IT is the first day of November, 1755. The capture of an unusually large number of convicted heretics is the result of increased activity of the dread tribunal now at the height of its power in Lisbon.
The sun is shedding golden light over lofty pinnacles of church and palace, grand avenues, noble mansions, and squalid streets lined with houses of the poor, far-stretching vine clad hills, and the waters of the Tagus as that river flows into die broad bosom of the bay; all nature seems responsive to the joyous influence of sweet air and glorious sunshine. Excited throngs of people of all classes and conditions are filling streets, plazas, windows, and balconies; all are dressed in holiday attire, and as the hour of noon draws on excitement is intense.
At length the signal! Deep toned bells toll the hour of execution, and the “sacred play” begins. The dread portals of the Inquisition open, and a strong guard of halberdiers first issue from them; then black-robed priests in procession, the leader bearing a large crucifix and chanting a Te Deum; next follow the victims, dressed in the hideous and fantastic garb prescribed by the Holy Office; after them a group of veiled nuns, saying Ayes. A composed and even cheerful expression is upon the countenances of most of them.
There is one amongst the doomed number who attracts most of the notice and sympathy of the onlookers—a young girl only sixteen years of age, and so beautiful that even the horrid dress and her agony of fright fail to break the charm of her loveliness. Her large dark eyes are raised imploringly to heaven, and tears are streaming down her pale cheeks, as low sobs of agony burst from her lips. Sometimes she casts a searching gaze into the throngs about her as if hoping for a last sight of some loved one before her eyes should close in death.
In a palatial mansion in another and far different portion of the city fond hearts are breaking for her sake. With all the glorious sunlight excluded, father, mother, brothers, sisters, in darkness and despair bewail their utter inability to rescue their loved one; also, knowing full well that to show feelings of anguish, or even sympathy, would but bring upon them all a like fate. None of her family had dared to visit her since her condemnation. She is the eldest daughter of one of the most accomplished noblemen of the kingdom—Albert De Castro, of the Ducal House of Yavora. The residence occupied by Lord Effingham, British Minister at the court of Lisbon, adjoined the De Castro home.
The difference in religion of the two families had interposed no bar to their social intimacy, and each entertained a high regard for the other, with frequent interchange of hospitalities. The children being naturally much together, and Lord Effingham’s children studying under an English tutor, it came about that Leonor De Castro began the study of English with the tutor, a former curate of the Church of England. Her progress was rapid and the worthy curate was delighted with her intellectual capacity and depth of thought, and never dreaming what might be the outcome of his instructions, he was careful to give her a thorough explanation of the Scripture lessons which were read each day. He also presented her with a copy of the New Testament in English, telling her that its sacred pages would show her the way, the truth, and the life. Leonor soon became convinced that the religion of Rome was not that of the Gospel of Christ; and with her ardent temperament, she quickly decided that she could no longer continue to follow the practices and idolatries of the Roman Church.
She soon confided her change of opinions to her parents, and also to the family confessor. The priest, after trying to convince her that she had been misled, and utterly failing to do so, advised her father to send her at once to the Ursuline Convent at St. Ubes, fully expecting that by the wise methods of the Lady Superior and the nuns of that famous seat of piety, the seeds of heresy would soon be eradicated. At the same time he blamed her noble father for his thoughtlessness in exposing Leonor to the wiles of an “arch-heretic.” To St. Ubes this lovely child was sent; her parents, in their alarm and desperation, not daring to disobey the priest.
The most ingenious arguments, coaxing, alluring rewards, and dire threats, were the successive means used by the Lady Superior to stifle a conscience now fully roused. No sympathy or shade of pity stirred that Mother Inquisitor’s heart. Leonor’s youth, her helplessness, her honesty of soul—all pleaded for her in vain. Nothing would now save her delicate body from cruel torture; but the fiendish inflictions were also powerless to kill the new faith that filled her soul, and she was denounced to the officers of the Inquisition as an obstinate and dangerous heretic!
Her removal to the prison of the Inquisition soon followed. With wonderful strength of faith and resolution in one so young and so tenderly nurtured, she, in the very presence of the Inquisitor-General, defied danger and death and gloried in enduring suffering for the sake of the Lord Jesus.
She was condemned to be burned with the other victims of the “auto da fe” of the first of November, and in accordance with this sentence was now on her way to the plaza. Ever since the procession left the prison a young man, whose dress and appearance indicated high rank, had been striving to force his way through the dense masses to reach the line of captives. It was the young Marquis of Elvas, Leonor’s affianced husband. The two had known and loved each other from childhood, and the prospect of a matrimonial alliance between the families was highly satisfactory to all concerned. The lovers were devotedly attached to each other. The engagement had been formally announced shortly before Leonor began her English studies in Lord Effingham’s house. The powerful families of the Marquis and De Castro had both exerted all their influence to save Leonor, but without success. Even a petition for a short respite had been rejected by the monstrous ecclesiastical Dagon who fattened on blood and tears.
The young nobleman, in his despair, had cursed the dread tribunal and openly questioned its authority, thus drawing down on himself the secret hut sure vengeance of the Church. Though well aware that by his words and acts he was courting a like fate, he had resolved to force his way to Leonorls side and say, if possible, some words of comfort, and at least assure her of his sympathy and undying affection, and then he knew not what act of desperation he might commit!
The procession had reached its goal before the distracted Marquis had been able to gain speech with Leonor. The captives were drawn up in line before the Inquisitorial interrogator and urged to recant, while most horrible punishments, full of everlasting torment, vividly portrayed, were assured to them if they persisted in their heresy.
The pitiable distress of Leonor led the Bishop to think that she, at least, would not continue obdurate, and, addressing her, he held out hopes of a respite, and perhaps of ultimate pardon;, he alluded to her tender years, her beauty, accomplishments, high station, and the joys that life had in store for her; he pictured the heart-rending grief of her parents and relatives unless she turned from her apostasy, and then dwelt on their joy over her if she would recant, even at the eleventh hour. “And now,” continued the Bishop, “Leonor De Castro, will you discard the, heretical opinions implanted in your mind by that son of Belial? Will you retrace your wandering steps? Our Holy Church, ever lenient to the faults of her erring children when they confess their sins, would receive you again to her bosom. Will you come?”
He paused for her reply. In a calm, clear voice, her agitation seemingly all gone, came the response: “I cannot acknowledge the authority of the Church you represent. I believe the faith I now hold to be the true one. There is only One who can forgive sins, and but one Mediator between God and man—our great High Priest, Jesus the Christ, and in His mercy do I trust!”
The astonished Bishop, enraged at such a reply, and fearing the effect of these words upon the people, furiously ordered the prisoners to be bound to the stakes and the fires to be lighted at once, adding sternly to the brave young girl: “Obdurate heretic, this day shalt thou enjoy a foretaste of the fiery torments in which thy soul shall writhe forever!”
Leonor, greatly weakened by all she had endured, and shocked at the barbarity of the Bishop, staggered, and would have fallen, had not the Marquis, rushing forward, caught her in his arms.
“Inhuman monster!” he exclaimed to the prelate, “she is fitter for heaven than such as thou! If there is an angel in the presence of God, she will soon be one.”
“Ha, my Lord Marquis!” cried the Bishop, “these are bold words and have sealed your doom. Arrest the Marquis of Elvas!” he said to the Provost.
So far the tragedy of the “Sacred Play”—now, it was to be superseded by one in which Pope, King and Inquisitor had no voice or power!
As the officer moved forward in obedience to the high prelate’s command, a deep, rumbling sound was heard, followed by a sudden sinking of the earth, which threw the assembled multitude prostrate. An immense wave came rolling in from the Tagus and quenched the impious flaming torches. In a few seconds the shock was repeated. Cries of terror and dismay now mingled with the crash of falling buildings. All was consternation and there was a universal panic. The prisoners were for a time forgotten in the dreadful crisis. As the crowds fled, aghast at their own dire peril, the Marquis of Elvas tore a veil from one of the nuns, and completely enveloping Leonor in its ample folds, he bore her away, and, threading his way by a circuitous route through the debris of the city, he safely conveyed his precious burden to her father’s house which, being beyond the district immediately affected by the earthquake, had escaped with slight injury.
No words can express the joy, the revulsion of feeling with which the unexpected sight of their darling filled the household. On bended knees they thanked God for her escape from a horrible death. But this pleasure was of short duration, for soon apprehension filled their souls that the officers of the Inquisition would immediately institute a search for their escaped victims. Where could they hide from the prying eye of that insatiate Moloch? Preparations for immediate flight ensued. The situation of the Marquis was now as full of danger as that of Leonor. As plan after plan was being considered by the anxious family conclave, Lord Effingham entered. His sympathy with the afflicted family had been constant and of the deepest nature. Now the added horrors of the earthquake had brought him again into their darkened dwelling. As soon as he learned of Leonor’s escape and of the plans for flight he shook his head and expressed grave fears as to any possibility of success. “I feel quite certain,” said he, “that by attempting to leave the city now, you will bring certain destruction upon yourselves; indeed, I am surprised that your house has not already been searched. As soon as some degree of quiet is restored, active measures will be taken to arrest every fugitive. You must not attempt to leave the city yet, nor will it do to remain here. You, my Lord Marquis, and Leonor must take up your abode with me for the present. The Holy Office will hardly dare to search the house over which the flag of England floats. Most opportunely, too, I am expecting the early arrival of a British man-of-war to convey part of my family and suite to England, and it may be managed that in good disguise you can leave this country with them.” Eagerly was the proposal accepted, and Leonor and the Marquis returned with the Minister just in time to escape the officers of the Inquisition, who arrived at the house almost immediately after Lord Effingham’s departure with his young proteges. Leonor’s father expressed the deepest surprise at the visit of the officials and continued apparently wrapped in intense sorrow, protesting ignorance of her escape. No one having seen her return to her home, or leave it, no clue could be obtained as to her whereabouts.
Day after day passed in quiet security in the asylum so happily furnished by their English friend. Leonor had always been a great favorite with the Minister and all his family, and now each vied with the others to efface, if possible even the remembrance of the horrible suffering from which she had so miraculously escaped. Soon the bright color returned to her cheeks, and smiles of hope and happiness lighted up her beautiful face with more than former loveliness. The worthy curate, whose successful efforts in instructing Leonor concerning Bible truth had so nearly resulted in her departure from this world through a gate of fire, wept over her as one raised from the dead. All looked anxiously for the arrival of the British man-of-war. At length, about the middle of November, just as the setting sun was casting a softened glory over the Bay of Lisbon, the long hoped for warship appeared, moving majestically over its quiet waters. On the next day, everything being in readiness, the Minister’s family went on board. Amongst the party, disguised as servants, were the Marquis of Elvas and Leonor De Castro. The anchors were weighed, the sails set, and with England’s flag flying at the peak the gallant vessel bore away for the open sea.
When the white cliffs of England came in sight, the glad curate joined together in the holy estate of matrimony John, Marquis of Elvas, and the lovely Leonor De Castro.