“On my soul there fell
A horror of great darkness, which shut out
All earth, and heaven, and hope.”
HEMANS.
ALL was still within the tampu, and Jose had been asleep for some time, when Fray Fernando softly called him.
He started up quickly. "Is anything wrong, patre?" he asked.
“No; if you are not sleeping, I should like to talk with you.”
“Chachau!" (willingly and gladly!) said Jose, good-humoredly, as he threw the remains of his store of dry sticks on the fire, and seated himself beside it. The night was frosty, and his yacollo, or cloak, was beneath Fray Fernando.
Except for the dim light thrown out by the smoldering brands, the place was in darkness. Like most of the Peruvian buildings, it had no windows, and the door was closed.
Fray Fernando's voice came out of the gloom,—a little lower, slower, more restrained than usual. "I should like to tell you a tale of the things that happen in my country," he said.
“I like well to hear those tales patre," Jose answered.
“You will not like this one. It is sad as death—sadder!—sad as life.”
Jose understood him. He knew what were the lives of the mitayos in the obregas and the mines.
Fray Fernando went on, still in the same quiet tone, like one treading the crust of a volcano with light and wary footsteps, lest perchance he should disturb the hidden fires beneath:— “In that land beyond the Mother Sea where I was born, Jose, is a great and fair city called Seville. There are noble churches and stately marble palaces, glittering white in the sunshine; and there are fragrant orange-groves and delicious gardens, fringing the banks of the bright river, loved of all Spanish hearts, the peerless Guadalquivir." And on that bleak mountain, at the other side of the world, Fray Fernando paid the tribute of a passing sigh to the memories of his sunny native land. "In that fair city," he went on, "dwelt the two boys whose story I wish to tell you. They were foster-brothers. One was of noblest lineage, and bore an honored name; his father's father had been amongst the conquistadors.”
“I call not such lineage noble, but base," said Jose, forgetting for a moment his habitual caution.
“There you err," the monk returned. The conquistadors of Seville were brave men, who rescued the city from the Infidels, and planted the Cross where the Crescent had glittered for centuries, to the shame of Christian Spain. The memories of such a conflict stir the heart of youth like the sound of a trumpet, and the noble's son I speak of had his training in the midst of them. His foster-brother shared them also; his parents, though poor, were old Christians, respected by all in the district where they dwelt. That district was—but I shall have to speak of it hereafter. Pleasanter is it to speak of Melchior-gallant Melchior, with his handsome face, curling black hair, bright dark eyes, brave yet gentle heart. Fearless always, quick to resolve, strong to do and dare, impetuous yet persevering. He grew up a regular majo.”
"What is that, patre?”
“A gallant youth of Seville, who ruffles it on the Prado or in the street, resplendent in velvet and silver lace, his dagger in his belt, his guitar on his shoulder, ready for a fight, a bull-feast, or a dance, and always ready to do homage to bright eyes and fair faces. Yet Melchior, festive as he seemed, was simple and pious, kind to his troop of young brothers and sisters, and never forgetting in his wildest moods to say his prayers, or to bring his offering to the Virgin's shrine.—Ay de mi!”
“Patre, you are forgetting the other lad, the young noble. You have not even told me his name.”
“It was—Don Alfonso. Had they been brothers in blood, they could not have loved each other more. They shared the same sports, practiced the same exercises. Together they rode at the ring, wrestled, played with canes. Sometimes one excelled, sometimes the other; but they were never jealous, their love was too true. Together they dreamed of the future, and planned deeds of daring and high emprise. Sometimes Africa, sometimes Ireland or Flanders, oftener your wild Western World, Jose, was to be the scene of their exploits. Vain, idle dreams! One of them, at least, lived to thank God for the veil wherewith His mercy hides the coming days. But for it, life would be all suffering from its dawn to its close.
“As for Melchior, no shadowy forebodings dimmed his bright young spirit. He early gave his heart to a lovely girl, the beauty of the district where they lived, and accounted as good as she was beautiful. Great was his joy when, after an anxious wooing, he came at last to tell his friend that she had consented to bestow her hand upon him; and Señor Don Alfonso had to promise forthwith to dance the cachuco at their wedding. He was nothing loath, for he knew and liked the pretty little Juanita, and sincerely rejoiced in Melchior's happiness. He had dreams of his own at this time, moreover. There were sweet blue eyes, whose gleam made summer in his heart, and golden hair—”
“I did not think people of your nation had golden hair, patre," Jose interrupted.
“It is rare amongst us, and therefore perhaps more highly prized.—But to return to Melchior. Between him and the fulfillment of his hopes there was one great barrier. You cannot understand, Jose, how sorely, in the lands beyond the sea, men and women ofttimes suffer for the lack of those morsels of gold and silver you treat with such disdain.”
“I understand very well, patre. They were poor. But why did they not ask the king? Surely he would have given them a little piece of land, enough to live upon." With Jose, the king was the" Deus ex machina, "who was to solve every difficulty, and set right every wrong.
“That is not the custom in Spain, "said Fray Fernando." Nor do we think it the king's business to provide for all his needy subjects.”
“Then, "thought Jose," he assuredly is not the King who will deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy also, and him that hath no helper." He asked aloud," What, then, could they do?”
Fray Fernando answered,—” Don Alfonso at length suggested a plan which seemed feasible. His sisters, at his request, obtained a place for Juanita as waiting-woman to a noble lady, who was both rich and liberal; so it was hoped that after a year or two spent in her service, Melchior's bride would have something to call her own besides her velvet bodice and her silver ear-rings. Melchior, too, had his plans. He had already distinguished himself by coolness and daring in more than one bull-feast. —I have told you of the bull-feasts of Spain, Jose?”
“Yes," said Jose briefly. They were, to him, amongst the many incomprehensible things on the other side of the sea.
“Melchior dreamed of winning gold as well as glory by his feats as matador. In truth, he was far too daring. I sometimes warned him that he might tempt fortune once too often. An hour came when I wished to God that he had bled his young life out beneath the horse-hoofs on the sand of the arena!”
“Then you knew those foster-brothers, patre?" asked Jose with interest.
“Yes," Fray Fernando answered. He resumed after a pause, and in an altered tone, "What comes next is not easy to tell. Yet it must be told. You know what heresy is, Jose?”
“Anything against the Catholic Faith—such as what the Jews believe," Jose replied promptly.
“Right. In Seville, just before the time I speak of, there had been many heretics, but they were discovered and punished by the Holy Inquisition.”
“I pray you tell me, patre, what is the Holy Inquisition?" "A tribunal for the discovery, trial, and punishment of heretics.”
“Are people, then, in your country punished for believing wrong?”
“Most assuredly. What can be more necessary and proper?" said Fray Fernando with decision, and perhaps with a little sharpness. "The lady whom Juanita served," he continued,” though to all outward seeming truly pious, was in heart a confirmed heretic. And she dropped the subtle poison of her false faith day by day into the unsuspecting ear of the simple peasant-girl. Poor Juanita thought her words good and holy, and very comforting to the heart. In truth, these people often begin with good words, such as no Catholic could object to, and thus they deceive the unwary. You know what the Gospel says of wolves in sheep's clothing, Jose! Juanita used to remember what she heard, and repeat it all to Melchior, who dreamed of harm no more than she did. They were children, playing at the mouth of a volcano, gathering flowers unconscious of the fire that slumbered beneath, ready to break forth and overwhelm them.
“One day Don Alfonso came home from walking on the Prado. He was light of heart; the solid earth seemed air beneath his feet; for those blue eyes of which I spoke had beamed graciously upon him. He said within himself, I will cross the bridge of boats to Melchior's dwelling, and tell him.'
But as he took again the montero he had laid aside, his little foot-page came to say, Melchior del Salto is in the patio, desiring to see you.' Gladly did he go thither, but on entering, his mood changed in an instant. There sat Melchior on the settle, his head bowed upon its oaken arm, over which his curled hair fell in disorder. His attitude spoke despair; and neither at the step nor at the voice of his friend did he move or look up. Don Alfonso's anxious and repeated questions at last drew forth the murmured answer, She's gone!'
“Gone!' reiterated the other, in utter bewilderment. Gone!—whither?—when?'
“Melchior spoke again,—' At midnight—the alguacils of the Holy Office.'
“Jose, you know not the despair, the dread despair, where that doom falls upon a loved one. They who sit and weep beside their dead,—they it is who are envied then. For we know, at least, that the dead are safe from the troubles of this miserable world—that they are in the hands of God, not of man., But years may pass before the watcher without hears so much as a whisper of the fate of him—or her—upon whom the gates of the Triana once have closed.”
“O patre!" cried Jose in horror," is that the justice they do in your country?”
Fray Fernando now became conscious that he had said more than he ought to the unlearned Indian youth, thus "offending one of the little ones," as his class were wont to speak. So he drew the monk's frock over the man's beating heart, and hastened to explain:—"You must not think there is any injustice, Jose. God forbid. Their reverences, the lords inquisitors, are wise and holy men. Heresy is fearful sin, and when the Church has to deal with it, as one of her ablest doctors has most truly said, Severity is mercy, and mercy severity.'”
Jose listened with becoming awe. "But then, patre," he ventured to say, "that poor girl meant no harm. It seems hard she should suffer thus.”
“You cannot understand," said Fray Fernando wearily. "Indians never can understand.”
Jose was not at all convinced of the natural disabilities or his race, but he was very anxious for the rest of the story. So he said presently, "Tell me about Melchior, patre.”
“The dark hour that saw the gate of the Triana closed behind Juanita changed Melchior into another man. He grew moody, restless, sometimes even fierce. No more bull-feasts, no more festive walks on the Prado, no more dances in the evening—one absorbing occupation filled every moment snatched from work or sleep. Love alone could teach the patience with which day after day, night after night, he used to take his stand beneath the wall of that gloomy fortress. Not quite in vain. The first tears that relieved his breaking heart fell as he told his friend how he caught a glimpse of the face he loved—pale and changed—behind the bars of a grated window.
“Months passed; and Melchior's despair gave way to a fierce and frantic hope—a hope first whispered cautiously to Don Alfonso, but so eagerly shared by him that the flame was fanned to sevenfold strength. The suburb of the city where Melchior lived was close to the prison of the Inquisition, and took its name from it-the Triana. Though the Holy Office, for wise purposes, keeps its proceedings secret as possible, things must needs ooze out sometimes, and men will talk about them. At the particular time of which I speak, there was much indignation, especially in the neighborhood of the Triana, called forth by the robberies and cruelties of the head-jailer, Gaspar Benevidio—a wretch abhorred of God and man, and afterward righteously punished by his superiors. The Triana suburb abounded in lawless characters, many of whom, being of Moorish blood, were not particularly zealous for the Catholic Faith or the Holy Inquisition. Whenever Gaspar Benevidio went abroad, men scowled and laid their hands on their daggers, and women cursed him as he passed. Some of Melchior's friends of the bull-ring were often heard to murmur, "Twere a better deed to send a lance through a hard heart than through a tough hide.' ‘But what use in that?' Melchior would say. That would save no one. If now we were to attack the Triana, God only knows what we might accomplish “This was the project hinted to Don Alfonso. And he answered promptly, Do all that is in thine heart. I am with thee, according to all that is in thine heart.' Then they laid their scheme. In the midst of their madness they were prudent in details. They organized the conspirators, armed them, concerted signals, even corrupted some of the lower officials within the castle. At last came the night agreed upon. Melchior and Don Alfonso headed the rioters—the latter disguised in his foster-brother's clothes, to save the honor of his noble house. There was an hour of fierce excitement, of wild fighting, of frenzied hope—then confusion, terror, despair. It was madness all-from first to last! As soon, Jose, might your people stand victorious against the might of Spain, as force or fraud prevail to rescue one captive from the dungeons of the Triana.”
It was well, perhaps, that the monk could not see the "dark lightning" that flashed from Jose's eyes as he said, "Madness is strong, patre. Did they not rescue any?”
“None. The morning light found the rioters broken, scattered, flying. Most of them were themselves soon made prisoners of the Inquisition. Spite of all precautions, Don Alfonso's share in the matter was suspected; but his family sheltered him, and placed him in concealment. Of course, his career was ruined, his prospects blighted. And if that had been but all! But besides his share in the riot, a great and guilty secret lay upon his heart. He knew that in the conflict his hand had dealt a mortal blow to an alguacil of the Inquisition. That was a crime to rank with heresy itself. Like heresy, blood could not wash it out—fire must burn its stains away.”
“I do not understand, patre," Jose said, half shuddering. The friar's answer was slow and faltering. "I mean, the punishment was—death by fire!”
"Horrible!" cried Jose. "Was Don Alfonso saved?”
“From that doom, yes. His relatives managed to procure for him, under a feigned name, a passage in a vessel bound for these unknown shores. It was the best they could do; and he was grateful for it—more than grateful, because they did not hate and curse him, though he had sinned against the Holy Inquisition. Father and mother blessed the wanderer—the last comforting memory left him to cling to.”
Fray Fernando was silent, until at last Jose asked, "Where, all this time, was Melchior?”
“Don Alfonso often inquired after him; and was assured that he was safe, and in hiding. But he believed too easily. In due time he embarked. The vessel dropped down lightly from Seville to San Lucar, a port on the coast; where she lay at anchor waiting for merchandize. Don Alfonso, standing at her side, gazed listlessly, through the golden evening light, on the quiet waters, and the low green shore, where the herds of oxen were browsing peacefully. From the shore came a little boat, with a passenger, whom business or pleasure had detained in Seville, and who, not to lose his passage, had ridden hard from the city. On board, he met an acquaintance, with whom he discussed the news of the day, walking up and down the deck, within earshot of Don Alfonso. But he heeded little; till at last a word was spoken that thrilled his soul. Today is taking place the great and long-expected Auto-de-fe.'"
"The—what, patre?”
Jose had to repeat his question. The monk seemed unwilling or unable to answer.
“What is an Auto-de-fe?”
"A solemn sacrifice," Fray Fernando said at last; and he said no more.
“Let me make an end," he resumed presently. "The stranger named the names of the victims, as he had heard them from his uncle, a Dominican. Happily, Juanita was not amongst them. I suppose she died in prison. There were some notorious heretics, several foreigners. And at last—”
“Patre, what ails you? Are you ill?" asked Jose, who was himself trembling at the vague, imperfectly understood horrors of the tale.
“No," said the monk, lifting up his hand with a forbidding gesture, as Jose, now thoroughly alarmed at what the firelight revealed of his looks, seemed about to spring to his side.
He continued, though with evident effort:—" At last Don Alfonso heard the words Melchior del Salto also is to be burned alive.' The sky grew black, and the earth reeled around him. Yet, gathering all his strength, he held himself from swooning, that he might hear the end.— Why that doom for him-never once suspected of heresy? '—The voices seemed to come from a great distance, but the words were clear and distinct.—' He dealt a mortal blow to an alguacil of the Holy Office. The thing was proved beyond dispute. The poor man lived two days; and though he had not seen the face of his assailant, he swore to the dress, discerned by the torchlight. Nor did the prisoner daily the fact.'—At that word, Don Alfonso fell senseless. Better had he died thus,—save for his unhappy soul!”
“Patre," said Jose, with decision, "you shall tell me no more such stories. This one is killing you.”
Fray Fernando wrestled in silence with some strong emotion ere he answered:—" What is begun shall be ended. Jose, that man did not die. When consciousness returned, he would fain have thrown himself from the ship, and rushed back to Seville. But too late! All was over now, all gone—save blackened ashes. So he let the winds and waves bear him onward where they would, with broken heart, and memory filled evermore with the image of the brother who died for him.”
“Did he kill himself?" asked Jose, whose race parted with life too lightly.
“No. He feared God, against whom, in His ministers, he had sinned most grievously. But he carried the mark of Cain on his brow—the doom of Cain in his heart. ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, Thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from Thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth.'”
“Poor, unhappy man! Does he live yet, patre?”
“It may be. To me it seems that, were he near death, he ought to confess his deed. Not simply to a priest, for his soul's sake, but also to some faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea, and, by revealing the truth, clear away the stain of infamy from the name of him who died in his stead.”
“A faithful friend, who for love of him would cross the sea!" Jose repeated. "Has he such, patre? Then there is hope for him yet.”
It was some time before Fray Fernando answered. When he did, his voice was choked and faltering, like the voice of one that wept. "Your words are wise," he said. "Perhaps wiser than you think. Never ask me more of this, Jose. Never speak of it, to me or to another.”
“You may trust me, patre.”
“I do. Now lie down and sleep.”
Jose lay down obediently. But the command to sleep was more easily given than obeyed. Never in his life had he been more thoroughly awake. His mind was full of new, bewildering, fearful thoughts. What was this Auto-de-fe—this sacrifice which seemed a horrible execution? Did Christians then offer human sacrifices? Where and how had the patre known the Melchior—and, still more, the Don Alfonso—of his tale? Was he, perchance, the faithful friend of the unhappy young nobleman? Or—at last there flashed unbidden on his mind another thought, so frightful that he drove it away with all the force of his will, loathing himself for having allowed it even to enter his imagination.