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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40346
   :PG.Title: The Spanish Brothers
   :PG.Released: 2012-07-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Deborah Alcock
   :DC.Title: The Spanish Brothers
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1888
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

====================
THE SPANISH BROTHERS
====================

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      Cover

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      :alt: THE ALGUAZILS PRODUCING THEIR WARRANT FOR ARREST.

      THE ALGUAZILS PRODUCING THEIR WARRANT FOR ARREST.

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      THE
      SPANISH BROTHERS.

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      A Tale of the Sixteenth Century.

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      *By the Author of*
      "*THE CZAR: A TALE OF THE FIRST NAPOLEON.*"
      &c. &c.

      [Transcriber's note: Author was Deborah Alcock]

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      "Thy loving-kindness is better than life." 

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

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   CONTENTS.

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   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`_

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.. _`Boyhood`:

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   THE SPANISH BROTHERS.

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   \I.

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   Boyhood.

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..

   |   "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."





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.. _`The Monk's Letter`:

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   \II.


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   The Monk's Letter

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..

   |         "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.

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"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.

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.. _`Sword and Cassock`:

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   \III.

.. class:: center large

   Sword and Cassock.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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?"

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   [#] With good interest.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

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.. _`Alcala de Henarez`:

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   \IV.

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   Alcala de Henarez

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.

.. vspace:: 2

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   [#] Go with God.

.. vspace:: 2

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Don Carlos forgets Himself`:

.. class:: center large

   \V.

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   Don Carlos forgets Himself

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Don Carlos forgets Himself still further`:

.. class:: center large

   \VI.

.. class:: center large

   Don Carlos forgets Himself still further

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Desengano`:

.. class:: center large

   \VII.

.. class:: center large

   The Desengãno

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] *Arriero*, muleteer; *alforjas*, bags.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Muleteer`:

.. class:: center large

   \VIII.


.. class:: center large

   The Muleteer

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`El Dorado found`:

.. class:: center large

   \IX.


.. class:: center large

   El Dorado found

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Dolores`:

.. class:: center large

   \X.


.. class:: center large

   Dolores

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Light Enjoyed`:

.. class:: center large

   \XI.


.. class:: center large

   The Light Enjoyed.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

b.. _`The Light Divided from the Darkness`:

.. class:: center large

   \XII.


.. class:: center large

   The Light Divided from the Darkness.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] An inn.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] "Blue blood"

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Mayor

.. vspace:: 2

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.*"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

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

.. vspace:: 2

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*."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

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

.. vspace:: 2

"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?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Seville`:

.. class:: center large

   \XIII.


.. class:: center large

   Seville

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Monks of San Isodro`:

.. class:: center large

   \XIV.


.. class:: center large

   The Monks of San Isodro

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] 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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Great Sanbenito`:

.. class:: center large

   \XV.


.. class:: center large

   The Great Sanbenito.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





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   \XVI.


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   |   "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.





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   \XVII.


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   |   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Aged Monk`:

.. class:: center large

   \XVIII.


.. class:: center large

   The Aged Monk.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Truth and Freedom`:

.. class:: center large

   \XIX.


.. class:: center large

   Truth and Freedom

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |         "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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Point of honour.

.. vspace:: 2

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*."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Things of Spain.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The First Drop of a Thunder Shower`:

.. class:: center large

   \XX


.. class:: center large

   The First Drop of a Thunder Shower.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`By the Guadalquivir`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXI.


.. class:: center large

   By the Guadalquivir

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] See Exodus xxx 6.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Flood-Gates Opened`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXII.


.. class:: center large

   The Flood-Gates Opened.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Remain with God.

.. vspace:: 2

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?*"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#]  Who is there?

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Reign of Terror`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXIII.


.. class:: center large

   The Reign of Terror

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Gleam of Light`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXIV.


.. class:: center large

   A Gleam of Light

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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*."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Washerwoman.

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Moorish quarter of the city.

.. vspace:: 2

"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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Waiting`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXV.


.. class:: center large

   Waiting.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Don Gonsalvo's Revenge`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXVI.


.. class:: center large

   Don Gonsalvo's Revenge

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`My Brother's Keeper`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXVII.


.. class:: center large

   My Brother's Keeper

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The Lord Dollar.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Reaping the Whirlwind`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXVIII.


.. class:: center large

   Reaping the Whirlwind

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Friend at Court`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXIX.


.. class:: center large

   A Friend at Court

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Well, or well thou.

.. vspace:: 2

"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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Captive`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXX.


.. class:: center large

   The Captive.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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!][#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Everything related of Juliano Hernandez is strictly true.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Ministering Angels`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXI.


.. class:: center large

   Ministering Angels.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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--"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Hush.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The story of the gaoler's servant and his little
   daughter is historical.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Valley of the Shadow of Death`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXII.


.. class:: center large

   The Valley of the Shadow of Death.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Guardian.

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Words actually used by this monster.

.. vspace:: 2

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*!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`On the Other Side`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXIII.


.. class:: center large

   On the Other Side.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The people of Seville do not think the oranges fit
   to eat until the new blossoms come out in spring.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Fray Sebastian's Trouble`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXIV.


.. class:: center large

   Fray Sebastian's Trouble.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |           "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Lightly.

.. vspace:: 2

"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?"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] A fact.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Eve of the Auto`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXV.


.. class:: center large

   The Eve of the Auto.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Those delivered over to the secular arm--that is, to death.

.. vspace:: 2

"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!'"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small white-space-pre-line

   [#]| "With the King or the Inquisition,
   \        Hush!  Hush!"--*A Spanish proverb.*

.. vspace:: 2


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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle"`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXVI.


.. class:: center large

   "The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |         "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.
   |

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] So called by the Inquisitor, De Pegna.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Report of De Pegna.

.. vspace:: 2

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?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Something Ended and Something Begun`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXVII.


.. class:: center large

   Something Ended and Something Begun.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Nuera Again`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXVIII.


.. class:: center large

   Nuera Again.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Left Behind`:

.. class:: center large

   \XXXIX.


.. class:: center large

   Left Behind.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.'"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] A genuine Inquisitorial expression.

.. vspace:: 2

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?*"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"A Satisfactory Penitent"`:

.. class:: center large

   \XL.


.. class:: center large

   "A Satisfactory Penitent."

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] But these laws were often broken or evaded.

.. vspace:: 2

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*.





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.. _`More about the Penitent`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLI.


.. class:: center large

   More about the Penitent.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] "His Majesty," the ordinary term applied by Spaniards
   to the Host.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Quiet Days`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLII.


.. class:: center large

   Quiet Days.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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!"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Blue; a word applied by the Spaniards only to blue eyes.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`El Dorado Found Again`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLIII.


.. class:: center large

   El Dorado Found Again.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.'"
   |




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`One Prisoner Set Free`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLIV.


.. class:: center large

   One Prisoner Set Free.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.'"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Triumphant`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLV.


.. class:: center large

   Triumphant.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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,--

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Is it too Late?`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLVI.


.. class:: center large

   Is it too Late?

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Dominican Prior`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLVII.


.. class:: center large

   The Dominican Prior.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`San Isodro Once More`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLVIII.


.. class:: center large

   San Isodro Once More.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |   "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."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] 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.

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The Jewish Quarter of Seville.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Farewell`:

.. class:: center large

   \XLIX.


.. class:: center large

   Farewell.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |         "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."

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   Historical Note.

.. vspace:: 2

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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   PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

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