“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 Doha. Beatriz, graver and paler than of old, and with the brilliant luster 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. Doha Beatriz looked up. "He sleeps," she said.
“Then let him sleep on, señora mía.”
“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 today—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 dishonored in the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know not.”
“No dishonor 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 I You, of noblest lineage—you, Alvarez de Menaya—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 mío, 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 any thing with regard to us?" asked Juan, in some alarm.
“No; but they have brought tidings.”
“You tremble, Dolores. You are ill. Speak—what is it “They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held at Seville, upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towards the end of this month.”
For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other's faces. Then Dolores said, in an eager breathless whisper, "You will go, señor?”
Juan shook his head. "What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream—a vain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God.”
“But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us," said Dolores, large tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
“It is true," Juan mused; "they may wreak their vengeance on the dust.”
“And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them, I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville and back again.”
Juan hesitated no longer. "I go," he said. "Dolores, seek Fray Sebastian, and send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with the horses to start to-morrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Doña Beatriz for my sudden departure.”
Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterward heard to speak. No one of its incidents seem I 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 traveled far to-day already.”
“Let them rest afterward," 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 afterward 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 Garcia, 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 nit 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 Menaya." 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 Garcia 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 I'
“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 Garcia, 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 Garcia 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 lie 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.