 Chapter 25 Our Night is dreary, and dim our day, and if thou turn thy face away, we are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust, and have none to look to and none to trust. Hogg Thus was Carlos Rouse from the dull apathy of forced inaction. With the courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and simple preparations for his flight that were in his power. He also visited as many as he could of his afflicted friends, feeling that his ministry among them was now drawing to a close. He rejoined his uncle's family as usual with the evening meal. Don Balthazar, the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but soon came in, looking so much disturbed, that his father asked, What is a miss? There is nothing a miss, senor, my father, answered the young man, as he raised a large cup of men's anee into his lips. Is there any news from the city? Asked his brother Don Manuel. Don Balthazar sat down the empty cup. No great news, he answered, a curse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar. What? More arrests! It is awful! The number reached eight hundred yesterday. Who is taken now? A priest from the country, Dr. Juan Gonzales, and a friar named Omedo. But that is nothing. They might take all the churchmen and all the Spains and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana for me. It is a different matter when we come to speak of ladies. Ladies too are the first families and highest consideration. A slight shudder and a kind of forward movement as if to catch what was coming passed around the table. But Don Balthazar seemed reluctant to say more. Is it any of our acquaintances? Asked the sharp, high-pitched voice of Donia Sancha at last. Everyone is acquainted with Don Pedro Garcia de Zerri's Ibo-Horques. It is I, tremble to tell you, his daughter. Which? cried Gonzalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on his livid face and fierce eager eyes. Is it Iago, brother? You need not look thus at me. Is it to my fault? It is the learned one, of course, Donia Maria. Poor lady, she may well wish now that she had never meddled with anything beyond her brevery. A lady, not a Sonia Maria, in prison for heresy. Hoillable! Who will be saved now? The ladies exclaimed, crossing themselves shudderingly. With the men used stronger language, fierce and bitter were the anathemas they heaped upon heresy and heretics. Yet it is only just to say that, had they dared, they might have spoken differently. Probably in their secret hearts they meant the curses less for the victims than for their oppressors, and had Spain been a land in which men might speak what they thought, Gonzales de Muño Braga would have been devoted to a lower place in hell than Luther or Calvin. Only two were silent. Before the Iocarlos rose the sweet, thoughtful face of the young girl, as he had last seen it, radiant with the faith and hope kindled by the sublime words of heavenly promise spoken by Lozada. But the sight of another face, still rigid, deathlike, drove that vision away, Gonzales said opposite to him at the table. And had he never heard the strange story Donia Inés told him, that look would have revealed it all. Neither curse nor prayer passed the light lips of Gonzales. Not one of all the bitter words found so readily on slighter occasions now came to his aid. The fiercest outburst of passion would have seen less terrible to Carlos than this unnatural silence. Yet none of the others, after the first moment, appeared to notice it. Or if they did observe anything strange in the look and manner of Gonzalvo, it was imputed to physical pain, from which he often severed, but for which he rejected and even resented sympathy until at last it ceased to be offered him. Having given what expression they dared to their outraged feelings, they once more turned their attention to the unfinished or past. It was not at all a cheerful meal, yet it was duly partaken of, except by Gonzalvo and Carlos, both of whom left the table as soon as they could, without attracting attention. Willingly would Carlos have endeavored to console his cousin, but he did not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he saw the anguish of his soul. One day still remained to him before his flight. In the morning, though not very early, he set out to finish his fair well visits to his friends. He had not gone many paces from the house when he observed a gentleman in a plain black clothing, with sword and cloak looking him regardfully as he passed. A moment afterwards, the same person, having apparently changed his mind as to the direction in which he wished to go, hurried by him at a rapid pace and with a murmured, pardon, senior, thrust a billet into his hand. Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him of some danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding leans with which the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe from observation, cast a hasty glance at the billet. His eye just caught the words, His reverence the Lord Inquisitor, Don Consolvo, after midnight, revelations of importance, strict secrecy. What did it all mean? Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousin intended betraying him to the Inquisition? He did not believe it, but the sound of approaching footsteps made him thrust the paper hastily away, and in another moment his sleeve was grasped by Consolvo. Give it to me. Said his cousin in a breathless whisper. Give you what? The paper that born idiot and maplot put into thy hands, mistaking thee for me. Cast a fool. Did not know I was lame. Carlos showed the note, still holding it. Is this what you mean? He asked. You have read it. Honourable. Criken Solva with a bitter sneer. You are unjust to me. It bears no address, and I could not suppose otherwise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read the few disconnected words upon which my eye first chance to fall. The cousins stood gazing in each other's faces, as those might do that meet in mortal convict, ere they close hand to hand. Each was wondering whether the other was capable of doing a deadly injury. Yet after all, each held at the bottom of his heart a conviction that the other might be trusted. Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the first to come to a conclusion. Almost with a smile, he handed the note to Consalvo. Whatever, young mysterious belay, may mean to don't Consalvo. He said. I am convinced that he means no harm to anyone bearing the name of Alvarez de Menyaia. He will never repent that word, and it is true, in the sense you speak of. Returned Consalvo, taking the paper from his hand. At that moment he was irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or not. But the touch of his cousin's hand decided him. It was cold and trembling. Once a weak and heart and nerve was obviously unfit to share the burden of a brave man's desperate resolve. Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Consalvo intended no ill to him. But what then did he intend? Had he solicited the inquisitor for a private midnight interview, merely to throw himself at his feet and with impassioned eloquence plead the cause of Donia Maria were Important revelations Only a blind to procure his admission? Impossible! Who, past the age of infancy, would kneel to the storm to implore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage? Perhaps some dreamy enthusiast, unacquainted with the world in its ways, might still be found sanguine enough for such a project, though certainly not Doncansalvo Alvarez de Menyaia, or had he a bride to offer? Inquisitors, like other churchmen, were known to be subject to human frailties. Of course they would not touch the grilled, but according to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invited to throw it into their cowls. And Muna Braga could scarcely have fed his numerous train of insolent retainers, decked his splendid barge with gold and purple, and brought rare plants and flowers from every known country to his magnificent gardens, without very large additions to the acknowledged income of the inquisitor general's deputy. But again, not all the wealth of the Indies would avail to open the gates of the Triana to an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of his reverence. Upon the merits of a doubtful case, and even to procure a few slight alleviations in the treatment of the accursed, would have required a much deeper purse than Consalvo's. Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was bitter of soul, ready for any desperate deed. What if he meant to accuse himself and made the careless profanity in which he had been too want to indulge? Many a word had fallen from his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine in the estimation of the inquisitors, comparatively lenient as they were to blasphemers. But what possible benefit to Donia Maria would be gained by his throwing himself into the jaws of death? And if it were really his resolve to commit suicide by way of ending his own miseries, he could surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painful manner. Thus Carlos pondered, but in whatever way he considered the matter, he could not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerous or fatal stab. Consalvo was too still, too silent. This was an evil sign. Carlos would have felt comparatively easy about him, had he made him shrink and shudder by an outburst of the fuses, most indignant curses. For the less emotion is wasted in expression, the more remains, like pent up steam, to drive the engine forward in its course. Moreover, there was an evil light in Consalvo's eye, a glean light that of hope, a hope that was certainly not kindled from above. Although the very crisis of his own fate was now approaching, and every faculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was haunted perpetually by the thoughts of his cousin. It continued to occupy him, not only during his visits to his friends, but afterwards in the solitude and silence of his own apartment. We all know the strange perversity with which, in times of suspense and sorrow, the mind will sometimes run riot upon matters irrelevant and even apparently trivial. With slow footsteps, the hour stole on, miserable hours to Carlos, except insofar as he could spend them in prayer, now his only resource in refuge. After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his dear imprisoned brethren and sisters, he named Consalvo, and was led most earnestly to implore God's mercy for his unhappy cousin. As he thought of his misery so much greater than his own, his loneliness without God in the world, his sorrow without hope, his pleading grew impassioned, and when at last he rose from in the sneeze, it was with that sweet sense that God would hear, nay, that he had heard, which is one of the mysteries of the new life. The precious things that no man knoweth, save he that receiveth them. Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simple preparations, took his guitar, which had now lain on use for a long time, and sallied forth from his chamber. End of Chapter 25. Chapter 26 of The Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 26, Don Goncalvo's Revenge. Are God the All-Just unto himself reserves this royalty, the secret chastening of the guilty heart, the fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, leave it with him, yet make not that thy trust, for that strong heart of thine, oh, listen yet, must in its depths overcome the very wish of death or torture to the guilty one ere it can sleep again. Humans. Don Manuel's house had once belonged to the Moorish Sid, or Lord. It had been assigned to the first candidate in Nuerra as one of the original conquistagoras of Seville, and he had bequeathed it to his second son. It had a turret after the Moorish faction, and the upper chamber of this had been given to Carlos on his first arrival in the city, from an idea that the theological student would require a solitary place for study and devotion, or at least that it would be decorous to suppose so. The room beneath had been occupied by Don Juan, but since his departure it was appropriated by Goncalvo, who lacked solitude and took advantage of his improved health to escape from the ground floor, to which his infirmities had long confined him. As Carlos stole noiselessly down the narrow winding stair, he noticed a light in his cousin's room. This in itself did not surprise him, but he certainly felt a little disconcerted when, just as he passed the door, Don Goncalvo opened it and met him face to face. He also was fully equipped in sword and cloak and carried a torch in his hand. Vaya, vaya, Don Carlos! he said reproachfully. After all, thou couldst not trust me. Nay, I did trust you. From fear of being overheard both entered the nearest room, Don Goncalvo's, and its owner closed the door softly. You are stealing away from fear of me, and thereby throwing yourself into the fire. Do it not, Don Carlos! Be advised and do it not! He spoke earnestly and without a shadow of the old bitterness and sarcasm. Nay, it is not thus. My flight was planned airy yesterday, and in concert with one who both can and will provide me with the means of safety, it is best I should go. Enough said, then. Return, Goncalvo, more cordly. Farewell. I seek not to detain you. Farewell. For there we may go forth together, our paths divide, and forever at the door. Your path is perhaps less safe than mine, Don Goncalvo. Talk of what you understand, cousin. My path is safely itself. And now that I think of it, if you could be trusted, you might aid me, perhaps. Did you know all, and dare not doubt that you would rejoice to do it? God knows how joyfully I would aid you if I could, Don Goncalvo, but I fear you are bound on a useless and worse than useless errand. You know not my errand. But I know to whom you go this night. Oh, my cousin, is it possible you can dream that prayer of yours will soften hearts harder than the nether millstone? I know the way to one heart, and though it be the hardest of all, I shall reach it. Were you to pour the wealth of El Dorado at the feet of Gonzales de Munebraga, he neither would nor could unloose one bolt of that present. Goncalvo's wild look changed suddenly into one of wistful earnestness, almost of tenderness. He said, lowering his voice, Né, asteth, the revealer of secrets may be to me. There are still some questions worth the asking. Per chance you can throw a gleam of light upon this horrible darkness. We are speaking frankly now, and as in God's presence. Tell me, is that charge true? Frankly and in the sense in what you ask, it is. The last fatal word, Carlos only whispered. Goncalvo made no answer, but a kind of momentary spasm passed across his face. Carlos, at length, went on in a low voice. She knew the evangel long before I did, though she is so young, not yet one in twenty. She was the pupil of Dr. Idgidius, but he was want to say he learned more from her than she did from him. Her keen bright intellect cut through sophistries, and reached truth so quickly, and God gave her abundantly of his grace, making her willing for that truth to endure all things. Oft have I seen her sweet face kindle and glow, whilst he who taught us spoke of the joy and strength given to those that suffer for the name of Christ. I am persuaded he is with her now, and will be with her even to the end. Could you gain access to where she is? I think she would tell you she possesses a treasure of peace, of which neither death nor suffering, neither cruelty of fiends, nor worse cruelty of fiends like men, can avail to rob her. She is a saint. She will be a blessed saint in heaven. Let them say what they may. Memored consolval hoarsely, then the fierce look returned to his face again. But I think the old Christians of Castile, the men whose good swords may the infidels bite the dust and plant the cross on their painted towers, are no better than curse and dastards. In that they suffer these things? Yes. In the name of man's honour and woman's loveliness are there in our good city of Seville. Neither father's nor brother's, nor loveless, left alive. No man who thinks the sweetest eyes ever seen worth six inches of steel in five skillful fingers. No one man saved the poor forgotten cripple, Don Goncalvo Alvarez. But he thanks God this night that he has spared his life and left strength enough in his feeble limbs to bear him into a murderous presence. Don Cazalvo, what do you mean? Cryed Carlos, shrinking from him. Lower thy voice, and it please thee. But why should I fair to tell thee, thee who has good cause to be the deathfowl of Inquisitus? If thou art not care and dastard to, thou wilt applaud and pray for me. For I suppose heretics pray, at least as well as Inquisitus. I said I would reach the heart of Gonzales de Monabraga this night, not with gold. There is another metal of quenare temper which enters in where even gold cannot come. Then you mean murder? Said Carlos, again drawing near him and laying his hand on his arm. Gonzales sang it to his seat, half mechanically, half from an instinct that led him to spare the strength he would need so sorely by and by. In the momentary pause that followed, the clock of San Vincente told the midnight hour. Yes, replied Gonzales steadily. I mean murder, as the shepherd does, who strangles the wolf with his paw on the lamb. Oh, think. I have thought of everything, and to mark me, Don Carlos, I have but one regret. It is that my weapon deals an instantaneous death. Such revenge is poor and flabless after all. I have heard of poisons whose least drop mingling with the blood ensures a slow, agonising death. Time to learn what torture means and to drain to the drakes the cup filled for others, to curse God and man ere he dies. For a vile of such wherewith to appoint my blade, I would sell my soul to-night. Oh, consalvo, this is horrible. They are wild, wicked words you speak. Pray God to pardon you. I adore him by his justice to prosper me. Said Gonzalvo, raising his head defiantly. He will not prosper you, and do you dream that such a mad achievement, suppose you even succeed in it, will open prison doors and set captives free, alas, alas, that we are not at the mercy of a tyrant's will, for tyrants the worst of them sometimes relent, and they are mortal. That which is crushing us is not a living being, an organism with nerves and brain and blood, it is a system, a thing, a terrible engine that moves on in its resistless way, cold and lifeless, without will or feeling, strong as adamant. It kills, tortures, destroys, obeying laws far away out of our sight. Where Valdez and Munya Braga, and all the board of inquisitors, dead corpses by the morning light, not a single dungeon in the Toriana, would open its pitiless gate. I do not believe that. Replied, Gonzalvo, rather more quietly. Surely there must be some confusion of which advantage may be taken by friends of the prisoners. This indeed is the motive of which now induces me to confide in you. You may know those who, if they had had a chance, could strike a shrewd blow to save their dearest on earth from torture and death. But Gonzalvo read no answer in the sorrowful face of Carlos to the searching look of inquiry, with which he said this, after his silence he went on. Suppose the worst, however, the Holy Office surely needs a little bloodshedding, and will be much the better for it, whoever succeeds. Munya Braga will have my dagger flashing in his eyes and will take care how he deals with his prisoners, and whom he arrests. I implore you to think of yourself. Said Carlos. Gonzalvo smiled. I know I shall pay the forfeit, he said. Even as those who slew the Inquisite, Pedro Arbues, before the High Altar in Saragossa, but hear the smile faded and the stern set look returned to his face. I shall not pay more. For a man's triumphant vengeance, then those fiends will dare to inflict upon the tender, delicately nurtured girl for the crime of a mystic meditation, or a few words of prayer not properly rounded off with an ave. True, but then you will suffer alone. She has God with her. I can suffer alone. For that word Carlos envied him. He shrank in terror from loneliness, from suffering, shuddering at the very thought of the dungeon in the torture room. And just then the first quarter of his hour of grace chimed from the clock of San Vicente. What if he and Pipi should fail to meet? He would not think of that now. Whatever happened to Gonzavo must be saved. He went on. Here you can suffer alone and be strong. But how will you endure the loneliness of the long hereafter away from God's presence, from light and life and hope? Are you content that you and she for whom you give your life should be sundered throughout eternity? Nay, I am casting my lot in with hers. If the church cares of her, pure and holy as she ever was, it's an a theme I shall fall on me too. If only the church's key opens heaven, she and I will both stand without. Yet you know she will enter heaven, shall you? Gonzavo has a deed it. It will not be the blood of a villain that will bar my way. He said. God says thou shalt not kill. Then what will he do with Gonzales de Monabraga? He will do that with him of which if you but dreamed it would change your fiercest hate into saddest, deepest pity. Have you realized what a span is our life here compared with the countless ages of eternity? Think, for God's chosen a few weeks or months at most of solitude and fear and pain ended perhaps by. But that is as he pleases ended at all events. Then add up the million years, fill them with the joy of victory and the presence and love of Christ himself. Can they not and we for them be content with this? Are you content with it yourself? Gonzales was suddenly interrupted. You seek flight. The glow faded from the face of Carlos and his eyes sank to the ground. Christ has not called me yet. He answered in a lower tone. There was a silence. Then he resumed. Turn now to the other side. Would you change even this hour with Gonzales de Monabraga but take him from his wealth and his pomp and his sinful luxuries all defiled with blood and what remains for him? Everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels. Everlasting fire. Gonzalvo repeated as if the fat pleased him. Leave him in God's hand. It is a stronger hand than yours, Don Gonzalvo. Everlasting fire. I would send him there tonight. And wither would you send your own sinful soul? God might pardon. Say the church cursed. Possibly. But to enter God's heaven you need something besides pardon. What? Ask Gonzalvo half-wearily, half-incredulously. Holiness. Without which no man can see the Lord. Holiness. Gonzalvo questioned as if the word was strange to him and he attached no meaning to it. Yes. Carlos went on with intense and ever-increasing earnestness. Unless even from that passionate heart of yours revenge and hatred are banished, you can never see God. Never come where. Hold thy peace, trifle. Gonzalvo interrupted with angry impatience. Too long have I tarried. Listen to thine idle talk. Priests and women are content with words. Brave men, act. Farewell to thee. One more word. Only one. Carlos drew near and laid his hand on his cousin's arm. Nay, you shall listen to me. Seameth it to you a thing incredible that that heart of yours can be changed and softened to a love like his who preyed on the cross for his murderers. Yet it can be. He can do it. He gives pardon. Holiness. Peace. Peace of which you dream not now but which she knows full well. Oh, Gonzalvo, better join her where she is going than wildly rashly and most uselessly peril your soul to avenge her. Uselessly. Were that true? Indeed. Neither me. Who can doubt it? Would I have time for thought? Take it in God's name and pray him to keep you from a great crime. For a few moments he's had still, still as the dead. Then he started suddenly. Already the hour is passing. He exclaimed, I shall be too late. For that I was to be almost moved from my purpose by the idle words of a... The weakness is past now. Still, every part, give me thy hand on Carlos. For, on my faith, I never liked thee half so well. Very sorrowfully Carlos extended it, rather wondering as he did so that the energetic Gonzalvo failed to spring from his seat and prepare to be gone. Gonzalvo stirred not, even to take the offered hand. A death-like paleness overspread his face and a cry of terror had well night broken from his lips, but he choked it back. Something is strangely wrong with me. He faltered. I cannot move. I feel dead. Dead from the waist down. God has spoken to you from heaven. Said Carlos solemnly. He felt as if a miracle had been wrought in his presence. His Protestantism had not freed him from the superstitions of his age. Had he lived three centuries later, he would have seen nothing miraculous in the disease with which Gonzalvo was stricken, but rather have called it the natural results of intense agitation and excitement acting upon a frame already weakened. Yet the reckless Gonzalvo was the more superstitious of the two. He was at war with the creed in which he had been nurtured, but that older and deeper kind of superstition which has its root in human nature had, for this very reason, a stronger hold upon him. Dead. Dead. He repeated, the words falling from his lips and broken awestruck whispers. The limbs I misused. The feet that led me into sin. God, God have mercy upon me. It is thy hand. It is his hand, a sign he has not forsaken thee, that he means to bring thee back to himself. Oh, my cousin, do not despair. Hope yet in his mercy for it is great. Carlos, not done beside him, took his passive hand in his and spoke earnest loving words of hope and comfort. The last quarter, ere the single stroke that should announce that the hour appointed for his own flight was passed, chimed from the clock on the church tower. Yet he did not move. He had forgotten itself. At last, however, he said, But it may be something can be done to relieve you. You ought to have medical aid without delay. I should have thought of this before. I will rouse the household. No, that would endanger you. Go on your way and bid the porter do it when you are gone. It was too late. The household was roused. A loud authoritative knocking at the outer gate sent the blood back from the hearts of both with sudden and horrible fear. There was a sound of opening gates, followed by footsteps, voices, cries. Consalvo was the first to understand all. The Algoaziles of the Holy Office. He exclaimed, I am lost. cried Carlos, large drops gathering on his brow. Conceal yourself. said Consalvo, but he knew his words were vain. Already his quick ear had caught the sound of his cousin's name and already footsteps were on the stairs. Carlos glanced around the room. For a moment his eye rested on the window, 80 feet above the ground. Better spring from it and perish. No, that would be self-murder. In God's name, he would await the man fully. You will be searched. Consalvo whispered her edley. Have you ought about your person that may add to your danger? Carlos drew from his place of concealment the heroic Juliano's treasured gift. I will hide it. said his cousin, and taking it hastily he slept it beneath his inner vest, where it lay in strange neighborhood with a small, exquisitely tempered ponyard destined never to be used. I torched light within. Perhaps the voices guided the Algoaziles to that room. A hand was placed on the door. They are coming, Don Carlos. cried Consalvo. I am thy murderer. Nor no fault of thine. I always remember that. said Carlos, in his sharpest anguished generous still. Then for one brief moment, the seemed an age he was deft all outward things. Afterwards he was himself again. And something more than himself perhaps. Now, as in other moments of intense excitement, the spirit of his race descended on him. When the Algoaziles entered, it was Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos and Manalla who met them, with folded arms, with steadfast eye, and pale, but dull as forehead. All was quiet, regular, and most rollerly. Don Manuel, roused from his slumbers, appeared with the Algoaziles and respectfully requested a side of the warrant upon which they proceeded. It was produced, and all could see that it was duly signed and sealed with the famous seal, the sword and olive branch, the dog with the flaming brand, the sorely outright justicia e misericordia. Had Don Manuel Alvarez been king of all the Spains and Carlos as her apparent, he did not have offered to lease resistance then. He had no wish to resist, however. He bowed obsequiously and protested his own and his family's devotion to the faith and the holy office. But he added, perhaps merely as a matter of form, that he could bring many witnesses of unimpeachable character to testify to his net he's orthodoxy and hoped to succeed in clearing him from whatever odious imputation had induced the references to order his arrest. Meanwhile, Goncalvo gnashed his teeth and impotent rage and despair. He would have bartered his life for two minutes of health and strength in which to rush suddenly up the Alcozils and give Carlos time to escape as the consequences of such frantic audacity be with the might. But the bands of disease stronger than iron made the body a prison for the indignant tortured spirit. Carlos spoke for the first time. I am ready to go with you. He said to the chief of the Alcozils. Do you wish to examine my apartment? You are welcome. It is the chamber over this. Having gone over every detail such as seen a thousand times in imagination, he knew that the examination of papers and personal effects usually formed a part of it. And he had no fears for the result as in preparation for his flight, he had carefully destroyed everything that he thought could implicate himself or anyone else. Don Carlos, cousin. Cried Goncalvo suddenly as surrounded by the officers he was about to leave the room. Vaya condios. A braver man than you have I never seen. Carlos turned on him one long, soreful gaze. Tell Roy. He said, that was all. Then there was trampling of footsteps overhead in the sound of voices, not excited or angry, but cool, business-like, even courteous. Then the footsteps descended past the door of Goncalvo's room, sounded along the corridor, grew fainter on the great staircase, died away in the court. Less than an hour afterwards the great gate of the Triana opened to receive a new victim. The grave familiar held it, bowing low, until the prisoner in his garden passed through. Then it was swung to again and barred and bolted, shutting out from Don Carlos Alvarez, all help and hope, all charity and all mercy. Save only the mercy of God. End of Chapter 26. Chapter 27 of the Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 27 My Brother's Keeper. Since she loved him, he went carefully, bearing a thing so precious in his hand. George Elliot. About a week afterwards Don Juan Alvarez dismounted at the door of his uncle's mansion. His shout soon brought the porter a pure and ancient Christian, who had spent nearly all his life in the service of the family. God save you, father. Said Juan. Is my brother in the house? No, senor, and your ship. Your old man hesitated and looked confused. Where shall I find him then? Cried Juan. Speak at once if you know. May it please your noble excellency. I, I know nothing. At least the saints have mercy on us. And he trembled from head to foot. Juan thrust him aside, nearly knocking him down in his haste and dashed breathless into his uncle's private room, on the right hand side of the patio. Don Juan Alvarez there seated at a table, looking over some papers. Where is my brother? Asked Juan sternly and abruptly, searching his face with his keen dark eyes. Holy saints defend us. Cried Don Manuel, nearly startled out of his ordinary decorum. And what madness brings you here? Where is my brother? Juan repeated in the same tone and without moving a muscle. Be quiet, be reasonable, nephew Don Juan. Do not make a disturbance, it will be worse for all of us. We did all we could. For heaven's sake, senor, will you answer me? Have patience. We did all we could for him I was about to say and more than we ought. The fault was his own. If he was suspected and taken. Taken? Then I come too late. Sinking into the nearest seat, he covered his face with both hands and groaned aloud. Don Manuel Alvarez had never learned to reverence the sacredness of the great sorrow. Rushing in. Were such as he might well fear to tread, he presumed to offer consolation. Come then nephew Don Juan. He said. You know as well as I do that water that has run by will turn no mill and that there is no good in throwing the rope after the bucket. No man can alter that which has passed. All we can do is to avoid worse mischief in the future. When was it? Asked Juan without looking up. A week gone. Seven days and nights? Thereabouts. But you, are you in love with destruction yourself that when you were safe and well at Nguera you must needs come hither again? I came to save him. Unheard of, folly. If you have been meddling with these matters and it is but too likely seeing you were always with him. Though the saints forbid I should suspect an honorable soldier like you of anything worse than imprudence. Do you not know they will wring the whole truth out of him with very little trouble and your life is not worth a brass maravethi? Juan started to his feet and cleared scorn and defiance in his uncle's face. Whoever dares to hint so vile a slander? He cried. By my faith he shall repent it where he my uncle ten times over. Don Carlos Alvarez never did and never will betray a trust. Let those wretches deal with him as they may but I know him. He will die or worse they will make him mad. Here Juan's voice failed and he stood in silent horror gazing on the dread vision that rose before his mind. Don Manuel was daunted by his vehemence. You are the best judge yourself of what amount of danger you may be incurring. He said. But let me tell you, Senor Don Juan, that I hold you rather a dangerous guest to harbor under the circumstances. To have the al-Guaziles of the Holy Office twice in my house would be enough to cost me all my places not to mention the disgrace of it. You shall not lose a real by me or mine. I returned Juan proudly. I did not mean, however, to refuse you hospitality. Said Don Manuel, relieved, yet a little uneasy, perhaps even remorseful. But I mean to decline it, Senor. I have only two favors to ask of you. He continued. One, to allow me free intercourse with my betrothed. The other, to permit me. His voice faltered, stopped. With a great effort he resumed. To permit me to examine my brother's room whatever effects he may have left there. Now you speak more rationally. Said his uncle, mistaking the self-control of indignant pride for genuine calmness. But as to your brother's effects, you may spare your pains. For the al-Guaziles set the seal of the Holy Office upon them on the night of his arrest, and they have since carried them away. As to the other matter, what Dona Beatriz may think of the connection, after the infamy in which your branch of the family is involved, I cannot tell. A burning flesh mounted to one's cheek, as he answered. I trust my betrothed, even as I trust my brother. You can see the lady herself. She may be better able than I to persuade you to consult for your own safety. For if you are not a madman, you will return at once to Nuera, which you ought never to have quitted, or you will take the earliest opportunity of rejoining the army. I shall not stir from Sevilla till I obtain my brother's deliverance, or... One did not name the other alternative, involuntarily he placed his hand on his belt, in which he had concealed certain old family jewels, which he believed would produce a considerable sum of money. For his last faint hope for Carlos, lay in a judicious appeal to the all-powerful Dondinero. You will never leave it, then, said Don Manuel. And you must hold me excused from aiding and abetting your folly. Your brother's business has cost me and mine more than enough already. I had rather 10,000 times that a man had died of the plague in my house, were it for the scandals' sake alone. Nor, bad as it is, is the scandal all. Since that miserable night, my unhappy son Gonçalvo, in whose apartment the arrest took place, has been sick unto death and out of his mind. Don Gonçalvo, what brought my brother to his room? The devil, whose servant he is, may know. I do not. He was found there in his sword and cloak, as if ready to go forth when the officers came. Did he leave no message, no word for me? Not one word. I know not if he spoke at all, saved offered to show the aguaziles his personal effects. To do him justice, nothing suspicious was found amongst them, but the less said on the subject, the better. I wash my hands of it and of him. I thought he would have done honour to the family, but he has proved its sorest disgrace. Senor, would you save him? You save me also. Said Juan, glowing white with anger. And already I have heard quite enough. That is as you please, Senor Del Juan. I shall only trespass upon you for the favour you have promised me, permission to wait upon Dona Beatriz. I shall apprise her of your presence and give her leave to act as she sees fit. And glad to put an end to the interview, Don Manuel left the room. Juan sank into his seat once more and gave himself up to an agony of grief for his brother. So absorbed was he in his sorrow that a light footstep entered and approached unheard by him. At last a small hand touched his arm. He started and looked up. Whatever his anguish of heart might be, he was still the loyal lover of Dona Beatriz, so the next moment found him on his knees saluting that hand of his lips. And then followed certain ceremonies of fondly interesting to those who enact them, but apt to prove tedious when described. My ladies devoted slave. Said Don Juan, using the ordinary language of the time. There's a breaking heart today. We knew neither father nor mother. There were but the two of us. Did you not receive my letter praying you to remain at Nuera? Asked the lady. Pardon me, Queen of my heart, in that I dared to disregard a wish of yours, but I knew his danger and I came to save him. Alas, too late. I am not sure that I do pardon you, Don Juan. Then I presumed so far as to say that I know Dona Beatriz better than she knows herself. Indeed, had I acted otherwise, she would scarce it pardon me. How would it have been possible for me to consult for my own safety, leaving him alone and unaided in such fearful peril? You acknowledge there is peril? To you? There may be, senora. I dame me. Why in heaven's name have you thus involved yourself? Oh, Don Juan, you have dealt very cruelly with me. Light of my eyes. Life of my life. What mean you by these words? Was it not cruel to allow your brother with his gentle, winning ways and his soft, specious words to lead you step by step from the faith of our fathers until he had you entangled in, I know not, what horrible heresies and made you put in peril your honor, your liberty, your life, everything? We only sought truth. Truth? Echoed the lady with a contentious stamp for smallfoot and a twirl of her fan. What is truth? What good will truth do me if those cruel men drag you from your bed at midnight? Take you to that dreadful place, stretch you on the rack. But that last horror was too much to bear. Dunya Beecher hid her face in her hands and wept and sob passionately. Juan soothed her with every tender lover-like art. I will be very prudent, dearest lady. He said at last, adding as he gazed on her beautiful face. I have too much to live for, not to hold life very precious. Will you promise to fly, to leave the city now before suspicions are awakened, which may make flight impossible? My first, my only love. I would die to fulfill your slightest wish, but this thing I cannot do. And wherefore not, Signor Dunlun? Can you ask? I must hazard everything, spend everything, in the chance, if there be a chance, of saving him. Or at least, of softening his fate. Then God help us both. Said Dunya Beecher. Amen. Pray to him day and night, Signora. Perhaps he may have pity on us. There is no chance of saving Don Carlos. Know you not that of all the prisoners the Holy House receives, Scarce won the thousand goods fourth again to take his place in the world? Juan shook his head. He knew well that his task was almost hopeless. Yet even by Donya Beecher, he was not to be moved from his determination. But he thanked her in strong, passionate words for her faith in him and her truth to him. No sorrow can divide us, my beloved. He said. Nor even what they call shame. Falsely as they speak therein, you are my star that shines on me throughout the darkness. I have promised. My uncle's family may seek to divide us, and I think they will. But the lady of my heart will not heed their idle words. Donya Beecher smiled. I am a levea. She said. Do you not know our motto? True unto death. It is a glorious motto. May it be mine too. Take heed what you do, Don Juan. If you love me, you will look well to your footsteps, since where they lead, mine are bound to follow. Saying this, she rose and stood gazing in his face with flushed cheek and kindling eyes. The words were such as might thrill any lover's heart with joy and gratitude. Yet there was something in the look which accompanied them that changed joy and gratitude into vague fear and apprehension. The light in that dark eye seemed borrowed from the fire of some sublime but terrible resolve within. Juan's heart quilled, though he knew not why. As he said. My queen should never tread except through flowery paths. Donya Beecher took up a little golden crucifix that attached to a rosary of coral beads hung from her girdle. You see this cross, Don Juan? Yes, senora Mia. On that horrible night when they dragged your brother to prison, I swore a sacred oath upon it. You esteemed me a child, Don Juan, when you read me chapters from your book and talked freely to me about God and faith and the soul salvation. Perchance I was a child in some things, for I suppose them good words. How could they be otherwise since you spoke them? I listened and believed after a fashion, half thinking all the time if the pretty fans and trinkets he bought me, or of the pattern of such and such a one's mantilla that I had seen it mass. But your brother tore the veil from my eyes at last and made me understand those specious words with which a child played childishly with a crime that finds no pardon here or hereafter. Of the hereafter I know not, of the here I know too much, God help me. There be fair ladies not more deeply involved than I who have changed their gilded saloons for the dungeons of the Triana. But then it matters not so much about me, for I am not like other girls who have fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers to care for them. Saving Don Carlos, who was good to me for your sake, no one ever gave me more than a half sorrowful, half pitying kindness, one might give a pet parrot from the Indies. Therefore, thinking over all things and knowing all your wicked nature, senor Don Juan, I swore that night upon this holy cross that if by evil hap you were attuned for heresy, I would go next day that she was the Triana and accuse myself of the same crime. Juan did not for a moment doubt that she would do it and thus a chain, light as silk, but strong as adamant was flung around him. Donya be a trees, for my sake. He began to plead. For my sake, Don Juan will take care of his life in liberty, she interrupted, with a smile that, if a hell little sadness, had very far more of the triumphant. She knew the power her resolve gave her over him. She had bought it dearly and she meant to use it. Is it still your wish to remain here? She continued. Or will you go abroad and wait for better times? Juan paused for a moment. No choices left me while Carlos pines uncomfortable in a dungeon. He said at last, firmly, though very sorrowfully. Then you know what you risk, that is all. And said the lady whose will was a match for his. In a marvelously short time, had love and sorrow transformed the young and childish girl into a passionate determined woman with all the fire of her own southern skies in her heart. Here he departed, Juan pleaded for permission to visit her frequently. But here again, she showed a keen-sighted apprehensiveness for him, which astonished him. She cautioned him against their cousins, Manuel and Balthasar, who, if they thought him in danger of arrest, were quite capable of informing against him themselves to secure a share of his patrimony. Or they might gain the same end without the disgrace of baseness by putting him quietly out of the way with their daggers. On all accounts, his a frequent presence at the house would be undesirable and might be dangerous. But she agreed to inform him by means of certain signals which they arranged together when he might pay a visit to her with safety. Then, having been in her farewell, Don Juan turned his back on his uncle's house with a heavy heart. End of Chapter 27, Chapter 28 of the Spanish Brothers by Debra Alcock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 28, Reaping the Whirlwind. All is lost except a little life, Byron. Nearly a fortnight had passed away before a tiny lace kerchief fluttering at nightfall through the jealous grating of one of the few windows of Don Manuel's house that looked toward the street told Juan that he was at liberty to seek admission the next day. He was permitted to enter, but he explored the patio and all the adjacent corridors and rooms without seeing the face of which he was in search. He did not indeed meet anyone, not even a domestic, for it was the eve of the Feast of the Ascension and nearly all the household had gone to see the great tabernacle carried in state to the cathedral and set up there in preparation for the solemnities of the following day. He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visit the apartment his brother had been want to occupy. In spite of what his uncle had said to the contrary and indeed of the dictates of his own reason, he could not relinquish the hope that something which belonged to him, perhaps even some word or line traced by his hand might reward his careful search. He ascended the stairs, not stealthily or as if ashamed of his errand for no one had the right to forbid him. He reached the turret without meeting anyone but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair that led to its upper apartment when a voice called out, not very loudly. It was Gonzalvos, Juan answered, It is I, Don Juan. Come to me for heaven's sake. A private interview with the madman is not generally thought particularly desirable but Juan was a stranger to fear. He entered the room immediately and was horror-stickened at the change in his cousin's appearance. A tangled mass of black hair mingled with his beard and firmly collected over the pillow while large, wild, melancholy eyes lit up the pallor of his wasted face. He lay or rather reclined on a couch, half covered by an embroidered quilt but wearing a loose doublet very carelessly thrown on. Of late, the cousins had been far from friendly. Still Juan from compassion stretched out his hand but Gonzalvo would not touch it. Did you know all? He said, You would stab me where I lie and thus make an end at once of the most miserable life under God's heaven. I fear you are very ill, my cousin, said Juan kindly for he thought Gonzalvos' words the offspring of his wandering fancy. From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God's hand and he is just. Does your physician give hope of your recovery from the seizure? With something like his old, short, bitter laugh Gonzalvo answered, I have no physician. This must be one of his delusions. That one. Or else since he cannot have losada he is refused with his usual obstinacy to see anyone else. He said aloud. That is not right, cousin Don's Gonzalvo. You ought not to neglect lawful means of cure. Señor Sylvester Areto is a very skillful physician. You might safely place yourself in his hands. Only there is one slight objection. My father and my brothers would not permit me to see him. Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement but hoping to extract from him some additional information respecting his brother he turned the conversation. When did this malady seize you? He asked. Close the door gently and I will tell you all. And oh, dread softly lest my mother who lies asleep in the room beneath worn out with watching should wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and my anguish unconfessed to the grave? Juan obeyed and took a seat beside his cousin's couch. Sit where I can see your face. Sit, Gonzalvo. I will not drink even from that. Don Juan, I am your brother's murderer. Juan started and his color changed rapidly. If I did not think that you were mad. I am no more mad than you are. Gonzalvo interrupted. I was mad, indeed. But that terrible night when God smoked my body I regained my reason. I see all things clearly now. Too late. Am I to understand then? Said Juan, rising from his seat and speaking in measured tones though his eye was like a tiger's. Am I to understand that you, you denounced my brother? If so, thank God that you were lying helpless there. I am not quite so violent a thing as that. I did not intend to harm a hair on his head but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the means of escape provided and but for me would have been in safety the Alguaziles came. Well, for both of us your guilt has no greater. Still, you cannot expect me just yet to forgive you. I expect no forgiveness from man. Said Gonzalvo who perhaps disdained to plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos. Juan had by this time changed his tone toward his cousin and assumed his perfect sanity. Though engrossed by the thought of his brother he was quite unconscious of the mental process by which he arrived at this conclusion. He asked. But why did you detain him? How did you come to know at all of this intended flight? He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend. I know not whom. Said Gonzalvo in reply. He was going forth at midnight to seek it. At the same hour I also. For a moment he hesitated but went quickly on. Was going forth to plunge a dagger in my enemy's heart. We met face to face and each confided his errand to the other. He sought by argument and entreaty to move me from a purpose which seemed to him a great crime. But ere our debate was ended God laid his hand in judgment upon me and whilst Don Carlos lingered speaking words of comfort, brave and kind. Though vain the Alguazils came and he was taken. Juan listened and glummy silence. Did he leave no message? Not one word for me? He asked at last in a low voice. Yes, one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met his terrible fate I cried out as they led him from the room. Vaya con Dios, Don Carlos. A braver man than you have I never seen. With one long mournful look that haunts me still. He said, tell her we. Strong man as he was, Don Juan elvarez bowed his head and wept. They were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him almost the first that he ever remembered shedding. Goncalvo saw no shame in them. Weep on, he said. Weep on and thank God that thy tears are for sorrow only, not for remorse. Horse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they were the only sounds that broke the stillness at length Goncalvo said slowly. He gave me something to keep which in right should belong to thee. Juan looked up. Goncalvo half raised himself into a cushion from beneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine Holland. Then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidental rip and not without some trouble, drew out a small volume. Juan seized it eagerly. Well did he know his brother's Spanish testament. Take it. Said Goncalvo. But remember it is a dangerous treasure. Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it. I deserve that you should say so. Answered Goncalvo with unwanted gentleness. But the truth is. He added with a Juan sickly smile. Nothing can part me from it now. For I have learned almost every word of it How could you in so short a time accomplish such a task? Asked Juan in surprise. Easily enough. I was alone long hours of the day when I could read. And in the silent sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what I read during the day. But for that I should be in truth what they call me. Mad. Then you love it in words. I fear them. Coy Goncalvo with strange energy flinging out his wasted arm over the counter pain. They are words of life. Words of fire. They are to the churchless words. The priest's threatenings. The priest's pardons. Watch your limbs throbbing with healthy vigorous life out of mine. Cold. Dead. Impotent. Oh what the living champion. Steal from head to heel. The Toledo blade in his strong right hand. Is to the painted son Christofro on the cathedral door. Because I dare to say so much. My father pretends to think me mad. Lest, wrecked as I am, in mind and body I should find one terrible consolation. That of flinging the truth for once in the face of the scribes and Pharisees and then suffering for it. Like Don Carlos. He was silent from exhaustion and laid with closed eyes in deathlike countenance. After long pause he resumed in a low weak voice. Some words are good perhaps. There was San Pablo who was a blasphemer. An injurious. Don Goncalvo. My brother once said he would give his right hand that you shared his faith. Oh did he? A quick flesh overspread the Juan face. But Hark, I step on the stairs. My mother's. I'm neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here. Said Don Juan. My poor mother. She has shown me more tenderness of late than I deserve at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble. Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy and even attempted some words of condolence upon his cousin's illness. But he saw that the poor lady was terribly disconcerted and indeed frightened by his presence there. And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might have followed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found lawn in communication with Goncalvo. She conjured him to go, adding by way of inducement. Don Nebitres is taking the air in the garden. Veiling myself of your gracious permission, senora my aunt, I shall offer her my homage there. And so I kiss your feet. Adios Don Goncalvo. Adios, my cousin. Sonia Catarina followed him out of the room. He is not sane. She whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm. He is out of his mind. He perceived clearly Don Juan. Certainly, I shall not dispute it, senora. Juan answered prudently. End of Chapter 28. Chapter 29 of The Spanish Brothers by Debra Ockock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 29, A Friend at Court. I have a soul and body that exact, a comfortable care in many ways are browning. Don Juan's peril was extreme. Well known as he was to many of the imprisoned Lutherans, it seemed a desperate chance that amongst the numerous confessions run from them, no mention of his name should occur. He knew himself deeply implicated in the crime for which they were suffering, the one unpardonable crime in the eyes of Rome. Moreover, unlike his brother, whose temperament would have led him to avoid danger by every lawful means, he was by nature brave even to rashness and bold even to recklessness. It was his custom to wear his heart on his lips. And though of late, stern necessity had taught him to conceal what he thought, it was neither his inclination nor his habit to disguise what he felt. Probably not even his desire to aid Carlos would have prevented him from compromising himself by some rash word or deed, had not the soft hand of Daniel Beatriz, strong in its weakness, held him back from destruction. Not for one instant could he forget her terrible vow. With this forever before his eyes, it is little Marvel if he was willing to do anything, bear anything, eye, almost a feign anything, rather than involve her he loved in a fate inconceivably horrible. And alas for the brave, honest-hearted, truthful Don Juan Alvarez, it was often necessary to feign. If he meant to remain in Seville and to avoid the dungeons of the Inquisition, he must obviate or remove suspicion by protesting, both by word and action, his devotion to the Catholic Church and his hatred of heresy. Could he stoop to this? Gradually and more and more as each day's emergency made it more and more necessary, he did stoop to it. He told himself it was all for his brother's sake. And though such a line of conduct was intensely repugnant to his character, it was not contrary to his principles. To conceal an opinion is one thing, to deny a friend quite another. And while Carlos had found a friend, Juan had only embraced an opinion. He himself would have said that he had found truth, had devoted himself to the cause of freedom. But where were truth and freedom now with all the bright anticipations of their ultimate triumph, which he had been wont to indulge? As far as his native land was concerned, and it must be owned that his mental eyes scarcely reached beyond the spains, a single day had blotted out his glowing visions forever. Almost at the same moment, and as if by some secret pre-concerted signal, bleeding Protestants in Seville, invalid to lead, all over the kingdom had been arrested and turned into prison. Swiftly, silently, with the utmost order and regularity, had the whole thing been accomplished. Every name that Juan had heard Carlos mention with admiration and sympathy was now the name of a helpless captive. The Reformed Church of Spain existed no longer or existed only in dungeons. In what quarter the storm had first arisen that burst so suddenly upon the community of the faithful, Don Juan never knew. It is probable the Holy Office had long been silently watching its prey, waiting for the moment of action to arrive. In Seville, it is said, a spy had been set upon some of Lasada's congregation who revealed their meeting to the inquisitors. While invalid to lead, the foul treachery of the wife of one of the Protestants furnished the Holy Office with the means of bringing her husband and his friends to the stake. Don Juan, whose young heart had lately beat so high with hope, now bowed his head in despair and despairing of freedom, he lost his confidence in the truth also. In opinion, he was still a decided Lutheran. He accepted every doctrine of the Reformed as against the Roman Catholic creed. But the hold he once had upon these doctrines as living realities was slackened. He did not doubt that justification by faith was a scriptural dogma, but he did not think it necessary to die for it. Compared with the tremendous interest of the fate of Carlos and the peril of Beatrice and amidst his desperate struggles to aid the one and shield the other, doctrinal questions grew pale and faint to him. Nor had he yet learned to throw himself in utter weakness upon a strength greater than his own and a love that knows no limits. He did not feel his weakness, he felt strong. In the strength of a brave heart struggling against cruel wrong, strong to resist and if it might be to conquer his fate. At first he cherished a hope that his brother was not actually in the secret dungeons of the Inquisition, for so great was the number of the captives that the public jails of the city and the convent prisons were full of them and some had to be lodged even in private houses. As Carlos had been one of the last arrested, there seemed reason to suppose that he might be amongst those that's accommodated, in which case it would be much easier both to communicate with him and to alleviate his fate than if he were within the gloomy walls of the Shuriana. There might be moreover the possibility of forming some plan for his deliverance. But once diligent and persevering search resulted at last in the conviction that his brother was in the Santa Casa itself. This conviction sent a chill to his heart. He shuddered to think of his present suffering whilst he feared the worst for the future supposing that the Inquisitors would take care to lodge in their own special fortress, those whom they esteemed the most heinous transgressors. He engaged a lodging in the Shuriana suburb which the river spanned by a bridge of boats separated from the city. There were several reasons for this choice of residence but by far the greatest was that those who lingered beneath the walls of the grim old castle could sometimes see behind its grated windows, spectral faces raised to catch the few scanty glooms of daylight which fell to their lot. Long weary hours did Juan watch there, hoping to recognize the face he loved but always in vain. When he went into the city, it was sometimes for other purposes than to visit Donya Beatrice. It was as often to seek the precincts of the magnificent cathedral and to pace up and down that terrace whose massive truncated pillars raised when the Romans founded the heathen temple on the spot had stood throughout the long ages of Muslim domination. Now the place was consecrated to Christian worship and yet it was put to no hallowed use. Rich merchants in many a varying garb that told of different nations tried the stately colonade and bought and sold and made bargains there. For in those days, strange as it seems to us the reverence of the so-called ages of faith that terrace was the royal exchange of Seville then a mercantile city of great importance. Don Juan Alvarez diligently resorted thither and held many a close and earnest conversation with the keen-eyed Hocknows Jew whom he met there. Isaac Osorio or more properly, Isaac Ben Osorio was a notorious money lender who had often obliged Don Manuel's son, not unfairly requiring heavy interest to counterbalance the hazardous nature of his investments. Collings branded as unlawful are apt to prove particularly gainful. The Jew was willing to oblige Don Juan also upon certain conditions. He was not by any means ignorant with the purpose for which his money was needed. Of course, he was himself a Christian in name for none other would have been permitted to live upon Spanish ground. But by what wrongs, tortures, agonies worse than death, he and those like him had been forced to accept Christian baptism will never be known until Christ comes again to judge the false church that has slandered him. Will it be nothing in his sight that millions of the souls for whom he died have been driven to hate his name that name so unutterably precious? Osorio derived grim satisfaction from the thought that Christians were now imprisoning, torturing, burning each other. It reminded him of the grand old days in his people's history when the Lord of hosts was wanting to stretch forth his mighty arm and trouble the armies of the aliens turning every man's hand against his brother. Let the Gentiles bite and devour one another the children of Abraham could look upon their quarrels with common difference. But if he had any sympathy it was for the weaker side. He was rather disposed to help a Christian youth who was trying to save his brother from the same cruel fangs in which so many sons of Israel had riots and struggled. Don won therefore found him accommodating and even lenient. From time to time he advanced him to considerable sums first upon the jewels he'd brought with him from Nuero and then alas upon his patrimony itself. Not without a keen pairing did Juan thus mortgage the inheritance of his fathers but he began to realize the bitter truth that a flight from Spain and a new career in some foreign land would eventually be the only course open to him if indeed he escaped with life. Nor would the armies of Spain henceforth be more free to him than her soil. Fortunately, the necessity for rejoining his regiment had not arisen. For the brief war in which he served was over now and as the promised captaincy had not yet been assigned to him he was at liberty for the present to remain at home. He largely bribed the head jailer of the inquisitorial prison besides supplying him liberally with necessities and comforts for his brother's use. Kaspar Benavideo bore the worst of characters both for cruelty and avarice. Still, Juan had new resource but to trust implicitly to his honor in the hope that at least some portion of what he gave would be allowed to reach the prisoner but not a single gleam of information about him could be gained from Benavideo. Who, like all other servants of the inquisition was bound by a solemn oath to reveal nothing that passed within its walls. He also bribed some of the attendants and satellites of the all-powerful inquisitor, Munabraga. He was his desire to obtain a personal interview with the great man himself that he might have the opportunity of trying the intercession of Dondinero to whose advances he was known to be not altogether obdurate. For the purpose of soliciting an audience he repaired one evening to the splendid gardens belonging to the Triana to await the inquisitor. He was expected shortly to return from a sale for pleasure on the Guadalquivir. He was sick at heart of the gorgeous tropical plants that surrounded him of the myrtle blossoms that were showered on his path. Of all that told of the hateful pomp and luxury in which the persecutor lived while his victims pined, unpityed in loathsome dungeons. Yet neither by word, look, nor sign dared he betray the rage that was gnawing his heart. At length the shouts of the populace who thronged to the riverside announced the approach of their idol, for such Munabraga was for the time, cladding costly silks and jewels and surrounded by a brilliant little court. Composed both of churchmen and laymen, the Lord inquisitor stepped from his splendid purple-decked barge. Dondwan threw himself in his way and modestly requested an audience, his bearing, though perfectly respectable, was certainly less obsequious than that to which Munabraga had been a custom of late. So the minister of the Holy Office turned from unhaughtily, though, as Dondwan bitterly thought, his father would have been proud to hold the stirrup for mine. This is no fitting time to talk of business, sir. He said, we are weary tonight and need repose. At that moment a Franciscan friar advanced from the group and with his lowest bow and most reverent manner approached the inquisitor. With the gracious permission of my very good Lord, I shall address myself to the caballero and report his errand to your sanctity. I have the honor of some acquaintance with his excellency's noble family. How's it please, fray? Said the voice accustomed to speak the terrible words that doom to the rack and the pulley, though no one would have suspected this from the bland, careless, good nature of its tones. But see that you tell it not, so as to lose your supper. How be it that as little need to caution you or any other son of St. Francis against undoneglecting of the body. The son of St. Francis made no answer, either because it was not worthwhile or because those who take the crumbs from the rich man's table must oft times take his taunts their way. He disengaged himself from the group and turned towards Juan a broad, good-humored, not unintelligent face, which his former pupil recognized immediately. Fray, Sebastian Gomez. He exclaimed in astonishment. And very much at the service of my noble senor Don Juan. Will your excellency deign to bear me company for a little time? In yonder walk there are some rare flowers of rich coloring, which it were worth your while to observe. They turned into the path he indicated while the Lord inquisitors silk and train swept towards that half of the triana where godless luxury bore sway, the other half being consecrated to the twin demon cruelty. Will it please your worship to look at these Indian pinks? Said the friar. You will not see that flower elsewhere in all the Spains, save in the royal gardens. His imperial majesty brought it first from Tunis. Juan all but cursed the innocent flowers but recollected in time that God made them, though they belonged to Gonzales de Muña Braga. In heaven's name, what brings you here, Fray, Sebastian? He interrupted impatiently. I thought to see only the black cows of Saint Dominic about the minister of the Holy Office. A little more softly, may I implore of your excellency? Yonder casement is open, pues, señor. I am here in the capacity of a guest, nothing more. Every man to his taste. Said Juan, dryly, as with the heedless foot, he kicked off the beautiful scarlet flower of a rare cactus. Have a care, señor, and your excellency. My lord is very proud of his cactus flowers. Then come with me to some spot of God's free earth where we can talk together out of sight of him and his possessions. Nay, rest content, señor, and untire yourself in this fair arbor overlooking the river. At least God made the river. Said Juan, flinging himself with a sigh of irritation and impatience on the cushion seat of the summer house. Fray Sebastian seated himself also. My lord? He began to explain. Has received me with all courtesy and is good enough to desire my continual attendance. The fact is, señor, his reverence is a man of literary taste. Juan allowed himself the solace of a quiet sneer. Oh, is he? Very creditable to him, no doubt. Especially he is a great lover of the divine art of poetry. No genuine love of the gentle art, whose great lesson is sympathy, did or could soften the inquisitor's hard heart. Nor had his wealth been doubled, could he have hired one real poet to sing his praise and strains worthy the ear of posterity. In an atmosphere so cold, the most ethereal spirit would have frozen. But it was in his power to buy flattery and rhyme, and it suited his inclination so to do. He liked the trick of rhyme, at once so easy and so charming in the sonorous Castilian tongue. It was a pleasure of the ear, which he keenly appreciated, as he did also those of the eyes and palate. I addressed to him. Fray Sebastian continued with becoming modesty. A little effort of my muse, really a mere trifle, on the suppression of heresy. Comparing the lord inquisitor to Michael the archangel, with the dragon beneath his feet, you understand, senor? One understood so well that it was with difficulty he refrained from flinging the unlucky rhyme stir into the river. But of late he had learned many a lesson in prudence. Still his word sounded almost fierce in their angry scorn. I suppose he gave you in return a good dinner? But Fray Sebastian would not take offense. He answered mildly. He was pleased to express his approval of my humble effort, and to admit me into his noble household, where, except my poor exertions to amuse and untire him by my conversation may be accounted a service, I am of no service to him whatever. So you are clad in purple and fine linen, and fair sumptuously every day? Said Vaughn, with contempt that he cared not to conceal. As to purple and fine linen, senor, I am an unworthy son of St. Francis, and it is well known to your excellency that by the rules of our order, not even one scrap of Holland, but you are laughing at me as you used in old times, senor Don Juan. God knows, I have little heart to laugh. In these old times you speak of, Fray, there was no great love between you and me, and no marvel, for I was a wild and idle lad. But I think you loved my gentle brother, Don Carlos. That I did, senor, as did everyone. Has any evil come upon him? St. Francis forbid. Worse evil than I care to name. He lies in yonder tower. The blessed virgin have pity on us. Cried Fray Sebastian crossing himself. I thought you would have heard of his arrest. Juan continued sadly. I, senor, never a breath. Holy saints defend us. How could I, or anyone dream that a young gentleman of noblest race, well learned and of truly pious disposition, would have had the ill luck to fall under so foul a suspicion? Doubtless it is the work of some personal enemy. And, ah, woe is me, the clattering horseshoe ever wants a nail. Here have I been naming heresy, talking of halters in the house of the hanged. Hold thy tongue about hanging. Said Juan, testily. And listen to me if thou canst. Fray Sebastian indicated by respectful gesture his profound attention. There's been whispered to me that the door of his reverence heart may be unlocked by a golden key. Fray Sebastian asserted him this was foul slander, concluding a panagyric on the purity of the inquisitor's administration with the words. You would forfeit his favor forever by presuming so far as to offer a bribe. No doubt. Fray answered Juan with a sneer and a hard, wordly look on his face that of late was often seen there. I should deserve to pay that penalty were I the fool to approach him with a bow and said, here is a purse of gold for your sanctity. But one take is worth two. I give yous and there's a way of saying take to every man. And I asked you for old kindness to show me how to say it to his lordship. Fray Sebastian pondered. After an interval he said with some hesitation. May I venture to inquire, senor, what means you possess of clearing the character of your noble brother? Juan only answered by a sorrowful shake of the head. Darker and darker grew the fire sensual but good-natured face. His excellent reputation, his brilliant success at college, his blameless life should tell in his favor. Juan said at length. Have you nothing more direct? If not, I fear it is a bad business. But silence is called holy, so I hold my peace. Still, if indeed, which the saints forbid, he has fallen inadvertently into error, it is a comfort to reflect that there will be little difficulty in reclaiming him. Juan made no reply. Did he expect his brother to retract? Did he wish him to do it? These were questions he scarcely dared to ask himself. For any reply he could give to them, he shrank in shuddering dread. He was ever gentle and tractable. Fraze Sebastian continued. And oft times, but too easy to persuade. Juan rose, took up a stone, and threw it into the river. When the circles it made in the water had died away, he turned back to the friar. What can I do for him? He asked, with an undertone of helpless sadness, touching from the lips of one so strong. Fraze Sebastian put his hand to his forehead and looked as if he were composing another poem. Let me see your excellency. There is my lord's nephew in Pet Page, Don Alonso, where he has got the dawn I know not, but Don Dinero makes many a noble. I dare say it would not hurt the Don Zello's soft white hand to finger a purse of gold ducats, and those same ducats might help your brother's cause not a little. Manage the matter for me, and I will thank you hardly. Gold, to any extent that will serve him, shall be forthcoming. My good friend, see that you spare it not. Ah, senor Don Juan, you are always generous. My brother's life is at stake. Said Juan, softening a little. But the hard look returned, as he added. Those who live in great man's houses have many expenses, Frey. Always remember that I am your friend, and that my ducats are very much your service also. Fraze Sebastian thanked him with his lowest bow. Juan's look changed again, this time more rapidly. If it were possible. He added in low hurried tones. If you could only bring me the least word of tidings from him, even one word to say if he lives. If he is well, how is he entreated? Three months it is now since he was taken, and I've heard no more than if they had carried him to his grave. It is a difficult matter, a very difficult matter that you ask of me. Were I a saint of Saint Dominic, I might indeed accomplish someone. For the black cowels are everything now. Still I will do all I can, Signor. I trust you, Frey. If undercover of seeking his conversion of anything you could but see him. Impossible, Signor, utterly impossible. Why? They sometimes sent friars to reason with the prisoners. Always Dominicans or Jesuits, men well known and trusted by the board of the Inquisition. However, Signor, nothing that a man may do shall be wanting on my part. Will not that content your excellency? Content me? Well, as far as you're concerned, yes. But in truth, I am haunted day and night by one horrible dread. What if, if they should torture him? My gentle brother, frail in mind and body, tender and sensitive as a woman, terror and pain would drive him mad. The last words were a quick broken whisper, but outward expressions of emotion with Don Juan were always speedily replaced. Recovering apparent calmness, he stretched out his hand to fray Sebastian, saying with a faint smile. I have kept you too long for my Lord's supper table. Pardon me. Your excellency's condescension in conversing with me deserves my profound gratitude. Replied the monk in true Castilian fashion, his residence at the Inquisitor's Court had certainly improved his manners. Don Juan gave him his address and it was agreed that he should call on him in a few days. Fraze Sebastian then offered to bring him on his way through the garden and court of that part of the Triana, which formed the Inquisitor's residence. But Juan declined the favor. He could not answer for himself when brought face to face with that impious pomp and luxury of the persecutor of the saints. He feared that by some wild word or deed he might imperil the cause he had at heart. So he hailed a waterman who was guiding his little boat down the tranquil stream in the waning light. The boat was soon brought to the place where the Inquisitor had landed from his barge. And Juan, after shaking the dust from his feet, both literally and metaphorically, sprang into it. The popular ideal of a persecutor is very far from the truth. At the word, there rises before most minds a vision of a lean, pale-faced, fearside monk whose frame is worn with fasting and his scourge red with his own blood. He is a fanatic, pitiless, passionate, narrow-minded, perhaps half insane, but penetrated to the very core of his being with intense zeal for his church's interest and prepared in her service both to inflict and to endure all things. Very unlike this ideal were most of the great persecutors who carried out the behest of Antichrist. They were generally able men, that they were preeminently men wise in their generation, men of their generation, men who love this present world. They gave the church the service of strong hand and skilful brain that she needed. And she gave them in return gold and silver and precious stones and pearls and fine linen and purple and silk and scarlet and all sweet wood and all manner of vessels of ivory and all manner of vessels of most precious wood and of brass and of iron and marble and cinnamon and odors and ointment and frankincense and wine and oil and fine flour and wheat and beasts and sheep and horses and chariots and slaves and souls of men. It was for these things, not for abstract ideas, not for high places in heaven that they tortured and murdered the saints of God. Whilst the cry of the oppressed reached the ears of the most high, those who were wearing them out of an unhallowed luxury, integrating sensuality, Gonzalez de Munebraga was a good specimen of the class to which he belonged. He was no exceptional case. Nor was Frey Sebastian anything but an ordinary character. He was amiable, good natured, free from gross spices, what is usually called well-disposed, but he loved wine and oil and to obtain what he loved, he was willing to become a servant and flatterer of worse men than himself at the terrible risk of sinking to their level. With all the force of his strong nature, Don Juan Alvarez loathed de Munebraga and scorned Frey Sebastian. Gradually, a strange alteration appeared to come over the little book he constantly studied, his brother's Spanish Testament. The words of promise and hope and comfort in which he used to delight seemed to be blotted from its pages, while ever more and more, those pages were filled with fearful threatening and denunciations of doom against hypocritical scribes and Pharisees, false teachers and wicked high priests, against great Babylon, the mother of abominations. The peace breathing. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Grew fainter and more faint, until at last it faded completely from his memory, while there stood out before him night and day in characters of fire. Serpents, generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell? End of chapter 29, chapter 30 of the Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 30, The Captive. I, but for me, my name called, drawn, like a conscript's lot from the laps black yawn. He has dipped into on the battle dawn, bid out of life by a nod, a glance, stumbling, mazed at nature's chance with a rapid finger circling round, fixed to the first poor inch of ground to fight from where his foot was found, whose ear but a moment since was free, to the wide camp's hum and gossipy, summoned a solitary man to end his life where his life began, from the safe glad rear to the awful van, our brownie. On the night of his arrest, when Don Carlos Alvarez was left alone in his dungeon, he stood motionless as one in a dream. At length he raised his head and began to look around him. A lamp had been left with him and its light illumined his cell 10 feet square with a vaulted roof. Through a narrow grating, too high for him to reach, one or two stars were shining, but these he saw not. He only saw the inner door sheath with iron, the mat of rushes on which he was to sleep, the stool that was to be his seat, the two earthen pictures of water that completed his scanty furniture. From the first moment, these things look strangely familiar to him. He threw himself on the mat to think and pray. He comprehended his situation perfectly. It seemed as if he had been all his life expecting this hour, as if he had been born for it and led up to it gradually through all his previous experience. As yet he did not think that his fate was terrible, he only thought that it was inevitable, something that was to come upon him and that in due course had come at last. He was his impression that he should always remain there and never more see anything beyond that graded window and that iron door. There was a degree of unreality about this mood. For the past fortnight or more, his mind had been strained to its utmost tension. Suspense, more wearing even than sorrow, had held him on the rack. Sleep had seldom visited his eyes and when it came, it had been broken and fitful. Now the worst had befallen him. Suspense was over, certainty had come. This brought at first a kind of rest to the overtaxed mind and frame. He was as one who hears the sentence of death, but he was taken off the rack. No dread of the future could quite overpower the present un-reasoning sense of relief. Thus it happened that an hour afterwards, he was sleeping the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Well for him if instead of death's twin brother, the angel of death himself had been sent to open the prison doors and set the captives free. And yet after all, would it have been well for him? So utter his exhaustion that when food was placed in his cell the next morning, he only awakes for a moment, then slept again as soundly as before. Not till some hours later did he finally shake off his slumber. He lay still for some time, examining with a strange sort of curiosity the little bolted aperture, which was near the top of his door, and watching his solitary broken sunbeam, which had struggled through the grading that served him for a window, and threw a gleam of light on the opposite wall. Then with a start he asked himself, Where am I? The answer brought an agony of fear, of horror, of bitter pain. Lost, lost, God have mercy on me. I am lost. As one in intense bodily anguish he writhed, moaned, I even cried aloud, no wonder. Hope, love, life, alike in its noblest aims and its commonest joys were all behind him. Before him were the dreary dungeon days and nights. It might be months or years. The death of agony and shame, and worst of all, the unutterable horrors of the torture room, from which he sank as any one of us would shrink today. Slowly and at last came the large burning tears, but very few of them fell, for his anguish was as yet too fierce for many tears. All that day the storm raged on. When the Al-Qaedaid brought the evening meal, he lay still, his face covered with his cloak. But as night drew on he rose, and paced his narrow cell with hasty irregular steps, like those of a caged, wild animal. How should he endure the horrible loneliness of the present, the maddening terror of all that was to come? And this life was to last. To last until it should be succeeded by worse horrors and fiercer anguish. Words of prayer died on his lips. Or even when he uttered them, it seemed as if God heard not, as if those thick walls and grated doors shut him out too. Yet one thing was clear to him from the beginning, deeper than all other fears within him, lay the fear of denying his Lord. Again and again did he repeat. When called in question, I will at once confess all. For he knew that, according to a law recently enacted by the Holy Office and shanks when by the Pope, no subsequent retraction could save a prisoner who had once confessed, he must die. And he desired finally and forever to put it out of his own power to save his life and lose it. As every dreary morning dawned upon him, he thought that ere it sunset, he might be called to confess his master's name before the solemn tribunal. At first he waited the summons with a trembling heart. But as time passed on, the delay became more dreadful than the anticipated examination. At last, he began to long for any change that might break the monotony of his prison life. The only person with the exception of his jailer that ever entered his cell was a member of the Board of Inquisitors. He was obliged by their rules to make a fortnightly inspection of his prisons. But the Dominican monk to whom this duty was relocated merely asked the prisoner a few formal questions, such as whether he was well, whether he received his appointed provision, whether his water used him with civility. To these Carlos always answered prunately that he had no complaint to make. At first he was wont to inquire in his turn when his case might be expected to come on. To this it would be answered that there was no hurry about the matter. The Lord Inquisitors had much business on hand and need more important cases than his to attend to. He must await their leisure and their pleasure. At length the kind of lethargy stole over him, though it was broken frequently by sharp bursts of anguish. He ceased to make note of time, ceased to make fruitless inquiries of his jailer who would never tell him anything. Upon one occasion he asked this man for brevery, since he sometimes found it difficult to recall even the gospel words that he knew so well. But he was answered in the set terms the inquisitors taught their officials that the book he ought not to study was the book of his own heart, which he should examine diligently in order to the confession and repentance of his sins. During the morning hours the outer door of his cell, there were two, was often left open in order to admit a little fresh air. At sometimes he often heard footsteps in the corridors and doors opening and shutting with a kind of stick yearning, not unmixed with hope. He longed that some visitant would enter his cell, but none ever came. Some of the inquisitors were keen observers and good students of character. They had watched Carlos narrowly before his arrest and they had arrived at the conclusion that utter and prolonged solitude was the best remedy for his disease. Such solitude has driven many a weary tortured soul to insanity. But that divine compassion which no dungeon walls nor prison bars avail to shut out saved Carlos from such a fate. One morning he knew from the stir outside that some of his fellow captives had received a visit. But the deep stillness that followed the dying away of footsteps in the corridor was broken by a most unwanted sound. A loud, clear and even cheerful voice sang out. Vencidos van los frailes, vencidos van. Corridas van los lobos, corridos van. There go the friars, there they run. There go the wolves, the wolves are done. Every nerve and fiber of the lonely captives' heart drove responsive to that strain. Evidently the song was one of triumph. But from whose lips? Who could dare to triumph in the abode of misery? The very seat of Satan. Carlos Alvarez had heard that voice before. A striking peculiarity in the dialect riveted this fact upon his mind. The words were neither the pure, sonorous Castilian that he spoke himself, nor the soft, gliding, sibilant Andalus that he heard in Seville, nor yet the patois of the manchican peasants around his mountain home. He means that Jackson's one and one alone had ever spoken in his hearing, and that was the man who said, For the joy of bringing food to the perishing, water to the thirsty, light to those that sit in darkness, rest to the weary and heavy laden, I have counted the cost and I shall pay the price right willingly. Whatever men had done to the body, it was evident that Juliana Hernandez was still unbroken in heart, strong in hope and courage. A feather-tortured captive he was yet enabled not only to hold his own faith fast, but actually to minister to that of others. His rough rhyme intimated to his fellow captives that the wolves of Rome were leaving his cell, vanquished by the sword of the spirit, and that as he overcame, so might they also. Carlos heard, understood, and felt from that hour that he was not alone. Moreover, the grace and strength so richly given to his fellow sufferers seemed to bring Christ nearer to himself. Surely God is in this place, even here. He said, And I knew it not. And then, bowing his head, he wept, wept such tears as bring help and healing with them. Up to this time, he had held Christ's hand indeed, else had he utterly fainted. But he held it in the dark. He clumped in desperately as if for mere life and reason. Now the light began to dawn upon him. He began to see the face of him to whom he had been clinging. His good and gracious words, such words as, Let not your heart be troubled. My peace I give unto you. Became again as an old times full of meaning, instinct with life. Remembered the years of the right hand of the most high. He thought of those days that now seemed so long ago, when with such thrilling joy, he received the truth from Juliano's book. And he knew that the same joy might be his even in that dreary prison, because the same God was above him and the same Lord was. Rich unto all that call upon him. On the next occasion, when Juliano raised his brave song of victory, Carlos had the courage to respond by chanting in the vulgar tongue. The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble, the name of the God of Jacob defend thee. Send thee help from the sanctuary and strengthen thee out of Zion. But this brought him a visit from the Al-Qaeda. Who commanded him to? Prepare that noise! I only chanted a versicle from one of the Psalms. He explained, No matter, prisoners are not permitted to disturb the Santa Casa. The Santa Casa, or Holy House, was the proper style and title of the prison of the Holy Inquisition. At first sight, the name appears a hideous mockery. We seem to catch it and echo of the laughter of fiends as in that other kindred name, the Society of Jesus. Yet, just then, the Triana was truly a holy house. Precious in the sight of the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells. Many a lonely captive wept and prayed and agonized their who, though now forgotten on earth, shall one day shine with the brightness eclipsing kings and conquerors, a star for ever and ever. End of Chapter 30. Chapter 31 of The Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 31, Ministering Angels. Thou wilt be near and not forsake to turn the bitter pool into a bright and breezy lake, the throbbing brow to cool. Till left awhile with thee alone, the willful heart will be faint to own, that he by whom our bright hours shone our darkness best may rule. Kebel. The overpowering heat of an undilutioned summer aggravated the physical sufferings of the captives, and so did the scanty and unwholesome provisions, which were all that reached them through the hands of the avaricious Benevidio. But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the rations he received, they usually proved more than enough for him. Indeed, the coarse food sometimes they almost untasted in his cell. One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door being open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted of white bread and good meat, of which he partook with mingled astonishment and thankfulness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony of his life and the occupation the little circumstance gave his thoughts was much more to him than the welcome novelty of a wholesome meal. The act of charity was repeated often, indeed almost daily. Sometimes bread and meat, sometimes fruit, the large luscious grapes or purple figs of that southern climate were thus conveyed to him. Endless were the speculations these gifts awakened in his mind, he longed to discover his benefactor, not only to express his gratitude, but to supplicate that the same favours might be extended to his fellow sufferers, especially to Giuliano. Moreover, would not one so kindly disposed be willing to give him what he longed for far more than meat or drink, some word of tidings from the world without or from his dear imprisoned brethren? At first he suspected the under-jailer, whose name was Herrera. This man was far more gentle and compassionate than Benevideo. Carlos often thought he would have shown him some kindness or at least have spoken to him if he dared, but Dyer would have been the penalty if the slightest transgression of the prison rules would have entailed. Carlos naturally feared to broach the matter, lest if Herrera really had nothing to do with it, the unknown benefactor might be betrayed. The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be within hearing? If it were safe to speak surely the person outside would try the experiment. It was generally very early in the morning at the hour when the outer door was first opened that the gifts came, or it's delayed a little later. He would often notice something timid and even awkward in the way they were pushed through the grating and the approaching and retreating footsteps for which he used to listen so eagerly would be quick and light like those of a child. At last the day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of prison life, bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual. Then there was a lone knock upon the door. Carlos, who was tundin' close to it, responded by a nigger. Caness? A friend. Kneel down, senior, and put your ear to the grating. The captive obeyed and a woman's voice whispered. Do not lose heart, your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you. One friend is with me even here. Carlos answered. But? He added. I entreat of you to tell me your name that I may know whom to thank for the daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity. I'm only a poor woman, senior, the arcade's servant, and what I've brought you is your own, and but a small part of it. My own? How? Robbed from you by my master who defrauds and spoils the poor prisoners even if they're necessary food. And if anyone dares to complain to the Lord's inquisitors, he throws them into the mass mirror. The what? A deep, horrible sister in which he half in his house. This was spoken in a still lower voice. Carlos was not yet sufficiently naturalized to horrors to repress a shudder. He said, Then I fear it is at great risk to yourself that you show kindness to me. It is for the dear Lord's sake, senior. Then you, you too, love his name? said Carlos, tears of joy starting to his eyes. She tomb, senior, she tomb. But as far as a poor woman may I do love him. She added, in a frighten to whisper, What I want now to tell you is that the noble Lord, your brother, My brother, cried Carlos. What of him? Aunt, tell me for Christ's dear sake. Let your excellency speak lower, we may be overheard. I know he's seen my master once and again, and has given him much money to provide your worship with good food and other conveniences, which he, however, not having the fear of God before his eyes. The rest of the sentence did not reach the ear of Carlos, but he could easily guess its import. That is little matter, he said. But, O kind friend, if I could send him a message, were it only one word? Perhaps the wistful earnestness of his stone awakened latent mother instincts in the poor woman's heart. She knew that he was very young, that he had lain there for dreary months alone, play from the bright world into which he was just entering, and which was now shot to him forever. I will do all I can for your excellency. She said, in a tone that betrayed some emotion. Then, said Carlos, tell him it is well with me, the Lord is my shepherd, all that psalm bid him read it. But above all things, say unto him to leave this place, to fly to Germany or England. For I fear, I fear, no, do not tell him what I fear. Only implore of him to go. You promise? I promise, young sir, to do all I can. God comfort him and you. And God reward you, brave and kind friend, but one word more if it may be without risk to you. Tell me of my dear fellow prisoners, especially of Dr. Cristobal Lozada, Danuan Ponce de Leon, Frey Constantino, and Juliano Hernandez, called Juliano El Chico. I do not know anything of Frey Constantino. I think he's not here. The others you name have suffered. Not death, surely not death. Said Carlos in terror. There be worse things than death, senior. The poor woman answered. Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fortitude of Senor Juliano. He fears nothing, seems to feel nothing. No tortures have rung from him a word that could harm anyone. God sustain him, oh my friend. Carlos went on with passionate earnestness. If by any deed of kindness such as you have shown me, you could bring God's dear suffering servant so much comfort as a cup of cold water, truly your reward would be rich in heaven. For the day will come when that poor man will take his station in the court of the King of Kings and at the right hand of Christ in great glory and majesty. I know it, senior, I have tried. Just then an approaching footstep made Carlos start. But the poor woman said. It is only the child, God bless her. But I must go, senior, before she comes to tell me her father is a risen and is making ready to begin his daily rounds. Her father? Does Benavideo's own child help you to comfort his prisoners? Even so, thank the good God. I am her nurse. But I must not linger another moment. Adios, senior. Bye, Acondios, good mother. And God repay your kindness, as he surely will. And surely he did repay it, but not on earth, unless the honor of being accounted worthy to suffer shame and stripes and cruel imprisonment for his sake be called a reward. End of chapter 31.