Ministering Angels.
"Thou wilt be near, and not forsake,
To turn the bitter pool
Into a bright and breezy lake,
The throbbing brow to cool;
Till, left awhile with Thee alone,
The wilful heart be fain to own
That he, by whom our bright hours shone,
Our darkness best may rule."--Keble
The overpowering heat of an Andalusian summer aggravated the physical
sufferings of the captives. And so did the scanty and unwholesome
provisions, which were all that reached them through the hands of the
avaricious Benevidio.
But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the
rations he received, they usually proved more than enough for him;
indeed, the coarse food sometimes lay almost untasted in his cell.
One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed
through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door
being open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted of
white bread and good meat, of which he partook with mingled astonishment
and thankfulness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony of his life,
and the occupation the little circumstance gave his thoughts, was much
more to him than the welcome novelty of a wholesome meal.
The act of charity was repeated often, indeed almost daily. Sometimes
bread and meat, sometimes fruit--the large luscious grapes or purple
figs of that southern climate--were thus conveyed to him. Endless were
the speculations these gifts awakened in his mind. He longed to
discover his benefactor, not only to express his gratitude, but to
supplicate that the same favours might be extended to his
fellow-sufferers, especially to Juliano. Moreover, would not one so
kindly disposed be willing to give him what he longed for far more than
meat or drink--some word of tidings from the world without, or from his
dear imprisoned brethren?
At first he suspected the under-gaoler, whose name was Herrera. This
man was far more gentle and compassionate than Benevidio. Carlos often
thought he would have shown him some kindness, or at least have spoken
to him, if he dared. But dire would have been the penalty even the
slightest transgression of the prison rules would have entailed. Carlos
naturally feared to broach the matter, lest, if Herrera really had
nothing to do with it, the unknown benefactor might be betrayed.
The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the
time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be
within hearing? If it were safe to speak, surely the person outside
would try the experiment.
It was generally very early in the morning, at the hour when the outer
door was first opened, that the gifts came. Or, it delayed a little
later, he would often notice something timid and even awkward in the way
they were pushed through the grating, and the approaching and retreating
footsteps, for which he used to listen so eagerly, would be quick and
light, like those of a child.
At last a day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of
prison life. Bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual; then there
was a low knock upon the door. Carlos, who was standing close to it,
responded by an eager "_Chien es?_"
"A friend. Kneel down, senor, and put your ear to the grating."
The captive obeyed, and a woman's voice whispered, "Do not lose heart,
your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you."
"One friend is with me, even here," Carlos answered. "But," he added, "I
entreat of you to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for
the daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity."
"I am only a poor woman, senor, the alcayde's servant. And what I have
brought you is your own, and but a small part of it."
"My own! How?"
"Robbed from you by my master, who defrauds and spoils the poor
prisoners even of their necessary food. And if any one dares to
complain to the Lords Inquisitors, he throws him into the Masmurra."
"The--what?"
"A deep, horrible cistern which he hath in his house." This was spoken
in a still lower voice.
Carlos was not yet sufficiently naturalized to horrors to repress a
shudder. He said, "Then I fear it is at great risk to yourself that you
show kindness to me."
"It is for the dear Lord's sake, senor."
"Then _you_--you too--love his Name!" said Carlos, tears of joy starting
to his eyes.
"_Chiton_,[#] senor! _chiton_! But as far as a poor woman may, I do
love him," she added in a frightened whisper. "What I want now to tell
you is, that the noble lord, your brother--"
[#] Hush.
"My brother!" cried Carlos; "what of him? On, tell me, for Christ's
dear sake!"
"Let your Excellency speak lower. We may be overheard. I know he has
seen my master once and again, and has given him much money to provide
your worship with good food and other conveniences, which he, however,
not having the fear of God before his eyes--" The rest of the sentence
did not reach the ear of Carlos; but he could easily guess its import.
"That is little matter," he said. "But oh, kind friend, if I could send
him a message, were it only one word."
Perhaps the wistful earnestness of his tone awakened latent mother
instincts in the poor woman's heart. She knew that he was very young;
that he had lain there for dreary months alone, away from the bright
world into which he was just entering, and which was now shut to him for
ever.
"I will do all I can for your Excellency," she said, in a tone that
betrayed some emotion.
"Then," said Carlos, "tell him it is well with me. 'The Lord is my
shepherd'--all that psalm, bid him read it. But, above all things, say
unto him to leave this place--to fly to Germany or England. For I fear,
I fear--no, do not tell him what I fear. Only implore of him to go.
You promise?"
"I promise, young sir, to do all I can. God comfort him and you."
"And God reward you, brave and kind friend. But one word more, if it
may be without risk to you. Tell me of my dear fellow-prisoners.
Especially of Dr. Cristobal Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, Fray
Constantino, and Juliano Hernandez, called Juliano El Chico."
"I do not know anything of Fray Constantino. I think he is not here.
The others you name have--_suffered_."
"Not death!--surely not death!" said Carlos, in terror.
"There be worse things than death, senor," the poor woman answered.
"Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fortitude of
Senor Juliano. He fears nothing--seems to feel nothing. No tortures
have wrung from him a word that could harm any one."
"God sustain him! Oh, my friend," Carlos went on with passionate
earnestness, "if by any deed of kindness, such as you have shown me, you
could bring God's dear suffering servant so much comfort as a cup of
cold water, truly your reward would be rich in heaven. For the day will
come when that poor man will take his station in the court of the King
of kings, and at the right hand of Christ, in great glory and majesty."
"I know it, senor. I have tried--"
Just then an approaching footstep made Carlos start; but the poor woman
said, "It is only the child, God bless her. But I must go, senor; for
she comes to tell me her father has arisen, and is making ready to begin
his daily rounds."
"Her father! Does Benevidio's own child help you to comfort his
prisoners?"
"Even so, thank the good God. I am her nurse. But I must not linger
another moment. Adios, senor."
"Vaya con Dios, good mother. And God repay your kindness, as he surely
will."
And surely he did repay it; but not on earth, unless the honour of being
accounted worthy to suffer shame and stripes and cruel imprisonment for
his sake be called a reward.[#]
[#] The story of the gaoler's servant and his little daughter is
historical.