“So I go on not knowing;
I would not if I might!
I would rather walk in the dark with God,
Than walk alone in the light;
I would rather walk with Him by faith,
Than walk alone by sight.”
ANON.
A YEAR has passed away since all that was mortal of Melchior del Salto found a quiet resting-place beneath the shadow of the new church of Callao. To Fray Fernando it has been "the beginning of years," the first year of a new life. Its days and nights have been filled to overflowing with thought and action. Inward change and progress have kept pace with outward activity; "great searchings of heart" with valiant work of head and hand. And yet the Fray Fernando who raises his eyes from his book, with a pleasant smile of greeting for Jose as he enters, looks a healthier, happier, and even a younger man than he who brought the dying galley-slave to his home. Nay more: Fray Fernando looks younger now than he did when he bought the best blessing of his life, some fifteen years ago, from Don Ramon de Virves with the tooth of St. Joseph.
The book he is reading—his favorite, almost his only study—is still the Vulgate. From its pages he has learned many things.
Important side lights have been thrown upon their teaching by numerous conversations with Walter Gray (now once more at Callao, after a long coasting expedition)—by the simple faith that upheld Melchior del Salto in the hour of death—by Fray Constantino's well-worn volume. But another light, without which these would have been useless, has illumined the sacred page for Fray Fernando—even "the candle of the Lord," which is his Spirit. The result of all may be briefly told:—at the year's end his faith differed widely from the recognized creed of that Church with which he still remained in outward communion.
No man who thinks profoundly and feels keenly can change his ancestral faith for another without many a fear and misgiving and many a pang. In deep soil the roots strike deepest: even to lay the branches low the tempest must put forth the fierceness of its strength; what then if the roots be torn away? Surely the soil will come up with them—the heart itself be convulsed to its depths.
Yet Fray Fernando, who had suffered so much already, suffered less than might have been expected during the progress of this momentous change. It was in his favor that he had grasped truth with a firm hand before he felt the call to abandon error. Moreover, action was with him not only the companion of thought, but its precursor. The cumbrous armor of superstition was not torn from him by violence so much as laid down voluntarily piece by piece, as he found that it hindered instead of helping him in his daily conflict with sin and ignorance. Experience taught him, also, that the truths his own soul lived upon were life and peace to the sick and dying to whom he ministered continually—to the crowd of Black people, Creoles, and mariners to whom he preached on the shore every Sunday and holiday; and that whatever was not found in the Vulgate was not good for them any more than for himself.
And, added to all, he had Jose—Jose the most appreciative of scholars, the most sympathetic of friends—"answering him like silver bells lightly touched." Everything he learned was imparted almost immediately to Jose, and the joy it gave more than doubled by the process. Jose himself would have originated nothing in this line. He was content, and would have been content, to the end of his days, to eat the heavenly manna as his fathers ate their maize, simply as they got it, without the aid of the stones that bruise or the fan that winnows. He would have gone on, satisfied and happy, loving his King, living for Him, and willing at need to die for Him, but never suspecting the mode of worship he had learned at Cerro Blanco not to be altogether well pleasing and acceptable in His sight. If anything he had been taught had ever chanced to perplex him, as appearing contrary to some other thing that his heart held dear, he would have told himself, "It is a mystery of the faith," and have rested satisfied.
What Fray Fernando taught him, however, he understood thoroughly, and felt profoundly. Moreover, he was the safest confidant the monk could have chosen. No man ever knew better how to keep his mouth and his tongue, and in so doing to keep his soul from troubles. He was the guardian of many deadly secrets about his own people; and he was just as likely to betray Maricancha or Rimac to the Viceroy, as he was to compromise Fray Fernando with the Inquisition.
His own life at this time was quite as busy, and probably quite as useful, as that of his patron. Most of the surviving members of the Inca family, who had been banished from Cuzco and its neighborhood, were forced to take up their residence at Lima, where, severed from the associations dear to their hearts, and exposed to the influences of an unhealthy climate, they withered away like trees transplanted into un-genial soil.
Every hour that Jose could spare from attendance on the patre he devoted to the task of comforting and ministering to these his brethren. It is true that the common wants of the body, such as food and clothing, he seldom had to supply. Impoverished though the Incas were, they still had treasures at command in the love and reverence with which every Indian heart regarded them. "We were wrong, indeed," said the baptized Indians, when taunted by the Spaniards with having worshipped their ancient kings—"we were wrong; for now we know they were not gods, but men. Yet, having received so much good from them, we cannot think them less than of divine race; and if you show us such men now, needs must that we pay them the same veneration.”
Yet much remained that Jose could do for his friends. His familiarity with the white man's language, learning, and habits, enabled him to perform many important services for them. But best of all was his power to comfort them with strange sweet words spoken in the tongue of their fathers, and linked in a thousand ways to all their cherished thoughts and traditions, yet strong with a strength and wise with a wisdom that was not theirs. Earnestly did he labor to inspire the hearts of his brethren with his own passionate love and reverence for the King, the great Inca of the East, upon whom all his hopes were resting.
To return to that particular evening, just one year after the death of Melchior del Salto. Jose came in, hot and tired, from a walk to Lima, undertaken as escort and guide to a Dominican friar, newly arrived from the West Indies. The monk had spent the preceding day and night with Fray Fernando, being ill from the effects of a long and uncomfortable voyage. He was not too ill, however, for much conversation, or rather controversy, with his kind-hearted host.
“Well, Jose, did you deliver up your charge in safety?" Fray Fernando asked with a smile.
Jose's face wore a rather curious expression as he answered, “I did. Two years ago, patre, I should have been pleased to see a Spaniard treat his own countrymen as Spaniards everywhere treat Indians.”
“I had hoped, Jose," said Fray Fernando a little sadly, "that those old thoughts of bitterness were of the past.”
“The old bitterness, yes; the old thoughts—never!" Jose was silent a moment, then resumed in a different tone. "This good friar seems to imagine that we of Rimac are all fast asleep, and that he has come to wake us. He thinks we are poor, silly, ignorant folk, understanding nothing; just as the Spaniards think of my people. All the time it is they who cannot understand. How can they, when they despise us We know secrets that are sealed from them forever.”
“Did you follow our long argument today, Jose?" Fray Fernando asked somewhat anxiously.
“I followed you," said Jose, "and I went before you, and all round you, and away from you, and back again to you, twenty times, at least, while you were talking.”
“Ah, Jose! I shall never get the slightest idea of logic into your head. How could you possibly think out a chain of reasoning after that fashion?”
“I do not think my thoughts, patre, in chains, with one link holding on to another. My thoughts grow up like flowers—here, there, anywhere they list.”
“Then read this, and tell me what thoughts 'grow up' in your mind about it." And Fray Fernando handed him a letter, a fair, well-written document, with a miter on its seal. It was in Latin, but that was now no impediment to Jose.
He laid it down again with a look of satisfaction. Evidently "the words of the wise had been heard in quiet;" the fame of the patre's simple yet fervid eloquence had reached at last the dignitaries of his Church, and induced them to pay him a high, but well-merited compliment. "My heart is glad," said Jose. "You will make the walls of that great cathedral echo to grand, glorious words of truth. And on Easter-day, too! You will tell them Christ is risen!”
But Fray Fernando's face did not reflect the joy that beamed from the dusky countenance of Jose. On the contrary, it wore an expression of anxious thought. "How can I tell them Christ is risen," he said, "without telling them also—Oh, my son, do you not perceive the strait I am in?”
Jose understood him; and the gladness faded from his face. But he placed his hand on Fray Constantino's book. "Have you not told me that he preached for years in the cathedral of Seville, and no man even suspected him of believing as you do?”
“Not quite as I do. That last terrible mystery"—his eyes sought the little silver casket, rarely used of late—"having dared to let that go, Jose—”
“We keep Christ, the King. He will guide us," Jose said reverently.
“Perhaps it were best to accept this call, and, once for all, tell out all the truth in the face of the great congregation!”
Jose shuddered inwardly. He knew the Holy Inquisition as a vague, dark shadow, nothing more. Neither Walter Gray, nor Melchior del Salto, nor Fray Fernando himself, would ever talk of it. Presently he drew close to the patre, laid his hand, as a son might do, on his shoulder, and began to speak—eagerly, fluently—in low, soft, pleading words, that fell from his lips like ripe fruit "dropped in a silent autumn night.”
Tears glistened in Fray Fernando's eyes. "My son," he answered tenderly, "it must be God's will even before yours. If He has given me back—after all those years of anguish—light, joy, hope, liberty,—is it too much that I should bring Him a thank-offering?”
“Many thank-offerings you will bring Him, patre; such as the soul of that poor man who died yester-even calling upon Christ the Savior.”
“It may be He has other work for me. But I know not. Rest content, Jose; I will go nowhere, I will do nothing, save as He leads my footsteps.”
“I ought to rest content with that, patre. The King will lead you, and by the right way.”
There was a pause, which Fray Fernando broke at last. "Jose, do you remember—long ago, on our journey from Cerro Blanco to Cuzco—that moment when, suddenly emerging from the darkness of the rock-hewn passage, we came in sight of the deep ravine of the Apurimac, spanned by the bridge of sogas “I remember it well, patre; but what brings it to your mind just now?”
“At first I knew not. In an instant I saw all-mountains, rocks, river tumbling at their base, slight strong bridge of osiers —as if revealed by a lightning flash. But now I know. It was some chance words of yours, spoken then, ' Our people trusted the Inca. And they knew that every way he made for them would lead them safely to the Golden City.'”
Jose smiled, then murmured softly, "Yachani" (I know). He had still a habit of dropping a word or two in his native tongue when anything touched his heart. "I know" in Spanish only meant "I am aware." "I know" in Quechua meant, "1 feel, I am satisfied.”