"Hovers the steel above his head,
Suspended by a spider thread:
On, on! a life hangs on thy speed;
With lightning wing the gallant steed!
Buoy the full heart up! It will sink
If it but pause to feel and think.
There is no time to dread his fate:
No thought but one--too late, too late!"
MS.
Too soon did Marie realize the power of Don Luis to exercise his
threatened vengeance! Two days after that terrible interview, she
was again dragged to the hall of judgment: the same questions were
proposed as before, whether or not she would denounce the secret
followers of her own creed, and confess her late husband's real
belief; and the same firm answers given. We shrink in loathing from
the delineation of horrible tortures applied to that frail and gentle
being--shrink, for we know that such things actually have been; and
women--young, lovely, inoffensive as Marie Morales--have endured the
same exquisite agony for the same iniquitous purpose! In public,
charged to denounce innocent fellow-beings, or suffer; in private--in
those dark and fearful cells--exposed to all the horror and terror of
such persecution as we have faintly endeavored to describe. It is no
picture of the imagination, delighting to dwell on horrors. Would that
it were! Its parallel will be found, again and again repeated, in the
annals--not of the Inquisition alone--but of every European state
where the Romanists held sway.
But Marie's prayer for superhuman strength had been heard. No cry,
scarcely a groan, escaped her. She saw Don Luis at her side; she
heard his hissing whisper that there was yet time to retract and
be released; but she deigned him no reply whatever. It was not his
purpose to try her endurance to the utmost in the first, second, or
third trial; though, so enraged at her calmness, as scarcely to be
able to restrain it even before his colleagues, and with difficulty
controlling his fiendish desire to increase the torture to its utmost
at once, he remanded her to her dungeon till his further pleasure
should be known. She had fainted under the intolerable pain, and lay
for many successive hours, too exhausted even to raise to her parched
lips the pitcher of water lying near her. And even the gradual
cessation of suffering, the sensation of returning power, brought with
them the agonized thought, that they did but herald increased and
increasing torture.
One night--she knew not how long after she had been remanded to her
cell, but, counting by suffering, it felt many weary nights and
days--she sunk into a sleep or trance, which transported her to her
early home in the Vale of Cedars. Her mother seemed again to stand
before her; and she thought, as she heard her caressing voice, and met
the glance of her dove-like eyes, she laid her head on her bosom, as
she was wont to do in her happy childhood; and peace seemed to sink
into her heart so blessedly, so deeply, that the very fever of her
frame departed. A voice aroused her with a start; it was so like her
mother's, that the dream seemed lingering still.
"Marie, my beloved one," murmured the voice, and a breath fanned
her cheek, as if some one were leaning over her. She unclosed her
eyes--the words, the voice, still so kept up the illusion, though
the tones were deeper than a woman's, that even the hated dress of
a familiar of the Inquisition could not create alarm. "Hast thou
forgotten me, my child? But it matters not now. Say only thou wilt
trust me, and safety lies before us. The fiends hold not their hellish
court to-night; and the arch-fiend himself is far distant, on a sudden
summons from the King, which, though the grand Inquisitor might scorn,
Don Luis will obey. Wilt come with me, my child?"
"Ay, any where! That voice could not deceive: but 'tis all vain," she
continued, the first accents of awakened hope lost in despondency--"I
cannot rise."
"It needs not. Do thou hold the lantern, Marie; utter not a
word--check even thy breath--and the God of thy fathers shall save
thee yet."
He raised her gently in his arms; and the hope of liberty, of rescue
from Don Luis, gave her strength to grasp the light to guide them. She
could not trace their way, but she felt they left the dungeon, and
traversed many long, damp, and narrow passages, seemingly excavated in
the solid earth. All was silent, and dark as the tomb; now and then
her guide paused, as if to listen; but there was no sound. He knew
well the secret paths he trod.
The rapid motion, even the sudden change, almost deprived Marie of
consciousness. She was only sensible, by a sudden change from the
close, damp, passages to the free breezes of night, that she was in
the open air, and apparently a much freer path; that still her guide
pressed swiftly onwards, apparently scarcely feeling her light weight;
that, after a lengthened interval, she was laid tenderly on a soft,
luxurious couch--at least, so it seemed, compared with the cold floor
of her cell; that the blessed words of thanksgiving that she was
safe broke from that strangely familiar voice; and she asked no
more--seemed even to wish no more--so completely was all physical
power prostrated. She lay calm and still, conscious only that she was
saved. Her guide himself for some time disturbed her not; but after
changing his dress, and preparing a draught of cooling herbs, he knelt
down, raised her head on his knee with almost woman's tenderness, and,
holding the draught to her lips, said, gently--
"Drink, beloved child of my sainted sister; there is life and health
in the draught."
Hastily swallowing it, Marie gazed wildly in his face.--The
habiliments of the familiar had been changed for those of a
Benedictine monk; his cowl thrown back, and the now well remembered
countenance of her uncle Julien was beaming over her. In an instant,
the arm she could still use was thrown round him, and her head buried
in his bosom; every pulse throbbing with the inexpressible joy of
finding, when most desolate, one relative to love and save her still.
Julien left not his work of healing and of security incomplete;
gradually he decreased, by the constant application of linen bathed
in some cooling fluid, the scorching fire which still seemed to burn
within the maimed and shrivelled limb; parted the thick masses of
dishevelled hair from her burning temples, and bathed them with some
cooling and reviving essence; gently removed the sable robes, and
replaced them, with the dress of a young novice which he had
provided; concealed her hair beneath the white linen hood, and then,
administering a potion which he knew would produce deep and refreshing
sleep, and so effectually calm the fevered nerves, she sunk down on
the soft moss and heath which formed her couch, and slept calmly and
sweetly as an infant for many hours.
Julien Morales had entered Segovia in his monkish garb, as was
frequently his custom, on the evening of the trial.--The excitement of
the whole city naturally called forth his queries as to its cause;
and the information imparted--the murder of Don Ferdinand, and
incomprehensible avowal of Judaism on the part of his niece--demanded
a powerful exercise of self-control to prevent, by a betrayal of
unusual grief and horror, his near relationship to both parties.
Hovering about the palace, he heard of Isabella's merciful intentions
towards Marie; and feeling that his presence might only agitate,
and could in nothing avail her, he had resolved on leaving the city
without seeing her, when her mysterious disappearance excited all
Segovia anew.
Julien Morales alone, perhaps, amidst hundreds, in his own mind solved
the mystery at once. Well did he know tire existence of the secret
Inquisition. As we narrated in one of our early chapters, the fate
of his father had so fixed itself upon his mind, that he had bound
himself by a secret, though solemn oath, as his avenger. To accomplish
this fully, he had actually spent ten years of his life as familiar in
the Inquisition. The fate of Don Luis's predecessor had been plunged
in the deepest mystery. Some whispered his death was by a subtle
poison; others, that his murderer had sought him in the dead of night,
and, instead of treacherously dealing the blow, had awakened him, and
bade him confess his crimes--one especially; and acknowledge that if
the mandate of the Eternal, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall
his blood be shed," were still to govern man, his death was but an act
of justice which might not be eluded. Whether these whispered rumors
had to do with Julien Morales or not, we leave to the judgment of our
readers.--Suffice it, that not only was his vow accomplished, but,
during his ten years' residence in these subterranean halls, he
naturally became familiarized with all their secret passages and
invisible means of egress and ingress--not only to the apparently
private homes of unoffensive citizens, but into the wild tracts of
country scattered round. By one of these he had, in fact, effected his
own escape; and in the mild and benevolent Benedictine monk--known
alike to the cities and solitudes of Spain--none would have recognized
the former familiar of the Inquisition, and still less have imagined
him the being which in reality he was--a faithful and believing Jew.
To him, then, it was easy to connect the disappearance of Marie with
the existence of the Holy Office, even though he was entirely ignorant
of Garcia's ulterior designs. In an agony of apprehension, he resolved
on saving her if possible, even while he trembled at the delay which
must necessarily ensue ere he could arrange and execute his plans,
more especially as it was dangerous to associate a second person in
their accomplishment. With all his haste and skill he was not in time
to save her from the barbarity of her misnamed judges. His very soul
was wrung, as he stood amongst the familiars a silent witness of her
sufferings; but to interfere was impossible. One thing, however, was
favorable. He knew she would not be again disturbed till a sufficient
time had elapsed for the recovery of such strength as would enable her
to endure further torture; and he had, therefore, some time before him
for their flight.
Her voluntary avowal of her faith--aware too, as she was, of the
existence of the Inquisition--had, indeed, perplexed the good uncle
greatly; but she was in no state, even when partially recovered from
physical weakness, to enter into explanation then. He saw she was
unhappy, and the loss of her husband might well account for it. To the
rumors which had reached him in Segovia, as to the suppositions of the
real cause of Stanley's enmity to Morales, and Marie's self-sacrifice,
he would not even listen, so completely without foundation did they
seem to him.
The second evening after their escape, they left the cave to pursue
their journey. Father Ambrose--for so, now he has resumed his monkish
garb, we must term Julien--had provided a mule for the novice's use;
and thus they leisurely traversed the desolate and mountainous tract
forming the boundaries of the provinces now termed old and new
Castile. Neither uncle nor niece spoke of their destined goal; Marie
intuitively felt she was proceeding to the Vale of Cedars, the only
place of safety now for her; but, so engrossed was her mind with the
vain thought how to save Arthur, that for herself she could not frame
a wish.
The second evening of their journey they entered a small, straggling
village, so completely buried in mountains that its existence was
unknown save to its own rustic inhabitants. The appearance of a monk
evidently caused an unusual excitement, which was speedily explained.
The chief of the villagers approached Father Ambrose, and, addressing
him with the greatest respect, entreated him to follow him to his
house, where, he said, lay a man at the point of death, who had, from
the time he became aware of his dangerous position, incessantly called
for a priest to shrive him from some deadly sin. He had been found,
the villager continued. In a deep pit sunk in a solitary glen half way
to Segovia, with every appearance of attempted murder, which, being
supposed complete, the assassins had thrown him into the pit to
conceal their deed; but chancing to hear his groans as he passed, he
had rescued him, and hoped to have cured his wounds. For three weeks
they seemed to progress favorably, but then fever--occurring, he
thought, from great restlessness of mind--had rapidly increased,
and, after ten days of fearful struggle between life and death
mortification had ensued, and hope could exist no longer At first,
Perez added, he seemed to shrink from the idea of priestly aid, only
harping on one theme--to get strength enough to reach Segovia, and
speak to the King. They had thought him mad, but humored him; but now
he was almost furious in his wild cries for a priest, not only to
shrive him, but to bear his message to the King. They had tried
to gratify him, but their distance from any town or monastery had
prevented it; and they now, therefore, hailed Father Ambrose almost as
sent from heaven to save a sinner by absolution ere he died.
This tale was told as the monk and novice hastened with. Perez to his
house. The poor inhabitants thronged his path to crave a blessing,
and proffer every attention their simple means afforded. Fearing for
Marie, Julien's only care was for the supposed novice; and therefore
Perez, at his request, eagerly led her to a large comfortable chamber,
far removed from the bustle of the house, and left her to repose.
But repose was not at that moment possible, even though her slightly
returning strength was exhausted, from the fatigue of a long day's
travel. Fruit and cakes were before her; but, though her mouth was
parched and dry, she turned from them in loathing; and interminable
seemed the space till Father Ambrose returned. Ere he spoke, he
carefully closed and secured the door, and exclaimed, in a low,
cautious tone, "My child, this is indeed the finger of a righteous
God--blessed be His name! The unhappy man to whose dying bed they
brought me--"
"Is the murderer of my husband!" interposed Marie in a tone of almost
unnatural calmness. "I knew it from the first moment Perez spoke. We
have but to think of one thing now--Stanley is innocent, and must be
saved!"
"And shall be, if possible, my child; but there are fearful
difficulties in the way. The unhappy man conjures me not to leave him,
and is in such a horrible state of mental and bodily agony that I fear
if I do, he will commit some act of violence on himself, and so render
his evidence of no avail. We are not much above sixty miles from
Segovia, but the roads are cross and rugged; so that it will need
steadiness and speed, and instant audience with the King."
"But time--have we time?" reiterated Marie. "Say but there is time,
and every other difficulty shall be smoothed."
"There is full time: the execution is not till the second day after
to-morrow. Nay, my child," he added, observing her look of doubting
bewilderment, "suffering makes the hours seem longer than they are.
Fear not for time, but counsel me whom to send. Who amongst these poor
ignorant rustics will ever reach the King--or, failing him, the Chief
Hermano--and make his tale so sufficiently clear as to release the
prisoner, and send messengers here with the necessary speed to take
down this man's confession? He cannot linger two days more. Would that
I could go myself; but I can leave neither him nor thee."
"And it needs not," was the firm reply. "Father, I myself will do
thy errand. There must be no delay, no chance of hesitation in its
accomplishment. Ah! do not look upon me as if my words were wild and
vain; were there other means I would not speak them--but he must be
saved!"
"And again at the sacrifice of thy safety--perchance thy life! Marie,
Marie! what hold has this young stranger upon thee that thou shouldest
twice so peril thyself? Thy life is dearer to me than his--I cannot
grant thy boon."
"Nay, but thou must. Listen to me, my second father! If Stanley dies,
his blood is on my head!" And struggling with strong emotion, she
poured forth her whole tale.
"And thou lovest him still--him, a Nazarene--thou, child, wife, of an
unstained race! And is it for this, thy zeal to save him?" ejaculated
Julien, retreating several paces from her--"Can it be?"
"I would save him because he is innocent--because he has borne more
than enough for me; for aught else, thou wrongest me, father. He will
never be to me more than he is now."
It was impossible to resist the tone of mournful reproach in which
those simple words were said. Julien pressed her to his bosom, bade
God bless her, and promised, if indeed there were no other means, her
plan should be adopted; objection after objection, indeed, he brought
forward, but all were overruled. She pledged herself to retain her
disguise, and to return with Perez, without hesitation, and accompany
her uncle to the vale, as intended. But that she should start at once,
he positively refused. How could she hope to accomplish her journey
without, at least, two hours' repose? It was then late in the evening.
At six the next morning all should be ready for her journey, and there
would be still more than twenty-four hours before her; Marie tried to
be content, but the horrible dread of being too late did not leave her
for a moment, even in sleep, and inexpressibly thankful was she when
the morning dawned. Julien's provident care had been active while
she slept. Perez, flattered at the trust reposed in him, had offered
himself to accompany the young novice to Segovia: and at the appointed
hour he was ready, mounted himself, and leading a strong, docile
palfrey for brother Ernest's use. He knew an hostellerie, he said,
about twenty miles from the city, where their steeds could be changed;
and promised by two hours after noon, the very latest, the novice
should be with the King. It could be done in less time, he said; but
his reverence had told him the poor boy was unusually delicate, and
had, moreover, lost the use of his left arm; and he thought, as there
was so much time before them, it was needless to exhaust his strength
before his errand was done. Julien expressed his entire satisfaction,
gave them his blessing, and they were rapidly out of sight.
Once or twice they halted to give their horses rest and refresh
themselves; but so absorbed were the senses of Marie, that she was
unconscious of fatigue. Every mile they traversed seemed bearing a
heavy load from her chest, and enabling her to breathe more freely;
while the fresh breeze and exciting exercise seemed actually to revive
her. It wanted rather more than an hour for noon when they reached the
hostellerie mentioned by Perez. Two fleet and beautiful horses were
speedily provided for them, bread and fruit partaken, and Perez, ready
mounted, was tasting the stirrup cup, when his friend demanded--
"Is it to Segovia ye are bound?"
"Yes, man, on an important errand, charged by his reverence Father
Ambrose himself."
"His reverence should have sent you two hours earlier, and you
would have been in time for one of the finest sights seen since
Isabella--God bless her!--begun to reign. They were common enough a
few years back."
"What sight? and why am I not in time?"
"Now, art thou not the veriest rustic to be so entirely ignorant of
the world's doings? Why, to-day is the solemn execution of the
young foreigner whom they believe we have murdered Don Ferdinand
Morales--the saints preserve him! He is so brave a fellow, they say,
that had it not been for this confounded hostellerie I would have made
an effort to be present: I love to see how a brave man meets death. It
was to have been two hours after day-break this morning, but Juan here
tells me it was postponed till noon. The King--"
He was proceeding, when he was startled by a sharp cry, and Perez,
hastily turning, caught the novice as he was in the act of falling
from his horse. In an instant, however, he recovered, and exclaiming,
in a thrilling tone of excitement--
"Father Ambrose said life or death hung upon our speed and promptness;
he knew not the short interval allowed us. This young foreigner is
innocent--the real murderer is discovered. On--, on, for mercy, or we
shall be too late!"--gave his horse the rein, and the animal started
off at full speed. Perez was at his side in an instant, leaving his
friend open-mouthed with astonishment, and retailing the marvellous
news into twenty different quarters in as many seconds.
Not a word was spoken; not a moment did the fiery chargers halt in
their headlong way. On, on they went; on, over wide moors and craggy
steeps; on, through the rushing torrent and the precipitous glen;
on, through the forest and the plain, with the same unwavering pace.
Repeatedly did Marie's brain reel, and her heart grow sick, and her
limbs lose all power either to guide or feel; but she neither spoke
nor flagged--convulsively she grasped the reins, and closed her eyes,
as the voice and hand of her companion urged their steeds swifter and
yet swifter on.
An exclamation from Perez roused her. The turrets of Segovia were
visible in the distance, glittering in the brilliant sun; but her
blood-shot eye turned with sickening earnestness more towards the
latter object than the former. It had not yet attained its full
meridian--a quarter of an hour, perhaps twenty minutes, was still
before them. But the strength of their horses was flagging, foam
covered their glossy hides, their nostrils were distended, they
breathed hard, and frequently snorted--the short, quick, sound of
coming powerlessness. Their steady pace wavered, their heads drooped;
but, still urged on by Perez's encouraging voice, they exerted
themselves to the utmost--at times darting several paces suddenly
forward, then stumbling heavily on. The cold dew stood on Marie's
brow, and every pulse seemed stilled. They passed the outer
gates--they stood on the brow of a hill commanding a view of the whole
city. The castle seemed but a stone's throw from, them; but the sound
of muffled drums and other martial instruments were borne towards them
on the air. Multitudes were thronging in one direction; the Calle
Soledad seemed one mass of human heads, save where the scaffold raised
its frightful sign above them. Soldiers were advancing, forming a
thin, glittering line through the crowds. In their centre stood the
prisoner. On, again, dashed the chargers--scarcely a hundred yards
separated them from the palace-gate. Wildly Marie glanced back once
more--there were figures on the scaffold. And at that moment--borne in
the stillness more loudly, more heavily than usual, or, at least, so
it seemed to her tortured senses--the huge bell of the castle chimed
the hour of noon!