One Prisoner Set Free.
"All was ended now, the hope and the fear, and the sorrow;
All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing,
All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of
patience."--Longfellow.
The winter rain was pouring down in a steady continuous torrent It was
long since a gleam of sunshine had come through the windows of the
prison-room. But Don Juan Alvarez did not miss the sunlight. For he lay
on his pallet, weak and ill, and the only sight he greatly cared to look
upon was the loving face that was ever beside him.
It is possible, by means of the embalmer's art, to enable buried forms
to retain for ages a ghastly outward similitude to life. Tombs have
been opened, and kings found therein clothed in their royal robes, stern
and stately, the sceptre in their cold hands, and no trace of the grave
and its corruption visible upon them. But no sooner did the breath of
the upper air and the finger of light touch them than they crumbled
away, silently and rapidly, and dust returned to dust again. Thus,
buried in the chill dark tomb of his seclusion, Don Juan might have
lived for years--if life it could be called--or, at least, he might have
lingered on in the outward similitude of life. But Carlos brought in
light and air upon him. His mind and heart revived; and, just in
proportion, his physical nature sank. It proved too weak to bear these
powerful influences. He was dying.
Tender and thoughtful as a woman, Carlos, who himself knew so well all
the bitterness of unpitied pain and sickness, ministered to his father's
wants. But he did not request their gaolers to afford him any medical
aid, though, had he done so, it would have been readily granted.
He had good reason for seeking no help from man. The daily penance was
neglected now; the rosary lay untold; and never again would "Ave Maria
Sanctissima" pass the lips of Don Juan Alvarez. Therefore it was that
Carlos, after much thought and prayer, said quietly to him one day, "My
father, are you afraid to lie here, in God's hands, and in his alone,
and to take whatever he pleases to send us?"
"I am not afraid."
"Do you desire _any_ help they can give, either for your soul or for
your body?"
"_No,_" said the Conde de Nuera, with something like the spirit of other
days. "I would not confess to them; for Christ is my only priest now.
And they should not anoint me while I retained my consciousness."
A look of resolution, strange to see, passed over the gentle face of
Carlos. "It is well said, my father," he responded. "And, God helping
me, I will let no man trouble you."
"My son," said Don Juan one evening, as Carlos sat beside him in the
twilight, "I pray you, tell me a little more of those who learned to
love the truth since I walked amongst men. For I would fain be able to
recognize them when we meet in heaven."
Then Carlos told him, not indeed for the first time, but more fully than
ever before, the story of the Reformed Church in Spain. Almost every
name that he mentioned has come down to us surrounded by the mournful
halo of martyr glory. With special reverential love, he told of Don
Carlos de Seso, of Losada, of D'Arellano, and of the heroic Juliano
Hernandez, who, as he believed, was still waiting for his crown. "For
him," he said, "I pray even yet; for the others I can only thank God,
Surely," he added, after a pause, "God will remember the land for which
these, his faithful martyrs, prayed and toiled and suffered! Surely he
will hear their voices, that cry under the altar, not for vengeance, but
for forgiveness and mercy; and one day he will return and repent, and
leave a blessing behind him?"
"I know not," said the dying man despondingly. "The Spains have had
their offer of God's truth, and have rejected it. What is there that is
said, somewhere in the Scriptures, about Noah, Daniel, and Job?"
Carlos repeated the solemn words, "'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job were in
it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor
daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their
righteousness.' Do you fear that such a terrible doom has gone forth
over our land, my father? I dare to hope otherwise. For it is not the
Spains that have rejected the truth. It is the Inquisition that is
crushing it out."
"But the Spains must answer for its deeds, since they consent to them.
They heed not. There are brave men enough, with weapons in their
hands," said the soldier of former days, with a momentary return to old
habits of thought and feeling.
"Yet God may give our land another trial," Carlos continued. "His truth
is sometimes offered twice to individuals, why not to nations?"
"True; it was offered twice to me, praised be his name." After an
interval of silence, he resumed, "My son always speaks of others, never
of himself. Not yet have I learned how it was that you came to receive
the Word of God so readily from Juliano."
Then in the dark, with his father's hand in his, Carlos told, for the
first and last time, the true story of his life.
Before he had gone far, Don Juan started, half-raised him self, and
exclaimed in surprise, "What, and you!--_you_ too--once loved?"
"Ay, and bitter as the pain has been, I am glad now of all except the
sin. I am glad that I have tasted earth's very best and sweetest; that
I know how the wine is red and gives its colour in the cup of life he
honours me to put aside for him." His voice was low and full of feeling
as he said this. Presently he resumed. "But the sin, my father!
Especially my treachery in heart to Juan; that rankled long and stung
deeply. Juan, my brave, generous brother, who would have struck down
any man who dared to hint that I could do, or think, aught
dishonourable! He never knew it; and had he known it, he would have
forgiven me; but I could not forgive myself. I do not think the
self-scorn passed away until--_that_ which happened after I had been
nigh a year in prison. O my father, if God had not interposed to save
me by withholding me from that crime, I shudder to think what my life
might have been. I am persuaded I should have sunk lower, lower, and
ever lower. Perhaps, even, I might have ended in the purple and fine
linen, and the awful pomp and luxury of the oppressors and persecutors
of the saints."
"Nay," said Don Juan, "that would never have been possible to thee,
Carlos. But there is a question I have often longed to ask thee. Does
Juan, my Juan Rodrigo, know and love the Word of God?"
He had asked that question before; but Carlos had contrived, with tact
and gentleness, to evade the answer. Up to this hour he had not dared
to tell his father the truth upon this important subject. Besides the
terrible risk that in some moment of fear or forgetfulness the prior or
his agents might draw an incautious word from the old man's lips, there
was a haunting dread of listeners at key-holes, or secret apertures,
quite natural in one who knew the customs of the Holy Office. But now he
bent down close to the dying man, and spoke to him in a long earnest
whisper.
"Thank God," murmured Don Juan. "I would have no earthly wish
unsatisfied now--if only you were safe. But still," he added, "it
seemeth somewhat hard to me that Juan should have _all_, and you
nothing."
"I _nothing_!" Carlos exclaimed; and had not the room been in darkness
his father would have seen that his eye kindled, and his whole
countenance lighted up. "My father, mine has been the best lot, even
for earth. Were it to do again, I would not change the last two years
for the deepest love, the brightest hope, the fairest joy life has to
offer. For the Lord himself has been the portion of my cup, my
inheritance in the land of the living."
After a silence, he continued, "Moreover, and beside all, I have thee,
my father. Therefore to me it is a joy to think that my beloved brother
has also something precious. How he loved her! But the strangest thing
of all, as I ponder over it now, is the fulfilment of our childhood's
dream. And in me, the weak one who deserved nothing, not in Juan the
hero who deserved everything. It is the lame who has taken the prey.
It is the weak and timid Carlos who has found our father."
"Weak--timid?" said Don Juan, with an incredulous smile. "I marvel who
ever joined such words with the name of my heroic son. Carlos, have we
any wine?"
"Abundance, my father," answered Carlos, who carefully treasured for his
father's use all that was furnished for both of them. Having given him
a little, he asked, "Do you feel pain to-night!"
"No--no pain. Only weary; always weary."
"I think my beloved father will soon be where the weary are at
rest"--"and where the wicked cease from troubling," he added mentally,
not aloud.
He would fain have dropped the conversation then, fearing to exhaust his
father's strength. But the sick man's restlessness was soothed by his
talk. Ere long he questioned, "Is it not near Christmas now?"
Well did Carlos know that it was; and keenly did he dread the return of
the season which ought to bring "peace upon earth." For it would
certainly bring the prisoners a visit; and almost certainly there would
be the offer of special privileges to the penitent, perhaps sacramental
consolation, perhaps permission to hear mass. He shuddered to think
what a refusal to avail himself of these indulgences might entail. And
once and again did he breathe the fervent prayer, that whatever came
upon _him_, neither violence, insult, nor reproach might be allowed to
touch his father.
Moreover, amongst the great festivities of the season, it was more than
likely that a solemn Auto-da-fe might find place. But this was a secret
inner thought, not often put into words, even to himself. Only, if it
were God's will to call his father first!
"It is December," he said, in answer to Don Juan's question; "but I have
lost account of the day. It may be perhaps the twelfth or fourteenth.
Shall I recite the evening psalms for the twelfth, 'Te dicet hymnus'?"
As he did so, the old man fell asleep, which was what he desired. Half
in the sleep of exhaustion, half in weary restlessness, the next day and
the next night wore on. Once only did Don Juan speak connectedly.
"I think you will see my mother soon," said Carlos, as he bore to his
lips wine mingled with water.
"True," breathed the dying man; "but I am not thinking of that now. Far
better--I shall see Christ."
"My father, are you still in peace, resting on him?"
"In perfect peace."
And Carlos said no more. He was content; nay, he was exceeding glad.
He who in all things will have the pre-eminence, had indeed taken his
rightful place in the heart of the dying, when even the strong earthly
love that was "twisted with the strings of life" had paled before the
love of him.
And in the last watch of the night, when the day was breaking, he sent
his angel to loose the captive's bonds. So gentle was the touch that
freed him, that he who sat holding his hand in his, and watching his
face as we watch the last conscious looks of our beloved, yet knew not
the exact moment when the Deliverer came. Carlos never said "He is
going!" he only said "He is gone!" And then he kissed the pale lips and
closed the sightless eyes--in peace.
None ever thanked God for bringing back their beloved from the gates of
the grave more fervently than Carlos thanked him that hour for so gently
opening unto his those gates that "no man can shut." "My father, thy
rest is won!" he said, as he gazed on the calm and noble countenance.
"They cannot touch thee now. Not all the malice of men or of fiends can
give one pang. A moment since so fearfully in their power; now so
completely beyond it! Thank God! thank God!"
The rain was over, and ere long the sun arose, in his royal robes of
crimson and purple and gold--to the prisoner from the dungeon of the
Triana an ever fresh wonder and joy. Yet not even that sight could win
his eyes to-day from the deeper beauty of the still and solemn face
before him. And as the soft crimson light fell on the pallid cheek and
brow, the watcher murmured, with calm thankfulness,--"'To him sun and
daylight are as nothing, for he sees the glory of God.'"