"May I ask of your courtesy, senor and my father, to bear with me for a
little while, that I may frankly disclose to you my real belief?"
Appeal could never be made in vain to that penitent's courtesy. No
heresy, that could have been proposed, would have shocked him half so
much as the supposition that one Castilian gentleman could be
uncourteous to another, upon any account. "Do me the favour to state
your opinions, senor," he responded, with a bow, "and I will honour
myself by giving them my best attention."
Carlos was little used to language such as this. It induced him to
speak his mind more freely than he had been able to do for the last two
years. But, mindful of his experience with old Father Bernardo at San
Isodro, he did not speak of doctrines, he spoke of a Person. In words
simple enough for a child to understand, but with a heart glowing with
faith and love, he told of what He was when he walked on earth, of what
He is at the right hand of the Father, of what He has done and is doing
still for every soul that trusts him.
Certainly the faded eye brightened; and something like a look of
interest began to dawn in the mournfully still and passive countenance.
For a time Carlos was aware that his listener followed every word, and
he spoke slowly, on purpose to allow him so to do. But then there came
a change. The listening look passed out of the eyes; and yet they did
not wander once from the speaker's face. The expression of the whole
countenance was gradually altered, from one of rather painful attention
to the dreamy look of a man who hears sweet music, and gives free course
to the emotions it is calculated to awaken. In truth, the voice of
Carlos was sweet music in his fellow-captive's ear; and he would
willingly have sat thus for ever, gazing at him and enjoying it.
Carlos thought that if this was their reverences' idea of "a
satisfactory penitent," they were not difficult to satisfy. And he
marvelled increasingly that so astute a man as the Dominican prior
should have put the task of his conversion into such hands. For the
piety so lauded in the penitent appeared to him mere passiveness--the
submission of a soul out of which all resisting forces had been crushed.
"It is only life that resists," he thought; "the dead they can move
whithersoever they will."
Intolerance always sets a premium on mental stagnation. Nay, it actually
produces it; it "makes a desert, and calls it peace." And what the
Inquisition did for the penitent, that it has done also for the
penitent's fair fatherland. Was the resurrection of dead and buried
faculties possible for _him_? Is such a resurrection possible for _it_?
And yet, in spite of the deadness of heart and brain, which he doubted
not was the result of cruel suffering, Carlos loved his fellow-prisoner
every hour more and more. He could not tell why; he only knew that "his
soul was knit" to his.
When Carlos, for fear of fatiguing him, brought his explanations to a
close, both relapsed into silence; and the remainder of the day passed
without much further conversation, but with a constant interchange of
little kindnesses and courtesies. The first sight that greeted the eyes
of Carlos when he awoke the next morning, was that of the penitent
kneeling before the pictured Madonna, his lips motionless, his hands
crossed on his breast, and his face far more earnest with feeling--it
might be thought with devotion--than he had ever seen it yet.
Carlos was moved, but saddened. It grieved him sore that his aged
fellow-prisoner should pour out the last costly libation of love and
trust left in his desolated heart before the shrine of that which was no
god. And a great longing awoke within him to lead back this weary and
heavy-laden one to the only Being who could give him true rest.
"If, indeed, he is one of God's chosen, of his loved and redeemed ones,
he will be led back," thought Carlos, who had spent the past two years
in thinking out many things for himself. Certain aspects of truth,
which may be either strong cordials or rank poisons, as they are used,
had grown gradually clear to him. Opposed to the Dominican prior upon
most subjects, he was at one with him upon that of predestination. For
he had need to be assured, when the great water floods prevailed, that
the chain which kept him from drifting away with them was a strong one.
And therefore he had followed it up, link by link, until he came at last
to that eternal purpose of God in which it was fast anchored. Since the
day that he first learned it, he had lived in the light of that great
centre truth, "I have loved thee"--_thee_ individually. But as he lay
in the gloomy prison, sentenced to die, something more was revealed to
him. "I have loved thee _with an everlasting love, therefore_ with
loving-kindness have I drawn thee." The value of this truth, to him as
to others, lay in the double aspect of that word "everlasting;" its look
forward to the boundless future, as well as backward on the mysterious
past. The one was a pledge and assurance of the other. And now he was
taking to his heart the comfort it gave, for the penitent as well as for
himself. But it made him, not less, but more anxious to be God's
fellow-worker in bringing him back to the truth.
In the meantime, however, he was quite mistaken as to the feelings with
which the old man knelt before the pictured Virgin and Child. His heart
was stirred by no mystic devotion to the Queen of Heaven, but by some
very human feelings, which had long lain dormant, but which were now
being gradually awakened there. He was thinking not of heaven, but of
earth, and of "earth's warm beating joy and dole." And what attracted
him to that spot was only the representation of womanhood and childhood,
recalling, though far off and faintly, the fair young wife and babe from
whom he had been cruelly torn years and years ago.
A little later, as the two prisoners sat over the bread and fruit that
formed their morning meal, the penitent began to speak more frankly than
he had done before. "I was quite afraid of you, senor, when you first
came," he said.
"And perhaps I was not guiltless of the same feeling towards you,"
Carlos answered. "It is no marvel. Companions in sorrow, such as we
are, have great power either to help or to hurt one another."
"You may truly say that," returned the penitent. "In fact, I once
suffered so cruelly from the treachery of a fellow-prisoner, that it is
not unnatural I should be suspicious."
"How was that, senor?"
"It was very long ago, soon after my arrest. And yet, not soon. For
weary months of darkness and solitude, I cannot tell how many, I held
out--I mean to say, I continued impenitent."
"Did you?" asked Carlos with interest. "I thought as much."
"Do not think ill of me, I entreat of you, senor," said the penitent
anxiously. "I am _reconciled_. I have returned to the bosom of the
true Church, and I belong to her. I have confessed and received
absolution. I have even had the Holy Sacrament; and if ill, or in
danger of death, it is promised I shall receive 'su majestad'[#] at any
time. And I have abjured and detested all the heresies I learned from
De Valero."
[#] "His Majesty," the ordinary term applied by Spaniards to the Host.
"From De Valero? Did you learn from him?" The pale cheek of Carlos
crimsoned for a moment, then grew paler than before. "Tell me, senor,
if I may ask it, how long have you been here?"
"That is just what I cannot tell. The first year stands out clearly;
but all the after years are like a dream to me. It was in that first
year that the caitiff I spoke of anon, who was imprisoned with me--you
observe, senor, I had already asked for reconciliation. It was promised
me. I was to perform penance; to be forgiven; to have my freedom.
_Pues_, senor, I spoke to that man as I might to you, freely and from my
heart. For I supposed him a gentleman. I dared to say that their
reverences had dealt somewhat hardly with me, and the like. Idle words,
no doubt--idle and wicked. God knows, I have had time enough to repent
them since. For that man, my fellow-prisoner, he who knew what prison
was, went forth straightway and delated me to the Lords Inquisitors for
those idle words--God in heaven forgive him! And thus the door was shut
upon me--shut--shut for ever. Ay de mi! Ay de mi!"
Carlos heard but little of this speech. He was gazing at him with
eager, kindling eyes. "Were there left behind in the world any that it
wrung your heart to part from?" he asked, in a trembling voice.
"There were. And since you came, their looks have never ceased to haunt
me. Why, I know not. My wife, my child!" And the old man shaded his
face, while in his eyes, long unused to tears, there rose a mist, like
the cloud in form as a man's hand, that foretold the approach of the
beneficent rain, which should refresh and soften the thirsty soil,
making all things young again.
"Senor," said Carlos, trying to speak calmly, and to keep down the wild
tumultuous throbbing of his heart--"senor, a boon, I entreat of you.
Tell me the name you bore amongst men. It was a noble one, I know."
"True. They promised to save it from disgrace. But it was part of my
penance not to utter it; if possible, to forget it."
"Yet, this once. I do not ask idly--this once--have pity on me, and
speak it," pleaded Carlos, with intense tremulous earnestness.
"Your face and your voice move me strangely; it seems to me that I could
not deny you anything. I am--I ought to say, I _was_--Don Juan Alvarez
de Santillanos y Menaya."
Before the sentence was concluded, Carlos lay senseless at his feet.