah, it is hard to die, when so much is left to enjoy; but it
is worse to plunge from present suffering into everlasting despair."
And he proceeded to give a most graphic picture of post-mortal
torments, drawn from the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius, a work
very familiar to his meditations. This dire imagery failed to convince
the dying heretic.
"My mind is made up. I cannot believe your doctrine, but I can feel
your kindness. You have spoken the first friendly words that I have
heard for months."
"It is hard that you should die so unprepared, and so young. You have
relatives? You have friends?"
"More than friends! More than friends!" groaned Morton. And as a flood
of recollection swept over him, his heart for a moment was sick with
anguish.
"Come with me," whispered Padre Luca. He led the way into the chapel
of the castle, which adjoined his room. Here he bowed and crossed
himself before an altar, over which was displayed a painting of the
Virgin.
"Our Blessed Mother is full of love, full of mercy. See,--hang this
round your neck"--placing in his hand a small medal on which her image
was stamped. "Go and kneel before that altar, and repeat these words,"
pointing to the Ave Maria in a little book of devotion. "Call on her
with a true heart, and she will have pity. She cannot see you perish,
body and soul. She will appear, and teach you the truth."
There was so much of earnestness and sincerity in his words, that
Morton felt nothing but gratitude as he answered,--
"It would be no better than a mockery, if I should do as you wish. I
cannot----"
Here a clear, deep voice from the adjacent room interrupted him.
"Mother of heaven!" cried Padre Luca, greatly agitated.
"I am ready," answered Morton, in a voice firm as that which summoned
him.
He returned to the priest's apartment, and in the doorway stood the
athletic corporal, like the statue of a modern Mars.
"_Mio figlio! Mio caro figlio!_" faltered Padre Luca, laying a
tremulous hand on the young man's shoulder. The kindly accents of the
melodious Italian fell on his ear like a strain of music.
"You must not die now; you are not prepared. I will go to the
commissioner. He will grant time."
He was pushing past the corporal, when Morton gently checked him.
"I thank you, father, a thousand times; but if I must die, there is no
mercy in a half hour's delay. Let me go. This sentence may be, after
all, a kindness."
The corporal took him into custody; and, with three soldiers before
and three behind, he moved towards his place of execution. He seemed
to himself like one not fully awake; the stern reality would not come
home to his thoughts, until, as he was mounting a flight of steps
leading to the rampart, a vivid remembrance glowed upon him of that
summer evening when, in her father's garden, Edith Leslie had accepted
his love. It was with a desperate effort of pride and resolution that
he quelled the emotion which rose choking to his throat, and murmuring
a petition for her safety, walked forward with an unchanged face.
A light shone in upon the passage, and they stood in a moment upon the
rampart, whence a panorama of sunny mountains opened on the view. It
was a space of some extent, paved with flag-stones, and compassed with
battlements and walls. On one side stood, leaning on their muskets, a
file of Bohemian soldiers, in their close frogged uniforms and long
mustaches. These, with their officer, Corporal Kubitski, with his six
men, a sub-official acting for the commissioner, and Padre Luca, were
the only persons present, besides the prisoner. The latter was placed
before the Bohemians, at the distance of twelve or fourteen paces. The
corporal and his men drew aside.
"Now," demanded the deputy, "will you confess what you know, or will
you die?"
"I have told you, once and again, that I have nothing to confess."
"Then take the consequence of your obstinacy."
He motioned to the officer. A word of command was given. Each soldier
loaded with ball, and the ramrods rattled as they sent home the
charge. Another command, and the cocked muskets rose to the level,
concentrating their aim against the prisoner's breast.
"If you will speak, speak now. You have a quarter of a minute to save
yourself." And the deputy took out his watch.
Morton turned his head slowly, and looked at him for an instant in
silence.
"Speak, speak," cried Padre Luca, pressing towards him; "tell him what
you know."
The sharp voice of the officer warned him back.
Morton stood with compressed lips, and every nerve at its tension, in
instant expectation of the volley; already, in fancy, he felt the
bullets plunging through his breast; but not a muscle flinched, and he
fronted the deadly muzzles with an unblenching eye. The deputy
scrutinized his face, and turned away, muttering. At that moment a
man, who through the whole scene had stood hidden in the entrance of a
passage, ran out with a pretence of great haste and earnestness, and
called to stop the execution, since the commissioner had granted a
reprieve. In fact, the whole affair was a sham, played off upon the
prisoner to terrify him into confession.
The Bohemians recovered their muskets, and the bewildered Morton was
once more in custody of the corporal, who led him, guarded as before,
back towards his cell. Padre Luca, who thought that an interposition
of the Virgin had softened the commissioner's heart, hastened to his
oratory to pray for the heretic's conversion. Faint and heartsick,
Morton scarcely knew what was passing, till he was thrust in at his
narrow door. The jailer was there, but the corporal entered also, to
aid in taking the handcuffs from his wrists.
One might have looked in vain among ten thousand to find a nobler
model of masculine proportion than this soldier. He stood more than
six feet high, and Morton, who loved to look upon a man, had often,
even in his distress, admired his martial bearing and the powerful
symmetry of his frame. His face, too, was singularly fine in its way,
and though the discipline of long habit usually banished from it any
distinct expression, yet the cast of the features, and the manly curve
of the lip, which the thick brown mustache could not wholly hide,
seemed to augur a brave, generous, and loyal nature.
More stupefied than cheered at being snatched, as he supposed, from
the jaws of death, Morton stood passive while his hands were released.
The jailer left him for a moment, and crossed over to the opposite
corner of the cell. His back was turned as he did so. The corporal's
six soldiers were all in the passage without. At that instant, Morton
felt a warm breath at his ear, and heard whispered in a barbarous
accent,--
"_Courage, mon ami! Vive la liberte! Vive l'Amerique!_"
He turned; but the martial visage of the corporal was unmoved as
bronze; and, in a moment more, the iron door clanged behind him as he
disappeared.