“He came to me in Power; I knew Him not.
He came to me in Love; and my heart broke;
And from its inmost depths there rose a cry—
‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!'
And the great Father smiled.”
Night and the Saul.
A QUIET month glided by, bearing the San Cristofero away to more northern shores; and slowly—almost imperceptibly—drifting another bark, long tossed by storms, towards the haven of welcome rest. So gradually was Melchior sinking, that although Fray Fernando watched him, hour by hour, with the devoted love of a brother born for adversity, and Jose with tender kindness, it was probable that the coming Visitant, the shadow of whose presence any stranger might readily have seen in his face, would take them both by surprise. The more accustomed they grew to the pleasant office of tending him, reading to him, talking with him, the less they seemed to think that all must have an end, and that shortly.
By this time they had read the Gospels through—and not once or twice. They had read the Epistles also; they had explored the narratives and prophecies of the Old Testament; they had even, to Jose's intense delight, made some acquaintance with "the book of the Golden City," as he called the Apocalypse. But always they turned back to the Gospels with fresh wonder, interest, and joy. What one of them, at least, found therein, will appear in the following conversation.
It was a close and sultry afternoon. Fray Fernando had gone out to perform the duties of his office towards some poor fever-stricken mariners, who lay in a rude shed on the beach, called by courtesy the Hospital. Jose sat beside Melchior, gently fanning him, and, as he did so, chanting in a low harmonious voice some melody of his people.
“Ancha Incay Hocca?" Melchior repeated, opening his eyes with a smile. "If I were you, Don Jose, I would rather sing a psalm than those heathen words.”
“The words I sing are a psalm to me," Jose answered; "but if they trouble you I will stop.”
“Oh no. But I did not think there were any psalms or sacred songs as yet rendered into your tongue.”
“Nor are there, so far as I know. These are words from a Play which my fathers used to act before the white men came.”
Melchior heard him with indifference. What were plays to a dying man? He had done with "vain shows;" where he was going all would be real. Still he felt that a little interest in what interested his Indian friend was the least proof he could give of his gratitude for a thousand benefits; so, when Jose said, "Shall I tell you about it?" he answered promptly, "If you please, Don Jose.”
Jose, with evident pleasure, began his story. "There was once," he said, "a great and brave chieftain, whose name was Ollanta. He rebelled against his lord the Inca; he took for himself the province given him to rule over; and he slew those who were sent against him. For he would fain obey no lord, but be lord and Inca over all himself. But, after a long time and a grievous war, in which many men were killed, he was overcome and made prisoner; and his friends, who aided him in his rebellion, were taken also. With their hands bound and their eyes bandaged, they were led to Cuzco. Then, at last, the bandage was taken away. Behold! they stood in the presence of the sole Inca. He sat on his golden throne, the high priest on his right hand, the great general whose valor had won the victory, on his left; and standing around him, like stars around the sun, all his glorious court. He looked awful in his majesty. Right sternly he asked the trembling captives, ‘Why have you done this thing?' But they only bowed their heads and answered, Father, we have nothing to say.' Then the Inca turned to the high priest, ‘What do these men deserve?' he asked. Too well the high priest knew the answer, but his lips refused to utter it. ‘The Sun has given me a merciful heart,' he said. So the Inca looked from him to the victorious general, whose heart was cast in a harder mold. And he spoke out boldly, Inca, these men have slain our fathers; they must die. Let them be tied to stakes driven into the ground, and let their servants, who fought for them, be made to march over their bodies. Then let those servants also be slain with arrows.' Then the Inca looked upon the captives; and his face was sad and stern; ‘You have heard your sentence,' he said.—' Take them away.' And the servants wept and wailed and made sore lamentation. But Ollanta and his friends spake never a word; for they knew that their doom was just. As they had sown, they must reap. Only they looked up to the glorious Sun, and around them on the fair earth, as men who take their farewell look of all.
“Then once more spake the Inca. ‘Stay,' he said. ‘Unbind those men. They shall not die, but live. Ollanta, I forgive thee.' And turning to the guards that stood around, he added, Bring the golden helmet, the mace, and the arrows.' (These were the signs of Ollanta's forfeited honors.) Give them back to him. And to his friends likewise restore their maces of office, their arrows, and their bracelets.' Moreover, forasmuch as pardon is not complete without trust restored, he said to him, Ollanta, thou shalt govern Cuzco for me when I go forth shortly upon my warlike expedition to Collasuyu.' And he sealed all with the generous word, ' I shall go with joy; leaving, to govern here, my faithful Ollanta.'
“Oh, my friend! Ollanta's eyes were dry at the terrible death-sentence; but I tell you he wept then! Ollanta never knelt at the Inca's feet to implore his life; but I tell you, when the Inca forgave him thus, he flung himself in the dust before him, and swore to be his slave forever! And, at last, the grateful, reverent love that overflowed his heart, found voice in the words I sang just now.
“O Inca! this is too much
For a man who is nothing.
Mayest thou live a thousand years.
I am as thou makest me;
Thou dost give me succor:
Crippled, thou makest me stand;
Fallen, thou raisest me tip;
Poor, thou enrichest me;
Blind, thou givest me sight;
Dead, thou restorest life;—
Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.'"
“What, Don Jose, are you weeping at your own tale?” asked Melchior, wondering at the emotion that filled the eyes and well-nigh choked the voice of Jose.
The Indian dashed the unbidden drops away. "Not often do we weep, we Children of the Sun," he said. "Yet Ollanta wept at the Inca's pardon; for his heart grew soft within him, like the heart of a little child. And I too—O Melchior, can you not read the meaning of my tale? Listen, then. I am Ollanta, the rebel. I did not know my King, my Inca. I would not obey Him; I fought against Him; I wanted to be lord and ruler myself, and to do my own will, not His. But He conquered me, and took me, and led me step by step, as it were with bandaged eyes. And now, at last, the bandage is taken away. I have seen Him. First there," indicating with rapid gesture the Book on the table; "then here," laying his hand on his heart. “He has pardoned me—pardoned, blessed, restored; made me His free, happy servant; told me to live and work for Him.
“O Inca! this is too much
For a man who is nothing.
I am as thou makest me;
Thou dost give me succor:
Crippled, thou makest me stand
Fallen, thou raisest me up.
Poor, thou enrichest me;
Blind, thou givest me sight;
Dead, thou restorest life:—
Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget.'
Ranti! Ranti! Capac Inca! Huacchacuyac!”
There was a long silence, filled with happy thought. Then at last, Melchior asked gently, "What of Don Ramon de Virves now, Don Jose?”
“Have I not said, Thou, indeed, teachest me to forget'?" Jose answered. Presently he added, with a smile, "It is not told in the Play; but for my part, I have always believed that Ollanta stretched out his hand that day to the general who was his enemy and sought his life, and said to him, Let us be friends for the Inca's sake.'—But I am sorry for Don Ramon de Virves. He is gone where my pardon cannot reach him. I have told all to the King; and I have asked Him to let me show some of them how He teaches to forget.”
“Don Jose, you ought to tell Fray Fernando what you have just told me. I would die without a shadow on my heart if only he—he too—”
"He? the patre? Of course he has known all this, and far more, for many a year—from his childhood, I suppose. I wish indeed from my heart that I could tell Señor Hualter, who is far away from us now. He it was who first told me about Christ the King. Instead of the gem I sought—the hope or deliverance for my people—he put that day into my outstretched hand a little seed, like a grain of sand. I was grieved and angry, for to my eyes it had no beauty: it did not burn and quiver in the light like the stones of fire. But I buried it in my heart; and lo! it sprang up and grew, until at last there came forth a living flower, brighter and more glorious than a thousand cold dead stones.—But the patre, oh—he knows everything!”
“I am sure God has marked him for His own," said Melchior—"' chosen him in the furnace of affliction,' as he read yesterday from the good Book. But if it were not for the hope in Him, life would be a sad thing enough for my brother and for me, Don Jose. Does he seem to you an old, broken, world-weary man, with the wrinkles on his brow and the gray streaks in his hair? In years he is yet almost young. If he has numbered eight and thirty, it is the utmost.”
“I know he has suffered as few suffer, even in this sad world.”
“You may well say that. Think of those long, dark, weary years! And now I go hence—I who have cost him so much, and been able to give him back so little. But I turn to you, Don Jose. All that I would have been to him, all that I would have done for him, and never can be or do, I leave to you—you, his adopted son. I pray you to help him, guard him, watch over him.”
“I vowed to do that, Melchior, ere I ever saw your face." "Yet promise now once more, to please a dying man.”
“With all my heart I promise. Perhaps," he added, "you may be able to watch over him yourself, from your place in yonder sky.”
“I do not think that, Don Jose. What do we know, after all, save so much as that Book tells us? And it tells us scarce anything of the dead, but that they are ‘with the Lord.'—Ah, there is Señor Don Alfonso at the door. I would know his step amongst a thousand.”
Another was at the door also, though neither Jose nor Fray Fernando heard his footsteps. But at midnight he entered unbidden, touched Melchior with his shadowy hand, and whispered the gentle yet imperative summons, "Arise, and go hence." Not always without a struggle does the flesh leave the spirit free to obey that call. With Melchior the struggle lasted "until the breaking of the day." But in the end there was peace. For the last time on earth, the foster-brothers held converse together. What passed was unheard, even by Jose, who kept watch in the outer room. If "the rites of the Church" were administered, Jose did not know it, and was amazed at the apparent omission.
And when the sun arose in glory, the weary spirit won its freedom. There was one more look and smile for "Señor Don Alfonso," there was a murmured word of grateful farewell for Jose, and then the brave and faithful heart of Melchior del Salto ceased to beat.
Fray Fernando closed his eyes, and sat down and wept beside him.
But Jose said, "You should not weep for him, patre. He sees the King in His beauty.”
Yet Fray Fernando did well to weep. There are tears that bring help and healing with them. Of such were the tears he shed over the lifeless form of the brother whom God had given back to him so strangely from the dead. Instead of the thoughts of restless anguish, of remorse and shame, that had haunted him for sixteen weary years, he could think of Melchior del Salto, now and henceforward, with tender regret; not indeed unmixed with pain, but still calm and soothing. Meanwhile, for himself, the long conflict of his life seemed over. Peace and reconciliation had come to him at last, breathed softly by dying lips. And with peace there came strength also. Possibilities of new life, of a life of healthful, holy activity, began from that day forward to open out before him. Even yet he might serve the God to whom Melchior del Salto had lifted up his heart in the hour of need, and who had heard him, and saved him out of all his distresses.