Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]



[Illustration: THE ALGUAZILS PRODUCING THEIR WARRANT FOR ARREST.]




                                  THE
                           SPANISH BROTHERS.

                    A Tale of the Sixteenth Century.


                           _By the Author of_
              "_THE CZAR: A TALE OF THE FIRST NAPOLEON._"
                                &c. &c.

            [Transcriber’s note: Author was Deborah Alcock]



               "Thy loving-kindness is better than life."



                                 London
                  T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
                        EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
                                 1888.




                               CONTENTS.

      I. BOYHOOD
     II. THE MONK’S LETTER
    III. SWORD AND CASSOCK
     IV. ALCALA DE HENAREZ
      V. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF
     VI. DON CARLOS FORGETS HIMSELF STILL FURTHER
    VII. THE DESENGANO
   VIII. THE MULETEER
     IX. EL DORADO FOUND
      X. DOLORES
     XI. THE LIGHT ENJOYED
    XII. THE LIGHT DIVIDED FROM THE DARKNESS
   XIII. SEVILLE
    XIV. THE MONKS OF SAN ISODRO
     XV. THE GREAT SANBENITO
    XVI. WELCOME HOME
   XVII. DISCLOSURES
  XVIII. THE AGED MONK
    XIX. TRUTH AND FREEDOM
     XX. THE FIRST DROP OF A THUNDER SHOWER
    XXI. BY THE GUADALQUIVIR
   XXII. THE FLOOD-GATES OPENED
  XXIII. THE REIGN OF TERROR
   XXIV. A GLEAM OF LIGHT
    XXV. WAITING
   XXVI. DON GONSALVO’S REVENGE
  XXVII. MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
 XXVIII. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND
   XXIX. A FRIEND AT COURT
    XXX. THE CAPTIVE
   XXXI. MINISTERING ANGELS
  XXXII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH
 XXXIII. ON THE OTHER SIDE
  XXXIV. FRAY SEBASTIAN’S TROUBLE
   XXXV. THE EVE OF THE AUTO
  XXXVI. "THE HORRIBLE AND TREMENDOUS SPECTACLE"
 XXXVII. SOMETHING ENDED AND SOMETHING BEGUN
XXXVIII. NUERA AGAIN
  XXXIX. LEFT BEHIND
     XL. "A SATISFACTORY PENITENT"
    XLI. MORE ABOUT THE PENITENT
   XLII. QUIET DAYS
  XLIII. EL DORADO FOUND AGAIN
   XLIV. ONE PRISONER SET FREE
    XLV. TRIUMPHANT
   XLVI. IS IT TOO LATE?
  XLVII. THE DOMINICAN PRIOR
 XLVIII. SAN ISODRO ONCE MORE
   XLIX. FAREWELL




                         THE SPANISH BROTHERS.



                                   I.

                                Boyhood.


    "A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
    And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."--Longfellow.


On one of the green slopes of the Sierra Morena, shaded by a few
cork-trees, and with wild craggy heights and bare brown wastes
stretching far above, there stood, about the middle of the sixteenth
century, a castle even then old and rather dilapidated.  It had once
been a strong place, but was not very spacious; and certainly, according
to our modern ideas of comfort, the interior could not have been a
particularly comfortable dwelling-place.  A large proportion of it was
occupied by the great hall, which was hung with faded, well-repaired
tapestry, and furnished with oaken tables, settles, and benches, very
elaborately carved, but bearing evident marks of age.  Narrow unglazed
slits in the thick wall admitted the light and air; and beside one of
these, on a gloomy autumn morning, two boys stood together, watching the
rain that poured down without intermission.

They were dressed exactly alike, in loose jackets of blue cloth,
homespun, indeed, but so fresh and neatly-fashioned as to look more
becoming than many a costlier dress.  Their long stockings were of silk,
and their cuffs and wide shirt-frills of fine Holland, carefully
starched and plaited.  The elder--a very handsome lad, who looked
fourteen at least, but was really a year younger--had raven hair, black
sparkling eager eyes, good but strongly-marked features, and a
complexion originally dark, and well-tanned by exposure to sun and wind.
A broader forehead, wider nostrils, and a weaker mouth, distinguished
the more delicate-looking younger brother, whose hair was also less
dark, and his complexion fairer.

"Rain--rain!  Will it rain for ever?" cried, in a tone of impatience,
the elder, whose name was Juan; or rather, his proper style and title
(and very angry would he have felt had any part been curtailed or
omitted) was Don Juan Rodrigo Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya.  He was
of the purest blood in Spain; by the father’s side, of noblest Castilian
lineage; by the mother’s, of an ancient Asturian family.  Well he knew
it, and proudly he held up his young head in consequence, in spite of
poverty, and of what was still worse, the mysterious blight that had
fallen on the name and fortunes of his house, bringing poverty in its
train, as the least of its attendant evils.

"’Rising early will not make the daylight come sooner,’ nor watching
bring the sunshine," said the quick-witted Carlos, who, apt in learning
whatever he heard, was already an adept in the proverbial philosophy
which was then, and is now, the inheritance of his race.

"True enough.  So let us fetch the canes, and have a merry play.  Or,
better still, the foils for a fencing match."

Carlos acquiesced readily, though apparently without pleasure. In all
outward things, such as the choice of pursuits and games, Juan was the
unquestioned leader, Carlos never dreamed of disputing his fiat.  Yet in
other, and really more important matters, it was Carlos who, quite
unconsciously to himself, performed the part of guide to his
stronger-willed but less thoughtful brother.

Juan now fetched the carefully guarded foils with which the boys were
accustomed to practise fencing; either, as now, simply for their own
amusement, or under the instructions of the gray-haired Diego, who had
served with their father in the Emperor’s wars, and was now mayor-domo,
butler, and seneschal, all in one.  He it was, moreover, from whom
Carlos had learned his store of proverbs.

"Now stand up.  Oh, you are too low; wait a moment."  Juan left the hall
again, but quickly returned with a large heavy volume, which he threw on
the floor, directing his brother to take his stand upon it.

Carlos hesitated.  "But what if the Fray should catch us using our great
Horace after such a fashion!"

"I just wish he might," answered Juan, with a mischievous sparkle in his
black eyes.

The matter of height being thus satisfactorily adjusted, the game began,
and for some time went merrily forward.  To do the elder brother
justice, he gave every advantage to his less active and less skilful
companion; often shouting (with very unnecessary exertion of his lungs)
words of direction or warning about fore-thrust, side-thrust, back-hand
strokes, hitting, and parrying.  At last, however, in an unlucky moment,
Carlos, through some awkward movement of his own in violation of the
rules of the game, received a blow on the cheek from his brother’s foil,
severe enough to make the blood flow.  Juan instantly sprang forward,
full of vexation, with an "Ay de mi!" on his lips.  But Carlos turned
away from him, covering his face with both hands; and Juan, much to his
disgust, soon heard the sound of a heavy sob.

"You little coward!" he exclaimed, "to weep for a blow. Shame--shame
upon you."

"Coward yourself, to call me ill names when I cannot fight you,"
retorted Carlos, as soon as he could speak for weeping.

"That is ever your way, little tearful.  _You_ to talk of going to find
our father!  A brave man you would make to sail to the Indies and fight
the savages.  Better sit at home and spin, with Mother Dolores."

Far too deeply stung to find a proverb suited to the occasion, or indeed
to make any answer whatever, Carlos, still in tears, left the hall with
hasty footsteps, and took refuge in a smaller apartment that opened into
it.

The hangings of this room were comparatively new and very beautiful,
being tastefully wrought with the needle; and the furniture was much
more costly than that in the hall.  There was also a glazed window, and
near this Carlos took his stand, looking moodily out on the falling
rain, and thinking hard thoughts of his brother, who had first hurt him
so sorely, then called him coward, and last, and far worst of all, had
taunted him with his unfitness for the task which, child as he was, his
whole heart and soul were bent on attempting.

But he could not quarrel very seriously with Juan, nor indeed could he
for any considerable time do without him.  Before long his anger began
to give way to utter loneliness and discomfort, and a great longing to
"be friends" again.

Nor was Juan much more comfortable, though he told himself he was quite
right to reprove his brother sharply for his lack of manliness; and that
he would be ready to die for shame if Carlos, when he went to Seville,
should disgrace himself before his cousins by crying when he was hurt,
like a baby or a girl.  It is true that in his heart he rather wished he
himself had held his peace, or at least had spoken more gently; but he
braved it out, and stamped up and down the hall, singing, in as cheery a
voice as he could command,--

    "The Cid rode through the horse-shoe gate, Omega like it stood,
    A symbol of the moon that waned before the Christian rood.
    He was all sheathed in golden mail, his cloak was white as
            shroud:
    His vizor down, his sword unsheathed, corpse still he rode, and
            proud."


"Ruy!" Carlos called at last, just a little timidly, from the next
room--"Ruy!"

Ruy is the Spanish diminutive of Rodrigo, Juan’s second name, and the
one by which, for reasons of his own, it pleased him best to be called;
so the very use of it by Carlos was a kind of overture for peace.  Juan
came right gladly at the call; and having convinced himself, by a
moment’s inspection, that his brother’s hurt signified nothing, he
completed the reconciliation by putting his arm, in familiar boyish
fashion, round his neck.  Thus, without a word spoken, the brief quarrel
was at an end.  It happened that the rain was over also, and the sun
just beginning to shine out again.  It was, indeed, an effect of the
sunlight which had given Carlos a pretext for calling Juan again to his
side.

"Look, Ruy," he said, "the sun shines on our father’s words!"

These children had a secret of their own, carefully guarded, with the
strange reticence of childhood, even from Dolores, who had been the
faithful nurse of their infancy, and who still cast upon their young
lives the only shadow of motherly love they had ever known--a shadow, it
is true, pale and faint, yet the best thing that had fallen to their
lot: for even Juan could remember neither parent; while Carlos had never
seen his father’s face, and his mother had died at his birth.

Yet it happened that in the imaginary world which the children had
created around them, and where they chiefly lived, their unknown father
was by far the most important personage.  All great nations in their
childhood have their legends, their epics, written or unwritten, and
their hero, one or many of them, upon whose exploits Fancy rings its
changes at will during the ages when national language, literature, and
character are in process of development.  So it is with individuals.
Children of imagination--especially if they are brought up in seclusion,
and guarded from coarse and worldly companionship--are sure to have
their legends, perhaps their unwritten epic, certainly their hero.  Nor
are these dreams of childhood idle fancies.  In their time they are good
and beautiful gifts of God--healthful for the present, helpful for
after-years.  There is deep truth in the poet’s words, "When thou art a
man, reverence the dreams of thy youth."

The Cid Campeador, the Charlemagne, and the King Arthur of our youthful
Spanish brothers, was no other than Don Juan Alvarez de Menaya, second
and last Conde de Nuera.  And as the historical foundation of national
romance is apt to be of the slightest--nay, the testimony of credible
history is often ruthlessly set at defiance--so it is with the romances
of children; nor did the present instance form any exception.  All the
world said that their father’s bones lay bleaching on a wild Araucanian
battle-field; but this went for nothing in the eyes of Juan and Carlos
Alvarez.  Quite enough to build their childish faith upon was a
confidential whisper of Dolores--when she thought them sleeping--to the
village barber-surgeon, who was helping her to tend them through some
childish malady: "Dead?  Would to all the Saints, and the blessed Queen
of Heaven, that we only had assurance of it!"

They had, however, more than this.  Almost every day they read and
re-read those mysterious words, traced with a diamond by their father’s
hand--as it never entered their heads to doubt--on the window of the
room which had once been his favourite place of retirement:--

      "El Dorado
      Yo hé trovado."

    "I have found El Dorado."


No eyes but their own had ever noticed this inscription; and marvellous
indeed was the superstructure their fancy contrived to raise on the
slight and airy foundation of its enigmatical five words.  They had
heard from the lips of Diego many of the fables current at the period
about the "golden country" of which Spanish adventurers dreamed so
wildly, and which they sought so vainly in the New World.  They were
aware that their father in his early days had actually made a voyage to
the Indies: and they had thoroughly persuaded themselves, therefore, of
nothing less than that he was the fortunate discoverer of El Dorado;
that he had returned thither, and was reigning there as a king, rich and
happy--only, perhaps, longing for his brave boys to come and join him.
And join him one day they surely would, even though unheard of dangers
(of which giants twelve feet high and fiery dragons--things in which
they quite believed--were among the least) might lie in their way, thick
as the leaves of the cork-trees when the autumn winds swept down through
the mountain gorges.

"Look, Ruy," said Carlos, "the light is on our father’s words!"

"So it is!  What good fortune is coming now?  Something always comes to
us when they look like that."

"What do you wish for most?"

"A new bow, and a set of real arrows tipped with steel. And you?"

"Well--the ’Chronicles of the Cid,’ I think."

"I should like that too.  But I should like better still--"

"What!"

"That Fray Sebastian would fall ill of the rheum, and find the mountain
air too cold for his health; or get some kind of good place at his
beloved Complutum."

"We might go farther and fare worse, like those that go to look for
better bread than wheaten," returned Carlos, laughing. "Wish again,
Juan; and truly this time--your wish of wishes."

"What else but to find my father?"

"I mean, next to that."

"Well, truly, to go once more to Seville, to see the shops, and the
bull-fights, and the great Church; to tilt with our cousins, and dance
the cachuca with Doña Beatriz."

"That would not I.  There be folk that go out for wool, and come home
shorn.  Though I like Doña Beatriz as well as any one."

"Hush! here comes Dolores."

A tall, slender woman, robed in black serge, relieved by a neat white
head-dress, entered the room.  Dark hair, threaded with silver, and
pale, sunken, care-worn features, made her look older than she really
was.  She had once been beautiful; and it seemed as though her beauty
had been burned up in the glare of some fierce agony, rather than had
faded gradually beneath the suns of passing years.  With the silent
strength of a deep, passionate heart, that had nothing else left to
cling to, Dolores loved the children of her idolized mistress and
foster-sister. It was chiefly her talent and energy that kept together
the poor remains of their fortune.  She surrounded them with as many
inexpensive comforts as possible; still, like a true Spaniard, she would
at any moment have sacrificed their comfort to the maintenance of their
rank, or the due upholding of their dignity.  On this occasion she held
an open letter in her hand.

"Young gentlemen," she said, using the formal style of address no
familiarity ever induced her to drop, "I bring your worships good
tidings.  Your noble uncle, Don Manuel, is about to honour your castle
with his presence."

"Good tidings indeed!  I am as glad as if you had given me a satin
doublet.  He may take us back with him to Seville," cried Juan.

"He might have stayed at home, with good luck and my blessing," murmured
Carlos.

"Whether you go to Seville or no, Señor Don Juan," said Dolores,
gravely, "may very probably depend on the contentment you give your
noble uncle respecting your progress in your Latin, your grammar, and
your other humanities."

"A green fig for my noble uncle’s contentment!" said Juan, irreverently.
"I know already as much as any gentleman need, and ten times more than
he does himself."

"Ay, truly," struck in Carlos, coming forward from the embrasure of the
window; "my uncle thinks a man of learning--except he be a fellow of
college, perchance--not worth his ears full of water.  I heard him say
such only trouble the world, and bring sorrow on themselves and all
their kin.  So, Juan, it is you who are likely to find favour in his
sight, after all."

"Señor Don Carlos, what ails your face?" asked Dolores, noticing now for
the first time the marks of the hurt he had received.

Both the boys spoke together.

"Only a blow caught in fencing; all through my own awkwardness.  It is
nothing," said Carlos, eagerly.

"I hurt him with my foil.  It was a mischance.  I am very sorry," said
Juan, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Dolores wisely abstained from exhorting them to greater carefulness.
She only said,--

"Young gentlemen who mean to be knights and captains must learn to give
hard blows and take them."  Adding mentally--"Bless the lads!  May they
stand by each other as loyally ten or twenty years hence as they do
now."




                                  II.

                           The Monk’s Letter


      "Quoth the good fat friar,
    Wiping his own mouth--’twas refection time."--R. Browning.


"Fray Sebastian Gomez, to the Honourable Señor Felipe de Santa Maria,
Licentiate of Theology, residing at Alcala de Henarez, commonly called
Complutum.


"Most Illustrious and Reverend Señor,--

"In my place of banishment, amidst these gloomy and inhospitable
mountains, I frequently solace my mind by reflections upon the friends
of my youth, and the happy period spent in those ancient halls of
learning, where in the morning of our days you and I together attended
the erudite prelections of those noble and most orthodox Grecians,
Demetrius Ducas and Nicetus Phaustus, or sat at the feet of that
venerable patriarch of science, Don Fernando Nuñez.  Fortunate are you,
O friend, in being able to pass your days amidst scenes so pleasant and
occupations so congenial; while I, unhappy, am compelled by fate, and by
the neglect of friends and patrons, to take what I may have, in place of
having what I might wish.  I am, alas! under the necessity of wearing
out my days in the ungrateful occupation of instilling the rudiments of
humane learning into the dull and careless minds of children, whom to
instruct is truly to write upon sand or water.  But not to weary your
excellent and illustrious friendship with undue prolixity, I shall
briefly relate the circumstances which led to my sojourn here."

(The good friar proceeds with his personal narrative, but by no means
briefly; and as it has, moreover, little or nothing to do with our
story, it may be omitted with advantage.)

"In this desert, as I may truly style it" (he continues), "nutriment for
the corporeal frame is as poor and bare as nutriment for the
intellectual part is altogether lacking. Alas! for the golden wine of
Xerez, that ambery nectar wherewith we were wont to refresh our jaded
spirits!  I may not mention now our temperate banquets: the crisp red
mullet, the succulent pasties, the delicious ham of Estremadura, the
savoury olla podrida.  Here beef is rarely seen, veal never.  Our olla
is of lean mutton (if it be not rather of the flesh of goats), washed
down with bad vinegar, called wine by courtesy, and supplemented by a
few naughty figs or roasted chestnuts, with cheese of goat’s milk, hard
as the heads of the rustics who make it. Certainly I am experiencing the
truth of the proverb, ’A bad cook is an inconvenient relation.’  And
marvellously would a cask of Xerez wine, if, through the kindness of my
generous friends, it could find its way to these remote mountains, mend
my fare, and in all probability prolong my days.  The provider here is
an antiquated, sour-faced duenna, who rules everything in this old ruin
of a castle, where poverty and pride are the only things to be found in
plenty.  She is an Asturian, and came hither in the train of the late
unfortunate countess.  Like all of that race, where the very shepherds
style themselves nobles, she is proud; but it is just to add that she is
also active, industrious, and thrifty to a miracle.

"But to pass on to affairs of greater importance.  I have presumed, on
the part of my illustrious friend, some acquaintance with the sorrowful
history of my young pupils’ family. You will remember the sudden shadow
that fell, like the eclipse of one of the bright orbs of heaven, upon
the fame and fortunes of the Conde de Nuera, known, some fifteen years
ago or more, as a brilliant soldier and courtier, and personal favourite
of his Imperial Majesty.  There was a rumour of some black treason, I
know not what, but men said it even struck at the life of the great
Emperor, his friend and patron.  It is supposed that the Emperor (whom
God preserve!), in his just wrath remembered mercy, and generously saved
the honour, while he punished the crime, of his ungrateful servant.  At
all events, the world was told that the Count had accepted a command in
the Indies, and that he sailed thither from some port in the Low
Countries to which the Emperor had summoned him, without returning to
Spain.  It is believed that, to save his neck from the axe and his name
from dire disgrace, he signed away, by his own act, his large property
to the Emperor and to Holy Church, reserving only a pittance for his
children.  One year afterwards, his death, in battle with the Araucanian
savages, was announced, and, if I am not mistaken, His Majesty was
gracious enough to have masses said for his soul.  But, at the time, the
tongue of rumour whispered a far more dreadful ending to the tale.  Men
hinted that, upon the discovery of his treason, he despaired alike of
human and divine compassion, and perished miserably by his own hand.
But all possible pains were taken, for the sake of the family, to hush
up the affair; and nothing certain has ever, or probably will ever,
transpire.  I am doubtful whether I am not a transgressor in having
committed to paper what is written above.  Still, as it is written, it
shall stand.  With you, most illustrious and honourable friend, all
things are safe.

"The youths whom it is my task to instruct are not deficient in parts.
But the elder, Don Juan, is idle and insolent; and withal, of so fiery a
temper, that he will brook no manner of correction.  The younger, Don
Carlos is more toward in disposition, and really apt at his humanities,
were it not that his good-for-nothing brother is for ever leading him
into mischief. Don Manuel Alvarez, their uncle and guardian, who is a
shrewd man of the world, will certainly cause him to enter the Church.
But I pray, as I am bound in Christian charity, that it may not occur to
him to make the lad a Minorite friar, since, as I can testify from
sorrowful experience, such go barely enough through this wicked and
miserable world.

"In conclusion, I entreat of you, most illustrious friend, with the
utmost despatch and carefulness, to commit this writing to the flames;
and so I pray our Lady and the blessed St. Luke, upon whose vigil I
write, to have you in their good keeping.--Your unworthy brother,
"SEBASTIAN."


Thus, with averted face, or head shaken doubtfully, or murmured "Ay de
mi," the world spoke of him, of whom his own children, happy at least in
this, knew scarce anything, save words that seemed like a cry of joy.




                                  III.

                           Sword and Cassock.


    "The helmet and the cap make houses strong"--Spanish Proverb


Don Manual Alvarez stayed for several days at Nuera, as the half-ruined
castle in the Sierra Morena was styled.  Grievous, during this period,
were the sufferings of Dolores, and unceasing her efforts to provide
suitable accommodation, not merely for the stately and fastidious guest
himself, but also for the troop of retainers he saw fit to bring with
him, comprising three or four personal attendants, and half a score of
men-at-arms--the last perhaps really necessary for a journey through
that wild district.  Don Manuel scarcely enjoyed the situation more than
did his entertainers but he esteemed it his duty to pay an occasional
visit to the estate of his orphan nephews, to see that it was properly
taken care of.  Perhaps the only member of the party quite at his ease
was the worthy Fray Sebastian, a good-natured, self-indulgent friar,
with a better education and more refined tastes than the average of his
order; fond of eating and drinking, fond of gossip, fond of a little
superficial literature, and not fond of troubling himself about
anything.  He was comforted by the improved fare Don Manuel’s visit
introduced; and was, moreover, soon relieved from his very natural
apprehensions that the guardian of his pupils might express discontent
at the slowness of their progress.  He speedily discovered that Don
Manuel did not care to have his nephews made good scholars: he only
cared to have them ready, in two or three years, to go to the University
of Complutum, or to that of Salamanca, where they might remain until
they were satisfactorily provided for--one in the Army, the other in the
Church.

As for Juan and Carlos, they felt, with the sure instinct of children,
in this respect something like that of animals, that their uncle had
little love for them.  Juan dreaded, more than under the circumstances
he need have done, too careful inquiries into his progress; and Carlos,
while he stood in great outward awe of his uncle, all the time contrived
to despise him in his heart, because he neither knew Latin, nor could
repeat any of the ballads of the Cid.

On the third day of his visit, after dinner, which was at noon, Don
Manuel solemnly seated himself in the great carved armchair that stood
on the estrada at one end of the hall, and summoned his nephews to his
side.  He was a tall, wiry-looking man, with a narrow forehead, thin
lips, and a pointed beard. His dress was of the finest mulberry-coloured
cloth, turned back with velvet; everything about him was rich, handsome,
and in good keeping, but without extravagance.  His manner was
dignified, perhaps a little pompous, like that of a man bent upon making
the most of himself, as he had unquestionably made the most of his
fortune.

He first addressed Juan, whom he gravely reminded that his father’s
_imprudence_ had left him nothing save that poor ruin of a castle, and a
few barren acres of rocky ground, at which the boy’s eyes flashed, and
he shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. Don Manuel then proceeded, at
some length, to extol the noble profession of arms as the road to fame
and fortune.  This kind of language proved much more acceptable to his
nephew, and looking up, he said promptly, "Yes, señor my uncle, I will
gladly be a soldier, as all my fathers were."

"Well spoken.  And when thou art old enough, I promise to use my
influence to obtain for thee a good appointment in His Imperial
Majesty’s army.  I trust thou wilt honour thine ancient name."

"You may trust me," said Juan, in slow, earnest tones.  Then raising his
head, he went on more rapidly: "Beside his own name, Juan, my father
gave me that of Rodrigo, borne by the Cid Ruy Diaz, the Campeador,
meaning no doubt to show--"

"Peace, boy!" Don Manuel interrupted, cutting short the only words that
his nephew had ever spoken really from his heart in his presence, with
as much unconsciousness as a countryman might set his foot on a
glow-worm.  "Thou wert never named Rodrigo after thy Cid and his idle
romances. Thy father called thee so after some madcap friend of his own,
of whom the less spoken the better."

"My father’s friend must have been good and noble, like himself," said
Juan proudly, almost defiantly.

"Young man," returned Don Manuel severely, and lifting his eyebrows as
if in surprise at his audacity, "learn that a humbler tone and more
courteous manners would become thee in the presence of thy superiors."
Then turning haughtily away from him, he addressed himself to Carlos:
"As for thee, nephew Carlos, I hear with pleasure of thy progress in
learning.  Fray Sebastian reports of thee that thou hast a good ready
wit and a retentive memory.  Moreover, if I mistake not, sword cuts are
less in thy way than in thy brother’s.  The service of Holy Mother
Church will fit thee like a glove; and let me tell thee, boy, for thou
art old enough to understand me, ’tis a right good service.  Churchmen
eat well and drink well--churchmen sleep soft--churchmen spend their
days fingering the gold other folk toil and bleed for.  For those who
have fair interest in high places, and shuffle their own cards deftly,
there be good fat benefices, comfortable canonries, and perhaps--who
knows?--a rich bishopric at the end of all; with a matter of ten
thousand hard ducats, at the least, coming in every year to save or
spend, or lend, if you like it better."

"Ten thousand ducats!" said Carlos, who had been gazing in his uncle’s
face, his large blue eyes full of half-incredulous, half-uncomprehending
wonder.

"Ay, my son, that is about the least.  The Archbishop of Seville has
sixty thousand every year, and more."

"Ten thousand ducats!" Carlos repeated again in a kind of awe-struck
whisper.  "That would buy a ship."

"Yes," said Don Manuel, highly pleased with what he considered an
indication of precocious intelligence in money matters. "And an
excellent thought that is of thine, my son.  A good ship chartered for
the Indies, and properly freighted, would bring thee back thy ducats
_well perfumed_.[#]  For a ship is sailing while you are sleeping.  As
the saying is, Let the idle man buy a ship or marry a wife.  I perceive
thou art a youth of much ingenuity.  What thinkest thou, then, of the
Church?"


[#] With good interest.


Carlos was still too much the child to say anything in answer except,
"If it please you, señor my uncle, I should like it well."

And thus, with rather more than less consideration of their tastes and
capacities than was usual at the time, the future of Juan and Carlos
Alvarez was decided.

When the brothers were alone together, Juan said, "Dolores must have
been praying Our Lady for us, Carlos.  An appointment in the army is the
very thing for me.  I shall perform some great feat of arms, like
Alphonso Vives, for instance, who took the Duke of Saxony prisoner; I
shall win fame and promotion, and then come back and ask my uncle for
the hand of his ward, Doña Beatriz."

"Ah, and I--if I enter the Church, I can never marry," said Carlos
rather ruefully, and with a vague perception that his brother was to
have some good thing from which he must be shut out for ever.

"Of course not; but you will not care."

"Never a whit," said the boy of twelve, very confidently. "I shall ever
have thee, Juan.  And all the gold my uncle says churchmen win so
easily, I will save to buy our ship."

"I will also save, so that one day we may sail together.  I will be the
captain, and thou shall be the mass-priest, Carlos."

"But I marvel if it be true that churchmen grow rich so fast. The cura
in the village must be very poor, for Diego told me he took old Pedro’s
cloak because he could not pay the dues for his wife’s burial."

"More shame for him, the greedy vulture.  Carlos, you and I have each
half a ducat; let us buy it back."

"With all my heart.  It will be worth something to see the old man’s
face."

"The cura is covetous rather than poor," said Juan.  "But poor or no, no
one dreams of _your_ being a beggarly cura like that.  It is only vulgar
fellows of whom they make parish priests in the country.  You will get
some fine preferment, my uncle says.  And he ought to know, for he has
feathered his own nest well."

"Why is he rich when we are poor, Juan?  Where does he get all his
money?"

"The saints know best.  He has places under Government. Something about
the taxes, I think, that he buys and sells again."

"In truth, he’s not one to measure oil without getting some on his
fingers.  How different from him our father must have been."

"Yes," said Juan.  "_His_ riches, won by his own sword and battle-axe,
and his good right hand, will be worth having.  Ay, and even worth
seeing; will they not?"

So these children dreamed of the future--that future of which nothing
was certain, except its unlikeness to their dreams.  No thing was
certain; but what was only too probable?  That the brave, free-hearted
boy, who had never willingly injured any one, and who was ready to share
his last coin with the poor man, would be hardened and brutalized into a
soldier of fortune, like those who massacred tribes of trusting,
unoffending Indians, or burned Flemish cities to the ground, amidst
atrocities that even now make hearts quail and ears tingle.  And yet
worse, that the fair child beside him, whose life still shone with that
child-like innocence which is truly the dew of youth, as bright and as
fleeting, would be turned over, soul and spirit, to a system of training
too surely calculated to obliterate the sense of truth, to deprave the
moral taste, to make natural and healthful joys impossible, and unlawful
and degrading ones fearfully easy and attainable; to teach the strong
nature the love of power, the mean the love of money, and all alike
falsehood, cowardice, and cruelty.




                                  IV.

                           Alcala de Henarez


    "Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
    Her tears and her smiles are worth evening’s best light."--Moore


Few are the lives in which seven years come and go with out witnessing
any great event.  But whether they are eventful or no, the years that
change children into men must necessarily be important.  Three years of
these important seven, Juan and Carlos Alvarez spent in their mountain
home, the remaining four at the University of Alcala, or Complutum. The
university training was of course needful for the younger brother, who
was intended for the Church.  That the elder was allowed to share the
privilege, although destined for the profession of arms, was the result
of circumstances.  His guardian, Don Manuel Alvarez, although worldly
and selfish, still retained a lingering regard for the memory of that
lost brother whose latest message to him had been, "Have my boy
carefully educated."  And, moreover, he could scarcely have left the
high-spirited youth to wear out the years that must elapse before he
could obtain his commission in the dreary solitude of his mountain home,
with Diego and Dolores for companions, and for sole amusement, a horse
and a few greyhounds.  Better that he should take his chance at Alcala,
and enjoy himself there as best he might, with no obligation to severe
study, and but one duty strongly impressed on him--that of keeping out
of debt.

He derived real benefit from the university training, though no academic
laurels rested on his brow, nor did he take a degree.  Fray Sebastian
had taught him to read and write, and had even contrived to pass him
through the Latin grammar, of which he afterwards remembered scarcely
anything.  To have urged him to learn more would have required severity
only too popular at the time; but this Fray Sebastian was too timid,
perhaps too prudent, to employ; while of interesting him in his studies
he never thought.  At Alcala, however, he was interested.  He did not
care, indeed, for the ordinary scholastic course; but he found in the
college library all the books yet written in his native language, and it
was then the palmy age of Spanish literature.  Beginning with the poems
and romances relating to the history of his country, he read through
everything; poetry, romance, history, science, nothing came amiss to
him, except perhaps theology.  He studied with especial care all that
had reference to the story of the New World, whither he hoped one day to
go.  He attended lectures; he even acquired Latin enough to learn
anything he really wanted to know, and could not find except in that
language.

Thus, at the end of his four years’ residence, he had acquired a good
deal of useful though somewhat desultory information; and he had gained
the art of expressing himself in the purest Castilian, by tongue or pen,
with energy, vigour, and precision.

The sixteenth century gives us many specimens of such men--and not a few
of them were Spaniards--men of intelligence and general cultivation,
whose profession was that of arms, but who can handle the pen with as
much ease and dexterity as the sword; men who could not only do valiant
deeds, but also describe them when done, and that often with singular
effectiveness.

With his contemporaries Juan was popular, for his pride was
inaggressive, and his fiery temper was counterbalanced by great
generosity of disposition.  During his residence at Alcala he fought
three duels; one to chastise a fellow-student who had called his brother
"Doña Carlotta," the other two on being provoked by the far more serious
offence of covert sneers at his father’s memory.  He also caned severely
a youth whom he did not think of sufficient rank to honour with his
sword, merely for observing, when Carlos won a prize from him, "Don
Carlos Alvarez unites genius and industry, as he would need to do, who
is _the son of his own good works_."  But afterwards, when the same
student was in danger, through poverty, of having to give up his career
and return home, Juan stole into his chamber during his absence, and
furtively deposited four gold ducats (which he could ill spare) between
the leaves of his breviary.

Far more outwardly successful, but more really disastrous, was the
academic career of Carlos.  As student of theology, most of his days,
and even some of his nights, were spent over the musty tomes of the
Schoolmen.  Like living water on the desert, his young bright intellect
was poured out on the dreary sands of scholastic divinity (little else,
in truth, than "bad metaphysics"), to no appreciable result, except its
own utter waste.  The kindred study of casuistry was even worse than
waste of intellect; it was positive defilement and degradation. It was
bad enough to tread with painful steps through roads that led nowhere;
but it became worse when the roads were miry, and the mud at every step
clung to the traveller’s feet. Though here the parallel must cease; for
the moral defilement, alas! is most deadly and dangerous when least felt
or heeded.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, according as we look on the things seen
or the things not seen, Carlos offered to his instructors admirable raw
material out of which to fashion a successful, even a great Churchman.
He came to them a stripling of fifteen, innocent, truthful,
affectionate.  He had "parts," as they styled them, and singularly good
ones.  He had just the acute perception, the fine and ready wit, which
enabled him to cut his way through scholastic subtleties and conceits
with ease and credit.  And, to do his teachers justice, they sharpened
his intellectual weapon well, until its temper grew as exquisite as that
of the scimitar of Saladin, which could divide a gauze kerchief by the
thread at a single blow.  But how would it fare with such a weapon, and
with him who, having proved no other, could wield only that, in the
great conflict with the Dragon that guarded the golden apples of truth?
The question is idle, for truth was a luxury of which Carlos was not
taught to dream.  To find truth, to think truth, to speak truth, to act
truth, was not placed before him as an object worth his attainment. Not
the _True_, but the _Best_, was always held up to him as the mark to be
aimed at: the best for the Church, the best for his family, the best for
himself.

He had much imagination, he was quick in invention and ready in
expedients; good gifts in themselves, but very perilous where the sense
of truth is lacking, or blunted.  He was timid, as sensitive and
reflective natures are apt to be, perhaps also from physical causes.
And in those rough ages, the Church offered almost the only path in
which the timid man could not only escape infamy, but actually attain to
honour.  In her service a strong head could more than atone for weak
nerves. Power, fame, wealth, might be gained in abundance by the
Churchman without stirring from his cell or chapel, or facing a single
drawn sword or loaded musket.  Always provided that his subtle,
cultivated intellect could guide the rough hands that wielded the
swords, or, better still, the crowned head that commanded them.

There may have been even then at that very university (there certainly
were a few years earlier), a little band of students who had quite other
aims, and who followed other studies than those from which Carlos hoped
to reap worldly success and fame.  These youths really desired to find
the truth and to keep it; and therefore they turned from the pages of
the Fathers and the Schoolmen to the Scriptures in the original
languages.  But the "Biblists," as they were called, were few and
obscure.  Carlos did not, during his whole term of residence, come in
contact with any of them.  The study of Hebrew, and even of Greek, was
by this time discouraged; the breath of calumny had blown upon it,
linking it with all that was horrible in the eyes of Spanish Catholics,
summed up in the one word, heresy.  Carlos never even dreamed of any
excursion out of the beaten path marked out for him, and which he was
travelling so successfully as to distance nearly all his competitors.

Both Juan and Carlos still clung fondly to their early dream; though
their wider knowledge had necessarily modified some of its details.
Carlos, at least, was not quite so confident as he had once been about
the existence of El Dorado; but he was as fully determined as Juan to
search out the mystery of their father’s fate, and either to clasp his
living hand, or to stand beside his grave.  The love of the brothers,
and their trust in each other, had only strengthened with their years,
and was beautiful to witness.

Occasional journeys to Seville, and brief intervals of making holiday
there, varied the monotony of their college life, and were not without
important results.

It was the summer of 1556.  The great Carlos, so lately King and Kaiser,
had laid down the heavy burden of sovereignty, and would soon be on his
way to pleasant San Yuste, to mortify the flesh, and prepare for his
approaching end, as the world believed; but in reality to eat, drink,
and enjoy himself as well as his worn-out body and mind would allow him.
Just then our young Juan, healthy, hearty, hopeful, and with the world
before him, received the long wished-for appointment in the army of the
new King of all the Spains, Don Felipe Segunde.

The brothers have eaten their last temperate meal together, in their
handsome, though not very comfortable, lodging at Alcala.  Juan pushes
away the wine-cup that Carlos would fain have refilled, and toys
absently with the rind of a melon. "Carlos," he says, without looking
his brother in the face, "remember that thing of which we spoke;" adding
in lower and more earnest tones, "and so may God remember thee."

"Surely, brother.  You have, however, little to fear."

"Little to fear!" and there was the old quick flash in the dark eyes.
"Because, forsooth, to spare my aunt’s selfishness and my cousin’s
vanity, she must not be seen at dance, or theatre, or bull-feast?  It is
enough for her to show her face on the Alameda or at mass to raise me up
a host of rivals."

"Still, my uncle favours you; and Doña Beatriz herself will not be found
of a different mind when you come home with your promotion and your
glory, as you will, my Ruy!"

"Then, brother, watch thou in my absence, and fail not to speak the
right word at the right moment, as thou canst so well. So shall I hold
myself at ease, and give my whole mind to the noble task of breaking the
heads of all the enemies of my liege lord the king."

Then, rising from the table, he girt on his new Toledo sword with its
embroidered belt, threw over his shoulders his short scarlet cloak, and
flung a gay velvet montero over his rich black curls.  Don Carlos went
out with him, and mounting the horses a lad from their country-home held
in readiness, they rode together down the street and through the gate of
Alcala Don Juan followed by many an admiring gaze, and many a hearty
"Vaya con Dios,"[#] from his late companions.


[#] Go with God.




                                   V.

                       Don Carlos forgets Himself


"A fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind."--E. B.
Browning


Don Carlos Alvarez found Alcala, after his brother’s departure,
insupportably dull; moreover, he had now almost finished his brilliant
university career.  As soon, therefore, as he could, he took his degree
as Licentiate of Theology.  He then wrote to inform his uncle of the
fact; adding that he would be glad to spend part of the interval that
must elapse before his ordination at Seville, where he might attend the
lectures of the celebrated Fray Constantino Ponce de la Fuente,
Professor of Divinity in the College of Doctrine in that city.  But, in
fact, a desire to fulfil his brother’s last charge weighed more with him
than an eagerness for further instruction; especially as rumours that
his watchfulness was not unnecessary had reached his ears at Alcala.

He received a prompt and kind invitation from his uncle to make his
house his home for as long a period as he might desire.  Now, although
Don Manuel was highly pleased with the genius and industry of his
younger nephew, the hospitality he extended to him was not altogether
disinterested.  He thought Carlos capable of rendering what he deemed an
essential service to a member of his own family.

That family consisted of a beautiful, gay, frivolous wife, three sons,
two daughters, and his wife’s orphan niece, Doña Beatriz de Lavella.
The two elder sons were cast in their father’s mould; which, to speak
truth, was rather that of a merchant than of a cavalier.  Had he been
born of simple parents in the flats of Holland or the back streets of
London, a vulgar Hans or Thomas, his tastes and capabilities might have
brought him honest wealth.  But since he had the misfortune to be Don
Manuel Alvarez, of the bluest blood in Spain, he was taught to look on
industry as ineffably degrading, and trade and commerce scarcely less
so.  Only one species of trade, one kind of commerce, was open to the
needy and avaricious, but proud grandee.  Unhappily it was almost the
only kind that is really degrading--the traffic in public money, in
places, and in taxes. "A sweeping rain leaving no food," such traffic
was, in truth. The Government was defrauded; the people, especially the
poorer classes, were cruelly oppressed.  No one was enriched except the
greedy jobber, whose birth rendered him infinitely too proud to work,
but by no means too proud to cheat and steal.

Don Manuel the younger, and Don Balthazar Alvarez, were ready and
longing to tread in their father’s footsteps.  Of the two pale-faced
dark-eyed sisters, Doña Inez and Doña Sancha, one was already married,
and the other had also plans satisfactory to her parents.  But the
person in the family who was not of it was the youngest son, Don
Gonsalvo.  He was the representative, not of his father, but of his
grandfather; as we so often see types of character reproduced in the
third generation.  The first Conde de Nuera had been a wild soldier of
fortune in the Moorish wars, fierce and fiery, with strong unbridled
passions.  At eighteen, Gonsalvo was his image; and there was scarcely
any mischief possible to a youth of fortune in a great city, into which
he had not already found his way. For two years he continued to
scandalize his family, and to vex the soul of his prudent and decorous
father.

Suddenly, however, a change came over him.  He reformed, became quiet
and regular in his conduct; gave himself up to study, making
extraordinary progress in a very short time; and even showed what those
around him called "a pious disposition."  But these hopeful appearances
passed as suddenly and as unaccountably as they came.  After an interval
of less than a year, he returned to his former habits, and plunged even
more madly than ever into all kinds of vice and dissipation.

His father resolved to procure him a commission, and send him away to
the wars.  But an accident frustrated his intentions. In those days,
cavaliers of rank frequently sought the dangerous triumphs of the
bull-ring.  The part of matador was performed, not, as now, by hired
bravos of the lowest class, but often by scions of the most honourable
houses.  Gonsalvo had more than once distinguished himself in the bloody
arena by courage and coolness.  But he tempted his fate too often.  Upon
one occasion he was flung violently from his horse, and then gored by
the furious bull, whose rage had been excited to the utmost pitch by the
cruel arts usually practised.  He escaped with life, but remained a
crippled invalid, apparently condemned for the rest of his days to
inaction, weakness, and suffering.

His father thought a good canonry would be a decent and comfortable
provision for him, and pressed him accordingly to enter the Church.  But
the invalided youth manifested an intense repugnance to the step; and
Don Manuel hoped that the influence of Carlos would help to overcome
this feeling; believing that he would gladly endeavour to persuade his
cousin that no way of life was so pleasant or so easy as that which he
himself was about to adopt.

The good nature of Carlos led him to fall heartily into his uncle’s
plans.  He really pitied his cousin, moreover, and gladly gave himself
to the task of trying in every possible way to console and amuse him.
But Gonsalvo rudely repelled all his efforts.  In his eyes the destined
priest was half a woman, with no knowledge of a man’s aims or a man’s
passions, and consequently no right to speak of them.

"Turn priest!" he said to him one day; "I have as good a mind to turn
Turk.  Nay, cousin, I am not pious--you may present my orisons to Our
Lady with your own, if it so please you.  Perhaps she may attend to them
better than to those I offered before entering the bull-ring on that
unlucky day of St. Thomas."

Carlos, though not particularly devout, was shocked by this language.

"Take care, cousin," he said; "your words sound rather like blasphemy."

"And yours sound like the words of what you are, half a priest already,"
retorted Gonsalvo.  "It is ever the priest’s cry, if you displease him,
’Open heresy!’ ’Rank blasphemy!’ And next, ’the Holy Office, and a
yellow Sanbenito.’  I marvel it did not occur to your sanctity to menace
me with that."

The gentle-tempered Carlos did not answer; a forbearance which further
exasperated Gonsalvo, who hated nothing so much as being, on account of
his infirmities, borne with like a woman or a child.  "But the saints
help the Churchmen," he went on ironically.  "Good simple souls, they do
not know even their own business!  Else they would smell heresy close
enough at hand.  What doctrine does your Fray Constantino preach in the
great Church every feast-day, since they made him canon-magistral?"

"The most orthodox and Catholic doctrine, and no other," said Carlos,
roused, in his turn, by the attack upon his teacher; though he did not
greatly care for his instructions, which turned principally upon
subjects about which he had learned little or nothing in the schools.
"But to hear thee discuss doctrine is to hear a blind man talking of
colours."

"If I be the blind man talking of colours, thou art the deaf prating of
music," retorted his cousin.  "Come and tell me, if thou canst, what are
these doctrines of thy Fray Constantino; and wherein they differ from
the Lutheran heresy?  I wager my gold chain and medal against thy new
velvet cloak, that thou wouldst fall thyself into as many heresies by
the way as there are nuts in Barcelona."

Allowing for Gonsalvo’s angry exaggeration, there was some truth in his
assertion.  Once out of the region of dialectic subtleties, the champion
of the schools would have become weak as another man.  And he could not
have expounded Fray Constantino’s preaching;--because he did not
understand it.

"What, cousin!" he exclaimed, affronted in his tenderest part, his
reputation as a theological scholar.  "Dost thou take me for a
barefooted friar or a village cura?  Me, who only two months ago was
crowned victor in a debate upon the doctrines taught by Raymondus
Lullius!"

But whatever chagrin Carlos may have felt at finding himself utterly
unable to influence Gonsalvo, was soon effectually banished by the
delight with which he watched the success of his diplomacy with Doña
Beatriz.

Beatriz was almost a child in years, and entirely a child in mind and
character.  Hitherto, she had been studiously kept in the background,
lest her brilliant beauty should throw her cousins into the shade.
Indeed, she would probably have been consigned to a convent, had not her
portion been too small to furnish the donative usually bestowed by the
friends of a novice upon any really aristocratic establishment.  "And
pity would it have been," thought Carlos, "that so fair a flower should
wither in a convent garden."

He made the most of the limited opportunities of intercourse which the
ceremonious manners of the time and country afforded, even to inmates of
the same house.  He would stand beside her chair, and watch the quick
flush mount to her olive, delicately-rounded cheek, as he talked
eloquently of the absent Juan.  He was never tired of relating stories
of Juan’s prowess, Juan’s generosity.  In the last duel he fought, for
instance, the ball had passed through his cap and grazed his head.  But
he only smiled, and re-arranged his locks, remarking, while he did so,
that with the addition of a gold chain and medal, the spoiled cap would
be as good, or better than ever.  Then he would dilate on his kindness
to the vanquished; rejoicing in the effect produced, as a tribute as
well to his own eloquence as to his brother’s merit.  The occupation was
too fascinating not to be resorted to once and again, even had he not
persuaded himself that he was fulfilling a sacred duty.

Moreover, he soon discovered that the bright dark eyes which were
beginning to visit him nightly in his dreams, were pining all day for a
sight of that gay world from which their owner was jealously and
selfishly excluded.  So he managed to procure for Doña Beatriz many a
pleasure of the kind she most valued. He prevailed upon his aunt and
cousins to bring her with them to places of public resort; and then he
was always at hand, with the reverence of a loyal cavalier, and the
freedom of a destined priest, to render her every quiet unobtrusive
service in his power.  At the theatre, at the dance, at the numerous
Church ceremonies, on the promenade, Doña Beatriz was his especial
charge.

Amidst such occupations, pleasant weeks and months glided by almost
unnoticed by him.  Never before had he been so happy.  "Alcala was well
enough," he thought; "but Seville is a thousand times better.  All my
life heretofore seems to me only like a dream, now I am awake."

Alas! he was not awake, but wrapped in a deep sleep, and cradling a
bright delusive vision.  As yet he was not even "as those that dream,
and know the while they dream."  His slumber was too profound even for
this dim half-consciousness.

No one suspected, any more than he suspected himself, the enchantment
that was stealing over him.  But every one remarked his frank, genial
manners, his cheerfulness, his good looks.  Naturally, the name of Juan
dropped gradually more and more out of his conversation; as at the same
time the thought of Juan faded from his mind.  His studies, too, were
neglected; his attendance upon the lectures of Fray Constantino became
little more than a formality; while "receiving Orders" seemed a remote
if not an uncertain contingency.  In fact, he lived in the present, not
caring to look either at the past or the future.

In the very midst of his intoxication, a slight incident affected him
for a moment with such a chill as we feel when, on a warm spring day,
the sun passes suddenly behind a cloud.

His cousin, Doña Inez, had been married more than a year to a wealthy
gentleman of Seville, Don Garçia Ramirez.  Carlos, calling one morning
at the lady’s house with some unimportant message from Doña Beatriz,
found her in great trouble on account of the sudden illness of her babe.

"Shall I go and fetch a physician?" he asked, knowing well that Spanish
servants can never be depended upon to make haste, however great the
emergency may be.

"You will do a great kindness, amigo mio," said the anxious young
mother.

"But which shall I summon?" asked Carlos.  "Our family physician, or Don
Garçia’s?"

"Don Garçia’s, by all means,--Dr.  Cristobal Losada.  I would not give a
green fig for any other in Seville.  Do you know his dwelling?"

"Yes.  But should he be absent or engaged?"

"I must have him.  Him, and no other.  Once before he saved my darling’s
life.  And if my poor brother would but consult him, it might fare
better with him.  Go quickly, cousin, and fetch him, in Heaven’s name."

Carlos lost no time in complying; but on reaching the dwelling of the
physician, found that though the hour was early he had already gone
forth.  After leaving a message, he went to visit a friend in the Triana
suburb.  He passed close by the Cathedral, with its hundred pinnacles,
and that wonder of beauty, the old Moorish Giralda, soaring far up above
it into the clear southern sky.  It occurred to him that a few Aves said
within for the infant’s recovery would be both a benefit to the child
and a comfort to the mother.  So he entered, and was making his way to a
gaudy tinselled Virgin and Babe, when, happening to glance towards a
different part of the building, his eyes rested on the physician, with
whose person he was well acquainted, as he had often noticed him amongst
Fray Constantino’s hearers.  Losada was now pacing up and down one of
the side aisles, in company with a gentleman of very distinguished
appearance.

As Carlos drew nearer, it occurred to him that he had never seen this
personage in any place of public resort, and for this reason, as well as
from certain slight indications in his dress of fashions current in the
north of Spain, he gathered that he was a stranger in Seville, who might
be visiting the Cathedral from motives of curiosity.  Before he came up
the two men paused in their walk, and turning their backs to him, stood
gazing thoughtfully at the hideous row of red and yellow Sanbenitos, or
penitential garments, that hung above them.

"Surely," thought Carlos, "they might find better objects of attention
than these ugly memorials of sin and shame, which bear witness that
their late miserable wearers--Jews, Moors, blasphemers, or
sorcerers,--have ended their dreary lives of penance, if not of
penitence."

The attention of the stranger seemed to be particularly attracted by one
of them, the largest of all.  Indeed, Carlos himself had been struck by
its unusual size; and upon one occasion he had even had the curiosity to
read the inscription, which he remembered because it contained Juan’s
favourite name.  Rodrigo.  It was this: "Rodrigo Valer, a citizen of
Lebrixa and Seville; an apostate and false apostle, who pretended to be
sent from God."  And now, as he approached with light though hasty
footsteps, he distinctly heard Dr. Cristobal Losada, still looking at
the Sanbenito, say to his companion, "Yes, señor; and also the Conde de
Nuera, Don Juan Alvarez."

Don Juan Alvarez!  What possible tie could link his father’s name with
the hideous thing they were gazing at?  And what could the physician
know about him of whom his own children knew so little?  Carlos stood
amazed, and pale with sudden emotion.

And thus the physician saw him, happening to turn at that moment.  Had
he not exerted all his presence of mind (and he possessed a great deal),
he would himself have started visibly.  The unexpected appearance of the
person of whom we speak is in itself disconcerting; but it deserves
another name when we are saying that of him or his which, if overheard,
might endanger life, or what is more precious still than life. Losada
was equal to the occasion, however.  The usual greetings having been
exchanged, he asked quietly whether Señor Don Carlos had come in search
of him, and hoped that he did not owe the honour to any indisposition in
his worship’s noble family.

Carlos felt it rather a relief, under the circumstances, to have to say
that his cousin’s babe was alarmingly ill.  "You will do us a great
favour," he added, "by coming immediately.  Doña Inez is very anxious."

The physician promised compliance; and turning to his companion,
respectfully apologized for leaving him abruptly.

"A sick child’s claim must not be postponed," said the stranger in
reply.  "Go, señor doctor, and God’s blessing rest on your skill."

Carlos was struck by the noble bearing and courteous manner of the
stranger, who, in his turn, was interested by the young man’s anxiety
about a sick babe.  But with only a passing glance at the other, each
went his different way, not dreaming that once again at least their
paths were destined to cross.

The strange mention of his father’s name that he had overheard filled
the heart of Carlos with undefined uneasiness.  He knew enough by that
time to feel his childish belief in his father’s stainless virtue a
little shaken.  What if a dreadful unexplained something, linking his
fate with that of a convicted heretic, were yet to be learned?  After
all, the accursed arts of magic and sorcery were not so far removed from
the alchemist’s more legitimate labours, that a rash or presumptuous
student might not very easily slide from one into the other.  He had
reason to believe that his father had played with alchemy, if he had not
seriously devoted himself to its study.  Nay, the thought had sometimes
flashed unbidden across his mind that the "El Dorado" found might after
all have been no other than the philosopher’s stone.  For he who has
attained the power of producing gold at will may surely be said, without
any stretch of metaphor, to have discovered a golden country.  But at
this period of his life the personal feelings of Carlos were so keen and
absorbing that almost everything, consciously or unconsciously, was
referred to them.  And thus it was that an intense wish sprang up in his
heart, that his father’s secret might have descended to _him_.

Vain wish!  The gold he needed or desired must be procured from a less
inaccessible region than El Dorado, and without the aid of the
philosopher’s stone.




                                  VI.

                Don Carlos forgets Himself still further


    "The not so very false, as falsehood goes,--
    The spinning out and drawing fine, you know;
    Really mere novel-writing, of a sort,
    Acting, improvising, make-believe,--
    Surely not downright cheatery!"--R. Browning.


It cost Carlos some time and trouble to drive away the haunting thoughts
which Losada’s words had awakened.  But he succeeded at length; or
perhaps it would be more truthful to say the bright eyes and witching
smiles of Doña Beatrix accomplished the work for him.

Every dream, however, must have a waking.  Sometimes a slight sound,
ludicrously trivial in its cause, dispels a slumber fraught with
wondrous visions, in which we have been playing the part of kings and
emperors.

"Nephew Don Carlos," said Don Manuel one day, "is it not time you
thought of shaving your head?  You are learned enough for your Orders
long ago, and ’in a plentiful house supper is soon dressed.’"

"True, señor my uncle," murmured Carlos, looking suddenly aghast.  "But
I am under the canonical age."

"But you can get a dispensation."

"Why such haste?  There is time yet and to spare."

"That is not so sure.  I hear the cura of San Lucar has one foot in the
grave.  The living is a good one, and I think I know where to go for it.
So take care you lose not a heifer for want of a halter to hold it by."

With these words on his lips, Don Manuel went out.  At the same moment
Gonsalvo, who lay listlessly on a sofa at one end of the room, or rather
court, reading "Lazarillo de Tormes," the first Spanish novel, burst
into a loud paroxysm of laughter.

"What may be the theme of your merriment?" asked Carlos, turning his
large dreamy eyes languidly towards him.

"Yourself, amigo mio.  You would make the stone saints of the Cathedral
laugh on their pedestals.  There you stand, pale as marble, a living
image of despair.  Come, rouse yourself! What do you mean to do?  Will
you take what you wish, or let your chance slip by, and then sit and
weep because you have it not?  Will you be a _priest_ or a _man_?  Make
your choice this hour, for one you must be, and both you cannot be."

Carlos answered him not; in truth, he dared not answer him. Every word
was the voice of his own heart; perhaps it was also, though he knew it
not, the voice of the great tempter.  He withdrew to his chamber, and
barred and bolted himself in it. This was the first time in his life
that solitude was a necessity to him.  His uncle’s words had brought
with them a terrible revelation.  He knew himself now too well; he knew
what he loved, what he desired, or rather what he hungered and thirsted
for with agonizing intensity.  No; never the priest’s frock for him.  He
must call Doña Beatriz de Lavella his--his before God’s altar--or die.

Then came a thought, stinging him with sharp, sudden pain. It was a
thought that should have come to him long ago,--"Juan!"  And with the
name, affection, memory, conscience, rose up together within him to
combat the mad resolve of his passion.

Fiery passions slumbered in the heart of Carlos.  Such art sometimes
found united with a gentle temper, a weak will, and sensitive nerves.
Woe to their possessor when they are aroused in their strength!

Had Carlos been a plain soldier, like the brother he was tempted to
betray, it is possible he might have come forth from this terrible
conflict still holding fast his honour and his brotherly affection.  It
was his priestly training that turned the scale.  He had been taught
that simple truth between man and man was a thing of little consequence.
He had been taught the art of making a hundred clever, plausible excuses
for whatever he saw best to do.  He had been taught, in short, every
species of sophistry by which, to the eyes of others, and to his own
also, wrong might be made to seem right, and black to appear the purest
white.

His subtle imagination forged in the fire of his kindled passions chains
of reasoning in which no skill could detect a flaw.  Juan had never
loved as he did; Juan would not care; probably by this time he had
forgotten Doña Beatriz.  "Besides," the tempter whispered furtively
within him, "he might never return at all; he might die in battle."  But
Carlos was not yet sunk so low as to give ear for a single instant to
this wicked whisper; though certainly he could not henceforth look for
his brother’s return with the joy with which he had been wont to
anticipate that event.  But, in any case, Beatriz herself should be the
judge between them.  And he told himself that he knew (how did he know
it?) that Beatriz preferred _him_.  Then it would be only right and kind
to prepare Juan for an inevitable disappointment.  This he could easily
do.  Letters, carefully written, might gradually suggest to his brother
that Beatriz had other views; and he knew Juan’s pride and his fiery
temper well enough to calculate that if his jealousy were once aroused,
these would soon accomplish the rest.

Ere we, who have been taught from our cradles to "speak the truth from
the heart," turn with loathing from the wiles of Carlos Alvarez, we
ought to remember that he was a Spaniard--one of a nation whose genius
and passion is for intrigue. He was also a Spaniard of the sixteenth
century; but, above all, he was a Spanish Catholic, educated for the
priesthood.

The ability with which he laid his plans, and the enjoyment which its
exercise gave him, served in itself to blind him to the treachery and
ingratitude upon which those plans were founded.

He sought an interview with Fray Constantino, and implored from him a
letter of recommendation to the imperial recluse at San Yuste, whose
chaplain and personal favourite the canon-magistral had been.  But that
eloquent preacher, though warm-hearted and generous to a fault,
hesitated to grant the request. He represented to Carlos that His
Imperial Majesty did not choose his retreat to be invaded by applicants
for favours, and that the journey to San Yuste would therefore be, in
all probability, worse than useless.  Carlos answered that he had fully
weighed the difficulties of the case; but that if the line of conduct he
adopted seemed peculiar, his circumstances were so also.  He believed
that his father (who died before his birth) had enjoyed the special
regard of His Imperial Majesty, and he hoped that, for his sake, he
might now be willing to show him some kindness.  At all events, he was
sure of an introduction to his presence through his mayor-domo, Don Luis
Quixada, lord of Villagarçia, who was a friend of their house.  What he
desired to obtain, through the kindness of His Imperial Majesty, was a
Latin secretaryship, or some similar office, at the court of the new
king, where his knowledge of Latin, and the talents he hoped he
possessed, might stand him in good stead, and enable him to support,
though with modesty, the station to which his birth entitled him.  For,
although already a licentiate of theology, and with good prospects in
the Church, he did not wish to take orders, as he had thoughts of
marrying.

Fray Constantino felt a sympathy with the young man; and perhaps the
rather because, if report speaks true, he had once been himself in a
somewhat similar position.  So he compromised matters by giving him a
general letter of recommendation, in which he spoke of his talents and
his blameless manners as warmly as he could, from the experience of the
nine or ten months during which he had been acquainted with him.  And
although the attention paid by Carlos to his instructions had been
slight, and of late almost perfunctory, his great natural intelligence
had enabled him to stand his ground more creditably than many far more
diligent students.  The Fray’s letter Carlos thankfully added to the
numerous laudatory epistles from the doctors and professors of Alcala
that he already had in his possession.

All these he enclosed in a cedar box, which he carefully locked, and
consigned in its turn to a travelling portmanteau, along with a fair
stock of wearing apparel, sufficiently rich in material to suit his
rank, but modest in colour and fashion.  He then informed his uncle that
before he took Orders it would be necessary for him, in his brother’s
absence, to take a journey to their little estate, and set its concerns
in order.

His uncle, suspecting nothing, approved his plan, and insisted on
providing him with the attendance of an armed guard to Nuera, whither he
really intended to go in the first instance.




                                  VII.

                             The Desengãno


    "And I should evermore be vexed with thee
    In vacant robe, or hanging ornament,
    Or ghostly foot-fall lingering on the stair."--Tennyson


The journey from the city of oranges to the green slopes of the Sierra
Morena ought to have been a delightful one to Don Carlos Alvarez.  It
was certainly bright with hope.  He scarcely harboured a doubt of the
ultimate success of his plans, and the consequent attainment of all his
wishes.  Already he seemed to feel the soft hand of Doña Beatriz in his,
and to stand by her side before the high altar of the great Cathedral.

And yet, as days passed on, the brightness within grew fainter, and an
acknowledged shadow, ever deepening, began to take its place.  At last
he drew near his home, and rode through the little grove of cork-trees
where he and Juan had played as children.  When last they were there
together the autumn winds were strewing the leaves, all dim and
discoloured, about their paths.  Now he looked through the fresh green
foliage at the deep intense blue of the summer sky.  But, though
scarcely more than twenty, he felt at that moment old and worn, and
wished back the time of his boyish sports with his brother.  Never again
could he feel quite happy with Juan.

Soon, however, his sorrowful fancies were put to flight by the joyous
greeting of the hounds, who rushed with much clamour from the
castle-yard to welcome him.  There they were, all of them--Pedro, Zina,
Pepe, Grullo, Butron--it was Juan who had named them, every one.  And
there, at the gate, stood Diego and Dolores, ready to give him joyful
welcome.  Throwing himself from his horse, he shook hands with these
faithful old retainers, and answered their kindly but respectful
inquiries both for himself and Señor Don Juan.  Then, having caressed
the dogs, inquired for each of the under-servants by name, and given
orders for the due entertainment of his guard, he passed on slowly into
the great deserted hall.

His arrival being unexpected, he merely surrendered his travelling cloak
into the hands of Diego, and sat down to wait patiently while the
servants, always dilatory, prepared for him suitable accommodation.
Dolores soon appeared with a flask of wine and some bread and grapes;
but this was only a _merienda_, or slight afternoon luncheon, which she
laid before her young master until she could make ready a supper fit for
him to partake of.  Carlos spent half an hour listening to her tidings
of the household and the village, and felt sorry when she quitted the
room and left him to his own reflections.

Every object on which his eyes rested reminded him of his brother.
There hung the cross-bow with which, in old days, Juan had made such
vigorous war on the rooks and the sparrows.  There lay the foils and the
canes with which they had so often fenced and played; Juan, in his
unquestioned superiority, usually so patient with the younger brother’s
timidity and awkwardness.  And upon that bench he had carved, with a
hunting-knife, his name in full, adding the title that had expired with
his father, "Conde de Nuera."

The memories these things recalled were becoming intrusive: he would
fain shake them off.  Gladly would he have had recourse to his favourite
pastime of reading, but there was not a book in the castle, to his
knowledge, except the breviary he had brought with him.  For lack of
more congenial occupation, he went out at last to the stable to look at
the horses, and to talk to those who were grooming and feeding them.

Later in the evening Dolores told him that supper was ready, adding that
she had laid it in the small inner room, which she thought Señor Don
Carlos would find more comfortable than the great hall.

That inner room was, even more than the hall, haunted by the shadowy
presence of Juan.  But it was usually daylight when the brothers were
there together.  Now, a tapestry curtain shaded the window, and a silver
lamp shed its light on the well-spread table with its snowy drapery, and
cover laid for one.

A lonely meal, however luxurious, is always apt to be somewhat dreary;
it seems a provision for the lowest wants of our nature, and nothing
more.  Carlos sought to escape from the depressing influence by giving
wings to his imagination, and dreaming of the time when wealth enough to
repair and refurnish that half-ruinous old homestead might be his.  He
pleased himself with pictures of the long tables in the great hall,
groaning beneath the weight of a bountiful provision for a merry company
of guests, upon whom the sweet face of Doña Beatriz might beam a
welcome.  But how idle such fancies! The castle, after all, was Juan’s,
not his.  Unless, indeed, more difficulties than one should be solved by
Juan’s death upon some French or Flemish battle-field.  This thought he
could not bear to entertain.  Grown suddenly sick at heart, he pushed
aside his plate of stewed pigeon, and, regardless of the feelings of
Dolores, sent away untasted her dessert of sweet butter-cakes dipped in
honey.  He was weary, he said, and he would go to rest at once.

It was long before sleep would visit his eyelids; and when at last it
came, his brother’s dark reproachful eyes haunted him still.  At
daybreak he awoke with a start from a feverish dream that Juan, all pale
and ghostlike, had come to his bedside, and laying his hand on his arm,
said solemnly, "I claim the jewel I left thee in trust."

Further sleep was impossible.  He rose, and wandered out into the fresh
air.  As yet no one was astir.  Fair and sweet was all that met his
gaze: the faint pearly light, the first blush of dawn in the quiet sky,
the silvery dew that bathed his footsteps.  But the storm within raged
more fiercely for the calm without.  There was first an agonizing
struggle to repress the rising thought, "Better, after all, _not_ to do
this thing."  But, in spite of his passionate efforts, the thought
gained a hearing, it seemed to cry aloud within him, "Better, after all,
not to betray Juan!"  "And give up Beatriz forever?  _For ever!_" he
repeated over and over again, beating it

      "In upon his weary brain,
    As though it were the burden of a song."


He had climbed, almost unawares, to the top of a rocky hill; and now he
stood, looking around him at the prospect, just as if he saw it.  In
truth, he saw nothing, felt nothing outward, until at last a misty
mountain rain swept in his face, refreshing his burning brow with a
touch as of cool fingers.

Then he descended mechanically.  Exchanging salutations (as if nothing
were amiss with him) with the milk-maid and the wood-boy, he crossed the
open courtyard and re-entered the hall.  There Dolores, and a girl who
worked under her, were already busy, so he passed by them into the inner
room.

Its darkness seemed to stifle him; with hasty hand he drew aside the
heavy tapestry curtain.  As he did so something caught his eye.  For the
hundredth time he re-read the mystic inscription on the glass:

    "El Dorado
    Yo hé trovado."

And, as an infant’s touch may open a sluice that lets in the mighty
ocean, those simple words broke up the fountains of the great deep
within.  He gave full course to the emotions they awakened.  Again he
heard Juan’s voice repeat them; again he saw Juan’s deep earnest eyes
look into his; not now reproachfully, but with full unshaken trust, as
in the old days when first he said, "We will go forth together and find
our father."

"Juan--brother!" he cried aloud, "I will never wrong thee, so help me
God!"  At that moment the morning sun, having scattered the mists with
the glory of its rising, sent one of its early beams to kiss the
handwriting on the window-pane. "Old token for good," thought Carlos,
whose imaginative nature could play with fancies even in the hours of
supreme emotion.  "And true still even yet.  Only the good is all for
Juan; for me--nothing but despair."

And so Don Carlos found his "desengãno," or disenchantment, and it was a
very thorough one.

Body and mind were well-nigh exhausted with the violence of the
struggle.  Perhaps this was fortunate, in so far that it won for the
decision of his better nature a more rapid and easy acceptance.  In a
sense and for a season any decision was welcome to the weary,
tempest-tossed soul.

It was afterwards that he asked himself how were long years to be
dragged on without the face that was the joy of his heart and the life
of his life?  How was he to bear the never-ending pain, the aching
loneliness, of such a lot?  Better to die at once than to endure this
slow, living death.  He knew well that it was not in his nature to point
the pistol or the dagger at his own breast.  But he might pine away and
die silently--as many thousands die--of blighted hopes and a ruined
life. Or--and this was more likely, perhaps--as time passed on he might
grow dead and hard in soul; until at last he would become a dry, cold,
mechanical mass-priest, mumbling the Church’s Latin with thin, bloodless
lips, a keen eye to his dues, and a heart that might serve for a Church
relic, so much faith would it require to believe that it had been warm
and living once.

Still, laudably anxious to provide against possible future waverings of
the decision so painfully attained, he wrote informing his uncle of his
safe arrival; adding that he had fully made up his mind to take Orders
at Christmas, but that he found it advisable to remain in his present
quarters for a month or two.  He at once dispatched two of the
men-at-arms with the letter; and much was the thrifty Don Manuel
surprised that his nephew should spend a handful of silver reals in
order to inform him of what he knew already.

Gloomily the day wore on.  The instinctive reserve of a sensitive nature
made Carlos talk to the servants, receive the accounts, inspect the kine
and sheep--do everything, in short, except eat and drink--as he would
have done if a great sorrow had not all the time been crushing his
heart.  It is true that Dolores, who loved him as her own son, was not
deceived.  It was for no trivial cause that the young master was pale as
a corpse, restless and irritable, talking hurriedly by fitful snatches,
and then relapsing into moody silence.  But Dolores was a prudent woman,
as well as a loving and faithful one; therefore she held her peace, and
bided her time.

But Carlos noticed one effort she made to console him. Coming in towards
evening from a consultation with Diego about some cork-trees which a
Morisco merchantman wished to purchase and cut down, he saw upon his
table a carefully sealed wine-flask, with a cup beside it.  He knew
whence it came.  His father had left in the cellar a small quantity of
choice wine of Xeres; and this relic of more prosperous times being,
like most of their other possessions, in the care of Dolores, was only
produced very sparingly, and on rare occasions.  But she evidently
thought "Señor Don Carlos" needed it now.  Touched by her watchful,
unobtrusive affection, he would have gratified her by drinking; but he
had a peculiar dislike to drinking alone, while he knew he would only
render his sanity doubtful by inviting either her or Diego to share the
luxurious beverage.  So he put it aside for the present, and drew
towards him a sheet of figures, an inkhorn, and a pen. He could not
work, however.  With the silence and solitude, his great grief came back
upon him again.  But nature all this time had been silently working for
him.  His despair was giving way to a more violent but less bitter
sorrow.  Tears came now: a long, passionate fit of weeping relieved his
aching heart.  Since his early childhood he had not wept thus.

An approaching footstep recalled him to himself.  He rose with haste and
shame, and stood beside the window, hoping that his position and the
waning light might together shield him from observation.  It was only
Dolores.

"Señor," she said, entering somewhat hastily, "will it please you to see
to those men of Seville that came with your Excellency?  They are
insulting a poor little muleteer, and threatening to rob his packages."

Yanguesian carriers and other muleteers, bringing goods across the
Sierra Morena from the towns of La Mancha to those of Andalusia, often
passed by the castle, and sometimes received hospitality there.  Carlos
rose at once at the summons, saying to Dolores--

"Where is the boy?"

"He is not a boy, señor, he is a man; a very little man, but with a
greater spirit, if I mistake not, than some twice his size."

It was true enough.  On the green plot at the back of the castle, beside
which the mountain pathway led, there were gathered the ten or twelve
rough Seville pikemen, taken from the lowest of the population, and most
of them of Moorish blood.  In their midst, beside the foremost of his
three mules, with one arm thrown round her neck and the other raised to
give effect by animated gestures to his eager oratory, stood the
muleteer.  He was a very short, spare, active-looking man, clad from
head to foot in chestnut-coloured leather.  His mules were well laden;
each with three large alforjas, one at each side and one laid across the
neck.  But they were evidently well fed and cared for also; and they
presented a gay appearance, with their adornments of bright-coloured
worsted tassels and tiny bells.

"You know, my friends," the muleteer was saying, as Carlos came within
hearing, "an arriero’s alforjas[#] are like a soldier’s colours,--it
stands him upon his honour to guard them inviolate. No, no!  Ask him for
aught else--his purse, his blood--they are at your service; but never
touch his colours, if you care for a long life."


[#] _Arriero_, muleteer; _alforjas_, bags.


"My honest friend, your colours, as you call them, shall be safe here,"
said Carlos, kindly.

The muleteer turned towards him a good-humoured, intelligent face, and,
bowing low, thanked him heartily.

"What is your name?" asked Carlos; "and whence do you come?"

"I am Juliano; Juliano el Chico (Julian the Little) men generally call
me--since, as your Excellency sees, I am not very great.  And I come
last from Toledo."

"Indeed!  And what wares do you carry?"

"Some matters, small in bulk, yet costly, which I am bringing for a
Seville merchant--Medel de Espinosa by name, if your worship has heard
of him?  I have mirrors, for example, of a new kind; excellent in
workmanship, and true as steel, as well they may be."

"I know the shop of Espinosa well.  I have been much in Seville," said
Carlos, with a sudden pang, caused by the recollection of the many
pretty trifles that he had purchased there for Doña Beatrix.  "But
follow me, my friend, and a good supper shall make you amends for the
rudeness of these fellows.--Andres, take the best care thou canst of his
mules; ’twill be only fair penance for thy sin in molesting their
owner."

"A hundred thousand thanks, señor.  Still, with your worship’s good
leave, and no offence to friend Andres, I had rather look to the beasts
myself.  We are old companions; they know my ways, and I know theirs."

"As you please, my good fellow.  Andres will show you the stable, and I
shall tell my mayor-domo to see that you lack nothing."

"Again I render to your Excellency my poor but hearty thanks."

Carlos went in, gave the necessary directions to Diego, and then
returned to his solitary chamber.




                                 VIII.

                              The Muleteer


    "Are ye resigned that they be spent
    In such world’s help?  The spirits bent
    Their awful brows, and said, ’Content!’

    "Content!  It sounded like Amen
    Said by a choir of mourning men;
    An affirmation full of pain

    "And patience,--ay, of glorying.
    And adoration, as a king
    Might seal an oath for governing."--E. B. Browning


When Carlos stood once more face to face with his sorrow--as he did as
soon as he had closed the door--he found that it had somewhat changed
its aspect.  A trouble often does this when some interruption from the
outer world makes us part company with it for a little while.  We find
on our return that it has developed quite a new phase, and seldom a more
hopeful one.

It now entered the mind of Carlos, for the first time, that he had been
acting very basely towards his brother.  Not only had he planned and
intended a treason, but by endeavouring to engage the affections of Doña
Beatriz, he had actually committed one.  Heaven grant it might not prove
irreparable! Though the time that had passed since his better self
gained the victory was only measured by hours, it represented to him a
much longer period.  Already it enabled him to look upon what had gone
before from the vantage-ground that some degree of distance gives.  He
now beheld in true, perhaps even in exaggerated colours, the meanness
and the treachery of his conduct.  He, who prided himself upon the
nobility of his nature matching that of his birth--he, Don Carlos
Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya, the gentleman of stainless manners, of
reputation untarnished by a single blot--he, who had never yet been
ashamed of anything,--in his solitude he blushed and covered his face in
shame, as the villany he had planned rose up before his mind.  It would
have broken his heart to be scorned by any man; and was it not worse a
thousand-fold to be thus scorned by himself!  He thought even more of
the meanness of his plan than of its treachery.  Of its sin he did not
think at all.  Sin was a theological term which he had been wont to
handle in the schools, and to toss to and fro with the other materials
upon which he showed off his dialectic skill; but it no more occurred to
him to take it out of the scholastic world and to bring it into that in
which he really lived and acted, than it did to talk Latin to Diego, or
softly to whisper quotations from Thomas Aquinas into the ear of Doña
Beatriz between the pauses of the dance.

Scarcely any consideration, however, could have made him more miserable
than he was.  Past and future--all alike seemed dreary.  Not a happy
memory, not a cheering anticipation could he find to comfort him.  He
was as one who goes forth to face the driving storm of a wintry night:
not strong in hope and courage--a warm hearth behind him, and before him
the pleasant starry glimmer that tells of another soon to be
reached--but chilled, weary, forlorn, the wind whistling through thin
garments, and nothing to meet his eye but the bare, bleak, shelterless
moor stretching far out into the distance.

He sat long, too crushed in heart even to finish his slight, unimportant
task.  Sometimes he drew towards him the sheet of figures, and for a
moment or two tried to fix his attention upon it; but soon he would push
it away again, or make aimless dots and circles on its margin.  While
thus engaged, he heard a cheery and not unmelodious voice chanting a
fragment of song in some foreign tongue.  Listening more attentively, he
believed the words were French, and supposed the singer must be his
humble guest, the muleteer, on his way to the stable to take a last look
at the beloved companions of his toils before he lay down to rest.  The
man had probably exercised his vocation at some former period in the
passes of the Pyrenees, and had thus acquired some knowledge of French.

Half an hour’s talk with any one seemed to Carlos at that moment a most
desirable diversion from the gloom of his own thoughts.  He might
converse with this stranger when he dared not summon to his presence
Diego or Dolores, because they knew and loved him well enough to
discover in two minutes that something was seriously wrong with him.  He
waited until he heard the voice once more close beneath his window; then
softly opening it, he called the muleteer.  Juliano responded with ready
alertness; and Carlos, going round to the door, admitted him, and led
him into his sanctum.

"I believe," he said, "that was a French song I heard you sing.  You
have been in France, then?"

"Ay, señor; I have crossed the Pyrenees more than once. I have also been
in Switzerland."

"You must, then, have visited many places worthy of note; and not with
your eyes shut, I think.  I wish you would tell me, for pastime, the
story of your travels."

"Willingly, señor," said the muleteer, who, though perfectly respectful,
had an ease and independence of manner that made Carlos suspect it was
not the first time he had conversed with his superiors.  "Where shall I
begin?"

"Have you ever crossed the Santillanos, or visited the Asturias?"

"No, señor.  A man cannot be everywhere; ’he that rings the bells does
not walk in the procession.’  I am only master of the route from Lyons
here; knowing a little also, as I have said, of Switzerland."

"Tell me first of Lyons, then.  And be seated, my friend."

The muleteer sat down, and began his story, telling of the places he had
seen with an intelligence that more and more engaged the attention of
Carlos, who failed not to draw out his information by many pertinent
questions.  As they conversed, each observed the other with gradually
increasing interest. Carlos admired the muleteer’s courage and energy in
the prosecution of his calling, and enjoyed his quaint and shrewd
observations.  Moreover, he was struck by certain indications of a
degree of education and even of refinement not usual in his class.
Especially he noticed the small, finely-formed hand, which was sometimes
in the warmth of conversation laid on the table, and which looked as if
it had been accustomed to wield some implement far more delicate than a
riding-whip.  Another thing he took note of.  Though Juliano’s language
abounded in proverbs, in provincialisms, in quaint and racy expressions,
not a single oath escaped his lips.  "I never saw an arriero before,"
thought Carlos, "who could get through two sentences without half a
dozen of them."

Juliano, on the other hand, was observing his host, and with a far
shrewder and deeper insight than Carlos could have imagined.  During
supper he had gathered from the servants that their young master was
kind-hearted, gentle, easy-tempered, and had never injured any one in
his life; and knowing all this, he was touched with genuine sympathy for
the young noble, whose haggard face and sorrowful looks told but too
plainly that some great grief was pressing on his heart.

"Your Excellency must be weary of my stories," he said at length.  "It
is time I left you to your repose."

And so indeed it was, for the hour was late.

"Ere you go," said Carlos kindly, "you shall drink a cup of wine with
me."

He had no wine at hand but the costly beverage Dolores had produced for
his own especial use.  Wondering a little what Juliano would think of
such a luxurious beverage, he sought a second cup, for the proud
Castilian gentleman was too "finely courteous" not to drink with his
guest, although that guest was only a muleteer.

Juliano, evidently a temperate man, remonstrated: "But I have already
tasted your Excellency’s hospitality."

"That should not hinder your drinking to my good health," said Carlos,
producing a small hunting-cup, forgotten until now, from the pocket of
his doublet.

Then filling the larger cup, he handed it to Juliano.  It was a very
little thing, a trifling act of kindness.  But to the last hour of his
life, Carlos Alvarez thanked God that he had put it into his heart to
offer that cup of wine.

The muleteer raised it to his lips, saying earnestly, "God grant you
health and happiness, noble señor."

Carlos drank also, glad to relieve a painful feeling of exhaustion.  As
he set down the cup, a sudden impulse prompted him to say, with a bitter
smile, "Happiness is not likely to come my way at present."

"Nay, señor, and wherefore not?  With your good leave be it spoken, you
are young, noble, amiable, with much learning and excellent parts, as
they tell me."

"All these things may not prevent a man being very miserable," said
Carlos frankly.

"God comfort you, señor."

"Thanks for the good wish," said Carlos, rather lightly, and conscious
of having already said too much.  "All men have their troubles, I
suppose, but most men contrive to live through them.  So shall I, no
doubt."

"But God can comfort you," Juliano repeated with a kind of wistful
earnestness.

Carlos, surprised at his manner, looked at him dreamily, but with some
curiosity.

"Señor," said Juliano, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone full
of meaning.  "Let your worship excuse a plain man’s plain
question--Señor, _do you know God_?"

Carlos started visibly.  Was the man mad?  Certainly not; as all his
previous conversation bore witness.  He was evidently a very clever,
half-educated man, who spoke with just the simplicity and
unconsciousness of an intelligent child.  And now he had asked a true
child’s question; one which it would exhaust a wise man’s wisdom to
answer.  Thoroughly perplexed, Carlos at last determined to take it in
its easiest sense. He said, "Yes; I have studied theology, and taken out
my licentiate’s degree at the University of Alcala."

"If it please your worship, what may that fine word theology mean?"

"You have said so many wise things, that I marvel you know not Science
about God."

"Then, señor, your Excellency knows _about God_.  But is it not another
thing _to know God_?  I know much about the Emperor Carlos, now at San
Yuste; I could tell you the story of all his campaigns.  But I never saw
him, still less spoke with him.  And far indeed am I from knowing him to
be my friend; and so trusting him that if my mules died, or the
Alguazils seized me at Cordova for bringing over something contraband,
or other mishap befell me, I should go or send to him, certain that he
would help and save me."

"I begin to understand you," said Carlos; and a suspicion crossed his
mind that the muleteer was a friar in disguise.  But that could scarcely
be, since his black abundant hair showed no marks of the tonsure.
"After the manner you speak of, only great saints know God."

"Indeed, señor!  Can that be true?  For I have heard that our Lord
Christ"--(at the mention of the name Carlos crossed himself, a ceremony
which the muleteer was so engrossed by his argument as to forget)--"that
our Lord Christ came into the world to make men know the Father; and
that, to all that believe on him, he truly reveals him."

"Where did you get this strange learning?"

"It is simple learning; and yet very blessed, señor," returned Juliano,
evading the question.  "For those who know God are happy.  Whatever
sorrows they have without, within they have joy and peace."

"You are advising me to seek peace in religion?"

It was singular certainly that a muleteer should advise _him_; but then
this was a very uncommon muleteer.  "And so I ought," he added, "since I
am destined for the Church."

"No, señor; not to seek peace in religion, but to seek peace from God,
and in Christ who reveals him."

"It is only the words that differ, the things are the same."

"Again I say, with all submission to your Excellency, not so. It is
Christ Jesus himself--Christ Jesus, God and man--who alone can give the
peace and happiness for which the heart aches.  Are we oppressed with
sin?  He says, ’Thy sins are forgiven thee!’  Are we hungry?  He is
bread.  Thirsty? He is living water.  Weary?  He says, ’Come unto me,
all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest!’"

"Man! who or what are you?  You are quoting the Holy Scriptures to me.
Do you then read Latin?"

"No, señor," said the muleteer humbly, casting his eyes down to the
ground.

"_No?_"

"No, señor; in very truth.  But--"

"Well?  Go on!"

Juliano looked up again, a steady light in his eyes.  "Will you promise,
on the faith of a gentleman, not to betray me?" he asked.

"Most assuredly I will not betray you."

"I trust you, señor.  I do not believe it would be possible for _you_ to
betray one who trusted you."

Carlos winced, and rather shrank from the muleteer’s look of hearty,
honest confidence.

"Though I cannot guess your reason for such precautions," he said, "I am
willing, if you wish it, to swear secrecy upon the holy crucifix."

"It needs not, señor; your word of honour is as much as your oath.
Though I am putting my life in your hands when I tell you that I have
dared to read the words of my Lord Christ in my own tongue."

"Are you then a heretic?" Carlos exclaimed, recoiling involuntarily, as
one who suddenly sees the plague spot on the forehead of a friend whose
hand he has been grasping.

"That depends upon your notion of a heretic, señor.  Many a better man
than I has been branded with the name.  Even the great preacher Don Fray
Constantino, whom all the fine lords and ladies in Seville flock to
hear, has often been called heretic by his enemies."

"I have resided in Seville, and attended Fray Constantino’s theological
lectures," said Carlos.

"Then your worship knows there is not a better Christian in all the
Spains.  And yet men say that he narrowly escaped a prosecution for
heresy.  But enough of what men say.  Let us hear what God says for
once.  His words cannot lead us astray."

"No; not the Holy Scriptures, properly expounded by learned and orthodox
doctors.  But heretics put their own construction upon the sacred text,
which, moreover, they corrupt and interpolate."

"Señor, you are a scholar; you can consult the original, and judge for
yourself how far that charge is true."

"But I do not want to read heretic writings."

"Nor I, señor.  Yet I confess that I have read the words of my Saviour
in my own tongue, which some misinformed or ignorant persons call
heresy; and through them, to my soul’s joy, I have learned to know Him
and the Father.  I am bold enough to wish the same knowledge yours,
señor, that the same joy may be yours also."  The poor man’s eye
kindled, and his features, otherwise homely enough, glowed with an
enthusiasm that lent them true spiritual beauty.

Carlos was not unmoved.  After a moment’s pause he said, "If I could
procure what you style God’s Word in my own tongue, I do not say that I
would refuse to read it.  Should I discover any heretical mistranslation
or interpolation, I could blot out the passage; or, if necessary, burn
the book."

"I can place in your hands this very hour the New Testament of our
Saviour Christ, lately translated into Castilian by Juan Perez, a
learned man, well acquainted with the Greek."

"What! have you got it with you?  In God’s name bring it then; and at
least I will look at it."

"Be it truly in God’s name, señor," said Juliano, as he left the room.

During his absence Carlos pondered upon this singular adventure.
Throughout his lengthened conversation with him, he had discerned no
marks of heresy in the muleteer, except his possession of the Spanish
New Testament.  And being very proud of his dialectic acuteness, he
thought he should certainly have discovered such had they existed.  "He
had need to be a clever heretic that would circumvent _me_," he said,
with the vanity of a young and successful scholar.  Moreover, his ten
months’ attendance on the lectures of Fray Constantino had,
unconsciously to himself, somewhat imbued his mind with liberal ideas.
He could have read the Vulgate at Alcala if he had cared to do so (only
he never had); where then could be the harm of glancing, out of mere
curiosity, at a Spanish translation from the same original?

He regarded the New Testament in the light of some very dangerous,
though effective, weapon of the explosive kind; likely to overwhelm with
terrible destruction the careless or ignorant meddler with its
intricacies, and therefore wisely forbidden by the authorities; though
in able and scientific hands, such as his own, it might be harmless and
even useful.

But it was a very different matter for the poor man who brought it to
him.  Was he, after all, a madman?  Or was he a heretic?  Or was he a
great saint or holy hermit in disguise? But whatever his spiritual peril
might or might not be, it was only too evident that he was incurring
temporal dangers of a very awful kind.  And perhaps he was doing so in
the simplicity of ignorance.  Carlos could not do less than warn him of
them.

He soon returned; and drawing a small brown volume from beneath his
leathern jerkin, handed it to the young nobleman.

"My friend," said Carlos kindly, as he took it from him, "do you know
what you dare by offering this to me, or even by keeping it yourself?"

"I know it well, señor," was the calm reply; and the muleteer’s dark eye
met his undauntedly.

"You are playing a dangerous game.  This time you are safe.  But take
care.  You may try it once too often."

"I shall not, señor.  I shall witness for my Lord just so often as he
permits.  When he has no more need of me, he will call me home."

"God help you.  I fear you are throwing yourself into the fire.  And for
what?"

"For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the thirsty,
light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and heavy-laden.
Señor, I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right
willingly."

After a moment’s silence he continued: "I leave within your hands the
treasure brought at such cost.  But God alone, by his Divine Spirit, can
reveal to you its true worth.  Señor, seek that Spirit.  Nay, be not
offended.  You are very noble and very learned; and it is a poor and
ignorant man who speaks to you.  But that poor man is risking his life
for your soul’s salvation; and thus he proves, at least, how true his
desire to see you one day at the right hand of Christ, his King and
Master.  Adiõs, señor."

He bowed low; and before Carlos had sufficiently recovered from his
astonishment to say a word in answer, he had left the room and closed
the door behind him.

"Strange being!" thought Carlos; "but I shall talk with him again
to-morrow."  And ere he was aware, his eyelids were wet; for the courage
and self-sacrifice of the poor muleteer had stirred some answering chord
of emotion in his heart.  Probably, in spite of all appearances to the
contrary, he was a madman; or else he was a heretical fanatic.  But he
was a man willing to brave numberless sufferings (of which a death of
torture was the last and least), to bring his fellow-men something which
he imagined would make them happy.  "The Church has no more orthodox son
than I," said Don Carlos Alvarez; "but I shall read his book for all
that."

Then, the hour being late, he retired to rest, and slept soundly.

He did not rise exactly with the sun, and when he came forth from his
chamber breakfast was already in preparation.

"Where is the muleteer who was here last night?" he asked Dolores.

"He was up and away at sunrise," she answered.  "Fortunately, it is not
my custom to stop in bed and see the sunshine; so I just caught him
loading his mules, and gave him a piece of bread and cheese and a
draught of wine.  A smart little man he is, and one who knows his
business."

"I wish I had seen him ere he left," said Carlos aloud. "Shall I ever
look upon his face again?" he added mentally.

Carlos Alvarez saw that face again, not by the ray of sun or moon, nor
yet by the gleam of the student’s lamp, but clear and distinct in a
lurid awful light more terrible than Egyptian darkness, yet fraught with
strange blessing, since it showed the way to the city of God, where the
sun no more goes down, neither doth the moon withdraw herself.

Juliano el Chico, otherwise Julian Hernandez, is no fancy sketch, no
"character of fiction."  It is matter of history that, cunningly stowed
away in his alforjas, amongst the ribbons, laces, and other trifles that
formed their ostensible freight, there was a large supply of Spanish New
Testaments, of the translation of Juan Perez.  And that, in spite of all
the difficulties and dangers of his self-imposed task, he succeeded in
conveying his precious charge safely to Seville.

Our cheeks grow pale, our hearts shudder, at the thought of what he and
others dared, that they might bring to the lips of their countrymen that
living water which was truly "the blood of the men that went for it in
jeopardy of their lives."  More than jeopardy.  Not alone did Juliano
brave danger, he encountered certain death.  Sooner or later, it was
impossible that he should not fall into the pitiless grasp of that
hideous engine of royal and priestly tyranny, called the Holy
Inquisition.

We have no words in which to praise such heroism as his. We leave
that--and we may be content to leave it--to Him whose lips shall one day
pronounce the sublime award, "Well done, good and faithful servant;
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."  But in the view of such things
done and suffered for his name’s sake, there is another thought that
presses on the mind.  How real and great, nay, how unutterably precious,
must be that treasure which men were found willing, at such cost, not
only to secure for themselves, but even to impart to others.




                                  IX.

                            El Dorado found


    "So, the All-Great were the all-loving too--
    So, through the thunder comes a human voice,
    Saying, O heart I made, a heart beats here!
    Face my hands fashioned, see it in myself!
    Thou hast no power, nor mayest conceive of mine;
    But love I gave thee with myself to love,
    And thou must love me who have died for thee!"--R. Browning


Three silent months stole away in the old castle of Nuera.  No outward
event affecting the fortunes of its inmates marked their progress.  And
yet they were by far the most important months Don Carlos had ever seen,
or perhaps would ever see.  They witnessed a change in him, mysterious
in its progress but momentous in its results. An influence passed over
him, mighty as the wind in its azure pathway, but, like it, visible only
by its effects; no man could tell "whence it cometh or whither it
goeth."

Again it was early morning, a bright Sunday morning in September.
Already Carlos stood prepared to go forth.  He had quite discarded his
student’s habit, and was dressed like any other young nobleman, in a
doublet and short cloak of Genoa velvet, with a sword by his side.  His
Breviary was in his hand, however, and he was on the point of taking up
his hat when Dolores entered the room, bearing a cup of wine and a
manchet of bread.

Carlos shook his head, saying, "I intend to communicate. And you,
Dolores," he added, "are you not also going to hear mass?"

"Surely, señor; we will all attend our duty.  But there is still time to
spare; your worship sets us an example in the matter of early rising."

"It were shame to lose such fair hours as these.  Prithee, Dolores, and
lest I forget, hast thou something savoury in the house for dinner!"

"Glad I am to hear you ask, señor.  Hitherto it has seemed alike to jour
Excellency whether they served you with a pottage of lentils or a stew
of partridges.  But since Diego had the good fortune to kill that buck
on Wednesday, we are better than well provided.  Your worship shall dine
on roast venison to-day."

"That will do.  And if thou wouldst add some of the batter ware, in
which thou art so skilful, it would be better still; for I intend to
bring home a guest."

"Now, the Saints help me, that is news!  Without meaning offence, your
worship might have told me before.  Any noble caballero coming to these
parts to visit you must needs have bed as well as board found him.  And
how can I, in three hours, more or less--"

"Nay, be not alarmed, Dolores; no stranger is coming here. Only I wish
to bring the cura home to dinner."

Even the self-restrained Dolores could not repress an exclamation of
surprise.  For both the brothers had been accustomed to regard the
ignorant vulgar cura of the neighbouring village with unmitigated
dislike and contempt.  In old times Dolores herself had sometimes tried
to induce them to show him some trifling courtesies, "for their soul’s
health."  They were willing enough to send "that beggar"--as Don Juan
used to call him--presents of meat or game when they could, but these
they would not have grudged to their worst enemy.  To converse with him,
or to seat him at their table, was a very different matter.  He was "no
fit associate for noblemen," said the boys; and Dolores, in her heart,
agreed with them.  She looked at her young master to see whether he were
jesting.

"He likes a good dinner," Carlos added quietly.  "Let us for once give
him one."

"In good faith, Señor Don Carlos, I cannot tell what has come to you.
You must be about doing penance for your sins, though I will say no
young gentleman of your years has fewer to answer for.  Still, to please
your whim, the cura shall eat the best we have, though beans and bacon
would be more fitting fare for him."

"Thank you, mother Dolores," said Carlos kindly.  "In truth, neither Don
Juan nor I had ever whim yet you did not strive to gratify."

"And who would not do more than that for so pleasant and kind a young
master?" thought Dolores, as she withdrew to superintend the cooking
operations.  "God’s blessing and Our Lady’s rest on him, and in sooth I
think they do.  Three months ago he came here looking like a corpse out
of the grave, and fitter, as it seemed to me, to don his shroud than his
priest’s frock.  But the free mountain air wherein he was born is
bringing back the red to his cheek and the light to his eye, thank the
holy Saints.  Ah, if his lady mother could only see her gallant sons
now!"

Meanwhile Don Carlos leisurely took his way down the hill. Having
abundance of time to spare, he chose a solitary, devious path through
the cork-trees and the pasture land belonging to the castle.  His heart
was alive to every pleasant sight and sound that met his eye and ear;
although, or rather because, a low, sweet song of thankfulness was all
the while chanting itself within him.

During his solitary walk he distinctly realized for the first time the
stupendous change that had passed over him.  For such changes cannot be
understood or measured until afterwards, perhaps not always then.
Drawing from his pocket Juliano’s little book, he clasped it in both
hands.  "_This_, God be thanked, has done it all, under him.  And yet,
at first, it added to my misery a hundred-fold."  Then his mind ran back
to the dreary days of helpless, almost hopeless wretchedness, when he
first began its perusal.  Much of it had then been quite unintelligible
to him; but what he understood had only made his darkness darker still.
He who had but just learned from that stern teacher, Life, the meaning
of sorrow, learned from the pages of his book the awful significance of
that other word, Sin.  Bitter hours, never to be remembered without a
shudder, were those that followed.  Already prostrate on the ground
beneath the weight of his selfish sorrow for the love that might never
be his, cruel blows seemed rained upon him by the very hand to which he
turned to lift him up.  "All was his own fault," said conscience.  But
had conscience, enlightened by his book, said no more, he could have
borne it.  It was a different thing to recognize that all was his own
sin--to feel more keenly every day that the whole current of his
thoughts and affections was set in opposition to the will of God as
revealed in that book, and illustrated in the life of him of whom it
told.

But this sickness of heart, deadly though it seemed, was not unto death.
The Word had indeed proved a mirror, in which he saw his own face
reflected with the lines and colours of truth.  But it had a farther use
for him.  As he did not fling it away in despair, but still gazed on, at
length he saw in its clear depths another Face--a Face radiant with
divine majesty, yet beaming with tender love and pity.  He whom the
mirror thus gave back to him had been "not far" from him all his life;
had been standing over against him, watching and waiting for the moment
in which to reveal himself.  At last that moment came.  He looked up
from the mirror to the real Face; from the Word to him whom the Word
revealed.  He turned himself and said unto him, "Rabboni, which is to
say.  My Master."  He laid his soul at his feet in love, in trust, in
gratitude.  And he knew then, not until then, that this was the "coming"
to him, the "believing" on him, the receiving him, of which He spoke as
the condition of life, of pardon, and of happiness.

From that hour he possessed life, he knew himself forgiven, he was
happy.  This was no theory, but a fact--a fact which changed all his
present and was destined to change all his future.

He longed to impart the wonderful secret he had found. This longing
overcame his contempt for the cura, and made him seek to win him by
kindness to listen to words which perhaps might open for him also the
same wonderful fountain of joy.

"Now I am going to worship my Lord, afterwards I shall speak of him," he
said, as he crossed the threshold of the little village church.

In due season the service was over.  Its ceremonies did not pain or
offend Carlos in any way; he took part in them with much real devotion,
as acts of homage paid to his Lord.  Still, if he had analyzed his
feelings (which he did not), he would have found them like those of a
king’s child, who is obliged, on days of courtly ceremonial, to pay his
father the same distant homage as the other peers of the realm, and yet
knows that all this for him is but an idle show, and longs to throw
aside its cumbrous pomp, and to rejoice once more in the free familiar
intercourse which is his habit and his privilege.  But that the
ceremonial itself could be otherwise than pleasing to his King, he had
not the most distant suspicion.

He spoke kindly to the priest, and inquired by name after all the sick
folk in the village, though in fact he knew more about them himself by
this time than did Father Tomas.

The cura’s heart was glad when the catechism came to a termination so
satisfactory as an invitation to dine at the castle. Whatever the fare
might be--and his expectations were not extravagantly high--it could
scarce fail to be an improvement on the olla of which he had intended to
make his Sunday repast. Moreover, one favour from the castle might be
the earnest of others; and favours from the castle, poor though its
lords might be, were not to be despised.  Nor was he ill at ease in the
society of an accomplished gentleman, as a man just a little better bred
would probably have been.  A wealthy peasant’s son, and with but scanty
education, Father Tomas was so hopelessly vulgar that he never once
imagined he was vulgar at all.

Carlos bore as patiently as he could with his coarse manners, and
conversation something worse than commonplace.  Not until the repast was
concluded did he find an opportunity of bringing forward the topic upon
which he longed to speak. Then, with more tact than his guest could
appreciate, he began by inquiring--as one himself intended for the
priesthood might naturally do--whether he could always keep his thoughts
from wandering while he was celebrating the holy mysteries of the faith.

Father Tomas crossed himself, and answered that he was a sinner like
other men, but that he tried to do his duty to our holy Mother Church to
the best of his ability.

Carlos remarked, that unless we ourselves know the love of God by
experience we cannot love him, and that without love there is no
acceptable service.

"Most true, señor," said the priest, turning his eyes upwards. "As the
holy St. Augustine saith.  Your worship quotes from him, I believe."

"I have quoted nothing," said Carlos, beginning to feel that he was
speaking to the deaf; "but I know the words of Christ."  And then he
spoke, out of a full heart, of Christ’s work for us, of his love to us,
and of the pardon and peace which those receive that trust him.

But his listener’s stolid face betrayed no interest, only a vague
uneasiness, which increased as Carlos proceeded.  The poor parish cura
began to suspect that the clever young collegian meant to astonish and
bewilder him by the exhibition of his learning and his "new ideas."
Indeed, he was not quite sure whether his host was eloquently enlarging
all the time upon Catholic truths, or now and then mischievously
throwing out a few heretical propositions, in order to try whether he
would have skill enough to detect them.  Naturally, he did not greatly
relish this style of entertainment.  Nothing could be got from him save
a cautious, "That is true, señor," or, "Very good, your worship;" and as
soon as his notions of politeness would permit, he took his leave.

Carlos marvelled greatly at his dulness; but soon dismissed him from his
mind, and took his Testament out to read under the shade of the
cork-trees.  Ere long the light began to fade, but he sat there still in
the fast deepening twilight.  Thoughts and fancies thronged upon his
mind; and dreams of the past sought, as even yet they often did, to
reassert their supremacy over his heart.  One of those apparently
unaccountable freaks of memory, which we all know by experience, brought
back to him suddenly the luscious perfume of the orange-blossoms, called
by the Spaniards the azahar.  Such fragrance had filled the air, and
such flowers had been strewed upon his pathway, when last he walked with
Donna Beatrix in the fairy gardens of the Alcazar of Seville.

Keen was the pang that shot through his heart at the remembrance.  But
it was conquered soon.  As he went in-doors he repeated the words he had
just been reading, "’He that cometh unto me shall never hunger; he that
believeth on me shall never thirst.’  And _this_ hunger of the soul, as
well is every other, He can stay.  Having him, I have all things.

    "El Dorado
    Yo hé trovado."

Father, dear, unknown father, I have round the golden country. Not in
the sense thou didst fondly seek, and I as fondly dream to find it.  Yet
the only true land of gold I have found indeed--the treasure unfailing,
the inheritance incorruptible, undented and that fadeth not away,
reserved in heaven for me."




                                   X.

                                Dolores


    "Oh, hearts that break and give no sign,
    Save whitening lip and fading tresses;
    Till death pours out his cordial wine,
    Slow dropped from misery’s crushing presses
    If singing breath or echoing chord
    To every hidden pang were given,
    What endless melodies were poured,
    As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven."--O. W. Holmes


A great modern poet has compared the soul of man to a pilgrim who passes
through the world staff in hand, never resting, ever pressing onwards to
some point as yet unattained, ever sighing wearily, "Alas! that _there_
is never _here_."  And with deep significance adds his Christian
commentator, "In Christ _there_ is _here_."

He who has found Christ "is already at the goal."  "For he stills our
innermost fears, and fulfils our utmost longings."  "In him the dry
land, the mirage of the desert, becomes living water."  "He who knows
him knows the reason of all things."  Passing all along the ages, we
might gather from the silent lips of the dead such words as these,
bearing emphatic witness to what human hearts have found in him.  Yet,
after all, we would come back to his own grand and simple words, as best
expressing the truth: "I am the bread of life;" "I will give you rest;"
"In me ye shall have peace."

With the peace which he gave there came to Carlos a strange new
knowledge also.  The Testament, from its first page to its last, became
intelligible to him.  From a mere sketch, partly dim and partly blurred
and blotted, it grew into a transparency through which light shone upon
his soul, every word being itself a star.

He often read his book to Dolores, though he allowed her to suppose it
was Latin, and that he was improvising a translation for her benefit.
She would listen attentively, though with a deeper shade of sadness on
her melancholy face.  Never did she volunteer an observation, but she
always thanked him at the end in her usual respectful manner.

These readings were, in fact, a trouble to Dolores.  They gave her pain,
like the sharp throbs that accompany the first return of consciousness
to a frozen member, for they awakened feelings that had long been
dormant, and that she thought were dead for ever.  But, on the other
hand, she was gratified by the condescension of her young master in
reading aloud for her edification.  She had gone through the world
giving very largely out of her own large loving heart, and expecting
little or nothing in return.  She would most gladly have laid down her
life for Don Juan or Don Carlos; yet she did not imagine that the old
servant of the house could be to them much more than one of the oak
tables or the carved chairs.  That "Señor Don Carlos" should take
thought for her, and trouble himself to do her good, thrilled her with a
sensation more like joy than any she had known for years.  Little do
those whose cups are so full of human love that they carry them
carelessly, spilling many a precious drop as they pass along, dream how
others cherish the few poor lees and remnants left to them.

Moreover Carlos, in the eyes of Dolores, was half a priest already, and
this lent additional weight, and even sacredness, to all that he said
and did.

One evening he had been reading to her, in the inner room, by the light
of the little silver lamp.  He had just finished the story of Lazarus,
and he made some remark on the grateful love of Mary, and the costly
sacrifice by which she proved it. Tears gathered in the dark wistful
eyes of Dolores, and she said with sudden and, for her, most unusual
energy, "That was small wonder.  Any one would do as much for him that
brought the dear dead back from the grave."

"He has done a greater thing than even that for each of us," said
Carlos.

But Dolores withdrew into her ordinary self again, as some timid
creature might shrink into its shell from a touch.  "I thank your
Excellency," she said, rising to withdraw, "and I also make my
acknowledgments to Our Lady, who has inspired you with such true piety,
suitable to your holy calling."

"Stay a little, Dolores," said Carlos, as a sudden thought occurred to
him; "I marvel it has so seldom come into my mind to ask you about my
mother."

"Ay, señor.  When you were both children, I used to wonder that you and
Don Juan, while you talked often together of my lord your father, had
scarce a thought at all of your lady mother.  Yet if she had lived _you_
would have been her favourite, señor."

"And Juan my father’s," said Carlos, not without a slight pang of
jealousy.  "Was my noble father, then, more like what my brother is?"

"Yes, señor; he was bold and brave.  No offence to your Excellency, for
one you love I warrant me _you_ could be brave enough.  But he loved his
sword and his lance and his good steed.  Moreover, he loved travel and
adventure greatly, and never could bear to abide long in the same
place."

"Did he not make a voyage to the Indies in his youth?"

"He did; and then he fought under the Emperor, both in Italy, and in
Africa against the Moors.  Once His Imperial Majesty sent him on some
errand to Leon, and there he first met my lady.  Afterwards he crossed
the mountains to our home, and wooed and won her.  He brought her, the
fairest young bride eyes could rest on, to Seville, where he had a
stately palace on the Alameda."

"You must have grieved to leave your mountains for the southern city."

"No, señor, I did not grieve.  Wherever your lady mother dwelt was home
to me.  Besides, ’a great grief kills all the rest.’"

"Then you had known sorrow before.  I thought you lived with our house
from your childhood."

"Not altogether; though my mother nursed yours, and we slept in the same
cradle, and as we grew older shared each other’s plays.  At seven years
old I went home to my father and mother, who were honest, well-to-do
people, like all my forbears--good ’old Christians,’ and noble--they
could wear their caps in the presence of His Catholic Majesty.  They had
no girl but me, so they would fain have me ever in their sight. For ten
years and more I was the light of their eyes; and no blither lass ever
led the goats to the mountain in summer, or spun wool and roasted
chestnuts at the winter fire.  But, the year of the bad fever, both were
stricken.  Christmas morning, with the bells for early mass ringing in
my ears, I closed my father’s eyes; and three days afterwards, set the
last kiss on my mother’s cold lips.  Nigh upon five-and-twenty years
ago,--but it seems like yesterday.  Folks say there are many good things
in the world, but I have known none so good as the love of father and
mother.  Ay de mi, señor, _you_ never knew either."

"When your parents died, did you return to my mother?"

"For half a year I stayed with my brother.  Though no daughter ever shed
truer tears over the grave of better parents, I was not then quite
broken-hearted.  There was another love to whisper hope, and to keep me
from desolation. He--Alphonso (’tis years and years since I uttered the
name save in my prayers) had gone to the war, telling me he would come
back and claim me for his bride.  So I watched for him hour by hour, and
toiled and spun, and spun and toiled, that I might not go home to him
empty-handed.  But at last a lad from our parish, who had been a comrade
of his, returned and told me all.  _He_ was lying on the bloody field of
Marignano, with a French bullet in his heart.  Señor, the sisters you
read of could ’go to the grave and weep there.’  And yet the Lord pitied
them."

"He pities all who weep," said Carlos.

"All good Christians, he may.  But though an old Christian, I was not a
good one.  For I thought it bitter hard that my candle should be
quenched in a moment, like a wax taper when the procession is done.  And
it came often into my mind how the Almighty, or Our Lady, or the Saints,
could have helped me if they would.  May they forgive me; it is hard to
be religious."

"I do not think so."

"I suppose it is not hard to learned gentlemen who have been at the
colleges.  But how can simple men and women tell whether they are
keeping all the commandments of God and Holy Church?  It well may be
that I had done something, or left something undone, whereby Our Lady
was displeased."

"It is not Our Lady, but our Lord himself, who holds the keys of hell
and of death," said Carlos, gaining at the moment a new truth for his
own heart.  "None enter the gates of death, as none shall come forth
through them, save at his command. But go on, Dolores, and tell me how
did comfort come to you?"

"Comfort never came to me, señor.  But after a time there came a kind of
numbness and hardness that helped me to live my life as if I cared for
it.  And your lady mother (God rest her soul!) showed me wondrous
kindness in my sorrow.  It was then she took me to be her own maiden.
She had me taught many things, such as reading and various cunning kinds
of embroidery, that I might serve her with them, she said; but I well
knew they were meant to turn my heart away from its own aching.  I went
with her to Seville.  I could be glad for her, señor, that God had given
her the good thing he had denied to me.  At last it came to be almost
like joy to me to see the great deep love there was between your father
and her."

This was a degree of unselfishness beyond the comprehension of Carlos
just then.  He felt his own wound throb painfully, and was not sorry to
turn the conversation.  "Did my parents reside long in Seville?" he
asked.

"Not long, señor.  Their life there was a gay one, as became their rank
and wealth (for, as your worship knows, your father had a noble estate
then).  But soon they both grew tired of the gay world.  My lady ever
loved the free mountains, and my lord--I scarce can tell what change
passed over him.  He lost his care for the tourney and the dance, and
betook himself instead to study.  Both were glad to withdraw to this
quiet spot.  Here your brother Don Juan was born; and for nigh a year
after wards no lord and lady could have led a happier and, at the same
time, more pious and orderly life, than did your noble parents."

The thoughtful eye of Carlos turned to the inscription on the window,
and kindled with a strange light.  "Was not this room my father’s
favourite place of study?" he asked.

"It was, señor.  Of course, the house was not then as it now is.  Though
simple enough, after the Seville palace with its fountains and marble
statues, and doors grated with golden net work, it was still a seemly
dwelling-place for a noble lord and lady.  There was glass in all the
windows then, though through neglect and carelessness it has been broken
(even your worship nay remember how Don Juan sent an arrow through a
quarrel pane in the west window one day), so we thought it best to
remove the traces."

"My parents led a pious life, you say?"

"Truly they did, señor.  They were good and charitable to the poor; and
they spent much of their time reading holy books, as you do now.  Ay de
mi! what was wrong with them I know not, save that perhaps they were
scarce careful enough to give Holy Church all her dues.  And I used
sometimes to wish that my lady would show more devotion to the blessed
Mother of God.  But she _felt_ it all, no doubt; only it was not her
way, nor my lord’s either, to be for ever running about on pilgrimage or
offering wax candles, nor yet to keep the father confessor every instant
with his ear to their lips."

Carlos started, and turned an earnest inquiring gaze upon her.  "Did my
mother ever read to you as I have done?" he asked.

"She sometimes read me good words out of the Breviary, señor.  All thing
went on thus, until one day when a letter came from the Emperor himself
(as I believe), desiring your father to go to him, to Antwerp.  The
matter was to be kept very private, but my lady used to tell me
everything.  My lord thought he was to be sent on some secret mission
where skill was needed, and perchance peril was to be met.  For it was
well known that he loved such affairs, and was dexterous in the
management of them.  So he parted cheerily from my lady, she standing at
the gate yonder, and making little Don Juan kiss hands to him as he rode
down the path.  Woe for the poor babe, that never saw his father’s face
again!  And worse woe for the mother!  But death heals all things,
except sin.

"After three weeks or a month, more or less, two monks of St. Dominic
rode to the gates one day.  The younger stayed without in the hall with
us; while the elder, a man of stern and stately presence, had private
audience of my lady in this chamber where we sit now--a place of death
it has seemed to me ever since.  For the audience had not lasted long
until I heard a cry--such a cry!--it rings in nay ears even now.  I
hastened to my lady.  She had swooned--and long, long was it before
sense returned again.  Do not keep looking at me, señor, with eyes so
like hers, or I cannot tell you more."

"Did she speak?  Did she reveal anything to you?"

"_Nothing_, señor.  During the days that followed, only things without
meaning or connection, such as those in fever speak, or broken words of
prayer, were on her lips.  Until the very last, and then she was worn
and weak, and could but receive the rites of the Church, and whisper a
few directions about the poor babes.  She bade us give you the name you
bear, since he had said that his next boy should be called for the great
Emperor.  Then she prayed very earnestly, ’Lord, take him Thyself--take
him Thyself!’  Doctor Marco, who was present, thought she meant the poor
little new-born babe--supposing, and no wonder, that it would be better
tended in heaven by Our Lady and the angels, than here on earth.  But I
know it was not you she thought of."

"My poor mother--God rest her soul!  Nay, I doubt not that now she rests
in God," Carlos added, softly.

"And so the curse fell on your house, señor; and in such sorrow were you
born.  Yet you grew up merry lads, you and Don Juan."

"Thanks to thy care and kindness, well-beloved and faithful nurse.  But,
Dolores, tell me truly--have you never heard anything further of, or
from, my father?"

"From him, never.  Of him, that I believed, _never_."

"And what do you believe?" Carlos asked, eagerly.

"I know nothing, señor.  I have heard all that your worship has heard,
and no more."

"Do you think it is true--what we have all been told--of his death in
the Indies?"

"I know nothing, señor," Dolores repeated, with the air of a person
determined to _say_ nothing.

But Carlos would not allow her to escape thus.  Both had gone too far to
leave the subject without probing it to its depths.  And both felt
instinctively that it was not likely again to be discussed between them.
Laying his hand on her arm, and looking steadily in her face, he
asked,--

"Dolores, are you sure my father is dead?"

Seemingly relieved by the form the question had taken, she met his gaze
without flinching, and answered in tones of evident sincerity, "Sure as
that I sit here--so help me God."  After a long pause she added, as she
rose to go, "Señor Don Carlos, be not offended if I counsel you this
once, since I held you a babe in my arms, and you will find none that
loves you better--if a poor old woman may say so to a young and noble
caballero."

"Say all you think to me, my dear and kind nurse."

"Then, señor, I say, leave vain thoughts and questions about your
father’s fate.  ’There are no birds in last year’s nests;’ and ’Water
that has run by will turn no mill.’  And I entreat of you to repeat the
same to your noble brother when you find opportunity.  Look before you,
señor, and not behind; and God’s best blessings rest on you!"

Dolores turned to go, but turning back again, stood irresolute.

"What is it, Dolores?" Carlos asked; hoping, perhaps, for some further
glimmer of light upon that dark past, from which she implored him to
turn his thoughts.

"If it please you, Señor Don Carlos--" and she paused and hesitated.

"Can I do anything for you?" said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.

"Ay, señor, that you can.  With your learning and your good Book, surely
you can tell me whether the soul of my poor Alphonso, dead on the
battle-field without shrift or sacrament, has yet found rest with God?"

Thus the tree woman’s heart, though so full of sympathy for others,
still turned back to its own sorrow, which lay deepest of all.

Carlos felt himself unexpectedly involved in a difficulty.  "My book
tells me nothing on the subject," he said, after some thought.  "But I
am sure you may be comforted, after all these years, during which you
have diligently prayed, and sought the Church’s prayers for him."

The long eager gaze of her wistful eyes asked mournfully, "Is this _all_
you can tell me?"  But her lips only said, "I thank your Excellency," as
she withdrew.




                                  XI.

                           The Light Enjoyed.


    "Doubt is slow to clear and sorrow is hard to bear,
    And each sufferer has his say, his scheme of the weal and the
            woe;
    But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
    The rest may reason and welcome, ’tis we musicians _know_."--R.
            Browning


Bewildering were the trains of thought which the conversation just
narrated awakened in the mind of Carlos.  On the one hand, a gleam of
light was shed upon his father’s career, suggesting a possible
interpretation of the inscription on the window, that thrilled his heart
with joy. On the other, the termination of that career was involved in
even deeper obscurity than before; and he was made to feel, more keenly
than ever, how childish and unreal were the dreams which he and his
brother had been wont to cherish upon the subject.

Moreover, Dolores, just before she left him, had drawn a bow at a
venture, and most unintentionally sent a sharp arrow through a joint in
his harness.  Why could he find no answer to a question so simple and
natural as the one she had asked him?  Why did the Book, which had
solved so many mysteries for him, shed not a ray of light upon this one?
Whence this ominous silence of the apostles and evangelists upon so many
things that the Church most loudly proclaimed?  Where, in his Book, was
purgatory to be found at all?  Where was the adoration of the Virgin and
the saints?  Where were works of supererogation?  But here he started in
horror, as one who suddenly saw himself on the brink of a precipice.  Or
rather, as one dwelling secure and contented within a little circle of
light and warmth, to whom such questions came as intimations of a chaos
surrounding it on every side, into which a chance step might at any
moment plunge him.

Most earnestly he entreated that the Lord of his life, the Guide of his
spirit, would not let him go forth to wander there. He prayed, expressly
and repeatedly, that the doubts which began to trouble him might be laid
and silenced.  His prayer was answered, as all true prayer is sure to
be, but it was not granted.  He whose love is strong and deep enough to
work out its good purpose in us even against the pleadings of our own
hearts, saw that his child must needs pass through "a land of darkness"
to reach the clearer light beyond. Conflicts fierce and terrible must be
his portion, if indeed he were to take his place amongst those "called
and chosen and faithful" ones who, having stood beside the Lamb in his
contest with Antichrist, shall stand beside him on the sea of glass
mingled with fire.

Already Carlos was in training for that contest--though as yet he knew
not that there was any contest before him, save the general "striving
against sin" in which all Christians have to take part.  For the joy of
the Lord is the Christian’s strength in the day of battle.  And he
usually prepares those faithful soldiers whom he means to set in the
forefront of the hottest battle, by previously bestowing that joy upon
them in very full measure.  He who is willing to "sell all that he
hath," must first have found a treasure, and what "the joy thereof" is
none else may declare.

In this joy Carlos lived now; and it was as yet too fresh and new to be
greatly disturbed by haunting doubts or perplexing questions.  These,
for the present, came and passed like a breath upon a surface of molten
gold, scarcely dimming its lustre for a moment.

It had become his great wish to receive Orders as soon as possible, that
he might consecrate himself more entirely to the service of his Lord,
and spread abroad the knowledge of his love more widely.  With this
view, he determined on returning to Seville early in October.

He left Nuera with regret, especially on account of Dolores, who had
taken a new place in his consideration, and even in his affections,
since he had begun to read to her from his Book. And, though usually
very calm and impassive in manner, she could scarcely refrain from tears
at the parting.  She entreated him, with almost passionate earnestness,
to be very prudent and careful of himself in the great city.

Carlos, who saw no special danger likely to menace him, save such as
might arise from his own heart, felt tempted to smile at her foreboding
tone, and asked her what she feared for him.

"Oh, Señor Don Carlos," she pleaded, with clasped hands, "for the love
of God, take care; and do not be reading and telling your good words to
every one you meet.  For the world is an ill place, your worship, where
good is ofttimes evil-spoken of."

"Never fear for me," returned Carlos, with his frank, pleasant smile.
"I have found nothing in my Book but the most Catholic verities, which
will be useful to all and hurtful to none. But of course I shall be
prudent, and take due care of my words, lest by any extraordinary chance
they might be misinterpreted.  So that you may keep your mind at peace,
dear Mother Dolores."




b.. The Light Divided from the Darkness:

                                  XII.

                  The Light Divided from the Darkness.


    "I felt and feel, whate’er befalls,
    The footsteps of thy life in mine."--Tennyson


In the glorious autumn weather, Don Carlos rode joyfully through cork
and chestnut groves, across bare brown plains, and amidst gardens of
pale olives and golden orange globes shining through dark glossy leaves.
He had long ago sent back to Seville the guard with which his uncle had
furnished him, so that his only companion was a country youth, trained
by Diego to act as his servant.  But although he passed through the very
district afterwards immortalized by the adventures of the renowned Don
Quixote, no adventure fell to his lot.  Unless it may count for an
adventure that near the termination of his journey the weather suddenly
changed, and torrents of rain, accompanied by unusual cold, drove him to
seek shelter.

"Ride on quickly, Jorge," he said to his attendant, "for I remember
there is a venta[#] by the roadside not far off.  A poor place truly,
where we are little likely to find a supper. But we shall find a roof to
shelter us and fire to warm us, and these at present are our most
pressing needs."


[#] An inn.


Arrived at the venta, they were surprised to see the lazy landlord so
far stirred out of his usual apathy as to busy himself in trying to
secure the fastening of the outer door, that it might not swing
backwards and forwards in the wind, to the great discomfort of all
within the house.  The proud indifferent Spaniard looked calmly up from
his task, and remarked that he would do all in his power to accommodate
his worship.  "But unfortunately, señor and your Excellency, a _very_
great and principal nobleman has just arrived here, with a most
distinguished train of fine caballeros--his lordship’s gentlemen and
servants; and kitchen, hall, and chamber are as full of them as a hive
is full of bees."

This was evil news to Carlos.  Proud, sensitive, and shy, there could be
nothing more foreign to his character than to throw himself into the
society of a person who, though really only his equal in rank, was so
much his superior in all that lends rank its charm in the eyes of the
vulgar.  "We had better push on to Ecija," said he to his reluctant
attendant, bravely turning his face to the storm, and making up his mind
to ten miles more in drenching rain.

At that moment, however, a tall figure emerged from the inner door,
opening into the long room behind the stable and kitchen, that formed
the only tolerable accommodation the one-storied venta afforded.

"Surely, señor, you do not intend to go further in this storm," said the
nobleman, whose fine thoughtful countenance Carlos could not but fancy
that he had seen before.

"It is not far to Ecija, señor," returned Carlos, bowing. "And ’First
come first served,’ is an excellent proverb."

"The first-comer has certainly one privilege which I am not disposed to
waive--that of hospitably welcoming the second. Do me the favour to come
in, señor.  You will find an excellent fire."

Carlos could not decline an invitation so courteously given. He was soon
seated by the wood fire that blazed on the hearth of the inner room,
exchanging compliments, in true Spanish fashion, with the nobleman who
had welcomed him so kindly.

Though no one could doubt for an instant the stranger’s possession of
the pure "sangre azul,"[#] yet his manners were more frank and easy and
less ceremonious than those to which Carlos had been accustomed in the
exclusive and privileged class of Seville society---a fact accounted for
by the discovery, afterwards made, that he was born and educated in
Italy.


[#] "Blue blood"


"I have the pleasure of recognizing Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya," said he.  "I hope the babe about whom his worship showed such
amiable anxiety recovered from its indisposition?"

This then was the personage whom Carlos had seen in such close
conversation with the physician Losada.  The association of ideas
immediately brought back the mysterious remark about his father he had
overheard on that occasion. Putting that aside, however, for the
present, he answered, "Perfectly, I thank your grace.  We attribute the
recovery mainly to the skill and care of the excellent Dr. Cristobal
Losada."

"A gentleman whose medical skill cannot be praised too highly, except,
indeed, it were exalted at the expense of his other excellent qualities,
and particularly his charity to the poor."

Carlos heartily acquiesced, and added some instances of the physician’s
kindness to those who could not recompense him again.  They were new to
his companion, who listened with interest.

During this conversation supper was laid.  As the principal guest had
brought his own provisions with him, it was a comfortable and plentiful
repast.  Carlos, ere he sat down, left the room to re-arrange his dress,
and found opportunity to ask the innkeeper if he knew the noble
stranger’s name.

"His Excellency is a great noble from Castile," returned mine host, with
an air of much importance.  "His name, as I am informed, is Don Carlos
de Seso; and his illustrious lady, Doña Isabella, is of the blood
royal."

"Where does he reside?"

"His gentlemen tell me, principally at one of his fine estates in the
north, Villamediana they call it.  He is also corregidor[#] of Toro.  He
has been visiting Seville upon business of importance, and is now
returning home."


[#] Mayor


Pleased to be the guest of such a man (for in fact he was his guest),
Carlos took his seat at the table, and thoroughly enjoyed the meal.  An
hour’s intercourse with a man who had read and travelled much, but had
thought much more, was a rare treat to him.  Moreover, De Seso showed
him all that fine courtesy which a youth so highly appreciates from a
senior, giving careful attention to every observation he hazarded, and
manifestly bringing the best of his powers to bear on his own share of
the conversation.

He spoke of Fray Constantino’s preaching, with an enthusiasm that made
Carlos regret that he had been hitherto such an inattentive hearer.
"Have you seen a little treatise by the Fray, entitled ’The Confession
of a Sinner’?" he asked.

Carlos having answered in the negative, his new friend drew a tract from
the pocket of his doublet, and gave it to him to read while he wrote a
letter.

Carlos, after the manner of eager, rapid readers, plunged at once into
the heart of the matter, disdaining beginnings.

Almost the first words upon which his eyes fell arrested his attention
and drew him irresistibly onwards.  "Such has been the pride of man," he
read, "that he aimed at being God; but so great was thy compassion
towards him in his fallen state, that thou abasedst thyself to become
not only of the rank of men, but a true man, and the least of men,
taking upon thee the form of a servant, that thou mightest set me at
liberty, and that by means of thy grace, wisdom, and righteousness, man
might obtain more than he had lost by his ignorance and pride....  Wast
thou not chastised for the iniquity of others? Has not thy blood
sufficient virtue to wash out the sins of all the human race?  Are not
thy treasures more able to enrich me than all the debt of Adam to
impoverish me?  Lord, although I had been the only person alive, or the
only sinner in the world, thou wouldst not have failed to die for me.  O
my Saviour, I would say, and say it with truth, that I individually
stand in need of those blessings which thou hast given to all.  What
though the guilt of all had been mine? thy death is all mine.  Even
though I had committed all the sins of all, yet would I continue to
trust thee, and to assure myself that thy sacrifice and pardon is all
mine, though it belong to all."

So far he read in silence, then the tract fell from his hand, and an
involuntary exclamation broke from his lips--"Passing strange!"

De Seso paused, pen in hand, and looked up surprised. "What find you
’passing strange,’ señor?" he asked.

"That he--that Fray Constantino should have felt precisely what--what he
describes here."

"That such a holy man should feel so deeply his own utter sinfulness?
But you are doubtless aware that the holiest saints in all ages have
shared this experience.  St. Augustine, for instance, with whose
writings so ripe a theological scholar is doubtless well acquainted."

"Such," returned Carlos, "are not worse than others; but they know what
they are as others do not."

"True.  Tried by the standard of God’s perfect law, the purest life must
appear a miserable failure.  We may call the marble of our churches and
dwellings white, until we see God’s snow, pure and fresh from heaven,
upon it."

"Ay, señor," said Carlos, wild joyful eagerness; "but the Hand that
points out the stains can cleanse them.  No snow is half so pure as the
linen clean and white which is the righteousness of saints."

It was De Seso’s turn to be astonished now.  In the look that, half
leaning over the table, he bent upon the eager face of Carlos, surprise
and emotion blended.  For a moment their eyes met with a flash, like
that which flint strikes from steel, of mutual intelligence and
sympathy.  But it passed again as quickly.  De Seso said, "I suspect
that I see in you, Señor Don Carlos, one of those admirable scholars who
have devoted their talents to the study of that sacred language in which
the words of the holy apostles are handed down to us.  You are a
Grecian?"

Carlos shook his head.  "Greek is but little studied at Complutum now,"
he said, "and I confined myself to the usual theological course."

"In which, I have heard, your success has been brilliant. But it is a
sore disgrace to us, and a heavy loss to the youth of our nation, that
the language of St. John and St. Paul should be deemed unworthy of their
attention."

"Your Excellency is aware that it was otherwise in former years,"
returned Carlos.  "Perhaps the present neglect is owing to the suspicion
of heresy which, truly or falsely, has attached itself to most of the
accomplished Greek scholars of our time."

"A miserable misapprehension; the growth of monkish ignorance and envy,
and popular superstition.  Heresy is a convenient stigma with which men
ofttimes brand as evil the good they are incapable of comprehending."

"Most true, señor.  Even Fray Constantino has not escaped."

"His crime has been, that he has sought to turn the minds of men from
outward acts and ceremonies to the great spiritual truths of which these
are the symbols.  To the vulgar, Religion is nothing but a series of
shows and postures."

"Yes," answered Carlos; "but the heart that loves God, and truly
believes in our Lord and Saviour, is taught to put such in their proper
place.  ’These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other
undone.’"

"Señor Don Carlos," said De Seso, with surprise he could no longer
suppress, "you are evidently a devout and earnest student of the
Scriptures."

"I search the Scriptures; in them I think I have eternal life. And they
testify of Christ," promptly responded the less cautious youth.

"I perceive that you do not quote the Vulgate."

Carlos smiled.  "No, señor.  To a man of your enlightened views I am not
afraid to acknowledge the truth.  I have seen--nay, why should I
hesitate?--I possess a rare treasure--the New Testament of our Lord and
Saviour Jesus Christ in our own noble Castilian tongue."

Even through the calm and dignified deportment of his companion Carlos
could perceive the thrill that this communication caused.  There was a
pause; then he said softly, "And your treasure is also mine."  The low
quiet words came from even greater depths of feeling than the eager
tremulous tones of Carlos. For _his_ convictions, slowly reached and
dearly purchased, were "built below" the region of the soul that
passions agitate,--

    "Based on the crystalline sea
    Of thought and its eternity."


The heart of Carlos glowed with sudden ardent love towards the man who
shared his treasure, and, he doubted not, his faith also.  He could
joyfully have embraced him on the spot.  But the force of habit and the
sensitive reserve of his character checked this impetuous
demonstrativeness.  He only said, with a look that was worth an embrace,
"I knew it.  Your Excellency spoke as one who held our Lord and his
truth in honour."

"_Ella es pues honor a vosotros que creeis._"[#]


[#] "Unto you who believes he is precious," or "an honour."


It would have been hard to begin a verse that Carlos could not at this
time have instantly completed.  He went on: "_Mas para los que no creen,
la piedra que los edificatores reprobaron_."[#]


[#] "But unto them that believe not, the stone that the builders
reject."


"A sorrowful truth," said De Seso, "which my young friend must needs
bear in mind.  His Word, like himself, is rejected by the many.  Its
very mention may expose to obloquy and danger."

"Only another instance, señor, of those lamentable prejudices about
heresy about which we spoke anon.  I am aware that there are those that
would brand me (_me_, a scholar too!) with the odious name of heretic,
merely for reading God’s Word in my own tongue.  But how utterly absurd
the charge!  The blessed Book has but confirmed my faith in all the
doctrines of our holy Mother Church."

"Has it?" said De Seso, quietly, perhaps a little drily.

"Most assuredly, señor," Carlos rejoined, with warmth.  "In fact I never
understood, or, I may say, truly believed those holy verities until now.
Beginning with the Credo itself, and the orthodox Catholic faith in our
Lord’s divinity and atonement."

Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the
attendants, who removed supper, replenished the lamp, and heaped fresh
chestnut logs on the fire.  But as soon as the room was cleared they
returned eagerly to subjects so interesting to both.

"Our salvation rests," said De Seso, "upon the great cardinal truths you
have named.  By the faith which receives into your heart the atonement
of Christ as a work done for you, you are justified."

"I am forgiven, and I shall be justified."

"Pardon me, señor; Scripture teaches that your justification is already
complete.  Therefore, _being justified by faith_, we have peace with
God."

"But that cannot surely be the apostle’s meaning," said Carlos.  "Ay de
mi!  I know too well that I am not yet completely justified.  Far from
it; evil thoughts throng my heart; and not with heart alone, but with
lips, eyes, hands, I transgress daily."

"Yet, you see, peace can only be consequent on justification. And peace
you have."

Carlos looked perplexed.  Misled by the teaching of his Church, he
confused justification with sanctification; consequently he could not
legitimately enjoy the peace that ought to flow from the one as a
complete and finished work, because the other necessarily remained
imperfect.

De Seso explained that the word justify is never used in Scripture in
its derivative sense, to _make_ righteous; but always in its common and
universally accepted sense, to _account_ or _declare_ righteous.  Quite
easily and naturally he glided into the teacher’s place, whilst Carlos
gladly took that of the learner; not, indeed, without astonishment at
the layman’s skill in divinity, but with too intense an interest in what
he said to waste much thought upon his manner of saying it.

Hitherto he had been like an unlearned man, who, without guide or
companion, explores the trackless shores of a newly-discovered land.
Should such an one meet in his course a scientific explorer, who has
mapped and named every mountain, rock, and bay, who has traced out the
coast-line, and can tell what lies beyond the white hills in the
distance, it is easy to understand the eagerness with which he would
listen to his narrative, and the intentness with which he would bend
over the chart in which the scene of his own journeyings lies portrayed.

Thus De Seso not only taught Carlos the true meaning of Scripture terms,
and the connection of Scripture truths with each other; he also made
clear to him the facts of his own experience, and gave names to them for
him.

"I think I understand now," said Carlos after a lengthened conversation,
in which, moving from point to point, he had suggested many doubts and
not a few objections, and these in turn had been taken up and answered
by his friend.  "God be thanked, there is no more condemnation, no more
punishment for us.  Nothing, either in act or suffering, can be added to
the work of Christ, which is complete."

"Ay, now you have grasped the truth which is the source of our joy and
strength."

"It must then be our sanctification which suffering promotes, both in
this life and in purgatory."

"All God’s dealings with us in this life are meant to promote our
sanctification.  Joy may do it, by his grace, as well as sorrow. It is
written, not alone, ’He humbled thee and suffered thee to hunger,’ but
also, ’He fed thee with manna, to teach the secret of life in him, from
him, and by him.’"

"But suffering is purifying--like fire."

"Not in itself.  Criminals released from the galleys usually come forth
hardened in their crimes by the lash and the oar."

Having said this, De Seso rose and extinguished the expiring lamp, while
Carlos remained thoughtfully gazing into the fire. "Señor," he said,
after a long pause, during which the stream of thought ran continuously
underground, to reappear consequently in an unexpected place--"Señor, do
you think God’s Word, which solves so many mysteries, can answer every
question for us?"

"Scarcely.  Some questions we may ask, of which the answers, in our
present state, would be beyond our comprehension.  And others may indeed
be answered there, but we may miss the answers, because through weakness
of faith we are not yet able to receive them."

"For instance?"

"I had rather not name an instance--at present," said De Seso, and
Carlos thought his face had a sorrowful look as he gazed at it in the
firelight.

"I would not willingly miss anything my Lord meant to teach.  I desire
to know all his will, and to follow it," Carlos rejoined earnestly.

"It may be that you know not what you desire.  Still, name any question
you wish; and I will tell you freely whether in my judgment God’s Word
contains an answer."

Carlos stated the difficulty suggested by the inquiry of Dolores.  Who
can tell the exact moment when his bark leaves the gently-flowing river
for the great deep ocean?  That of Carlos, on the instant when he put
this question, was met by the first wave of the mighty sea upon which he
was to be tossed by many a storm.  But he did not know it.

"I agree with you as to the silence of God’s Word about purgatory,"
returned his friend; and for some time both gazed into the fire without
speaking.

"This and similar discoveries have sometimes given me, I own, a feeling
of blank disappointment, and even of terror," said Carlos at length.
For with him it was one of those rare hours in which a man can bear to
translate into words the "dark misgivings" of the soul, usually
unacknowledged even to himself.

"I cannot say," was the answer, "that the thought of passing through the
gate of death into the immediate presence of my glorified Lord affects
me with ’blank disappointment’ or ’terror.’"

"How?--What do you say?" cried Carlos, starting visibly.

"’Absent from the body, present with the Lord.’  ’To depart and to be
with Christ is far better.’"

"But it was San Pablo, the great apostle and martyr, who said that.  For
us,--we have the Church’s teaching," Carlos rejoined in quick, anxious
tones.

"Nevertheless, I venture to think that, in the face of all you have
learned from God’s Word, you will find it a task somewhat of the hardest
to prove purgatory."

"Not at all," said Carlos; and immediately he bounded into the arena of
controversy, laid his lance in rest, and began an animated tilting-match
with his new friend, who was willing (of course, thought Carlos, for
argument’s sake alone, and as an intellectual exercise) to personate a
Lutheran antagonist.

But not a few doughty champions have met the stern reality of a bloody
death in the mimic warfare of the tilting-field.  At every turn Carlos
found himself answered, baffled, confounded. Yet, how could he, how
dared he, acknowledge defeat, even to himself, when with the imperilled
doctrine so much else must fall?  What would become of private masses,
indulgences, prayers for the dead?  Nay, what would become of the
infallibility of Mother Church herself?

So he fought desperately.  Fear, ever increasing, quickened his
preceptions, baptized his lips with eloquence, made his sense acute and
his memory retentive.  Driven at last from the ground of Scripture and
reason, he took his stand upon that of scholastic divinity.  Using the
weapons with which he had been taught to play so deftly for once in
terrible earnest, he spun clever syllogisms, in which he hoped to
entangle his adversary. But De Seso caught the flimsy webs in the naked
hand of his strong sense, and crushed them to atoms.

Then Carlos knew that the battle was lost.  "I can say no more," he
acknowledged, sorrowfully bowing his head.

"And what I have said--is it not in accordance with the Word of God?"

With a cry of dismay on his lips, Carlos turned and looked at him--"God
help us!  Are we then Lutherans?"

"It may be Christ is asking another question--Are we amongst those who
follow him _whithersoever_ he goeth?"

"Oh, not _there_--not to _that_!" cried Carlos, rising in his agitation
and beginning to pace the room.  "I abhor heresy--I eschew the thought.
From my cradle I have done so. Anywhere but that!"

Pausing at last in his walk before the place where De Seso sat, he
asked, "And you, señor, have you considered whither this would lead?"

"I have.  I do not ask thee to follow.  But this I say: if Christ bids
any man leave the ship and come to him upon these dark and stormy
waters, he will stretch out his own right hand to uphold and sustain
him."

"To leave the ship--his Church?  That would be leaving him.  And leaving
him, I am lost, soul and body--lost--lost!"

"Fear not.  At his feet, clinging to him, soul of man was never lost
yet."

"I will cleave to him, and to the Church too."

"Still, if one must be forsaken, let not that one be Christ."

"Never, never--so help me God!"  After a pause he added, as if speaking
to himself, "Lord, to whom shall we go?  Thou hast the words of eternal
life."

He stood motionless, wrapt in thought; while De Seso rose softly, and
going to the window, put aside the rude shutter that had been fastened
across it.

"The night is bright," said Carlos dreamily.  "The moon must have
risen."

"That is daylight you see," returned his companion with a smile.  "Time
for wayfarers to seek rest in sleep."

"Prayer is better than sleep."

"True, and we who own the same precious faith can well unite in prayer."

With the willing consent of Carlos, his new friend laid their common
desires and perplexities before God.  The prayer was in itself a
revelation to him; he forgot even to wonder that it came from the lips
of a layman.  For De Seso spoke as one accustomed to converse with the
Unseen, and to enter by faith to the inner sanctuary, the very presence
of God himself. And Carlos found that it was good thus to draw nigh to
God. He felt his troubled soul returning to its rest, to its quiet
confidence in Him who, he knew, would guide him by his counsel, and
afterwards receive him into glory.

When they rose, instinctively their right hands sought each other, and
were locked in that strong grasp which is sometimes worth more than an
embrace.

"We have confidence each in the other," said De Seso, "so that we need
exchange no pledge of faithfulness or secrecy."

Carlos bowed his head.  "Pray for me, señor," he said. "Pray that God,
who sent you here to teach me, may in his own time complete the work he
has begun."

Then both lay down in their cloaks; one to sleep, the other to ponder
and pray.

In the morning each went his several way.  And never was it given to
Carlos, in this world, to look upon that face or to grasp that hand
again.

He who had thus crossed his path, as it were for a moment, was perhaps
the noblest of all the heroic band of Spanish martyrs, that forlorn hope
of Christ’s army, who fought and fell "where Satan’s seat was."  His
high birth and lofty station, his distinguished abilities, even those
more superficial graces of person and manner which are not without their
strong fascination, were all--like the precious ointment with the odour
of which the house was filled--consecrated to the service of the Lord
for whom he lived and died.  The eye of imagination lingers with special
and reverential love upon that grand calm figure.  But our simple story
leads us far away amongst other scenes and other characters.  We must
now turn to a different part of the wide missionary harvest-field, in
which the lowly muleteer Juliano Hernandez, and the great noble Don
Carlos de Seso, were both labouring.  Was their labour in vain?




                                 XIII.

                                Seville


    "There is a multitude around,
      Responsive to my prayer;
    I hear the voice of my desire
      Resounding everywhere."--A. L. Waring


Don Carlos felt surprised, on returning to Seville, to find the circle
in which he had been wont to move exactly as he left it.  His absence
appeared to him a great deal longer than it really was.  Moreover, there
lurked in his mind an undefined idea that a period so fraught with
momentous change to him could not have passed without change over the
heads of others.  But the worldly only seemed more worldly, the
frivolous more frivolous, the vain more vain than ever.

Around the presence of Doña Beatriz there still hung a sweet dangerous
fascination, against which he struggled, and, in the strength of his new
and mighty principle of action, struggled successfully.  Still, for the
sake of his own peace, he longed to find some fair pretext for making
his home elsewhere than beneath his uncle’s roof.

One great pleasure awaited his return--a letter from Juan. It was the
second he had received; the first having merely told of his brother’s
safe arrival at the headquarters of the royal army at Cambray.  Don Juan
had obtained his commission just in time for active service in the brief
war between France and Spain that immediately followed the accession of
Philip II. And now, though he said not much of his own exploits, it was
evident that he had already begun to distinguish himself by the prompt
and energetic courage which was a part of his character. Moreover, a
signal piece of good fortune had fallen to his lot. The Spaniards were
then engaged in the siege of St. Quentin. Before the works were quite
completed, the French General--the celebrated Admiral Coligny--managed
to throw himself into the town by a brilliant and desperate
_coup-de-main_.  Many of his heroic band were killed or taken prisoners,
however; and amongst the latter was a gentleman of rank and fortune, a
member of the admiral’s suite, who surrendered his sword into the hands
of young Don Juan Alvarez.

Juan was delighted with his prize, as he well might be.  Not only was
the distinction an honourable one for so young a soldier; but the ransom
he might hope to receive would serve very materially to smooth his
pathway to the attainment of his dearest wishes.

Carlos was now able to share his brother’s joy with unselfish sympathy.
With a peculiar kind of pleasure, not quite unmixed with superstition,
he recalled Juan’s boyish words, more than once repeated, "When I go to
the wars, I shall make some great prince or duke my prisoner."  They had
found a fair, if not exactly literal, fulfilment, and that so early in
his career.  And a belief that had grown up with him from childhood was
strengthened thereby.  Juan would surely accomplish everything upon
which his heart was set.  Certainly he would find his father--if that
father should prove to be after all in the land of the living.

Carlos was warmly welcomed back by his relatives--at least by all of
them save one.  To a mild temper and amiable disposition he united the
great advantage of rivalling no man, and interfering with no man’s
career.  At the same time, he had a well-defined and honourable career
of his own, in which he bid fair to be successful; so that he was not
despised, but regarded as a credit to the family.  The solitary
exception to the favourable sentiments he inspired was found in the
bitter disdain which Gonsalvo, with scarcely any attempt at disguise,
exhibited towards him.

This was painful to him, both because he was sensitively alive to the
opinions of others; and also because he actually preferred Gonsalvo,
notwithstanding his great and glaring faults, to his more calculating
and worldly-minded brothers.  Force of any kind possesses a real
fascination for an intellectual and sympathetic, but rather weak
character; and this fascination grows in intensity when the weaker has a
reason to pity and a desire to help the stronger.

It was not altogether grace, therefore, which checked the proud words
that often rose to the lips of Carlos in answer to his cousin’s sneers
or sarcasms.  He was not ignorant of the cause of Gonsalvo’s contempt
for him.  It was Gonsalvo’s creed that a man who deserved the name
always got what he wanted, or died in the attempt; unless, of course,
absolutely insuperable physical obstacles interfered, as they did in his
own case.  As he knew well enough what Carlos wanted before his
departure from Seville, the fact of his quietly resigning the prize,
without even an effort to secure it, was final with him.

One day, when Carlos had returned a forbearing answer to some taunt,
Doña Inez, who was present, took occasion to apologize for her brother,
as soon as he had quitted the room. Carlos liked Doña Inez much better
than her still unmarried sister, because she was more generous and
considerate to Beatriz.  "You are very good, amigo mio," she said, "to
show so great forbearance to my poor brother.  And I cannot think
wherefore he should treat you so uncourteously.  But he is often rude to
his brothers, sometimes even to his father."

"I fear it is because he suffers.  Though rather less helpless than he
was six months ago, he seems really more frail and sickly."

"Ay de mi, that is too true.  And have you heard his last whim?  He
tells us he has given up physicians for ever.  He has almost as ill an
opinion of them as--forgive me, cousin--of priests."

"Could you not persuade him to consult your friend, Doctor Cristobal?"

"I have tried, but in vain.  To speak the truth, cousin," she added,
drawing nearer to Carlos, and lowering her voice, "there is another
cause that has helped to make him what he is.  No one knows or even
guesses aught of it but myself; I was ever his favourite sister.  If I
tell you, will you promise the strictest secrecy?"

Carlos did so; wondering a little what his cousin would think could she
surmise the weightier secrets which were burdening his own heart.

"You have heard of the marriage of Doña Juana de Xeres y Bohorques with
Don Francisco de Vargas?"

"Yes; and I account Don Francisco a very fortunate man."

"Are you acquainted with the young lady’s sister Doña Maria de
Bohorques?"

"I have met her.  A fair, pale, queenly girl.  She is not fond of
gaiety, but very learned and very pious, as I have been told."

"You will scarce believe me, Don Carlos, when I tell you that pale,
quiet girl is Gonsalvo’s choice, his dream, his idol.  How she contrived
to gain that fierce, eager young heart, I know not--but hers it is, and
hers alone.  Of course, he had passing fancies before; but she was his
first serious passion, and she will be his last."

Carlos smiled.  "Red fire and white marble," he said. "But, after all,
the fiercest fire could not feed on marble.  It must die out, in time."

"From the first, Gonsalvo had not the shadow of a chance," Doña Inez
replied, with an expressive flutter of her fan.  "I have not the least
idea whether the young lady even knows he loves her.  But it matters
not.  We are Alvarez de Meñaya; still we could not expect a grandee of
the first order to give his daughter to a younger son of our house.
Even before that unlucky bull-feast.  Now, of course, he himself would
be the first to say, ’Pine-apple kernels are not for monkeys,’ nor fair
ladies for crippled caballeros.  And yet--you understand?"

"I do," said Carlos; and in truth he _did_ understand, far better than
Doña Inez imagined.

She turned to leave the room, but turned back again to say kindly, "I
trust, my cousin, your own health has not suffered from your residence
among those bleak inhospitable mountains? Don Garçia tells me he has
seen you twice, since your return, coming forth late in the evening from
the dwelling of our good Señor Doctor."

There was a sufficient reason for these visits.  Before they parted, De
Seso had asked Carlos if he would like an introduction to a person in
Seville who could give him further instruction upon the subjects they
had discussed together.  The offer having been thankfully accepted, he
was furnished with a note addressed, much to his surprise, to the
physician Losada; and the connection thus begun was already proving a
priceless boon to Carlos.

But nature had not designed him for a keeper of secrets.  The colour
mounted rapidly to his cheek, as he answered,--

"I am flattered by my lady cousin’s solicitude for me.  But, I thank
God, my health is as good as ever.  In truth, Doctor Cristobal is a man
of learning and a pleasant companion, and I enjoy an hour’s conversation
with him.  Moreover, he has some rare and valuable books, which he is
kind enough to lend me."

"He is certainly very well-bred, for a man of his station," said Doña
Inez, condescendingly.

Carlos did not resume his attendance upon the lectures of Fray
Constantino at the College of Doctrine; but when the voice of the
eloquent preacher was heard in the cathedral, he was never absent.  He
had no difficulty now in recognizing the truths that he loved so well,
covered with a thin veil of conventional phraseology.  All mention, not
absolutely necessary, of dogmas peculiarly Romish was avoided, unless
when the congregation were warned earnestly, though in terms
well-studied and jealously guarded, against "risking their salvation"
upon indulgences or ecclesiastical pardons.  The vanity of trusting to
their own works was shown also; and in every sermon Christ was
faithfully held up before the sinner as the one all-sufficient Saviour.

Carlos listened always with rapt attention, usually with keen delight.
Often would he look around him upon the sea of earnest upturned faces,
saying within himself, "Many of these my brethren and sisters have found
Christ--many more are seeking him;" and at the thought his heart would
thrill with thankfulness.  But even at that moment some word from the
preacher’s lips might change his joy into a chill of apprehension.  It
frequently happened that Fray Constantino, borne onward by the torrent
of his own eloquence, was betrayed into uttering some sentiment so very
nearly heretical as to make his hearer tingle with the peculiar sense of
pain that is caused by seeing one rush heedlessly to the verge of a
precipice.

"I often thank God for the stupidity of evil men and the simplicity of
good ones," Carlos said to his new friend Losada, after one of these
dangerous discourses.

For by this time, what De Seso had first led him to suspect, had become
a certainty with him.  He knew himself _a heretic_--a terrible
consciousness to sink into the heart of any man in those days,
especially in Catholic Spain.  Fortunately the revelation had come to
him gradually; and still more gradually came the knowledge of all that
it involved.  Yet those were sorrowful hours in which he first felt
himself cut off from every hallowed association of his childhood and
youth; from the long chain of revered tradition, which was all he knew
of the past; from the vast brotherhood of the Church visible--that
mighty organization, pervading all society, leavening all thought,
controlling all custom, ruling everything in this world, even if not in
the next.  His own past life was shattered: the ambitions he had
cherished were gone--the studies he had excelled and delighted in were
proved for the most part worse than vain.  It is true that he believed,
even still, that he might accept priestly ordination from the hands of
Rome (for the idolatry of the mass was amongst the things not yet
revealed to him); but he could no longer hope for honour or preferment,
or what men call a career, in the Church.  Joy enough would it be if he
were permitted, in some obscure corner of the land, to tell his
countrymen of a Saviour’s love; and perpetual watchfulness, extreme
caution, and the most judicious management would be necessary to
preserve him--as hitherto they had preserved Fray Constantino--from the
grasp of the Holy Inquisition.

To us, who read that word in the lurid light that martyr fires kindled
after this period have flung upon it, it may seem strange that Carlos
was not more a prey to fear of the perils entailed by his heresy.  But
so slowly did he pass out of the stage in which he believed himself
still a sincere Catholic into that in which he shudderingly acknowledged
that he was in very truth a Lutheran, that the shock of the discovery
was wonderfully broken to him.  Nor did he think the danger that menaced
him either near or pressing, so long as he conducted himself with
reserve and prudence.

It is true that this reserve involved a degree of secrecy, if not of
dissimulation, that was fast becoming very irksome. Formerly the kind of
fencing, feinting, and doubling into which he was often forced, would
rather have pleased him, as affording for the exercise of ingenuity.
But his moral nature was growing so much more sensitive, that he began
to recoil from slight departures from truth, in which heretofore he
would only have seen a proper exercise of the advantage which a keen and
quick intellect possesses over dull ones.  Moreover, he longed to be
able to speak freely to others of the things which he himself found so
precious.

Though quite sufficiently afraid of pain and danger, the thought of
disgrace was still more intolerable to him.  Keener than any suffering
he had yet known--except the pang of renouncing Beatrix--was the
consciousness that all those amongst whom he lived, and who now
respected and loved him, would, if they guessed the truth, turn away
from him with unutterable scorn and loathing.

One day, when walking in the city with his aunt and Doña Sancha, they
turned down a side-street to avoid meeting the death procession of a
murderer on his way to the scaffold.  The crime for which he suffered
had been notorious; and with the voluble exclamations of horror and
congratulations at getting safely out of the way to which the ladies
gave expression, were mingled prayers for the soul of the miserable man.
"If they knew all," thought Carlos, as the slight, closely-veiled forms
clung trustingly to him for protection, "they would think _me_ worse,
more degraded, than yon wretched being.  They pity _him_, they pray for
_him_; _me_ they would only loathe and execrate. And Juan, my beloved,
my honoured brother--what will he think?"  This last thought was the one
that haunted him most frequently and troubled him most deeply.

But had he nothing to counterbalance these pangs of fear and shame,
these manifold dark misgivings?  He had much. First and best, he had the
peace that passeth all understanding shed abroad in his heart.  Its
light did not grow pale and faint with time; on the other hand, it
increased in brightness and steadiness, as new truths arose like stars
upon his soul, every new truth being in itself "a new joy" to him.

Moreover, he found keen enjoyment in the communion of saints.  Great was
his surprise when, after sufficiently instructing him in private, and
satisfactorily testing his sincerity, Losada cautiously revealed to him
the existence of a regularly-organized Lutheran Church in Seville, of
which he himself was actually the pastor.  He invited Carlos to attend
its meetings, which were held, with due precaution, and usually after
nightfall, in the house of a lady of rank--Doña Isabella de Baena.

Carlos readily accepted the perilous invitation, and with deep emotion
took his place amongst the band of "called, chosen, and faithful" men
and women, every one of whom, as he believed, shared the same joys and
hopes that he did.  They were not at all such a "little band" as he
expected to find them.  Nor were they, with very few exceptions, of the
poor of this world.  If that bright southern land, so rich in all that
kindles the imagination, eventually to her own ruin rejected the truth
of God, at least she offered upon his altar some of her choicest and
fairest flowers.  Many of those who met in Doña Isabella’s upper room
were "chief men" and "devout and honourable women."  Talent, learning,
excellence of every kind was largely represented there; so also was the
_sangre azul_, the boast of the proud Spanish grandees.  One of the
first faces that Carlos recognized was the sweet, thoughtful one of the
young Doña Maria de Bohorques, whose precocious learning and
accomplishments had often been praised in his hearing, and in whom he
had now a new and peculiar interest.

There were two noblemen of the first order--Don Domingo de Guzman, son
of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and Don Juan Ponce de Leon, son of the
Count of Baylen.  Carlos had often heard of the munificent charities of
the latter, who had actually embarrassed his estates by his unbounded
liberality to the poor.  But while Ponce de Leon was thus labouring to
relieve the sorrows of others, a deep sadness brooded over his own
spirit.  He was wont to go forth by night, and pace up and down the
great stone platform in the Prado San Sebastian, that bore the ghastly
name of the Quemadero, or _Burning-place_, while in his heart the shadow
of death--the darkest shadow of the dreadest death--was struggling with
the light of immortality.

Did the rest of that devoted band share the agony of apprehension that
filled those lonely midnight hours with passionate prayer?  Some amongst
them did, no doubt.  But with most, the circumstances and occupations of
daily life wove, with their multitudinous slender threads, a veil dense
enough to hide, or at least to soften, the perils of their situation.
The Protestants of Seville contrived to pass their lives and to do their
work side by side with other men; they moved amongst their
fellow-citizens and were not recognized; they even married and were
given in marriage; though all the time there fell upon their daily paths
the shadow of the grim old fortress where the Holy Inquisition held its
awful secret court.

But then, at this period the Holy Inquisition was by no means exhibiting
its usual terrible activity.  The Inquisitor-General, Fernando de
Valdez, Archbishop of Seville, was an old man of seventy-four,
relentless when roused, but not particularly enterprising.  Moreover, he
was chiefly occupied in amassing enormous wealth from his rich and
numerous Church preferments.  Hitherto, the fires of St. Dominic had
been kindled for Jews and Moors; only one Protestant had suffered death
in Spain, and Valladolid, not Seville, had been the scene of his
martyrdom.  Seville, indeed, had witnessed two notable prosecutions for
Lutheranism--that of Rodrigo de Valer and that of Juan Gil, commonly
called Dr. Egidius.  But Valer had been only sent to a monastery to die,
while, by a disgraceful artifice, retractation had been obtained from
Egidius.

During the years that had passed since then, the Holy Office had
appeared to slumber.  Victims who refused to eat pork, or kept Sabbath
on Saturday, were growing scarce for obvious reasons.  And not yet had
the wild beast "exceeding dreadful, whose teeth were of iron and his
nails of brass," begun to devour a nobler prey.  Did the monster, gorged
with human blood, really slumber in his den; or did he only assume the
attitude and appearance of slumber, as some wild beasts are said to do,
to lure his unwary victims within the reach of his terrible crouch and
spring?

No one can certainly tell; but however it may have been, we doubt not
the Master used the breathing-time thus afforded his Church to prepare
and polish many a precious gem, destined to shine through all ages in
his crown of glory.




                                  XIV.

                        The Monks of San Isodro


    "The earnest of eternal joy
      In every prayer I trace;
    I see the likeness of the Lord
      In every patient face.
    How oft, in still communion known,
      Those spirits have been sent
    To share the travail of my soul,
      Or show me what it meant."--A. L. Waring


It is amongst the perplexing conditions of our earthly life, that we
cannot first reflect, then act; first form our opinions, then, and not
till then, begin to carry them out into practice.  Thought and action
have usually to run beside each other in parallel lines; a terrible
necessity, and never more terrible than during the progress of momentous
inward changes.

A man becomes convinced that the star by which he has hitherto been
steering is not the true pole-star, and that if he perseveres in his
present course his barque will inevitably be lost.  At his peril, he
must find out the one unerring guide; yet, while he seeks it, his hand
must not for an instant quit his hold on the helm, for the winds of
circumstance fill his sails, and he cannot choose whether he will go, he
can only choose where.  This lies at the root of much of the apparent
inconsistency which has often been made a reproach to reformers.

Though Carlos did not feel this difficulty as keenly as some of his
brethren in the faith, he yet felt it.  His uncle was continually
pressing him to take Orders, and to seek for this or that tempting
preferment; whilst every day he had stronger doubts as to the
possibility of his accepting any preferment in the Church, and was even
beginning to entertain scruples about taking Orders at all.

During this period of deliberation and uncertainty, one of his new
friends, Fray Cassiodoro, an eloquent Jeromite friar, who assisted
Losada in his ministrations, said to him, "If you intend embracing a
religious life, Señor Don Carlos, you will find the white tunic and
brown mantle of St. Jerome more to your taste than any other habit."

Carlos pondered the hint; and shortly afterwards announced to his
relatives that he intended to "go into retreat" for a season, at the
Jeromite Convent of San Isodro del Campo, which was about two miles from
Seville.

His uncle approved this resolution; and none the less, because he
thought it was probably intended as a preparation for taking the cowl.
"After all, nephew, it may turn out that you have the longest head
amongst us," he said.  "In the race for wealth and honours, no man can
doubt that the Regulars beat the Seculars now-a-days.  And there is not
a saint in all the Spains so popular as St. Jerome.  You know the
proverb,--

    "’He who is a count, and to be a duke aspires.
    Let him straight to Guadaloupe, and sing among the friars.’"


Gonsalvo, who was present, here looked up from his book and observed
sharply,--

"No man will ever be a duke who changes his mind three times within
three months."

"But I only changed my mind once," returned Carlos.

"You have never changed it at all, that I wot of," said Don Manuel.
"And I would that thine were turned in the same profitable direction,
son Gonsalvo."

"Oh yes!  By all means.  Offer the blind and the lame in sacrifice.  Put
Heaven off with the wreck of a man that the world will not condescend to
take into her service."

"Hold thy peace, son born to cross me!" said the father, losing his
temper at by no means the worst of the many provocations he had recently
received.  "Is it not enough to look at thee lying there a useless log,
and to suffer thy vile temper; but thou must set thyself against me,
when I point out to thee the only path in which a cripple such as thou
could earn green figs to eat with his bread, not to speak of supporting
the rank of Alvarez de Meñaya as he ought."

Here Carlos, out of consideration for the feelings of Gonsalvo, left the
room; but the angry altercation between the father and son lasted long
after his departure.

The next day Don Carlos rode out, by a lonely path amidst the gray ruins
of old Italica, to the stately castellated convent of San Isodro.
Amidst all his new interests, the young Castilian noble still remembered
with due enthusiasm how the building had been reared, more than two
hundred years ago, by the devotion of the heroic Alonzo Guzman the Good,
who gave up his own son to death, under the walls of Tarifa, rather than
surrender the city to the Moors.

Before he left Seville, he placed a copy of Fray Constantino’s "Sum of
Christian Doctrine" between two volumes of Gonsalvo’s favourite "Lope de
Vega."  He had previously introduced to the notice of the ladies several
of the Fray’s little treatises, which contained a large amount of
Scripture truth, so cautiously expressed as to have not only escaped the
censure, but actually obtained the express approbation of the Holy
Office. He had also induced them occasionally to accompany him to the
preachings at the Cathedral.  Further than this he dared not go; nor did
he on other accounts think it advisable, as yet, to permit himself much
communication with Doña Beatriz.

The monks of San Isodro welcomed him with that strong, peculiar love
which springs up between the disciples of the same Lord, more especially
when they are a little flock surrounded by enemies.  They knew that he
was already one of the initiated, a regular member of Losada’s
congregation.  Both this fact, and the warm recommendations of Fray
Cassiodoro, led them to trust him implicitly; and very quickly they made
him a sharer in their secrets, their difficulties, and their
perplexities.

To his astonishment, he found himself in the midst of a community,
Protestant in heart almost to a man, and as far as possible acting out
their convictions; while at the same time they retained (how could they
discard them?) the outward ceremonies of their Church and their Order.

He soon fraternized with a gentle, pious young monk named Fray Fernando,
and asked him to explain this extraordinary state of things.

"I am but just out of my novitiate, having been here little more than a
year," said the young man, who was about his own age; "and already, when
I came, the fathers carefully instructed the novices out of the
Scriptures, exhorting us to lay no stress upon outward ceremonies,
penances, crosses, holy water, and the like.  But I have often heard
them speak of the manner in which they were led to adopt these views."

"Who was their teacher?  Fray Cassiodoro?"

"Latterly; not at first.  It was Dr. Blanco who sowed the first seed of
truth here."

"Whom do you mean?  We in the city give the name of Dr. Blanco (the
white doctor), from his silver hairs, to a man of your holy order,
certainly, but one most zealous for the old faith.  He is a friend and
confidant of the Inquisitors, if indeed he is not himself a Qualificator
of Heresy:[#] I speak of Dr. Garçias Ariâs."


[#] One of the learned men who were appointed to assist the Inquisition,
and whose duty it was to decide whether doubtful propositions were, or
were not, heretical.


"The same man.  You are astonished, señor; nevertheless it is true.  The
elder brethren say that when he came to the convent all were sunk in
ignorance and superstition.  The monks cared for nothing but vain
repetitions of unfelt prayers, and showy mummeries of idle ceremonial
But the white doctor told them all these would avail them nothing,
unless their hearts were given to God, and they worshipped him in spirit
and in truth.  They listened, were convinced, began to study the Holy
Scriptures as he recommended them, and truly to seek Him who is revealed
therein."

"’Out of the eater came forth meat,’" said Carlos.  "I am truly amazed
to hear of such teaching from the lips of Garçias Ariâs."

"Not more amazed than the brethren were by his after conduct," returned
Fray Fernando.  "Just when they had received the truth with joy, and
were beginning heartily to follow it, their teacher suddenly changed his
tone, and addressed himself diligently to the task of building up the
things that he once destroyed.  When Lent came round, the burden of his
preaching was nothing but penance and mortification of the flesh. No
less would content him than that the poor brethren should sleep on the
bare ground, or standing; and wear sackcloth and iron girdles.  They
could not tell what to make of these bewildering instructions.  Some
followed them, others clung to the simpler faith they had learned to
love, many tried to unite both.  In fact, the convent was filled with
confusion, and several of the brethren were driven half distracted.  But
at last God put it into their hearts to consult Dr. Egidius. Your
Excellency is well acquainted with his history, doubtless!"

"Not so well as I should like to be.  Still, for the present, let us
keep to the brethren.  Did Dr. Egidius confirm their faith?"

"That he did, señor; and in many ways he led them into a further
acquaintance with the truth."

"And that enigma, Dr. Blanco?"

Fray Fernando shook his head.  "Whether his mind was really changed, or
whether he concealed his true opinions through fear, or through love of
the present world, I know not I should not judge him."

"No," said Carlos, softly.  "It is not for us, who have never been
tried, to judge those who have failed in the day of trial.  But it must
be a terrible thing to fail, Fray Fernando."

"As good Dr. Egidius did himself.  Ah, señor, if you had but seen him
when he came forth from his prison!  His head was bowed, his hair was
white; they who spoke with him say his heart was well-nigh broken.
Still he was comforted, and thanked God, when he saw the progress the
truth had made during his imprisonment, both in Valladolid and in
Seville, especially amongst the brethren here.  His visit was of great
use to us.  But the most precious boon we ever received was a supply of
God’s Word in our own tongue, which was brought to us some months ago."

Carlos looked at him eagerly.  "I think I know whose hand brought it,"
he said.

"You cannot fail to know, señor.  You have doubtless heard of Juliano El
Chico?"

The colour rose to the cheek of Carlos as he answered, "I shall thank
God all my life, and beyond it, that I have not heard of him alone, but
met him.  He it was who put this book into my hand," and he drew out his
own Testament.

"We also have good cause to thank him.  And we mean that others shall
have it through us.  For the books he brought we not only use ourselves,
but diligently circulate far and wide, according to our ability."

"It is strange to know so little of a man, and yet to owe him so much.
Can you tell me anything more than the name, Juliano Hernandez, which I
repeat every day when I ask God in my prayers to bless and reward him?"

"I only know he is a poor, unlearned man, a native of Villaverda, in
Campos.  He went to Germany, and entered the service of Juan Peres, who,
as you are aware, translated the Testament, and printed it, Juliano
aiding in the work as compositor.  He then undertook, of his own free
will, the task of bringing a supply into this country; you well know how
perilous a task, both the sea-ports and the passes of the Pyrenees being
so closely watched by the emissaries of the Holy Office.  Juliano chose
the overland journey, since, knowing the mountains well, he thought he
could manage to make his way unchallenged by some of their hazardous,
unfrequented paths.  God be thanked, he arrived in safety with his
precious freight early last summer."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"No.  Doubtless he is wandering somewhere, perhaps not far distant,
carrying on, in darkness and silence, his noble missionary work."

"What would I give--rather, what would I not give--to see him once more,
to take his hand in mine, and to thank him for what he has done for me!"

"Ah, there is the vesper bell.  You know, señor, that Fray Cristobal is
to lecture this evening on the Epistle to the Hebrews.  That is why I
love Tuesday best of all days in the week."

Fray Cristobal D’Arellano was a monk of San Isodro, remarkable for his
great learning, which was consecrated to the task of explaining and
spreading the Reformed doctrines. Carlos put himself under the tuition
of this man, to perfect his knowledge of Greek, a language of which he
had learned very little, and that little very imperfectly, at Alcala.
He profited exceedingly by the teaching he received, and partially
repaid the obligation by instructing the novices in Latin, a task which
was very congenial to him, and which he performed with much success.




                                  XV.

                          The Great Sanbenito.


    "The thousands that, uncheered by praise,
    Have made one offering of their days;
    For Truth’s, for Heaven’s, for Freedom’s sake.
    Resigned the bitter cup to take."--Hemans


Young as was the Protestant Church in Seville, she already had her
history.  There was one name that Carlos had heard mentioned in
connection with her first origin, round which there gathered in his
thoughts a peculiar interest, or rather fascination.  He knew now that
the monks of San Isodro had been largely indebted to the instructions of
Doctor Juan Gil, or Egidius.  And he had been told previously that
Egidius himself had learned the truth from an earlier and bolder
witness, Rodrigo de Valer.  This was the name that Losada once coupled
in his hearing with that of his own father.

Why then had he not sought information, which might have proved so
deeply interesting to him, directly from Losada himself, his friend and
teacher?  Several causes contributed to his reluctance to broach the
subject.  But by far the greatest was a kind of chivalrous, half
romantic tenderness for that absent brother, whom he could now truly say
that he loved best on earth.  It is very difficult for us to put
ourselves in the position of Spaniards of the sixteenth century, so far
as at all to understand the way in which they were accustomed to look
upon heresy.  In their eyes it was not only a crime, infinitely more
dreadful than that of murder; it was also a horrible disgrace, branding
a man’s whole lineage up and down for generations, and extending its
baleful influence to his remotest kindred. Carlos asked himself, day by
day, how would the high-hearted Don Juan Alvarez, whose idol was glory,
and his dearest pride a noble and venerated name, endure to hear that
his beloved and only brother was stained with that surpassing infamy?
But at least it would be anguish enough to stab Juan once, as it were,
with his own hand, without arming the dead hand of the father whose
memory they both revered, and then driving home the weapon into his
brother’s heart.  Rather would he let the matter remain in obscurity,
even if (which was extremely doubtful) he could by any effort of his own
shed a ray of light upon it.

Still he took occasion one day to inquire of his friend Fray Fernando,
who had received full information on these subjects from the older
monks, "Was not that Rodrigo de Valer, whose sanbenito hangs in the
Cathedral, the first teacher of the pure faith in Seville?"

"True, señor, he taught many.  While he himself, as I have heard,
received the faith from none save God only."

"He must have been a remarkable man.  Tell me all you know of him."

"Our Fray Cassiodoro has often heard Dr. Egidius speak of him; so that,
though his lips were silenced long before your time or mine, señor, he
seems still one of our company."

"Yes, already some of our number have joined the Church triumphant, but
they are still one with us in Christ."

"Don Rodrigo de Valer," continued the young monk, "was of a noble
family, and very wealthy.  He was born at Lebrixa, but came to reside in
Seville, a gay, light-hearted, brilliant young caballero, who was soon a
leader in all the folly and fashion of the great city.  But suddenly
these things lost their charm for him.  Much to the astonishment of the
gay world, to which he had been such an ornament, he disappeared from
the scenes of amusement and festivity he had been wont to love. His
companions could not understand the change that came over him--but we
can understand it well.  God’s arrows of conviction were sharp in his
heart.  And he led him to turn for comfort, not to penance and
self-mortification, but to his own Word.  Only in one form was that Word
accessible to him.  He gathered up the fragments of his old school
studies--little cared for at the time, and well-nigh forgotten
afterwards--to enable him to read the Vulgate.  There he found
justification by faith, and, through it, peace to his troubled
conscience. But he did not find, as I need scarcely say to you, Don
Carlos, purgatory, the worship of Our Lady and the saints, and certain
other things our fathers taught us."

"How long since was all this?" asked Carlos, who was listening with much
interest, and at the same time comparing the narrative with that other
story he had heard from Dolores.

"Long enough, señor.  Twenty years ago or more.  When God had thus
enlightened him, he returned to the world.  But he returned to it a new
man, determined henceforth to know nothing save Christ and him
crucified.  He addressed himself in the first instance to the priests
and monks, whom, with a boldness truly amazing, he accosted wherever he
met them, were it even in the most public places of the city, proving to
them from Scripture that their doctrines were not the truth of God."

"It was no hopeful soil in which to sow the Word."

"No, truly; but it seemed laid upon him as a burden from God to speak
what he felt and knew, whether men would hear or whether they would
forbear.  He very soon aroused the bitter enmity of those who hate the
light because their deeds are evil.  Had he been a poor man, he would
have been burned at the stake, as that brave, honest-hearted young
convert, Francisco de San Romano, was burned at Valladolid not so long
ago, saying to those who offered him mercy at the last, ’Did you envy me
my happiness?’  But Don Rodrigo’s rank and connections saved him from
that fate.  I have heard, too, that there were those in high places who
shared, or at least favoured his opinions in secret.  Such interceded
for him."

"Then his words were received by some?" Carlos asked anxiously.  "Have
you ever heard the names of any of those who were his friends or
patrons?"

Fray Fernando shook his head.  "Even amongst ourselves, señor," he said,
"names are not mentioned oftener than is needful.  For ’a bird of the
air will carry the matter;’ and when life depends on our silence, it is
no wonder if at last we become a trifle over-silent.  In the lapse of
years, some names that ought to be remembered amongst us may well chance
to be forgotten, from this dread of breathing them, even in a whisper.
Always excepting Dr. Egidius, Don Rodrigo’s friends or converts are
unknown to me.  But I was about to say, the Inquisitors were prevailed
upon, by those who interceded for him, to regard him as insane.  They
dismissed him, therefore, with no more severe penalty than the loss of
his property, and with many cautions as to his future behaviour."

"I hold it scarce likely that he observed them."

"Very far otherwise, señor.  For a short time, indeed, his friends
prevailed on him to express his sentiments more privately; and Fray
Cassiodoro says that during this interval he confirmed them in the faith
by expounding the Epistle to the Romans.  But he could not long hide the
light he held.  To all remonstrances he answered, that he was a soldier
sent on a forlorn hope, and must needs press forward to the breach.  If
he fell, it mattered not; in his place God would raise up others, whose
would be the glory and the joy of victory.  So, once again, the Holy
Office laid its grasp upon him.  It was resolved that his voice should
be heard no more on earth; and he was therefore consigned to the living
death of perpetual imprisonment. And yet, in spite of all their care and
all their malice, one more testimony for God and his truth was heard
from his lips."

"How was that?"

"They led him, robed in that great sanbenito you have often seen, to the
Church of San Salvador, to sit and listen, with the other weeping
penitents, while some ignorant priest denounced their heresies and
blasphemies.  But he was not afraid after the sermon to stand up in his
place, and warn the people against the preacher’s erroneous doctrine,
showing them where and how it differed from the Word of God.  It is
marvellous they did not burn him; but God restrained the remainder of
their wrath. They sent him at last to the monastery of San Lucar, where
he remained in solitary confinement until his death."

Carlos mused a little.  Then he said, "What a blessed change, from
solitary confinement to the company of just men made perfect; from the
gloom of a convent prison to the glory of God’s house, eternal in the
heavens!"

"Some of the elder brethren say _we_ may be called upon to pass through
trials even more severe," remarked Fray Fernando. "I know not.  Being
amongst the youngest here, I should speak my mind with humility; still I
cannot help looking around me, and seeing that everywhere men are
receiving the Word of God with joy.  Think of the learned and noble men
and women in the city who have joined our band already, and are eager to
gain others!  New converts are won for us every day; not to speak of
that great multitude among Fray Constantino’s hearers who are really on
our side, without dreaming it themselves.  Moreover, your noble friend,
Don Carlos de Seso, told us last summer that the signs in the north are
equally encouraging.  He thinks the Lutherans of Valladolid are more
numerous than those of Seville.  In Toro and Logrono also the light is
spreading rapidly.  And throughout the districts near the Pyrenees the
Word has free course, thanks to the Huguenot traders from Béarn."

"I have heard these things in Seville, and truly my heart rejoices at
them.  But yet--" here Carlos broke off suddenly, and remained silent,
gazing mournfully into the fire, near which, as it was now winter, they
had seated themselves.

At last Fray Fernando asked, "What do _you_ think, señor?"

Carlos raised his dark blue eyes and fixed them on the questioner’s
face.

"Of the future," he said slowly, "I think---nothing.  I dare not think
of it.  It is in God’s hand, and he thinks for us. Still, one thing I
cannot choose but see.  Where we are we cannot remain.  We are bound to
a great wheel that is turning--turning--and turn with it, even in spite
of ourselves, we must and do.  But it is the wheel, not of chance, but
of God’s mighty purposes; that is all our comfort."

"And those purposes, are they not mercy and truth unto our beloved
land?"

"They may be; but I know not.  They are not revealed. ’Mercy and truth
unto such as keep his covenant,’ that indeed is written."

"We are they that keep his covenant."

Carlos sighed, and resumed the thread of his own thought,--

"The wheel turns round, and we with it.  Even since I came here it has
turned perceptibly.  And how it is to turn one step further without
bringing us into contact with the solid frame of things as they are, and
so crushing us, truly I see not.  I see not; but I trust God."

"You allude to these discussions about the sacrifice of the mass now
going on so continually amongst us?"

"I do.  Hitherto we have been able to work underground; but if doubt
must be thrown upon _that_, the thin shell of earth that has concealed
and protected us, will break and fall in upon our heads.  And then?"

"Already we are all asking, ’And then?’" said Fray Fernando.  "There
will be nothing before us but flight to some foreign land."

"And how, in God’s name, is that to be accomplished?  But God forgive me
these words; and God keep me, and all of us, from the subtle snare of
mixing with the question, ’What is his will?’ that other question, ’What
will be our fate if we try to do it?’  As the noble De Seso said to me,
all that matters to us is to be found amongst those who ’follow the Lamb
whithersoever he goeth.’  _But he went to Calvary_."

The last words were spoken in so low a tone that Fray Fernando heard
them not.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"No matter.  Time enough to hear if God himself speaks it in our ears."

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a lay brother, who
informed Carlos that a visitor awaited him in the convent parlour.  As
it was one of the hours during which the rules of the house (which were
quite liberal enough, without being lax) permitted the entertainment of
visitors, Carlos went to receive his without much delay.

He knew that if the guest had been one of "their own," their loved
brethren in the faith, even the attendant would have been well
acquainted with his person, and would naturally have named him.  He
entered the room, therefore, with no very lively anticipations;
expecting, at most, to see one of his cousins, who might have paid him
the compliment of riding out from the city to visit him.

A tall, handsome, sunburnt man, who had his left arm in a sling, was
standing with his back to the window.  But in one moment more the other
arm was flung round the neck of Carlos, and heart pressed to heart, and
lip to lip--the brothers stood together.




                                  XVI.

                             Welcome Home.


    "We are so unlike each other,
      Thou and I, that none would guess
    We were children of one mother,
      But for mutual tenderness."--E. B. Browning


After the first tumult of greeting, in which affection was expressed
rather by look and gesture than by word, the brothers sat down and
talked.  Eager questions rose to the lips of both, but especially to
those of Carlos, whose surprise at Juan’s unexpected appearance only
equalled his delight.

"But you are wounded, my brother," he said.  "Not seriously, I hope?"

"Oh no!  Only a bullet through my arm.  A piece of my usual good luck.
I got it in The Battle."

No adjective was needed to specify the glorious day of St. Quentin, when
Flemish Egmont’s chivalrous courage, seconded by Castilian bravery,
gained for King Philip such a brilliant victory over the arms of France.
Carlos knew the story already from public sources.  And it did not occur
to Juan, nor indeed to Carlos either, that there had ever been, or would
ever be again, a battle so worthy of being held in everlasting
remembrance.

"But do you count the wound part of your good luck!" asked Carlos.

"Ay, truly, and well I may.  It has brought me home; as you ought to
have known ere this."

"I received but two letters from you--that written on your first
arrival, and dated from Cambray; and that which told of your notable
prize, the French prisoner."

"But I wrote two others: one, I entrusted to a soldier who was coming
home invalided--I suppose the fellow lost it; the other (written just
after the great St. Laurence’s day) arrived in Seville the night before
I made my own appearance there.  His Majesty will need to look to his
posts; certes, they are the slowest carriers to be found in any
Christian country."  And Juan’s merry laugh rang through the convent
parlour, little enough used to echo such sounds.

"So I have heard almost nothing of you, brother; save what could be
gathered from the public accounts," Carlos continued.

"All the better now.  I have only such news as is pleasant for me to
tell; and will not be ill, I think, for thee to hear. First, then, and
in due order--I am promised my company!"

"Good news, indeed!  My brother must have honoured our name by some
special deed of valour.  Was it at St. Quentin?" asked Carlos, looking
at him with honest, brotherly pride.  He was not much changed by his
campaign, except that his dark cheek wore a deeper bronze, and his face
was adorned with a formidable pair of _bigotes_.

"That story must wait," returned Juan.  "I have so much else to tell
thee.  Dost thou remember how I said, as a boy, that I should take a
noble prisoner, like Alphonso Vives, and enrich myself by his ransom?
And thou seest I have done it."

"In a good day!  Still, he was not the Duke of Saxony."

"Like him, at least, in being a heretic, or Huguenot, if that be a less
unsavoury word to utter in these holy precincts. Moreover, he is a tried
and trusted officer of Admiral Coligny’s suite.  It was that day when
the admiral so gallantly threw himself into the besieged town.  And, for
my part, I am heartily obliged to him.  But for his presence, there
would have been no defence of St. Quentin, to speak of, at all; but for
the defence, no battle; but for the battle, no grand victory for the
Spains and King Philip.  We cut off half of the admiral’s troops,
however, and it fell to my lot to save the life of a brave French
officer whom I saw fighting alone amongst a crowd. He gave me his sword;
and I led him to my tent, and provided him with all the solace and
succour I could, for he was sorely wounded.  He was the Sieur de
Ramenais; a gentleman of Provence, and an honest, merry-hearted, valiant
man, as it was ever my lot to meet withal.  He shared my bed and board,
a pleasant guest rather than a prisoner, until we took the town, making
the admiral himself our captive, as you know already. By that time, his
brother had raised the sum for his ransom, and sent it honourably to me.
But, in any case, I should have dismissed him on parole, as soon as his
wounds were healed. He was pleased to give me, beside the good gold
pistoles, this diamond ring you see on my finger, in token of
friendship."

Carlos took the costly trinket in his hand, and duly admired it.  He did
not fail to gather from Juan’s simple narrative many things that he told
not, and was little likely to tell.  In the time of action, chivalrous
daring; when the conflict was over, gentleness and generosity no less
chivalrous, endearing him to all--even to the vanquished enemy.  No
wonder Carlos was proud of his brother!  But beneath all the pride and
joy there was, even already, a secret whisper of fear.  How could he
bear to see that noble brow clouded with anger--those bright confiding
eyes averted from him in disdain?  Turning from his own thoughts as if
they had been guilty things, he asked quickly,--

"But how did you obtain leave of absence?"

"Through the kindness of his Highness."

"The Duke of Savoy?"

"Of course.  And a braver general I would never ask to serve."

"I thought it might have been from the King himself, when he came to the
camp after the battle."

Don Juan’s cheek glowed with modest triumph.  "His Highness was good
enough to point me out to His Catholic Majesty," he said.  "And the King
spoke to me himself!"

It is difficult for us to understand how a few formal words of praise
from the lips of one of the meanest and vilest of men could be looked
upon by the really noble-hearted Don Juan Alvarez as almost the crowning
joy of his life.  With the enthusiastic loyalty of his age and country
he honoured Philip the king; Philip the man being all the time a
personage as utterly unknown to him as the Sultan of Turkey.  But not
choosing to expatiate upon a theme so flattering to himself, he
continued,--

"The Duke contrived to send me home with despatches, saying kindly that
he thought my wound required a little rest and care.  Though I had
affairs of importance" (and here the colour mounted to his brow) "to
settle in Seville, I would not have quitted the camp, with my good-will,
had we been about any enterprise likely to give us fair fighting.  But
in truth, Carlos, things have been abundantly dull since the fall of St.
Quentin.  Though we have our King with us, and Henry of France and the
Duke of Guise have both joined the enemy, all are standing at gaze as if
they were frozen, and doomed to stay there motionless till the day of
judgment.  I have no mind for that kind of sport, not I!  I became a
soldier to fight His Catholic Majesty’s battles, not to stare at his
enemies as if they were puppets paid to make a show for my amusement.
So I was not sorry to take leave of absence."

"And your important business in Seville.  May a brother ask what that
means?"

"A brother may ask what he pleases, and be answered. Wish me joy,
Carlos; I have arranged that little matter with Doña Beatriz."  And his
light words half hid, half revealed the great deep joy of his own strong
heart.  "My uncle," he continued, "is favourable to my views; indeed, I
have never known him so friendly.  We are to have our betrothal feast at
Christmas, when your time of retreat here is over."

Carlos "wished him joy" most sincerely.  Fervently did he thank God that
it was in his power to do it; that the snare that had once wound itself
so subtly around his footsteps was broken, and his soul escaped.  He
could now meet his brother’s eye without self-reproach.  Still, this
seemed sudden.  He said, "Certainly you did not lose time."

"Why should I?" asked Juan with simplicity.  "’By-and-by is always too
late,’ as thou wert wont to say; and I would they learned that proverb
at the camp.  In truth," he added more gravely, "I often feared, during
my stay there, that I might have lost all through my tardiness.  But
thou wert a good brother to me, Carlos."

"Mayest thou ever think so, brother mine," said Carlos, not without a
pang, as his conscience told him how little he deserved the praise.

"But what in the world," asked Juan hastily, "has induced thee to bury
thyself here, amongst these drowsy monks?"

"The brethren are excellent men, learned and pious.  And I am not
buried," Carlos returned with a smile.

"And if thou wert buried ten fathoms deep, thou shouldst come up out of
the grave when I need thee to stand beside me."

"Do not fear for that.  Now thou art come, I will not prolong my stay
here, as otherwise I might have done.  But I have been very happy here,
Juan."

"I am glad to hear it," said the merry-hearted, unsuspecting Juan.  "I
am glad also that you are not in too great haste to tie yourself down to
the Church’s service; though our honoured uncle seems to wish you had a
keener eye to your own interest, and a better look-out for fat
benefices.  But I believe his own sons have appropriated all the stock
of worldly prudence meant for the whole family, leaving none over for
thee and me, Carlos."

"That is true of Don Manuel and Don Balthazar, not of Gonsalvo."

"Gonsalvo! he is far the worst of the three," Juan exclaimed, with
something like anger in his open, sunny face.

Carlos laughed.  "I suppose he has been favouring you with his opinion
of me," he said.

"If he were not a poor miserable weakling and cripple, I should answer
him with the point of my good sword.  However, this is idle talk.
Little brother" (Carlos being nearly as tall as himself, the diminutive
was only a term of affection, recalling the days of their childhood, and
more suited to masculine lips than its equivalent, dear)--"little
brother, you look grave and pale, and ten years older than when we
parted at Alcala."

"Do I?  Much has happened with me since.  I have been very sorrowful and
very happy."

Don Juan laid his available hand on his brother’s shoulder, and looked
him earnestly in the face.  "No secrets from me, little brother," he
said.  "If thou dost not like the service of Holy Church after all,
speak out, and thou shall go back with me to France, or to anywhere else
in the known world that thou wilt.  There may be some fair lady in the
case," he added, with a keen and searching glance.

"No, brother--not that I have indeed much to tell thee, but not now--not
to-day."

"Choose thine own time; only remember, no secrets.  That were the one
unbrotherly act I could never forgive."

"But I am not yet satisfied about your wound," said Carlos, with perhaps
a little moral cowardice, turning the conversation. "Was the bone
broken?"

"No, fortunately; only grazed.  It would not have signified, but for the
treatment of the blundering barber-surgeon.  I was advised to show it to
some man of skill; and already my cousins have recommended to me one who
is both physician and surgeon, and very able, they say."

"Dr. Cristobal Losada?"

"The same.  Your favourite, Don Gonsalvo, has just been prevailed upon
to make trial of his skill."

"I am heartily glad of it," returned Carlos.  "There is a change of mind
on his part, equal to any wherewith he can reproach me; and a change for
the better, I have little doubt."

Thus the conversation wandered on; touching many subjects, exhausting
none; and never again drawing dangerously near those deep places which
one of the brothers knew must be thoroughly explored, and that at no
distant day.  For Juan’s sake, for the sake of One whom he loved even
more than Juan, he dared not--nay, he would not--avoid the task.  But he
needed, or thought he needed, consideration and prayer, that he might
speak the truth wisely, as well as bravely, to that beloved brother.




                                 XVII.

                              Disclosures.


    "No distance breaks the tie of blood;
    Brothers are brothers evermore;
    Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,
    That magic may o’erpower."--Keble


The opportunity for free converse with his brother which Carlos desired,
yet dreaded, was unexpectedly postponed.  It would have been in
accordance neither with the ideas of the time nor with his own feelings
to have shortened his period of retreat in the monastery, though he
would not now prolong it.  And though Don Juan did not fail to make his
appearance upon every day when visitors were admitted, he was always
accompanied by either of his cousins Don Manuel or Don Balthazar, or by
both.  These shallow, worldly-minded young men were little likely to
allow for the many things, in which strangers might not intermeddle,
that brothers long parted might find to say to each other; they only
thought that they were conferring a high honour on their poorer
relatives by their favour and notice.  In their presence the
conversation was necessarily confined to the incidents of Juan’s
campaign, and to family matters.  Whether Don Balthazar would obtain a
post he was seeking under Government; whether Doña Sancha would
eventually bestow the inestimable favour of her hand upon Don Beltran
Vivarez or Don Alonso de Giron; and whether the disappointed suitor
would stab himself or his successful rival;--these were questions of
which Carlos soon grew heartily weary.  But in all that concerned
Beatrix he was deeply interested.  Whatever he may once have allowed
himself to fancy about the sentiments of a very young and childish girl,
he never dreamed that she would make, or even desire to make, any
opposition to the expressed wish of her guardian, who destined her for
Juan.  He was sure that she would learn quickly enough to love his
brother as he deserved, even if she did not already do so.  And it gave
him keen pleasure that his sacrifice had not been in vain; that the
wine-cup of joy which he had just tasted, then put steadily aside, was
being drained to the dregs by the lips he loved best. It is true this
pleasure was not yet unmixed with pain, but the pain was less than a few
months ago he would have believed possible.  The wound which he once
thought deadly, was in process of being healed; nay, it was nearly
healed already. But the scar would always remain.

Grand and mighty, but perplexing and mournful thoughts were filling his
heart every day more and more.  Amongst the subjects eagerly and
continually discussed with the brethren of San Isodro, the most
prominent just now was the sole priesthood of Christ, with the
impossibility of his one perfect and sufficient sacrifice being ever
repeated.

But these truths, in themselves so glorious, had for those who dared to
admit them one terrible consequence.  Their full acknowledgment would
transform "the main altar’s consummation," the sacrifice of the mass,
from the highest act of Christian worship into a hideous lie,
dishonouring to God, and ruinous to man.

To this conclusion the monks of San Isodro were drawing nearer slowly
but surely every day.  And Carlos was side by side with the most
advanced of them in the path of progress. Though timid in action, he was
bold in speculation.  To his keen, quick intellect to think and to
reason was a necessity; he could not rest content with surface truths,
nor leave any matter in which he was interested without probing it to
its depths.

But as far at least as the monks were concerned, the conclusion now
imminent was practically a most momentous one. It must transform the
light that illuminated them into a fire that would burn and torture the
hands that held and tried to conceal it.  They could only guard
themselves from loss and injury, perhaps from destruction, by setting it
on the candlestick of a true and faithful profession.

"Better," said the brethren to each other, "leave behind us the rich
lands and possessions of our order; what are these things in comparison
to a conscience void of offence towards God and towards man?  Let us go
forth and seek shelter in some foreign land, destitute exiles but
faithful witnesses for Christ, having purchased to ourselves the liberty
of confessing his name before men."  This plan was the most popular with
the community; though there were some that objected to it, not because
of the loss of worldly wealth it would entail, but because of its
extreme difficulty, and the peril in which it would involve others.

That the question might be fully discussed and some course of action
resolved upon, the monks of San Isodro convened a solemn chapter.
Carlos had not, of course, the right to be present, though his friends
would certainly inform him immediately afterwards of all that passed.
So he whiled away part of the anxious hours by a walk in the orange
grove belonging to the monastery.  It was now December, and there had
been a frost--not very usual in that mild climate.  Every blade of grass
was gemmed with tiny jewels, which were crushed by his footsteps as he
passed along.  He fancied them like the fair and sparkling, but unreal
dreams of the creed in which he had been nurtured.  They must perish;
even should he weakly turn aside to spare them, God’s sun would not fail
ere long to dissolve them with the warmth of its beams.  But wherefore
mourn them?  Would not the sun shine on still, and the blue sky, the
emblem of eternal truth and love, still stretch above his head?
Therefore he would look up--up, and not down. Forgetting the things that
were behind, and reaching forth unto those that were before, he would
fain press forward towards the mark for the prize.  And then his heart
went up in fervent prayer that not only he himself, but also all those
who shared his faith, might be enabled so to do.

Turning into a path leading back through the grove to the monastery, he
saw his brother coming towards him.

"I was seeking thee," said Don Juan.

"And always welcome.  But why so early?  On a Friday too?"

"Wherein is Friday worse than Thursday?" asked Juan with a laugh.  "You
are not a monk, or even a novice, to be bound by rules so strict that
you may not say, ’Vaya con Dios’ to your brother without asking leave of
my lord Abbot."

Carlos had often noticed, not with displeasure, the freedom which Juan
since his return assumed in speaking of Churchmen and Church ordinances.
He answered, "I am only bound by the general rules of the house, to
which it is seemly that visitors should conform.  To-day the brethren
are holding a Chapter to confer upon matters pertaining to their
discipline.  I cannot well bring you in-doors; but we do not need a
better parlour than this."

"True.  I care for no roof save God’s sky; and as for glazed and grated
windows, I abhor them.  Were I thrown into prison, I should die in a
week.  I made an early start for San Isodro, on an unusual day, to get
rid of the company of my excellent but tiresome cousins; for in truth I
am sick unto death of their talk and their courtesies.  Moreover, I have
ten thousand things to tell you, brother."

"I have a few for your ear also."

"Let us sit down.  Here is a pleasant seat which some of your brethren
contrived to rest their weary limbs and enjoy the prospect.  They know
how to be comfortable, these monks."

They sat down accordingly.  For more than an hour Don Juan was the chief
speaker; and as he spoke out of the abundance of his heart, it was no
wonder that the name oftenest on his lips was that of Doña Beatriz.  Of
the long and circumstantial story that he poured into the sympathizing
ear of Carlos no more than this is necessary to repeat--that Beatriz not
only did not reject him (no well-bred Spanish girl would behave in such
a singular manner to a suitor recommended by her guardian), but actually
looked kindly, nay, even smiled upon him.  His exhilaration was in
consequence extreme; and its expression might have proved tedious to any
listener not deeply interested in his welfare.

At last, however, the subject was dismissed.  "So my path lies clear and
plain before me," said Juan, his fine determined face glowing with
resolution and hope.  "A soldier’s life, with its toils and prizes; and
a happy home at Nuera, with a sweet face to welcome me when I return.
And, sooner or later, _that_ voyage to the Indies.  But you,
Carlos--speak out, for I confess you perplex me--what do _you_ wish and
intend?"

"Had you asked me that question a few months, I might almost say a few
weeks, ago, I should not have hesitated, as now I do, for an answer."

"You were ever willing, more than willing, for Holy Church’s service.  I
know but one cause which could alter your mind; and to the tender
accusation you have already pleaded not guilty."

"The plea is a true one."

"Certes; it cannot be that you have been seized with a sudden passion
for a soldier’s life," laughed Juan.  "That was never your taste, little
brother; and with all respect for you, I scarce think your achievements
with sword and arquebus would be specially brilliant.  But there is
something wrong with you," he said in an altered tone, as he gazed in
his brother’s anxious face.

"Not _wrong_, but--"

"I have it!" said Juan, joyously interrupting him.  "You are in debt.
That is soon mended, brother.  In fact, it is my fault.  I have had far
too large a share already of what should have been for both of us alike.
In future--"

"Hush, brother.  I have always had enough, more than I needed.  And thou
hast many expenses, and wilt have more henceforward, whilst I shall only
want a doublet and hosen, and a pair of shoes."

"And a cassock and gown?"

Carlos was silent.

"I vow it is a harder task to comprehend you than to chase Coligny’s
guard with my single arm!  And you so pious, so good a Christian!  If
you were a dull rough soldier like me, and if you had had a Huguenot
prisoner (and a very fine fellow, too) to share your bed and board for
months, one could comprehend your not liking certain things over well,
or even"--and Juan averted his face and lowered his voice--"your having
certain evil thoughts you would scarcely care to breathe in the ears of
your father confessor."

"Brother, I too have had thoughts," said Carlos eagerly.

But Juan suddenly tossed off his montero, and ran his fingers through
his black glossy hair.  In old times this gesture used to be a sign that
he was going to speak seriously.  After a moment he began, but with a
little hesitation, for in fact he held the _mind_ of Carlos in as true
and unfeigned reverence as Carlos held his _character_.  And that is
enough to say, without mentioning the additional respect with which he
regarded him, as almost a priest.  "Brother Carlos, you are good and
pious. You were thus from childhood; and therefore it is that you are
fit for the service of Holy Church.  You rise and go to rest, you read
your books, and tell your beads, and say your prayers, all just as you
are ordered.  It is the best life for you, and for any man who can live
it, and be content with it.  You do not sin, you do not doubt; therefore
you will never come into any grief or trouble.  But let me tell you,
little brother, you have a scant notion what men meet with who go forth
into the great world and fight their way in it; seeing on every side of
them things that, take them as they may, will _not_ always square with
the faith they have learned in childhood."

"Brother, I also have struggled and suffered.  I also have doubted."

"Oh yes, a Churchman’s doubts!  You had only to tell yourself doubt was
a sin, to make the sign of the cross, to say an Ave or two, then there
was an end of your doubts.  ’Twere a different matter if you had the
evil one in the shape of an angel of light--at least in that of a
courteous, well-bred Huguenot gentleman, with as nice a sense of honour
as any Catholic Christian--at your side continually, to whisper that the
priests are no better than they ought to be, that the Church needs
reform; and Heaven knows what more, and worse, beside.--Now, my pious
brother, if thou art going to curse me with bell, book, and candle,
begin at once.  I am ready, and prepared to be duly penitent.  Let me
first put on my cap though, for it is cold," and he suited the action to
the word.

The voice in which Carlos answered him was low and tremulous with
emotion.  "Instead of cursing thee, brother beloved, I bless thee from
my heart for words which give me courage to speak.  I have doubted--nay,
why should I shrink from the truth!  I have learned, as I believe, from
God himself, that some things which the Church teaches as her doctrines
are only the commandments of men."

Don Juan started, and his colour changed.  His vaguely liberal ideas
were far from having prepared him for this. "What do you mean?" he
cried, staring at his brother in amazement.

"That I am now, in very truth, what I think you would call--_a
Huguenot_."

The die was cast.  The avowal was made.  Carlos waited its effects in
breathless silence, as one who has fired a powder magazine might await
the explosion.

"May all the holy saints have mercy upon us!" cried Juan, in a voice
that echoed through the grove.  But after that one involuntary cry he
was silent.  The eyes of Carlos sought his face, but he turned away from
him.  At last he muttered, striking with his sword at the trunk of a
tree that was near him, "Huguenot--Protestant--_heretic_!"

"Brother," said Carlos, rising and standing before him--"brother, say
what thou wilt, only speak to me.  Reproach me, curse me, strike me, if
it please thee, only speak to me."

Juan turned, gazed full in his imploring face, and slowly, very slowly,
allowed the sword to fall from his hand.  There was a moment of doubt,
of hesitation.  Then he stretched out that hand to his brother.  "They
who list may curse thee, but not I," he said.

Carlos strained the offered hand in so close a grasp that his own was
cut by his brother’s diamond ring, and the blood flowed.

For a long time both were silent, Juan in amazement, perhaps in
consternation; Carlos in deep thankfulness.  His confession was made,
and his brother loved him still.

At last Juan spoke, slowly and as if half bewildered.  "The Sieur de
Ramenais believes in God, and in our Lord and his passion.  And you?"

Carlos repeated the Apostles’ Creed in the vulgar tongue.

"And in Our Lady, Mary, Mother of God?"

"I believe that she was the most blessed among women, the holiest among
the holy saints.  Yet I ask her intercession no more.  I am too well
assured of His love who says to me; and to all who keep his word, ’My
brother, my sister, my mother.’"

"I thought devotion to Our Lady was the surest mark of piety," said
Juan, in utter perplexity.  "Then, I am only a man of the world.  But
oh, my brother, this is frightful!"  He paused a moment, then added more
calmly, "Still, I have learned that Huguenots are not beasts with horns
and hoofs; but, possibly, brave and honourable men enough, as good, for
this world, as their neighbours.  And yet--the disgrace!"  His dark
cheek flushed, then grew pale, as there rose before his mind’s eye an
appalling vision--his brother robed in a hideous sanbenito, bearing a
torch in the ghastly procession of an _auto-da-fé_!  "You have kept your
secret as your life?  My uncle and his family suspect nothing?" he asked
anxiously.

"Nothing, thank God."

"And who taught you this accursed--these doctrines?"

Carlos briefly told the story of his first acquaintance with the Spanish
New Testament; suppressing, however, all mention of the personal sorrow
that had made its teaching so precious to him; nor did he think it
expedient to give the name of Juliano Hernandez.

"The Church may need reform.  I am sure she does," Juan candidly
admitted.  "But Carlos, my brother," he added, while the expression of
his face softened gradually into mournful, pitying tenderness, "little
brother, in old times so gentle, so timid, hast thou dreamed--of the
peril?  I speak not now of the disgrace--God wot that is hard enough to
think of--hard enough," he repeated bitterly.  "But the peril?"

Carlos was silent; his hands were clasped, his eyes raised upwards, full
of thought, perhaps of prayer.

"What is that on thy hand?" asked Juan, with a sudden change of tone.
"Blood?  The Sieur de Ramenais’ diamond ring has hurt thee."

Carlos glanced at the little wound, and smiled.  "I never felt it," he
said, "so glad was my heart, Ruy, for that brave grasp of faithful
brotherhood."  And there was a strange light in his eye as he added,
"Perchance it may be thus with me, if Christ indeed should call me to
suffer.  Weak as I am, he can give, even to me, such blessed assurance
of his love, that in the joy of it pain and fear shall be unfelt, or
vanish."

Juan could not understand him, but he was awed and impressed.  He had no
heart for many words.  He rose and walked towards the gate of the
monastery grounds, slowly and in silence, Carlos accompanying him.  When
they had nearly reached the spot where they were to part, Carlos said,
"You have heard Fray Constantino, as I asked you?"

"Yes, and I greatly admire him."

"He teaches God’s truth."

"Why can you not rest content with his teaching, then, instead of going
to look for better bread than wheaten, Heaven knows where?"

"When I return to the city next week I will explain all to thee."

"I hope so.  In the meantime, adios."  He strode on a pace or two, then
turned back to say, "Thou and I, Carlos, we will stand together against
the world."




                                 XVIII.

                             The Aged Monk.


    "I will not boast a martyr’s might
      To leave my home without a sigh--
    The dwelling of my past delight,
      The shelter where I hoped to die."--Anon.


Much was Carlos strengthened by the result of his interview with Don
Juan.  The thing that he greatly feared, his beloved brother’s wrath and
scorn, had not come upon him.  Juan had shown, instead, a moderation, a
candour, and a willingness to listen, which, while it really amazed him,
inspired him with the happiest hopes.  With a glad heart he repeated the
Psalmist’s exulting words: "The Lord is my strength and my shield; my
heart hath trusted in him and I am helped; therefore my heart danceth
for joy, and in my song will I praise him."

He soon perceived that the Chapter was over; for figures, robed in white
and brown, were moving here and there amongst the trees.  He entered the
house, and without happening to meet any one, made his way to the
deserted Chapter-room.  Its sole remaining occupant was a very aged
monk, the oldest member of the community.  He was seated at the table,
his face buried in his hands, and his frail, worn frame quivering as if
with sobs.

Carlos went up to him and asked gently, "Father, what ails you?"

The old man slowly raised his head, and gazed at him with sad, tired
eyes, which had watched the course of more than eighty years.  "My son,"
he said, "if I weep, it is for joy."

Carlos wondered; for he saw no joy on the wrinkled brow or in the
tearful face.  But he merely asked, "What have the brethren resolved?"

"To await God’s providence here.  Praised be his holy name for that."
And the old man bowed his silver head, and wept once more.

To Carlos also the determination was a cause for deep gratitude.  He had
all along regarded the proposed flight of the brethren with extreme
dread, as an almost certain means of awakening the suspicions of the
Holy Office, and thus exposing all who shared their faith to
destruction.  It was no light matter that the danger was now at least
postponed, always provided that the respite was purchased by no
sacrifice of principle.

"Thank God!" reiterated the old monk.  "For here I have lived; and here
I will die and be buried, beside the holy brethren of other days, in the
chapel of Don Alonzo the Good. My son, I came hither a stripling as thou
art--no, younger, younger--I know not how many years ago; one year is so
like another, there is no telling.  I could tell by looking at the great
book, only my eyes are too dim to read it.  They have grown dim very
fast of late; when Doctor Egidius used to visit us, I could read my
Breviary with the youngest of them all.  But no matter how many years.
They were many enough to change a blooming, black-haired boy into an old
man tottering on the grave’s brink.  And I to go forth now into that
great, wicked world beyond the gate!  I to look upon strange faces, and
to live amongst strange men!  Or to die amongst them, for to that it
would come full soon!  No, no, Señor Don Carlos.  Here I took the cowl;
here I lived; and here I will die and be buried, God and the saints
helping me!"

"Yet for the Truth’s sake, my father, would you not be willing to make
even this sacrifice, and to go forth in your old age into exile?"

"If the brethren must needs go, so, I suppose, must I. But they are
_not_ going, St. Jerome be praised," the old man repeated.

"Going or staying, the presence of Him whom they serve and for whom they
witness will be with them."

"It may be, it may be, for aught I know.  But in my young days so many
fine words were not in use.  We sang our matins, our complines, our
vespers; we said the holy mass and all our offices, and God and St.
Jerome took care of the rest."

"But you would not have those days back again, would you, my father?
You did not then know the glorious gospel of the grace of God."

"Gospel, gospel?  We always read the gospel for the day. I know my
Breviary, young sir, just as well as another.  And on festival days,
some one always preached from the gospel. When Fray Domingo preached,
plenty of great folks used to come out from the city to hear him.  For
he was very eloquent, and as much thought of, in his time, as Fray
Cristobal is now. But they are forgotten in a little while, all of them.
So will we, in a few years to come."

Carlos reproached himself for having named the gospel, instead of Him
whose words and works are the burden of the gospel story.  For even to
that dull ear, heavy with age, the name of Jesus was sweet.  And that
dull mind, drowsy with the slumber of a long lifetime, had half awaked
at least to the consciousness of his love.

"Dear father," he said gently, "I know you are well acquainted with the
gospels.  You remember what our blessed Lord saith of those who confess
him before men, how he will not be ashamed to confess them before his
Father in heaven? And, moreover, is it not a joy for us to show, in any
way he points out to us, our love to him who loved us and gave himself
for us?"

"Yes, yes, we love him.  And he knows I only wish to do what is right,
and what is pleasing in his sight."

Afterwards, Carlos talked over the events of the day with the younger
and more intelligent brethren; especially with his teacher, Fray
Cristobal, and his particular friend, Fray Fernando. He could but admire
the spirit that had guided their deliberations, and feel increased
thankfulness for the decision at which they had arrived.  The peace
which the whole community of Spanish Protestants then enjoyed, perilous
and unstable as it was, stood at the mercy of every individual belonging
to that community.  The unexplained flight of any obscure member of
Losada’s congregation would have been sufficient to give the alarm, and
let loose the bloodhounds of persecution upon the Church; how much more
the abandonment of a wealthy and honourable religious house by the
greater part of its inmates?

The sword hung over their heads, suspended by a single hair, which a
hasty or incautious movement, a word, a breath even, might suffice to
break.




                                  XIX.

                           Truth and Freedom


      "Man is greater than you thought him;
    The bondage of long slumber he will break.
    His just and ancient rights he will reclaim,
    With Nero and Busiris he will rank
    The name of Philip."--Schiller


Never before had it fallen to the lot of Don Juan Alvarez to experience
such bewilderment as that which his brother’s disclosure occasioned him.
That brother, whom he had always regarded as the embodiment of goodness
and piety, who was rendered illustrious in his eyes by all sorts of
academic honours, and sanctified by the shadow of the coming priesthood,
had actually confessed himself to be--what he had been taught to hold in
deepest, deadliest abomination--a Lutheran heretic.  But, on the other
hand, from the wise, pious, and in every way unexceptionable manner in
which Carlos had spoken, Juan could not help hoping that what, probably
through some unaccountable aberration of mind, he himself persisted in
styling Lutheranism, might prove in the end some very harmless and
orthodox kind of devotion.  Perhaps, eventually, his brother might found
some new and holy order of monks and friars.  Or even (he was so clever)
he might take the lead in a Reformation of the Church, which, there was
no use in an honest man’s denying, was sorely needed.  Still, he could
not help admitting that the Sieur de Ramenais had sometimes expressed
himself with nearly as much apparent orthodoxy; and he was undoubtedly a
confirmed heretic--a Huguenot.

But if the recollection of this man, who for months had been his guest
rather than his prisoner, served, from one point of view, to increase
his difficulties, from another, it helped to clear away the most
formidable of them.  Don Juan had never been religious; but he had
always been hotly orthodox, as became a Castilian gentleman of purest
blood, and heir to all the traditions of an ancient house, foremost for
generations in the great conflict with the infidel.  He had been wont to
look upon the Catholic faith as a thing bound up irrevocably with the
knightly honour, the stainless fame, the noble pride of his race, and,
consequently, with all that was dearest to his heart. Heresy he regarded
as something unspeakably mean and degrading. It was associated in his
mind with Jews and Moors, "caitiffs," "beggarly fellows;" all of them
vulgar and unclean, some of them the hereditary enemies of his race.
Heretics were Moslems, infidels, such as "my Cid" delighted in hewing
down with his good sword Tizona, "for God and Our Lady’s honour."
Heretics kept the passover with mysterious, unhallowed rites, into which
it would be best not to inquire; heretics killed (and perhaps ate)
Christian children; they spat upon the cross; they had to wear ugly
yellow sanbenitos at _autos-da-fé_; and, to sum up all in one word, they
"smelled of the fire."  To give full weight to the last allusion, it
must be remembered that in the eyes of Don Juan and his cotemporaries,
death by fire had no hallowed or ennobling associations to veil its
horrors. The burning pile was to him what the cross was to our
forefathers, and what the gibbet is to us, only far more disgraceful.
Thus it was not so much his conscience as his honour and his pride that
were arrayed against the new faith.

But, unconsciously to himself, opposition had been silently undermined
by his intercourse with the Sieur de Ramenais.  It would probably have
been fatal to Protestantism with Don Juan, had his first specimen of a
Protestant been an humble muleteer.  Fortunately, the new opinions had
come to him represented by a noble and gallant knight, who

    "In open battle or in tilting field
    Forbore his own advantage;"

who was as careful of his "pundonor"[#] as any Castilian gentleman, and
scarcely yielded even to himself in all those marks of good breeding,
which, to say the truth, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya valued
far more than any abstract dogmas of faith.


[#] Point of honour.


This circumstance produced a willingness on his part to give fair play
to his brother’s convictions.  When Carlos returned to Seville, which he
did about a week after the meeting of the Chapter, he was overjoyed to
find Juan ready to hear all he had to say with patience and candour.
Moreover, the young soldier was greatly attracted by the preaching of
Fray Constantino, whom he pronounced, in language borrowed from the
camp, "a right good camerado."  Using these favourable dispositions to
the best advantage, Carlos repeated to him passages from the New
Testament; and with deep and prayerful earnestness explained and
enforced the truths they taught, taking care, of course, not
unnecessarily to shock his prejudices.

And, as time passed on, it became every day more and more apparent that
Don Juan was receiving "the new ideas;" and that with far less
difficulty and conflict than Carlos himself had done.  For with him the
Reformed faith had only prejudices, not convictions, to contend against.
These once broken down, the rest was easy.  And then it came to him so
naturally to follow the guidance of Carlos in all that pertained to
_thinking_.

Unmeasured was the joy of the affectionate brother when at last he found
that he might safely venture to introduce him privately to Losada as a
promising inquirer.

In the meantime their outward life passed on smoothly and happily.  With
much feasting and rejoicing, Juan was betrothed to Doña Beatriz.  He had
loved her devotedly since boyhood; he loved her now more than ever.  But
his love was a deep, life-long passion--no sudden delirium of the
fancy--so that it did not render him oblivious of every other tie, and
callous to every other impression; it rather stimulated, and at the same
time softened his whole nature.  It made him not less, but more,
sensitive to all the exciting and ennobling influences which were being
brought to bear upon him.

In Doña Beatriz Carlos perceived a change that surprised him, while, at
the same time, it made more evident than ever how great would have been
his own mistake, had he accepted the passive gratitude of a child
towards one who noticed and flattered her for the true deep love of a
woman’s heart.  Doña Beatriz was a passive child no longer now.  On the
betrothal day, a proud and beautiful woman leaned on the arm of his
handsome brother, and looked around her upon the assembled family,
queen-like in air and mien, her cheek rivalling the crimson of the
damask rose, her large dark eye beaming with passionate, exulting joy.
Carlos compared her in thought to the fair, carved alabaster lamp that
stood on the inlaid centre table of his aunt’s state receiving-room.
Love had wrought in her the change which light within always did in
that, revealing its hidden transparency, and glorifying its pale, cold
whiteness with tints so warmly beautiful, that the clouds of evening
might have envied them.

The betrothal of Doña Sancha to Don Beltran Vivarez quickly followed.
Don Balthazar also succeeded in obtaining the desired Government
appointment, and henceforth enjoyed, much to his satisfaction, the
honours and emoluments of an "_empleado_."  To crown the family good
fortune, Doña Inez rejoiced in the birth of a son and heir; while even
Don Gonsalvo, not to be left out, acknowledged some improvement in his
health, which he attributed to the judicious treatment of Losada.  The
mind of an intelligent man can scarcely be deeply exercised upon one
great subject, without the result making itself felt throughout the
whole range of his occupations. Losada’s patients could not fail to
benefit by his habits of independent thought and searching
investigation, and his freedom from vulgar prejudices.  This freedom, so
rare in his nation, led him occasionally, though very cautiously, even
to hazard the adoption of a few remedies which were not altogether
"_cosas de Espana_."[#]


[#] Things of Spain.


The physician deserved less credit for his treatment of Juan’s wounded
arm, which nature healed, almost as soon as her beneficent operations
ceased to be retarded by ignorant and blundering leech-craft.

Don Juan was occasionally heard to utter aspirations for the full
restoration of his cousin Gonsalvo’s health, more hearty in their
expression than charitable in their motive.  "I would give one of my
fingers he could ride a horse and handle a sword, or at least a good
foil with the button off, and I would soon make him repent his bearing
and language to thee, Carlos.  But what can a man do with a thing like
that, save let him alone for very shame?  Yet he is dastard enough to
presume on such toleration, and to strike those whom his own infirmities
hinder from returning the blow."

"If he could ride a horse or handle a sword, brother, I think you would
find a marvellous change for the better in his bearing and language.
That bitterness, what is it, after all, but the fruit of pain?  Or of
what is even worse than pain, repressed force and energy.  He would be
in the great world doing and daring; and behold, he is chained to a
narrow room, or at best toils with difficulty a few hundred paces.  No
wonder that the strong winds, bound in their caverns, moan and shriek
piteously at times.  When I hear them I feel far too much compassion to
think of anger.  And I would give one of my fingers--nay, I would give
my right hand," he added with a smile, "that he shared our blessed hope,
Juan, my brother."

"The most unlikely person of all our acquaintance to become a convert."

"So say not I.  Do you know that he has given money--he that has so
little--more than once to Señor Cristobal for the poor?"

"That is nothing," said Juan.  "He was ever free-handed. Do you not
remember, in our childhood, how he would strike us upon the least
provocation, yet insist on our sharing his sweetmeats and his toys, and
even sometimes fight us for refusing them?  While the others knew the
value of a ducat before they knew their Angelus, and would sell and
barter their small possessions like Dutch merchants."

"Which you spared not to call them, bearing yourself in the quarrels
that naturally ensued with undaunted prowess; while I too often
disgraced you by tearful entreaties for peace at all costs," returned
Carlos, laughing.  "But, my brother," he resumed more gravely, "I often
ask myself, are we doing all that is possible in our present
circumstances to share with others the treasure we have found?"

"I trust it will soon be open to them all," said Juan, who had now come
just far enough to grasp strongly his right to think and judge for
himself, and with it the idea of emancipation from the control of a
proud and domineering priesthood. "Great is truth, and shall prevail."

"Certainly, in the end.  But much that to mortal eyes looks like defeat
may come first."

"I think my learned brother, so much wiser than I upon many subjects,
fails to read well the signs of the times.  Whose Word saith, ’When ye
see the fig-tree put forth her buds, know ye that summer is nigh, even
at the door’?  Everywhere the fig-trees are budding now."

"Still the frosts may return."

"Hold thy peace, too desponding brother.  Thou shouldst have learned
another lesson yesterday, when thou and I watched the eager thousands as
they hung breathless on the lips of our Fray Constantino.  Are not those
thousands really for us, and for truth and freedom?"

"No doubt Christ has his own amongst them."

"You always think of individuals, Carlos, rather than of our country.
You forget we are sons of Spain, Castilian nobles. Of course we rejoice
when even one man here and there is won for the truth.  But our Spain!
our glorious land, first and fairest of all the earth! our land of
conquerors, whose arms reach to the ends of the world--one hand taming
the infidel in his African stronghold, while the other crowns her with
the gold and jewels of the far West!  She who has led the nations in the
path of discovery--whose fleets gem the ocean--whose armies rule the
land,--shall she not also lead the way to the great city of God, and
bring in the good coming time when all shall know him from the least to
the greatest--when they shall know the truth, and the truth shall make
them free?  Carlos, my brother, I do not dare to doubt it."

It was not often that Don Juan expressed himself in such a lengthened
and energetic, not to say grandiloquent manner. But his love for Spain
was a passion, and to extol her or to plead her cause words were never
lacking with him.  In reply to this outburst of enthusiasm, Carlos only
said gently, "Amen, and the Lord establish it in his time."

Don Juan looked keenly at him.  "I thought you had faith, Carlos?" he
said.

"Faith?" Carlos repeated inquiringly.

"Such faith," said Juan, "as I have.  Faith in truth and freedom?"  And
he rang out the sonorous words, "_Verdad y libertad_," as if he thought,
as indeed he did, that they had but to go forth through a submissive,
rejoicing world, "conquering and to conquer."

"I have faith _in Christ_," Carlos answered quietly.

And in those two brief phrases each unconsciously revealed to the other
the very depths of his soul, and told the secret of his history.




                                   XX

                  The First Drop of a Thunder Shower.


    "Closed doorways that are folded
      And prayed against in vain"--E. B. Browning


Meanwhile the happy weeks glided on noiselessly and rapidly.  They
brought full occupation for head and heart, as well as varied and
intense enjoyment. Don Juan’s constant intercourse with Doña Beatriz was
not the less delightful because already he sought to imbue her mind with
the truths which he himself was learning every day to love better.  He
thought her an apt and hopeful pupil, but, under the circumstances, he
was scarcely the best possible judge.

Carlos was not so well satisfied with her attainments; he advised
reserve and caution in imparting their secrets to her, lest through
inadvertence she might betray them to her aunt and cousins.  Juan
considered this a mark of his constitutional timidity; yet he so far
attended to his warnings, that Doña Beatriz was strongly impressed with
the necessity of keeping their religious conversations a profound
secret, whilst her sensibilities were not shocked by any mention of
words so odious as heresy or Lutheranism.

Put there could be no doubt as to Juan’s own progress under the
instructions of his brother, and of Losada and Fray Cassiodoro. He
began, ere long, to accompany Carlos to the meetings of the Protestants,
who welcomed the new acquisition to their ranks with affectionate
enthusiasm.  All were attracted by Don Juan’s warmth and candour of
disposition, and by his free, joyous, hopeful temperament; though he was
not beloved by any as intensely as Carlos was by the few who really knew
him, such as Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, and the young monk, Fray
Fernando.

Partly through the influence of his religious friends, and partly
through the brilliant reputation he had brought from Alcala, Carlos now
obtained a lectureship at the College of Doctrine, of which the provost,
Fernando de San Juan, was a decided and zealous Lutheran.  This
appointment was an honourable one, considered in no way derogatory to
his social position, and useful as tending to convince his uncle that he
was "doing something," not idly dreaming his time away.

Occupations of another kind opened out before him also. Amongst the many
sincere and anxious inquirers who were troubled with perplexities
concerning the relations of the old faith and the new, were some who
turned to him, with an instinctive feeling that he could help them.
This was just the work that best suited his abilities and his
temperament.  To sympathize, to counsel, to aid in conflict as only that
man can do who has known conflict himself, was God’s special gift to
him. And he who goes through the world speaking, whenever he can, a word
in season to the weary, will seldom be without some weary one ready to
listen to him.

Upon one subject, and only one, the brothers still differed. Juan saw
the future robed in the glowing hues borrowed from his own ardent,
hopeful spirit.  In his eyes the Spains were already won "for truth and
freedom," as he loved to say.  He anticipated nothing less than a
glorious regeneration of Christendom, in which his beloved country would
lead the van. And there were many amongst Losada’s congregation who
shared these bright and beautiful, if delusive dreams, and the
enthusiasm which had given them birth, and in its turn was nourished by
them.

Again, there were others who rejoiced with much trembling over the good
tidings that often reached them of the spread of the faith in distant
parts of the country, and who welcomed each neophyte to their ranks as
if they were adorning a victim for the sacrifice.  They could not forget
that name of terror, the Holy Inquisition.  And from certain ominous
indications they thought the sleeping monster was beginning to stir in
his den.  Else why had new and severe decrees against heresy been
recently obtained from Rome?  And above all, why had the Bishop of
Terragona, Gonzales de Munebrãga, already known as a relentless
persecutor of Jews and Moors, been appointed Vice-Inquisitor General at
Seville?

Still, on the whole, hope and confidence predominated; and strange, nay,
incredible as it may appear to us, beneath the very shadow of the Triana
the Lutherans continued to hold their meetings "almost with open doors."

One evening Don Juan escorted Doña Beatriz to some festivity from which
he could not very well excuse himself, whilst Carlos attended a re-union
for prayer and mutual edification at the usual place--the house of Doña
Isabella de Baena.

Don Juan returned at a late hour, but in high spirits.  Going at once to
the room where his brother sat awaiting him, he threw off his cloak, and
stood before him, a gay, handsome figure, in his doublet of crimson
satin, his gold chain, and well-used sword, now worn for ornament, with
its embossed scabbard and embroidered belt.

"I never saw Doña Beatriz look so charming," he began eagerly.  "Don
Miguel de Santa Cruz was there, but he could not get no much as a single
dance with her, and looked ready to die for envy.  But save me from the
impertinence of Luis Rotelo!  I shall have to cane him one of these
days, if no milder measures will teach him his place and station.  _He_,
the son of a simple hidalgo, to dare lift his eyes to Doña Beatriz de
Lavella?  The caitiff’s presumption!--But thou art not listening,
brother.  What is wrong with thee?"

No wonder he asked.  The face of Carlos was pale; and the deep mournful
eyes looked as if tears had been lately there. "A great sorrow, brother
mine," he answered in a low voice.

"_My_ sorrow too, then.  Tell me, what is it?" asked Juan, his tone and
manner changed in a moment.

"Juliano is taken."

"Juliano!  The muleteer who brought the books, and gave you that
Testament?"

"The man who put into my hands this precious Book, to which I owe my joy
now and my hope for eternity," said Carlos, his lip trembling.

"Ay de mi!--But perhaps it is not true."

"Too true.  A smith, to whom he showed a copy of the Book, betrayed him.
God forgive him--if there be forgiveness for such.  It may have been a
month ago, but we only heard it now.  And he lies there--_there_."

"Who told you?"

"All were talking of it at the meeting when I entered.  It is the sorrow
of all; but I doubt if any have such cause to sorrow as I.  For he is my
father in the faith, Juan.  And now," he added, after a long, sad pause,
"I shall _never_ tell him what he has done for me--at least on this side
of the grave."

"There is no hope for him," said Juan mournfully, as one that mused.

"_Hope_!  Only in the great mercy of God.  Even those dreadful dungeon
walls cannot shut Him out."

"No; thank God."

"But the prolonged, the bitter, the horrible suffering!  I have been
trying to contemplate, to picture it--but I cannot, I dare not.  And
what I dare not think of, he must endure."

"He is a peasant, you are a noble--that makes some difference," said Don
Juan, with whom the tie of brotherhood in Christ had not yet effaced all
earthly distinctions.  "But Carlos," he questioned suddenly, and with a
look of alarm, "does not he know everything?"

"_Everything_," Carlos answered quietly.  "One word from his lips, and
the pile is kindled for us all.  But that word will never be spoken.
To-night not one heart amongst us trembled for ourselves, we only wept
for him."

"You trust him, then, so completely?  It is much to say. They in whose
hands he is are cruel as fiends.  No doubt they will--"

"Hush!" interrupted Carlos, with a look of such exceeding pain, that
Juan was effectually silenced.  "There are things we cannot speak of,
save to God in prayer.  Oh, my brother, pray for him, that He for whom
he has risked so much may sustain him, and, if it may be, shorten his
agony."

"Surely more than two or three will join in that prayer. But, my
brother," he added, after a pause, "be not so downcast.  Do you not know
that every great cause must have its martyr?  When was a victory won,
and no brave man left dead on the field; a city stormed, and none fallen
in the breach?  Perhaps to that poor peasant may be given the glory--the
great glory--of being honoured throughout all time as the sainted martyr
whose death has consecrated our holy cause to victory.  A grand lot
truly?  Worth suffering for!"  And Juan’s dark eye kindled, and his
cheek glowed with enthusiasm.

Carlos was silent.

"Dost thou not think so, my brother?"

"I think that Christ is worth suffering; for," said Carlos at last.
"And that nothing short of his personal presence, realized by faith, can
avail to bring any man victorious through such fearful trials.  May
that--may he be with his faithful servant now, when all human help and
comfort are far away."




                                  XXI.

                          By the Guadalquivir


    "There dwells my father, sinless and at rest,
    Where the fierce murderer can no more pursue."--Schiller


Next Sunday evening the brothers attended the quiet service in Doña
Isabella’s upper room.  It was more solemn than usual, because of the
deep shadow that rested on the hearts of all the band assembled there.
But Losada’s calm voice spoke wise and loving words about life and
death, and about Him who, being the Lord of life, has conquered death
for all who trust him.  Then came prayer--true incense offered on the
golden altar standing "before the mercy-seat," which only "the veil,"
still dropped between, hides from the eyes of the worshippers.[#]  But
in such hours many a ray from the glory within shines through that veil.


[#] See Exodus xxx 6.


"Do not let us return home yet, brother," said Carlos, when they had
parted with their friends.  "The night is fine."

"Whither shall we bend our steps?"

Carlos named a favourite walk through some olive-yards on the banks of
the river, and Juan set his face towards one of the city gates.

"Why take such a circuit?" said Carlos, showing a disposition to turn in
an opposite direction.  "This is far the shorter way."

"True; but it is less pleasant."

Carlos looked at him gratefully.  "My brother would spare my weakness,"
he said.  "But it needs not.  Twice of late, when you were engaged with
Doña Beatriz, I went alone thither, and--to the Prado San Sebastian."

So they passed through the Puerta de Triana, and having crossed the
bridge of boats, leisurely took their way beneath the walls of the grim
old castle.  As they did so, both prayed in silence for one who was
pining in its dungeons.  Don Juan, whose interest in the fate of Juliano
was naturally far less intense than his brother’s, was the first to
break that silence. He remarked that the Dominican convent adjoining the
Triana looked nearly as gloomy as the inquisitorial prison itself.

"I think it looks like all other convents," returned Carlos, with
indifference.

They were soon in the shadow of the dark, ghost-like olive-trees. The
moon was young, and gave but little light; but the large clear stars
looked down through the southern air like lamps of fire, hanging not so
much in the sky as from it.  Were those bright watchers charged with a
message from the land very far off, which seemed so near to them in the
high places whence they ruled the night?  Carlos drank in the spirit of
the scene in silence.  But this did not please his less meditative
brother.  "What art thou pondering?" he asked.

"’They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and
they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.’"

"Art thinking still of the prisoner in the Triana?"

"Of him, and also of another very dear to both of us, of whom I have for
some time been purposing to speak to thee. What if thou and I have been,
like children, seeking for a star on earth while all the time it was
shining above us in God’s glorious heaven?"

"Knowest thou not of old, little brother, that when thy parables begin I
am left behind at once?  I pray thee, let the stars alone, and speak the
language of earth."

"What was the task to which thou and I vowed ourselves in childhood,
brother?"

Juan looked at him keenly through the dim light.  "I sometimes feared
thou hadst forgotten," he said.

"No danger of that.  But I had a reason--I think a good and sufficient
one--for not speaking to thee until well and fully assured of thy
sympathy."

"My sympathy?  In aught that concerned the dream, the passion of my
life!--of both our young lives!  Carlos, how couldst thou even doubt of
this?"

"I had reason to doubt at first whether a gleam of light which has been
shed upon our father’s fate would be regarded by his son as a blessing
or a curse."

"Do not keep a man in suspense, brother.  Speak at once, in Heaven’s
name."

"I doubt no longer now.  It will be to thee, Juan, as to me, a joy
exceeding great to think that our venerated father read God’s Word for
himself, and knew his truth and honoured it, as we have learned to do."

"Now, God be thanked!" cried Juan, pausing in his walk and clasping his
hands together.  "This indeed is joyful news. But speak, brother; how do
you know it?  Are you certain, or is it only dream, hope, conjecture?"

Carlos told him in detail, first the hint dropped by Losada to De Seso;
then the story of Dolores; lastly, what he had heard at San Isodro about
Don Rodrigo de Valer.  And as he proceeded with his narrative, he welded
the scattered links into a connected chain of evidence.

Juan, all eagerness, could hardly wait till he came to the end. "Why did
you not speak to Losada?" he interrupted at last.

"Stay, brother, and hear me out; the best is to come.  I have done so
lately.  But until assured how thou wouldst regard the matter, I cared
not to ask questions, the answers to which might wound thy heart."

"You are in no doubt now.  What heard you from Señor Cristobal?"

"I heard that Dr. Egidius named the Conde de Nuera as one of those who
befriended Don Rodrigo.  And that he had been present when that brave
and faithful teacher privately expounded the Epistle to the Romans."

"There!" Juan exclaimed with a start.  "There is the origin of my second
and favourite name, Rodrigo.  Brother, brother, these are the best
tidings I have heard for years."  And uncovering his head, he uttered
fervent and solemn words of thanksgiving.

To which Carlos added a heartfelt "Amen," and resumed,--

"Then, brother, you think we are justified in taking this joy to our
hearts?"

"Without doubt," cried the sanguine Don Juan.

"And it follows that his crime--"

"Was what in our eyes constitutes the truest glory, the profession of a
pure faith," said Juan with decision, leaping at once to the conclusion
Carlos had reached by a far slower path.

"And those mystic words inscribed upon the window, the delight and
wonder of our childhood--"

"Ah!" repeated Juan--

    "El Dorado
      Yo hé trovado."

But what they have to do with the matter I see not yet."

"You see not?  Surely the knowledge of God in Christ, the kingdom of
heaven opened up to us, is the true El Dorado, the golden country, which
enriches those who find it for ever more."

"That is all very good," said Juan, with the air of a man not quite
satisfied.

"I doubt not that was our father’s meaning," Carlos continued.

"I doubt it, though.  Up to that point I follow you, Carlos; but there
we part.  _Something_ in the New World, I think, my father must have
found."

A lengthened debate followed, in which Carlos discovered, rather to his
surprise, that Juan still clung to his early faith in a literal land of
gold.  The more thoughtful and speculative brother sought in vain to
reason him out of that belief.  Nor was he much more successful when he
came to state his own settled conviction that they should never see
their father’s face on earth.  Not the slightest doubt remained on his
own mind that, on account of his attachment to the Reformed faith, the
Conde de Nuera had been, in the phraseology of the time, quietly "put
out of the way."  But whether this had been done during the voyage, or
on the wild unknown shores of the New World, he believed his children
would never know.

On this point, however, no argument availed with Juan.  He seemed
determined _not_ to believe in his father’s death.  He confessed,
indeed, that his heart bounded at the thought that he had been a
sufferer "in the cause of truth and freedom."  "He has suffered exile,"
he said, "and the loss of all things.  But I see not wherefore he may
not after all be living still, somewhere in that vast wonderful New
World."

"I am content to think," Carlos replied, "that all these years he has
been at rest with the dead in Christ.  And that we shall see his face
first with Christ when he appears in glory."

"But I am not content.  We must learn something more."

"We shall never learn more.  How can we?" asked Carlos.

"That is so like thee, little brother.  Ever desponding, ever turned
easily from thy purpose."

"Well; be it so," said Carlos meekly.

"But what _I_ determine, that I do," said Juan.  "At least I will make
my uncle speak out," he continued.  "I have ever suspected that he knows
something."

"But how is that to be done?" asked Carlos.  "Nevertheless, do all thou
canst, and God prosper thee.  Only," he added with great earnestness,
"remember the necessities of our present position; and for the sake of
our friends, as well as of our own lives, use due prudence and caution."

"Fear not, my too prudent brother.--The best and dearest brother in the
world," he added kindly, "if he had but a little more courage."

Thus conversing they hastily retraced their steps to the city, the hour
being already late.


Quiet weeks passed on after this unmarked by any event of importance.
Winter had now given place to spring; the time of the singing of birds
was come.  In spite of numerous and heavy anxieties, and of _one_ sorrow
that pressed more or less upon all, it was still spring-time in many a
brave and hopeful heart amongst the adherents of the new faith in
Seville. Certainly it was spring-time with Don Juan Alvarez.

One Sunday a letter arrived by special messenger from Nuera, containing
the unwelcome tidings that the old and faithful servant of the house,
Diego Montes, was dying.  It was his last wish to resign his stewardship
into the hands of his young master, Señor Don Juan.  Juan could not
hesitate.  "I will go to-morrow morning," he said to Carlos; "but rest
assured I will return hither as soon as possible; the days are too
precious to be lost."

Together they repaired once more to Doña Isabella’s house. Don Juan told
the friends they met there of his intended departure, and ere they
separated many a hand warmly grasped his, and many a voice spoke kindly
the "Vaya con Dios" for his journey.

"It needs not formal leave-takings, señores and my brethren," said Juan;
"my absence will be very short; not next Sunday indeed, but possibly in
a fortnight, and certainly this day month I shall meet you all here
again."

"_God willing_," said Losada gravely.  And so they parted.




                                 XXII.

                        The Flood-Gates Opened.


    "And they feared as they entered into the cloud."


For the first stage of Don Juan’s journey Carlos accompanied him.  They
spent the time in animated talk, chiefly about Nuera, Carlos sending
kind messages to the dying man, to Dolores, and indeed to all the
household.  "Remember, brother," he said, "to give Dolores the little
books I put into the alforjas, specially the ’Confession of a Sinner.’"

"I shall remember everything, even to bringing thee back tidings of all
the sick folk in the village.  Now, Carlos, here we agreed to part;--no,
not one step further."

They clasped each other’s hands.  "It is not like a long parting," said
Juan.

"No.  Vaya con Dios, my Ruy."

"Quede con Dios,[#] brother;" and he rode off, followed by his servant.


[#] Remain with God.


Carlos watched him wistfully; would he turn for a last look? He _did_
turn.  Taking off his velvet montero, he gaily bowed farewell; thus
allowing Carlos to gaze once more upon his dark, handsome, resolute
features, keen, sparkling eyes and curling black hair.

Whilst Juan saw a scholar’s face, thoughtful, refined, sensitive; a
broad pale forehead, from which the breeze had blown the waving fair
hair (fair to a southern eye, though really a bright soft brown), and
lips that kept the old sweetness of expression, though, whether from the
manly fringe that graced them or from some actual change, the weakness
which marred them once had ceased to be apparent now.

Another moment, and both had turned their horses’ heads. Carlos, when he
reached the city, made a circuit to avoid one of the very frequent
processions of the Host; since, as time passed on, he felt ever more and
more disinclined to the absolutely necessary prostration.  Afterwards he
called upon Losada, to inquire the exact address of a person whom he had
asked him to visit.  He found him engaged in his character of physician,
and sat down in the patio to await his leisure.

Ere long Dr. Cristobal passed through, politely accompanying to the gate
a canon of the cathedral, for whose ailments he had just been
prescribing.  The Churchman, who was evidently on the best terms with
his physician, was showing his good-nature and affability by giving him
the current news of the city; to which Losada listened courteously, with
a grave, quiet smile, and, when necessary, an appropriate question or
comment. Only one item made any impression upon Carlos: it related to a
pleasant estate by the sea-side which Munebrãga had just purchased,
disappointing thereby a relative of the canon’s who desired to possess
it, but could not command the very large price readily offered by the
Inquisitor.

At last the visitor was gone.  In a moment the smile had faded from the
physician’s care-worn face.  Turning to Carlos with a strangely altered
look, he said, "The monks of San Isodro have fled."

"Fled?" Carlos repeated, in blank dismay.

"Yes; no fewer than twelve of them have abandoned the monastery."

"How did you hear it?"

"One of the lay brethren came in this morning to inform me. They held
another solemn Chapter, in which it was determined that each one should
follow the guidance of his own conscience, those, therefore, to whom it
seemed best to go have gone, the rest remain."

For some moments they looked at each other in silence.  So fearful was
the peril in which this rash act involved them all, that it almost
seemed as if they had heard a sentence of death.

The voice of Carlos faltered as he asked at last,--"Have Fray Cristobal
or Fray Fernando gone?"

"No; they are both amongst those, more generous if not more wise, who
have chosen to remain and take what God will send them here.  Stay, here
is a letter from Fray Cristobal which the lay brother brought me; it
will tell you as much as I know myself."

Carlos read it carefully.  "It seems," he said, when he had finished,
"that the consciences of those who fled would not allow them any longer
to conform, even outwardly, to the rules of their order.  Moreover, from
the signs of the times, they believe that a storm is about to burst upon
the company of the faithful."

"God grant it may prove that they have saved _themselves_ from its
violence," Losada answered, with a slight emphasis on "themselves."

"And for us?--God help us!" Carlos almost moaned, the paper falling from
his trembling hand.  "What shall we do?"

"Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might," returned Losada
bravely.  "No other strength remains for us. But God grant none of us in
the city may be so unadvised as to follow the example of the brethren.
The flight of one might be the ruin of all."

"And those noble, devoted men who remain at San Isodro?"

"Are in God’s hands, as we are."

"I will ride out and visit them, especially Fray Fernando."

"Excuse me, Señor Don Carlos, but you will do nothing of the kind; that
were to court suspicion.  I will bear any message you choose to send."

"And you?"

Losada smiled, though sadly.  "The physician has occasion to go," he
said; "he is a very useful personage, who often covers with his ample
cloak the _dogmatizing heretic_."

Carlos recognized the official phraseology of the Holy Office. He
repressed a shudder, but could not hide the look of terror that dilated
his large blue eyes.

The older man, the more experienced Christian, could compassionate the
youth.  Losada, himself standing "face to face with death," spoke kind
words of counsel and comfort to Carlos.  He cautioned him strongly
against losing his self-possession, and thereby running needlessly into
danger. "Especially would I urge upon you, Señor Don Carlos," he said,
"the duty of avoiding unnecessary risk, for already you are useful to
us; and should God spare your life, you will be still more so.  If I
fall--"

"Do not speak of it, my beloved friend."

"It will be as God pleases," said the pastor calmly.  "But I need not
remind you, others stand in like peril with me. Especially Fray
Cassiodoro, and Don Juan Ponce de Leon."

"The noblest heads, the likeliest to fall," Carlos murmured.

"Then must younger soldiers step forth from the ranks, and take up the
standards dropped from their hands.  Don Carlos Alvarez, we have high
hopes of you.  Your quiet words reach the heart; for you speak that
which you know, and testify that which you have seen.  And the good
gifts of mind that God has given you enable you to speak with the
greater acceptance. He may have much work for you in his harvest-field.
But whether he should call you to work or to suffer, shrink not, but ’be
strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for
the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’"

"I will try to trust him; and may he make his strength perfect in my
weakness," said Carlos.  "But for the present," he added, "give me any
lowly work to do, whereby I may aid you or lighten your cares, my loved
friend and teacher."

Losada gladly gave him, as indeed he had done several times before,
instructions to visit certain secret inquirers, and persons in distress
and perplexity of mind.

He passed the next two or three days in these ministrations, and in
constant prayer, especially for the remaining monks of San Isodro, whose
sore peril pressed heavily on his heart.  He sought, as much as
possible, to shut out other thoughts; or, when they would force an
entrance, to cast their burden, which otherwise would have been
intolerable, upon Him who would surely care for his own Church, his few
sheep in the wilderness.

One morning he remained late in his chamber, writing a letter to his
brother; and then went forth, intending to visit Losada.  As it was a
fast-day, and he kept the Church fasts rigorously, it happened that he
had not previously met any of his uncle’s family.

The entrance to the physician’s house did not present its usual cheerful
appearance.  The gate was shut and bolted, and there was no sign of
patients passing in or out Carlos became alarmed.  It was long before he
obtained an answer to his repeated calls.  At last, however, some one
inside cried, "_Quien es?_"[#]


[#]  Who is there?


Carlos gave his name, well known to all the household.

Then the door was half opened, and a mulatto serving-lad showed a
terrified face behind it.

"Where is Señor Cristobal?"

"Gone, señor."

"Gone!--whither?"

The answer was a furtive, frightened whisper.  "Last night--the
Alguazils of the Holy Office."  And the door was shut and bolted in his
face.

He stood rooted to the spot, speechless and motionless, in a trance of
horror.  At last he was startled by feeling some one grasp his arm
without ceremony, indeed rather roughly.

"Are you moonstruck, Cousin Don Carlos?" asked the voice of Gonsalvo.
"At least you might have had the courtesy to offer me the aid of your
arm, without putting me to the shame of requesting it, miserable cripple
that I am!" and he gave vent to a torrent of curses upon his own
infirmities, using expressions profane and blasphemous enough to make
Carlos shiver with pain.

Yet that very pain did him real service.  It roused him from his stupor,
as sharp anguish sometimes brings back a patient from a swoon.  He said,
"Pardon me, my cousin, I did not see you; but I hear you now--with
sorrow."

Gonsalvo deigned no answer, except his usual short, bitter laugh.

"Whither do you wish to go?"

"Home.  I am tired."

They walked along in silence; at last Gonsalvo asked, abruptly,--

"Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"The news that is in every one’s mouth to-day.  Indeed, the city has
well nigh run mad with holy horror.  And no wonder!  Their reverences,
the Lords Inquisitors, have just discovered a community of abominable
Lutherans, a very viper’s nest, in our midst.  It is said the wretches
have actually dared to carry on their worship somewhere in the town.
Ah, no marvel you look horror-stricken, my pious cousin.  You could
never have dreamed that such a thing was possible, could you?"  After
one quick, keen glance, he did not look again in his cousin’s face; but
he might have felt the beating of his cousin’s heart against his arm.

"I am told," he continued, "that nearly two hundred persons have been
arrested already."

"_Two hundred!_" gasped Carlos.

"And the arrests are going on still."

"Who is taken?" Carlos forced his trembling lips to ask.

"Losada; more’s the pity.  A good physician, though a bad Christian."

"A good physician, and a good Christian too," said Carlos in the voice
of one who tries to speak calmly in terrible bodily pain.

"An opinion you would do more wisely to keep to yourself, if a reprobate
such as I may presume to counsel so learned and pious a personage."

"Who else?"

"One you would never guess.  Don Juan Ponce de Leon, of all men.  Think
of the Count of Baylen’s son being thus degraded!  Also the master of
the College of Doctrine, San Juan; and a number of Jeromite friars from
San Isodro.  Those are all I know worth a gentleman’s taking account of.
There are some beggarly tradesfolk, such as Medel d’Espinosa, the
embroiderer; and Luis d’Abrego, from whom your brother bought that
beautiful book of the Gospels he gave Doña Beatriz.  But if only such
cattle were concerned in it, no one would care."

"Some fools there be," Don Gonsalvo continued after a pause, "who have
run to the Triana, and informed against themselves, thinking thereby to
get off more easily.  _Fools_, again I say, for their pains."  And he
emphasized his words by a pressure of the arm on which he was leaning.

At length they reached the door of Don Manuel’s house. "Thanks for your
aid," said Gonsalvo.  "Now that I remember it, Don Carlos, I hear also
that we are to have a grand procession on Tuesday with banners and
crosses, in honour of Our Lady, and of our holy patronesses Justina and
Rufina, to beg pardon for the sin and scandal so long permitted in the
midst of our most Catholic city.  You, my pious cousin, licentiate of
theology and all but consecrated priest--you will carry a taper, no
doubt?"

Carlos would fain have left the question unanswered; but Gonsalvo meant
to have an answer.  "You will?" he repeated, laying his hand on his arm,
and looking him in the face, though with a smile.  "It would be very
creditable to the family for one of us to appear.  Seriously; I advise
you to do it."

Then Carlos said quietly, "_No_;" and crossed the patio to the staircase
which led to his own apartment.

Gonsalvo stood watching him, and mentally retracting, at his last word,
the verdict formerly pronounced against him as "a coward," "not half a
man."




                                 XXIII.

                          The Reign of Terror


    "Though shining millions around thee stand,
    For the sake of him at thy right hand
    Think of the souls he died for here,
    Thus wandering in darkness, in doubt and fear.

    "The powers of darkness are all abroad--
    They own no Saviour, and they fear no God;
    And we are trembling in dumb dismay;
    Oh, turn not thou thy face away."--Hogg


It was late in the evening when Carlos emerged from his chamber.  How
the intervening hours had been passed he never told any one.  But this
much is certain,--he contended with and overcame a wild, almost
uncontrollable impulse to seek refuge in flight.  His reason told him
that this would be to rush upon certain destruction: so sedulously
guarded were all the ways of egress, and so watchful and complete, in
every city and village of the land, was the inquisitorial organization;
not to speak of the "Hermandad," or Brotherhood--a kind of civil police,
always ready to co-operate with the ecclesiastical authorities.

Still, if he could not be saved, Juan might and should.  This thought
was growing gradually clearer and stronger in his bewildered brain and
aching heart while he knelt in his chamber, finding a relief in the
attitude of prayer, though few and broken were the words of prayer that
passed his trembling lips.  Indeed, the burden of his cry was this:
"Lord, have mercy on us.  Christ, have mercy on us.  Thou that carest
for us, forsake us not in our bitter need.  For thine is the kingdom;
even yet thou reignest."

This was all he could find to plead, either on his own behalf or on that
of his imprisoned brethren; though for them his heart was wrung with
unutterable anguish.  Once and again did he repeat--"_Thine_ is the
kingdom and the power.  Thine, O Father; thine, O Lord and Saviour.
Thou canst deliver us."

It was well for him that he had Juan to save.  He rose at last; and
added to the letter previously written to his brother a few lines of
most earnest entreaty that he would on no account return to Seville.
But then, recollecting his own position, he marvelled greatly at his
simplicity in purposing to send such a letter by the King’s post--an
institution which, strange to say, Spain possessed at an earlier period
than any other country in Europe.  If he should fall under suspicion,
his letter would be liable to detention and examination, and might thus
be the means of involving Juan in the very peril from which he sought to
deliver him.

A better plan soon occurred to him.  That he might carry it out, he
descended late in the evening to the cool, marble-paved court, or
_patio_, in the centre of which the fountain ever murmured and
glistened, surrounded by tropical plants, some of them in gorgeous
bloom.

As he had hoped, one solitary lamp burned like a star in a remote
corner; and its light illumined the form of a young girl seated on a low
chair, before an inlaid ebony table, writing busily.  Doña Beatriz had
excused herself from accompanying the family on an evening visit, that
she might devote herself in undisturbed solitude to the composition of
her first love-letter--indeed, her first letter of any kind: for short
as he intended his absence to be, Juan had stipulated for this
consolation, and induced her to premise it; and she knew that the King’s
post went northwards the next day, passing by Nuera on his way to the
towns of La Mancha.

So engrossing was her occupation that she did not hear the step of
Carlos.  He drew near, and stood behind her.  Pearls, golden Agni, and a
scarlet flower or two, were twined with her glossy raven hair; and the
lamp shed a subdued radiance over her fine features, which glowed
through their delicate olive with the rosy light of joy.  An exquisite
though not very costly perfume, that Carlos in other days always
associated with her presence, still continued a favourite with her, and
filled the place around with fragrance.  It brought back his memory to
the past--to that wild, vain, yet enchanting dream; the brief romance of
his life.  But there was no time now even for "a dream within a dream."
There was only time to thank God, from the depths of his soul, that in
all the wide world there was no heart that would break for _him_.

"Doña Beatriz," he said gently.

She started, and half turned, a bright flush mounting to her cheek.

"You are writing to my brother."

"And how know you that, Señor Don Carlos?" asked the young lady, with a
little innocent affectation.

But Carlos, standing face to face with terrible realities, pushed aside
her pretty arts, as one hastening to succour a dying man might push
aside a branch of wild roses that impeded his path.

"I most earnestly request of you, señora, to convey to him a message
from me."

"And wherefore can you not write to him yourself, Señor Licentiate?"

"Is it possible, señora, that you know not what has happened?"

"Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos! how you startle one.--Do you mean these
horrible arrests?"

Carlos found that a few strong, plain words were absolutely necessary in
order to make Beatrix understand his brother’s peril.  She had listened
hitherto to Don Juan’s extracts from Scripture, and the arguments and
exhortations founded thereon, conscious, indeed, that these were secrets
which should be jealously guarded, yet unconscious that they were what
the Church and the world branded as heresy.  Consequently, although she
heard of the arrest of Losada and his friends with vague regret and
apprehension, she was far from distinctly associating the crime for
which they suffered with the name dearest to her heart.  She was still
very young; and she had not thought much--she had only loved.  And she
blindly followed him she loved, without caring to ask whither he was
going himself, or whither he was leading her.  When at last Carlos made
her comprehend that it was for reading the Scriptures, and talking of
justification by faith alone, that Losada was thrown into the dungeons
of the Triana, a thrilling cry of anguish broke from her lips.

"Hush, señora!" said Carlos; and for once his voice was stern.  "If even
your little black foot-page heard that cry, it might ruin all."

But Beatrix was unused to self-control.  Another cry followed, and there
were symptoms of hysterical tears and laughter.  Carlos tried a more
potent spell.

"Hush, señora!" he repeated.  "We must be strong and silent, if we are
to save Don Juan."

She looked piteously up at him, repeating, "Save Don Juan?"

"Yes, señora.  Listen to me.  _You_, at least, are a good Catholic.  You
have not compromised yourself in any way: you say your angelus; you make
your vows; you bring flowers to Our Lady’s shrine.  _You_ are safe."

She turned round and faced him--her cheek dyed crimson, and her eyes
flashing,--

"I am safe!  Is that all you have to say?  Who cares for that?  What is
_my_ life worth?"

"Patience, dear señora!  Your safety aids in securing his. Listen.--You
are writing to him.  Tell him of the arrests; for hear of them he must.
Use the language about heresy which will occur to you, but which--God
help me!--I could not use.  Then pass from the subject.  Write aught
else that comes to your mind; but before closing your letter, say that I
am well in mind and body, and would be heartily recommended to him.  Add
that I most earnestly request of him, for our common good and the better
arrangement of our affairs, not to return to Seville, but to remain at
Nuera.  He will understand that.  Lay your own commands upon him--your
_commands_, remember, señora--to the same effect."

"I will do all that.--But here come my aunt and cousins."

It was true.  Already the porter had opened for them the gloomy outer
gate; and now the gilt and filagreed inner door was thrown open also,
and the returning family party filled the court.  They were talking
together; not quite so gaily as usual, but still eagerly enough.  Doña
Sancha soon drew near to Beatrix, and began to rally her upon her
occupation, threatening playfully to carry away and read the unfinished
letter.  No one addressed a word to Carlos; but that might have been
mere accident.

It was, however, scarcely accidental that his aunt, as she passed him on
her way to an inner room, drew her mantilla closer round her, lest its
deep lace fringe might touch his clothing.  Shortly afterwards Doña
Sancha dropped her fan. According to custom, Carlos stooped for it, and
handed it to her with a bow.  The young lady took it mechanically, but
almost immediately dropped it again with a look of scorn, as if polluted
by its touch.  Its delicate carved ivory, the work of Moorish hands, lay
in fragments on the marble floor; and from that moment Carlos knew that
he was under the ban, that he stood alone amidst his uncle’s
household--a suspected and degraded man.

It was not wonderful.  His intimacy with the monks of San Isodro, his
friendship with Don Juan Ponce de Leon, and with the physician Losada,
were all well-known facts.  Moreover, had he not taught at the College
of Doctrine, under the direct patronage of Fernando de San Juan, another
of the victims. And there were other indications of his tendencies which
could scarcely escape notice, once the suspicions of those who lived
under the same roof with him were awakened.

For a time he stood silent, watching his uncle’s countenance, and
marking the frown that contracted his brow whenever his eye turned
towards him.  But when Don Manuel passed into a smaller saloon that
opened upon the court, Carlos followed him boldly.

They stood face to face, but could hardly see each other. The room was
darkness, save for a few struggling moonbeams.

"Señor my uncle," said Carlos, "I fear my presence here is displeasing
to you."

Don Manuel paused before replying.

"Nephew," he said at length, "you have been lamentably imprudent.  The
saints grant you have been no worse."

A moment of strong emotion will sometimes bring out in a man’s face
characteristic lineaments of his family, in calmer seasons not traceable
there.  Thus it is with features of the soul. It was not the gentle
timid Don Carlos who spoke now, it was Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya.
There was both pride and courage in his tone.

"If it has been my misfortune to offend my honoured uncle, to whom I owe
so many benefits, I am sorry, though I cannot charge myself with any
fault.  But I should be faulty indeed were I to prolong my stay in a
house where I am no longer what, thanks to your kindness, señor my
uncle, I have ever been hitherto, a welcome guest."  Having spoken thus,
he turned to go.

"Stay, young fool!" cried Don Manuel, who thought the better of him for
his proud words.  They raised him, in his estimation, from a mark for
his scorn to a legitimate object for his indignation.  "There spoke your
father’s voice.  But I tell you, for all that, you shall not quit the
shelter of my roof."

"I thank you."

"You may spare the pains.  I ask you not, for I prefer to remain in
ignorance, to what perilous and fool-hardy lengths your intimacy with
heretics may have gone.  Without being a Qualificator of heresy myself,
I can tell that you smell of the fire.  And indeed, young man, were you
anything less than Alvarez de Meñaya, I would hardly scorch my own
fingers to hold you out of it.  The Devil--to whom, in spite of all your
fair appearances, I fear you belong--might take care of his own. But
since truth is the daughter of God, you shall have it from my lips.  And
the plain truth is, that I have no desire to hear every cur dog in
Seville barking at me and mine; nor to see our ancient and honourable
name dragged through the mire and filth of the streets."

"I have never disgraced that name."

"Have I not said that I desire no protestations from you? Whatever my
private opinion may be, it stands upon our family honour to hold that
yours is still unstained.  Therefore, not from love, as I tell you
plainly, but from motives that may perchance prove stronger in the end,
I and mine extend to you our protection.  I am a good Catholic, a
faithful son of Mother Church; but I freely confess I am no hero of the
Faith, to offer up upon its shrine those that bear my own name.  I
pretend not to such heights of sanctity, not I."  And Don Manuel
shrugged his shoulders.

"I entreat of you, señor my uncle, to allow me to explain--"

Don Manuel waved his hand with a forbidding gesture. "None of thy
explanations for me," he said.  "I am no silly cock, to scratch till I
find the knife.  Dangerous secrets had best be let alone.  This I will
say, however, that of all the contemptible follies of these evil times,
this last one of heresy is the worst.  If a man _will_ lose his soul, in
the name of common sense let him lose it for fine houses, broad lands, a
duke’s title, an archbishop’s coffers, or something else good at least
in this world.  But to give all up, and to gain nothing, save fire here
and fire again hereafter!  It is sheer, blank idiocy."

"I _have_ gained something," said Carlos firmly.  "I have gained a
treasure worth more than all I risk, more than life itself."

"What!  Is there really a meaning in this madness?  Have you and your
friends a secret?" Don Manuel asked in a gentler voice, and not without
curiosity.  For he was the child of his age; and had Carlos told him
that the heretics had made the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, he
would have seen nothing worthy of disbelief in the statement; he would
only have asked him for proofs.

"The knowledge of God in Christ," began Carlos eagerly, "gives me joy
and peace--"

"_Is that all?_" cried Don Manuel with an oath.  "Fool that I was, to
imagine, for half an idle minute, that there might be some grain of
common sense still left in your crazy brain!  But since it is only a
question of words and names, and mystical doctrines, I have the honour
to wish you good evening, Señor Don Carlos.  Only I command you, as you
value your life, and prefer a residence beneath my roof to a dungeon in
the Triana, to keep your insanity within bounds, and to conduct yourself
so as to avert suspicion.  On these conditions we will shelter you.
Eventually, if it can be done with safety, we may even ship you out of
the Spains to some foreign country, where heretics, rogues, and thieves
are permitted to go at large."  So saying, he left the room.

Carlos was stung to the quick by his contempt; but remembered at last
that it was a fragment of the true cross (really the first that had
fallen to his lot) given him to wear in honour of his Master.

Sleep would not visit his eyes that night.  The next day was the
Sabbath, a day he had been wont to welcome and enjoy. But never again
should the Reformed Church of Seville meet in the upper room which had
been the scene of so much happy intercourse.  The next reunion was
appointed for another place, a house not made with hands, eternal in the
heavens.  Doña Isabella de Baena and Losada were in the dungeons of the
Triana.  Fray Cassiodoro de Reyna, singularly fortunate, had succeeded
in making his escape.  Fray Constantino, on the other hand, had been
amongst the first arrested; but Carlos went as usual to the Cathedral,
where that eloquent voice would never again be heard.  A heavy silent
gloom, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, seemed to fill the
crowded aisles.

Yet it was there that the first gleam of comfort reached the breaking
heart of Carlos.  It came to him through the familiar words of the Latin
service, loved from childhood.

He said afterwards to the trembling children of one of the victims,
whose desolated home he dared to visit, "For myself, horror took hold of
me.  I dared not to think.  I scarce dared to pray, save in broken words
that were only like cries of pain. The first thing that helped me was
that grand verse in the Te Deum, chanted by the sweet childish voices of
the Cathedral choir--’Tu, devicto mortis aculeo, aperuesti credentibus
regna coelorum.’  Think, dear friends, not death alone, but its sting,
its sharpness,--for us and our beloved,--He has overcome, and they and
we in him.  The gates of the kingdom of heaven stand open; opened by his
hands, and neither men nor fiends can shut them again."

Such words as these did Carlos find opportunity to speak to many
bereaved ones, from whom the desire of their eyes had been taken by a
stroke far more bitter than death.  This ministry of love did not
greatly increase his own peril, since the less he deviated from his
ordinary habits of life the less suspicion he was likely to awaken.  But
had it been otherwise, he was not now in a position to calculate.
Perhaps he was too near heaven; at all events, he had already ventured
too much for Christ’s sake not to be willing, at his call, to venture a
little more.

Meanwhile, the isolation of his position in his uncle’s house grew
overpowering.  No one reproached him, no one taunted him, not even
Gonsalvo.  He often longed for some bitter word, ay, though it were a
curse, to break the oppressive silence.  Every eye looked upon him with
hatred and scorn; every hand shrank from the slightest, most accidental
contact with his.  Almost he came to consider himself what all others
considered him,--polluted, degraded--under the ban.

Once and again would he have sought escape by flight from an atmosphere
in which it seemed more and more impossible to breathe.  But flight
meant arrest; and arrest, besides its overwhelming terrors for himself,
meant the danger of betraying Juan.  His uncle and his uncle’s family,
though they seemed now to scorn and hate him, had promised to save him
if they could, and so far he trusted them.




                                 XXIV.

                            A Gleam of Light


    "It is a weary task to school the heart,
    Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery throbbings,
    Into that still and passive fortitude
    Which is but learned from suffering."--Hemans


Shortly afterwards, the son and heir of Doña Inez was baptized, with the
usual amount of ceremony and rejoicing.  After the event, the family and
friends partook of a merienda of fruit, confectionery, and wine, in the
patio of Don Garçia’s house.  Much against his inclination, Carlos was
obliged to be present, as his absence would have occasioned remark and
inquiry.

When the guests were beginning to disperse, the hostess drew near the
spot where he stood, near to the fountain, admiring, or seeming to
admire, a pure white azalia in glorious bloom.

"In good sooth, cousin Don Carlos," she said, "you forget old friends
very easily.  But I suppose it is because you are going so soon to take
Orders.  Every one knows how learned and pious you are.  And no doubt
you are right to wean yourself in good time from the concerns and
amusements of this unprofitable world."

No word of this little speech was lost upon one of the neatest gossips
in Seville, a lady of rank, who stood near, leaning on the arm of
Losada’s former patient, the wealthy Canon.  And this was what the
speaker, in her good nature, probably intended.

Carlos raised to her face eyes beaming with gratitude for the friendly
notice.

"No change of state, señora, can ever make me forget the kindness of my
fair cousin," he responded with a bow.

"Your cousin’s little daughter," said the lady, "had once a place in
your affections.  But with you, as with all the rest, I presume the boy
is everything.  As for my poor little Inez, her small person is of small
account in the world now.  It is well she has her mother."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to renew my acquaintance
with Doña Inez, if I may be permitted so to do."

This was evidently what the mother desired.  "Go to the right then,
amigo mio," she said promptly, indicating the place intended by a quick
movement of her fan, "and I will send the child to you."

Carlos obeyed, and for a considerable time paced up and down a cool
spacious apartment, only separated from the court by marble pillars,
between which costly hangings were suspended.  Being a Spaniard, and
dwelling among Spaniards, he was neither surprised nor disconcerted by
the long delay.

At last, however, he began to suspect that his cousin had forgotten him.
But this was not the case.  First a painted ivory ball rolled in over
the smooth floor; then one of the hangings was hastily pushed aside, and
the little Doña Inez bounded gaily into the room in search of her toy.
She was a merry, healthy child, about two years old, and really very
pretty, though her infantine charms were not set off to advantage by the
miniature nun’s habit in which she was dressed, on account of a vow made
by her mother to "Our Lady of Carmel," during the serious illness for
which Carlos had summoned Losada to her aid.

She was followed almost immediately, not by the grave elderly nurse who
usually waited on her, but by a girl of about sixteen, rather a beauty,
whose quick dark eyes bestowed, from beneath their long lashes, bashful
but evidently admiring glances on the handsome young nobleman.

Carlos, ever fond of children, and enjoying the momentary relief from
the painful tension of his daily life, stooped for the ball and held it,
just allowing its bright red to appear through his fingers.  As the
child was not in the least shy, he was soon engaged in a game with her.

Looking up in the midst of it, he saw that the mother had come in
silently, and was watching him with searching anxious eyes that brought
back in a moment all his troubles.  He allowed the ball to slide to the
ground, and then, with a touch of his foot, sent it rolling into one of
the farthest corners of the spacious hall.  The child ran gleefully
after it; while the mother and the attendant exchanged glances.  "You
may take the noble child away, Juanita," said the former.

Juanita led off her charge without again allowing her to approach
Carlos, thus rendering unnecessary the ceremony of a farewell.  Was this
the mother’s contrivance, lest by spell of word or gesture, or even by a
kiss, the heretic might pollute or endanger the innocent babe?

When they were alone together, Doña Inez was the first to speak.  "I do
not think you can be so wicked after all; since you love children, and
play with them still," she said in a low, half-frightened tone.

"God bless you for those words, señora," answered Carlos with a
trembling lip.  He was learning to steel himself to scorn; but kindness
tested his self-control more severely.

"Amigo mio," she resumed, drawing nearer and speaking more rapidly, "I
cannot quite forget the past.  It is very wrong, I know, and I am weak.
Ay de mi!  If it be true you really are that dreadful thing I do not
care to name, I ought to have the courage to stand by and see you
perish."

"But my kinsfolk," said Carlos, "do not intend me to perish.  And for
the protection they afford me I am grateful. More I could not have
expected from them; less they might well have done for me.  But I would
to God I could show them and you that I am not the foul dishonoured
thing they deem me."

"If it had only been something _respectable_," said Doña Inez, with a
sort of writhe, "such as some youthful irregularity, or stabbing or
slaying somebody!--but what use in words?  I would say, I counsel you to
look to your own safety. Do you not know my brothers?"

"I think I do, señora.  That an Alvarez de Meñaya should be defamed of
heresy would be more than a disgrace--it would be a serious injury to
them."

"There be more ways than one of avoiding the misfortune."

Carlos looked inquiringly at her.  Something in her half-averted face
and the quick shrug of her shoulders prompted him to ask, "Do you think
they mean me mischief?"

"Daggers are sharp to cut knots," said the lady, playing with her fan
and avoiding his eye.

With so many ghastlier terrors had the mind of Carlos grown familiar,
that this one came to him in the guise of a relief.  So "the sharpness
of death" for him might mean no more than a dagger’s thrust, after all!
One moment here, the next in his Saviour’s presence.  Who that knew
aught of the tender mercies of the Holy Office could do less than thank
God on his bended knees for the prospect of such a fate!

"It is not _death_ that I fear," he answered, looking at her steadily.

"But you may as well live; nay, you had better live.  For you may
repent, may save your unhappy soul.  I shall pray for you."

"I thank you, dear and kind señora; but, through the grace of God, my
soul is saved already.  I believe in Jesus Christ--"

"Hush! for Heaven’s sake!" Doña Inez interrupted, dropping her fan and
putting her fingers in her ears.  "Hush! or ere I am aware I shall have
listened to some dreadful heresy. The saints help me!  How should I know
just where the good Catholic words end, and the wicked ones begin?  I
might be caught in the web of the evil one; and then neither saint nor
angel, no, nor even Our Lady herself, could deliver me.  But listen to
me, Don Carlos, for at all events I would save your life."

"I will listen gratefully to aught from your lips."

"I know that you dare not attempt flight from the city at present.  But
if you could lie concealed in some safe and quiet place within it till
this storm has blown over, you might then steal away unobserved.  Don
Garçia says that now there is such a keen search made after the
Lutherans, that every man who cannot give a good account of himself is
like to be taken for one of the accursed sect.  But that cannot last for
ever; in six months or so the panic will be past.  And those six months
you may spend in safety, hidden away in the lodging of my
_lavandera_."[#]


[#] Washerwoman.


"You are kind--"

"Peace, and listen.  I have arranged the whole matter. And once you are
there, I will see that you lack nothing.  It is in the Morrero;[#] a
house hidden in a very labyrinth of lanes, a chamber in the house which
a man would need to look for very particularly ere he found it."


[#] Moorish quarter of the city.


"How shall _I_ succeed in finding it?"

"You noticed the pretty girl who led in my little Inez? Pepe, the
lavandera’s son, is ready to die for the love of her. She will describe
you to him, and engage his assistance in the adventure, telling him the
story I have told her, that you wish to conceal yourself for a season,
having stabbed your rival in a love affair."

"O Doña Inez!  _I?_--almost a priest!"

"Well, well; do not look so horror-stricken, amigo mia. What could I do?
I dared not give them a hint of the truth, or both my hands full of
double ducats would not have tempted them to stir in the affair.  So I
thought no shame of inventing a crime for you that would win their
interest and sympathy, and dispose them to aid you."

"Passing strange," said Carlos.  "Had I only sinned against the law of
God and the life of my neighbour, they would gladly help me to escape;
did they dream that I read his words in my own tongue, they would give
me up to death."

"Juanita is a good little Christian," remarked Doña Inez; "and Pepe also
is a very honest lad.  But perhaps you may find some sympathy with the
old crone of a lavandera, who is of Moorish blood, and, it is whispered,
knows more of Mohammed than she does of her Breviary."

Carlos disclaimed all connection with the followers of the false
prophet.

"How should I know the difference?" said Doña Inez.  "I thought it was
all the same, heresy and heresy.  But I was about to say, Pepe is a
gallant lad, a regular _majo_; his hand knows its way either amongst the
strings of a guitar, or on the hilt of a dagger.  He has often served
caballeros who were out of nights serenading their ladies; and he will
go equipped as if for such an adventure.  You, also, bind a guitar on
your shoulder (you could use one in old times, and to good purpose too,
if you have not forgotten all Christian accomplishments together); bribe
old Sancho to leave the gates open, and sally forth to-morrow night when
the clock strikes the midnight hour.  Pepe will wait for you in the
Calle del Candilejo until one."

"To-morrow night?"

"I would have named to-night, but Pepe has a dance to attend.  Moreover,
I knew not whether I could arrange this interview in sufficient time to
prepare you.  Now, cousin," she added anxiously, "you understand your
part, and you will not fail in it."

"I understand everything, señora my cousin.  From my heart I thank you
for the noble effort to save me.  Whether in its result it shall prove
successful or no, already it is successful in giving me hope and
strength, and renewing my faith in old familiar kindness."

"Hush! that step is Don Garçia’s.  It is best you should go."

"Only one word more, señora.  Will my generous cousin add to her
goodness by giving my brother, when it can be done with safety, a hint
of how it has fared with me?"

"Yes; that shall be cared for.  Now, adios."

"I kiss your feet, señora,"

She hastily extended her hand, upon which he pressed a kiss of
friendship and gratitude.  "God bless you, my cousin," he said.

"Vaya con Dios," she responded.  "For it is our last meeting," she added
mentally.

She stood and watched the retreating figure with tears in her bright
eyes, and in her heart a memory that went back to old times, when she
used to intercede with her rough brothers for the delicate shrinking
child, who was younger, as well as frailer, than all the rest.  "He was
ever gentle and good, and fit to be a holy priest," she thought.  "Ay de
mi, for the strange, sad change!  Yet, after all, I cannot see that he
is so greatly changed.  Playing with the child, talking with me, he is
just the same Carlos as of old.  But the devil is very cunning. God and
Our Lady keep us from his wiles!"




                                  XXV.

                                Waiting.


    "Our night is dreary, and dim our day,
    And if thou turn thy face away,
    We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
    And have none to look to and none to trust."--Hogg


Thus was Carlos roused from the dull apathy of forced inaction.  With
the courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and simple
preparations for his flight that were in his power.  He also visited as
many as he could of his afflicted friends, feeling that his ministry
among them was now drawing to a close.

He rejoined his uncle’s family as usual at the evening meal. Don
Balthazar, the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but soon
came in, looking so much disturbed that his father asked, "What is
amiss?"

"There is nothing amiss, señor and my father," answered the young man,
as he raised a large cup of Manzanilla to his lips.

"Is there any news in the city?" asked his brother Don Manuel.

Don Balthazar set down the empty cup.  "No great news," he answered.  "A
curse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar."

"What! more arrests," said Don Manuel the elder.  "It is awful.  The
number reached eight hundred yesterday.  Who is taken now?"

"A priest from the country, Doctor Juan Gonzalez, and a friar named
Olmedo.  But that is nothing.  They might take all the Churchmen in all
the Spains, and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana for
me.  It is a different matter when we come to speak of ladies--ladies,
too, of the first families and highest consideration."

A slight shudder, and a kind of forward movement, as if to catch what
was coming, passed round the table.  But Don Balthazar seemed reluctant
to say more.

"Is it any of our acquaintances?" asked the sharp, high-pitched voice of
Doña Sancha at last.

"Every one is acquainted with Don Pedro Garçia de Xeres y Bohorques.  It
is--I tremble to tell you--his daughter."

"_Which?_" cried Gonsalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on his
livid face and fierce eager eyes.

"St. Iago, brother!  You need not look thus at me.  Is it my fault?--It
is the learned one, of course, Doña Maria. Poor lady, she may well wish
now that she had never meddled with anything beyond her Breviary."

"Our Lady and all the saints defend us!  Doña Maria in prison for
heresy--horrible!  Who will be safe now?" the ladies exclaimed, crossing
themselves shudderingly.

But the men used stronger language.  Fierce and bitter were the
anathemas they heaped upon heresy and heretics.  Yet it is only just to
say that, had they dared, they might have spoken differently.  Probably
in their secret hearts they meant the curses less for the victims than
for their oppressors; and had Spain been a land in which men might speak
what they thought, Gonzales de Munebrãga would have been devoted to a
lower place in hell than Luther or Calvin.

Only two were silent.  Before the eye of Carlos rose the sweet
thoughtful face of the young girl, as he had seen it last, radiant with
the faith and hope kindled by the sublime words of heavenly promise
spoken by Losada.  But the sight of another face--still, rigid,
death-like--drove that vision away. Gonsalvo sat opposite to him at the
table.  And had he never heard the strange story Doña Inez told him,
that look would have revealed it all.

Neither curse nor prayer passed the white lips of Gonsalvo. Not one of
all the bitter words, found so readily on slighter occasions, came now
to his aid.  The fiercest outburst of passion would have seemed less
terrible to Carlos than this unnatural silence.

Yet none of the others, after the first moment, appeared to notice it.
Or if they did observe anything strange in the look and manner of
Gonsalvo, it was imputed to physical pain, from which he often suffered,
but for which he rejected, and even resented, sympathy, until at last it
ceased to be offered him. Having given what expression they dared to
their outraged feelings, they once more turned their attention to the
unfinished repast.  It was not at all a cheerful meal, yet it was duly
partaken of, except by Gonsalvo and Carlos, both of whom left the table
as soon as they could without attracting attention.

Willingly would Carlos have endeavoured to console his cousin; but he
did not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he saw
the anguish of his soul.

One day still remained to him before his flight.  In the morning, though
not very early, he set out to finish his farewell visits to his friends.
He had not gone many paces from the house, when he observed a gentleman
in plain black clothing, with sword and cloak, look at him regardfully
as he passed.  A moment afterwards the same person, having apparently
changed his mind as to the direction in which he wished to go, hurried
by him at a rapid pace; and with a murmured "Pardon, señor," thrust a
billet into his hand.

Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him of
some danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding lanes with
which the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe from
observation, cast a hasty glance at the billet.

His eye just caught the words, "His reverence the Lord Inquisitor--Don
Gonsalvo--after midnight--revelations of importance--strict secrecy."
What did it all mean?  Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousin
intended betraying him to the Inquisition?  He did not believe it.  But
the sound of approaching footsteps made him thrust the paper hastily
away; and in another moment his sleeve was grasped by Gonsalvo.

"Give it to me," said his cousin in a breathless whisper.

"Give you what?"

"The paper that born idiot and marplot put into thy hands, mistaking
thee for me.  Curse the fool!  Did he not know I was lame?"

Carlos showed the note, still holding it.  "Is this what you mean?" he
asked.

"You have read it!  _Honourable_!" cried Gonsalvo, with a bitter sneer.

"You are unjust to me.  It bears no address; and I could not suppose
otherwise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read the
few disconnected words upon which my eye first chanced to fall."

The cousins stood gazing in each other’s faces; as those might do that
meet in mortal combat, ere they close hand to hand.  Each was pondering
whether the other was capable of doing him a deadly injury.  Yet, after
all, each held, at the bottom of his heart, a conviction that the other
might be trusted.

Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the first
to come to a conclusion.  Almost with a smile he handed the note to
Gonsalvo.  "Whatever yon mysterious billet may mean to Don Gonsalvo," he
said, "I am convinced that he means no harm to any one bearing the name
of Alvarez de Meñaya."

"You will never repent that word.  And it is true--in the sense you
speak it," returned Gonsalvo, taking the paper from his hand.  At that
moment he was irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or no.  But the
touch of his cousin’s hand decided him.  It was cold and trembling.  One
so weak in heart and nerve was obviously unfit to share the burden of a
brave man’s desperate resolve.

Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Gonsalvo intended no ill to
him.  But what then did he intend?  Had he solicited the Inquisitor for
a private midnight interview merely to throw himself at his feet, and
with impassioned eloquence to plead the cause of Doña Maria?  Were
"important revelations" only a blind to procure his admission?

Impossible! who, past the age of infancy, would kneel to the storm to
implore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage?
Perhaps some dreamy enthusiast, unacquainted with the world and its
ways, might still be found sanguine enough for such a project, but
certainly not Don Gonsalvo Alvarez de Meñaya.

Or had he a bribe to offer?  Inquisitors, like other Churchmen, were
known to be subject to human frailties; of course they would not touch
gold, but, according to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invited
to throw it into their cowls. And Munebrãga could scarcely have fed his
numerous train of insolent retainers, decked his splendid barge with
gold and purple, and brought rare plants and flowers from every known
country to his magnificent gardens, without very large additions to the
acknowledged income of the Inquisitor-General’s deputy. But, again, not
all the wealth of the Indies would avail to open the gates of the Triana
to an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of "his
Reverence" upon the merits of a _doubtful_ case.  And even to procure a
few slight alleviations in the treatment of the accused, would have
required a much deeper purse than Gonsalvo’s.

Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was "bitter of soul;" ready for
any desperate deed.  What if he meant to accuse _himself_.  Amidst the
careless profanity in which he had been too wont to indulge, many a word
had fallen from his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine in the
estimation of Inquisitors, comparatively lenient as they were to
_blasphemers_. But what possible benefit to Doña Maria would be gained
by his throwing himself into the jaws of death?  And if it were really
his resolve to commit suicide, by way of ending his own miseries, he
could surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painful
manner.

Thus Carlos pondered; but in whatever way he regarded the matter, he
could not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerous
or fatal step.  Gonsalvo was too still, too silent.  This was an evil
sign.  Carlos would have felt comparatively easy about him had he made
him shrink and shudder by an outburst of the fiercest, most indignant
curses.  For the less emotion is wasted in expression, the more remains,
like pent-up steam, to drive the engine forward in its course. Moreover,
there was an evil light in Gonsalvo’s eye; a gleam like that of hope,
but hope that was certainly not kindled from above.

Although the very crisis of his own fate was now approaching, and every
faculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was haunted
perpetually by the thought of his cousin.  It continued to occupy him
not only during his visits to his friends, but afterwards in the
solitude and silence of his own apartment.  We all know the strange
perversity with which, in times of suspense and sorrow, the mind will
sometimes run riot upon matters irrelevant, and even apparently trivial.

With slow footsteps the hours stole on; miserable hours to Carlos,
except in so far as he could spend them in prayer, now his only resource
and refuge.  After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his dear
imprisoned brethren and sisters, he named Gonsalvo; and was led most
earnestly to implore God’s mercy for his unhappy cousin.  As he thought
of his misery, so much greater than his own; his loneliness, without God
in the world; his sorrow, without hope,--his pleading grew impassioned.
And when at last he rose from his knees, it was with that sweet sense
that God would hear--nay, that he _had_ heard--which is one of the
mysteries of the new life, the precious things that no man knoweth save
he that receiveth them.

Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simple
preparations, took his guitar (which had now lain unused for a long
time), and sallied forth from his chamber.




                                 XXVI.

                         Don Gonsalvo’s Revenge


    "Our God, the all just,
    Unto himself reserves this royalty,
    The secret chastening of the guilty heart;
    The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies--
    Leave it with him.  Yet make not that thy trust;
    For that strong heart of thine--oh, listen yet!--
    Must in its depths o’ercome the very wish
    Of death or torture to the guilty one,
    Ere it can sleep again."--Hemans


Don Manuel’s house had once belonged to a Moorish Cid, or lord.  It had
been assigned to the first Conde de Nuera, as one of the original
_conquistadors_ of Seville; and he had bequeathed it to his second son.
It had a turret, after the Moorish fashion, and the upper chamber of
this had been given to Carlos on his first arrival in the city; from an
idea that the theological student would require a solitary place for
study and devotion, or, at least, that it would be decorous to suppose
so.  The room beneath had been occupied by Don Juan, but since his
departure it was appropriated by Gonsalvo, who liked solitude, and took
advantage of his improved health to escape from the ground-floor, to
which his infirmities had long confined him.

As Carlos stole noiselessly down the narrow winding stair, he noticed a
light in his cousin’s room.  This in itself did not surprise him.  But
he certainly felt a little disconcerted when, just as he passed the
door, Don Gonsalvo opened it, and met him face to face.  He also was
fully equipped in sword and cloak, and carried a torch in his hand.

"Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos," he said reproachfully; "after all, thou
couldst not trust me."

"Nay, I did trust you."

From fear of being overheard, both entered the nearest room--Don
Gonsalvo’s--and its owner closed the door softly.

"You are stealing away from fear of me, and thereby throwing yourself
into the fire.  Do it not, Don Carlos; be advised, and do it not."  He
spoke earnestly, and without a shadow of the old bitterness and sarcasm.

"Nay, it is not thus.  My flight was planned ere yesterday; and in
concert with one who both can and will provide me with the means of
safety.  It is best I should go."

"Enough said then," returned Gonsalvo, more coldly. "Farewell; I seek
not to detain you.  Farewell; for though we may go forth together, our
paths divide, and for ever, at the door."

"Your path is perhaps less safe than mine, Don Gonsalvo."

"Talk of what you understand, cousin.  My path is safety itself.  And
now that I think of it (if you could be trusted), you might aid me
perhaps.  Did you know all, I dare not doubt that you would rejoice to
do it."

"God knows how joyfully I would aid you if I could, Don Gonsalvo.  But I
fear you are bound on a useless, and worse than useless, errand."

"You know not my errand."

"But I know to whom you go this night.  Oh, my cousin, is it possible
you can dream that prayer of yours will soften hearts harder than the
nether millstone?"

"I know the way to one heart; and though it be the hardest of all, I
shall reach it."

"Were you to pour the wealth of El Dorado at the feet of Gonzales de
Munebrãga, he neither would nor could unloose one bolt of that prison."

Gonsalvo’s wild look changed suddenly into one of wistful earnestness,
almost of tenderness.  He said, lowering his voice,--

"Near as death, the revealer of secrets, may be to me, there are still
some questions worth the asking.  Perchance _you_ can throw a gleam of
light upon this horrible darkness.  We are speaking frankly now, and as
in God’s presence.  Tell me, _it that charge true_?"

"Frankly, and in the sense in which you ask--it is."

The last fatal words Carlos only whispered.  Gonsalvo made no answer;
but a kind of momentary spasm passed across his face.

Carlos at length went on in a low voice: "She knew the Evangel long
before I did, though she is so young--not yet one-and-twenty.  She was
the pupil of Dr. Egidius; but he was wont to say he learned more from
her than she did from him. Her keen, bright intellect cut through
sophistries, and reached truth so quickly.  And God gave her abundantly
of his grace; making her willing, for that truth, to endure all things.
Oft have I seen her sweet face kindle and glow whilst he who taught us
spoke of the joy and strength given to those that suffer for the name of
Christ.  I am persuaded He is with her now, and will be with her even to
the end.  Could you gain access to her where she is, I think she would
tell you she possesses a treasure of peace of which neither death nor
suffering, neither cruelty of fiends nor worse cruelty of fiend-like
men, can avail to rob her."

"She is a saint--she will be a blessed saint in heaven, let them say
what they may," murmured Gonsalvo hoarsely.  Then the fierce look
returned to his face again.  "But I think the old Christians of Castile,
the men whose good swords made the infidels bite the dust, and planted
the cross on their painted towers, are no better than curs and
dastards."

"In that they suffer these things?"

"Yes; a thousand times, yes.  In the name of man’s honour and woman’s
loveliness, are there, in our good city of Seville, neither fathers, nor
brothers, nor lovers left alive?  No man who thinks the sweetest eyes
ever seen worth six inches of steel in five skilful fingers?  No one
man, save the poor forgotten cripple, Don Gonsalvo Alvarez.  But he
thanks God this night that he has spared his life, and left strength
enough in his feeble limbs to bear him into a murderer’s presence."

"Don Gonsalvo! what do you mean?" cried Carlos, shrinking from him.

"Lower thy voice, an’ it please thee.  But why should I fear to tell
thee--_thee_, who hast good cause to be the death-foe of Inquisitors?
If thou art not cur and dastard too, thou wilt applaud and pray for me.
For I suppose heretics pray, at least as well as Inquisitors.  I said I
would reach the heart of Gonzales de Munebrãga this night.  Not with
gold.  There is another metal of keener temper, which enters in where
even gold cannot come."

"Then you mean--_murder_?" said Carlos, again drawing near him, and
laying his hand on his arm.  Gonsalvo sank into a seat, half
mechanically, half from an instinct that led him to spare the strength
he would need so sorely by-and-by.

In the momentary pause that followed, the clock of San Vicente tolled
the midnight hour.

"Yes," replied Gonsalvo steadily; "I mean murder--as the shepherd does
who strangles the wolf with his paw on the lamb."

"Oh, think--"

"I have thought of everything.  And mark me, Don Carlos, I have but one
regret.  It is that my weapon deals an instantaneous death.  Such
revenge is poor and flavourless after all. I have heard of poisons whose
least drop, mingling with the blood, ensures a slow agonizing
death--time to learn what torture means, and to drain to the dregs the
cup filled for others--to curse God and man ere he dies.  For a phial of
such, wherewith to anoint my blade, I would sell my soul to-night."

"O Gonsalvo, this is horrible!  They are wild, wicked words you speak.
Pray God to pardon you!"

"I adjure him by his justice to prosper me," said Gonsalvo, raising his
head defiantly.

"He will not prosper you.  And do you dream that such a mad achievement
(suppose you even succeed in it) will open prison-doors and set captives
free?  Alas! alas! that we are not at the mercy of a tyrant’s _will_.
For tyrants, the worst of them, sometimes relent; and--they are mortal.
That which is crushing us is not a living being, an organism with
nerves, and brain, and blood.  It is a system, a THING, a terrible
engine, that moves on in its resistless way, cold and lifeless, without
will or feeling.  Strong as adamant, it kills, tortures, destroys;
obeying laws far away out of our sight.  Were Valdez and Munebrãga, and
all the Board of Inquisitors, dead corpses by the morning light, not a
single dungeon in the Triana would open its pitiless gate."

"I do not believe _that_," replied Gonsalvo, rather more quietly.
"Surely there must be some confusion, of which advantage may be taken by
friends of the prisoners.  This, indeed, is the motive which now induces
me to confide in you.  You may know those who, if they had the chance,
could strike a shrewd blow to save their dearest on earth from torture
and death."

But Gonsalvo read no answer in the sorrowful face of Carlos to the
searching look of inquiry with which he said this.  After a silence he
went on,--

"Suppose the worst, however.  The Holy Office sorely needs a little
blood-letting, and will be much the better for it. Whoever succeeds,
Munebrãga will have my dagger flashing in his eyes, and will take care
how he deals with his prisoners, and whom he arrests."

"I implore you to think of yourself," said Carlos.

Gonsalvo smiled.  "I know I shall pay the forfeit," he said, "even as
those who slew the Inquisitor Pedro Arbues before the high altar in
Saragossa, But"--here the smile faded, and the stern set look returned
to his face--"I shall not pay more, for a man’s triumphant vengeance,
than those fiends will dare to inflict upon a tender, delicately
nurtured girl for the crime of a mystic meditation, or a few words of
prayer not properly rounded off with an Ave."

"True.  But then you will suffer alone.  She has God with her."

"I _can_ suffer alone."

For that word Carlos envied him.  _He_ shrank in terror from loneliness,
from suffering, shuddering at the very thought of the dungeon and the
torture-room.  And just then the first quarter of his hour of grace
chimed from the clock of San Vicente. What if he and Pepe should fail to
meet?  He would not think of that now.  Whatever happened, Gonsalvo
_must_ be saved. He went on,--

"Here you can suffer alone and be strong.  But how will you endure the
loneliness of the long hereafter, away from God’s presence, from light
and life and hope?  Are you content that you, and she for whom you give
your life, should be sundered throughout eternity?"

"Nay; I am casting my lot in with hers.  If the Church curses her (pure
and holy as she ever was), its anathema shall fall on me too.  If only
the Church’s key opens heaven, she and I will both stand without."

"Yet you know she will enter heaven.  Shall _you_?"

Gonsalvo hesitated.  "It will not be the blood of a villain that will
bar my way," he said.

"God says, ’Thou shall not kill.’"

"Then what will he do with Gonzales de Munebrãga?"

"He will do that with him of which, if you but dreamed, it would change
your fiercest hate into saddest, deepest pity. Have you realized what a
span is our life here compared with the countless ages of eternity?
Think!  For God’s chosen a few weeks, or months at most, of solitude and
fear and pain, ended perhaps by--but that is as he pleases; _ended_, at
all events. Then add up the million years, fill them with the joy of
victory, and the presence and love of Christ himself.  Can they not, and
we for them, be content with this?"

"Are you content with it yourself?" Gonsalvo suddenly interrupted.  "You
seek flight."

The glow faded from the face of Carlos, and his eyes sank to the ground.
"Christ has not called me yet," he answered in a lower tone.  There was
a silence; then he resumed: "Turn now to the other side.  Would you
change, even this hour, with Gonzales de Munebrãga?  But take him from
his wealth, and his pomp, and his sinful luxuries, all defiled with
blood, and what remains for him?  Everlasting fire, prepared for the
devil and his angels."

"Everlasting fire!" Gonsalvo repeated, as if the thought pleased him.

"Leave him in God’s hand.  It is a stronger hand than yours, Don
Gonsalvo."

"Everlasting fire!  I would send him there to-night."

"And whither would you send your own sinful soul?"

"God might pardon, though the Church cursed."

"Possibly.  But to enter God’s heaven you need something besides
pardon."

"What?" asked Gonsalvo, half wearily, half incredulously.

"’Holiness; without which no man can see the Lord.’"

"Holiness?" Gonsalvo questioned, as if the word was strange to him, and
he attached no meaning to it.

"Yes," Carlos went on, with intense and ever increasing earnestness;
"unless, even from that passionate heart of yours, revenge and hatred
are banished, you can never see God, never come where--"

"Hold thy peace, trifler!" Gonsalvo interrupted with angry impatience.
"Too long have I tarried, listening to thine idle talk.  Priests and
women are content with words; brave men _act_.  Farewell to thee!"

"One word more, only one."  Carlos drew near and laid his hand on his
cousin’s arm.  "Nay, you _shall_ listen to me. Seemeth it to you a thing
incredible that that heart of yours can be changed and softened to a
love like His who prayed on the cross for his murderers?  Yet it can be.
_He_ can do it. He gives pardon, holiness, peace.  Peace of which you
dream not now, but which _she_ knows full well.  O Don Gonsalvo, better
join her where she is going, than wildly, rashly, and most uselessly
peril your soul to avenge her!"

"Uselessly!  Were that true indeed--"

"Ay de mi! who can doubt it?"

"Would I had time for thought!"

"Take it, in God’s name, and pray him to keep you from a great crime."

For a few moments he sat still--still as the dead.  Then he started
suddenly.  "Already the hour is passing," he exclaimed; "I shall be too
late.  Fool that I was, to be almost moved from my purpose by the idle
words of a--The weakness is past now.  Still, ere we part, give me thy
hand, Don Carlos, for, on my faith, I never liked thee half so well."

Very sorrowfully Carlos extended it, rather wondering as he did so that
the energetic Gonsalvo failed to spring from his seat and prepare to be
gone.

Gonsalvo stirred not, even to take the offered hand.  A deathlike
paleness overspread his face, and a cry of terror had well nigh broken
from his lips.  But he choked it back.

"Something is strangely wrong with me," he faltered.  "I cannot move.  I
feel dead--_dead_--from the waist down."

"God has spoken to you from heaven," said Carlos solemnly. He felt as if
a miracle had been wrought in his presence.  His Protestantism had not
freed him from the superstitions of his age.  Had he lived three
centuries later, he would have seen nothing miraculous in the disease
with which Gonsalvo was stricken, but rather have called it the natural
result of intense agitation and excitement, acting upon a frame already
weakened.

Yet the reckless Gonsalvo was the more superstitious of the two.  He was
at war with the creed in which he had been nurtured; but that older and
deeper kind of superstition which has its root in human nature had, for
this very reason, a stronger hold upon him.

"Dead--dead!" he repeated, the words falling from his lips in broken,
awe-struck whispers.  "The limbs I misused! The feet that led me into
sin!  God--God have mercy upon me!  It is thy hand!"

"It is his hand; a sign he has not forsaken thee; that he means to bring
thee back to himself.  Oh, my cousin, do not despair.  Hope yet in his
mercy, for it is great."

Carlos knelt down beside him, took his passive hand in his, and spoke
earnest, loving words of hope and comfort.  The last quarter, ere the
single stroke that should announce that the hour appointed for his own
flight was past, chimed from the clock on the church tower.  Yet he did
not move--he had forgotten self.  At last, however, he said, "But it may
be something can be done to relieve you.  You ought to have medical aid
without delay.  I should have thought of this before.  I will rouse the
household."

"No; that would endanger you.  Go on your way, and bid the porter do it
when you are gone."

It was too late, the household _was_ roused.  A loud authoritative
knocking at the outer gate sent the blood back from the hearts of both
with sudden and horrible fear.

There was a sound of opening gates, followed by
footsteps--voices--cries.

Gonsalvo was the first to understand all.  "The Alguazils of the Holy
Office!" he exclaimed.

"I am lost!" cried Carlos, large drops gathering on his brow.

"Conceal yourself," said Gonsalvo; but he knew his words were vain.
Already his quick ear had caught the sound of his cousin’s name; and
already footsteps were on the stairs.

Carlos glanced round the room.  For a moment his eye rested on the
window, eighty feet above the ground.  Better spring from it and perish!
No, that would be self-murder.  In God’s name he would await them
manfully.

"You will be searched," Gonsalvo whispered hurriedly; "have you aught
about your person that may add to your danger?"

Carlos drew from its place of concealment the heroic Juliano’s treasured
gift.

"I will hide it," said his cousin; and taking it hastily, he slipped it
beneath his inner vest, where it lay in strange neighbourhood with a
small, exquisitely tempered poniard, destined never to be used.

The torch-light within, perhaps the voices, guided the Alguazils to that
room.  A hand was placed on the door. "They are coming, Don Carlos,"
cried Gonsalvo; "I am thy murderer."

"No--no fault of thine.  Always remember that," said Carlos, in his
sharpest anguish generous still.  Then for one brief moment, that seemed
an age, he was deaf to all outward things.  Afterwards he was himself
again.

And something more than himself perhaps.  Now, as in other moments of
intense excitement, the spirit of his race descended on him.  When the
Alguazils entered, it was Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya who
met them, with folded arms, with steadfast eye, and pale but dauntless
forehead.

All was quiet, regular, and most orderly.  Don Manuel, roused from his
slumbers, appeared with the Alguazils, and respectfully requested a
sight of the warrant upon which they proceeded.

It was produced; and all could see that it was duly signed, and sealed
with the famous seal--the sword and olive branch, the dog with the
flaming brand, the sorely outraged, "Justitia et misericordia."

Had Don Manuel Alvarez been king of all the Spains, and Carlos his
heir-apparent, he dared not have offered the least resistance then.  He
had no wish to resist, however; he bowed obsequiously, and protested his
own and his family’s devotion to the Faith and the Holy Office.  But he
added (perhaps merely as a matter of form), that he could bring many
witnesses of unimpeachable character to testify to his nephew’s
orthodoxy, and hoped to succeed in clearing him from whatever odious
imputation had induced their Reverences to order his arrest.

Meanwhile Gonsalvo gnashed his teeth in impotent rage and despair.  He
would have bartered his life for two minutes of health and strength in
which to rush suddenly on the Alguazils, and give Carlos time to escape,
let the consequences of such frantic audacity be what they might.  But
the bands of disease, stronger than iron, made the body a prison for the
indignant, tortured spirit.

Carlos spoke for the first time.  "I am ready to go with you," he said
to the chief of the Alguazils.  "Do you wish to examine my apartment?
You are welcome.  It is the chamber over this."

Having gone over every detail of such a scene a thousand times in
imagination, he knew that the examination of papers and personal effects
usually formed a part of it.  And he had no fears for the result, as, in
preparation for his flight, he had carefully destroyed everything that
he thought could implicate himself or any one else.

"Don Carlos--cousin!" cried Gonsalvo suddenly, as surrounded by the
officers he was about to leave the room.  "Vaya con Dios!  A braver man
than you have I never seen."

Carlos turned on him one long, sorrowful gaze.  "_Tell Ruy_," he said.
That was all.

Then there was trampling of footsteps overhead, and the sound of voices,
not excited or angry, but cool, business-like, even courteous.

Then the footsteps descended, passed the door of Gonsalvo’s room,
sounded along the corridor, grew fainter on the great staircase, died
away in the court.

Less than an hour afterwards, the great gate of the Triana opened to
receive a new victim.  The grave familiar held it, bowing low, until the
prisoner and his guard had passed through. Then it was swung to again,
and barred and bolted, shutting out from Don Carlos Alvarez all help and
hope, all charity and all mercy--save only the mercy of God.




                                 XXVII.

                          My Brother’s Keeper


    "Since she loved him, he went carefully,
    Bearing a thing so precious in his hand."--George Eliot


About a week afterwards, Don Juan Alvarez dismounted at the door of his
uncle’s mansion.  His shout soon brought the porter, a "pure and ancient
Christian," who had spent nearly all his life in the service of the
family.

"God save you, father," said Juan.  "Is my brother in the house!"

"No, señor and your worship,"--the old man hesitated, and looked
confused.

"Where shall I find him, then?" cried Juan; "speak at once, if you
know."

"May it please your noble Excellency, I--I know nothing. At least--the
Saints have mercy on us!" and he trembled from head to foot.

Juan thrust him aside, nearly knocking him down in his haste, and dashed
breathless into his uncle’s private room, on the right hand side of the
patio.

Don Manuel was there, seated at a table, looking over some papers.

"Where is my brother?" asked Juan sternly and abruptly, searching his
face with his keen dark eyes.

"Holy Saints defend us!" cried Don Manuel, nearly startled out of his
ordinary decorum.  "And what madness brings you here?"

"Where is my brother?" Juan repeated, in the same tone, and without
moving a muscle.

"Be quiet--be reasonable, nephew Don Juan.  Do not make a disturbance;
it will be worse for all of us.  We did all we could--"

"For Heaven’s sake, señor, will you answer me?"

"Have patience.  We did all we could for him, I was about to say; and
more than we ought.  The fault was his own, if he was suspected and
taken--"

"_Taken_!  Then I come too late."  Sinking into the nearest seat, he
covered his face with both hands, and groaned aloud.

Don Manuel Alvarez had never learned to reverence the sacredness of a
great sorrow.  "Rushing in" where such as he might well fear to tread,
he presumed to offer consolation. "Come, then, nephew Don Juan," he
said, "you know as well as I do that ’water that has run by will turn no
mill,’ and that ’there is no good in throwing the rope after the
bucket.’  No man can alter that which is past.  All we can do is to
avoid worse mischief in future."

"When was it?" asked Juan, without looking up.

"A week agone."

"Seven days and nights!"

"Thereabouts.  But _you_--are you in love with destruction yourself,
that, when you were safe and well at Nuera, you must needs come hither
again?"

"I came to save him."

"Unheard of folly!  If _you_ have been meddling with these matters--and
it is but too likely, seeing you were always with him (though, the
Saints forbid I should suspect an honourable soldier like you of
anything worse than imprudence)--do you not know they will wring the
whole truth out of _him_ with very little trouble, and your life is not
worth a brass maravedì?"

Juan started to his feet, and glared scorn and defiance in his uncle’s
face.  "Whoever dares to hint so vile a slander," he cried, "by my faith
he shall repent it, were he my uncle ten times over.  Don Carlos Alvarez
never did, and never will, betray a trust, let those wretches deal with
him as they may. But I know him; he will die, or worse,--they will make
him mad."  Here Juan’s voice failed, and he stood in silent horror,
gazing on the dread vision that rose before his mind.

Don Manuel was daunted by his vehemence.  "You are the best judge
yourself of what amount of danger you may be incurring," he said.  "But
let me tell you, Señor Don Juan, that I hold you rather a dangerous
guest to harbour under the circumstances.  To have the Alguazils of the
Holy Office twice in my house would be enough to cost me all my places,
not to mention the disgrace of it."

"You shall not lose a real by me or mine," returned Juan proudly.

"I did not mean, however, to refuse you hospitality," said Don Manuel,
relieved, yet a little uneasy, perhaps even remorseful.

"But I mean to decline it, señor.  I have only two favours to ask of
you," he continued: "one, to allow me free intercourse with my
betrothed; the other, to permit me"--his voice faltered, stopped.  With
a great effort he resumed--"to permit me to examine my brother’s room,
and whatever effects he may have left there."

"Now you speak more rationally," said his uncle, mistaking the
self-control of indignant pride for genuine calmness.  "But as to your
brother’s effects, you may spare your pains; for the Alguazils set the
seal of the Holy Office upon them on the night of his arrest, and they
have since carried them away.  As to the other matter, what Doña Beatriz
may think of the connection, after the infamy in which your branch of
the family is involved, I cannot tell."

A burning flush mounted to Juan’s cheek as he answered, "I trust my
betrothed; even as I trust my brother."

"You can see the lady herself.  She may be better able than I to
persuade you to consult for your own safety.  For if you are not a
madman, you will return at once to Nuera, which you ought never to have
quitted; or you will take the earliest opportunity of rejoining the
army."

"I shall not stir from Seville till I obtain my brother’s deliverance;
or--"  Juan did not name the other alternative. Involuntarily he placed
his hand on his belt, in which he had concealed certain old family
jewels, which he believed would produce a considerable sum of money; for
his last faint hope for Carlos lay in a judicious appeal to the
all-powerful "Don Dinero."[#]


[#] The Lord Dollar.


"You will _never_ leave it, then," said Don Manuel.  "And you must hold
me excused from aiding and abetting your folly. Your brother’s business
has cost me and mine more than enough already.  I had rather ten
thousand times that a man had died of the plague in my house, were it
for the scandal’s sake alone!  Nor, bad as it is, is the scandal all.
Since that miserable night, my unhappy son Gonsalvo, in whose apartment
the arrest took place, has been sick unto death, and out of his mind."

"Don Gonsalvo!  What brought my brother to his room?"

"The devil, whose servant he is, may know; I do not.  He was found
there, in his sword and cloak, as if ready to go forth, when the
officers came."

"Did he leave no message--no word for me?"

"Not one word.  I know not if he spoke at all, save to offer to show the
Alguazils his personal effects.  To do him justice, nothing suspicious
was found amongst them.  But the less said on the subject the better.  I
wash my hands of it, and of him. I thought he would have done honour to
the family; but he has proved its sorest disgrace."

"Señor, what you say of him you say of me also," said Juan, glowing
white with anger.  "And already I have heard quite enough."

"That is as you please, Señor Don Juan."

"I shall only trespass upon you for the favour you have promised
me--permission to wait upon Doña Beatriz."

"I shall apprise her of your presence, and give her leave to act as she
sees fit."  And glad to put an end to the interview, Don Manuel left the
room.

Juan sank into a seat once more, and gave himself up to an agony of
grief for his brother.

So absorbed was he in his sorrow, that a light footstep entered and
approached unheard by him.  At last a small hand touched his arm.  He
started and looked up.  Whatever his anguish of heart might be, he was
still the loyal lover of Doña Beatriz.  So the next moment found him on
his knees saluting that hand with his lips.  And then followed certain
ceremonies abundantly interesting to those who enact them, but apt to
prove tedious when described.

"My lady’s devoted slave," said Don Juan, using the ordinary language of
the time, "bears a breaking heart to-day.  We knew neither father nor
mother; there were but the two of us."

"Did you not receive my letter, praying you to remain at Nuera?" asked
the lady.

"Pardon me, queen of my heart, in that I dared to disregard a wish of
yours.  But I knew _his_ danger, and I came to save him.  Alas! too
late."

"I am not sure that I do pardon you, Don Juan."

"Then, I presume so far as to say, that I know Doña Beatriz better than
she knows herself.  Indeed, had I acted otherwise, she would scarce have
pardoned me.  How would it have been possible for me to consult for my
own safety, leaving him alone and unaided, in such fearful peril?"

"You acknowledge there is peril--_to you_?"

"There may be, señora."

"Ay de mi!  Why, in Heaven’s name, have you thus involved yourself?  O
Don Juan, you have dealt very cruelly with me!"

"Light of my eyes, life of my life, what mean you by these words?"

"Was it not cruel to allow your brother, with his gentle, winning ways,
and his soft specious words, to lead you step by step from the faith of
our fathers, until he had you entangled in I know not what horrible
heresies, and made you put in peril your honour, your liberty, your
life--everything?"

"We only sought Truth."

"Truth!" echoed the lady, with a contemptuous stamp of her small foot
and twirl of her fan.  "What is Truth?  What good will Truth do me if
those cruel men drag you from your bed at midnight, take you to that
dreadful place, stretch you on the rack?"  But that last horror was too
much to bear; Doña Beatrix hid her face in her hands, and wept and
sobbed passionately.

Juan soothed her with every tender, lover-like art.  "I will be very
prudent, dearest lady," he said at last; adding, as he gazed on her
beautiful face, "I have too much to live for not to hold life very
precious."

"Will you promise to fly--to leave the city now, before suspicions are
awakened which may make flight impossible?"

"My first and my only love, I would die to fulfil your slightest wish.
But this thing I cannot do."

"And wherefore not, Señor Don Juan?"

"Can you ask?  I must hazard everything, spend everything, in the
chance--if there be a chance--of saving him, or, at least, of softening
his fate."

"Then God help us both," said Doña Beatriz.

"Amen!  Pray to him day and night, señora.  Perhaps he may have pity on
us."

"There is no chance of saving Don Carlos.  Know you not that of all the
prisoners the Holy House receives, scarce one in a thousand goes forth
again to take his place in the world?"

Juan shook his head.  He knew well that his task was almost hopeless;
yet, even by Doña Beatriz, he was not to be moved from his
determination.

But he thanked her in strong, passionate words for her faith in him and
her truth to him.  "No sorrow can divide us, my beloved," he said, "nor
even what they call shame, falsely as they speak therein.  You are my
star, that shines on me throughout the darkness."

"I have promised."

"My uncle’s family may seek to divide us, and I think they will.  But
the lady of my heart will not heed their idle words?"

Doña Beatriz smiled.  "I am a Lavella," she said.  "Do you not know our
motto?--’True unto death.’"

"It is a glorious motto.  May it be mine too."

"Take heed what you do, Don Juan.  If you love me, you will look well to
your footsteps, since, wherever they lead, mine are bound to follow."
Saying this, she rose, and stood gazing in his face with flushed cheek
and kindling eyes.

The words were such as might thrill any lover’s heart with joy and
gratitude.  Yet there was something in the look which accompanied them
that changed joy and gratitude into vague fear and apprehension.  The
light in that dark eye seemed borrowed from the fire of some sublime but
terrible resolve within.  Juan’s heart quailed, though he knew not why,
as he said, "My queen should never tread except through flowery paths."

Doña Beatriz took up a little golden crucifiz that, attached to a rosary
of coral beads, hung from her girdle.  "You see this cross, Don Juan?"

"Yes, señora mia."

"On that horrible night when they dragged your brother to prison, I
swore a sacred oath upon it.  You esteemed me a child, Don Juan, when
you read me chapters from your book, and talked freely to me about God,
and faith, and the soul’s salvation.  Perchance I was a child in some
things.  For I supposed them good words; how could they be otherwise,
since you spoke them?  I listened and believed, after a fashion; half
thinking all the time of the pretty fans and trinkets you brought me, or
of the pattern of such and such an one’s mantilla that I had seen at
mass.  But your brother tore the veil from my eyes at last, and made me
understand that those specious words, with which a child played
childishly, were the crime that finds no pardon here or hereafter.  Of
the hereafter I know not; of the here I know too much, God help me!
There be fair ladies, not more deeply involved than I, who have changed
their gilded saloons for the dungeons of the Triana.  But then it
matters not so much about me.  For I am not like other girls, who have
fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers to care for them.  Saving Don
Carlos (who was good to me for your sake), no one ever gave me more than
the half-sorrowful, half-pitying kindness one might give a pet parrot
from the Indies. Therefore, thinking over all things, and knowing well
your reckless nature, Señor Don Juan, I swore that night upon this holy
cross, that if by evil hap _you_ were attainted for heresy, _I_ would go
next day to the Triana and accuse myself of the same crime."

Juan did not for a moment doubt that she would do it; and thus a chain,
light as silk but strong as adamant, was flung around him.

"Doña Beatriz, for my sake--" he began to plead.

"For _my_ sake, Don Juan will take care of his life and liberty," she
interrupted, with a smile that, if it had a little sadness, had very far
more of triumph in it.  She knew the power her resolve gave her over
him: she had bought it dearly, and she meant to use it.  "Is it _still_
your wish to remain here," she continued; "or will you go abroad, and
wait for better times?"

Juan paused for a moment.

"No choice is left me while Carlos pines uncomforted in a dungeon," he
said at last, firmly, though very sorrowfully.

"Then you know what you risk, that is all," answered the lady, whose
will was a match for his.

In a marvellously short time had love and sorrow transformed the young
and childish girl into a passionate, determined woman, with all the fire
of her own southern skies in her heart.

Ere he departed, Juan pleaded for permission to visit her frequently.
But here again she showed a keen-sighted apprehensiveness for _him_,
which astonished him.  She cautioned him against their cousins, Manuel
and Balthazar; who, if they thought him in danger of arrest, were quite
capable of informing against him themselves, to secure a share of his
patrimony.  Or they might gain the same end, without the disgrace of
such a baseness, by putting him quietly out of the way with their
daggers. On all accounts, his frequent presence at the house would be
undesirable, and might be dangerous; but she agreed to inform him, by
means of certain signals (which they arranged together), when he might
pay a visit to her with safety.  Then, having bidden her farewell, Don
Juan turned his back on his uncle’s house with a heavy heart.




                                XXVIII.

                         Reaping the Whirlwind


    "All is lost, except a little life."--Byron


Nearly a fortnight passed away before a tiny lace kerchief, fluttering
at nightfall through the jealous grating of one of the few windows of
Don Manuel’s house that looked towards the street, told Juan that he was
at liberty to seek admission the next day.  He was permitted to enter;
but he explored the patio and all the adjacent corridors and rooms
without seeing the face of which he was in search. He did not, indeed,
meet any one, not even a domestic; for it was the eve of the Feast of
the Ascension, and nearly all the household had gone to see the great
tabernacle carried in state to the Cathedral and set up there, in
preparation for the solemnities of the following day.

He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visit
the apartment his brother had been wont to occupy.  In spite of what his
uncle had said to the contrary, and indeed of the dictates of his own
reason, he could not relinquish the hope that something which belonged
to him--perhaps even some word or line traced by his hand--might reward
his careful search.

He ascended the stairs; not stealthily, or as if ashamed of his errand,
for no one had the right to forbid him.  He reached the turret without
meeting any one, but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair that led
to its upper apartment, when a voice called out, not very loudly,--

"Chien va?"

It was Gonsalvo’s.  Juan answered,--

"It is I--Don Juan."

"Come to me, for Heaven’s sake!"

A private interview with a madman is not generally thought particularly
desirable.  But Juan was a stranger to fear.  He entered the room
immediately, and was horror-stricken at the change in his cousin’s
appearance.  A tangled mass of black hair mingled with his beard, and
fell neglected over the pillow; while large, wild, melancholy eyes lit
up the pallor of his wasted face.  He lay, or rather reclined, on a
couch, half covered by an embroidered quilt, but wearing a loose
doublet, very carelessly thrown on.

Of late the cousins had been far from friendly.  Still Juan from
compassion stretched out his hand.  But Gonsalvo would not touch it.

"Did you know all," he said, "you would stab me where I lie, and thus
make an end at once of the most miserable life under God’s heaven."

"I fear you are very ill, my cousin," said Juan, kindly; for he thought
Gonsalvo’s words the offspring of his wandering fancy.

"From the waist downwards I am dead.  It is God’s hand: and he is just."

"Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?"

With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered--"I
have no physician."

"This must be one of his delusions," thought Juan; "or else, since he
cannot have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see any
one else."

He said aloud,--"That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought not
to neglect lawful means of cure.  Señor Sylvester Areto is a very
skilful physician; you might safely place yourself in his hands."

"Only there is one slight objection--my father and my brothers would not
permit me to see him."

Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to extract
from him some additional information respecting his brother, he turned
the conversation.

"When did this malady seize you?" he asked.

"Close the door gently, and I will tell you all.  And oh! tread softly,
lest my mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out with
watching, should wake and separate us.  Then must I bear my guilt and my
anguish unconfessed to the grave."

Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin’s couch.

"Sit where I can see your face," said Gonsalvo; "I will not shrink even
from _that_.  Don Juan, I am your brother’s murderer."

Juan started, and his colour changed rapidly.

"If I did not think you were mad--"

"I am no more mad than you are," Gonsalvo interrupted. "I _was_ mad,
indeed; but that horrible night, when God smote my body, I regained my
reason.  I see all things clearly now--too late."

"Am I to understand, then," said Juan, rising from his seat, and
speaking in measured tones, though his eye was like a tiger’s--"am I to
understand that you--_you_--denounced my brother?  If so, thank God that
you are lying helpless there."

"I am not quite so vile a thing as that.  I did not intend to harm a
hair of his head; but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the means
of escape provided, and but for me would have been in safety ere the
Alguazils came."

"Well for both of us your guilt was not greater.  Still, you cannot
expect me--just yet--to forgive you."

"I expect no forgiveness from man," said Gonsalvo, who perhaps disdained
to plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos.

Juan had by this time changed his tone towards his cousin, and assumed
his perfect sanity; though, engrossed by the thought of his brother, he
was quite unconscious of the mental process by which he had arrived at
this conclusion.  He asked,--

"But why did you detain him?  How did you come to know at all of his
intended flight?"

"He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend--I know not whom,"
said Gonsalvo, in reply.  "He was going forth at midnight to seek it.
At the same hour I also"--(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly went
on)--"was going forth--to plunge a dagger in my enemy’s heart.  We met
face to face; and each confided his errand to the other.  He sought, by
argument and entreaty, to move me from a purpose which seemed to him a
great crime.  But ere our debate was ended, God laid his hand in
judgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking words of
comfort--brave and kind, though vain--the Alguazils came, and he was
taken."

Juan listened in gloomy silence.

"Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?" he asked at last, in a
low voice.

"Yes; one word.  Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met
his terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, ’Vaya con
Dios, Don Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!’  With one
long mournful look, that haunts me still, he said, ’_Tell Ruy!_’"

Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept.  They
were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him--almost the
first that he ever remembered shedding.  Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.

"Weep on," he said--"weep on; and thank God that thy tears are for
sorrow only, not for remorse."

Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame.  For some time they were
the only sounds that broke the stillness.  At length Gonsalvo said,
slowly,--

"He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee."

Juan looked up.  Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion from
beneath his head.  First he took off its outer cover of fine holland;
then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidental
rip, and, not without some trouble, drew out a small volume.  Juan
seized it eagerly: well did he know his brother’s Spanish Testament.

"Take it," said Gonsalvo; "but remember it is a dangerous treasure."

"Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it?"

"I deserve that you should say so," answered Gonsalvo, with unwonted
gentleness.  "But the truth is," he added, with a wan, sickly smile,
"nothing can part me from it now, for I have learned almost every word
of it by heart."

"How could you, in so short a time, accomplish such a task?" asked Juan,
in surprise.

"Easily enough.  I was alone long hours of the day, when I could read;
and in the silent, sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what I
read during the day.  But for that I should be in truth what they call
me--mad."

"Then you love its words?"

"I _fear_ them," cried Gonsalvo, with strange energy, flinging out his
wasted arm over the counterpane.  "They are words of life--words of
fire.  They are, to the Church’s words, the priest’s threatenings, the
priest’s pardons, what your limbs, throbbing with healthy vigorous life,
are to mine--cold, dead, impotent; or what the living champion--steel
from head to heel, the Toledo blade in his strong right hand--is to the
painted San Cristofro on the Cathedral door.  Because I dare to say so
much, my father pretends to think me mad; lest, wrecked as I am in mind
and body, I should still find one terrible consolation,--that of
flinging the truth for once in the face of the scribes and Pharisees,
and then suffering for it--like Don Carlos."

He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlike
countenance.  After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,--

"Some words are good--perhaps.  There was San Pablo, who was a
blasphemer, and injurious."

"Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand that
you shared his faith."

"Oh, did he?"  A quick flush overspread the wan face. "But hark! a step
on the stairs!  My mother’s."

"I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here," said Don Juan.

"My poor mother!  She has shown me more tenderness of late than I
deserved at her hands.  Do not let us involve her in trouble."

Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some words
of condolence upon his cousin’s illness.  But he saw that the poor lady
was terribly disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence there.
And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might have
followed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found Juan in
communication with Gonsalvo.  She conjured him to go, adding, by way of
inducement,--

"Doña Beatriz is taking the air in the garden."

"Availing myself of your gracious permission, señora my aunt, I shall
offer her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet--Adiõs, Don
Gonsalvo."

"Adiõs, my cousin."

Doña Katarina followed him out of the room.

"He is not sane," she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm;
"he is out of his mind.  You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?"

"Certainly I shall not dispute it, señora," Juan answered, prudently.




                                 XXIX.

                           A Friend at Court


    "I have a soul and body that exact
    A comfortable care in many ways."--R. Browning


Don Juan’s peril was extreme.  Well known as he was to many of the
imprisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that, amongst the
numerous confessions wrung from them, no mention of his name should
occur.  He knew himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they
were suffering--the one unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome.
Moreover, unlike his brother, whose temperament would have led him to
avoid danger by every lawful means, he was by nature brave even to
rashness, and bold even to recklessness.  It was his custom to wear his
heart on his lips; and though of late stern necessity had taught him to
conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor his habit to
disguise what he felt.  Probably, not even his desire to aid Carlos
would have prevented his compromising himself by some rash word or deed,
had not the soft hand of Doña Beatriz, strong in its weakness, held him
back from destruction.  Not for one instant could he forget her terrible
vow.  With this for ever before his eyes, it is little marvel if he was
willing to do anything, to bear anything--ay, almost to feign
anything--rather than involve her he loved in a fate inconceivably
horrible.

And--alas for the brave, honest-hearted, truthful Don Juan Alvarez!--it
was often necessary to feign.  If he meant to remain in Seville, and to
avoid the dungeons of the Inquisition, he must obviate--or
remove--suspicion by protesting, both by word and action, his devotion
to the Catholic Church, and his hatred of heresy.

Could he stoop to this?  Gradually, and more and more, as each day’s
emergency made it more and more necessary, he did stoop to it.  He told
himself it was all for his brother’s sake. And though such a line of
conduct was intensely repugnant to his character, it was not contrary to
his principles.  To conceal an opinion is one thing, to deny a friend
quite another.  And while Carlos had found a Friend, Juan had only
embraced an opinion.

He himself would have said that he had found Truth--had devoted himself
to the cause of Freedom.  But where were truth and freedom now, with all
the bright anticipations of their ultimate triumph which he had been
wont to indulge?  As far as his native land was concerned (and it must
be owned that his mental eye scarcely reached beyond "the Spains"), a
single day had blotted out his glowing visions for ever.  Almost at the
same moment, and as if by some secret preconcerted signal, the leading
Protestants in Seville, in Valladolid, all over the kingdom, had been
arrested and thrown into prison. Swiftly, silently, with the utmost
order and regularity, had the whole thing been accomplished.  Every name
that Juan had heard Carlos mention with admiration and sympathy was now
the name of a helpless captive.  The Reformed Church of Spain existed no
longer, or existed only in dungeons.

In what quarter the storm had first arisen, that burst so suddenly upon
the community of the faithful, Don Juan never knew.  It is probable the
Holy Office had long been silently watching its prey, waiting for the
moment of action to arrive. In Seville, it is said, a spy had been set
upon some of Losada’s congregation, who revealed their meeting to the
Inquisitors. While in Valladolid, the foul treachery of the wife of one
of the Protestants furnished the Holy Office with the means of bringing
her husband and his friends to the stake.

Don Juan, whose young heart had lately beat so high with hope, now bowed
his head in despair.  And despairing of freedom, he lost his confidence
in truth also.  In opinion he was still a decided Lutheran.  He accepted
every doctrine of the Reformed as against the Roman Catholic creed.  But
the hold he once had upon these doctrines as living realities was
slackened.  He did not doubt that justification by faith was a
scriptural dogma, but he did not think it necessary to die for it.
Compared with the tremendous interest of the fate of Carlos and the
peril of Beatriz, and amidst his desperate struggles to aid the one and
shield the other, doctrinal questions grew pale and faint to him.

Nor had he yet learned to throw himself, in utter weakness, upon a
strength greater than his own, and a love that knows no limits.  He did
not feel his weakness: he felt strong, in the strength of a brave heart
struggling against cruel wrong; strong to resist, and, if it might be,
to conquer his fate.

At first he cherished a hope that his brother was not actually in the
secret dungeons of the Inquisition.  For so great was the number of the
captives, that the public gaols of the city and the convent prisons were
full of them; and some had to be lodged even in private houses.  As
Carlos had been one of the last arrested, there seemed reason to suppose
that he might be amongst those thus accommodated; in which case it would
be much easier both to communicate with him, and to alleviate his fate,
than if he were within the gloomy walls of the Triana; there might be,
moreover, the possibility of forming some plan for his deliverance.

But Juan’s diligent and persevering search resulted at last in the
conviction that his brother was in the "Santa Casa" itself. This
conviction sent a chill to his heart.  He shuddered to think of his
present suffering, whilst he feared the worst for the future, supposing
that the Inquisitors would take care to lodge in their own especial
fortress those whom they esteemed the most heinous transgressors.

He engaged a lodging in the Triana suburb, which the river, spanned by a
bridge of boats, separated from the city.  There were several reasons
for this choice of residence; but by far the greatest was, that those
who lingered beneath the walls of the grim old castle could sometimes
see, behind its grated windows, spectral faces raised to catch the few
scanty gleams of daylight which fell to their lot.  Long weary hours did
Juan watch there, hoping to recognize the face he loved.  But always in
vain.

When he went into the city, it was sometimes for other purposes than to
visit Doña Beatriz.  It was as often to seek the precincts of the
magnificent Cathedral, and to pace up and down that terrace whose
massive truncated pillars, raised when the Romans founded a heathen
temple on the spot, had stood throughout the long ages of Moslem
domination. Now the place was consecrated to Christian worship, and yet
it was put to no hallowed use.  Rich merchants, in many a varying garb,
that told of different nations, trod the stately colonnade, and bought
and sold and made bargains there.  For in those days (strange as seems
to us the irreverence of the so-called "ages of faith") that terrace was
the royal exchange of Seville, then a mercantile city of great
importance.  Don Juan Alvarez diligently resorted thither, and held many
a close and earnest conversation with a keen-eyed, hawk-nosed Jew, whom
he met there.

Isaac Osorio, or more properly, Isaac ben Osorio, was a notorious
money-lender, who had often "obliged" Don Manuel’s sons, not unfairly
requiring heavy interest to counter-balance the hazardous nature of his
investments.  Callings branded as unlawful are apt to prove particularly
gainful.  The Jew was willing to "oblige" Don Juan also, upon certain
conditions.  He was not by any means ignorant of the purpose for which
his money was needed.  Of course he was himself a Christian in name, for
none other would have been permitted to live upon Spanish ground.  But
by what wrongs, tortures, agonies worse than death, he and those like
him had been forced to accept Christian baptism, will never be known
until Christ comes again to judge the false Church that has slandered
him.  Will it be nothing in his sight that millions of the souls for
whom he died have been driven to hate his Name--that Name so unutterably
precious?

Osorio derived grim satisfaction from the thought that the Christians
were now imprisoning, torturing, burning each other. It reminded him of
the grand old days in his people’s history, when the Lord of hosts was
wont to stretch forth his mighty arm and trouble the armies of the
aliens, turning every man’s hand against his brother.  Let the Gentiles
bite and devour one another, the child of Abraham could look upon their
quarrels with calm indifference.  But if he had any sympathy, it was for
the weaker side.  He was rather disposed to help a Christian youth who
was trying to save his brother from the same cruel fangs in which so
many sons of Israel had writhed and struggled.  Don Juan, therefore,
found him accommodating, and even lenient.  From time to time he
advanced to him considerable sums, first upon the jewels he brought with
him from Nuera, and then, alas! upon his patrimony itself.

Not without a keen pang did Juan thus mortgage the inheritance of his
fathers.  But he began to realize the bitter truth that a flight from
Spain, and a new career in some foreign land, would eventually be the
only course open to him--if indeed he escaped with life.

Nor would the armies of Spain henceforth be more free to him than her
soil.  Fortunately, the necessity for rejoining his regiment had not
arisen.  For the brief war in which he served was over now; and as the
promised captaincy had not yet been assigned to him, he was at liberty
for the present to remain at home.

He largely bribed the head-gaoler of the inquisitorial prison, besides
supplying him liberally with necessaries and comforts for his brother’s
use.  Caspar Benevidio bore the worst of characters, both for cruelty
and avarice; still, Juan had no resource but to trust implicitly to his
honour, in the hope that at least some portion of what he gave would be
allowed to reach the prisoner.  But not a single gleam of information
about him could be gained from Benevidio, who, like all other servants
of the Inquisition, was bound by a solemn oath to reveal nothing that
passed within its walls.

He also bribed some of the attendants and satellites of the all-powerful
Inquisitor, Munebrãga.  It was his desire to obtain a personal interview
with the great man himself, that he might have the opportunity of trying
the intercession of Don Dinero, to whose advances he was known to be not
altogether obdurate.

For the purpose of soliciting an audience, he repaired one evening to
the splendid gardens belonging to the Triana, to await the Inquisitor,
who was expected shortly to return from a sail for pleasure on the
Guadalquivir.  He was sick at heart of the gorgeous tropical plants that
surrounded him, of the myrtle-blossoms that were showered on his path;
of all that told of the hateful pomp and luxury in which the persecutor
lived, while his victims pined unpitied in loathsome dungeons.  Yet
neither by word, look, nor sign dared he betray the rage that was
gnawing his heart.

At length the shouts of the populace, who thronged the river’s side,
announced the approach of their idol; for such Munebrãga was for the
time.  Clad in costly silks and jewels, and surrounded by a brilliant
little court, composed both of churchmen and laymen, the "Lord
Inquisitor" stepped from his splendid purple-decked barge.  Don Juan
threw himself in his way, and modestly requested an audience.  His
bearing, though perfectly respectful, was certainly less obsequious than
that to which Munebrãga had been accustomed of late.  So the minister of
the Holy Office turned from him haughtily, though, as Juan bitterly
thought, "his father would have been proud to hold the stirrup for
mine."  "This is no fitting time to talk of business, señor," he said.
"We are weary to-night, and need repose."

At that moment a Franciscan friar advanced from the group, and with his
lowest bow and most reverent manner approached the Inquisitor.  "With
the gracious permission of my very good lord, I shall address myself to
the caballero, and report his errand to your sanctity.  I have the
honour of some acquaintance with his Excellency’s noble family."

"As you please, Fray," said the voice accustomed to speak the terrible
words that doomed to the rack and the pulley, though no one would have
suspected this from the bland, careless good-nature of its tones.  "But
see that you tarry not so as to lose your supper.  Howbeit, there is
little need to caution you, or any other son of St. Francis, against
undue neglecting of the body."

The son of St. Francis made no answer, either because it was not worth
while, or because those who take the crumbs from the rich man’s table
must ofttimes take his taunts therewith. He disengaged himself from the
group, and turned towards Juan a broad, good-humoured, not unintelligent
face, which his former pupil recognized immediately.

"Fray Sebastian Gomez!" he exclaimed in astonishment

"And very much at the service of my noble Señor Don Juan. Will your
Excellency deign to bear me company for a little time?  In yonder walk
there are some rare flowers of rich colouring, which it were worth your
while to observe."

They turned into the path he indicated, while the Lord Inquisitor’s
silken train swept towards that half of the Triana where godless luxury
bore sway; the other half being consecrated to the twin demon, cruelty.

"Will it please your worship to look at these Indian pinks?" said the
friar.  "You will not see that flower elsewhere in all the Spains, save
in the royal gardens.  His Imperial Majesty brought it first from
Tunis."

Juan all but cursed the innocent flowers; but recollected in time that
God made them, though they belonged to Gonzales de Munebrãga.  "In
Heaven’s name, what brings you here, Fray Sebastian?" he interrupted
impatiently.  "I thought to see only the black cowls of St. Dominic
about the--the minister of the Holy Office."

"A little more softly, may I implore of your Excellency? Yonder casement
is open.--Pues,[#] señor, I am here in the capacity of a guest.  Nothing
more."


[#] Well, or well thou.


"Every man to his taste," said Juan, drily, as with a heedless foot he
kicked off the beautiful scarlet flower of a rare cactus.

"Have a care, señor and your Excellency; my lord is very proud of his
cactus flowers."

"Then come with me to some spot of God’s free earth where we can talk
together, out of sight of him and his possessions."

"Nay, rest content, señor; and untire yourself in this fair arbour
overlooking the river."

"At least, God made the river," said Juan, flinging himself, with a sigh
of irritation and impatience, on the cushioned seat of the summer-house.

Fray Sebastian seated himself also.  "My lord," he began to explain,
"has received me with all courtesy, and is good enough to desire my
continual attendance.  The fact is, señor, his reverence is a man of
literary taste."

Juan allowed himself the solace of a quiet sneer.  "Oh, is he?  Very
creditable to him, no doubt."

"Especially he is a great lover of the divine art of poesy."

No _genuine_ love of the gentle art, whose great lesson is sympathy, did
or could soften the Inquisitor’s hard heart.  Nor, had his wealth been
doubled, could he have hired one real poet to sing his praise in strains
worthy the ear of posterity. In an atmosphere so cold, the most ethereal
spirit would have frozen.  But it was in his power to buy flattery in
rhyme, and it suited his inclination so to do.  He liked the trick of
rhyme, at once so easy and so charming in the sonorous Castilian
tongue--it was a pleasure of the ear which he keenly appreciated, as he
did also those of the eye and the palate.

"I addressed to him," Fray Sebastian continued with becoming modesty, "a
little effort of my Muse--really a mere trifle--on the suppression of
heresy, comparing the Lord Inquisitor to Michael the archangel, with the
dragon beneath his feet. You understand, señor?"

Juan understood so well that it was with difficulty he refrained from
flinging the unlucky rhymester into the river.  But of late he had
learned many a lesson in prudence.  Still, his words sounded almost
fierce in their angry scorn.  "I suppose he gave you in return--a good
dinner."

But Fray Sebastian would not take offence.  He answered mildly, "He was
pleased to express his approval of my humble effort, and to admit me
into his noble household; where, except my poor exertions to amuse and
untire him by my conversation may be accounted a service, I am of no
service to him whatever."

"So you are clad in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every
day," said Juan, with contempt that he cared not to conceal.

"As to purple and fine linen, señor, I am an unworthy son of St.
Francis; and it is well known to your Excellency that by the rules of
our Order not even one scrap of holland----  But you are laughing at me,
as you used in old times, Señor Don Juan."

"God knows, I have little heart to laugh.  In those old times you speak
of, Fray, there was no great love between you and me; and no marvel, for
I was a wild and idle lad.  But I think you loved my gentle brother, Don
Carlos!"

"That I did, señor, as did every one.  Has any evil come upon him?  St.
Francis forbid!"

"Worse evil than I care to name.  He lies in yonder tower."

"The blessed Virgin have pity on us!" cried Fray Sebastian, crossing
himself.

"I thought you would have heard of his arrest," Juan continued, sadly.

"I, señor!  Never a breath.  Holy Saints defend us!  How could I, or any
one, dream that a young gentleman of noblest race, well learned, and of
truly pious disposition, would have had the ill luck to fall under so
foul a suspicion?  Doubtless it is the work of some personal enemy.
And--ah, woe is me! ’the clattering horse-shoe ever wants a nail’--here
have I been naming heresy, ’talking of halters in the house of the
hanged?’"

"Hold thy tongue about hanging," said Juan, testily, "and listen to me,
if thou canst."

Fray Sebastian indicated, by a respectful gesture, his profound
attention.

"It has been whispered to me that the door of his reverence’s heart may
be unlocked by a golden key."

Fray Sebastian assured him this was a foul slander; concluding a
panegyric on the purity of the Inquisitor’s administration with the
words, "You would forfeit his favour for ever by presuming so far as to
offer a bribe."

"No doubt," answered Juan with a sneer, and a hard, worldly look in his
face that of late was often seen there.  "I should deserve to pay that
penalty were I the fool to approach him with a bow, and, ’Here is a
purse of gold for your sanctity.’  But ’one take is worth two I give
you’s,’ and there is a way of saying ’take’ to every man.  And I ask
you, for old kindness, to show me how to say it to his lordship."

Fray Sebastian pondered.  After an interval he said, with some
hesitation, "May I venture to inquire, señor, what means you possess of
clearing the character of your noble brother?"

Juan only answered by a sorrowful shake of the head.

Darker and darker grew the friar’s sensual but good-natured face.

"His excellent reputation, his brilliant success at college, his
blameless life should tell in his favour," Juan said at length.

"Have you nothing more direct?  If not, I fear it is a bad business.
But ’silence is called holy,’ so I hold my peace. Still, if indeed
(which the Saints forbid) he has fallen inadvertently into error, it is
a comfort to reflect that there will be little difficulty in reclaiming
him."

Juan made no reply.  Did he expect his brother to retract? Did he _wish_
him to do it?  These were questions he scarcely dared to ask himself.
From any reply he could give to them he shrank in shuddering dread.

"He was ever gentle and tractable," Fray Sebastian continued, "and
ofttimes but too easy to persuade."

Juan rose, took up a stone, and threw it into the river. When the
circles it made in the water had died away, he turned back to the friar.
"But what can _I_ do for him?" he asked, with an undertone of helpless
sadness, touching from the lips of one so strong.

Fray Sebastian put his hand to his forehead, and looked as if he were
composing another poem.  "Let me see, your Excellency. There is my
lord’s nephew and pet page, Don Alonzo (where he has got the ’Don’ I
know not, but Don Dinero makes many a noble); I dare say it would not
hurt the Donzelo’s soft white hand to finger a purse of gold ducats, and
those same ducats might help your brother’s cause not a little."

"Manage the matter for me, and I will thank you heartily. Gold, to any
extent that will serve _him_, shall be forthcoming; and, my good friend,
see that you spare it not."

"Ah, Señor Don Juan, you were always generous."

"My brother’s life is at stake," said Juan, softening a little. But the
hard look returned as he added, "Those who live in great men’s houses
have many expenses, Fray.  Always remember that I am your friend, and
that my ducats are very much at your service also."

Fray Sebastian thanked him with his lowest bow.  Juan’s look changed
again; this time more rapidly.  "If it were possible," he added, in low,
hurried tones--"if you could only bring me the least word of tidings
from him--even one word to say if he lives, if he is well, how he is
entreated.  Three months it is now since he was taken, and I have heard
no more than if they had carried him to his grave."

"It is a difficult matter, a _very_ difficult matter that you ask of me.
Were I a son of St. Dominic, I might indeed accomplish somewhat.  For
the black cowls are everything now. Still, I will do all I can, señor."

"I trust you, Fray.  If under cover of seeking his conversion, of
anything, you could but see him."

"Impossible, señor--utterly impossible."

"Why?  They sometimes send friars to reason with the--the prisoners."

"Always Dominicans or Jesuits--men well-known and trusted by the Board
of the Inquisition.  However, señor, nothing that a man may do shall be
wanting on my part.  Will not that content your Excellency?"

"_Content_ me?  Well, as far as you are concerned, yes.  But, in truth,
I am haunted day and night by one horrible dread. What if--if they
should _torture_ him?  My gentle brother, frail in mind and body, tender
and sensitive as a woman!  Terror and pain would drive him mad."  The
last words were a quick broken whisper.  But outward expressions of
emotion with Don Juan were always speedily repressed.  Recovering
apparent calmness, he stretched out his hand to Fray Sebastian, saying,
with a faint smile, "I have kept you too long from my lord’s
supper-table--pardon me."

"Your Excellency’s condescension in conversing with me deserves my
profound gratitude," replied the monk, in true Castilian fashion.  His
residence at the Inquisitor’s Court had certainly improved his manners.

Don Juan gave him his address, and it was agreed that he should call on
him in a few days.  Fray Sebastian then offered to bring him on his way
through the garden and court of that part of the Triana which formed the
Inquisitor’s residence. But Juan declined the favour.  He could not
answer for himself when brought face to face with the impious pomp and
luxury of the persecutor of the saints.  He feared that, by some wild
word or deed, he might imperil the cause he had at heart. So he hailed a
waterman who was guiding his little boat down the tranquil stream in the
waning light.  The boat was soon brought to the place where the
Inquisitor had landed from his barge; and Juan, after shaking the dust
from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it.

The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the
word there rises before most minds the vision of a lean, pale-faced,
fierce-eyed monk, whose frame is worn with fasting, and his scourge red
with his own blood.  He is a fanatic--pitiless, passionate,
narrow-minded, perhaps half insane--but penetrated to the very core of
his being with intense zeal for his Church’s interest, and prepared in
her service both to inflict and to endure all things.

Very unlike this ideal were _most_ of the great persecutors who carried
out the behests of Antichrist.  They were generally able men.  But they
were pre-eminently men wise in their generation, men _of_ their
generation, men who "loved this present world."  They gave the Church
the service of strong hand and skilful brain that she needed; and she
gave _them_, in return, "gold, and silver, and precious stones, and
pearls; and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet; and all sweet
wood; and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of vessels of
most precious wood, and of brass, and of iron, and marble; and cinnamon,
and odours, and ointment, and frankincense; and wine, and oil, and fine
flour, and wheat; and beasts, and sheep, and horses and chariots, and
slaves and souls of men."  It was for these things, not for abstract
ideas, not for high places in heaven, that they tortured and murdered
the saints of God.  Whilst the cry of the oppressed reached the ears of
the Most High, those who were "wearing them out" lived in unhallowed
luxury, in degrading sensuality.  Gonzales de Munebrãga was a good
specimen of the class to which he belonged--he was no exceptional case.

Nor was Fray Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was
amiable, good-natured, free from gross vices--what is usually called
"well disposed."  But he "loved wine and oil," and to obtain what he
loved he was willing to become the servant and the flatterer of worse
men than himself, at the terrible risk of sinking to their level.

With all the force of his strong nature, Don Juan Alvarez loathed
Munebrãga, and scorned Fray Sebastian.  Gradually a strange alteration
appeared to come over the little book he constantly studied--his
brother’s Spanish Testament.  The words of promise, and hope, and
comfort, in which he used to delight, seemed to be blotted from its
pages; while ever more and more those pages were filled with fearful
threatenings and denunciations of doom--against hypocritical scribes and
Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests--against great
Babylon, the mother of abominations.  The peace-breathing, "Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do," grew fainter and more
faint, until at last it faded completely from his memory; while there
stood out before him night and day, in characters of fire, "Serpents,
generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell!"




                                  XXX.

                              The Captive.


    "Ay, but for _me_--my name called---drawn
    Like a conscript’s lot from the lap’s black yawn
    He has dipped into on the battle dawn.
    Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,
    Stumbling, mute mazed, at Nature’s chance
    With a rapid finger circling round,
    Fixed to the first poor inch of ground
    To fight from, where his foot was found,
    Whose ear but a moment since was free
    To the wide camp’s hum and gossipry--
    Summoned, a solitary man,
    To end his life where his life began,
    From the safe glad rear to the awful van."--R. Browning


On the night of his arrest, when Don Carlos Alvarez was left alone in
his dungeon, he stood motionless as one in a dream.  At length he raised
his head, and began to look around him.  A lamp had been left with him;
and its light illumined a cell ten feet square, with a vaulted roof.
Through a narrow grating, too high for him to reach, one or two stars
were shining; but these he saw not.  He only saw the inner door sheathed
with iron; the mat of rushes on which he was to sleep; the stool that
was to be his seat; the two earthen pitchers of water that completed his
scanty furniture.  From the first moment these things looked strangely
familiar to him. He threw himself on the mat to think and pray.  He
comprehended his situation perfectly.  It seemed as if he had been all
his life expecting this hour; as if he had been born for it, and led up
to it gradually through all his previous experience. As yet he did not
think that his fate was terrible; he only thought that it was
inevitable--something that was to come upon him, and that in due course
had come at last.  It was his impression that he should always remain
there, and never more see anything beyond that grated window and that
iron door.

There was a degree of unreality about this mood.  For the past
fortnight, or more, his mind had been strained to its utmost tension.
Suspense, more wearing even than sorrow, had held him on the rack.
Sleep had seldom visited his eyes; and when it came, it had been broken
and fitful.

Now the worst had befallen him.  Suspense was over; certainty had come.
This brought at first a kind of rest to the overtaxed mind and frame.
He was as one who hears a sentence of death, but who is taken off the
rack.  No dread of the future could quite overpower the present
unreasoning sense of relief.

Thus it happened that an hour afterwards he was sleeping the dreamless
sleep of exhaustion.  Well for him if, instead of "death’s
twin-brother," the angel of death himself had been sent to open the
prison doors and set the captive free!  And yet, after all, _would_ it
have been well for him?

So utter was his exhaustion, that when food was placed in his cell the
next morning, he only awaked for a moment, then slept again as soundly
as before.  Not till some hours later did he finally shake off his
slumber.  He lay still for some time, examining with a strange kind of
curiosity the little bolted aperture which was near the top of his door,
and watching a solitary broken sunbeam which had struggled through the
grating that served him for a window, and threw a gleam of light on the
opposite wall.

Then, with a start, he asked himself, "_Where am I?_"  The answer
brought an agony of fear, of horror, of bitter pain. "Lost! lost!  God
have mercy on me!  I am lost!"  As one in intense bodily anguish, he
writhed, moaned--ay, even cried aloud.

No wonder.  Hope, love, life--alike in its noblest aims and its
commonest joys--all were behind him.  Before him were the dreary dungeon
days and nights--it might be months or years; the death of agony and
shame; and, worst of all, the unutterable horrors of the torture-room,
from which he shrank as any one of us would shrink to-day.

Slowly and at last came the large burning tears.  But very few of them
fell; for his anguish was as yet too fierce for many tears.  All that
day the storm raged on.  When the alcayde brought his evening meal, he
lay still, his face covered with his cloak.  But as night drew on he
rose, and paced his narrow cell with hasty, irregular steps, like those
of a caged wild animal.

How should he endure the horrible loneliness of the present, the
maddening terror of all that was to come?  And this life was to _last_.
To last, until it should be succeeded by worse horrors and fiercer
anguish.  Words of prayer died on his lips. Or, even when he uttered
them, it seemed as if God heard not--as if those thick walls and grated
doors shut him out too.

Yet one thing was clear to him from the beginning.  Deeper than all
other fears within him lay the fear of denying his Lord. Again and again
did he repeat, "When called in question, I will at once confess all."
For he knew that, according to a law recently enacted by the Holy
Office, and sanctioned by the Pope, no subsequent retractation could
save a prisoner who had once confessed--he must die.  And he desired
finally and for ever to put it out of his own power to save his life and
lose it.

As every dreary morning dawned upon him, he thought that ere its sun set
he might be called to confess his Master’s name before the solemn
tribunal.  At first he awaited the summons with a trembling heart.  But
as time passed on, the delay became more dreadful than the anticipated
examination.  At last he began to long for _any_ change that might break
the monotony of his prison-life.

The only person, with the exception of his gaoler, that ever entered his
cell, was a member of the Board of Inquisitors, who was obliged by their
rules to make a fortnightly inspection of the prisons.  But the
Dominican monk to whom this duty was relegated merely asked the prisoner
a few formal questions: such as, whether he was well, whether he
received his appointed provision, whether his warder used him with
civility.  To these Carlos always answered prudently that he had no
complaint to make.  At first he was wont to inquire, in his turn, when
his case might be expected to come on.  To this it would be answered,
that there was no hurry about the matter.  The Lords Inquisitors had
much business on hand, and many more important cases than his to attend
to; he must await their leisure and their pleasure.

At length a kind of lethargy stole over him; though it was broken
frequently by sharp bursts of anguish.  He ceased to take note of time,
ceased to make fruitless inquiries of his gaoler, who would never tell
him anything.  Upon one occasion he asked this man for a Breviary, since
he sometimes found it difficult to recall even the gospel words that he
knew so well. But he was answered in the set terms the Inquisitors
taught their officials, that the book he ought now to study was the book
of his own heart, which he should examine diligently, in order to the
confession and repentance of his sins.

During the morning hours the outer door of his cell (there were two) was
usually left open, in order to admit a little fresh air.  At such times
he often heard footsteps in the corridors, and doors opening and
shutting.  With a kind of sick yearning, not unmixed with hope, he
longed that some visitant would enter his cell.  But none ever came.
Some of the Inquisitors were keen observers and good students of
character.  They had watched Carlos narrowly before his arrest, and they
had arrived at the conclusion that utter and prolonged solitude was the
best remedy for his disease.

Such solitude has driven many a weary tortured soul to insanity.  But
that divine compassion which no dungeon walls or prison bars avail to
shut out, saved Carlos from such a fate.

One morning he knew from the stir outside that some of his
fellow-captives had received a visit.  But the deep stillness that
followed the dying away of footsteps in the corridor was broken by a
most unwonted sound.  A loud, clear, and even cheerful voice sang out,--

    "Vençidos van los frailes; vençidos van!
    Corridas van los lobos; corridos van!"

    [There go the friars; there they run!
    There go the wolves, the wolves are done!][#]


[#] Everything related of Juliano Hernandez is strictly true.


Every nerve and fibre of the lonely captive’s heart thrilled responsive
to that strain.  Evidently the song was one of triumph.  But from whose
lips?  Who could dare to triumph in the abode of misery, the very seat
of Satan?

Carlos Alvarez had heard that voice before.  A striking peculiarity in
the dialect rivetted this fact upon his mind.  The words were neither
the pure sonorous Castilian that he spoke himself, nor the soft gliding
sibilant Andaluz that he heard in Seville, nor yet the patois of the
Manchegan peasants around his mountain home.  In such accents one, and
one alone, had ever spoken in his hearing.  And that was the man who
said, "For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the
thirsty, light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and
heavy-laden, I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right
willingly."

Whatever men had done to the body, it was evident that Juliano Hernandez
was still unbroken in heart, strong in hope and courage.  A fettered,
tortured captive, he was yet enabled, not only to hold his own faith
fast, but actually to minister to that of others.  His rough rhyme
intimated to his fellow-captives that "the wolves" of Rome were leaving
his cell, vanquished by the sword of the Spirit.  And that, as he
overcame, so might they also.

Carlos heard, understood, and felt from that hour that he was not alone.
Moreover, the grace and strength so richly given to his fellow-sufferer
seemed to bring Christ nearer to himself.  "Surely God is in this
place--even here," he said, "and I knew it not."  And then, bowing his
head, he wept--wept such tears as bring help and healing with them.

Up to this time he had held Christ’s hand indeed, else had he "utterly
fainted."  But he held it in the dark.  He clung to him desperately, as
if for mere life and reason.  Now the light began to dawn upon him.  He
began to see the face of Him to whom he had been clinging.  His good and
gracious words--such words as, "Let not your heart be troubled," "My
peace I give unto you"--became again, as in old times, full of meaning,
instinct with life.  He "remembered the years of the right hand of the
Most High;" he thought of those days that now seemed so long ago, when,
with such thrilling joy, he received the truth from Juliano’s book.  And
he knew that the same joy might be his even in that dreary prison,
because the same God was above him, and the same Lord was "rich unto all
that call upon him."

On the next occasion when Juliano raised his brave song of victory,
Carlos had the courage to respond, by chanting in the vulgar tongue,
"The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob
defend thee.  Send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out
of Zion."

But this brought him a visit from the alcayde, who commanded him to
"forbear that noise."

"I only chanted a versicle from one of the Psalms," he explained.

"No matter.  Prisoners are not permitted to disturb the Santa Casa,"
said Gasper Benevidio, as he quitted the cell.

The "Santa Casa," or Holy House, was the proper style and title of the
prison of the Holy Inquisition.  At first sight the name appears a
hideous mockery.  We seem to catch in it an echo of the laughter of
fiends, as in that other kindred name, "The Society of Jesus."  Yet,
just then, the Triana was truly a holy house.  Precious in the sight of
the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells.  Many a lonely captive
wept and prayed and agonized there, who, though now forgotten on earth,
shall one day shine with a brightness eclipsing kings and conquerors--"a
star for ever and ever."




                                 XXXI.

                          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, señor, 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, señor, 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, señor."

"Then _you_--you too--love his Name!" said Carlos, tears of joy starting
to his eyes.

"_Chiton_,[#] señor! _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, señor," the poor woman answered.
"Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fortitude of
Señor 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, señor.  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, señor; 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.  Adiõs, señor."

"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.




                                 XXXII.

                   The Valley of the Shadow of Death.


    "And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone
    To testify of Zion’s King and the glory of his throne?
    My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak,
    Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak;
    But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering
            tongue.
    And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be
      strong."--Mrs. Stuart Menteith


Many a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns of
the Church in a low voice for himself.  At first he sang them loudly
enough for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio,
which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made
him forbear.  Not a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him
through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by
the gaoler’s little daughter. On the whole, he was growing accustomed to
his prison life. It seemed as though it would last for ever; as though
every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance.
There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count; there were
bitter hours--of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable
fear.  But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or
sorrow; there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very
near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner.

It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of
the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even
pleasant, were occupying his mind.  He had been singing the Te Deum for
himself; and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant
it at Nuera; not in the time of Father Tomas, but in that of his
predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he
and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease.  He was
so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one
particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his
present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large
key grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.

Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the
prisoner to put on immediately.

Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a
passing feeling of indignation.  For the very form and fashion of the
garments he was thus obliged to assume (a kind of jacket without
sleeves, and long loose trowsers), meant to the Castilian noble keen
insult and degradation.

"Take off your shoes," said the alcayde.  "Prisoners always come before
their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me."

It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges.  A thrilling dread
took possession of his soul.  Heedless of the alcayde’s presence, he
threw himself for one brief moment on his knees.  Then, though his cheek
was pale, he could speak calmly.  "I am ready," he said.

He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors.  At
length he ventured to ask, "Whither are you leading me?"

"_Chiton!_" said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was
not permitted there.

At last they drew near an open door.  The alcayde quickened his pace,
entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and
motioned Carlos to go forward alone.

He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges--the Board,
or "Table of the Inquisition."  He bowed, though rather from the habit
of courtesy, than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood
silent.

Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation.  The
room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there
were handsome hangings of gilt leather.  At one end, the furthest from
him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life.  Around the long table on
the estrada six or seven persons were seated.  Of these, one alone was
covered, he who sat nearest the door by which Carlos had entered, and
facing the crucifix.  He knew that this was Gonzales de Munebrãga, and
the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man’s life,
helped to give him boldness in his presence.

At Munebrãga’s right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos,
though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the
position he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining
the Triana.  One or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had
met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far
his own inferiors, both in education and in social position.

At length Munebrãga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table.
He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his
dress to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and
administered an oath to him.

It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he
might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation.  A bench at the
Inquisitor’s left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired
to be seated.

A member of the Board, who bore the title of the Promoter-fiscal,
conducted the examination.  After some merely formal questions, he asked
him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment?  Carlos
answered immediately, "I do."

This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office.
They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have
induced "their reverences" to order their arrest With a slight elevation
of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued,
gently enough, "Are you then aware of having erred from the faith, and
by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good
Christians?  Speak boldly, my son; for to those who acknowledge their
faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy."

"I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it."

Here the Dominican prior interposed.  "You can ask for an advocate," he
said; "and as you are under twenty-five years of age, you can also claim
the assistance of a curator.[#]  Furthermore, you can request a copy of
the deposition against you, in order to prepare your defence."


[#] Guardian.


"Always supposing," said Munebrãga himself, "that he formally denies the
crime laid to his charge.--Do you?" he asked, turning to the prisoner.

"We understand you so to do," said the prior, looking earnestly at
Carlos.  "You plead not guilty?"

Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced a step or two nearer to the
table where sat the men who held his life in their hands. Addressing
himself chiefly to the prior, he said, "I know that by taking the course
your reverence recommends to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may
defer my fate for a little while. I may beat the air, fighting in the
dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name to me, still more to
confront with me.  Or, I may make you wring out the truth from me
slowly, drop by drop.  But what would that avail me?  Neither for the
truth, nor yet for any falsehood I might be base enough to utter, would
you loose your hand from your prey.  I prefer that straight road which
is ever the shortest way.  I stand before your reverences this day a
professed Lutheran, despairing of mercy from man, but full of confidence
in the mercy of God."

A movement of surprise ran around the Board at these daring words.  The
prior turned away from the prisoner with a pained, disconcerted look;
but only to meet a half-triumphant, half-reproachful glance from his
superior, Munebrãga.  But Munebrãga was not displeased; far from it.  It
did not grieve him that the prisoner, a mere youth, "was throwing
himself into the fire."  That was his own concern.  He was saving "their
reverences" a great deal of trouble.  Thanks to his hardihood, his
folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and easily
accomplished.  For it was the business of the Inquisitors first to
convict; retractations were an after consideration.

"Thou art a bold heretic, and fit for the fire," he said.  "We know how
to deal with such."  And he placed his hand on the bell that was to
signal the termination of the interview.

But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed.
"My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in
which I may set plainly before the prisoner both the wonted mercy and
lenity of the Holy Office to the repentant, and the fatal consequences
of obstinacy."

Munebrãga acquiesced by a nod, then leant back carelessly in his seat;
this was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest.

No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of
the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic.  The horrors of the death
of fire, the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies, these
were the theme of his discourse.  If not actually eloquent, it had at
least the earnestness of intense conviction.  "But to the penitent," he
added, and the hard face softened a little, "God is ever merciful, and
his Church is merciful too."

Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground.  But when the
Dominican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great
crucifix, then fixed his eyes steadily on the prior’s face.  "I cannot
deny my Lord," he said.  "I am in your hands, and you can do with me as
you will.  But God is mightier than you."

"Enough!" said Munebrãga, and he rang the hand-bell. After a very short
delay, the alcayde reappeared, and led Carlos back to his cell.

As soon as he was gone, Munebrãga turned to the prior. "My lord," he
said, "your wonted penetration is at fault for once.  Is this the youth
whom you assured us a few months of solitary confinement would render
pliant as a reed and plastic as wax?  Whereas we find him as bold a
heretic as Losada, or D’Arellano, or that imp of darkness, little
Juliano."

"Nay, my lord, I do not despair of him.  Far from it. He is much less
firm than he seems.  Give him time, with a due mixture of kindness and
severity, and, I trust in our Lord and St. Dominic, we will see him a
hopeful penitent."

"I am of your mind, reverend father," said the Promoter-fiscal. "It is
probable he confessed only to avoid the Question. Many of them fear it
more than death."

"You are right," answered Munebrãga quickly.

The notary looked up from his papers.  "Please your lordships," he said,
"I think it is the _sangre azul_ that makes him so bold.  He is Alvarez
de Meñaya."

"Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law," interposed
Munebrãga angrily.  "Thy part is to write down what wiser men say, not
to prate thyself."  It was well known that the Inquisitor, far from
boasting the _sangre azul_ himself, had not even what the Spaniards call
"good red blood" flowing in his veins; hence his irritation at the
notary’s speech.

There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite
opposite causes.  That which results from a degree of weakness of
character may sometimes wear the aspect of transcendent courage.  A
bolder man than Don Carlos Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have
made a struggle for life. He might have fought over every point as it
arose; have availed himself of every loophole for escape; have thrown
upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime.  But such a course
would not have been possible to Carlos.  As a running leap is far more
easy than a standing one, so to sensitive temperaments it is easier to
rush forward to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it
off, knowing all the time that it must come at last.

He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon
his examiners.  To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in
much weakness.  Still, he had confessed him.  And shut out as he was
from all ordinary "means of grace," the act of confession became a kind
of sacrament to him.  It was a token and an evidence of Christ’s
presence with him, and Christ’s power working in him.  He could say now,
"In the day that I called upon thee thou answeredst me and
strengthenedst me with strength in my soul."  And from that hour he
seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ, and more intimate
communion with him, than he had ever done before.

It was well that he had strong consolation, for his need was great.  Two
other examinations followed after a short interval; and in both of these
Munebrãga took a far more active part than he had done in the first.
The Inquisitors were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence
upon which to condemn Fray Constantino, who up to this point had
steadily resisted every effort they had made to induce him to criminate
himself.  They thought it probable that Don Carlos Alvarez could assist
them if he would, especially since there had been found amongst his
papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late Canon
Magistral.

Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is
scarcely necessary to say that Munebrãga, who forgot nothing, had not
forgotten the mysterious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a
cousin of the prisoner’s, who was now stated to be hopelessly insane.
What did that mean?  Was the story true; or were the family keeping back
evidence which might compromise one or more of its remaining members?

But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question; or, at least,
one that touched him more nearly.  His own arrest had been decreed in
consequence of two depositions against him.  First, a member of Losada’s
congregation had named him as one of the habitual attendants; then a
monk of San Isodro had fatally compromised him under the torture. The
monk’s testimony was clear and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by
others.  But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the
name of Meñaya had been wont to attend the conventicle.  Who was the
second?  Hitherto this problem had baffled the Inquisitors.  Don Manuel
Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy; and the only other Meñaya
known to them was the prisoner’s brother.  But in his favour there was
every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the
army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary
return to Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court
observation, by throwing himself continually in the Inquisitor’s way,
and soliciting audience of him.

Still, of course, his guilt was possible.  But, in the absence of
anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague
deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant
proceedings against him.  According to the inquisitorial laws, what they
styled "full half proof" of a crime must be obtained before ordering the
arrest of the supposed criminal.

And the key to all these perplexities had now to be wrung from the
unwilling hands of Carlos.  This needed "half proof" could, and must, be
furnished by him.  "He must speak out," said those stern, pitiless men,
who held him in their hands.

But here he was stronger than they.  Neither arts, persuasions, threats,
nor promises, availed to unseal those pale, silent lips.  Would torture
do it?  He was told plainly, that unless he would answer every question
put to him freely and distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors.

His heart throbbed wildly, then grew sick and faint.  A dread far keener
than the dread of death prompted one short sharp struggle against the
inevitable.  He said, "It is against your own law to torture a confessed
criminal for information concerning others.  For the law presumes that a
man loves himself better than his neighbour; and, therefore, that he who
has informed against himself would more readily inform against other
heretics if he knew them."

He was right.  His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one
of the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of
the inquisitorial proceedings.  But what mattered rules and canons to
the members of a secret and irresponsible tribunal?

Munebrãga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer.  "That rule
was framed for delinquents of another sort," he said.  "You Lutheran
heretics have the command, ’Thou shall love thy neighbour as thyself,’
so deeply rooted in your hearts, that the very flesh must needs be torn
from your bones ere you will inform against your brethren.[#]  I
overrule your objection as frivolous."


[#] Words actually used by this monster.


And then a sentence, more dreaded than the terrible death-sentence
itself, received the formal sanction of the Board.

Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees, and
pressing his burning brow against the cold damp stone, cried aloud in
his anguish, "Let this cup--only this--pass from me!"

His was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is
most appalling.  Keenly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in
unspeakable dread from what stronger characters might brave or defy.
His vivid imagination intensified every pang he felt or feared.  His
mind was like a room hung round with mirrors, in which every terrible
thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hundred terrors instead of
one. What another would have endured once, he endured over and over
again in agonized anticipation.

At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable. Tearfulness
and trembling took hold upon him.  He felt ready to pray that God in his
great mercy would take away his life, and let the bearer of the dreaded
summons find him beyond all their malice.

One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair.  It
had begun to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonsalez told him
she had seen his brother.  What if they dragged that loved name from his
lips!  What if, in his weakness, he became Juan’s betrayer!  Once it had
been in his heart to betray him from selfish love; perhaps in judgment
for that sin he was now to betray him through sharp bodily anguish.
Even if his will were kept firm all through (which he scarcely dared to
hope), would not reason give way, and wild words be wrung from his lips
that would too surely ruin all!

He tried to think of his Saviour’s death and passion; tried to pray for
strength and patience to drink of _his_ cup. Sometimes he prayed that
prayer with strong crying and tears; sometimes with cold mute lips, too
weary to cry any longer.  If he was heard and answered, he knew it not
then.

Days of suspense wore on.  They were only less dreary than the nights,
when sleep fled from his eyes, and horrible visions (which yet he knew
were less horrible than the truth) rose in quick succession before his
mind.

One evening, seated on his bench in the twilight, he fell into an uneasy
slumber.  The dark dread that never left him, mingling with the sunny
gleam of old memories, wove a vivid dream of Nuera, and of that summer
morning when the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the
strong resolve, "Juan, brother!  I will never wrong thee, so help me
God!"

The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp
aroused him.  He started to his feet at the alcayde’s entrance.  This
time no change of dress was prescribed him. He knew his doom.  He cried,
but to no human ear.  From the very depths of his being the prayer
arose, "Father, save--sustain me; _I am thine_!"




                                XXXIII.

                           On the Other Side.


    "Happy are they who learn at last,--
      Though silent suffering teach
    The secret of enduring strength,
      And praise too deep for speech,--
    Peace that no pressure from without,
      No storm within can reach.

    "There is no death for me to fear,
      For Christ my Lord hath died;
    There is no curse in all my pain,
      For he was crucified;
    And it is fellowship with him
      That keeps me near his side."--A. L. Waring


When the light of the next morning streamed in through the narrow
grating of his cell, Carlos was there once more, lying on his bed of
rushes.  But was it indeed the next morning, or was it ten years, twenty
years afterwards? Without a painful effort of thought and memory, he
himself could scarcely have told.  That last night was like a great
gulf, fixed between his present and all his past.  The moment when he
entered that torch-lit subterranean room seemed a sharp, black dividing
line, sundering his life into two halves.  And the latter half seemed
longer than that which had gone before.

Nor could years of suffering have left a sadder impress on the young
face, out of which the look of youth had passed, apparently for ever.
Brow and lips were pale; but two crimson spots, still telling of
feverish pain, burned on the hollow cheeks, while the large lustrous
eyes beamed with even unnatural brilliance.

The poor woman, who was doing the work of God’s bright angels in that
dismal prison, came softly in.  How she obtained entrance there Carlos
did not know, and was far too weak to ask, or even to wonder.  But
probably she was sent by Benevidio, who knew that, in his present
condition, some human help was indispensable to the prisoner.

Maria Gonsalez was too well accustomed to scenes of horror to be
over-much surprised or shocked by what she saw. Silently, though with a
heart full of compassion, she rendered the few little services in her
power.  She placed the broken frame in as easy a position as she could,
and once and again she raised to the parched lips the "cup of cold
water" so eagerly desired.

He roused himself to murmur a word of thanks; then, as she prepared to
leave him, his eyes followed her wistfully.

"Can I do anything more for you, señor?" she asked.

"Yes, mother.  Tell me--have you spoken to my brother?"

"Ay de mi! no, señor," said the poor woman, whose ability was not equal
to her good-will.  "I have tried, God wot; but I could not get from my
master the name of the place where he lives without making him suspect
something, and never since have I had the good fortune to see his face."

"I know you have done--what you could.  My message does not matter now.
Not so much.  Still, best he should go. Tell him so, when you find him.
But, remember, tell him nought of this.  You promise, mother!  He must
never know it--_never_!"

She spoke a few words of pity and condolence.

"It _was_ horrible!" he faltered, in faint, broken tones. "Worst of
all--the return to life.  For I thought all was over, and that I should
awake face to face with Christ.  But--I cannot speak of it."

There was a long silence; then his eye kindled, and a look of joy--ay,
even of triumph--flashed across the wasted, suffering face.  "But _I
have overcome_!  No; not I.  Christ has overcome in me, the weakest of
his members.  Now I am beyond it--on the other side."

To the poor tortured captive there had been given a foretaste, strange
and sweet, of what they feel who stand on the sea of glass, having the
harps of God in their hands.  Men had done their worst--their very
worst.  He knew now all "the dread mystery of pain;" all that flesh
could accomplish in its fiercest conflict with spirit.  Yet not one word
that could injure any one he loved had been wrung from his lips.

_All_ was over now.  In that there was mercy--far more mercy than was
shown to others.  He had been permitted to drain the cup at a single
draught.  _Now_ he could feel grateful to the physicians, who with truly
kind cruelty (and not without some risk to themselves) had prevented, in
his case, that fiendish device, "the suspension of the torture."  Even
according to the execrable laws of the Inquisition, he had won his right
to die in peace.

As time passed on, a blessed sense that he was now out of the hands of
man, and in those of God alone, sank like balm upon his weary spirit.
Fear was gone; grief had passed away; even memory had almost ceased to
give him a pang.  For how could he long for the loved faces of former
days, when day and night Christ himself was near him?  So strangely
near, so intimately present, that he sometimes thought that if, through
some wonderful relenting of his persecutors, Juan were permitted to come
and stand beside him, that loved brother would still seem further away,
less real, than the unseen Friend who was keeping watch by his couch.
And even the bodily pain, that so seldom left him, was not hard to bear,
for it was only the touch of His finger.

He had passed into the clear air upon the mountain top, where the sun
shines ever, and the storm winds cannot come. Nothing hurt him; nothing
disturbed him now.  He had visitors; for what had really placed him
beyond the reach of his enemies was, not unnaturally, supposed by them
to have brought him into a fitting state to receive their exhortations.
So Inquisitors, monks, and friars--"persons of good learning and honest
repute"--came in due course to his lonely cell, armed with persuasions
and arguments, which were always weighted with threats and promises.

Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, from a great distance.  Into
"the secret place of the Lord," where he dwelt now, they could not
enter.  Threats and promises fell powerless on his ear.  What more could
they do to him?  As far as the mere facts of the case were concerned,
this security may have been misplaced--nay, it _was_ misplaced; but it
saved him from much suffering.  And as for promises, had they thrown
open the door of his dungeon and bid him go forth free, only that one
intense longing to see his brother’s face would have nerved him to make
the effort.

Arguments he was glad to answer when permitted.  It was a joy to speak
for his Lord, who had done, and was doing, such great things for him.
As far as he could, he made use of those Scripture words with which his
memory was so richly stored. But more than once it happened that he was
forced to take up the weapons which he had learned in the schools to use
so skilfully.  He tore sophisms to pieces with the dexterity of one who
knew how they were constructed, and astonished the students of Aristotle
and Thomas Aquinas by vanquishing them on their own ground.

Reproach and insult he met with a fearless meekness that nothing could
ruffle.  Why should he feel anger?  Rather did he pity those who stood
without in the darkness, not seeing the Face he saw, not hearing the
Voice he heard.  Usually, however, those who visited him yielded to the
spell of his own sweet and perfect courtesy, and were kinder than they
intended to be to the "professed impenitent heretic."

His heart, now "at leisure from itself," was filled with sympathy for
his imprisoned brethren and sisters.  But, except to Maria Gonsalez, he
dared not speak of them, lest the simplest remark or question might give
rise to some new suspicion, or supply some link, hitherto missing, in
the chain of evidence against them.  But those who came to visit him
sometimes gave him unasked intelligence about them.  He could not,
however, rely upon the truth of what reached him in this way.  He was
told that Losada had retracted; he did not believe it.  Equally did he
disbelieve a similar story of Don Juan Ponce de Leon, in which,
unhappily, there was some truth.  The constancy of that gentle,
generous-hearted nobleman had yielded under torture and cruel
imprisonment, and concessions had been wrung from him that dimmed the
brightness of his martyr crown.  On the other hand, the waverer, Garçias
Ariâs, known as the "White Doctor," had come forward with a hardihood
truly marvellous, and not only confessed his own faith, but mocked and
defied the Inquisitors.

Of Fray Constantino, the most contradictory stories were told him.  At
one time he was assured that the great preacher had not only admitted
his own guilt, but also, on the rack, had informed against his brethren.
Again he was told, and this time with truth, that the Emperor’s former
chaplain and favourite had been spared the horrors of the Question, but
that the eagerly desired evidence against him had been obtained by
accident.  A lady of rank, one of his chief friends, was amongst the
prisoners; and the Inquisitors sent an Alguazil to her house to demand
possession of her jewels.  Her son, without waiting to ascertain the
precise object of the officer’s visit, surrendered to him in a panic
some books which Fray Constantino had given his mother to conceal.
Amongst them was a volume in his own handwriting, containing the most
explicit avowal of the principles of the Reformation.  On this being
shown to the prisoner, he struggled no longer.  "You have there a full
and candid confession of my belief," he said.  And he was now in one of
the dark and loathsome subterranean cells of the Triana.

Amongst those who most frequently visited Carlos was the prior of the
Dominican convent.  This man seemed to take a peculiar interest in the
young heretic’s fate.  He was a good specimen of a character oftener
talked about than met with in real life,--the genuine fanatic.  When he
threatened Carlos, as he spared not to do, with the fire that is never
quenched, at least he believed with all his heart that he was in danger
of it. Carlos soon perceived this, and accepting his honest intention to
benefit him, came to regard him with a kind of friendliness. Besides,
the prior listened to what he said with more attention than did most of
the others, and even in the prison of the Inquisition a man likes to be
listened to, especially when his opportunities of speaking are few and
brief.

Many weeks passed by, and still Carlos lay on his mat, in weakness and
suffering of body, though in calm gladness of spirit.  Surgical and
medical aid had been afforded him in due course.  And it was not the
fault of either surgeon or physician that he did not recover.  They
could stanch wounds and set dislocated joints, but when the springs of
life were sapped, how could they renew them?  How could they quicken the
feeble pulse, or send back life and energy into the broken, exhausted
frame?  At this time Carlos himself felt certain--even more certain than
did his physician--that never again would his footsteps pass the limits
of that narrow cell.

Once, indeed, there came to him a brief and fleeting pang of regret.  It
was in the spring-time; everywhere else so bright and fair, but making
little change in those gloomy cells.  Maria Gonsalez now sometimes
obtained access to him, partly through Benevidio’s increased inattention
to all his duties, partly because, any attempt at escape on the part of
the captive being obviously out of the question, he was somewhat less
jealously watched.  And more than once the gaoler’s little daughter
stole in timidly beside her nurse, bearing some trifling gift for the
sick prisoner.  To Carlos these visits came like sunbeams; and in a very
short time he succeeded in establishing quite an intimate friendship
with the child.

One morning she entered his cell with Maria, carrying a basket, from
which she produced, with shy pleasure, a few golden oranges.  "Look,
señor," she said, "they are good to eat now, for the blossoms are
out.[#]  I gathered some to show you;" and filling both her hands with
the luscious wealth of the orange flowers, she flung them carelessly
down on the mat beside him.  In her eyes they were of no value compared
with the fruit.


[#] The people of Seville do not think the oranges fit to eat until the
new blossoms come out in spring.


With Carlos it was far otherwise.  The rich perfume that filled the cell
filled his heart also with sweet sad dreams, which lasted long after his
kindly visitors had left him.  The orange-trees had just been in flower
last spring when all God’s free earth and sky were shut out from his
sight for ever.  Only a year ago!  What a long, long year it seemed!
And only one year further back he was walking in the orange gardens with
Doña Beatriz, in all the delicious intoxication of his first and last
dream of youthful love.  "Better here than there, better now than then,"
he murmured, though the tears gathered in his eyes.  "But oh, for one
hour of the old free life, one look at orange-trees in flower, or blue
skies, or the grassy slopes and cork-trees of Nuera!  Or"--and more
painfully intense the yearning grew--"one familiar face, belonging to
the past, to show me it was not all a dream, as I am sometimes tempted
to think it.  Thine, Ruy, if it might be.--O Ruy, Ruy!--But, thank God,
I have not betrayed thee!"

In the afternoon of that day visitors were announced.  Carlos was not
surprised to see the stern narrow face and white hair of the Dominican
prior.  But he was a little surprised to observe that the person who
followed him wore the gray cowl of St. Francis.  The prior merely
bestowed the customary salutation upon him, and then, stepping aside,
allowed his companion to approach.

But as soon as Carlos saw his face, he raised himself eagerly, and
stretching out both his hands, grasped those of the Franciscan.  "Dear
Fray Sebastian!" he cried; "my good, kind tutor!"

"My lord the prior has been graciously pleased to allow me to visit your
Excellency."

"It is truly kind of you, my lord.  I thank you heartily," said Carlos,
frankly and promptly turning towards the Dominican, who looked at him
with somewhat the air of one who is trying to be stern with a child.

"I have ventured to allow you this indulgence," he said, "in the hope
that the counsels of one whom you hold in honour may lead you to
repentance."

Carlos turned once more to Fray Sebastian, whose hand he still held.
"It is a great joy to see you," he said.  "Only to-day I had been
longing for a familiar face.  And you are changed never a whit since you
used to teach me my humanities.  How have you come hither?  Where have
you been all these years?"

Poor Fray Sebastian vainly tried to frame an answer to these simple
questions.  He had come to that prison straight from Munebrãga’s
splendid patio, where, amidst the gleam of azulejos and of many-coloured
marbles, the scent of rare exotics and the music of rippling fountains,
he had partaken of a sumptuous mid-day repast.  In this dark foul
dungeon there was nothing to please the senses, not even God’s free air
and light. Everything on which his eye rested was coarse, painful,
loathsome. By the prisoner’s side lay the remains of a meal, in great
contrast to his.  And the sleeve, fallen back from the hand that held
his own, showed deep scars on the wrist.  He knew whence they were.  Yet
the face that was looking in his, with kindling eyes, and a smile on the
parted lips, might have been the face of the boy Carlos, when he praised
him for a successful task, only for the pain in it, and, far deeper than
pain, a look of assured peace that boyhood could scarcely know.

Repressing a choking sensation, he faltered, "Señor Don Carlos, it
grieves me to the heart to see you here."

"Do not grieve for me, dear Fray Sebastian; for I tell you truly, I have
never known such happy hours as since I came here.  At first, indeed, I
suffered; there was storm and darkness.  But then"--here for a moment
his voice failed, and his flushed cheek and quivering lip betrayed the
anguish a too hasty movement cost the broken frame.  But, recovering
himself quickly, he went on: "Then He arose and rebuked the wind and the
sea; and there was a great calm.  That calm lasts still.  And oftentimes
this narrow room seems to me the house of God, the very gate of heaven.
Moreover," he added, with a smile of strange brightness, "there is
heaven itself beyond."

"But, señor and your Excellency, consider the disgrace and sorrow of
your noble family--that is, I mean"--here the speaker paused in
perplexity, and met the keen eye of the prior, fixed somewhat
scornfully, as he thought, upon him.  He was quite conscious that the
Dominican was thinking him incapable, and incompetent to the task he had
so earnestly solicited.  He had sedulously prepared himself for this
important interview, had gone through it in imagination beforehand,
laying up in his memory several convincing and most pertinent
exhortations, which could not fail to benefit his old pupil.  But these
were of no avail now; in fact, they all vanished from his recollection.
He had just begun something rather vague and incoherent about Holy
Church, when the prior broke in.

"Honoured brother," he said, addressing with scrupulous politeness the
member of a rival fraternity, "the prisoner may be more willing to
listen to your pious exhortations, and you may have more freedom in
addressing him, if you are left for a brief space alone together.
Therefore, though it is scarcely regular, I will visit a prisoner in a
neighbouring apartment, and return hither for you in due time."

Fray Sebastian thanked him, and he withdrew, saying as he did so, "It is
not necessary for me to remind my reverend brother that conversation
upon worldly matters is strictly forbidden in the Holy House."

Whether the prior visited the other prisoner or no, it is not for us to
inquire; but if he did, his visit was a short one; for it is certain
that for some time he paced the gloomy corridor with troubled footsteps.
He was thinking of a woman’s face, a fair young face, to which that of
Don Carlos Alvarez wore a startling likeness.  "Too harsh, needlessly
harsh," he murmured; "for, after all, _she_ was no heretic.  But which
of us is always in the right?  Ave Maria Sanctissima, ora pro me!  But
if I can, I would fain make some reparation--to _him_.  If ever there
was a true and sincere penitent, he is one."

After a little further delay, he summoned Fray Sebastian by a peremptory
knock at the inner door, the outer one of course remaining open.  The
Franciscan came, his broad, good-humoured face bathed in tears, which he
scarcely made an effort to conceal.

The prior glanced at him for a moment, then signed to Herrera, who was
waiting in the gallery, to come and make the door fast.  They walked on
together in silence, until at length Fray Sebastian said, in a trembling
voice, "My lord, you are very powerful here; can _you_ do nothing for
him?"

"I _have_ done much.  At my intercession he had nine months of solitude,
in which to recollect himself and ponder his situation, ere he was
called on to make answer at all.  Judge my amazement when, instead of
entering upon his defence, or calling witnesses to his character, he at
once confessed all. Judge my greater amazement at his continued
obstinacy since. When a man has broken a giant oak in two, he may feel
some surprise at being baffled by a sapling."

"He will not relent," said Fray Sebastian, hardly restraining his sobs.
"He will die."

"I see one chance to save him," returned the prior; "but it is a
hazardous experiment.  The consent of the Supreme Council is necessary,
as well as that of my Lord Vice-Inquisitor, and neither may be very easy
to obtain."

"To save his body or his soul?" Fray Sebastian asked anxiously.

"Both, if it succeeds.  But I can say no more," he added rather
haughtily; "for my plan is bound up with a secret, of which few living
men, save myself, are in possession."




                                 XXXIV.

                       Fray Sebastian’s Trouble.


      "Now, with fainting frame,
    With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
    To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
    I bless thee.  Peace be on thy noble head.
    Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
    I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
    Its power again to bless thee, and again.
    Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate
    Too much; too long for my sake desolate
    Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back
    From dying hands thy freedom."--Hemans


It was late in August.  All day long the sky had been molten fire, and
the earth brass.  Every one had dozed away the sultry noontide hours in
the coolest recesses of dwellings made to exclude heat, as ours to
exclude cold.  But when at last the sun sank in flame beneath the
horizon, people began to creep out languidly to woo the refreshment of
the evening breeze.

The beautiful gardens of the Triana were still deserted, save by two
persons.  One of these, a young lad--we beg pardon, a young
gentleman--of fifteen or sixteen, sat, or rather reclined, by the
river-side, eating slices from an enormous melon, which he cut with a
small silver-hilted dagger.  A plumed cap, and a gay velvet jerkin lined
with satin, had been thrown aside for coolness’ sake, and lay near him
on the ground; so that his present dress consisted merely of a mass of
the finest white holland, delicately starched and frilled, velvet hosen,
long silk stockings, and fashionable square-toed shoes.  Curls of
scented hair were thrown back from a face beautiful as that of a girl,
but bold and insolent in its expression as that of a spoiled and
mischievous boy.

The other person was seated in the arbour mentioned once before, with a
book in his hand, of which, however, he did not in the course of an hour
turn over a single leaf.  A look of chronic discontent and dejection had
replaced the good-humoured smiles of Fray Sebastian Gomez.  Everything
was wrong with the poor Franciscan now.  Even the delicacies of his
patron’s table ceased to please him; and he, in his turn, was fast
ceasing to please his patron.  How could it be otherwise, when he had
lost not only his happy art of indirect ingenious flattery, but his
power to be commonly agreeable or amusing?  No more poems--not so much
as the briefest sonnet--on the suppression of heresy were to be had from
him; and he was fast becoming incapable of turning a jest or telling a
story.

It is said that idiots often manifest peculiar pain and terror at the
sound of music, because it awakens within them faint stirrings of that
higher life from which God’s mysterious dispensation has shut them out.
And it is true that the first stirrings of higher life usually come to
all of us with pain and terror. Moreover, if we do not crush them out,
but cherish and foster them, they are very apt to take away the
brightness and pleasantness of the old lower life altogether, and to
make it seem worthless and distasteful.

A new and higher life had begun for Fray Sebastian.  It was not his
conscience that was quickened, only his heart. Hitherto he had chiefly
cared for himself.  He was a good-natured man, in the ordinary
acceptation of the term; yet no sympathy for others had ever spoiled his
appetite or hindered his digestion.  But for the past three months he
had been feeling as he had not felt since he clung weeping to the mother
who left him in the parlour of the Franciscan convent--a child of eight
years old.  The patient suffering face of the young prisoner in the
Triana had laid upon him a spell that he could not break.

To say that he would have done anything in his power to save Don Carlos,
is to say little.  Willingly would he have lived for a month on black
bread and brackish water, if that could have even mitigated his fate.
But the very intensity of his desire to help him was fast making him
incapable of rendering him the smallest service.  Munebrãga’s flatterer
and favourite might possibly, by dint of the utmost self-possession and
the most adroit management, have accomplished some little good. But Fray
Sebastian was now consciously forfeiting even the miserable fragment of
power that had once been his.  He thought himself like the salt that had
lost its savour, and was fit neither for the land nor yet for the
dunghill.

Absorbed in his mournful reflections, he continued unconscious of the
presence of such an important personage as Don Alonzo de Munebrãga, the
Lord Vice-Inquisitor’s favourite page.  At length, however, he was made
aware of the fact by a loud angry shout, "Off with you, varlets, scum of
the people! How dare you put your accursed fishing-smack to shore in my
lord’s garden, and under his very eyes?"

Fray Sebastian looked up, and saw no fishing-boat, but a decent covered
barge, from which, in spite of the page’s remonstrance, two persons were
landing: an elderly female clad in deep mourning, and her attendant,
apparently a tradesman’s apprentice, or serving-man.

Fray Sebastian knew well how many distracted petitioners daily sought
access to Munebrãga, to plead (alas, how vainly!) for the lives of
parents, husbands, sons, or daughters.  This was doubtless one of them.
He heard her plead, "For the love of Heaven, dear young gentleman,
hinder me not.  Have you a mother?  My only son lies--"

"Out upon thee, woman!" interrupted the page; "and the foul fiend take
thee and thy only son together."

"Hush, Don Alonzo!" Fray Sebastian interposed, coming forward towards
the spot; and perhaps for the first time in his life there was something
like dignity in his tone and manner. "You must be aware, señora," he
said, turning to the woman, "that the right of using this landing-place
is restricted to my lord’s household.  You will be admitted at the gate
of the Triana, if you present yourself at a proper hour."

"Alas! good father, once and again have I sought admission to my lord’s
presence.  I am the unhappy mother of Luis D’Abrego, he who used to
paint and illuminate the church missals so beautifully.  More than a
year agone they tore him from me, and carried him away to yonder tower,
and since then, so help me the good God, never a word of him have I
heard. Whether he is living or dead, this day I know not."

"Oh, a Lutheran dog!  Serve him right," cried the page. "I hope they
have put him on the pulley."

Fray Sebastian turned suddenly, and dealt the lad a stinging blow on the
side of his face.  To the latest hour of his life this act of passion
remained incomprehensible to himself.  He could only ascribe it to the
direct agency of the evil one.  "I was tempted by the Devil," he would
say with a sigh.  "Vade retro me, Satana."

Crimson to the roots of his perfumed hair, the boy sought his dagger.
"Vile caitiff! beggarly trencher-scraping Franciscan!" he cried, "you
shall repent of this."

But apparently changing his mind the next moment, he allowed the dagger
to drop from his hand, and snatching up his jerkin, ran at full speed
towards the house.

Fray Sebastian crossed himself, and gazed after him bewildered; his
unwonted passion dying as suddenly as it had flamed up, and giving place
to fear.

Meanwhile the mother of Abrego, to whom it did not occur that the buffet
bestowed on the page could have any serious consequences, resumed her
pleadings.  "Your reverence seems to have a heart that can feel for the
unhappy," she said.  "For Heaven’s sake refuse not the prayer of the
most unhappy woman in the world.  Only let me see his lordship--let me
throw myself at his feet and tell him the whole truth.  My poor lad had
nothing at all to do with the Lutherans; he was a good, true Christian,
and an old one, like all his family."

"Nay, nay, my good woman; I fear I can do nothing to help you.  And I
entreat of you to leave this place, else some of my lord’s household are
sure to come and compel you.  Ay, there they are."

It was true enough.  Don Alonzo, as he ran through the porch, shouted to
the numerous idle attendants who were lounging about, and some of them
immediately rushed out into the garden.

In justice to Fray Sebastian, it must be recorded, that before he
consulted for his personal safety, he led the poor woman back to the
barge, and saw her depart in it.  Then he made good his own retreat,
going straight to the lodging of Don Juan Alvarez.

He found Juan lying asleep on a settle.  The day was hot; he had nothing
to do; and, moreover, the fiery energy of his southern blood was dashed
by the southern taint of occasional torpor.  Starting up suddenly, and
seeing Fray Sebastian standing before him with a look of terror, he
asked in alarm, "Any tidings, Fray?  Speak--tell me quickly."

"None, Señor Don Juan.  But I must leave this place at once."  And the
friar briefly narrated the scene that had just taken place, adding
mournfully, "Ay de mi!  I cannot tell what came over me--_me_, the
mildest-tempered man in all the Spains!"

"And what of all that?" asked Juan rather contemptuously. "I see nothing
to regret, save that you did not give the insolent lad what he deserved,
a sound beating."

"But, Señor Don Juan, you don’t understand," gasped the poor friar.  "I
must fly immediately.  If I stay here over to-night I shall find myself
before the morning--_there_."  And with a significant gesture he pointed
to the grim fortress that loomed above them.

"Nonsense.  They cannot suspect a man of heresy, even _de levi_,[#] for
boxing the ear of an impudent serving-lad."


[#] Lightly.


"Ay, and can they not, your worship?  Do you not know that the gardener
of the Triana has lain for many a weary month in one of those dismal
cells; and all for the grave offence of snatching a reed out of the hand
of one of my lord’s lackeys so roughly as to make it bleed?"[#]


[#] A fact.


"Truly!  Now are things come to a strange pass in our free and royal
land of Spain!  A beggarly upstart, such as this Munebrãga, who could
not, to save himself from the rack, tell you the name of his own
great-grandfather, drags the sons and brothers--ay, and God help us! the
wives and daughters--of our knights and nobles to the dungeon and the
stake before our eyes.  And it is not enough for him to set his own heel
on our necks.  His minions--his very grooms and pages--must lord it over
us, and woe to him who dares to chastise their insolence.  Nathless, I
would feel it a comfort to make every bone in that urchin’s body ache
soundly.  I have a mind--but this is folly.  I believe you are right,
Fray.  You should go."

"Moreover," said the friar mournfully, "I am doing no good here."

"No one can do good now," returned Juan, in a tone of deep dejection.
"And to-day the last blow has fallen.  The poor woman who showed him
kindness, and sometimes told us how he fared, is herself a prisoner."

"What! she has been discovered?"

"Even so: and with those fiends mercy is the greatest of all crimes.
The child met me to-day (whether by accident or design, I know not), and
told me, weeping bitterly."

"God help her!"

"Some would gladly endure her punishment if they might commit her
crime," said Don Juan.  There was a pause; then he resumed, "I had been
about to ask you to apply once more to the prior."

Fray Sebastian shook his head.  "That were of no use," he said; "for it
is certain that my lord the Vice-Inquisitor and the prior have had a
misunderstanding about the matter.  And the prior, so far from obtaining
permission to deal with him as he desired, is not even allowed to see
him now."

"And yourself?--whither do you mean to go?" asked Juan, rather abruptly.

"In sooth, I know not, señor.  I have had no time to think. But go I
must."

"I will tell you what to do.  Go to Nuera.  There for the present you
will be safe.  And if any man inquire your business, you have a fair and
ready answer.  _I_ send you to look after my affairs.  Stay; I will
write by you to Dolores.  Poor, true-hearted Dolores!"  Don Juan seemed
to fall into a reverie, so long did he sit motionless, his face shaded
by his hand.

His mournful air, his unwonted listlessness, his attenuated frame--all
struck Fray Sebastian painfully.  After musing a while in silence, he
said at last, very suddenly, "Señor Don Juan!"

Juan looked up.

"Have you ever thought since on the message _he_ sent you by me?"

Don Juan looked as though that question were worse than needless.  Was
not every word of his brother’s message burned into his heart?  This it
was: "My Ruy, thou hast done all for me that the best of brothers could.
Leave me now to God, unto whom I am going quickly, and in peace.  Quit
the country as soon as thou canst; and God’s best blessings surround thy
path and guard thee evermore."

One fact Carlos had most earnestly entreated Fray Sebastian to withhold
from his brother.  Juan must never know that he had endured the horrors
of the Question.  The monk would have promised almost anything that
could bring a glow of pleasure to that pale, patient face.  And he had
kept his promise, though at the expense of a few falsehoods, that did
not greatly embarrass his conscience.  He had conveyed the impression to
Don Juan that it was merely from the effects of his long and cruel
imprisonment that his brother was sinking into the only refuge that
remained to him--a quiet grave.

After a pause, he resumed, looking earnestly at Juan--"_He_ wished you
to go."

"Do you not know that next month they say there will be--_an Auto_?"

"Yes; but it is not likely--"

They gazed at each other in silence, neither saying what was not likely.

"Any horror is _possible_," said Juan at last.  "But no more of this.
Until after the Auto, with its chances of _some_ termination to this
dreadful suspense, I stir not from Seville.  Now, we must think for you.
I know where to find a boat, the owner of which will take you some miles
on your way up the river to-night.  Then you can hire a horse."

Fray Sebastian groaned.  Neither the journey itself, its cause, nor its
manner were anything but disagreeable to the poor friar. But there was
no help for him.  Juan gave him some further directions about his way;
then set food and wine before him.

"Eat and drink," he said.  "Meanwhile I will secure the boat.  When I
return, I can write to Dolores."

All was done as he planned; and ere the morning broke, Fray Sebastian
was far on his way to Nuera, with the letter to Dolores stitched into
the lining of his doublet.




                                 XXXV.

                          The Eve of the Auto.


    "It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth
    He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it
            upon him.
    He putteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be
      hope."--Lamentations iii, 27-29


On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville wore a festive appearance.
The shops were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers
in their gay holiday apparel.  For it was the eve of the great Auto, and
the preliminary ceremonies were going forward amidst the admiration of
gazing thousands.  Two stately scaffolds, in the form of an
amphitheatre, had been erected in the great square of the city, then
called the Square of St. Francis; and thither, when the work was
completed, flags and crosses were borne in solemn procession, with music
and singing.

But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place.
Outside the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly
Quemadero--the great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered
human sacrifices to the God of peace and love.  Thither came long files
of barefooted friars, carrying bushes and faggots, which they laid in
order on the place of death, while, in sweet yet solemn tones, they
chanted the "Miserere" and "De Profundis."

Very close together on those festive days were "strong light and deep
shadow."  But our way leads us, for the present, into the light.
Turning away from the Square of St. Francis, and the Prado San
Sebastian, we enter a cool upper room in the stately mansion of Don
Garçia Ramirez.  There, in the midst of gold and gems, and of silk and
lace, Doña Inez is standing, busily engaged in the task of selecting the
fairest treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival of the
following day. Doña Beatriz de Lavella, and the young waiting-woman who
had been employed in the vain though generous effort to save Don Carlos,
are both aiding her in the choice.

"Please your ladyship," said the girl, "I should recommend rose colour
for the basquina.  Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord’s late
gift, my lady will be as fine as a duchess; of whom, I hear, many will
be there.--But what will Señora Doña Beatriz please to wear?"

"I do not intend to go, Juanita," said Doña Beatriz, with a little
embarrassment.

"Not intend to go!" cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise.  "Not
go to see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year!
Worth a hundred bull-feasts!  Ay de mi! what a pity!"

"Juanita," interposed her mistress, "I think I hear the señorita’s voice
in the garden.  It is far too hot for her to be out of doors.  Oblige me
by bringing her in at once."

As soon as the attendant was gone, Doña Inez turned to her cousin.  "It
is really most unreasonable of Don Juan," she said, "to keep you shut up
here, whilst all Seville is making holiday."

"I am glad--I have no heart to go forth," said Doña Beatriz, with a
quivering lip.

"Nor have I too much, for that matter.  My poor brother is so weak and
ill to-day, it grieves me to the heart.  Moreover, he is still so
thoughtless about his poor soul.  That is the worst of all.  I never
cease praying Our Lady to bring him to a better mind.  If he would only
consent to see a priest; but he was ever obstinate.  And if I urge the
point too strongly, he will think I suppose him dying."

"I thought his health had improved since you had him brought over here."

"Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father’s house.  But of
late he seems to me to be sinking, and that quickly.  And now, the
Auto--"

"What of that?" asked Doña Beatriz, with a quick look, half suspicious
and half frightened.

Doña Inez closed the door carefully, and drew nearer to her cousin.
"They say _she_ will be amongst the relaxed,"[#] she whispered.


[#] Those delivered over to the secular arm--that is, to death.


"Does he know it?" asked Beatriz.

"I fear he suspects something; and what to tell him, or not to tell him,
I know not--Our Lady help me!  Ay de mi!  ’Tis a horrible business from
beginning to end.  And the last thing--the arrest of the sister, Doña
Juana!  A duke’s daughter--a noble’s bride.  But--best be silent.

    ’Con el re e la Inquisition,
    Chiton!  Chiton!’"[#]


[#]| "With the King or the Inquisition,
       Hush!  Hush!"--_A Spanish proverb._


Thus, only in a few hurried words, spoken with ’bated breath, did Doña
Inez venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible
tragedies in that time of horrors.  Nor shall we do more.

"Still, you know, amiga mia," she continued, "one must do like one’s
neighbours.  It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day.
Besides, every one would talk."

"That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I
would not go.  For not to look sorrowful, when thy father, Don Manuel,
and my aunt, Doña Katarina, are both doing their utmost to drive me out
of my senses, would be past my power."

"Have they been urging the suit of Señor Luis upon thee again?  My poor
Beatriz, I am truly sorrow for thee," said Doña Inez, with genuine
sympathy.

"Urging it again!" Beatriz repeated with flashing eyes. "Nay; but they
have never ceased to urge it.  And they spare not to say such wicked,
cruel words.  They tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother’s
crime.  Dishonoured, forsooth! Think of dishonour touching him!  After
the day of St. Quentin, the Duke of Savoy was not of that mind, nor our
Catholic King himself.  And they have the audacity to say that I can
easily get absolved of my troth to him.  Absolved of a solemn promise
made in the sight of God and of Our Lady, and all the holy Saints!  If
_that_ be not heresy, as bad as--"

"Hush!" interrupted Doña Inez.  "These are dangerous subjects.
Moreover, I hear some one knocking at the door."

It proved to be a page bearing a message.

"If it please Doña Beatriz de Lavella, Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya kisses the señora’s feet, and most humbly desires the favour of
an audience."

"I go," said Beatriz.

"Request Señor Don Juan to have the goodness to untire himself a little,
and bring his Excellency fruit and wine," added Doña Inez.  "My cousin,"
she said, turning to Beatriz as soon as the page left the room, "do you
not know your cheeks are all aflame?  Don Juan will think we have
quarrelled.  Rest you here a minute, and let me bathe them for you with
this water of orange-flowers."

Beatriz submitted, though reluctantly, to her cousin’s good offices.
While she performed them she whispered, "And be not so downcast, amiga
mia.  There is a remedy for most troubles.  And as for yours, I see not
why Don Juan himself should not save you out of them once for all."  She
added, in a whisper, two or three words that more than undid all the
benefit which the cheeks of Beatriz might otherwise have derived from
the application of the fragrant water.

"No use," was the agitated reply.  "Even were it possible, _they_ would
not permit it."

"You can come to visit me.  Then trust me to manage the rest.  The truth
is, amiga mia," Doña Inez continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her
cousin’s dark glossy hair, "what between sickness, and quarrelling, and
the Faith, and heresy, and prisons, there is so much trouble in the
world that no one can help, it seems a pity not to help all one can.  So
you may tell Don Juan that if Doña Inez can do him a good turn she will
not be found wanting.  There, I despair of your cheeks.  Yet I must
allow that their crimson becomes you well.  But you would rather hear
that from Don Juan’s lips than from mine.  Go to him, my cousin."  And
with a parting kiss Beatriz was dismissed.

But if she expected any flattery that day from the lips of Don Juan, she
was disappointed.  His heart was far too sorrowful.  He had merely come
to tell his betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow--that
dreadful morrow!  "I have secured a station," he said, "from whence I
can watch the whole procession, as it issues from the gate of the
Triana. If _he_ is there, I shall dare everything for a last look and
word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled.  If even his dust is there,
I shall stand beside it till all is over.  If not--"  Here he broke off,
leaving his sentence unfinished, as if in that case it did not matter
what he did.

Just then Doña Inez entered.  After customary salutations, she said, "I
have a request to make of you, my cousin, on the part of my brother, Don
Gonsalvo.  He desires to see you for a few moments."

"Señora my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his."

Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonsalvo lay.
And at the special request of the sick man, they were left alone
together.

He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence,
but with a look of compassion.  For it needed only a glance at his face
to show that death was there.

"I should be glad to think you forgave me," he said.

"I do forgive you," Juan answered.  "You intended no evil."

"Will you, then, do me a great kindness?  It is the last I shall ask.
Tell me the names of any of the--the _victims_ that have come to your
knowledge."

"It is only through rumour one can hear these things.  Not yet have I
succeeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst
them."

"Tell me--has rumour named in your hearing--Doña Maria de Xeres y
Bohorques?"

Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Doña Inez had but recently
confided to his betrothed.  He therefore answered, without hesitation,
though in a low, sad tone, "Yes; they say she is to die to-morrow."

Don Gonsalvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great
silence.

Which the awed and wondering Juan broke at last.  Guessing at the truth,
he said, "It may be I have done wrong to tell you."

"No; you have done right.  I knew it ere you told me.  It is well--for
her."

"A brave word, bravely spoken."

"Nigh upon eighteen months--long slow months of grief and pain.  All
ended now.  To-morrow night she will see the glory of God."

There was another long pause.  At last Juan said,--

"Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate?"

Gonsalvo half raised himself, and a flush overspread the wan face that
already wore the ashy hue of approaching death. "Share _that_ fate!" he
cried, with an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and
measured utterance. "Change with _them_?  Ask the beggar, who sits all
day at the King’s gate, waiting for his dole of crumbs, would he gladly
change with the King’s children, when he sees the golden gate flung open
before them, and watches them pass in robed and crowned, to the
presence-chamber of the King himself."

"Your faith is greater than mine," said Juan in surprise.

"In one way, yes," replied Gonsalvo, sinking back, and resuming his low,
quiet tone.  "For the beggar dares to hope that the King has looked with
pity even on _him_."

"You do well to hope in the mercy of God."

"Cousin, do you know what my life has been?"

"I think I do."

"I am past disguise now.  Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare
speak the truth, though it be to my own shame. There was no evil, no
sin--stay, I will sum up all in one word. _One_ pure, blameless life--a
man’s life, too--I have watched from day to day, from childhood to
manhood.  All that your brother Don Carlos was, I was not; all he was
not, I was."

"Yet you once thought that life incomplete, unmanly," said Juan,
remembering the taunts that in past days had so often aroused his wrath.

"I was a fool.  It is just retribution that I--I who called him
coward--should see him march in there triumphant, with the palm of
victory in his hand.  But let me end; for I think it is the last time I
shall speak of myself in any human ear. I sowed to the flesh, and of the
flesh I have reaped--_corruption_. It is an awful word, Don Juan.  All
the life in me turned to death; all the good in me (what God meant for
good, such as force, fire, passion) turned to evil.  What availed it me
that I loved a star in heaven--a bright, lonely, distant star--while I
was earthy, of the earth?  Because I could not (and thank God for that!)
pluck down my star from the sky and hold it in my hand, even that love
became corruption too.  I fulfilled my course, the earthly grew sensual,
the sensual grew devilish. And then God smote me, though not then for
the first time. The stroke of his hand was heavy.  My heart was crushed,
my frame left powerless."  He paused for a while, then slowly resumed.
"The stroke of his hand, your brother’s words, your brother’s book--by
these he taught me.  There is deliverance even from the bondage of
corruption, through him who came to call not the righteous, but sinners.
One day--and that soon--I, even I, shall kneel at his feet, and thank
him for saving the lost.  And then I shall see my star, shining far
above me in his glorious heaven, and be content and glad."

"God has been very gracious to you, my cousin," said Juan in a tone of
emotion.  "And what he has cleansed I dare not call common.  Were my
brother here to-day, I think he would stretch out to you the right hand,
not of forgiveness, but of fellowship.  I have told you how he longed
for your soul."

"God can fulfil more desires of his than that, Don Juan, and I doubt not
he will.  What know we of his dealings? we who all these dreary months
have been mourning for and pitying his prisoners, to-morrow to be his
crowned and sainted martyrs? It were a small thing with him to flood the
dungeon’s gloom with light, and give--even here, even now--all their
hearts long for to those who suffer for him."

Juan was silent.  Truly the last was first, and the first last now.
Gonsalvo had reached some truths which were still far beyond _his_ ken.
He did not know how their seed had been sown in his heart by his own
brother’s hand.  At length he answered, in a low and faltering voice,
"There is much in what you say.  Fray Sebastian told me--"

"Ay," cried Gonsalvo eagerly, "what did Fray Sebastian tell you of
_him_?"

"That he found him in perfect peace, though ill and weak in body.  It is
my hope that God himself has delivered him ere now out of their cruel
hands.  And I ought to tell you that he spoke of all his relatives with
affection, and made special inquiry after your health."

Gonsalvo said quietly, "It is likely I shall see him before you."

Juan sighed.  "To-morrow will reveal something," he said.

"Many things, perhaps," Gonsalvo returned.  "Well--Doña Beatriz waits
you now.  There is no poison in that wine, though it be of an earthly
vintage; and God himself puts the cup in your hand; so take it, and be
comforted.  Yet stay, have you patience for one word more?"

"For a thousand, if you will, my cousin."

"I know that in heart you share his--_our_ faith."

Juan shrank a little from his gaze.

"Of course," he replied, "I have been obliged to conceal my opinions;
and, indeed, of late all things have seemed to grow dim and uncertain
with me.  Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I cannot tell what truth
is."

"’He came not to call the righteous, but sinners,’" said Gonsalvo.  "And
the sinner who has heard his call must believe, let others doubt as they
may.  Thank God, the sinner may not only believe, but love.  Yes; in
that the beggar at the gate may take his stand beside the king’s
children unreproved. Even I dare to say, ’Lord, thou knowest all things;
thou knowest that I love thee.’  Only to them it is given to prove it;
while I--ay, there was the bitter thought.  Long it haunted me. At last
I prayed that if indeed he deigned to accept me, all sinful as I was, he
would give me for a sign something to do, to suffer, or to give up,
whereby I might prove my love."

"And did he hear you?"

"Yes.  He showed me one thing harder to give up than life; one thing
harder to do than to brave the torture and the death of fire."

"What is that?"

Once more Gonsalvo veiled his face.  Then he murmured--"Harder to give
up--vengeance, hatred; harder to do--to pray for _their_ murderers."

"_I_ could never do it," said Juan, starting.

"And if at last--at last--_I_ can,--I, whose anger was fierce, and whose
wrath was cruel, even unto death,--is not that His own work in me?"

Juan half turned away, and did not answer immediately.  In his heart
many thoughts were struggling.  Far, indeed, was he from praying for his
brother’s murderers; almost as far from wishing to do it.  Rather would
he invoke God’s vengeance upon them.  Had Gonsalvo, in the depths of his
misery, remorse, and penitence, actually found something which Don Juan
Alvarez still lacked?  He said at last, with a humility new and strange
to him,--

"My cousin, you are nearer heaven than I."

"As to time--yes," said Gonsalvo, with a faint smile.  "Now farewell,
cousin; and thank you."

"Can I do nothing more for you?"

"Yes; tell my sister that I know all.  Now, God bless you, and deliver
you from the evils that beset your path, and bring you and yours to some
land where you may worship him in peace and safety."

And so the cousins parted, never to meet again upon earth.




                                 XXXVI.

              "The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle."[#]


      "All have passed:
    The fearful, and the desperate, and the strong.
    Some like the barque that rushes with the blast;
    Some like the leaf borne tremblingly along;
    And some like men who have but one more field
    To fight, and then may slumber on their shield--
    Therefore they arm in hope."--Hemans.



[#] So called by the Inquisitor, De Pegna.


At earliest dawn next morning, Juan established himself in an upper room
of one of the high houses which overlooked the gate of the Triana.  He
had hired it from the owners for the purpose, stipulating for sole
possession and perfect loneliness.

At sunrise the great Cathedral bell tolled out solemnly, and all the
bells in the city responded.  Through the crowd, which had already
gathered in the street, richly dressed citizens were threading their way
on foot.  He knew they were those who, out of zeal for the faith, had
volunteered to act as _patrinos_, or god-fathers, to the prisoners,
walking beside them in the procession.  Amongst them he recognized his
cousins, Don Manuel and Don Balthazar.  They were all admitted into the
castle by a private door.

Ere long the great gate was flung open.  Juan’s eyes were rivetted to
the spot.  There was a sound of singing, sweet and low, as of childish
voices; for the first to issue from those gloomy portals were the boys
of the College of Doctrine, dressed in white surplices, and chanting
litanies to the saints. Clear and full at intervals rose from their lips
the "Ora pro nobis" of the response; and tears gathered unconsciously in
the eyes of Juan at the old familiar words.

In great contrast with the white-robed children came the next in order.
Juan drew his breath hard, for here were the penitents: pale, melancholy
faces, "ghastly and disconsolate beyond what can be imagined;"[#] forms
clothed in black, without sleeves, and barefooted--hands carrying
extinguished tapers.


[#] Report of De Pegna.


Those who walked foremost in the procession had only been convicted of
such _minor_ offences as blasphemy, sorcery, or polygamy.  But by-and-by
there came others, wearing ugly sanbenitos--yellow, with red
crosses--and conical paper mitres on their heads.  Juan’s eye kindled
with intenser interest; for he knew that these were Lutherans.  Not
without a wild dream--hope, perhaps--that the near approach of death
might have subdued his brother’s fortitude, did he scan in turn every
mournful face.  There was Luis D’Abrego, the illuminator of church
books; there, walking long afterwards, as far more guilty, was Medel
D’Espinosa, the dealer in embroidery, who had received the Testaments
brought by Juliano.  There were many others of much higher rank, with
whom he was well acquainted.  Altogether more than eighty in number, the
long and melancholy train swept by, every man or woman attended by two
monks and a patrino.  But Carlos was not amongst them.

Then came the great Cross of the Inquisition; the face turned towards
the penitent, the back to the _impenitent_--those devoted to the death
of fire.  And now Juan’s breath came and went--his lips trembled; all
his soul was in his eager, straining eyes Now first he saw the hideous
zamarra--a black robe, painted all over with saffron-coloured flames,
into which devils and serpents, rudely represented, were thrusting the
impenitent heretic.  A paper crown, or carroza, similarly adorned,
covered the victim’s head.  But the face of the wearer was unknown to
Juan.  He was a poor artizan--Juan de Leon by name--who had made his
escape by flight, but had been afterwards apprehended in the Low
Countries.  Torture and cruel imprisonment had almost killed him
already; but his heart was strong to suffer for the Lord he loved, and
though the pallor of death was on his cheek, there was no fear there.

But the countenances of those that followed Juan knew too well.  Never
afterwards could he exactly recall the order in which they walked; yet
every individual face stamped itself indelibly on his memory.  He would
carry those looks in his heart until his dying hour.

No less than four of the victims wore the white tunic and brown mantle
of St. Jerome.  One of these was an old man--leaning on his staff for
very age, but with joy and confidence beaming in his countenance.  The
white locks, from which Garçias Ariâs had gained the name of Doctor
Blanco, had been shorn away; but Juan easily recognized the waverer of
past days, now strengthened with all might, according to the glorious
power of Him whom at last he had learned to trust.  The accomplished
Cristobal D’Arellano, and Fernando de San Juan, Master of the College of
Doctrine, followed calm and dauntless. Steadfast, too, though not
without a little natural shrinking from the doom of fire, was a mere
youth--Juan Crisostomo.

Then came one clad in a doctor’s robe, with the step of a conqueror and
the mien of a king.  As he issued from the Triana he chanted, in a clear
and steady voice, the words of the Hundred and ninth Psalm: "Hold not
thy peace, O God of my praise; for the mouth of the ungodly, yea, the
mouth of the deceitful, is opened upon me: and they have spoken against
me with false tongues.  They compassed me about also with words of
hatred, and fought against me without a cause.... Help me, O Lord my
God: O save me according to thy mercy; and they shall know how that this
is thine hand, and that thou, Lord, hast done it.  Though they curse,
yet bless thou."  So died away the voice of Juan Gonsalez, one of the
noblest of Christ’s noble band of witnesses in Spain.

All these were arrayed in the garments of their ecclesiastical orders,
to be solemnly degraded on the scaffold in the Square of St. Francis.
But there followed one already in the full infamy, or glory, of the
zamarra and carroza, with painted flames and demons;--with a thrill of
emotion, Juan recognized his friend and teacher, Cristobal
Losada--looking calm and fearless--a hero marching to his last battle,
conquering and to conquer.

Yet even that face soon faded from Juan’s thoughts.  For there walked in
that gloomy death procession six females--persons of rank; nearly all of
them young and beautiful, but worn by imprisonment, and more than one
amongst them maimed by torture.  Yet if man was cruel, Christ, for whom
they suffered, was pitiful.  Their countenances, calm and even radiant,
revealed the hidden power by which they were sustained.  Their
names--which deserve a place beside those of the women of old who were
last at his cross and first beside his open sepulchre--were, Doña
Isabella de Baena, in whose house the church was wont to meet; the two
sisters of Juan Gonsalez; Doña Maria de Virves; Doña Maria de Cornel;
and, last of all, Doña Maria de Bohorques, whose face shone as the first
martyr’s, looking up into heaven.  She alone, of all the female martyr
band, appeared wearing the gag, an honour due to her heroic efforts to
console and sustain her companions in the court of the Triana.

Juan’s brave heart well-nigh burst with impotent, indignant anguish.
"Ay de mi, my Spain!" he cried; "thou seest these things, and endurest
them.  Lucifer, son of the morning, thou art fallen--fallen from thy
high place amongst the nations."

It was true.  From the man, or nation, "that hath not," shall be taken
"even that which he seemeth to have."  Had the spirit of chivalry,
Spain’s boast and pride, been faithful to its own dim light, it might
even then have saved Spain.  But its light became darkness; its trust
was betrayed into the hand of superstition.  Therefore, in the just
judgment of God, its own degradation quickly followed.  Spain’s chivalry
lost gradually all that was genuine, all that was noble in it; until it
became only a faint and ghastly mockery, a sign of corruption, like the
phosphoric light that flickers above the grave.

Absorbed in his bitter thoughts, Juan well-nigh missed the last of the
doomed ones--last because highest in worldly rank. Sad and slow, with
eyes bent down, Don Juan Ponce de Leon walked along.  The flames on his
zamarra were reversed; poor symbol of the poor mercy for which he sold
his joy and triumph and dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown.  Yet
surely he did not lose the glad welcome that awaited him at the close of
that terrible day; nor the right to say, with the erring restored
apostle, "Lord, thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee."

All the living victims had passed now.  And Don Carlos Alvarez was not
amongst them.  Juan breathed a sigh of relief; but not yet did his
straining eyes relax their gaze.  For Rome’s vengeance reached even to
the grave.  Next, there were borne along the statues of those who had
died in heresy, robed in the hideous zamarra, and followed by black
chests containing their bones to be burned.

Not there!--No--not there!  At last Juan’s trembling hands let go the
framework of the window to which they had been clinging; and, the
intense strain over, he fell back exhausted.

The stately pageant swept by, unwatched by him.  He never saw, what all
Seville was gazing on with admiration, the grand procession of the
judges and counsellors of the city, in their robes of office; the
chapter of the Cathedral; the long slow train of priests and monks that
followed.  And then, in a space left empty out of reverence, the great
green standard of the Inquisition was borne aloft, and over it a gilded
crucifix. Then came the Inquisitors themselves, in their splendid
official dresses.  And lastly, on horseback and in gorgeous apparel, the
familiars of the Inquisition.

It was well that Juan’s eyes were turned from that sight. What avails it
for lips white with passion to heap wild curses on the heads of those
for whom God’s curse already "waits in calm shadow," until the day of
reckoning be fully come? Curses, after all, are weapons dangerous to
use, and apt to pierce the hand that wields them.

His first feeling was one of intense relief, almost of joy.  He had
escaped the maddening torture of seeing his brother dragged before his
eyes to the death of anguish and shame. But to that succeeded the bitter
thought, growing soon into full, mournful conviction, "I shall see his
face no more on earth.  He is dead--or dying."

Yet that day the deep, strong current of his brotherly love was crossed
by another tide of emotion.  Those heroic men and women, whom he watched
as they passed along so calmly to their doom, had he no bond of sympathy
with them?  Was it so long since he had pressed Losada’s hand in
grateful friendship, and thanked Doña Isabella de Baena for the teaching
received beneath her roof?  With a thrill of keen and sudden shame the
gallant soldier saw himself a recreant, who had flaunted his gay uniform
on the parade and at the field-day, but when the hour of conflict came,
had stepped aside, and let the sword and the bullet find out braver and
truer hearts.

_He_ could not die thus for his faith.  On the contrary, it cost him but
little to conceal it, to live in every respect like an orthodox
Catholic.  What, then, had they which he had not? Something that enabled
his young brother--the boy who used to weep for a blow--to stand and
look fearless in the face of a horrible death.  Something that enabled
even poor, wild, passionate Gonsalvo to forgive and pray for the
murderers of the woman he loved.  What was it?




                                XXXVII.

                  Something Ended and Something Begun.


    "O sweet and strange it is to think that ere this day is done.
    The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun:
    For ever and for ever with those just souls and true--
    And what is life that we should mourn, why make we such
            ado?"--Tennyson


Late in the afternoon of that day, Doña Inez entered her sick brother’s
room.  A glitter of silk, rose-coloured and black, of costly lace and of
gems and gold, seemed to surround her.  But as she threw aside the
mantilla that partially shaded her face, and almost sank on a seat
beside the bed, it was easy to see that she was very faint and weary, if
not also very sick at heart.

"Santa Maria!  I am tired to death," she murmured.  "The heat was
killing; and the whole business interminably long."

Gonsalvo gazed at her with eager eyes, as a man dying of thirst might
gaze on one who holds a cup of water; but for a while he did not speak.
At last he said, pointing to some wine that lay near, beside an untasted
meal,--

"Drink, then."

"What, my brother!" said Doña Inez, reproachfully, "you have not touched
food to-day!  You--so ill and weak?"

"I am a man--even still," said Gonsalvo with a little bitterness in his
tone.

Doña Inez drank, and for a few moments fanned herself in silence,
distress and embarrassment in her face.

At last Gonsalvo, who had never withdrawn his eager gaze, said in a low
voice,--

"Sister, remember your promise."

"I am afraid--for you."

"You need not," he gasped.  "Only tell me _all_."

Doña Inez passed her hand wearily across her brow.

"Everything floats before me," she said.  "What with the music, and the
mass, and the incense; and the crosses, and banners, and gorgeous robes;
and then the taking of the oaths, and the sermon of the faith."

"Still--you kept my charge?"

"I did, brother."  She lowered her voice.  "Hard as it was, I looked at
_her_.  If it comforts you to know that, all through that long day, her
face was as calm as ever I have seen it listening to Fray Constantino’s
sermons, you may take that comfort to your heart When her sentence had
been read, she was asked to recant; and I heard her answer rise clear
and distinct, ’I neither can nor will recant.’  Ave Maria Sanctissima!
it is all a great mystery."

There was a silence, then she resumed,--

"And Señor Cristobal Losada--" but the thought of the kind and skilful
physician who had watched beside her own sick-bed, and brought back her
babe from the gates of the grave, almost overcame her.  Turning quickly
to other victims, she went on--

"There were four monks of St. Jerome.  Think of the White Doctor, that
every one believed so good a man, so pious and orthodox!  Another of
them, Fray Cristobal D’Arellano, was accused in his sentence of some
wicked words against Our Lady which, it would seem, he never said.  He
cried out boldly, before them all, ’It is false!  I never advanced such
a blasphemy; and I am ready to prove the contrary with the Bible in my
hand.’  Every one seemed too much amazed even to think of ordering him
to be gagged: and, for my part, I am glad the poor wretch had his word
for the last time.  I cannot help wishing they had equally forgotten to
silence Doctor Juan Gonzales; for it does not appear that he was
speaking any blasphemy, but merely a word of comfort to a poor pale
girl, his sister, as they told me.  Two of them are to die with him--God
help them!--Holy Saints forgive me; I forgot we were told not to pray
for them," and she crossed herself.

"Does my sister really believe that compassionate word a sin in God’s
sight?"

"How am I to know?  I believe whatever the Church says, of course.  And
surely there is enough in these days to inspire us with a pious horror
of heresy.  _Pues_," she resumed, "there was that long and terrible
ceremony of degrading from the priesthood.  And yet that Gonsalez passed
through it all as calm and unmoved as though he were but putting on his
robes to say mass.  His mother and his two brothers are still in prison,
it is said, awaiting their doom.  Of all the relaxed, I am told that
only Don Juan Ponce de Leon showed any sign of penitence. For the sake
of his noble house, one is glad to think he is not so hardened as the
rest.  Ay de mi!  Whether it be right or wrong, I cannot help pitying
their unhappy souls."

"Pity your own soul, not theirs," said Gonsalvo.  "For I tell you Christ
himself, in all his glory and majesty, at the right hand of the Father,
will _stand up_ to receive them this night, as he did to welcome St.
Stephen long ago."

"Oh, my poor brother, what dreadful words you speak!  It is a mortal sin
even to listen to you.  Take thought, I implore you, of your own
situation."

"I _have_ taken thought," interrupted Gonsalvo, faintly.  "But I can
bear no more--just now.  Leave me, I pray you, alone with God."

"If you would even try to say an Ave!--But I fear you are
ill--suffering.  I do not like to leave you thus."

"Do not heed me; I shall be better soon.  And a vow is upon me that I
must keep to-day."  Once more he flung the wasted hand across his face
to conceal it.

Irresolute whether to go or stay, she stood for some minutes watching
him silently.  At length she caught a low murmur, and hoping that he
prayed, she bent over him to hear.  Only three words reached her ear.
They were these--"Father, forgive them."

After an interval, Gonsalvo looked up again.  "I thought you were gone,"
he said.  "Go now, I entreat of you.  But so soon as you know _the end_,
spare not to come and tell me.  For I wait for that."

Thus entreated, Doña Inez had no choice but to leave him alone, which
she did.

Evening had worn to night, and night was beginning to wear towards
daybreak, when at last Don Garçia Ramirez, and those of his servants who
had accompanied him to the Prado San Sebastian to see the end, returned
home.

Doña Inez sat awaiting her husband in the patio.  She looked pale and
languid; apparently the great holiday of Seville had been anything but a
joyful day to her.

Don Garçia divested himself of his cloak and sword, and dismissed the
servants to their beds.  But when his wife invited him to partake of the
supper she had prepared, he turned upon her with very unusual
ill-humour.  "It is little like thy wonted wit, señora mia, to bid a man
to his breakfast at midnight," he said.  Yet he drank deeply of the
Xeres wine that stood on the board beside the venison pasty and the
manchet bread.

At last, after long patience, Doña Inez won from his lips what she
desired to hear.  "Oh yes; all is over.  Our Lady defend us!  I have
never seen such obstinacy; nor could I have believed it possible unless
I had seen it.  The criminals encouraged each other to the very last.
Those girls, the sisters of Gonsalez, repeated their Credo at the stake;
whereupon the attendant Brethren entreated them to have so much pity on
their own souls as to say, ’I believe in the _Roman_ Catholic Church.’
They answered, ’We will do as our brother does.’  So the gag was
removed, and Doctor Juan cried aloud, ’Add nothing to the good
confession you have made already.’  But for all that, order was given to
strangle them; and one of the friars told us they died in the true
faith.  I suppose it is not a sin to hope they did."

After a pause, he continued, in a deeper tone, "Señor Cristobal amazed
me as much as any of them.  At the very stake, some of the Brethren
undertook to argue with him.  But seeing that we were all listening, and
might hear somewhat to the hurt of our souls, they began to speak in the
Latin tongue. Our physician immediately did the same.  I am no scholar
myself; but there were learned men there who marked every word, and one
of them told me afterwards that the doomed man spoke with as much
elegance and propriety as if he had been contending for an academic
prize, instead of waiting for the lighting of the fire which was to
consume him.  This unheard-of calmness and composure, whence is it?  The
devil’s own work, or"----he broke off suddenly and resumed in a
different tone, "Señora mia, have you thought of the hour?  In Heaven’s
name, let us to our beds!"

"I cannot go to rest until you tell me one thing more.  Doña Maria de
Bohorques?"

"Vaya, vaya! have we not had enough of it all?"

"Nay; I have made a promise.  I must entreat you to tell me how Doña
Maria de Bohorques met her doom."

"With unflinching hardihood.  Don Juan Ponce tried to urge her to yield
somewhat.  But she refused, saying it was not now a time for reasoning,
and that they ought rather to meditate on the Lord’s death and passion.
(They believe in _that_, it seems.)  When she was bound to the stake,
the monks and friars crowded round her, and pressed her only to repeat
the Credo.  She did so; but began to add some explanations, which, I
suppose, were heretical.  Then immediately the command was given to
strangle her; and so, in one moment, while she was yet speaking, death
came to her."

"Then she did not suffer?  She escaped the fire!  Thank God!"

Five minutes afterwards, Doña Inez stood by her brother’s bed. He lay in
the same posture, his face still shaded by his hand.

"Brother," she said gently--"brother, all is over.  She did not suffer.
It was done in one moment."

There was no answer.

"Brother, are you not glad she did not feel the fire?  Can you not thank
God for it?  Speak to me."

Still no answer.

He could not be asleep!  Impossible!--"Speak to me,
Gonsalvo!--_Brother!_"

She drew close to him; she touched his hand to remove it from his face.
The next moment a cry of horror rang through the house.  It brought the
servants and Don Garçia himself to the room.

"He is dead!  God and Our Lady have mercy on his soul!" said Don Garçia,
after a brief examination.

"If only he had had the Holy Sacrament, I could have borne it!" said
Doña Inez; and then, kneeling down beside the couch, she wept bitterly.

So passed the beggar with the King’s sons, through the golden gate into
the King’s own presence-chamber.  His wrecked and troublous life over,
his passionate heart at rest for ever, the erring, repentant Gonsalvo
found entrance into the same heaven as D’Arellano, and Gonsalez, and
Losada, with their radiant martyr-crowns.  In the many mansions there
was a place for him, as for those heroic and triumphant ones.  He wore
the same robe as they--a robe washed and made white, not in the blood of
martyrs, but in the blood of the Lamb.




                                XXXVIII.

                              Nuera Again.


    "Happy places have grown holy;
      If ye went where once ye went,
    Only tears would fall down slowly.
      As at solemn Sacrament
    Household names, that used to flutter
      Through your laughter unawares,
    God’s divine one ye can utter
      With less trembling in your prayers."--E. B. Browning


A chill and dreary torpor stole over Juan’s fiery spirit after the Auto.
The settled conviction that his brother was dead took possession of his
mind. Moreover, his soul had lost its hold upon the faith which he once
embraced so warmly.  He had consciously ceased to be true to his best
convictions, and those convictions, in turn, had ceased to support him.
His confidence in himself, his trust in his own heart, had been shaken
to its foundations.  And he was very far from having gained in its stead
that strong confidence in God which would have infinitely more than
counter-balanced its loss.

Thus two or three slow and melancholy months wore away. Then,
fortunately for him, events happened that forced him, in spite of
himself, to the exertion that saves from the deadly slumber of despair.
It became evident, that if he did not wish to see the last earthly
treasure that remained to him swept out of his reach for ever, he must
rouse himself from his lethargy so far as to grasp and hold it; for now
Don Manuel _commanded_ his ward to bestow her hand upon his rival, Señor
Luis Rotelo.

In her anguish and dismay, Beatriz fled for refuge to her kind-hearted
cousin, Doña Inez.

Doña Inez received her into her house, where she soothed and comforted
her; and soon found means to despatch an "esquelita," or billet, to Don
Juan, to the following effect:--"Doña Beatriz is here.  Remember, my
cousin, ’that a leap over a ditch is better than another man’s prayer.’"

To which Juan replied immediately:--

"Señora and my cousin, I kiss your feet.  Lend me a helping hand, and I
take the leap."

Doña Inez desired nothing better.  Being a Spanish lady, she loved an
intrigue for its own sake; being a very kindly disposed lady, she loved
an intrigue for a benevolent object.  With her active co-operation and
assistance, and her husband’s connivance, it was quickly arranged that
Don Juan should carry off Doña Beatriz from their house to a little
country chapel in the neighbourhood, where a priest would be in
readiness to perform the solemn rite which should unite them for ever.
Thence they were to proceed at once to Nuera, Don Juan disguising
himself for the journey as the lady’s attendant.  Doña Inez did not
anticipate that her father and brothers would take any hostile steps
after the conclusion of the affair--glad though they might have been to
prevent it--since there was nothing which they hated and dreaded so much
as a public scandal.

All Juan’s latent fire and energy woke up again to meet the peril and to
secure the prize.  He was successful in everything; the plan had been
well laid, and was well and promptly carried out.  And thus it happened,
that amidst December-snows he bore his beautiful bride home to Nuera in
triumph.  If triumph it could be called, overcast by the ever-present
memory of the one who "was not," which rested like a deep shadow upon
all joy, and subdued and chastened it.  Few things in life are sadder
than a great, long-expected blessing coming thus;--like a friend from a
foreign land whose return has been eagerly anticipated, but who, after
years of absence, meets us changed in countenance and in heart,
unrecognizing and unrecognized.

Dolores welcomed her young master and his bride with affection and
thankfulness.  But he noticed that the dark hair, at the time of his
last visit still only threaded with silver, had grown white as the
mountain snows.  In former days Dolores, could not have told which of
the noble youths, her lady’s gallant sons, had been the dearer to her.
But now she knew full well.  Her heart was in the grave with the boy she
had taken a helpless babe from his dying mother’s arms.  But, after all,
was he in the grave?  This was the question which she asked herself day
by day, and many times a day.  She was not quite so sure of the answer
as Señor Don Juan seemed to be.  Since the day of the Auto, he had
assumed all the outward signs of mourning for his brother.

Fray Sebastian was also at Nuera, and proved a real help and comfort to
its inmates.  His very presence served to shield the household from any
suspicions that might have been awakened with regard to their faith.
For who could doubt the orthodoxy of Don Juan Alvarez, while he not only
contributed liberally to the support of his parish church, but also kept
a pious Franciscan in his family, in the capacity of private chaplain?
Though it must be confessed that the Fray’s duties were anything but
onerous; now, as in former days, he showed himself a man fond of quiet,
who for the most part held his peace, and let every one do what was
right in his own eyes.

He was now on far more cordial terms with Dolores than he had ever been
before.  This was partly because he had learned that worse physical
evils than ollas of lean mutton, or cheese of goat’s milk, _might_ be
borne with patience, even with thankfulness.  But partly also because
Dolores now really tried to con suit his tastes and to promote his
comfort.  Many a savoury dish "which the Fray used to like" did she
trouble herself to prepare; many a flask of wine from their diminishing
store did she gladly produce, "for the kind words that he spake to him
in his sorrow and loneliness."

In spite of the depressing influences around her, Doña Beatriz could not
but be very happy.  For was not Don Juan hers, all her own, her own for
ever?  And with the zeal love inspires, and the skill love imparts, she
applied herself to the task of brightening his darkened life.  Not quite
without effect.  Even from that stern and gloomy brow the shadows at
length began to roll away.

Don Juan could not speak of his sorrow.  For weeks indeed after his
return to Nuera his brother’s name did not pass his lips.  Better had it
been otherwise, both for himself and for Dolores.  Her heart, aching
with its own lonely anguish and its vague, dark surmisings, often longed
to know her young master’s true innermost thought about his brother’s
fate.  But she did not dare to ask him.

At last, however, this painful silence was partially broken through.
One morning the old servant accosted her master with an air of some
displeasure.  It was in the inner room within the hall.  Holding in her
hand a little book, she said,--"May it please your Excellency to pardon
my freedom, but it is not well done of you to leave this lying open on
your table. I am a simple woman; still I am at no loss to know what and
whence it is.  If you will not destroy it, and cannot keep it safe and
secret, I implore of your worship to give it to me."

Juan held out his hand for it.  "It is dearer to me than any earthly
possession," he said briefly.

"It had need to be dearer than your life, señor, if you mean to leave it
about in that fashion."

"I have lost the right to say so much," Juan answered. "And yet,
Dolores--tell me, would it break your heart if I sold this place--you
know it is mortgaged heavily already--and quitted the country?"

Juan expected a start, if not a cry of surprise and dismay. That Alvarez
de Meñaya should sell the inheritance of his fathers seemed indeed a
monstrous proposal.  In the eyes of the world it would be an act of
insanity, if not a crime.  What then would it appear to one who loved
the name of Santillanos y Meñaya far better than her life?

But the still face of Dolores never changed.  "Nothing would break my
heart _now_," she said calmly.

"You would come with us?"

She did not even ask _whither_.  She did not care: all her thoughts were
in the past.

"That is of course, señor," she answered.  "If I had but first assurance
of _one_ thing."

"Name it; and if I can assure you, I will."

Instead of naming it she turned silently away.  But presently turning
again, she asked, "Will your Excellency please to tell me, is it that
book that is driving you into exile?"

"It is.  I am bound to confess the truth before men; and that is
impossible here."

"But are you sure then that it is the truth?"

"Sure.  I have read God’s message both in the darkness and in the light
I have seen it traced in characters of blood--and fire."

"But--forgive the question, señor--does it make you happy?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, Señor Don Juan"--she spoke with an effort, but firmly, and
fixing her eyes on his face--"he who gave you yon book found therein
that which made him happy.  I know it; he was here, and I watched him.
When he came first, he was ill, or else very sorrowful, I know not why.
But he learned from that book that God Almighty loved him, and that the
Lord and Saviour Christ was his friend; and then his sorrow passed away,
and his heart grew full of joy, so full that he must needs be telling
me--ay, and even that poor dolt of a cura down there in the
village--about the good news.  And I think"--but here she stopped,
frightened at her own boldness.

"What think you?" asked Juan, with difficulty restraining his emotion.

"Well, Señor Don Juan, I think that if that good news be true, it would
not be so hard to suffer for it.  Blessed Virgin! Could it be aught but
joy to me, for instance, to lie in a dark dungeon, or even to be hanged
or burned, if that could work out _his_ deliverance?  There be worse
things in the world than pain or prisons.  For where there’s love,
señor----  Moreover, it comes upon me sometimes that the Lords
Inquisitors may have mistaken his case.  Wise and learned they may be,
and good and holy they are, of course--’twere sin to doubt it--yet they
_may_ mistake sometimes.  ’Twas but the other day, my old eyes growing
dim apace, that I took a blessed gleam of sunlight that had fallen on
yon oak table for a stain, and set to work to rub it off; the Lord
forgive me for meddling with one of the best of his works!  And, for
aught we know, just so may they be doing, mistaking God’s light upon the
soul for the devil’s stain of heresy.  But the sunlight is stronger than
they, after all."

"Dolores, you are half a Lutheran already yourself," answered Juan in
surprise.

"I, señor!  The Lord forbid!  I am an old Christian, and a good
Catholic, and so I hope to die.  But if you must hear all the truth, I
would walk in a yellow sanbenito, with a taper in my hand, before I
would acknowledge that _he_ ever said one word or thought one thought
that was not Catholic and Christian too.  All his crime was to find out
that the good Lord loved him, and to be happy on account of it.  If that
be your religion also, Señor Don Juan, I have nothing to say against it.
And, as I have said, God granting me, in his great mercy, one assurance
first, I am ready to follow you and your lady to the world’s end."

With these words on her lips she left the room.  For a time Juan sat
silent in deep thought.  Then he opened the Testament, and turned over
its leaves until he found the parable of the sower.  "’Some fell upon
stony places,’" he read, "’where they had not much earth; and forthwith
they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: and when the sun
was up, they were scorched; and, because they had no root, they withered
away.’  There," he said within himself, "in those words is written the
history of my life, from the day my brother confessed his faith to me in
the garden of San Isodro.  God help me, and forgive my backsliding!  But
at least it is not too late to go humbly back to the beginning, and to
ask him who alone can do it to break up the fallow ground."

He closed the book, walked to the window and looked out. Presently his
eye was attracted to those dear mystic words on the pane, which both the
brothers had loved and dreamed over from their childhood,--

    "El Dorado
    Yo hé trovado."

And at that moment the sun was shining on them as brightly as it used to
do in those old days gone by for ever.

No vague dream of any good, foreshadowed by the omen to him or to his
house, crossed the mind of the practical Don Juan.  But he seemed to
hear once more the voice of his young brother saying close beside him,
"Look, Ruy, the light is on our father’s words."  And memory bore him
back to a morning long ago, when some slight boyish quarrel had been
ended thus.

Over his stern, handsome face there passed a look that shaded and
softened it, and his eyes grew dim--dim with tears.

But just then Doña Beatriz, radiant from a morning walk, and with her
hands full of early spring flowers, tripped in, singing a Spanish
ballad,--

    "Ye men that row the galleys,
      I see my lady fair;
    She gazes at the fountain
      That leaps for pleasure there."


Beatrix was a child of the city; and, moreover, her life hitherto had
been an unloved and unloving one.  Now her nature was expanding under
the wholesome influences of home life and home love, and of simple
healthful pleasures.  "Look, Don Juan, what pretty things grow in your
fields here!  I have never seen the like," she said, breaking off in her
song to exhibit her treasures.

Don Juan looked carelessly at them, lovingly at her.  "I would fain hear
a morning hymn from those sweet, tuneful lips," he pleaded.

"Most willingly, amigo mio,--

    ’Sanctissima--’"


"Hush, my beloved; hush, I entreat of you."  And laying his hand lightly
on her shoulder, he gazed in her face with a mixture of fond and tender
admiration and of gentle reproach difficult to describe.  "_Not that_.
For the sake of all that lies between us and the old faith, not that.
Rather let us sing together,--

    ’Vexill Regis prodeunt.’

For you know that between us and our King there stands, and there needs
to stand, no human mediator.  Do you not, my beloved?"

"I know that _you_ are right," answered Beatrix, still reading her faith
in Don Juan’s eyes.  "But we can sing afterwards, whatever you like, and
as much as you will.  I pray you let us come forth now into the sunshine
together.  Look, what a glorious morning it is!"




                                 XXXIX.

                              Left Behind.


    "They are all gone into a world of light.
    And I alone am lingering here."--Henry Vaughan.


The change of seasons brought little change to those dark cells in the
Triana, where neither the glory of summer nor the breath of spring could
come.  While the world, with its living interests, its hopes and fears,
its joys and sorrows, kept surging round them, not even an echo of its
many voices reached the doomed ones within, who lay so near, yet so far
from all, "fast bound in misery and iron."

Not yet had the Deliverer come to Carlos.  More than once he had seemed
very near.  During the summer heats, so terrible in that prison, fever
had wasted the captive’s already enfeebled frame; but this was the means
of prolonging his life, for the eve of the Auto found him unable to walk
across his cell. Still he heard without very keen sorrow the fate of his
beloved friends, so soon did he hope to follow them.

And yet, month after month, life lingered on.  In his circumstances
restoration to health was simply impossible.  Not that he endured more
than others, or even as much as some.  He was not loaded with fetters,
or buried in one of the frightful subterranean cells where daylight
never entered.  Still, when to the many physical sufferings his position
entailed was added the weight of sickness, weakness, and utter
loneliness, they formed together a burden heavy enough to have crushed
even a strong heart to despair.

Long ago the last gleam of human sympathy and kindness had faded from
him.  Maria Gonsalez was herself a prisoner, receiving such payment as
men had to give her for her brave deeds of charity.  God’s payment,
however, was yet to come, and would be of another sort.  Herrera, the
under-gaoler, was humane, but very timid; moreover, his duties seldom
led him to that part of the prison where Carlos lay.  So that he was
left dependent upon the tender mercies of Caspar Benevidio, which were
indeed cruel.

And yet, in spite of all, he was not crushed, not despairing. The lamp
of patient endurance burned on steadily, because it was continually fed
with oil by an unseen Hand.

It has been beautifully said, "The personal love of Christ to you, felt,
delighted in, returned, is actually, truly, simply, without
exaggeration, the deepest joy and the deepest feeling that the heart of
man or woman can know.  It will absolutely satisfy your heart.  It would
satisfy your heart if it were his will that you should spend the rest of
your life alone in a dungeon."

Just this, nothing else, nothing less, sustained Carlos throughout those
long slow months of suffering, which had now come to "add themselves and
make the years."  It proved sufficient for him.  It has proved
sufficient for thousands--God’s unknown saints and martyrs, whose names
we shall learn first in heaven.

Those who still occasionally sought access to him, in the hope of
transforming the obstinate heretic into a penitent, marvelled greatly at
the cheerful calm with which he was wont to receive them and to answer
their arguments.

Sometimes he would even brave all the wrath of Benevidio, and raising
his voice as loud as he could, he would make the gloomy vaults re-echo
to such words as these: "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom
shall I fear?  The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be
afraid?"  Or these: "Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none
upon earth that I desire beside thee.  My flesh and my heart faileth;
but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever."

But still it was not in Christ’s promise, nor was it to be expected,
that his prisoner should never know hours of sorrow, weariness, and
heart-sinking.  Such hours came sometimes. And on the very morning when
Don Juan and Doña Beatriz were going forth together into the spring
sunshine through the castle gate of Nuera, Carlos, in his dungeon, was
passing through one of the darkest of these.  He lay on his mat, his
face covered with his wasted hands, through which tears were slowly
falling.  It was but very seldom that he wept now; tears had grown rare
and scarce with him.

The evening before, he had received a visit from two Jesuits, bound on
the only errand which would have procured their admission there.
Irritated by his bold and ready answers to the usual arguments, they had
recourse to declamation.  And one of them bethought himself of
mentioning the fate of the Lutherans who suffered at the two great Autos
of Valladolid. "Most of the heretics," said the Jesuit, "though when
they were in prison they were as obstinate as thou art now, yet had
their eyes opened in the end to the error of their ways, and accepted
reconciliation at the stake.  At the last great Act of Faith, held in
the presence of King Philip, only Don Carlos de Seso--"  Here he
stopped, surprised at the agitation of the prisoner, who had heard their
threatenings against himself so calmly.

"De Seso!  De Seso!  Have they murdered him too!" moaned Carlos, and for
a few brief moments he gave way to natural emotion.  But quickly
recovering himself, he said, "I shall only see him the sooner."

"Were you acquainted with him?" asked the Jesuit.

"I loved and honoured him.  My avowing that cannot hurt him now,"
answered Carlos, who had grown used to the bitter thought that any name
would be disgraced, and its owner imperilled, by his mentioning it with
affection.

"But if you will do me so much kindness," he added, "I pray you to tell
me anything you know of his last hours.  Any word he spoke."

"He could speak nothing," said the younger of his two visitors.  "Before
he left the prison he had uttered so many horrible blasphemies against
Holy Church and Our Lady that he was obliged to wear the gag during the
whole ceremony, ’lest he should offend the little ones.’"[#]


[#] A genuine Inquisitorial expression.


This last cruel wrong--the refusal of leave to the dying to speak one
word in defence of the truths he died for--stung Carlos to the quick.
It wrung from lips so patient hitherto words of indignant threatening.
"God will judge your cruelty," he said.  "Go on, fill up the measure of
your guilt, for your time is short.  One day, and that soon, there will
be a grand spectacle, grander than your Autos.  Then shall you,
torturers of God’s saints, call upon the mountains and rocks to cover
you, and to hide you from the wrath of the Lamb."

Once more alone, his passionate anger died away.  And it was well.
Surrounded as he was on every side by strong, cold, relentless wrong and
cruelty, if his spirit had beaten its wings against those bars of iron,
it would soon have fallen to the ground faint and helpless, with crushed
pinions.  It was not in such vain strivings that he could find, or keep,
the deep calm peace with which his heart was filled; it was in the quiet
place at his Saviour’s feet, from whence, if he looked at his enemies at
all, it was only to pity and forgive them.

But though anger was gone, a heavy burden of sorrow remained.  De Seso’s
noble form, shrouded in the hideous zamarra, his head crowned with the
carroza, his face disfigured by the gag,--these were ever before his
eyes.  He well-nigh forgot that all this was over now--that for him the
conflict was ended and the triumph begun.

Could he have known even as much as we know now of the close of that
heroic life, it might have comforted him.

Don Carlos de Seso met his doom at the second of the two great Autos
celebrated at Valladolid during the year 1559.  At the first, the most
steadfast sufferers were Francisco de Vibero Cazalla, one of a family of
confessors; and Antonio Herezuelo, whose pathetic story--the most
thrilling episode of Spanish martyrology--would need an abler pen than
ours.

During his lingering imprisonment of a year and a half, De Seso never
varied in his own clear testimony to the truth, never compromised any of
his brethren.  Informed at last that he was to die the next day, he
requested writing materials.  These being furnished him, he placed on
record a confession of his faith, which Llorente, the historian of the
Inquisition, thus describes:--"It would be difficult to convey an idea
of the uncommon vigour of sentiment with which he filled two sheets of
paper, though he was then in the presence of death.  He handed what he
had written to the Alguazil, with these words: ’This is the true faith
of the gospel, as opposed to that of the Church of Rome, which has been
corrupted for ages.  In this faith I wish to die, and in the remembrance
and lively belief of the passion of Jesus Christ, to offer to God my
body, now reduced so low.’"

All that night and the next morning were spent by the friars in vain
endeavours to induce him to recant.  During the Auto, though he could
not speak, his countenance showed the steadfastness of his soul--a
steadfastness which even the sight of his beloved wife amongst those
condemned to perpetual imprisonment failed to disturb.  When at last, as
he was bound to the stake, the gag was removed, he said to those who
stood around him, still urging him to yield, "I could show you that you
ruin yourselves by not following my example; but there is no time.
Executioners, light the fire that is to consume me."

Even in the act of death it was given him, though unconsciously, to
strengthen the faith of another.  In the martyr band was a poor man,
Juan Sanchez, who had been a servant of the Cazallas, and was
apprehended in Flanders with Juan de Leon. He had borne himself bravely
throughout; but when the fire was kindled, the ropes that bound him to
the stake having given way, the instinct of self-preservation made him
rush from the flames, and, not knowing what he did, spring upon the
scaffold where those who yielded at the last were wont to receive
absolution.  The attendant monks at once surrounded him, offering him
the alternative of the milder death.  Recovering self-possession, he
looked around him.  At one side knelt the penitents, at the other,
motionless amidst the flames, De Seso stood,

    "As standing in his own high hall."


His choice was made.  "I will die like De Seso," he said calmly; and
then walked deliberately back to the stake, where he met his doom with
joy.

Another brave sufferer at this Auto, Don Domingo de Roxas, ventured to
make appeal to the justice of the King, only to receive the memorable
reply, never to be read without a shudder,--"I would carry wood to burn
my son, if he were such a wretch as thou!"

All these circumstances Carlos never heard on this side of the grave.
But in the quiet Sabbath-keeping that remaineth for the people of God,
there will surely be leisure enough to talk over past trials and
triumphs.  At present, however, he only saw the dark side--only knew the
bare and bitter facts of suffering and death.  He had not merely loved
De Seso as his instructor; he had admired him with the generous
enthusiasm of a young man for a senior in whom he recognizes his
ideal--all that he himself would fain become.  If the Spains had but
known the day of their visitation, he doubted not that man would have
been their leader in the path of reform.  But they knew it not; and so,
instead, the chariot of fire had come for him.  For him, and for nearly
all the men and women whose hands Carlos had been wont to clasp in
loving brotherhood. Losada, D’Arellano, Ponce de Leon, Doña Isabella de
Baena, Doña Maria de Bohorques,--all these honoured names, and many
more, did he repeat, adding after each one of them, "At rest with
Christ."  Somewhere in the depths of those dreary dungeons it might be
that the heroic Juliano, his father in the faith, was lingering still;
and also Fray Constantino, and the young monk of San Isodro, Fray
Fernando.  But the prison walls sundered them quite as hopelessly from
him as the River of Death itself.

Earlier ties sometimes seemed to him only like things he had read or
dreamed of.  During his fever, indeed, old familiar faces had often
flitted round him.  Dolores sat beside him, laying her hand on his
burning brow; Fray Sebastian taught him disjointed, meaningless
fragments from the schoolmen; Juan himself either spoke cheerful words
of hope and trust, or else talked idly of long-forgotten trifles.

But all this was over now: neither dream nor fancy came to break his
utter, terrible loneliness.  He knew that he was never to see Juan
again, nor Dolores, nor even Fray Sebastian.  The world was dead to him,
and he to it.  And as for his brethren in the faith, they had gone "to
the light beyond the clouds, and the rest beyond the storms," where he
would so gladly be. Why, then, was he left so long, like one standing
without in the cold?  Why did not the golden gate open for him as well
as for them?  What was he doing in this place?--what _could_ he do for
his Master’s cause or his Master’s honour?  He did not murmur.  By this
time his Saviour’s prayer, "Not my will, but thine be done," had been
wrought into the texture of his being with the scarlet, purple, and
golden threads of pain, of patience, and of faith.  But it is well for
His tried ones that He knows longing is not murmuring.  Very full of
longing were the words--words rather of pleading than of prayer--that
rose continually from the lips of Carlos that day,--"And now, Lord,
_what wait I for?_"




                                  XL.

                       "A Satisfactory Penitent."


    "How long in thralldom’s grasp I lay
    I knew not; for my soul was black,
    And knew no change of night or day."--Campbell.


Carlos was sleeping tranquilly in his dungeon on the following night,
when the opening of the door aroused him.  He started with sickening
dread, the horrors of the torture-room rising in an instant before his
imagination. Benevidio entered, followed by Herrera, and commanded him
to rise and dress immediately.  Long experience of the Santa Casa had
taught him that he might as well make an inquiry of its doors and walls
as of any of its officials.  So he obeyed in silence, and slowly and
painfully enough.  But he was soon relieved from his worst fear by
seeing Herrera fold together the few articles of clothing he had been
allowed to have with him, preparatory to carrying them away.  "It is
only, then, a change of prison," he thought; "and wherever they bring
me, heaven will be equally near."

His limbs, enfeebled by two years of close confinement, and lame from
the effects of one terrible night, were sorely tried by what he thought
an almost interminable walk through corridors and down narrow winding
stairs.  But at last he was conducted to a small postern door, which,
greatly to his surprise, Benevidio proceeded to unlock.  The
kind-hearted Herrera took advantage of the moment when Benevidio was
thus occupied to whisper,--

"We are bringing you to the Dominican prison, señor; you will be better
used there."

Carlos thanked him by a grateful look and a pressure of the hand.  But
an instant afterwards he had forgotten his words. He had forgotten
everything save that he stood once more in God’s free air, and that
God’s own boundless heaven, spangled with ten thousand stars, was over
him, no dungeon roof between. For one rapturous moment he gazed upwards,
thanking God in his heart.  But the fresh air he breathed seemed to
intoxicate him like strong wine.  He grew faint, and leaned for support
on Herrera.

"Courage, señor; it is not far--only a few paces," said the
under-gaoler, kindly.

Weak as he was, Carlos wished the distance a hundred times greater.  But
it proved quite long enough for his strength.  By the time he was
delivered over into the keeping of a couple of lay brothers, and locked
by them into a cell in the Dominican monastery, he was scarcely
conscious of anything save excessive fatigue.

The next morning was pretty far advanced before any one came to him; but
at last he was honoured with a visit from the prior himself.  He said
frankly, and with perfect truth,--

"I am glad to find myself in your hands, my lord."

To one accustomed to feel himself an object of terror, it is a new and
pleasant sensation to be trusted.  Even a wild beast will sometimes
spare the weak but fearless creature that ventures to play with it: and
Don Fray Ricardo was not a wild beast; he was only a stern, narrow,
conscientious man, the willing and efficient agent of a terrible system.
His brow relaxed visibly as he said,--

"I have always sought your true good, my son."

"I am well aware of it, father."

"And you must acknowledge," the prior resumed, "that great forbearance
and lenity have been shown towards you.  But your infatuation has been
such that you have deliberately and persistently sought your own ruin.
You have resisted the wisest arguments, the gentlest persuasions, and
that with an obstinacy which time and discipline seem only to increase.
And now at last, as another Auto-da-fé may not be celebrated for some
time, my Lord Vice-Inquisitor-General, justly incensed at your
contumacy, would fain have thrown you into one of the underground
dungeons, where, believe me, you would not live a month.  But I have
interceded for you."

"I thank your kindness, my lord.  But I cannot see that it matters much
how you deal with me now.  Sooner or later, in one form or other, it
must be death; and I thank God it can be no more."

While a man might count twenty, the prior looked silently in that
steadfast sorrowful young face.  Then he said,--

"My son, do not yield to despair; for I come to thee this day with a
message of hope.  I have also made intercession for thee with the
Supreme Council of the Holy Office; and I have succeeded in obtaining
from that august tribunal a great and unusual grace."

Carlos looked up, a sudden flush on his cheek.  He hoped this unusual
grace might be permission to see some familiar face ere he died; but the
prior’s next words disappointed him. Alas! it was only the offer of
escape from death on terms that he might not accept.  And yet such an
offer really deserved the name the prior gave it--a great and unusual
grace.  For, as has been already intimated, by the laws of the
Inquisition at that time in force, the man who had _once_ professed
heretical doctrines, however sincerely he might have retracted them, was
doomed to die.  His penitence would procure him the favour of
absolution--the mercy of the garotte instead of the stake; that was all.

The prior went on to explain to Carlos, that upon the ground of his
youth, and the supposition that he had been led into error by others,
his judges had consented to show him singular favour.  "Moreover," he
added, "there are other reasons for this course of action, upon which it
would be needless, and might be inexpedient, to enter at present; but
they have their weight, especially with me.  For the preservation,
therefore, both of your soul and your body--upon which I take more
compassion than you do yourself--I have, in the first place, obtained
permission to remove you to a more easy and more healthful confinement,
where, besides other favours, you will enjoy the great privilege of a
companion, constant intercourse with whom can scarcely fail to benefit
you."

Carlos thought this last a doubtful boon; but as it was kindly intended,
he was bound to be grateful.  He thanked the prior accordingly; adding,
"May I be permitted to ask the name of this companion?"

"You will probably find out ere long, if you conduct yourself so as to
deserve it,"--an answer Carlos found so enigmatical, that after several
vain endeavours to comprehend it, he gave up the task in despair, and
not without some apprehension that his long imprisonment had dulled his
perceptions.  "Amongst us he is called Don Juan," the prior continued.
"And this much I will tell you.  He is a very honourable person, who had
many years ago the great misfortune to be led astray by the same errors
to which you cling with such obstinacy.  God was pleased, however, to
make use of my poor instrumentality to lead him back to the bosom of the
Church.  He is now a true and sincere penitent, diligent in prayer and
penance, and heartily detesting his former evil ways.  It is my last
hope for you that his wise and faithful counsels may bring you to the
same mind."

Carlos did not particularly like the prospect.  He feared that this
vaunted penitent would prove a noisy apostate, who would seek to obtain
the favour of the monks by vilifying his former associates.  Nor, on the
other hand, did he think it honest to accept without protest kindnesses
offered him on the supposition that he might even yet be induced to
recant.  He said,--

"I ought to tell you, señor, that my mind will never change, God helping
me.  Rather than lead you to imagine otherwise, I would go at once to
the darkest cell in the Triana.  My faith is based on the Word of God,
which can never be overthrown."

"The penitent of whom I speak used such words as these, until God and
Our Lady opened his eyes.  Now he sees all things differently.  So will
you, if God is pleased to give you the inestimable benefit of his divine
grace; for it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but
of God that showeth mercy," said the Dominican, who, like others of his
order, ingeniously managed to combine strong predestinarian theories
with the creed of Rome.

"That is most true, señor," Carlos responded.

"But to resume," said the prior; "for I have yet more to say.  Should
you be favoured with the grace of repentance, I am authorized to hold
out to you a well-grounded hope, that, in consideration of your youth,
your life may even yet be spared."

"And then, if I were strong enough, I might live out ten or twenty
years--like the last two," Carlos answered, not without a touch of
bitterness.

"It is not so, my son," returned the prior mildly.  "I cannot promise,
indeed, under any circumstances, to restore you to the world.  For that
would be to promise what could not be performed; and the laws of the
Holy Office expressly forbid us to delude prisoners with false hopes.[#]
But this much I will say, your restraint shall be rendered so light and
easy, that your position will be preferable to that of many a monk, who
has taken the vows of his own free will.  And if you like the society of
the penitent of whom I spoke anon, you shall continue to enjoy it."


[#] But these laws were often broken or evaded.


Carlos began to feel a somewhat unreasonable antipathy to this penitent,
whose face he had never seen.  But what mattered the antipathies of a
prisoner of the Holy Office?  He only said, "Permit me again to thank
you, my lord, for the kindness you have shown me.  Though my fellow-men
cast out my name as evil, and deny me my share of God’s free air and
sky, and my right to live in his world, I still take thankfully every
word or deed of pity and gentleness they give me by the way.  For they
know not what they do."

The prior turned away, but turned back again a moment afterwards, to
ask--what for the credit of his humanity he ought to have asked a year
before--"Do you stand in need of any thing? or have you any request you
wish to make?"

Carlos hesitated a moment.  Then he said, "Of things with in your power
to grant, my lord, there is but one that I care to ask.  Two brethren of
the Society of Jesus visited me the day before yesterday.  I spoke
hastily to one of them, who was named Fray Isodor, I think.  Had I the
opportunity, I should be glad to offer him my hand."

"Now, of all mysterious things in heaven or earth," said the prior, "a
heretic’s conscience is the most difficult to comprehend.  Truly you
strain at a gnat and swallow a camel.  But as for Fray Isodor, you may
rest content.  For good and sufficient reasons, he cannot visit you
here.  But I will repeat to him what you have said.  And I know well
that his own tongue is a sharp weapon enough when used in the defence of
the faith."

The prior withdrew; and shortly afterwards one of the monks appeared,
and silently conducted Carlos to a cell, or chamber, in the highest
story of the building.  Like the cells in the Triana, it had two
doors--the outer one secured by strong bolts and bars, the inner one
furnished with an aperture through which food or other things could be
passed.

But here the resemblance ceased.  Carlos found himself, on entering, in
what seemed to him more like a hall than a cell; though, indeed, it must
be remembered that his eye was accustomed to ten feet square.  It was
furnished as comfortably as any room needed to be in that warm climate;
and it was tolerably clean, a small mercy which he noted with no small
gratitude.  Best perhaps of all, it had a good window, looking down on
the courtyard, but strongly barred, of course.  Near the window was a
table, upon which stood an ivory crucifix, and a picture of the Madonna
and child.

But even before his eye took in all these objects, it turned to the
penitent, whose companionship had been granted him as so great a boon.
He was utterly unlike all that he had expected. Instead of a fussy,
noisy pervert, he saw a serene and stately old man, with long white hair
and beard, and still, clearly chiselled, handsome features.  He was
dressed in a kind of mantle, of a nondescript colour, made like a monk’s
cowl without the hood, and bearing two large St. Andrew’s crosses, one
on the breast and the other on the back; in fact, it was a compromised
sanbenito.

As Carlos entered, he rose (showing a tall, spare figure, slightly
stooped), and greeted his new companion with a courteous and elaborate
bow, but did not speak.

Shortly afterwards, food was handed through the aperture in the door;
and the half-starved prisoner from the Triana sat down with his
fellow-captive to what he esteemed a really luxurious repast.  He had
intended to be silent until obliged to speak, but the aspect and bearing
of the penitent quite disarranged his preconceived ideas.  During the
meal, he tried once and again to open a conversation by some slight
courteous observation.

All in vain.  The penitent did the honours of the table like a prince in
disguise, and never failed to bow and answer, "Yes, señor," or "No,
señor," to everything Carlos said.  But he seemed either unable or
unwilling to do more.

As the day wore on, this silence grew oppressive to Carlos; and he
marvelled increasingly at his companion’s want of ordinary interest in
him, or curiosity about him.  Until at length a probable solution of the
mystery dawned upon his mind.  As he considered the penitent an agent of
the monks deputed to convert him, very likely the penitent, on his side,
regarded him in the light of a spy commissioned to watch his
proceedings.

But this, if it was true at all, was only a small part of the truth.
Carlos failed to take into account the terrible effect of long years of
solitude, crushing down all the faculties of the mind and heart.  It is
told of some monastery, where the rules were so severe that the brethren
were only allowed to converse with each other during one hour in the
week, that they usually sat for that hour in perfect silence: they had
nothing to say. So it was with the penitent of the Dominican convent.
He had nothing to say, nothing to ask; curiosity and interest were dead
within him--dead long ago, of absolute starvation.

Yet Carlos could not help observing him with a strange kind of
fascination.  His face was too still, too coldly calm, like a white
marble statue; and yet it was a noble face.  It was, although not a
thoughtful face, the face of a thoughtful man asleep.  It did not lack
expressiveness, though it lacked expression.  Moreover, there was in it
a look that awakened dim, undefined memories--shadowy things, that fled
away like ghosts whenever he tried to grasp them, yet persistently rose
again, and mingled with all his thoughts.

He told himself many times that he had never seen the man before.  Was
it, then, an accidental likeness to some familiar face that so fixed and
haunted him?  Certainly there was something which belonged to his past,
and which, even while it perplexed and baffled, strangely soothed and
pleased him.

At each of the canonical hours (which were announced to them by the
tolling of the convent bells), the penitent did not fail to kneel before
the crucifix, and, with the aid of a book and a rosary, to read or
repeat long Latin prayers, in a half audible voice.  He retired to rest
early, leaving his fellow-prisoner supremely happy in the enjoyment of
his lamp and his Book of Hours.  For it was two years since the eyes of
the once enthusiastic young scholar had rested on a printed page, or
since the kindly gleam of lamp or fire had cheered his solitude.  The
privilege of refreshing his memory with the passages of Scripture
contained in the Romish book of devotion now appeared an unspeakable
boon to him.  And although, accustomed as he was to a life of unbroken
monotony, the varied impressions of the day had produced extreme
weariness of mind and body, it was near midnight before he could prevail
upon himself to close the volume, and lie down to rest on the
comfortable pallet prepared for him.

He was just falling asleep, when the midnight bell tolled out heavily.
He saw his companion rise, throw his mantle over his shoulders, and
betake himself to his devotions.  How long these lasted he could not
tell, for the stately kneeling figure soon mingled with his
dreams--strange dreams of Juan as a penitent, dressed in a sanbenito,
and with white hair and an old man’s face, kneeling devoutly before the
altar in the church at Nuera, but reciting one of the songs of the Cid
instead of _De Profundis_.




                                  XLI.

                        More about the Penitent.


    "Ay, thus thy mother looked,
    With such a sad, yet half-triumphant smile.
    All radiant with deep meaning."--Hemans


A slight incident, that occurred the following morning, partially broke
down the barrier of reserve between the two prisoners.  After his early
devotions, the penitent laid aside his mantle, took up a besom made of
long slips of cane, and proceeded, with great deliberation and gravity,
to sweep out the room.  The contrast that his stately figure, his noble
air, and the dignity of all his movements, offered to the menial
occupation in which he was engaged, was far too pathetic to be
ludicrous.  Carlos could not but think that he wielded the lowly
implement as if it were a chamberlain’s staff of office, or a grand
marshal’s baton. He himself was well accustomed to such tasks; for every
prisoner of the Santa Casa, no matter what his rank might be, was his
own servant.  And it spoke much for the revolution that had taken place
in his ideas and feelings, that though taught to look on all servile
occupations as ineffably degrading, he had never associated a thought of
degradation with anything laid upon him to do or to suffer as the
prisoner of Christ.

And yet he could not endure to see his aged and stately fellow-prisoner
thus occupied.  He rose immediately, and earnestly entreated to be
allowed to relieve him of the task, pleading that all such duties ought
to devolve on him as the younger.  At first the penitent resisted,
saying that it was part of his penance.  But when Carlos continued to
urge the point, he yielded; perhaps the more readily because his will,
like his other faculties, was weakened for want of exercise.  Then, with
more apparent interest than he had shown in any of his previous
proceedings, he watched the rather slow and difficult movements of his
young companion.

"You are lame, señor," he said, a little abruptly, when Carlos, having
finished his work, sat down to rest.

"From the pulley," Carlos answered quietly; and then his face beamed
with a sudden smile, for the secret of the Lord was with him, and he
tasted the sweet, strange joy that springs out of suffering borne for
Him.

That look was the wire that drew an electric flash of memory from the
clouds that veiled the old man’s soul.  What that sudden flash revealed
was a castle gate, at which stood a stately yet slender form robed in
silk.  In the fair young face tears and smiles were contending; but a
smile won the victory, as a little child was held up, and made to kiss a
baby-hand in farewell to its father.

In a moment all was gone; only a vague trouble and uneasiness remained,
accompanied by that strange sense of having seen or felt just the same
thing before, with which we are most of us familiar.  Accustomed to
solitude, the penitent spoke aloud, perchance unconsciously.

"Why did they bring you here?" he said, in a half fretful tone.  "You
hurt me.  I have done very well alone all these years."

"I am sorry to incommode you, señor," returned Carlos. "But I did not
come here of my own will; neither, unhappily, can I go.  I am a
prisoner, like yourself; but, unlike you, I am a prisoner under sentence
of death."

For several minutes the penitent did not answer.  Then he rose, and
taking a step or two towards the place where Carlos sat, gravely
extended his hand.  "I fear I have spoken uncourteously," he said.  "So
many years have passed since I have conversed with my fellows, that I
have well-nigh forgotten how I ought to address them.  Do me the favour,
señor and my brother, to grant me your pardon."

Carlos warmly assured him no offence had been given; and taking the
offered hand, he pressed it reverently to his lips. From that moment he
loved his fellow-prisoner in his heart.

There was an interval of silence, then the penitent of his own accord
resumed the conversation.  "Did I hear you say you are under sentence of
death?" he asked.

"I am so actually, though not formally," Carlos replied. "In the
language of the Holy Office, I am a professed impenitent heretic."

"And you so young!"

"To be a heretic?"

"No; I meant so young to die.’

"Do I look young--even yet?  I should not have thought it.  To me the
last two years seem like a long life-time."

"Have you been two years, then, in prison?  Poor boy! Yet I have been
here ten, fifteen, twenty years--I cannot tell how many.  I have lost
the account of them."

Carlos sighed.  And such a life was before him, should he be weak enough
to surrender his hope.  He said, "Do you really think, señor, that these
long years of lonely suffering are less hard to bear than a speedy
though violent death?"

"I do not think it matters, as to that," was the penitent’s not very
apposite reply.  In fact, his mind was not capable, at the time, of
dealing with such a question; so he turned from it instinctively.  But
in the meantime he was remembering, every moment more and more clearly,
that a duty had been laid upon him by the authority to which his soul
held itself in absolute subjection.  And that duty had reference to his
fellow-prisoner.

"I am commanded," he said at last, "to counsel you to seek the salvation
of your soul, by returning to the bosom of the one true Catholic and
Apostolic Church, out of which there is no peace and no salvation."

Carlos saw that he spoke by rote; that his words echoed the thought of
another, not his own.  It seemed to him, under the circumstances,
scarcely generous to argue.  He spared to put forth his mental powers
against the aged and broken man, as Juan in like case would have spared
to use his strong right arm.

After a moment’s thought, he replied,--

"May I ask of your courtesy, señor 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, señor," 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, señor, 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, señor?"

"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, señor," 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, señor,
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, señor, I had already asked for reconciliation.  It was promised
me.  I was to perform penance; to be forgiven; to have my freedom.
_Pues_, señor, 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.

"Señor," said Carlos, trying to speak calmly, and to keep down the wild
tumultuous throbbing of his heart--"señor, 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 Meñaya."

Before the sentence was concluded, Carlos lay senseless at his feet.




                                 XLII.

                              Quiet Days.


    "I think that by-and-by all things
      Which were perplexed a while ago
    And life’s long, vain conjecturings,
      Will simple, calm, and quiet grow,
    Already round about me, some
      August and solemn sunset seems
    Deep sleeping in a dewy dome,
      And bending o’er a world of dreams."--Owen Meredith.


The penitent laid Carlos gently on his pallet (he still possessed a
measure of physical strength, and the worn frame was easy to lift); then
he knocked loudly on the door for help, as he had been instructed to do
in any case of need.  But no one heard, or at least no one heeded him,
which was not remarkable, since during more than twenty years he had
not, on a single occasion, thus summoned his gaolers.  Then, in utter
ignorance what next to do, and in very great distress, he bent over his
young companion, helplessly wringing his hands.

Carlos stirred at last, and murmured, "Where am I?  What is it?"  But
even before full consciousness returned, there came the sense, taught by
the bitter, experience of the last two years, that he must look within
for aid--he could expect none from any fellow-creature.  He tried to
recollect himself.  Some bewildering, awful joy had fallen upon him,
striking him to the earth.  Was he free?  Was he permitted to see Juan?

Slowly, very slowly, all grew clear to him.  He half raised himself,
grasped the penitent’s hand, and cried aloud, "_My father?_"

"Are you better, señor?" asked the old man with solicitude. "Do me the
favour to drink this wine."

"Father, my father!  I am your son.  I am Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos
y Meñaya.  Do you not understand me, father?"

"I do not understand you, señor," said the penitent, moving a little
away from him, with a mixture of dignified courtesy and utter amazement
in his manner strange to behold.  "Who is it that I have the honour to
address?"

"O my father, I am your son--your very son Carlos!"

"I have never seen you till--ere yesterday."

"That is quite true; and yet--"

"Nay, nay," interrupted the old man; "you are speaking wild words to me.
I had but one boy--Juan--Juan Rodrigo. The heir of the house of Alvarez
de Meñaya was always called Juan."

"He lives.  He is Captain Don Juan now, the bravest soldier, and the
best, truest-hearted man on earth.  How you would love him!  Would you
could see him face to face! Yet no; thank God you cannot."

"My babe a captain in His Imperial Majesty’s army!" said Don Juan, in
whose thoughts the great Emperor was reigning still.

"And I," Carlos continued, in a broken, agitated voice--"I, born when
they thought you dead--I, who opened my young eyes on this sad world the
day God took my mother home from all its sin and sorrow--I am brought
here, in his mysterious providence, to comfort you, after your long
dreary years of suffering."

"Your mother!  Did you say your mother?  My wife, _Costanza mia_.  Oh,
let me see your face!"

Carlos raised himself to a kneeling attitude, and the old man laid his
hand on his shoulder, and gazed at him long and earnestly.  At length
Carlos removed the hand, and drawing it gently upwards, placed it on his
head.  "Father," he said, "you will love your son? you will bless him,
will you not? He has dwelt long amongst those who hated him, and never
spoke to him save in wrath and scorn, and his heart pines for human love
and tenderness."

Don Juan did not answer for a while; but he ran his fingers through the
soft fine hair.  "So like hers," he murmured dreamily.  "Thine eyes are
hers too--_zarca_.[#]  Yes, yes; I do bless thee--But who am I to bless?
God bless thee, my son!"


[#] Blue; a word applied by the Spaniards only to blue eyes.


In the long, long silence that followed, the great convent bell rang
out.  It was noon.  For the first time for twenty years the penitent did
not hear that sound.

Carlos heard it, however.  Agitated as he was, he yet feared the
consequences that might follow should the penitent omit any part of the
penance he was bound by oath to perform.  So he gently reminded him of
it.  "Father--" (how strangely sweet the name sounded!)--"father, at
this hour you always recite the penitential psalms.  When you have
finished, we will talk together.  I have ten thousand things to tell
you."

With the silent, unreasoning submission that had become a part of his
nature, the penitent obeyed; and, going to his usual station before the
crucifix, began his monotonous task.  The fresh life newly awakened in
his heart and brain was far from being strong enough, as yet, to burst
the bonds of habit.  And this was well.  Those bonds were his safeguard;
but for their wholesome restraint, mind or body, or both, might have
been shattered by the tumultuous rush of new thoughts and feelings.

But the familiar Latin words, repeated without thought, almost without
consciousness, soothed the weary brain like a slumber.

Meanwhile, Carlos thanked God with a full heart.  Here, then--_here_, in
the dark prison, the very abode of misery--had God given him the desire
of his heart, fulfilled the longing of his early years.  Now the
wilderness and the solitary place were glad; the desert rejoiced and
blossomed as the rose. Now his life seemed complete, its end answering
its beginning; all its meaning lying clear and plain before him.  He was
satisfied.

"Ruy, Ruy, I have found our father!--Oh, that I could but tell thee, my
Ruy!"--was the cry of his heart, though he forced his lips to silence.
Nor could the tears of joy, that sprang unbidden to his eyes, be
permitted to overflow, since they might perplex and trouble his
fellow-captive--_his father_.

He had still a task to perform; and to that task his mind soon bent
itself; perhaps instinctively taking refuge in practical detail from
emotions that might otherwise have proved too strong for his weakened
frame.  He set himself to consider how best he could revive the past,
and make the present comprehensible to the aged and broken man, without
overpowering or bewildering him.

He planned to tell him, in the first instance, all that he could about
Nuera.  And this he accomplished gradually, as he was able to bear the
strain of conversation.  He talked of Dolores and Diego; described both
the exterior and interior of the castle; in fact, made him see again the
scenes to which his eye had been accustomed in past days.  With special
minuteness did he picture the little room within the hall, both because
it was less changed since his father’s time than the others, and because
it had been his favourite apartment "And on the window," he said, "there
were some words, written with a diamond, doubtless by your hand, my
father. My brother and I used to read them in our childhood; we loved
them, and dreamed many a wondrous dream about them. Do you not remember
them?"

But the old man shook his head.

Then Carlos began,--

    "’El Dorado--’"

    "’Yo hé trovado.’

Yes, I remember now," said Don Juan promptly.

"And the golden country you had discovered--was it not the truth as
revealed in Scripture?" asked Carlos, perhaps a little too eagerly.

The penitent mused a space; grew bewildered; said at last sorrowfully,
"I know not.  I cannot now recall what moved me to write those lines, or
even when I wrote them."

In the next place, Carlos ventured to tell all he had heard from Dolores
about his mother.  The fact of his wife’s death had been communicated to
the prisoner; but this was the only fragment of intelligence about his
family that had reached him during all these years.  When she was spoken
of, he showed emotion, slight in the beginning, but increasing at every
succeeding mention of her name, until Carlos, who had at first been glad
to find that the slumbering chords of feeling responded to his touch,
came at last to dread laying his hands upon them, they were apt to moan
so piteously.  And once and again did his father say, gazing at him with
ever-increasing fondness, "Thy face is hers, risen anew before me."

Carlos tried hard to awaken Don Juan’s interest in his first-born. It is
true that he cherished an almost passionate love for Juanito the babe,
but it was such a love as we feel for children whom God has taken to
himself in infancy.  Juan the youth, Juan the man, seemed to him a
stranger, difficult to conceive of or to care about.  Yet, in time,
Carlos did succeed in establishing a bond between the long-imprisoned
father and the brave, noble, free-hearted son, who was so like what that
father had been in his early manhood.  He was never weary of telling of
Juan’s courage, Juan’s truthfulness, Juan’s generosity; often concluding
with the words, "_He_ would have been your favourite son, had you known
him, my father."

As time wore on, he won from his father’s lips the principal facts of
his own story.  His past was like a picture from which the colouring,
once bright and varied, has faded away, leaving only the bare outlines
of fact, and here and there the shadows of pain still faintly visible.
What he remembered, that he told his son; but gradually, and often in
very disjointed fragments, which Carlos carefully pieced together in his
thoughts, until he formed out of them a tolerably connected whole.

Just three-and-twenty years before, on his arrival in Seville, in
obedience to what he believed to be a summons from the Emperor, the
Conde de Nuera had been arrested and thrown into the secret dungeons of
the Inquisition.  He well knew his offence: he had been the friend and
associate of De Valero; he had read and studied the Scriptures; he had
even advocated, in the presence of several witnesses, the doctrine of
justification by faith alone.  Nor was he unprepared to pay the terrible
penalty.  Had he, at the time of his arrest, been led at once to the
rack or the stake, it is probable he would have suffered with a
constancy that might have placed his name beside that of the most heroic
martyrs.

But he was allowed to wear out long months in suspense and solitude, and
in what his eager spirit found even harder to bear, absolute inaction.
Excitement, motion, stirring occupation for mind and body, had all his
life been a necessity to him. In the absence of these he pined--grew
melancholy, listless, morbid.  His faith was genuine, and would have
been strong enough to enable him for anything _in the line of his
character_; but it failed under trials purposely and sedulously
contrived to assail that character through its weak points.

When already worn out with dreary imprisonment, he was beset by
arguments, clever, ingenious, sophistical, framed by men who made
argument the business of their lives.  Thus attacked, he was like a
brave but unskilful man fencing with adepts in the noble science.  He
_knew_ he was right; and with the Vulgate in his hand, he thought he
could have proved it. But they assured him they proved the contrary; nor
could he detect a flaw in their syllogisms when he came to examine them.
If not convinced, then surely he ought to have been. They conjured him
not to let pride and vain-glory seduce him into self-opinionated
obstinacy, but to submit his private judgment to that of the Holy
Catholic Church.  And they promised that he should go forth free, only
chastised by a suitable and not disgraceful penance, and by a pecuniary
fine.

The hope of freedom burned in his heart like fire; and by this time
there was sufficient confusion in his brain for his will to find
arguments there against the voice of his conscience.  So he yielded,
though not without conflict, fierce and bitter.  His retractation was
drawn up in as mild a form as possible by the Inquisitors, and duly
signed by him.  No public act of penance was required, as strict secrecy
was to be observed in the whole transaction.

But the Inquisitor-General, Valdez, felt a well-grounded distrust of the
penitent’s sincerity, which was quickened perhaps by a desire to
appropriate to the use of the Holy Office a larger share of his
possessions than the moderate fine alluded to. Probably, too, he dreaded
the disclosures that might have followed had the Count been restored to
the world.  He had recourse, therefore, to an artifice often employed by
the Inquisitors, and seriously recommended by their standard
authorities. The "fly" (for such traitors were common enough to have a
technical name as well as a recognized existence) reported that the
Conde de Nuera railed at the Holy Office, blasphemed the Catholic faith,
and still adhered in his heart to all his abominable heresies.  The
result was a sentence of perpetual imprisonment.

Don Juan’s condition was truly pitiable then.  Like Samson, he was shorn
of the locks in which his strength lay, bound hand and foot, and
delivered over to his enemies.  Because he could not bear perpetual
imprisonment he had renounced his faith, and denied his Lord.  And now,
without the faith he had renounced, without the Lord he had denied, he
must bear it. It told upon him as it would have told on nine men out of
ten, perhaps on ninety-nine out of a hundred.  His mind lost its
activity, its vigour, its tone.  It became, in time, almost a passive
instrument in the hands of others.

And then the Dominican monk, Fray Ricardo, brought his powerful
intellect and his strong will to bear upon him.  He had been sent by his
superiors (he was not prior until long afterwards) to impart the
terrible story of her husband’s arrest to the Lady of Nuera, with secret
instructions to ascertain whether her own faith had been tampered with.
In his fanatical zeal he performed a cruel task cruelly.  But he had a
conscience, and its fault was not insensibility.  When he heard the tale
of the lady’s death, a few days after his visit, he was profoundly
affected.  Accustomed, however, to a religion of weights and balances,
it came naturally to him to set one thing against another, by way of
making the scales even.  If he could be the means of saving the
husband’s soul, he would feel, to say the least, much more comfortable
about his conduct to the wife.

He spared no pains upon the task he had set himself; and a measure of
success crowned his efforts.  Having first reduced the mind of the
penitent to a cold, blank calm, agitated by no wave of restless thought
or feeling, he had at length the delight of seeing his own image
reflected there, as in a mirror.  He mistook that spectral reflection
for a reality, and great was his triumph when, day by day, he saw it
move responsive to every motion of his own.

But the arrest of his penitent’s son broke in upon his
self-satisfaction.  It seemed as though a dark doom hung over the
family, which even the father’s repentance was powerless to avert.  He
wished to save the youth, and he had tried to do it after his fashion;
but his efforts only resulted in bringing up before him the pale
accusing face of the Lady of Nuera, and in interesting him more than he
cared to acknowledge in the impenitent heretic, who seemed to him such a
strange mixture of gentleness and obstinacy.  Surely the father’s
influence would prevail with the son, originally a much less courageous
and determined character, and now already wrought upon by a long period
of loneliness and suffering.

Perhaps also--monk, fanatic, and inquisitor though he was--the
pleasantness of trying the experiment, and cheering thereby the last
days of the pious and docile penitent, his own especial convert, weighed
a little with him; for he was still a man. Moreover, like many hard men,
he was capable of great kindness towards those whom he liked.  And, with
the full approbation of his conscience, he liked his penitent; whilst,
rather in spite of his conscience, he liked his penitent’s son.

Carlos did not trouble himself overmuch about the prior’s motives.  He
was too content in his new-found joy, too engrossed in his absorbing
task--the concern and occupation of his every hour, almost of his every
moment.  He was as one who toils patiently to clear away the moss and
lichen that has grown over a memorial stone; that he may bring out once
more, in all their freshness, the precious words engraven upon it.  The
inscription was there, and there it had been always (so he told
himself); all that he had to do was to remove that which covered and
obscured it.

He had his reward.  Life returned, first through love for him, to the
heart; then, through the heart, to the brain.  Not rapidly and with
tingling pain, as it returns to a frozen limb, but gradually and
insensibly, as it comes to the dry trees in spring.

But, in the trees, life shows itself first in the extremities; it is
slowest in appearing in those parts which are really nearest the sources
of all life.  So the penitent’s interest in other subjects, and his care
for them, revived; yet in one thing, the greatest of all, these seemed
lacking still.  There did _not_ return the spiritual light and life,
which Carlos could not doubt he had enjoyed in past days.  Sometimes, it
is true, he would startle his son by unexpected reminiscences,
disjointed fragments of the truth for which he had suffered so much.  He
would occasionally interrupt Carlos, when he was repeating to him
passages from the Testament, to tell him "something Don Rodrigo said
about that, when he expounded the Epistle to the Romans."  But these
were only like the rich flowers that surprise the explorer amidst the
tangled weeds of a waste ground, showing that a carefully tended garden
has flourished there once--very long ago.

"It is not that I desire him above all things to hold this doctrine or
that," thought Carlos; "I desire him to find Christ again, and to
rejoice in his love, as doubtless he did in the old days.  And surely he
will, since Christ found him--chose him for his own even before the
foundation of the world."

But in order to bring this about, perhaps it was necessary that the
faded colours of his soul should be steeped in the strong and bitter
waters of a great agony, that they might regain thereby their full
freshness.




                                 XLIII.

                         El Dorado Found Again.


    "And every power was used, and every art,
    To bend to falsehood one determined heart,
    Assailed, in patience it received the shock,
    Soft as the wave, unbroken as the rock."--Crabbe


"What are you doing, my father?" Carlos asked one morning.

Don Juan had produced from some private receptacle a small ink-horn, and
was moistening its long-dried contents with water.

"I was thinking that I should like to write down somewhat," he said.

"But whereto will ink serve us without pen and paper?"

The penitent smiled; and presently pulled out from within his pallet a
little faded writing-book, and a pen that looked--what it was--more than
twenty years old.

"Long ago," he said, "I used to be weary, weary of sitting idle all the
day; so I bribed one of the lay brothers with my last ducat to bring me
this, only that I might set down therein whatever happened, for
pastime."

"May I read it, my father?"

"And welcome, if thou wilt;" and he gave the book into the hand of his
son.  "At first, as you see, there be many things written therein.  I
cannot tell what they are now; I have forgotten them all;--but I suppose
I thought them, or felt them--once.  Or sometimes the brethren would
come to visit me, and talk, and afterwards I would write what they said.
But by degrees I set down less and less in it.  Many days passed in
which I wrote nothing, because nothing was to write.  Nothing ever
happened."

Carlos was soon absorbed in the perusal of the little book. The records
of his father’s earlier prison life he scanned with great interest and
with deep emotion; but coming rather suddenly upon the last entry, he
could not forbear a smile.  He read aloud:

"’A feast day.  Had a capon for dinner, and a measure of red wine.’"

"Did I not judge well," asked the father, "that it was time to give over
writing, when I could stoop low enough to record such trifles?  Yes; I
think I can recall the bitterness of heart with which I laid the book
aside.  I despised myself for what I wrote therein; and yet I had
nothing else to write--would never have anything else, I thought.  But
now God has given me my son.  I will write that down."

Looking up, after a little while, from his self-imposed task, he asked,
with an air of perplexity,--

"But when was it?  How long is it since you came here, Carlos?"

Carlos in his turn was perplexed.  The quiet days had glided on swiftly
and noiselessly, leaving no trace behind.

"To me it seems to have been all one long Sabbath," he said.  "But let
me think.  The summer heats had not come; I suppose it must have been
March or April--April, perhaps. I remember thinking I had been just two
years in prison."

"And now it is growing cool again.  I suppose it may have been four
months--six months ago.  What think you?"

Carlos thought it nearer the latter period than the former.

"I believe we have been visited six times by the brethren," he said.
"No; only five times."

These visits of inspection had been made by command of the
prior--himself absent from Seville on important business during most of
the time--and the result had been duly reported to him.  The monks to
whom the duty had been deputed were aged and respectable members of the
community; in fact, the only persons in the monastery who were
acquainted with Don Juan’s real name and history.  It was their opinion
that matters were progressing favourably with the prisoners.  They found
the penitent as usual--docile, obedient, submissive, only more inclined
to converse than formerly; and they thought the young man very gentle
and courteous, grateful for the smallest kindness, and ready to listen
attentively, and with apparent interest, to everything that was said.

For more definite results the prior was content to wait: he had great
faith in waiting.  Still, even to him six months seemed long enough for
the experiment he was trying.  At the end of that time--which happened
to be the day after the conversation just related--he himself made a
visit to the prisoners.

Both most warmly expressed their gratitude for the singular grace he had
shown them.  Carlos, whose health had greatly improved, said that he had
not dreamed so much earthly happiness could remain for him still.

"Then, my son," said the prior, "give evidence of thy gratitude in the
only way possible to thee, or acceptable to me. Do not reject the mercy
still offered thee by Holy Church. Ask for reconciliation."

"My lord," replied Carlos, firmly, "I can but repeat what I told you six
months agone--that is impossible."

The prior argued, expostulated, threatened--in vain.  At length he
reminded Carlos that he was already condemned to death--the death of
fire; and that he was now putting from him his last chance of mercy.
But when he still remained steadfast, he turned away from him with an
air of deep disappointment, though more in sorrow than in anger, as one
pained by keen and unexpected ingratitude.

"I speak to thee no more," he said.  "I believe there is in thy father’s
heart some little spark, not only of natural feeling but of the grace of
God.  I address myself to him."

Whether Don Juan had never fully comprehended the statement of Carlos
that he was under sentence of death, or whether the tide of emotion
caused by finding in him his own son had swept the terrible fact from
his remembrance, it is impossible to say; but it certainly came to him,
from the lips of the prior, as a dreadful, unexpected blow.  So keen was
his anguish that Fray Ricardo himself was moved; and the rather, because
it was impossible to the aged and broken man to maintain the outward
self-restraint a younger and stronger person might have done.

More touched, at the moment, by his father’s condition than by all the
horrors that menaced himself, Carlos came to his side, and gently tried
to soothe him.

"Cease!" said the prior, sternly.  "It is but mockery to pretend
sympathy with the sorrow thine own obstinacy has caused.  If in truth
thou lovest him, save him this cruel pain. For three days still," he
added, "the door of grace shall stand open to thee.  After that term has
expired, I dare not promise thy life."  Then turning to the agitated
father--"If _you_ can make this unhappy youth hear the voice of divine
and human compassion," he said, "you will save both his body and his
soul alive.  You know how to send me a message.  God comfort you, and
incline his heart to repentance."  And with these words he departed,
leaving Carlos to undergo the sharpest trial that had come upon him
since his imprisonment.

All that day, and the greater part of the night that followed it, the
two wills strove together.  Prayers, tears, entreaties, seemed to the
agonized father to fall on the strong heart of his son like drops of
rain on the rock.  He did not know that all the time they were falling
on that heart like sparks of living fire; for Carlos, once so weak, had
learned now to endure pain, both of mind and body, with brow and lip
that "gave no sign."  Passing tender was the love that had sprung up
between those two, so strangely brought together.  And now Carlos, by
his own act, must sever that sweet bond--must leave his newly-found
father in a solitude doubly terrible, where the feeble lamp of his life
would soon go out in obscure darkness.  Was not this bitterness enough,
without the anguish of seeing that father bow his white head before him,
and teach his aged lips words of broken, passionate entreaty that his
son--his one earthly treasure--would not forsake him thus?

"My father," Carlos said at last, as they sat together in the moonlight,
for their light had gone out unheeded--"my father, you have often told
me that my face is like my mother’s."

"Ay de mi!" moaned the penitent--"and truly it is.  Is that why it must
leave me as hers did?  Ay de mi, Costanza mia!  Ay de mi, my son!"

"Father, tell me, I pray you, to escape what anguish of mind or body
would you set your seal to a falsehood told to her dishonour?"

"Boy, how can you ask?  Never!--nothing could force me to that."  And
from the faded eye there shot a gleam almost like the fire of old days.

"Father, there is One I love better than ever you loved her.  Not to
save myself, not even to save you, from this bitter pain, can I deny him
or dishonour his name.  Father, I cannot!--Though this is worse than the
torture," he added.

The anguish of the last words pierced to the very core of the old man’s
heart.  He said no more; but he covered his face, and wept long and
passionately, as a man weeps whose heart is broken, and who has no
longer any power left him to struggle against his doom.

Their last meal lay untasted.  Some wine had formed part of it; and this
Carlos now brought, and, with a few gentle, loving words, offered to his
father.  Don Juan put it aside, but drew his son closer, and looked at
him in the moonlight long and earnestly.

"How can I give thee up?" he murmured.

As Carlos tried to return his gaze, it flashed for the first time across
his mind that his father was changed.  He looked older, feebler, more
wan than he had done at his coming.  Was the newly-awakened spirit
wearing out the body?  He said,--

"It may be, my father, that God will not call you to the trial. Perhaps
months may elapse before they arrange another Auto."

How calmly he could speak of it;--for he had forgotten himself. Courage,
with him, always had its root in self-forgetting love.

Don Juan caught at the gleam of hope, though not exactly as Carlos
intended.  "Ay, truly," he said, "many things may happen before then."

"And nothing _can_ happen save at the will of Him who loves and cares
for us.  Let us trust him, my beloved father.  He will not allow us to
be tempted above that we are able to bear. For he is good--oh, how
good!--to the soul that seeketh him. Long ago I believed that; but since
he has honoured me to suffer for him, once and again have I proved it
true, true as life or death.  Father, I once thought the strongest thing
on earth--that which reached deepest into our nature--was pain. But I
have lived to learn that his love is stronger, his peace is deeper, than
all pain."

With many such words--words of faith, and hope, and tenderness--did he
soothe his weary, broken-hearted father.  And at last, though not till
towards morning, he succeeded in inducing him to lie down and seek the
rest he so sorely needed.

Then came his own hour; the hour of bitter, lonely conflict. He had
grown accustomed to the thought, to the _expectation_, of a silent,
peaceful death within the prison walls.  He had hoped, nay, certainly
believed, that in the slow hours of some quiet day or night,
undistinguished from other days and nights, God’s messenger would steal
noiselessly to his gloomy cell, and heart and brain would thrill with
rapture at the summons, "The Master calleth thee."

Now, indeed, it was true that the Master called him.  But he called him
to go to Him through the scornful gaze of ten thousand eyes; through
reproach, and shame, and mockery; the hideous zamarra and carroza; the
long agony of the Auto, spun out from daybreak till midnight; and, last
of all, through the torture of the doom of fire.  How could he bear it?
Sharp were the pangs of fear that wrung his heart, and dread was the
struggle that followed.

It was over at last.  Raising to the cold moonlight a steadfast though
sorrowful face, Carlos murmured audibly, "What time I am afraid I will
put my trust in thee.  Lord, I am ready to go with thee, whithersoever
thou wilt; only--with thee."

He woke, late the following morning, from the sleep of exhaustion to the
painful consciousness of something terrible to come upon him.  But he
was soon roused from thoughts of self by seeing his father kneel before
the crucifix, not quietly reciting his appointed penance, but uttering
broken words of prayer and lamentation, accompanied by bitter weeping.
As far as he could gather, the burden of the cry was this, "God help me!
God forgive me!  _I have lost it_!"  Over and over again did he moan
those piteous words, "I have lost it!" as if they were the burden of
some dreary song.  They seemed to contain the sum of all his sorrow.

Carlos, yearning to comfort him, still did not feel that he could
interrupt him then.  He waited quietly until they were both ready for
their usual reading or repetition of Scripture; for Carlos, every
morning, either read from the Book of Hours to his father, or recited
passages from memory, as suited his inclination at the time.

He knew all the Gospel of John by heart.  And this day he began with
those blessed words, dear in all ages to the tried and sorrowing, "Let
not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.  In
my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have
told you.  I go to prepare a place for you."  He continued without pause
to the close of the sixteenth chapter, "These things I have spoken unto
you, that in me ye might have peace.  In the world ye shall have
tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

Then once more Don Juan uttered that cry of bitter pain, "Ay de mi!  I
have lost it!"

Carlos thought he understood him now.  "Lost that peace, my father?" he
questioned gently.

The old man bowed his head sorrowfully.

"But it is in Him.  ’In me ye might have peace.’  And Him you have,"
said Carlos.

Don Juan drew his hand across his brow, was silent for a few moments,
then said slowly, "I will try to tell you how it is with me.  There is
one thing I could do, even yet; one path left open to my footsteps in
which none could part us.--What hinders my refusing to perform my
penance, and boldly taking my stand beside thee, Carlos?"

Carlos started, flushed, grew pale again with emotion.  He had not
dreamed of this, and his heart shrank from it in terror. "My beloved
father!" he exclaimed in a trembling voice. "But no--God has not called
you.  Each one of us must wait to see his guiding hand."

"Once I could have done it bravely, nay, joyfully," said the penitent.
"_Not now_."  And there was a silence.

At last Don Juan resumed, "My boy, thy courage shames my weakness.  What
hast thou seen, what dost thou see, that makes this thing possible to
thee?"

"My father knows.  I see Him who died for me, who rose again for me, who
lives at the right hand of God to intercede for me."

"_For me?_"

"Yes; it is this thought that gives strength and peace."

"Peace--which I have lost for ever."

"Not for ever, my honoured father.  No; you are his, and of such it is
written, ’Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.’  Though your
tired hand has relaxed its grasp of him, his has never ceased to hold
you, and never can cease."

"I was at peace and happy long ago, when I believed, as Don Rodrigo
said, that I was justified by faith in him."

"Once justified, justified for ever," said Carlos.

"Don Rodrigo used to say so too, but--I cannot understand it now," and a
look of perplexity passed over his face.

Carlos spoke more simply.  "No!  Then come to him now, my father, just
as if you had never come before.  You may not know that you are
justified; you know well that you are weary and heavy laden.  And to
such he says, ’Come.’  He says it with outstretched arms, with a heart
full of love and tenderness.  He is as willing to save you from sin and
sorrow as you are this hour to save me from pain and death.  Only, you
cannot, and he can."

"Come--that is--believe?"

"It is believe, and more.  Come, as your heart came out to me, and mine
to you, when we knew the great bond between us.  But with far stronger
trust and deeper love; for he is more than son or father.  He fulfils
all relationships, satisfies all wants."

"But then, what of those long years in which I forgot him!"

"They were but adding to the sum of sin; sin that he has pardoned, has
washed away for ever in his blood."

At that point the conversation dropped, and days passed ere it was
renewed.  Don Juan was unusually silent; very tender to his son, making
no complaint, but often weeping quietly. Carlos thought it best to leave
God to deal with him directly, so he only prayed for him and with him,
repeated precious Scripture words, and sometimes sang to him the psalms
and hymns of the Church.

But one evening, to the affectionate "Good-night" always exchanged by
the son and father with the sense that many more might not be left to
them, Don Juan added, "Rejoice with me, my son; for I think that I have
found again the thing that I lost--

    ’El Dorado
    Yo hé trovada.’"





                                 XLIV.

                         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-fé 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.’"




                                  XLV.

                              Triumphant.


    "For ever with the Lord!
    Amen! to let it be!"--Montgomery.


Carlos was still sitting beside that couch, with scarcely more sense of
time than if he had been already where time exists no longer, when the
door of his cell was opened to admit two distinguished visitors.  First
came the prior; then another member of the Table of the Inquisition.

Carlos rose up from beside his dead, and said calmly, addressing the
prior, "My father is free!"

"How? what is this?" cried Fray Ricardo, his brow contracting with
surprise.

Carlos stood aside, allowing him to approach and look. With real concern
in his stern countenance, he stooped for a few moments over the
motionless form.  Then he asked,--

"But why was I not summoned?  Who was with him when he departed?"

"I,--his son," said Carlos.

"But who besides thee?"  Then, in a higher key, and with more hurried
intonation,--"Who gave him the last rites of the Church?"

"He did not receive them, my lord, for he did not desire them.  He said
that Christ was his priest; that he would not confess; and that they
should not anoint him while he retained consciousness."

The Dominican’s face grew white with anger, even to the lips.

"_Liar!_" he cried, in a voice of thunder.  "How darest thou tell me
that he for whom I watched, and prayed, and toiled, after years and
years of faithful penance, has gone down at last, unanointed and
unassoiled, to hell with Luther and Calvin?"

"I tell thee that he has gone home in peace to his Father’s house."

"Blasphemer! liar, like thy father the devil!  But I understand all now.
Thou, in thy hatred of the Faith, didst refuse to summon help--didst let
his spirit pass without the aid and consolations of the Church.
Murderer of his soul--thy father’s soul!  Not content even with that,
thou canst stand there and slander his memory, bidding us believe that
he died in heresy! But that, at least, is false--false as thine own
accursed creed!"

"It is true; and you believe it," said Carlos, in calm, clear, quiet
tones, that contrasted strangely with the Dominican’s outburst of
unwonted rage.

And the prior did believe it--there was the sharpest sting.  He knew
perfectly well that the condemned heretic was incapable of falsehood: on
a matter of fact he would have received his testimony more readily than
that of the stately "Lord Inquisitor" now standing by his side.  In the
momentary pause that followed, that personage came forward and looked
upon the face of the dead.

"If there be really any proof that he died in heresy," he said, "he
ought to be proceeded against according to the laws of the Holy Office
provided for such cases."

Carlos smiled--smiled in calm triumph.

"You cannot hurt him now," he said.  "Look there, señor. The King
immortal, invisible, has set his own signet upon that brow, that the
decree may not be reversed nor the purpose changed concerning him."

And the peace of the dead face seemed to have passed into the living
face that had gazed on it so long.  Carlos was as really beyond the
power of his enemies as his father was that hour.  They felt it; or at
least one of them did.  As for the other, his strong heart was torn with
rage and sorrow: sorrow for the penitent, whom he truly loved, and whom
he now believed, after all his prayers and efforts, a lost soul; rage
against the obstinate heretic, whom he had sought to befriend, and who
had repaid his kindness by snatching his convert from his grasp at the
very gate of heaven, and plunging him into hell.

"I will _not_ believe it," he reiterated, with pale lips, and eyes that
gleamed beneath his cowl like coals of fire.  Then, softening a little
as he turned to the dead--"Would that those silent lips could utter,
were it only one word, to say that death found thee true to the Catholic
faith!--Not one word!  So end the hopes of years.  But at least thy
betrayer shall be with thee amongst the dead to-morrow.--Heretic!" he
said, turning fiercely to Carlos, "we are here to announce thy doom.  I
came, with a heart full of pity and relenting, to offer counsel and
comfort, and such mercy as Holy Church still keeps for those who return
to her bosom at the eleventh hour.  But now, I despair of thee.
Professed, impenitent, dogmatizing heretic, go thine own way to
everlasting fire!"

"To-morrow!  Did you say to-morrow?" asked Carlos, standing motionless,
as one lost in thought.

The other Inquisitor took up the word.

"It is true," he said.  "To-morrow the Church offers to God the
acceptable sacrifice of a solemn Act of Faith.  And we come to announce
to thee thy sentence, well merited and long delayed--to be relaxed to
the secular arm as an obstinate heretic.  But if even yet thou wilt
repent, and, confessing and deploring thy sins, supplicate restoration
to the bosom of the Church, she will so effectually intercede for thee
with the civil magistrate that the doom of fire will be exchanged for
the milder punishment of death by strangling."

Something like a faint smile played round the lips of Carlos; but he
only repeated, "To-morrow!"

"Yes, my son," said the Inquisitor, promptly; for he was a man who knew
his business well.  He had come there to improve the occasion; and he
meant to do it.  "No doubt it seems to thee a sudden blow, and but a
brief space left thee for preparation.  But, at the best, our life here
is only a span; ’Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to
live, and is full of misery.’"

Carlos did not look as if he heard; he still stood lost in thought, his
head sunk upon his breast.  But in another moment he raised it suddenly.

"To-morrow I shall be with Christ in glory!" he exclaimed, with a
countenance as radiant as if that glory were already reflected there.

Some faint feeling of awe and wonder touched the Inquisitor’s heart, and
silenced him for an instant.  Then, recovering himself, and falling back
for help upon wonted words of course, he said,--

"I entreat of you to think of your soul."

"I have thought of it long ago.  I have given it into the safe keeping
of Christ my Lord.  Therefore I think no more of it; I only think of
him."

"But have you no fear of the anguish--the doom of fire?"

"I have no fear," Carlos answered.  And this was a great mystery, even
to himself.  "Christ’s hand will either lift me over it or sustain me
through it; which, I know not yet.  And I am not careful; he will care."

"Men of noble lineage, such as you are--of high honour and stainless
name, such as you _were_," said the Inquisitor--"ofttimes dread shame
more than agony.  You, who were called Alvarez de Meñaya, what think you
of the infamy, the loathing of all men, the scorn and mockery of the
lowest rabble--the zamarra, the carroza?"

"I shall joyfully go forth with Him without the camp, bearing his
reproach."

"And stand at the stake beside a vile caitiff, a miserable muleteer,
convicted of the same crimes?"

"A muleteer?  Juliano Hernandez?" Carlos questioned eagerly.

"The same."

A softer light played over the features of Carlos.  Then he should see
that face once more--perhaps even grasp that hand! Truly God was giving
him everything he desired of him.  He said,--

"I am glad to stand, here to the last, at the side of that faithful
soldier and servant of Christ.  For when we go in there together, I dare
not hope to be so highly honoured as to take a place beside him."

At this point the prior broke in.  "Señor and my brother, your words are
wasted.  He is given over to the power of the evil one.  Let us leave
him."  And drawing his mantle round him, he turned to go, without
looking again towards Carlos.

But Carlos came forward.  "Pardon me, my lord; I have a few words yet to
say to you;" and, stretching out his hand to detain him, he
unconsciously touched his arm with it.

The prior flung it off with a gesture of angry scorn.  There was
contamination in that touch.  "I have heard too many words from your
lips already," he said.

"To-morrow night my lips will be dust, my voice silent for ever.  So you
may well bear with me for a little while to-day."

"Speak then; but be brief."

"It gives me the last pang I think to know on earth, to part thus from
you; for you have shown me true kindness.  I owe you, not forgiveness as
an enemy, but gratitude as a sincere though mistaken friend.  I shall
pray for you--"

"An impenitent heretic’s prayers--"

"Will do my lord the prior no harm; and there may come a day when he
will not be sorry he had them."

There was a short pause.  "Have you anything else to say?" asked the
prior rather more gently.

"Only one word, señor."  He turned and looked at the dead.  "I know you
loved him well.  You will deal gently with his dust, will you not?  A
grave is not much to ask for him.  You will give it; I trust you."

The stern set face relaxed a little before that pleading look. "It is
you who have sought to rob him of a grave," said the prior--"you who
have defamed him of heresy.  But your testimony is invalid; and, as I
have said, I believe you not."

With this declaration of purely official disbelief, he left the room.

His colleague lingered a moment.  "You plead for the senseless dust that
can neither feel nor suffer," he said; "you can pity that.  How is it
you cannot pity yourself?"

"That which you destroy to-morrow is not myself.  It is only my garment,
my tent.  Yet even over that Christ watches. He can raise it glorious
from the ashes of the Quemadero as easily as from the church where the
bones of my fathers sleep. For I am his, soul and body--the purchase of
his blood.  And why should it be a marvel in your eyes that I rejoice to
give my life for him who gave his own for me?"

"God grant thee even yet to die in his grace!" answered the Inquisitor,
somewhat moved.  "I do not despair of thee. I will pray for thee, and
visit thee again to-night."  So saying, he hastened after the prior.

For a season Carlos sat motionless, his soul filled to overflowing with
a calm, deep tide of awed and wondering joy.  No room was there for any
thought save one--"I shall see His face; I shall be with Him for ever."
Over the Thing that lay between he could spring as joyously as a child
might leap across a brook to reach his father’s outstretched hand.

At length his eye fell, perhaps by accident, on the little writing-book
which lay near.  He drew it towards him, and having found out the place
where the last entry was made, wrote rapidly beneath it,--


"To depart and to be with Christ is far better.  My beloved father is
gone to him in peace to-day.  I too go in peace, though by a rougher
path, to-morrow.  Surely goodness and mercy have followed me all the
days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

"CARLOS ALVAREZ DE SANTILLANOS Y MENAYA."


And with a strange consciousness that he had now signed his name for the
last time, he carefully affixed to it his own especial "rubrica," or
sign-manual.

Then came one thought of earth--only one--the last.  "God, in his great
mercy, grant that my brother may be far away!  I would not that he saw
my face to-morrow.  For the pain and the shame can be seen of all; while
that which changes them to glory no man knoweth, save he that receiveth
it.  But, wherever thou art, God bless thee, my Ruy!"  And drawing the
book towards him again, he added, as if by a sudden impulse, to what he
had already written, "God bless thee, my Ruy!"

Soon afterwards the Alguazils arrived to conduct him back to the Triana.
Then, turning to his dead once more, he kissed the pale forehead,
saying, "Farewell, for a little while.  Thou didst never taste death;
nor shall I.  Instead of thee and me, Christ drank that cup."

And then, for the second time, the gate of the Triana opened to receive
Don Carlos Alvarez.  At sunrise next morning its gloomy portals were
unlocked, and he, with others, passed forth from beneath their shadow.
Not to return again to that dark prison, there to linger out the slow
and solitary hours of grief and pain.  His warfare was accomplished, his
victory was won.  Long before the sun had arisen again upon the weary
blood-stained earth, a brighter sun arose for him who had done with
earth.  All his desire was granted, all his longings were fulfilled.  He
saw the face of Christ, and he was with Him for ever.




                                 XLVI.

                            Is it too Late?


    "Death upon his face
    Is rather shine than shade;
    A tender shine by looks beloved made:
    He seemeth dying in a quiet place."--E. B. Browning.


The mountain-snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera; but within
there was light and warmth.  Joy and gladness were there also,
"thanksgiving and the voice of melody;" for Doña Beatrix, graver and
paler than of old, and with the brilliant lustre of her dark eyes
subdued to a kind of dewy softness, was singing a cradle-song beside the
cot where her first-born slept.

The babe had just been baptized by Fray Sebastian.  With a pleading,
wistful look had Dolores asked her lord, the day before, what name he
wished his son to bear.  But he only answered, "The heir of our house
always bears the name of Juan."  Another name was far dearer to memory;
but not yet could he accustom his lips to utter it, or his ear to bear
the sound.

Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealed
letter.  Doña Beatriz looked up.  "He sleeps," she said.

"Then let him sleep on, señora mia."

"But will you not look?  See, how pretty he is!  How he smiles in his
sleep!  And those dear small hands--"

"Have their share in dragging me further than you wot of, my Beatriz."

"Nay; what dost thou mean?  Do not be grave and sad to-day--not to-day,
Don Juan."

"My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care if
I could help it.  Nor am I sad.  Only we must think.  Here is a letter
from the Duke of Savoy (and very gracious and condescending too),
inviting me to take my place once more in His Catholic Majesty’s army."

"But you will not go?  We are so happy together here."

"My Beatriz, I _dare_ not go.  I would have to fight"--(here he broke
off, and cast a hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreading
listeners)--"I would have to fight against those whose cause is just the
cause I hold dearest upon earth, I would have to deny my faith by the
deeds of every day.  But yet, how to refuse and not stand dishonoured in
the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know not."

"No dishonour could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan."

Don Juan’s brow relaxed a little.  "But that men should even _think_ it
did, is what I could not bear," he said. "Besides"--and he drew nearer
the cradle, and looked fondly down at the little sleeper--"it does not
seem to me, my Beatriz, that I dare bring up this child God has given me
to the bitter heritage of a slave."

"A slave!" repeated Doña Beatriz, almost with a cry. "Now Heaven help
us, Don Juan; are you mad?  You, of noblest lineage--you, Alvarez de
Meñaya--to call your own first-born a slave!"

"I call any one a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks, and act
out what he believes," returned Don Juan sadly.

"And what is it that you would do then?"

"Would to God that I knew!  But the future is all dark to me.  I see not
a single step before me."

"Then, amigo mio, do not look before you.  Let the future alone, and
enjoy the present, as I do."

"Truly that baby face would charm many a care away," said Juan, with
another fond glance at the sleeping child.  "But a man _must_ look
before him, and a Christian man must ask what God would have him to do.
Moreover, this letter of the duke demands an answer, Yea or Nay."

"Señor Don Juan, I desire to speak with your Excellency," said the voice
of Dolores at the door.

"Come in, Dolores."

"Nay, señor, I want you here."  This peremptory sharpness was very
unlike the wonted manner of Dolores.

Don Juan came forth immediately.  Dolores signed to him to shut the
door.  Then, not till then, she began,--"Señor Don Juan, two brethren of
the Society of Jesus have come from Seville, and are now in the
village."

"What then?  Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything with
regard to us?" asked Juan, in some alarm.

"No; but they have brought tidings."

"You tremble, Dolores.  You are ill.  Speak--what is it?"

"They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held at
Seville, upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towards
the end of this month."

For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other’s faces.  Then
Dolores said, in an eager breathless whisper, "You will go, señor?"

Juan shook his head.  "What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream--a
vain, wild dream.  Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God."

"But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us," said Dolores,
large tears gathering slowly in her eyes.

"It is true," Juan mused; "they may wreak their vengeance on the dust."

"And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them,
I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville and
back again."

Juan hesitated no longer.  "_I go_," he said.  "Dolores, seek Fray
Sebastian, and send him to me at once.  Bid Jorge be ready with the
horses to start to-morrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Doña
Beatriz for my sudden departure."


Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard to
speak.  No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest
impression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him.

But at last he drew near Seville.  It was late in the evening, however,
and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village
eight or nine miles from their destination.

Suddenly Jorge cried out.  "Look there, señor, the city is on fire."

Don Juan looked.  A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southern
sky.  With a shudder he bowed his head, and veiled his face from the
awful sight.

"That fire is _without the gate_," he said at last.  "Pray for the souls
that are passing in anguish now."

Noble, heroic souls!  Probably Juliano Hernandez, possibly Fray
Constantino, was amongst them.  These were the only names that occurred
to Don Juan’s mind, or were breathed in his fervent, agitated prayer.

"Yonder is the posada, señor," said the attendant presently.

"Nay, Jorge, we will ride on.  There will be no sleepers in Seville
to-night."

"But, señor," remonstrated the servant, "the horses are weary.  We have
travelled far to-day already."

"Let them rest afterwards," said Juan briefly.  Motion, just then, was
an absolute necessity to him.  He could not have rested anywhere, within
sight of that awful glare.

Two hours afterwards he drew the rein of his weary steed before the
house of his cousin Doña Inez.  He had no scruple in asking for
admission in the middle of the night, as he knew that, under the
circumstances, the household would not fail to be astir.  His summons
was speedily answered, and he was conducted to a hall opening on the
patio.

Thither, after a brief interval, came Juanita, bearing a lamp in her
hand, which she set down on the table.  "My lady will see your
Excellency presently," said the girl, with a shy, frightened air, which
was very unlike her, but which Juan was too preoccupied to notice.  "But
she is much indisposed. My lord was obliged to accompany her home from
the Act of Faith before it was half over."

Juan expressed the concern he felt, and desired that she would not
incommode herself upon his account.  Perhaps Don Garçia, if he had not
yet retired to rest, would converse with him for a few moments.

"My lady said she must speak with you herself," answered Juanita, as she
left the room.

After a considerable time Doña Inez appeared.  In that southern climate
youth and beauty fade quickly; and yet Juan was by no means prepared for
the changed, worn, haggard face that gazed on him now.  There was no
pomp of apparel to carry off the impression.  Doña Inez wore a loose
dark dressing-robe; and a hasty careless hand seemed to have untwined
the usual ornaments from her black hair.  Her eyes were like those of
one who has wept for hours, and then only ceased for very weariness.

She stretched out both her hands to Juan--"O Don Juan, I never meant it!
I never meant it!"

"Señora and my cousin, I have but just arrived here.  I do not
understand you," said Juan, rising to greet her.

"Santa Maria!  Then you know not!--Horrible!"

She sank into a seat Juan stood gazing at her eagerly, almost wildly.
"Yes; I understand all now," he said at last. "I suspected it."

_He_ saw in imagination a black chest, with a little lifeless dust
within it; a rude shapeless figure, robed in the hideous zamarra, and
bearing in large letters the venerated name, "Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya."  While she saw a living face, that would never cease to haunt
her memory until death shadowed all things.

"Let me speak," she gasped; "and I will try to be calm. I did not wish
to go.  It was the day of the last Auto, you remember, that my poor
brother died, and altogether----  But Don Garçia insisted.  He said
everybody would talk, and especially when the taint had touched our own
house.  Besides, Doña Juana de Bohorques, who died in prison, was to be
publicly declared innocent, and her property restored to her heirs.  Out
of regard to the family, it was thought we ought to be present.  O Don
Juan, if I had but known!  I would rather have put on a sanbenito myself
than have gone there. God grant it did not hurt him!"

"How could it possibly hurt him, my tender-hearted cousin?"

"Hush!  Let me go on now, while I can speak of it; or I shall never,
never tell you.  And I must.  _He_ would have wished----  Well, we were
seated in what they called good places; very near the condemned; in
fact, the scaffold opposite was plain to us as you are to me now.  But
that last time, and Doña Maria’s look, and Dr. Cristobal’s, haunted me,
so that I did not dare to raise my eyes to where _they_ sat;--not until
long after the mass had begun.  And I knew besides there were so many
women there--eight on that dreadful top bench, doomed to die.  But at
last a lady who sat near me bade me look at one of the relaxed, a little
man, who was pointing upwards and making signs to his companions to
encourage them.  ’Do not look, señora,’ said Don Garçia, quickly--but
too late.  O Don Juan, I saw his face!"

"His LIVING face?  Not his living face?" cried Juan, with a shudder that
convulsed his strong frame from head to foot And the Name--the one awful
Name that rises to all human lips in moments of supreme emotion--broke
from his in a wail of anguish.

Doña Inez tried to speak; but in vain.  Thoroughly broken down, she wept
and sobbed aloud.  But the sight of the rigid, tearless face before her
checked her tears at last.  She gained power to go on.  "I saw him.
Worn and pale, of course; yet not changed so greatly, after all.  The
same dear, kind, familiar face I had seen last in this room, when he
caressed and played with my child.  Not sad, not as though he suffered.
Rather as though he had suffered long ago; but was beyond it all, even
then.  A still, patient, fearless look, eyes that saw everything; and
yet nothing seemed to trouble him.  I bore it until they were reading
the sentences, and came to his.  But when I saw the Alguazil strike
him--the blow that relaxed to the secular arm--I could endure no more.
I believe I cried aloud. But in fact I know not what I did.  I know
nothing more till Don Garçia and my brother Don Manuel were carrying me
through the crowd."

"No word!  Was there no word spoken?" asked Juan wildly.

"_No_; but I heard some one near me say that he talked with that
muleteer in the court of the Triana, and spoke words of comfort to a
poor woman amongst the penitents, whom they called Maria Gonsalez."

All was told now.  Maddened with rage and anguish, Juan rushed from the
room, from the house; and, without being conscious of any settled
purpose, in five minutes found himself far on his way to the Dominican
convent adjoining the Triana.

His servant, who was still waiting at the gate, followed him to ask for
orders, and with difficulty overtook him, and arrested his steps.

Juan sternly silenced his faltering, agitated question as to what was
wrong with his lord.  "Go to rest," he said, "and meet me in the morning
by the great gate of San Isodro."  Nothing was clear to him; but that he
must shake off as soon as possible the dust of the wicked, cruel city
from his feet. And San Isodro was the only trysting-place without its
walls that happened at the moment to occur to his bewildered brain.




                                 XLVII.

                          The Dominican Prior.


    "Oh, deep is a wounded heart, and strong
    A voice that cries against mighty wrong!
    And full of death as a hot wind’s blight.
    Doth the ire of a crushed affection light."--Hemans.


"Tell the prior Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya desires to
speak with him, and that instantly," said Juan to the drowsy lay brother
who at last answered his impatient summons, lantern in hand.

"My lord has but just retired to rest, and cannot now be disturbed,"
answered the attendant, looking with some curiosity, not to say
surprise, at the visitor, who seemed to think three o’clock of a winter
morning a proper and suitable hour to demand instant audience of a great
man.

"I will wait," said Juan, walking into the court.

The attendant led him to a parlour; then, holding the door ajar, he
said, "Let his Excellency pardon me, I did not hear distinctly his
worship’s honourable name."

"Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya.  The prior knows it--too
well."

It was evident from his face that the poor lay brother knew it also.
And so that night did every man, woman, and child in Seville.  It had
become a name of infamy.

With a hasty "Yes, yes, señor," the door was closed, and Juan was left
alone.

What had brought him there?  Did he mean to accuse the Dominican of his
brother’s murder, or did he only intend to reproach him--him who had
once shown some pity to the captive--for not saving him from that
horrible doom?  He himself scarcely knew.  He had been driven thither by
a wild, unreasoning impulse, an instinct of passionate rage, prompting
him to grasp at the only shadow of revenge that lay within his reach. If
he could not execute God’s awful judgments against the persecutors, at
least he could denounce them.  A poor substitute, but all that remained
to him.  Without it his heart must break.

Yet that unreasoning impulse had a kind of unconscious reason in it,
since it led him to seek the presence of the Dominican prior, and not
that of the far more guilty Munebrãga.  For who would accuse a tiger,
reproach a wolf?  Words would be wasted upon such.  For them there is no
argument but the spear and the bullet.  A man can only speak to men.

To do Fray Ricardo justice, he was so much of a man that sleep did not
visit his eyes that night.  When at length his attendants thought fit to
inform him that Don Juan desired to see him, he was still kneeling, as
he had knelt for hours, before the crucifix in his private oratory.
"Saviour of the world, so much didst thou suffer," this was the key-note
of his thoughts; "and shall I weakly pity thine enemies, or shrink from
seeing them suffer what they have deserved at thy hands and those of thy
holy Church?"

"Alvarez de Santillanos y Meñaya waits below!"  Just then Don Fray
Ricardo would rather have held his right hand in the fire than have gone
forth to face one bearing that name.  But, for that very reason, no
sooner did he hear that Don Juan awaited him than he robed himself in
his cowl and mantle, took a lamp in his hand (for it was still dark),
and went down to meet the visitor.  For that morning he was in the mood
to welcome any form of self-torture that came in his way, and to find a
strange but real relief in it.

"Peace be with thee, my son," was his grave but courteous salutation, as
he entered the parlour.  He looked upon Juan with mournful compassion,
as the last of a race over which there hung a terrible doom.

"Let your peace be with murderers like yourselves, or with slaves like
those that work your will; I fling it back to you in scorn," was the
fierce reply.

The Dominican recoiled a step--only a step, for he was a brave man, and
his face, pale with conflict and watching, grew a shade paler.

"Do you think I mean to harm you?" cried Juan in yet fiercer scorn.
"Not a hair of your tonsured head.  See there!"  He unbuckled his sword,
and threw it from him, and it fell with a clang on the floor.

"Young man, you would consult your own safety as well as your own honour
by adopting a different tone," said the prior, not without dignity.

"My safety is little worth consulting.  I am a bold, rough soldier, used
to peril and violence.  Would it were such, and such alone, that you
menaced.  But, fiends that you are, would no one serve you for a victim
save my young, gentle, unoffending brother; he who never harmed you nor
any one?  Would nothing satisfy your malice but to immure him in your
hideous dungeons for two-and-thirty long slow months, in what suffering
of mind and body God alone can tell; and then, at last, to bring him
forth to that horrible death?  I curse you!  I curse you! Nay, that is
nothing; who am I to curse?  I invoke God’s curse upon you!  I give you
up into God’s hands this hour!  When He maketh inquisition for
blood--another inquisition than yours--I pray him to exact from you,
murderers of the innocent, torturers of the just, every drop of blood,
every tear, every pang of which he has been the witness, as he shall be
the avenger."

At last the prior found a voice.  Hitherto he had listened spell-bound,
as one oppressed by nightmare, powerless to free himself from the
hideous burden.  "Man!" he cried, "you are raving; the Holy Office--"

"Is the arch-fiend’s own contrivance, and its ministers his favourite
servants," interrupted Juan, reckless in his rage, and defying all
consequences.

"Blasphemy!  This may not be borne," and Fray Ricardo stretched out his
hand towards a bell that lay on the table.

But Juan’s strong grasp prevented his touching it.  He could not shake
off that as easily as he had shaken off a pale thin hand two days
before.  "I shall speak forth my mind this once," he said.  "After that,
what you please.--Go on.  Fill your cup full to the brim.  Immure,
plunder, burn, destroy. Pile up, high as heaven, your hecatomb of
victims, offered to the God of love.  At least there is one thing that
may be said in your favour.  In your cruelties there is a horrible
impartiality. It can never be spoken of you that you have gone out into
the highways and hedges, taken the blind and the lame, and made of them
your burnt sacrifice.  No.  You go into the closest guarded homes; you
take thence the gentlest, the tenderest, the fairest, the best, and of
such you make your burnt-offering. And you--are your hearts human, or
are they not?  If they are, stifle them, crush them down into silence
while you can; for a day will come when you can stifle them no longer.
That will begin your punishment.  You will feel remorse."

"Man, let me go!" interrupted the indignant yet half-frightened prior,
struggling vainly to free himself from his grasp. "Cease your
blasphemies.  Men only feel remorse when they have sinned; and I serve
God and the Church."

"Yet, servant of the Church (for God’s servant I am not profane enough
to call you), speak to me this once as man to man, and tell me, did a
victim’s pale face never haunt you, a victim’s agonized cry never ring
in your ears?"

For just an instant the prior winced, as one who feels a sharp sudden
pain, but determines to conceal it.

"There!" cried Juan--and at last he released his arm and flung it from
him--"I read an answer in your look.  You, at least, are capable of
remorse."

"You are false there," the prior broke in.  "Remorse is not for me."

"No?  Then all the worse for you--infinitely the worse. Yet it may be.
You may sleep and rise, and go to your rest again untroubled by an
accusing conscience.  You may sit down to eat and drink with the wail of
your brother’s anguish ringing in your ears, like Munebrãga, who sits
feasting yonder in his marble hall, with the ashes yet hot on the
Quemadero.  Until you go down quick into hell, and the pit shuts her
mouth upon you.  Then, THEN shall you drink of the wine of the wrath of
God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his
indignation; and you shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the
presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb."

"Thou art beside thyself," cried the prior; "and I, scarce less mad than
thou, to listen to thy ravings.  Yet hear me a moment, Don Juan Alvarez.
I have not merited these insane reproaches.  To you and yours I have
been more a friend than you wot of."

"Noble friendship!  I thank you for it, as it deserves."

"You have given me, this hour, more than cause enough to order your
instant arrest."

"You are welcome.  It were shame indeed if I could not bear at your
hands what my gentle brother bore."

The last of his race!  The father dead in prison; the mother dead long
ago (Fray Ricardo himself best knew why); the brother burned to ashes.
"I think you have a wife, perhaps a child?" asked the prior hurriedly.

"A young wife, and an infant son," said Juan, softening a little at the
thought.

"Wild as your words have been, I am yet willing, for their sakes, to
show you forbearance.  According to the lenity which ministers of the
Holy Office--"

"Have learned from their father the devil," interrupted Juan, the flame
of his wrath blazing up again.  "After what the stars looked down on
last night, dare to mock me with thy talk of lenity!"

"You are in love with destruction," said the prior.  "But I have heard
you long enough.  Now hear me.  You have been, ere this, under grave
suspicion.  Indeed, you would have been arrested, only that your brother
endured the Question without revealing anything to your disadvantage.
That saved you."

But here he stopped, struck with astonishment at the sudden change his
words had wrought.

A man stabbed to the heart makes no outcry, he does not even moan or
writhe.  Nor did Juan.  Mutely he sank on the nearest seat, all his rage
and defiance gone now.  A moment before he stood over the shrinking
Inquisitor like a prophet of doom or an avenging angel; now he cowered
crushed and silent, stricken to the soul.  There was a long silence.
Then he raised a changed, sad look to the prior’s face.  "He bore _that_
for me," he said, "and I never knew it."

In the cold gray morning light, now filling the room, he looked utterly
forlorn and broken.  The prior could even afford to pity him.  He
questioned, mildly enough, "How was it you did not know it?  Fray
Sebastian Gomez, who visited him in prison, was well aware of the fact."

In Juan’s present mood every faculty was stimulated to unnatural
activity.  This perhaps enabled him to divine a truth which in calmer
moments might have escaped him.  "My brother," he said, in a low tone of
deep emotion, "my heroic, tender-hearted brother must have bidden him
conceal it from me."

"It was strange," said the prior, and his thoughts ran back to other
things which were strange also--to the uniform patience and gentleness
of Carlos; to the fortitude with which, whilst acknowledging his own
faith, he had steadily refused to compromise any one else; to the
self-forgetfulness with which he had shielded his father’s last hours
from disturbance.  Granted that the heretic was a wild beast, "made to
be taken and destroyed," even the hunter may admire unblamed the grace
and beauty of the creature who has just fallen beneath his relentless
weapon.  Something like a mist rose to the eyes of Fray Ricardo, taking
him by surprise.

Still, the interests of the Faith were paramount with him. All that had
been done had been well done; he would not, if he could, undo any part
of it.  But did his duty to the Faith and to Holy Church require that he
should hunt the remaining brother to death, and thus "quench the coal
that was left"? He hoped not; he thought not.  And, although he would
not have allowed it to himself, the words that followed were really a
peace-offering to the shade of Carlos.

"Young man, I am willing, for my own part, to overlook the wild words
you have uttered, regarding them as the outpourings of insanity, and
making moreover due allowance for your natural fraternal sorrow.  Still
you must be aware that you have laid yourself open, and not for the
first time, to grave suspicion of heresy.  I should not only sin against
my own conscience, but also expose myself to the penalties of a grievous
irregularity, did I take no steps for the vindication of the Faith and
your just and well-merited punishment.  Therefore give ear to what I
say.  _This day week_ I bring the matter before the Table of the Holy
Office, of which I have the honour to be an unworthy member.  And God
grant you the grace of repentance, and his forgiveness."

Having said this, Fray Ricardo left the room.  He disappears also from
our pages, where he occupied a place as a type of the less numerous and
less guilty class of persecutors--those who not only thought they were
doing God service (Munebrãga may have thought that, but he was only
willing to do God such service as cost him nothing), but who were
honestly anxious to serve him to the best of their ability.  His future
is hidden from our sight.  We cannot even undertake to say whether, when
death drew near,--if the name of Alvarez de Meñaya occurred to him at
all,--he reproached himself for his sternness to the brother whom he had
consigned to the flames, or for his weakness to the brother to whom he
had generously given a chance of life and liberty.

It is not usually the most guilty who hear the warning voice that
denounces their crimes and threatens their doom.  Such words as Don Juan
spoke to Fray Ricardo could not, by any conceivable possibility, have
been uttered in the presence of Gonzales de Munebrãga.

Soon afterwards a lay brother, the same who had admitted Don Juan,
entered the room and placed wine on the table before him.  "My lord the
prior bade me say your Excellency seemed exhausted, and should refresh
yourself ere you depart," he explained.

Juan motioned it away.  He could not trust himself to speak. But did
Fray Ricardo imagine he would either eat bread or drink water beneath
the roof that sheltered _him_?

Still the poor man lingered, standing before him with the air of one who
had something to say which he did not exactly know how to bring out.

"You may tell your lord that I am going," said Juan, rising wearily, and
with a look that certainly told of exhaustion.

"If it please your noble Excellency--" and the lay brother stopped and
hesitated.

"Well?"

"Let his Excellency pardon me.  Could his worship have the misfortune to
be related, very distantly no doubt, to one of the heretics who--"

"Don Carlos Alvarez was my brother," said Juan proudly.

The poor lay brother drew nearer to him, and lowered his voice to a
mysterious whisper.  "Señor and your Excellency, he was here in prison
for a long time.  It was thought that my lord the prior had a kindness
for him, and wished him better used than they use the criminals in the
Santa Casa.  It happened that the prisoner whose cell he shared died the
day before his--_removal_.  So that the cell was empty, and it fell to
my lot to cleanse it.  Whilst I was doing it I found this; I think it
belonged to him."

He drew from beneath his serge gown a little book, and handed it to
Juan, who seized it as a starving man might seize a piece of bread.
Hastily taking out his purse, he flung it in exchange to the lay
brother; and then, just as the matin bells began to ring, he buckled on
his sword and went forth.




                                XLVIII.

                         San Isodro Once More.


    "And if with milder anguish now I bear
    To think of thee in thy forsaken rest;
    If from my heart be lifted the despair,
    The sharp remorse with healing influence pressed.
    It is that Thou the sacrifice hast blessed,
    And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell,
    With a deep chastened sense that all at last is well."--Hemans


The cloudless sky above him, the fresh morning air on his cheek, the
dew-drops on his feet, Don Juan walked along.  The river--his own bright
Guadalquivir--glistened in the early sunshine; and soon his pathway led
him amidst the gray ruins of old Italica, while among the brambles that
half hid them, glittering lizards, startled by his footsteps, ran in and
out.  But he saw nothing, felt nothing, save the passionate pain that
burned in his heart.  During his interview with Fray Ricardo he had
been, practically and for the time, what the prior called him,
insane--mad with rage and hate.  But now rage was dying out for the
present, and giving place to anguish.

Is the worst pang earth has to give that of witnessing the sufferings of
our beloved?  Or is there yet one keener, more thrilling?  That they
should suffer alone; no hand near to help, no voice to speak sympathy,
no eye to look "ancient kindness" on their pain.  That they should
die--die in anguish--and still alone,--

    "With eyes turned away,
    And no last word to say."


Don Juan was now drinking that bitter cup to its very dregs. What the
young brother, his one earthly tie, had been to him, need not here be
told; and assuredly he could not have told it. He had been all his life
a thing to protect and shield--as the strong protect the weak, as
manhood shields womanhood and childhood.  Had God but taken him with his
own right hand, Juan would have thought it a light matter, a sorrow
easily borne.  But, instead, He stood afar off--He did not help; whilst
men, cruel as fiends from the bottomless pit, did their worst, their
very worst, upon him.  And with refined self-torture he went through all
the horrible details, as far as he knew or could guess them.  Nor did he
spare to stab his own heart with that keenest weapon of all--"It was
_for me_; for me he endured the Question."  The cry of his brother’s
anguish--anguish borne for him--seemed to sound in his ears and to haunt
him: he felt that it would haunt him evermore.

Of course, there was a well of comfort near, which a child’s hand might
have pointed out to him: "All is over now; he suffers no longer--he is
at rest."  But who ever stoops to drink from that well in the parching
thirst of the first hour of such a grief as his?  In truth, all was over
for Carlos; but all was not over for Juan.  He had to pass through his
dark hour as really as Carlos had passed through his.

Again the agony almost maddened him; again wild hatred and rage against
his brother’s torturers rose and surged like a flood within him.  And
with these were mingled thoughts, too nearly rebellious, of Him whom
that brother trusted so firmly and served so faithfully; as if he had
used his servant hardly, and forsaken him in his hour of sorest need.

He shrank with horror from every wayfarer he chanced to meet, imagining
that his eyes might have looked on his brother’s suffering.  But at last
he came unawares upon the gate of San Isodro.  Left unbarred by some
accident, it yielded to his touch, and he entered the monastery grounds.
At that very spot, three years ago, the brothers parted, on the day that
Carlos avowed his change of faith.  Yet not even that remembrance could
bring a tear to the hot and angry eyes of Juan.  But just then he
happened to recollect the book he had received from the lay brother.  He
took it from its place of concealment, and eagerly began to examine it.
It was almost filled with writing; but not, alas! from that beloved
hand.  So he flung it aside in bitter disappointment.  Then becoming
suddenly conscious of bodily weakness, he half sat down, half threw
himself on the ground.  His vigorous frame and his strong nerves saved
him from swooning outright: he only lay sick and faint, the blue sky
looking black above him, and a strange, indistinct sound, as of many
voices, murmuring in his ears.

By-and-by he became conscious that some one was holding water to his
lips, and trying, though with an awkward, trembling hand, to loose his
doublet at the throat.  He drank, shook off his weakness, and looked
about him.  A very old man, in a white tunic and brown mantle, was
bending over him compassionately.  In another moment he was on his feet;
and having briefly thanked the aged monk for his kindness, he turned his
face to the gate.

"Nay, my son," the old man interposed; "San Isodro is changed--changed!
Still the sick and weary never left its gates unaided; and they shall
not begin now--not now.  I pray you come with me to the house, and
refresh and rest yourself there."

Juan was not reckless enough to refuse what in truth he sorely needed.
He entered the monastery under the guidance of poor old Fray Bernardo,
who had been passed by, perhaps in scorn, by the persecutors: and so,
after all, he had his wish--he should die and be buried in peace where
he had passed his life from boyhood to extreme old age.  Yet there was
something sad in the thought that the storm that swept by had left
untouched the poor, useless, half-withered tree, while it tore down the
young and strong and noble oaks, the pride of the now desolated forest.

The few cowed and terrified monks who had been allowed to remain in the
convent received Don Juan with great kindness.  They set food and wine
before him: food he could not touch, but wine he accepted with
thankfulness.  And they almost insisted on his endeavouring to take some
rest; assuring him that when his servant and horses should arrive, they
would see them properly cared for, until such time as he might be able
to resume his journey.

His journey would not brook delay, as he knew full well. That his young
wife might not be a widow and his babe an orphan, he "charged his soul
to hold his body strengthened" for the work that both had to do.  Back
to Nuera for these dear ones as swiftly as the fleetest horses would
bear him, then to Seville again, and on board the first ship he could
meet with bound for any foreign port,--would the term of grace assigned
him by the Inquisitor suffice for all this?  Certainly not a moment
should be lost.

"I will rest for an hour," he said.  "But I pray you, my fathers, do me
one kindness first.  Is there a man here who witnessed--what was done
yesterday?"

A young monk came forward.  Juan led him into the cell which had been
prepared for him to rest in, and leaning against its little window, with
his face turned away, he murmured one agitated question.  Three words
comprised the answer,--

"_Calmly, silently, quickly._"

Juan’s breast heaved and his strong frame trembled.  After a long
interval he said, still without looking,--

"Now tell me of the others.  Name him no more."

"No less than _eight_ ladies died the martyr’s death," said the monk,
who cared not, before _this_ auditor, to conceal his own sentiments.
"One of them was Señora Maria Gomez; your Excellency probably knows her
story.  Her three daughters and her sister died with her.  When their
sentences were read, they embraced on the scaffold, and bade each other
farewell with tears.  Then they comforted each other with holy words
about our Lord and his passion, and the home he was preparing for them
above."

Here the young monk paused for a few moments; then went on, his voice
still trembling: "There were, moreover, two Englishmen and a Frenchman,
who all died bravely.  Lastly, there was Juliano Hernandez."

"Ah! tell me of him."

"He died as he had lived.  In the morning, when brought out into the
court of the Triana, he cried aloud to his fellow-sufferers,--’Courage,
comrades!  Now must we show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ.
Let us bear faithful testimony to his truth before men, and in a few
hours we shall receive the testimony of his approbation before angels,
and triumph with him in heaven.’  Though silenced, he continued
throughout the day to encourage his companions by his gestures.  On the
Quemadero, he knelt down and kissed the stone upon which the stake was
erected; then thrust his head among the fagots to show his willingness
to suffer.  But at the end, having raised his hands in prayer, one of
the attendant priests--Dr. Rodriguez--mistook the attitude for a sign
that he would recant, and made intercession with the Alguazils to give
him a last opportunity of speaking.  He confessed his faith in a few
strong, brief words; and knowing the character of Rodriguez, told him he
thought the same himself, but hid his true belief out of fear. The angry
priest bade them light the pile at once.  It was done; but the guards,
with kind cruelty, thrust the martyr through with their lances, so that
he passed, without much pain, into the presence of the Lord whom he
served as few have been honoured to do."

"And--Fray Constantino?" Juan questioned.

"He was not, for God took him.  They had only his dust to burn.  They
have sought to slander his memory, saying he raised his hand against his
own life.  But we knew the contrary.  It has reached our ears--I dare
not tell you how--that he died in the arms of one of our dear brethren
from this place--poor young Fray Fernando, who closed his eyes in peace.
It was from one of the dark underground cells of the Triana that he
passed straight to the glory of God."[#]


[#] At the Auto they produced his effigy, of the size of life, clad in
his canon’s robe, and with the arms stretched out in the gesture he had
been wont to use in preaching; but it caused such a demonstration of
feeling among the people, that they were obliged hastily to withdraw it.

It was at this Auto that Maria Gonsalez was sentenced to receive two
hundred lashes, and to be imprisoned for ten years, for the kindnesses
she had shown the prisoners.  An equally severe punishment was awarded
to the under-gaoler Herrera for the offence of having allowed a mother
and three daughters, who were imprisoned in separate cells, an interview
of half an hour; while the many cruelties and peculations of the
infamous Benevidio were only chastised by the loss of his situation and
lit advantages, and banishment from Seville.


"I thank you for your tidings," said Juan, slowly and faintly. "And now
I pray of you to leave me."

After a considerable time, one of the monks softly opened the door of
their visitor’s cell.  He sat on the pallet prepared for him, his head
buried in his hands.

"Señor," said the monk, "your servant has arrived, and begs you to
excuse his delay.  It may be there are some instructions you wish him to
receive."

Juan roused himself with an effort.

"Yes," he said; "and I thank you.  Will you add to your kindness by
bidding him immediately procure for us fresh horses, the best and
fleetest that can be had?"  He sought his purse; but, remembering in a
moment what had become of it, drew a ring from his finger to supply its
loss.  It was the diamond ring that the Sieur de Ramenais had given him.
A keen pang shot through his heart.  "No, not that; I cannot part with
it."  He took two others instead--old family jewels.  "Bid him bring
these," he said, "to Isaac Ozorio, who dwells in La Juderia[#]--any man
there will show him the house; take for them whatever he will give him,
and therewith hire fresh horses--the best he can--from the posada where
he rested, leaving our own in pledge.  Let him also buy provisions for
the way; for my business requires haste.  I will explain all to you
anon."


[#] The Jewish Quarter of Seville.


While the monk did the errand, Don Juan sat still, gazing at the diamond
ring.  Slowly there came back upon his memory the words spoken by Carlos
on the day when the sharp facets cut his hand, unfelt by him: "If He
calls me to suffer for him, he may give me such blessed assurance of his
love, that in the joy of it pain and fear will vanish."

Could it be possible He _had_ done this?  Oh, for some token, to relieve
his breaking heart by the assurance that thus it had been!  And yet,
wherefore seek a sign?  Was not the heroic courage, the calm patience,
given to that young brother, once so frail and timid, as plain a token
of the sunlight of God’s peace and presence as is the bow in the cloud
of the sun shining in the heavens?  True; but not the less was his soul
filled with passionate longing for one word--only one word--from the
lips that were dust and ashes now.  "If God would give me _that_," he
moaned, "I think I could weep for him."

It occurred to him then that he might examine the book more carefully
than he had done before.  Don Juan, of late, had been no great reader,
except of the Spanish Testament.  Instead of glancing rapidly through
the volume with a practised eye, he carefully began at the beginning and
perused several pages with diligence, and with a kind of compelled and
painful attention.

The writer of the diary with which the book seemed filled had not
prefixed his name.  Consequently Juan, who was without a clue to the
authorship, saw in it merely the effusions of a penitent, with whose
feelings he had but little sympathy.  Still, he reflected that if the
writer had been his brother’s fellow prisoner, some mention of his
brother would probably reward his persevering search.  So he read on;
but he was not greatly interested, until at length he came to one
passage which ran thus:--

"Christ and Our Lady forgive me, if it be a sin.  Ofttimes, even by
prayer and fasting, I cannot prevent my thoughts from wandering to the
past.  Not to the life I lived, and the part I acted in the great world,
for that is dead to me and I to it; but to the dear faces my eyes shall
never see again. My Costanza!"--("Costanza!" thought Juan with a start,
"that was my mother’s name!")--"my wife! my babe!  O God, in thy great
mercy, still this hungering and thirsting of the heart!"

Immediately beneath this entry was another.  "_May_ 21.  My Costanza, my
beloved wife, is in heaven.  It is more than a year ago, but they did
not tell me till to-day.  Does death only visit the free?"

Yet another entry caught the eye of Juan.  "Burning heat to-day.  It
would be cool enough in the halls of Nuera, on the breezy slope of the
Sierra Morena.  What does my orphaned Juan Rodrigo there, I wonder?"

"Nuera!  Sierra Morena!  Juan Rodrigo!" reiterated the astonished
reader.  What did it all mean?  He was stunned and bewildered, so that
he had scarcely power left even to form a conjecture.  At last it
occurred to him to turn to the other end of the book, if perchance some
name, affording a clue to the mystery, might be inscribed there.

And then he read, in another, well-known hand, a few calm words,
breathing peace and joy, "quietness and assurance for ever."

He pressed the loved handwriting to his lips, to his heart. He sobbed
over it and wept; blistering it with such burning tears as scarcely come
from a strong man’s eyes more than once in a lifetime.  Then, flinging
himself on his knees, he thanked God--God whom he had doubted, murmured
against, almost blasphemed, and who yet had been true to his
promise--true to his tried and suffering servant in the hour of need.

When he rose, he took up the book again, and read and reread those
precious words.  All but the first he thought he could comprehend.  "My
beloved father is gone to Him in peace."  Would the preceding entries
throw any light upon _that_ saying!

Once more, with changed feelings and quickened perceptions, he turned
back to the records of the penitent’s long captivity.  Slowly and
gradually the secret they revealed unfolded itself before him.  The
history of the last nine months of his brother’s life lay clearly
traced; and the light it shed illumined another life also, longer,
sadder, less glorious than his.

One entry, almost the last, and traced with a trembling hand, he read
over and over, till his eyes grew too dim to see the words.

"He entreats of me to pray for my absent Juan, and to bless him.  My
son, my first-born, whose face I know not, but whom he has taught me to
love, I do bless thee.  All blessings rest upon thee--blessings of
heaven above, blessings of the earth beneath, blessings of the deep that
lieth under!  But for _thee_, Carlos, what shall I say?  I have no
blessing fit for thee--no word of love deep and strong enough to join
with that name of thine.  Doth not He say, of whose tenderness thou
tellest me ours is but the shadow, ’He will _be silent_ in his love’?
But may he read my heart in its silence, and bless thee, and repay thee
when thou comest to thy home, where already thy heart is."

It might have been two hours afterwards, when the same friendly monk who
had narrated to Don Juan the circumstances of the Auto-da-fé, came to
apprise him that his servant had fulfilled his errand, and was waiting
with the horses.

Don Juan rose and met him.  His face was sad; it would be a sad face
always; but there was in it a look as of one who saw the end, and who
knew that, however dark the way might be, the end was light everlasting.
"Look here, my friend," he said, for no concealment was necessary there;
truth could hurt no one.  "See how wondrously God has dealt with me and
mine.  Here is the record of the life and death of my honoured father.
For three-and-twenty years he lay in the Dominican monastery, a prisoner
for Christ’s sake.  And to my heroic martyr brother God has given the
honour and the joy of unravelling the mystery of his fate, and thus
fulfilling our youthful dream.  Carlos has found our father!"

He went forth into the hall, and bade the other monks a grateful
farewell.  Old Fray Bernardo embraced and blessed him with tears, moved
by the likeness, now discerned for the first time, between the stately
soldier and the noble and gentle youth, whose kindness to him, during
his residence at the monastery three years before, he well remembered.

Then Don Juan set his face towards Nuera, with patient endurance, rather
sad than stern, upon his brow, and in his heart "a grief as deep as life
or thought," but no rebellion, and no despair.  Something like
resignation had come to him; already he could say, or at least try to
say, "Thy will be done."  And he foresaw, as in the distance, far off
and faintly, a time when he might even be able to share in spirit the
joy of the crowned and victorious one, to whom, in the dark prison, face
to face with death, God had so wondrously given the desire of his heart,
and not denied him the request of his lips.




                                 XLIX.

                               Farewell.


      "My country is there;
    Beyond the star pricked with the last peak of snow."--E. B.
            Browning.


About a fortnight afterwards, a closely veiled lady, dressed in deep
mourning, leaned over the side of a merchant vessel, and gazed into the
sapphire depths of the Bay of Cadiz.  A respectable elderly woman was
standing near her, holding her pretty dark-eyed babe.  They seemed to be
under the protection of a Franciscan friar; and of a stately, handsome
serving-man, whose bearing and appearance were rather out of keeping
with his supposed rank.  It was said amongst the crew that the lady was
the widow of a rich Sevillian merchant, who during a residence in London
some years before had married an Englishwoman.  She was now going to
join her kindred in the heretical country, and much compassion was
expended on her, as she was said to be very Catholic and very pious.  It
was a signal proof of these dispositions that she ventured to bring with
her, as private chaplain, the Franciscan friar, who, the sailors
thought, would probably soon fall a martyr to his attachment to the
Faith.

But a few illusions might have been dispelled, if the conversation of
the party, when for a brief space they had the deck to themselves, could
have been overheard.

"Dost thou mourn that the shores of our Spain are fading from us?" said
the lady to the supposed servant.

"Not as I should once have done, my Beatriz; though it is still my
fatherland, dearest and best of all lands to me.  And you, my beloved?"

"Where thou art is my country, Don Juan.  Besides," she added softly,
"God is everywhere.  And think what it will be to worship him in peace,
none making us afraid."

"And you, my brave, true-hearted Dolores?" asked Don Juan.

"Señor Don Juan, my country is _there_, with those that I love best,"
said Dolores, with an upward glance of the large wistful eyes, which had
yet, in their sorrowful depths, a look of peace unknown in past days.
"What is Spain to me--Spain, that would not give to the noblest of them
all a few feet of her earth for a grave?"

"Do not let us stain with one bitter thought our last look at those
shores," said Don Juan, with the gentleness that was growing upon him of
late.  "Remember that they who denied a grave to our beloved, are
powerless to rob us of one precious memory of him.  His grave is in our
hearts; his memorial is the faith which every one of us now standing
here has learned from him."

"That is true," said Doña Beatriz.  "I think that not all thy teaching,
Don Juan, made me understand what ’precious faith’ is, until I learned
it by his death."

"He gave up all for Christ, freely and joyfully," Juan continued.
"While I gave up nothing, save as it was wrenched from my unwilling
hand.  Therefore for him there is the ’abundant entrance,’ the ’crown of
glory.’  For me, at the best, ’Seekest thou great things for thyself,
seek them not.  But thy life will I give unto thee for a prey in all
places whither thou goest.’"

Fray Sebastian drew near at the moment, and happening to overhear the
last words, he asked, "Have you any plan, señor, as to whither you will
go?"

"I have no plan," Don Juan answered.  "But I think God will guide us.  I
have indeed a dream," he added, after a pause, "which may, or may not,
come true eventually.  My thoughts often turn to that great New World,
where, at least, there should be room for truth and liberty.  It was our
childhood’s dream, to go forth to the New World and to find our father.
And the lesser half of it, comparatively worthless as it is, may fitly
fall to my lot to fulfil, another worthier than I having done the rest."
His voice grew gentler, his whole countenance softened as he
continued,--"That the prize was his, not mine, I rejoice.  It is but an
earnest of the nobler victory, the grander triumph, he enjoys now,
amongst those who stand evermore before the King of kings--CALLED,
CHOSEN, AND FAITHFUL."



                            Historical Note.


It may be asked by some thoughtful reader who has followed the narrative
of the foregoing pages, How much is fact, how much fiction?  As the
writer’s sole object is to reveal, to enforce, and to illustrate Truth,
an answer to the question is gladly supplied.  All is fact, except what
concerns the personal history of the Brothers and their family.
Whatever relates to the rise, progress, and downfall of the Protestant
Church in Spain, is strictly historical.  Especially may be mentioned
the story of the two great Autos at Seville.  But much of interest on
the subject remains untold, as nothing was taken up but what would
naturally amalgamate with the narrative and it was not designed to
supersede history, only to stimulate to its study.  Except in the
instance of a conversation with Juliano Hernandez, another with Don
Carlos de Seso, and a few words required by the exigencies of the tale
from Losada, the glorious martyr names have been left untouched by the
hand of fiction.  It was a sense of their sacredness which led the
writer to choose for hero a character not historical, but typical and
illustrative.  But nothing is told of him which did not occur over and
over again, if we except the act of mercy which is supposed to have shed
a brightness over his last days. He is merely a given example, a
specimen of the ordinary fate of such prisoners of the Inquisition as
were enabled to remain faithful to the end; and, thank God, these were
numerous.  He is even a favourable specimen; for the conditions of art
require that in a work of fiction a veil should be thrown over some of
the worst horrors of persecution.  Those who accuse Protestant writers
of exaggeration in these matters, little know what they say.  Easily
could we show greater abominations than these; but we forbear.

As for the joy and triumph ascribed to the steadfast martyr at the close
of his career, we have a thousand well-authenticated instances that such
has been really given.  These embrace all classes and ages, and all
varieties of character, and range throughout all time, from the day that
Stephen saw Christ sitting on the right hand of God, until the martyrs
of Madagascar sang hymns in the fire, and "prayed as long as they had
any life; and then they died, softly, gently."

It is not fiction, but truest truth, that He repays his faithful
servants an hundred-fold, even in this life, for anything they do or
suffer for his name’s sake.




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