 CHAPTER 32 AND SHALL I FEAR THE COWARD FEAR OF STANDING ALL ALONE TO TESTIFY A ZION'S KING AND THE GLORY OF HIS THRONE My father, or my father, I am poor and frail and weak, let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak, but give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue, and name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be strong. Mrs. Stuart Menteth Many a weary hour did Carlos Shorten by chanting the Psalms and hymns of the church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly now for his fellow prisoners to hear, but the commands of Benevidio, which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made him forbear. Not a few kindly deeds, and words of comfort came to him through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonzalez, aided by the jailer's little daughter. On the whole he was growing accustomed to his prison life. It seemed as though it would last forever, as though every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance. There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count. There were bitter hours of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable fear, but there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or sorrow. There were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner. It was one of the quiet hours when thoughts of the past, not full of the anguish of vain yearning as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the Tedaeum for himself, and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant it at Noera. Not in the time of Father Thomas, but in that of his predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease. He was so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large key-grade harshly in the strong outer door of his cell. Benevideo entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the prisoner to put on immediately. Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a passing feeling of indignation, for the very form and fashion of the garments he was thus obliged to assume, a kind of jacket without sleeves and long loose trousers, meant to the Castilian noble keen insult and degradation. Take off your shoes, said the Alcade. Prisoners always come before, their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me. It was then the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread took possession of his soul. Heedless of the Alcade's presence, he threw himself for one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek was pale, he could speak calmly. I am ready. He said. He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At length he ventured to ask. Where are you leading me? Shit on! Said Benevideo, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was not permitted there. At last they junior an open door. The Alcade, quickened his pace, entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and motioned Carlos to go forward alone. He did so, and found himself in the presence of his judges, the board, or table of the inquisition. He bowed, though rather from the habit of curtsy than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood silent. Before anyone addressed him he had ample leisure for observation. The room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there were handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on the Estrada, six or seven persons were seated. Of this one alone was covered. He who sat near as the door by which Carlos had entered, and facing the crucifix. He knew that this was Gonzales de Munibraga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man's life, helped to give him boldness in his presence. At Munibraga's right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos, though he had never seen him before, knew from his dress the position he occupied to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. One or two of the subordinate members of the board he had met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far his own inferiors, both in education and in social position. At length, Munibraga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table. He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his dress to be an artery, made him lay his hand in a missile, and administered an oath to him. It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he might see or hear, and he took it without hesitation. A bunch at the inquisitor's left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired to be seated. A member of the board, who bore the title of the promoter fiscal, conducted the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment. Carlos answered immediately, I do. This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office. They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have induced their reverences to order their arrest. With a slight elevation of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued gently enough. Are you then aware of having aired from the faith? And by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good Christians? Speak boldly, my son, for to those who acknowledge their faults, the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy. I have not aired consciously from the true faith, since I knew it. Here, the Dominican prior interposed. You can ask for an advocate, he said. And as you are under 25 years of age, you can also claim the assistance of a curator. Furthermore, you can request a copy of the deposition against you in order to prepare your defense. Always supposing, said Mune Braga himself, but he formally denies the crime led to his charge. Do you? He asked, turning to the prisoner. We understand you so to do, said the prior, looking earnestly at Carlos. You plead not guilty. Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced the step or two nearer to the table, where sat the man who held his life in their hands. Addressing himself chiefly to the prior, he said, I know that by taking the course your reverence recommends to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may defer my fate for a little while. I may beat the air fighting in the dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name to me, still more to confront with me. Or I may make you ring out the truth for me slowly, drop by drop. But what would that avail me? Neither for the truth nor yet for any falsehood, I might be base enough to utter, would you lose your hand from your prey. I prefer that straight road, which is ever the shortest way. I stand before your reverence as this day a professed lutheran, despairing of mercy from man, but full of confidence in the mercy of God. A movement of surprise ran around the board at these daring words. The prior turned away from the prisoner with a paint disconcerted look, but only to meet a half triumphant, half reproachful glance from his superior, Munibraga. But Munibraga was not displeased, far from it. It did not grieve him that the prisoner, a mere youth, was throwing himself into the fire. That was his own concern. He was saving their reverences a great deal of trouble. Thanks to his hard hood, his folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and easily accomplished. For it was the business of the inquisitors first to convict. Retractations were an after consideration. Thou art a bold heretic, a fit for the fire, he said. We know how to deal with such. And he placed his hand in the bell that was to signal determination of the interview. But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed. My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in which I may set plainly before the prisoner both the wanted mercy and lenity of the holy office to the repentant and the fatal consequences of obstinacy. Munibraga acquiesced by a nod, then leaned back carelessly in his seat. This was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest. No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic, the horrors of the death of fire, the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies. These were the theme of his discourse. If not actually eloquent, it had at least the earnestness of intense conviction. But to the penitent, he added, and the hard face softened a little. God is ever merciful, and his church is merciful, too. Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. But when the Dominican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great crucifix, then fixed his eyes steadily on the prior's face. I cannot deny my Lord, he said, I am in your hands and you can do with me as you will. But God is mightier than you. Enough, said Munibraga, and he rung the handbell. After a very small delay, the olcate reappeared and led Carlos back to his cell. As soon as he was gone, Munibraga turned to the prior. My Lord, he said, your wanted penetration is at fault for once. Is this the youth whom you assured us a few months of solitary confinement will render pliant as a reed and plastic as wax? What has we find him as bolder heretic as dosaro, or the arajano, or that imp of darkness at a juliano? Name, my Lord, I do not despair of him. Far from it. He is much less firm than he seems. Give him time with a due mixture of kindness and severity. And I trust in our Lord and Saint Dominic. We will see him a hopeful penitent. I am of your mind, Reverend Father, said the promoter fiscal. It is probable he confessed only to avoid the question. Many of them fear it more than death. You are right, answered Munibraga quickly. The notary looked up from his papers. Please, your Lordships, he said, I think it is the Sangre Azul that makes him so bold. He is alvarez de mania. Keep to thy quiescentine inkon, man of law. Interposed Munibraga angrily. Thy party to write a mad wiserman say not to break thyself. It was well known that the inquisitor, far from boasting the Sangre Azul himself, had not even what the Spaniards call good red blood flowing in his veins. Hence his irritation at the notary's speech. There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite opposite causes. That which results from a degree of weakness of character may sometimes wear the aspect of transcendent courage. A bolder man than Don Carlos Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have made a struggle for life. He might have fought over every point as it arose, have availed himself of every loophole for escape, have thrown upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime. But such a cause would not have been possible to Carlos. As a running leap is far more easy than a standing one. So, to sensitive temperaments, it is easier to rush for which to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it off. Knowing all the time that it must come at last. He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon his examiners. To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in much weakness. Still he had confessed him and shout out as he was from all ordinary means of grace. The act of confession became a kind of sacrament to him. It was a token and an evidence of Christ's presence with him and Christ's power working in him. He could say now, In the day that I called upon thee thou answeredest me and strengthenedest me with strength in my soul. And from that hour he seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ and more intimate communion with him than he had ever done before. It was well that he had strong consolation for his need was great. Two other examinations followed after a short interval and in both of these many braggart took a far more active part than he had done in the first. The inquisitors were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence upon which to condemn Frey Konstantino, who up to this point had steadily resisted every effort they had made to induce him to criminate himself. They thought it probable that Don Carlos Alvarez could assist them, if you would, especially since there had been found amongst his papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late Cunard Magistral. Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is scarcely necessary to say that Munna Braga, who forgot nothing, had not forgotten the mysterious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a cousin of the prisoners, who was now stated to be hopelessly insane. What did that mean? Was the story true, or were the family keeping back evidence which might compromise one or more of its remaining members? But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question, or at least one that touched him more nearly. His own arrest had been decreed in consequence of two depositions against him. First, a member of Losada's congregation had named him as one of the habitual attendants. Then, a monk of San Isodro had fatally compromised him under the torture. The monk's testimony was clear and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by others. But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the name of Menaya had been wanted to attend the Conventical. Who was the second? Either to this problem had baffled the inquisitors. Don Manuel Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy, and the only other Menaya known to them was the prisoner's brother. But in his favor, there was every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary return to Seville, where instead of shunning, he seemed to court observation by throwing himself continually in the inquisitor's way and soliciting audience of him. Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But in the absence of anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary in order to warrant proceedings against him. According to the inquisitorial laws, what they styled full half-proof of a crime must be obtained before ordering the arrest of the supposed criminal, and the key to all these perplexities had now to be rang from the unwilling hands of Carlos. These needed half-proof could and must be furnished by him. He must speak out, said those stern, pitiless men who held him in their hands. But here he was stronger than they, neither arts, persuasions, threats, nor promises of veiled to unseal those pale, silent lips. Would torture do it? He was told plainly that, unless he would answer every question put to him freely and distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors. His heart throbbed wildly. Then grew sick and faint. A dread far keener than the dread of death prompted one short, sharp struggle against the inevitable, he said, It is against your own law to torture a confessed criminal for information concerning others, for the law presumes that a man loves himself better than his neighbors, and therefore that he who has informed against himself would more readily inform against other heretics if he knew them. He was right. His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one of the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of the inquisitorial proceedings. But what mattered rules and canons to the members of a secret and irresponsible tribunal? Munib Raga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer. That rule was framed for the delinquents of another sort, he said. You looter and heretics have the command thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself, so deeply rooted in your heart, that a very flesh must need to be torn from your bones and you will be informed against your brethren. I overrule your objection as frivolous. And then a sentence more dreaded than the variable death sentence itself received the formal sanction of the board. Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees and pressing his burning brow against the cold, damp stone cried aloud in his anguish. Let this cup only this pass from me. He was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is most appalling. Kindly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in unspeakable dread from what stronger characters might brave or defy. His vivid imagination intensified every punk he felt or feared. His mind was like a room hung round with mirrors in which every terrible thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hundred terrors instead of one. What another would have endured once, he endured over and over again in agonized anticipation. At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable, tearfulness and trembling took hold upon him. He felt ready to pray that God in his great mercy would take away his life and let the bearer of the dreaded summons find him beyond all their malice. One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair. It had began to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonzales told him she had seen his brother. What if they dragged that loved name from his lips? What if in his weakness he became Juan's betrayer? Once it had been in his heart to betray him from selfish love, perhaps in judgment for that scene, he was now to betray him through sharp bodily anguish. Even if his will were kept firm all through, which he scarcely dared to hope, would not reason give way and wild words be rang from his lips that would too surely ruin all. He tried to think of his saviour's death and passion, tried to pray for strength and patience to drink of his cup. Sometimes he prayed that prayer with strong crying and tears, sometimes with cold mute lips, too weary to cry any longer. If he was heard and answered, he knew it not then. Days of suspense wore on. They were only less dreary than the nights when sleep fled from his eyes and horrible visions, which yet he knew were less horrible than the truth, rose in quick succession before his mind. One evening seated on his bench in the twilight he fell into an uneasy slumber. The dark dread that never left him mingling with a sunny gleam of old memories wove a vivid dream of nu'era, and of that summer morning when the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the strong resolve. One, brother, I will never wrong thee, so help me God. The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp aroused him. He started to his feet at the arcade's entrance. This time no change of dress was prescribed him. He knew his doom. He cried but to no human ear. From the very depths of his being the prayer arose. Father, save, sustain me. I am thine. And of chapter 32, chapter 33 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 33 on the other side. Happy are they who learn at last those silent suffering teach the secret of enduring strength and praise too deep for speech, peace that no pressure from without no storm within can reach. There is no death for me to fear for Christ my Lord hath died. There is no curse in all my pain for he was crucified and it is fellowship with him that keeps me near his side. AL Wearing When the light of the next morning streamed in through the narrow grating of his cell, Carlos was there once more lying on his bed of rushes. But was it indeed the next morning or was it ten years, twenty years afterwards? Without a painful effort of thought and memory he himself could scarcely have told. That last night was like a great gulf fixed between his presence and all his past. The moment when he entered that torchlit subterranean room, seemed a sharp black dividing line, sundering his life into two halves and the latter half seemed longer than that which had gone before. Nor could years of suffering have left a sadder impress on the young face, out of which the look of youth had passed, apparently forever. Brow and lips were pale, but two crimson spots still telling of a feverish pain burred on the hollow cheeks, while the large, lustrous eyes beamed with even unnatural brilliance. The poor woman who was doing the work of God's bright angels in that dismal prison came softly in. How she obtained entrance there, Carlos did not know, and was far too weak to ask or even to wonder, but probably she was sent by Benavideo who knew that in his present condition some human help was indispensable to the prisoner. Maria Gonzalez was too well accustomed to scenes of horror to be over much surprised or shocked by what she saw. Silently though with a heart full of compassion, she rendered the futile services in her power. She placed the broken frame in as easy a position as she could, and once and again she raised to the part slips the cup of cold water so eagerly desired. He roused himself to murmur a word of thanks, then, as she prepared to leave him, his eyes followed her westfully. Can I do anything more for you, senor? She asked. Yes, mother. Tell me, have you spoken to my brother? I, they me, no, senor, said the poor woman whose ability was not equal to her good will. I have tried, God what, but I could not get from my master the name of the place where he lives without making him suspect something and never since I have had the good fortune to see his face. I know you have done what you could. My message does not matter now. Not so much. Still, best he should go. Tell him so when you find him. But remember, tell him not of this. You promise, mother? He must never know it. Never. She spoke a few words of pity and condolence. It was horrible. He faltered in faint broken tones. Worst of all, the return to life. For I thought all was over and that I should awake face-to-face with Christ. But I cannot speak of it. There was a long silence, then his eye kindled and a look of joy, eye, even of triumph, flushed across the wasted suffering face. But I have overcome. No, not I. Christ has overcome in me, the weakest of his members. Now I am beyond it, on the other side. To the poor tortured captive there had been given a foretaste, strange and sweet, of what they feel, who stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God in their hands. Men had done their worst, their very worst. He knew now all the dread mystery of pain, all that flesh could accomplish in its fiercest conflict with spirit. Yet not one word that could injure anyone he loved had been wrung from his lips. All was over now. In that there was mercy, far more mercy than was shown to others. He had been permitted to drain the cup at a single draft. Now he could feel grateful to the physicians, who with truly kind cruelty, and not without some risk to themselves, had prevented, in his case, that fiendish device, the suspension of the torture. Even according to the execrable laws of the inquisition he had won his right to die in peace. As time passed on, a blessed sense that he was now out of the hands of man, and in those of God alone, sunk like balm upon his weary spirit. Fear was gone, grief had passed away. Even memory had almost ceased to give him a pang. For how could he long for the loved faces of former days, when day and night Christ himself was near him? So strangely near, so intimately present, that he sometimes thought that if, through some wonderful relenting of his persecutors, Juan were permitted to come and stand beside him, that loved brother would still seem further away, less real, than the unseen friend who was keeping watch by his couch. And even the bodily pain that so seldom left him, was not hard to bear, for it was only the touch of his finger. He had passed into the clear air upon the mountaintop, where the sun shines ever, and the storm winds cannot come. Nothing hurt him. Nothing disturbed him now. He had visitors. For what had really placed him beyond the reach of his enemies, was not unnaturally supposed by them to have brought him into a fitting state to receive their exhortations. So inquisitors, monks and friars, persons of good learning and honest repute, came in due course to his lonely cell, armed with persuasions and arguments, which were always waited with threats and promises. Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, from a great distance, into the secret place of the Lord, where he dwelt now, they could not enter. Threats and promises fell powerless on his ear. What more could they do to him? As far as the mere facts of the case were concerned, this security may have been misplaced. No, it was misplaced. But it saved him from much suffering. And as for promises, had they thrown open the door of his dungeon and beat him go forth free, only that one in tens longing to see his brother's face would have nerve him to make the effort. Arguments he was glad to answer when permitted. It was a joy to speak for his Lord, who had done and was doing such great things for him. As far as he could, he made use of those scripture words with which his memory was so richly stored. But more than once it happened that he was forced to take up the weapons which he had learned in the schools to use so skillfully. He tore sophisms to pieces with a dexterity of one who knew how they were constructed and astonished the students of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas by vanquishing them on their own ground. Reapproach and insult he met with a fearless meekness that nothing could truffle. Why should he feel anger? Rather, did he pity those who stood without in the darkness, not seeing the face he saw, not hearing the voice he heard? Usually, however, those who visited him yielded to the spell of his own sweet and perfect court see, and were kinder than they intended to be to the professed impenitent heretic. His heart, now at leisure from itself, was filled with sympathy for his imprisoned brethren and sisters. But, except to Maria Gonzalez, he dared not speak of them, lest the simplest remark or question might give rise to some new suspicion or supply some link hitherto missing in the chain of evidence against them. But those who came to visit him sometimes gave him unasked intelligence about them. He could not, however, rely upon the truth of what reached him in this way. He was told that Losada had retracted. He did not believe it. Equally, did he disbelieve a similar story of Don Juan Ponce de León, in which, unhappily, there was some truth. The constancy of that gentle, generous-hearted nobleman had yielded under torture and cruel imprisonment, and concessions had been wrung from him that dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. On the other hand, the waiverer Garcia Arias, known as the White Doctor, had come forward with a hardyhood truly marvellous, and not only confessed his own faith, but mocked and defied the inquisitors. Of Frey Constantino, the most contradictory stories were told to him. At one time, he was assured that the great preacher had not only admitted his own guilt, but also on the rack had informed against his brethren. Again he was told, and this time with truth, that the Emperor's former chaplain and favorite had been spared the horrors of the question, but that the eagerly desired evidence against him had been obtained by accident. A lady of rank, one of his chief friends, was amongst the prisoners, and the inquisitors sent an algocile to her house to demand possession of her jewels. Her son, without waiting to ascertain the precise object of the officer's visit, surrendered to him in a panic, some books which Frey Constantino had given his mother to conceal. Amongst them was a volume in his own handwriting containing the most explicit avowal of the principles of the Reformation. On this being shown to the prisoner, he struggled no longer. You have there a fallen candid confession of my beliefs. He said, and he was now in one of the dark and loathsome subterranean cells of the Triana. Amongst those who most frequently visited Carlos was the prior of the Dominican Convent. This man seemed to take a peculiar interest in the young heretics fate. He was a good specimen of a character oftener talked about than met with in real life, the genuine fanatic. When he threatened Carlos, as he spared not to do, with a fire that is never quenched, at least he believed with all his heart that he was in danger of it. Carlos soon perceived this, and accepting his honest intention to benefit him, came to regard him with a kind of friendliness. Besides, the prior listened to what he said with more attention than did most of the others, and even in the prison of the Inquisition, a man likes to be listened to, especially when his opportunities of speaking are few and brief. Many weeks passed by, and still Carlos lay on his mat in weakness and suffering of body, though in calm gladness of spirit. Surgical and medical aid had been afforded him in due course, and it was not the fault of either surgeon or physician that he did not recover. They could stand to wounds and set dislocated joints, but when the springs of life were subbed, how could they renew them? How could they quicken the feeble pulse, or send back life and energy into the broken, exhausted frame? At this time Carlos himself felt certain, even more certain than did his physician, that never again would his footsteps pass the limits of that narrow cell. Once indeed, there came to him a brief and fleeting pang of regret. It was in the springtime, everywhere else so bright and fair, but making little change in those gloomy cells. Maria Gonzales now sometimes obtained access to him, partly through Benevidios increased inattention to all his duties, partly because any attempted escape on the part of the captive being obviously out of the question, he was somewhat less jealously watched, and more than once the jailer's little daughter stalled in timidly beside her nurse, bearing some trifling gift for the sick prisoner. To Carlos this visits came like sunbeams, and in a very short time he succeeded in establishing quite an intimate friendship with a child. One morning she entered his cell with Maria, carrying a basket from which she produced, with shy pleasure, a few golden oranges. Look, senor! she said. They are good to eat now, for the blossoms are out, I gathered some to show you. And filling both her hands with the luscious wealth of the orange flowers, she flung them carelessly down on the mud beside him. In her eyes they were of no value compared with the fruit. With Carlos it was far otherwise. The rich perfume that filled the cell filled his heart also with sweet sad dreams, which lasted long after his kindly visitors had left him. The orange trees had just been in flower last spring, when all gods free earth and sky were shut out from his sight forever, only a year ago. What a long, long year it seemed. And only one year further back he was walking in the orange gardens with Dona Beatriz, in all the delicious intoxication of his first and last dream of youthful love. Better here than there, better now than then, he murmured, though the tears gathered in his eyes. But oh for one hour of the old free life, one look at orange trees in flower or blue skies or the grassy slopes and cork trees of Nuerra or— And more painfully intends the yearning grew. One familiar face belonging to the past to show me it was not all a dream, as I am sometimes tempted to think it. Thine, Roy, even might be, oh Roy, Roy. But thank God I have not betrayed thee. In the afternoon of that day visitors were announced. Carlos was not surprised to see the stern, narrow face and wide hair of the Dominican prior, but he was a little surprised to observe that the person who followed him wore the gray cowl of Saint Francis. The prior merely bestowed the customer resolutation upon him, and then, stepping aside, allowed his companion to approach. But as soon as Carlos saw his face, he raised himself eagerly and, stretching out both his hands, grasped those of the Franciscan. Dear Frey Sebastian! He cried. My good kind tutor! My Lord, the prior has been graciously pleased to allow me to visit your Excellency. It is truly kind of you, my Lord, I thank you heartily. Said Carlos, frankly and promptly turning towards the Dominican, who looked at him with somewhat the air of one who is trying to be stern with a child. I have ventured to allow you this indulgence. He said. In the hope that the councils of one whom you hold in honor may lead you to repentance. Carlos turned once more to Frey Sebastian, whose hand he still held. It is a great joy to see you. He said. Only today I had been longing for a familiar face, and you are changed never a what since you used to teach me my humanities. How have you come hillar? Where have you been all these years? Poor Frey Sebastian vainly tried to frame an answer to these simple questions. He had come to that prison straight from Munibraga's splendid patio, where amidst the gleam of Athulejos and of many colored marbles, the scent of rare exotics and the music of rippling fountains, he had partaken of a sumptuous midday repast. In this dark foul dungeon there was nothing to please the senses, not even God's free air and light. Everything on which his eye rested was coarse, painful, and loathsome. By the prisoner's side lay the remains of a mill, in great contrast to his, and the sleeve, fallen back from the hand that held his own, showed deep scars on the wrist. He knew whence they were. Yet the face that was looking in his, with kindling eyes, and a smile on the parted lips, might have been the face of the boy Carlos, when he praised him for his successful task, only for the pain in it, and far deeper than pain, a look of a short piece that boyhood could scarcely know. Repressing a choking sensation, he faltered. Senor Don Carlos, it grieves me to the heart to see you here. Do not grieve me, dear fright, Sebastian, for I tell you truly I have never known such happy hours as since I came here. At first indeed I suffered. There was storm and darkness. But then, here for a moment his voice failed, and his flashed cheek and quivering leap betrayed the anguish a too hasty movement cost the broken frame. But recovering himself quickly, he went on. Then he arose and rebuked the wind and the sea, and there was a great calm. That calm lasts still. And often times this narrow room seems to me the house of God, the very gate of heaven. Moreover, he added, with a smile of strange brightness, there is heaven itself beyond. But, senor and your excellency, consider the disgrace and sorrow of your noble family. That is, I mean... Here the speaker paused in perplexity, and met the keen eye of the prior, fixed somewhat scornfully as he thought upon him. He was quite conscious that the Dominican was thinking him incapable, and incompetent to the task he had so earnestly solicited, he had sedulously prepared himself for this important interview, had gone through it in imagination beforehand, laying up in his memory several convincing and most pertinent exhortations, which could not fail to benefit his old pupil. But these were of no avail now. In fact, they all vanished from his recollection. He had just begun something rather vague and incoherent about Holy Church when the prior broke in. Honoured brother, he said, addressing with scrapless politeness the member of a rival fraternity. The prisoner may be more willing to listen to your pious exhortations, and you may have more freedom in addressing him if you are left for brief space alone together. Therefore, though it is scarcely regular, I will visit a prisoner in a neighbouring apartment and return hither for you in due time. For a Sebastian thanked him, and he withdrew, saying as he did so. It is not necessary for me to remind my reverend brother that conversation upon worldly matters is strictly forbidden in the Holy House. Whether the prior visited the other prisoner or no, it is not for us to inquire, but if he did, his visit was a short one, for it is certain that, for some time, he paced the gloomy corridor with troubled footsteps. He was thinking of a woman's face, a very young face, to which that of Don Carlos Alvarez wore a startling likeness. Do harsh, needlessly harsh, him murmured. For after all, she was no heretic. But which of us is always in the right of a Maria Sanctissima or a Promet? But if I can, I would vain make some reparation to him. If ever there was a true and sincere penitent, he is one. After a little further delay, he summoned Fray Sebastian by a peremptory knock at the inner door, the utter one, of course, remaining open. The Franciscan came, his broad, good-humoured face bathed in tears, which he scarcely made an effort to conceal. The prior glanced at him for a moment, then signed to Herrera, who was waiting in the gallery, to come and make the door fast. They walked on together in silence, until at length Fray Sebastian said in a trembling voice, My Lord, you are very powerful here. Can you do nothing for him? I have done much. At my intercession he had nine months of solitude, in which to recollect himself and ponder his situation ere he was called on to make answer at all. Judge my amazement when instead of entering upon his defence or calling witnesses to his character, he had once confessed all. Judge my greater amazement at his continued obstinacy since. When a man has broken a giant oak in two, he may feel some surprise at being baffled by a sapling. He will not relent, said Fray Sebastian, hardly restraining his sobs. He will die. I see one chance to save him. Returned the prior. But it is a hazardous experiment. The consent of the Supreme Council is necessary, as well as that of my Lord Vice Inquisitor, and neither may be very easy to obtain. To save his body or his soul, Fray Sebastian asked anxiously, Both, if it succeeds. But I can say no more. He added rather hotly. For my plan is bound up with a secret of which few living men save myself or in possession. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 34 Fray Sebastian's Trouble Now, with fainting frame, with soul just lingering on the flight begun, to bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, I bless thee, peace beyond thy noble head. Years of bright fame when I was with a dead. I bid this prayer survive me and retain its power again to bless thee and again. The haste been gathered into my dark fate, too much, too long for my sake desolate, hath been thine exiled youth. But now take back from dying hands thy freedom. Hemons It was late in August, all day long, the sky had been molten fire, and the earth brass. Everyone had doged away the sultry noontide hours in the coolest recesses of dwellings made to exclude heat, as hours to exclude cold. But when at last the sun sank in flame beneath the horizon, people began to creep out languidly to woo the refreshment of the evening breeze. The beautiful gardens of the Triana were still deserted, saved by two persons. One of these, a young lad, we beg pardon, a young gentleman, of fifteen or sixteen, sad or rather reclined by the riverside, eating slices from an enormous melon which he cut with a small silver-hilted dagger. A plumed cup and a gay velvet jerkin lined with satin had been thrown aside for coolness sake and lay near him on the ground, so that his present dress consisted merely of a mass of the finest white Holland, delicately starched and frilled, velvet hosin, long silk stockings, and fashionable square-toed shoes. Curls of scented hair were thrown back from a face beautiful as that of a girl, but bold and insolent in its expression as that of a spoiled and mischievous boy. The other person who seated in the arbor mentioned once before, with a book in his hand, of which, however, he did not in the course of an hour turn over a single leaf. A look of chronic discontent and dejection had replaced the good-humoured smiles of Ray Sebastian Gomez. Everything was wrong with the poor Franciscan now, even the delicacies of his patron's table ceased to please him, and he, in his turn, was fast-seizing to please his patron. How could it be otherwise when he had lost not only his happy art of indirect ingenious fluttery, but his power to be commonly agreeable or amusing? No more poems, not so much as the briefest sonnet on the suppression of heresy were to be heard from him, and he was fast becoming incapable of turning a jest or telling a story. It is said that idiots often manifest peculiar pain and terror at the sound of music, because it awakens within them faint stirrings of that higher life from which God's mysterious dispensation has shut them out. And it is true that the first stirrings of higher life usually come to all of us with pain and terror. Moreover, if we do not crush them out, but cherish and foster them, they are very apt to take away the brightness and pleasantness of the old, lower life altogether and to make it seem worthless and distasteful. A new and higher life had begun for Ray Sebastian. It was not his conscience that was quickened, only his heart. He there too he had chiefly cared for himself. He was a good-natured man, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Yet no sympathy for others had ever spoiled his appetite or hindered his digestion. But for the past three months he had been feeling, as he had not felt since he clung weeping to the mother who left him in the parlour of the Franciscan convent, a child of eight years old. The patient's suffering face of the young prisoner in the Triana had laid upon him a spell that he could not break. To say that he would have done anything in his power to save Don Carlos is to say little. Willingly would he have lived for a month on black bread and brackish water if that could have even mitigated his fate. But the very intensity of his desire to help him was fast making him incapable of rendering him the smallest service. Munibraga's flutterer and favourite might possibly, by dent of the utmost self-possession and the most adroit management, have accomplished some little good. But Frey Sebastian was now consciously forfeiting even the miserable fragment of power that had once been his. He thought himself like the salt that had lost its savor and was fit neither for the land nor yet for the dunk hill. Absorbed in his mournful reflections, he continued unconscious of the presence of such an important personage as Don Alonso de Munibraga, the Lord Vice Inquisitor's favourite page. At length, however, he was made aware of the fact by a loud angry shout. Off with you, violent scum of the people! How dare you put your accursed fishing-smack to shore in my Lord's garden and under his very eyes! Frey Sebastian looked up and so no fishing-boat but a decent-covered barge, from which, in spite of the page's remonstrance, two persons were landing, an elderly female clad in deep mourning, and her attendant, apparently a tradesman's apprentice or serving man. Frey Sebastian knew well how many distracted petitioners daily sought access to Munibraga to plead. Alas! how vainly! for the lives of parents, husbands, sons, or daughters! This was doubtless one of them. He heard her plead. For the love of heaven, dear young gentleman, hinder me not! Have you a mother? My only son lies! Out upon thee, woman! interrupted the page. And the foul fleeing take thee and thy only son together. Hush, Don Alonso! Frey Sebastian interposed, coming forward towards the spot, and perhaps for the first time in his life there was something like dignity in his tone and manner. You must be aware, senora. He said, turning to the woman, that the right of using this landing-place is restricted to my Lord's household. You will be admitted at the gate of the Triana if you present yourself at a proper hour. Alas, good father! Once again I sought admission to my Lord's present. I am the unhappy mother of Luista Brago, he who used to paint an aluminum net. The church messes on so beautifully. More than a year gone, I tore him from me, and carried him away to John the Tower, and since then. So help me, the good God! Never a word of him have I heard, whether he is living or dead. This day I know not. Oh, a Lutheran dog, serve him right. cried the page. I hope they have put him on the pulley. Fraser Bastion turned suddenly, and dealt the lad a stinging blow on the side of his face. To the latest hour of his life, this act of Bastion remained incomprehensible to himself. He could only ascribe it to the direct agency of the evil one. I was tempted by the devil, he would say, with a sigh. Vaid retro me, Santana. Crimson to the roots of his perfumed hair, the boy sought his dagger. Vile, cadiff, beggarly, trencher-scraping, Franciscan. He cried. You shall repent of this. But apparently, changing his mind the next moment, he allowed the dagger to drop from his hand, and snatching up his jerkin, ran at full speed towards the house. Fraser Bastion crossed himself, and gazed after him bewildered. His unwanted passion dying, as suddenly as it had flamed up, and giving place to fear. Meanwhile, the mother of Abrego, to whom it did not occur that the buffet bestowed on the page could have any serious consequences, resumed her pleadings. Your reference seems to have a heart that can feel you but unhappy. She said. For having taken refuse not the prayer of the most unhappy woman in the world. Only let me see his Lordship, and let me throw myself at his feet, and tell him the whole truth. My poor lad had nothing at all to do with the Lutherans. He was a good, true Christian, and an old one, like all his family. Nay, nay, my good woman, I fear I can do nothing to help you. And I entreat of you to leave this place, else some of my Lord's household are sure to come and compel you. Aye, there they are! It was true enough. Don Alonso, as he ran through the porch, shouted to the numerous adult attendants who were lounging about, and some of them immediately rushed out into the garden. In justice to phrase a bastion, it must be recorded, that before he consulted for his personal safety, he led the poor woman back to the barge, and saw her departing it. Then he made good his own retreat, going straight to the lodging of Don Juan Alvarez. He found Juan lying asleep on the saddle. The day was hot. He had nothing to do, and moreover, the fiery energy of his southern blood was dashed by the southern taint of occasional torpor. Starting up suddenly, and seeing phrase a bastion standing before him, with a look of terror, he asked in alarm. Any tithings, Frey? Speak, tell me quickly. None, Senor Don Juan, but I must leave this place at once. And the friar briefly narrated the scene that had just taken place, adding mournfully. Aye, there me! I cannot tell what came over me. Me, the mildest tempered man in all the Spains. And what of all that? Asked Juan, rather contemptuously. I see nothing to regret. Save that you did not give the insolent lad what he deserved. A sound beating. But, Senor Don Juan, you don't understand. Cast the poor friar. I must fly immediately. If I stay here over to-night, I shall find myself before the morning there. And with a significant gesture, he pointed to the green fortress that loomed above them. Nonsense! They cannot suspect a man of heresy, even Dilevi, for boxing the ear of an impudent serving lad. Aye, and can they not, your worship? Do you not know that the Gardener of the Triana has lain for many a weary month in one of those dismal cells, and all for the grave offence of snatching a reed out of the hand of one of my Lord's lackeys so roughly as to make it bleed? Truly, now are things come to a strange pass in our free and royal land of Spain. A barely upstart such as this moon ebraga, who could not to save himself from the rack, tell you the name of his own great grandfather, drags the sons and brothers, aye, and God help us, the wives and daughters, of our knights and nobles to the dungeon and the stake before our eyes. And it is not enough for him to set his own heel on our necks, his minions, his very grooms and pages must lord it over us, and woe to him who deserves to chastise their insolence. Nathlas, I would feel it at comfort to make every bone in that urchin's body ache soundly. I have a mind, but this is folly. I believe you're right, Frey, you should go. Moreover, said the friar mournfully, I am doing no good here. No one can do good now, written Juan, in a tone of deep dejection. And today the last blow has fallen. The poor woman who showed him kindness and sometimes told us how he fared is herself a prisoner. What? She has been discovered? Even so, and with those fiends' mercies the greatest of all crimes. The child met me today, whether by accident or design, I know not, and told me, weeping bitterly. God help her! Some would gladly endure her punishment if they might commit her crime. Said Don Juan, there was a pause, then he resumed. I'd been about to ask you to apply once more to the friar. Frey Sebastian shook his head. That were of no use, he said, for it is certain that my lord, the vice inquisitor, and the friar have had a misunderstanding about the matter. And the friar, so far from obtaining permission to deal with him as he desired, is not even allowed to see him now. And yourself? What there do you mean to go? Asked Juan, rather abruptly. In sooth, I know not, senor. I have had no time to think, but go I must. I will tell you what to do. Go to Nueta. There for the present you will be safe. And if any man inquire your business, you have a fair and ready answer. I send you to look after my affairs. Stay. I will write by you to Dolores. Poor, true-hearted Dolores. Then Juan seemed to fall into reverie, so long did he seat motionless, his face shaded by his hand. His mournful air, his unwanted listlessness, his attenuated frame, all struck Frey Sebastian painfully. After musing a while in silence, he said at last, very suddenly, Senor Don Juan. Juan looked up. Have you ever thought since on the message he sent you by me? Don Juan looked as though that question were worse than needless. Was not every word of his brother's message burned into his heart? This it was. My Roy, thou hast done all for me that the best of brothers could. Leave me now to God unto whom I am going quickly and in peace. Quit the country as soon as thou canst, and God's best blessings surround thy path and guard thee evermore. Juan fact Carlos had most earnestly untreated Frey Sebastian to withhold from his brother. Juan must never know that he had endured the horrors of the question. The monk would have promised almost anything that could bring a glow of pleasure to that pale patient face, and he had kept his promise, though at the expense of a few falsehoods that did not greatly embarrass his conscience. He had conveyed the impression to Don Juan that it was merely from the effects of his long and cruel imprisonment that his brother was sinking into the only refuge that remained to him, a quiet grave. After a pause he resumed looking earnestly at Juan. He wished you to go. Do you not know that next month they say there will be an alto? Yes, but it is not likely. They gaze at each other in silence, neither saying what was not likely. Any horrors possible? said Juan at last. But no more of this, until after the alto, with his chances of some termination to this dreadful suspense, I stir not from Sevilla. Now he must think for you. I know where to find a boat, the owner of which will take you some miles on your way up the river to-night, then you can hire a horse. Fray Sebastian groaned. Neither the journey itself, its cause, nor its manner were anything but disagreeable to the poor friar. But there was no help for him. Juan gave him some further directions about his way, then said food and wine before him. Eat and drink, he said. Meanwhile I will secure the boat when I return I can write to Dolores. All was done as he planned, and ere the morning broke, Fray Sebastian was far on his way to Nueva Era, with a letter to Dolores stitched into the lining of his doublet. Chapter 35 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 35 The Eve of the Auto It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. He sitteth alone in kippeth silence, because he hath borne it upon him. He puteth his mouth in the dust, if so be there may be hope. Lamentations 3 27-29 On the 21st of September 1559, all Seville were a festive appearance. The shops were closed, and the streets were filled with idle loiterers in their gay holiday apparel. For it was the eve of the great auto, and the preliminary ceremonies were going forward amidst the admiration of gazing thousands. Two stately scaffolds in the form of an amphitheater had been erected in the great square of the city, then called the square of St. Francis. And thither, when the work was completed, flags and crosses were born in solemn procession with music and singing. But a still more significant ceremonial was enacted in another place, outside the walls, on the Prado San Sebastian, stood the ghastly Quemadero, the great altar upon which, for generations, men had offered human sacrifices to the god of peace and love. Thither came long files of barefooted friars, carrying bushes and fagots, which they laid in order on the place of death, while in sweet yet solemn tones they chanted the miserera and deprefundis. Very close together on those festive days were strong light and deep shadow, but our way leads us, for the present, into the light. Turning away from the square of St. Francis and the Prado San Sebastian, we enter a cool upper room in the stately mansion of Don Garcia Ramirez. There, in the midst of golden gems and of silk in place, Doña Inés is standing, busily engaged in the task of selecting the fairest treasures of her wardrobe to grace the grand festival of the following day. Doña Beatriz de la Veda and the young waiting woman who had been employed in the vain, though generous effort to save Don Carlos are both aiding her in the choice. Please, your ladyship, said the girl, I should recommend rose colour for the basquina. Then, with those beautiful pearls, my lord's late gift, my lady will be as fine as a duchess, of whom I hear many will be there. But what will, senora Doña Beatriz, please, to wear? I do not intend to go, Juanita, said Doña Beatriz, with a little embarrassment. Not intend to go? cried the girl, crossing herself in surprise. Not go to see the grandest sight there has been in Seville for many a year, worth a hundred bullfeasts. I didn't mean, what a pity. Juanita, in your post, your mistress, I think you hear the senorita's voice in the garden. It is far too hot for her to be out of doors, oblige me by bringing her in at once. As soon as the attendant was gone, Doña Inés turns to her cousin. It is really most unreasonable of Don Juan, she said, to keep you shut up here whilst all Seville is making holiday. I am glad, I have no heart to go forth, said Doña Beatriz with a quivering leap. Nor have I too much for that matter. My poor brother is so weak and ill today, it grieves me to the heart. Moreover, he is still so thoughtless about his poor soul. That is the worst of all. I never cease praying our lady to bring him to a better mind, if he would only consent to see a priest, but he was ever obstinate. And if I urge the point too strongly, he will think I suppose I am dying. I thought it was awful and unproved since he had him brought over here. Certainly he is happier here than he was in his father's house, but of late he seems to me to be sinking in that quickly. And now the auto. What of that? Asks Doña Beatriz with a quick look, half suspicious and half frightened. Doña Inés closed the door carefully and drew nearer to her cousin. They say she will be amongst the relaxed. She whispered. Does he know it? Asks to Beatriz. I fear he suspects something. And what to tell him or not to tell him I know not. Our lady helped me. Hey Demi, this is a horrible business from beginning to end. And the last thing, the arrest of his sister Don Juana, a duke's daughter, a noble's bride. But best be silent. Con el re y la inquisition, chiton chiton, with the king or the inquisition hush hush. Thus only in a few hurried words spoken with pated breath did Doña Inés venture to allude to the darkest and saddest of the horrible tragedies in that time of horrors. Nor shall we do more. Still you know, Amiga Mia. She continued. One must do like one's neighbours. It would be so ridiculous to look gloomy on a festival day. Besides, everyone would talk. That is why I say I am glad Don Juan made it his prayer to me that I would not go. For not to look sorrowful when my father Don Manuel and my aunt Donia Katerina are both doing their utmost to drive me out of my senses would be past my power. Have they been urging the suit of Senor Louie upon me again? My poor Beatriz, I am truly sorrowful. Said Doña Inés, with genuine sympathy. Urging it again? Bair tree is repeated with flashing eyes. And he but they have never ceased to urge it, and they spare not to say such wicked cruel words. They tell me Don Juan is dishonoured by his brother's crime. Dishonoured forsooth, think of dishonour touching him. After the day of Saint Quentin, the Duke of Sava was not of that mind nor a Catholic king himself. And they have the audacity to say that I can easily get absolved of my trust to him. Absolved of a solemn promise made in the sight of God and of our Lady and all the Holy Saints. If that be not heresy as bad as hush, interrupted Doña Inés. These are dangerous subjects. Moreover, I hear someone knocking at the door. It proved to be a page bearing a message. If it please Doña Beatriz de la Velia, Don Juan Alvarez de Santianos y Magnaia kisses the senora's feet, and most humbly desires the favour of an audience. I go. Said Bair trees. Requests Senor Don Juan to have the goodness to untie himself a little, and bring his excellency fruit and wine. Added Doña Inés. My cousin. She said, turning to Bair trees as soon as the page left the room. Do you not know your cheeks are out of flame? Don Juan will think we've quarrelled. Rest you here a minute, and let me bathe them for you with this water of orange flowers. Bair trees submitted their reluctantly to her cousin's good offices. While she performed them, she whispered, And be not so downcast, Amiga Mia. There's a remedy for most troubles. And as for yours, I see not why Don Juan himself should not save you out of them once for all. She added, in a whisper, two or three words that more than undid all the benefit Which the cheeks of Bair trees might otherwise have derived From the application of the fragrant water. No use. Was the agitated reply. Even were it possible they would not permit it. You can come to visit me, then trust me to manage the rest. The truth is, Amiga Mia. Doña Inés continued hurriedly, as she smoothed her cousin's dark glossy hair. What between sickness and quarrelling, and the faith and heresy, and prisons? There's so much trouble in the world that no one can help. It seems a pity not to help all one can. So you may tell Don Juan that if Donña Inés can do him a good turn, she will not be found wanting. There, I despair of your cheeks. Yet I must allow that their crimson becomes you well. But she would rather hear that from Don Juan's lips than from mine. Go to him, my cousin. And with a parting kiss Bair trees was dismissed. But if she expected any fluttery that day from the lips of Don Juan, she was disappointed. His heart was far too sorrowful. He had merely come to tell his betrothed what he intended to do on the morrow, that dreadful morrow. I have secured a station. He said, From whence I can watch the whole procession as it issues from the gate of the triana. If he is there, I shall dare everything for last look and word. And a desperate man is seldom baffled. If even his dust is there, I shall stand beside it till all is over. If not, Here he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished. As if, in that case, it did not matter what he did. Just then Don Juan has entered. After customary salutations, she said, I have a request to make of you, my cousin. On the part of my brother, Don Gonzalvo. He desires to see you for a few moments. Senora, my cousin, I am very much at your service, and at his. Juan was accordingly conducted to the upper room where Gonzalvo lay. And at the special request of the sick man they were left alone together. He stretched out a wasted hand to his cousin, who took it in silence, but with a look of compassion. For it needed only a glance at his face to show that death was there. I should be glad to think you forgave me, he said. I do forgive you, Juan answered. You intended no evil. Will you then do me a great kindness? It is the last I shall ask. Tell me the names of any of the victims that have come to your knowledge. There's only through rumour one can hear these things. Not yet have I succeeded in discovering whether the name dearest to me is amongst them. Tell me, has rumour named in your herring? Donna Maria, the Cirxes, Ibo-Horcas. Juan was still ignorant of the secret which Dona Inés had but recently confided to his betrothed. He therefore answered without hesitation, though in a low and sad tone. Yes, they say she is to die tomorrow. Don Consolvo flung his hand across his face, and there was a great silence, which the odd and wandering Juan broke at last, guessing at the truth, he said. And maybe I have done wrong to tell you. No, you have done right. I knew a day you told me. It is well for her. A brave word, bravely spoken. Nigh upon eighteen months, long, slow months of grief and pain, all ended now. Tomorrow night she will see the glory of God. There was another long pause. At last Juan said, Perhaps, if you could, you would gladly share her fate. Consolvo have raised himself and a flash of her spread the worn face, that already wore the ashy hue of approaching death. Share that fate! He cried, with an eagerness contrasting strangely with his former slow and measured utterance. Change with them asked to beggar, who sits all day at the king's gate, waiting for his doll of crumbs. Would he gladly change with the king's children, when he sees the golden glade flung open before them, and watches them passed in robed and crowned to the presence chamber of the king himself? Your fate is greater than mine, said Juan in surprise. In one way, yes, replied Consolvo, sinking back and resuming his low quiet tone. For the beggar dares to hope that the king has looked with pity even on him. You do well to hope in the mercy of God. Cousin, do you know what my life has been? I think I do. I am past disguise now. Standing on the brink of the grave, I dare speak the truth. Don't be to my own shame. There was no evil, no sin. Stay, I will sum up all in one word. One pure, blameless life. A man's life, too. I have watched from day to day, from childhood to manhood. All that your brother Don Carlos was, I was not. All he was not, I was. Yet you once thought that life incomplete, unmanly. Said Juan, remembering the taunts that in past days had so often aroused his wrath. I was a fool. It is just retribution that I, I who called him a coward, should see him march in their triumphant with a palm of victory in his hand. But let me end, for I think it is the last time I shall speak of myself in any human air. I sowed the flesh, and of the flesh I have reaped, corruption. It is an awful word, Don Juan. All the life in me turned to death. All the good in me. What God meant for good, such as force, fire, passion, turned to evil. What availed it me that I loved a star in heaven. A bright, lonely, distant star, while I was earthy of the earth. Because I could not, and thank God for that, pluck down my star from the sky and hold it in my hand. Even that love became corruption, too. I fulfilled my course. The earthly grew sensual. The sensual grew devilish. And then God smote me, though not then for the first time. The stroke of his hand was heavy. My heart was crushed. My frame left powerless. He posed for a while, then slowly resumed. The stroke of his hand. Your brother's words. Your brother's book. By these he taught me. There is deliverance even from the bondage of corruption. Through him who came to call not the righteous, but sinnest. One day, and that soon, I, even I, shall kneel at his feet, and thank him for saving the lost. And then I shall see my star, shining far above me in his glorious heaven, and be content and glad. God has been very gracious to you, my cousin. Said Juan in a tone of emotion. And what he has cleansed I dare not call common. Where my brother here today, I think he would stretch out to you the right hand. Not a forgiveness, but a fellowship. I have told you how he longed for your soul. God can fulfill more desires of this than that, Don Juan. And I doubt not he will. What know we of his dealings? We who all these dreary months have been mourning for, and pitting his prisoners. Tomorrow to be his crowned and sainted martyrs. It were a small thing with him to flood the dungeon's gloom with light, and give even hair, even now, all their hearts long for to those who suffer for him. Juan was silent. Truly the last was first, and the first last now. Gonzalvo had reached some truths, which were still far beyond his skin. He did not know how their seed had been sown in his heart by his own brother's hand. At length he answered in a low and faltering voice. There is much in what you say, frae Sebastian told me. Aye, cried Gonzalvo eagerly. What did frae Sebastian tell you of him? That he found him in perfect peace, though ill and weak in body. It is my hope that God himself has delivered him air now out of the cruel hands. And I ought to tell you that he spoke of all his relatives with affection, and made special inquiry after your health. Gonzalvo said quietly. It is likely I shall see him before you. Juan sighed. Tomorrow will reveal something. He said. Many things, perhaps. Gonzalvo returned. Well, Don Abertrice waits you now. There is no prison in that wine. Do it be of an earthly vintage. And God himself puts the cup in your hand. So take it, and be comforted. Yet stay. Have your patience for one word more. For a thousand, if you will, my cousin. I know that in heart you share his—our faith. Juan shrunk a little from his gaze. Of course. He replied. I have been obliged to conceal my opinions, and indeed, of late all things have seemed to grow dim and uncertain with me. Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I cannot tell what truth is. He came not to call the righteous, but sinners, said Gonzalvo. And the sinner who has heard his call must believe, let others doubt, as they may. Thank God, the sinner may not only believe, but love. Yes, in that the beggar and the gate may take his stand beside the king's children, unreproved. Even I dare to say, Lord, thou knowest all things. Thou knowest that I love thee. Only to them it is given to prove it. While I—I—there was the bitter thought. Long it wanted me. At last I prayed, that if indeed he deigned to accept me, all sinful as I was, he would give me for a sign, something to do, to suffer, or to give up, whereby I might prove my love. And did he hear you? Yes. He showed me one thing harder to give up than life, one thing harder to do than to brave the torture and the death of fire. What is that? Once Morgan's alveiled his face, then he murmured, Harder to give up, vengeance, hatred, harder to do, to pray for their murderous. I could never do that, said Juan, starting. And if at last—at last—I can—I, whose anger was fierce, and whose wrath was cruel, even unto death. Is that not his own work in me? Juan half turned away, and did not answer immediately. In his heart many thoughts were struggling. Far indeed was he from praying for his brother's murderers, almost as far from wishing to do it. Rather would he invoke God's vengeance upon them. Had Gonzalva in the depths of his misery, remorse, and penitence actually found something which don Juan Alvarez still lacked, he said at last, with a humility new and strange to him. My cousin, you are near heaven than I. At your time, yes, said Gonzalva with a faint smile. Now fare well, cousin, and thank you. Can I do nothing more for you? Yes, tell my sister that I know all. Now, God bless you, and deliver you from the evils that beset your path, and bring you and yours to some land where you may worship him in peace and safety. And so the cousins parted, never to meet again upon earth. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 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 36 The Horrible and Tremendous Spectacle All have passed, the fearful and the desperate and the strong, some like the bark that rushes with the blast, some like the leaf worn tremblingly along, and some like men who have but one more field to fight, and then may slumber on their shield, therefore they arm in hope. Hemons At early dawn next morning, Juan established himself in an upper room of one of the high houses which overlooked the gate of the Triana. He had hearted from the owners for the purpose stipulating for sole possession and perfect loneliness. At sunrise the great cathedral bell told out solemnly, and all the bells in the city responded. Through the crowd, which had already gathered in the street, richly dressed citizens were threading their way on foot. He knew they were those who, out of zeal for the faith, had volunteered to act as patrinos, or godfathers, to the prisoners walking beside them in the procession. Amongst them he recognized his cousins, Don Manuel and Don Baltazar. They were all admitted into the castle by a private door. Ere long the great gate was flung open. Juan's eyes were riveted to the spot. There was a sound of singing, sweet and low, as of childish voices, for the first to issue from those gloomy portals were the boys of the College of Doctrine, dressed in white surpluses and chanting litanies to the saints. Clear and full at intervals rose from their lips the aura pronobis of their response, and tears gathered unconsciously in the eyes of Juan at the old familiar words. In great contrast with the white-robed children came the next in order. Juan drew his breath hard, for here were the penitents, pale melancholy faces, costly and disconsolate, beyond what can be imagined, forms clothed in black without sleeves, and barefooted hands carrying extinguished tapers. Those who walked foremost in the procession had only been convicted of such minor offenses as blasphemy, sorcery or polygamy. But by and by there came others, wearing ugly sanbanitos, yellow with red crosses, and conical paper mitres on their heads. Juan's eye kindled with intense interest, for he knew that these were Lutherans, not without a wild dream, hope perhaps, that the near approach of death might have subdued his brother's fortitude, did he scan in turn every mournful face. There was Luis de Brego, the illuminator of church books, there, walking long afterwards as far more guilty, was Medel de Spinoza, the dealer in embroidery, who had received the testaments brought by Juliano. There were many others of much higher rank, with whom he was well acquainted. All together more than eighteen number, though long and melancholy train swept by, every man or woman attended by two monks and a patrino. But Carlos was not amongst them. Then came the great cross of the Inquisition, the face turned towards the penitent, the back to the impenitent, those devoted to the death of fire. And now Juan's breath came and went, his lips trembled, all his soul was in his eager, straining eyes. Now first he saw the hideous Zamara, a black robe painted all over with saffron-coloured flames, into which devils and serpents rudely represented, were thrusting the impenitent heretic. A paper crown, or carosa, similarly adorned, covered the victim's head, but the face of the wearer was unknown to Juan. He was a poor artisan, Juan de Leon by name, who had made his escape by flight, but had been afterwards apprehended in the low countries. Torture and cruel imprisonment had almost killed him already, but his heart was strong to suffer for the Lord he loved. And though the pallor of death was on his cheek, there was no fear there. But the countenances of those that followed Juan knew too well. Never afterwards could he exactly recall the order in which they walked, yet every individual face stamped itself indelibly in his memory. He would carry those looks in his heart until his dying hour. No less than four of the victims wore the white tunic and brown mantle of Saint Jerome. One of these was an old man, leaning on his staff for very age, but with joy and confidence beaming in his countenance. The white locks from which Garcia's areas had gained the name of Dr. Blanco had been shorn away. But Juan easily recognized the waverer of past days, now strengthened with all might according to the glorious power of him whom at last he had learned to trust. The accomplished Cristobal D'Aureano and Fernando de San Juan, master of the College of Doctrine, followed calm and dauntless. Stetvas too, though not without little natural shrinking from the doom of fire, was a mere youth, Juan Crisostomo. Then came Juan clad in a doctor's robe, with a step of a conqueror and the mean of a king. As he issued from the Triana he chanted, in a clear and steady voice, the words of the 109th Psalm, they shall know that this is thine hand, and that thou, Lord, hast done it. Though they curse, yet bless thou. So died away the voice of Juan Gonzales, one of the noblest of Christ's noble band of witnesses in Spain. All these were arrayed in the garments of the Repliciastical Orders to be solemnly degraded on the scaffold in the square of San Francis. But there followed one already in the full infamy or glory of the Zamora and Carosa, with painted flames and demons, with a thrill of emotion Juan recognized his friend and teacher Cristobal Lozada, looking calm and fearless, a hero marching to his last battle, conquering and to conquer. Yet even that face soon faded from Juan's thoughts, for there walked in that gloomy death procession six females, persons of rank, nearly all of them young and beautiful, but worn by imprisonment, and more than one amongst them, maimed by torture. Yet if man was cruel, Christ for whom they suffered was pitiful. Their countenances, calm and even radiant, revealed the hidden power by which they were sustained, their names, which deserve a place beside those of the women of old who were last at his cross and first beside his open sepulchre were Doña Isabella de Baena, in whose house the church was wont to meet, the two sisters of Juan González, Doña María de Virves, Doña María de Cornel, and last of all Doña María de Pajorques, whose face shown as the first martyrs looking up into heaven. She alone, of all the female martyr band, appeared wearing the gag, an honor, due to her heroic efforts to console and sustain her companions in the court of the Triana. Juan's brave heart well nigh burst with impotent, indignant anguish. I thee me, my Spain. He cried. Thou seest these things and endurest them. Lucifer, son of the morning, thou art fallen, fallen from thy high place amongst the nations. It was true. From the man or nation that hath not, shall be taken even that which he cimeth to have. Had the spirit of chivalry, Spain's boast and pride, been faithful to its own dim light, it might even then have saved Spain. But its light became darkness, its trust was betrayed into the hand of superstition. Therefore, in the just judgment of God, its own degradation quickly followed. Spain's chivalry lost gradually all that was genuine, all that was noble in it, until it became only a faint and ghostly mockery, a sign of corruption, like the phosphoric light that flickers above the grave. Absorbed in his bitter thoughts, Juan well nigh missed the last of the doomed ones, last because highest in worldly rank. Sad and slow, with eyes bent down, Don Juan Ponce de León walked along. The flames in his amara were reversed, poor symbol of the poor mercy for which he sold his joy in triumph and dimmed the brightness of his martyr crown. Yet surely he did not lose the glad welcome that awaited him at the close of that terrible day. Nor the right to say with the airing restored apostle, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. All the living victims had passed now, and Don Carlos Alvarez was not amongst them. Juan breathed a sigh of relief, but not yet did his straining eyes relax their gaze, for Rome's vengeance reached even to the grave. Next there were born along the statues of those who had died in heresy, robed in the hideous zamara, and followed by black chests containing their bones to be burned. Not there, no, not there. At last Juan's trembling hands let go the framework of the window to which they had been clinging, and the intense strain over, he fell back exhausted. The stately pageant swept by, unwatched by him. He never saw what all Seville was gazing on with admiration, the grand procession of the judges and counsellors of the city in their robes of office, the chapter of the cathedral, the long slow train of priests and monks that followed, and then, in a space left empty out of reverence, the great green standard of the inquisition was borne aloft, and over it a gilded crucifix. Then came the inquisitors themselves in their splendid official dresses, and, lastly, on horse-bug and in gorgeous apparel the familiars of the inquisition. It was well that Juan's eyes were turned from that side. What avails it for lips wide with passion to hip wild curses on the heads of those for whom God's curse already waits in calm shadow until the day of reckoning be fully calm. Curses, after all, are weapons dangerous to use, and apt to pierce the hand that yields them. His first filling was one of intense relief, almost of joy. He had escaped the maddening torture of seeing his brother dragged before his eyes to the death of anguish and shame, but to that succeeded the bitter thought, growing soon into full, mournful conviction. I shall see his face no more on earth. He is dead, or dying. Yet, that day, the deep, strong current of his brotherly love was crossed by another tide of emotion. Those heroic men and women whom he watched as they passed along so calmly to their doom, had he no bond of sympathy with them? Was it so long since he had pressed Losada's hand in grateful friendship and thanked Donya Isabella de Baena for the teaching received beneath her roof? With the thrill of keen and sudden shame, the gallant soldier saw himself a requined, who had flaunted his gay uniform on the parade, and at the field day. But when the hour of conflict came, had stepped aside and let the sword and the bullet find out braver and truer hearts. He could not die thus for his faith. On the contrary it cost him but little to conceal it, to live in every respect like an orthodox catholic. What then had they which he had not? Something that enabled his young brother, the boy who used to weep for a blow, to stand and look fearless in the face of a horrible death? Something that enabled even poor, wild, passionate Gonzalva to forgive and pray for the murderers of the woman he loved? What was it? End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 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 37 Something Ended and Something Began Oh, sweet and strange, it is to think that ere this day is done, the voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun, forever and forever with those just souls and true. And what is life that we should mourn? Why make we such a do? Tennyson Late in the afternoon of that day, Doña Inés entered her sick brother's room, a glitter of silk rose colored in black, of costly lace, and of gems and gold, seemed to surround her. But as she threw aside the mantilla that partially shaded her face, and almost sank on a seat beside the bed, it was easy to see that she was very faint and weary, if not also very sick at heart. Santa Maria, I'm tired to death, she murmured. The heat was killing, and the whole business interminably long. Gonzalva gazed at her with eager eyes, as a man dying of thirst met gaze on one who holds a cup of water. But for a while he did not speak. At last he said, pointing to some wine that lay near, beside an untasted meal. What's my brother? said Doña Inés reproachfully. You've not touched food today. You so ill and weak. I am a man, even still, said Gonzalva with a little bitterness in his stone. Doña Inés drank, and for a few moments found herself in silence, distress, and embarrassment in her face. At last Gonzalva, who had never withdrawn his eager gaze, said in a low voice, Sister, remember your promise. I'm afraid. For you. You need not. He gasped. Only tell me all. Doña Inés passed her hand wearily across her brow. Everything floats before me, she said. What with the music, and the mass, and the incense, and the crosses and banners, and gorgeous robes, and then the taking of the oaths, and the sermon of the faith? Still, you kept my charge. I did, brother. She lowered her voice. Hard as it was, I looked at her. If it comforts you to know that, all through that long day her face was as calm as ever, I've seen it, listening to Freya Konstantino's sermons. You may take that comfort to your heart. When her sentence had been read, she was asked to recant, and I heard her answer rise clear and distinct. I neither care nor well recant. Ava Maria St. Tisema hid us all a great mystery. There was a silence, then, she resumed, And, Señor Cristobal Lozada, But the thought of the kind and skillful physician, who had watched beside her own sick bed, and brought back her babe from the gates of the grave, almost overcame her, Turning quickly to other victims, she went on. There were four monks of St. Jerome. Think of the White Doctor, that everyone believed so good a man, so pious an orthodox. Another of them, Freya Cristobal Doranalo, Was accused in his sentence of some wicked words against our Lady, Which it would seem he never said. He cried out boldly before them all, It is false, I never advance such a blasphemy, And I'm ready to prove the contrary with the Bible in my hand. Everyone seemed too much amazed, even to think of ordering him to be gagged, And, for my part, I'm glad the poor vet chatted his word for the last time. I cannot help wishing they'd equally forgotten to silence Dr. Juan Gonzalez, For it does not appear that he was speaking any blasphemy, But merely a word of comfort to a poor, pale girl. His sisters, they told me. Two of them are to die with him. God help them. Holy Saints, forgive me. I forgot we were told not to pray for them. And she crossed herself. Does my sister really believe that compassionate word, a sin in God's sight? How am I to know? I believe whatever the Church says, of course. And surely there is enough in these days to inspire us with a pious horror of heresy. Puyas. She resumed. There was that long and terrible ceremony of degrading from the priesthood. And yet that Gonzalez passed through it all as calm and unmoved, As though he were about putting on his robes the same mass. His mother and his two brothers are still in prison, it is said, awaiting their doom, of all the relaxed. I'm told that only Don Juan Ponce de Leon showed any sign of penitence. For the sake of his noble house, one is glad to think he's not so hardened as the rest. Hades in me. Whether it be right or wrong, I cannot help pitying their unhappy souls. Peter, your own soul, not theirs, said Gonzalez. For I tell you Christ himself, in all his glory and majesty, at the right hand of the Father, will stand up to receive them this night, as he did to welcome Saint Stephen long ago. O my poor brother, what dreadful words you speak. It is immortal sin even to listen to you. Take thought I implore you of your own situation. I have taken thought. Interrupted Gonzalvo faintly. But I can bear no more, just now. Leave me, I pray you, alone with God. If you would even try to say an ave, but I fear you're ill, suffering. I do not like to leave you thus. Do not heed me. I shall be better soon, and a vow is upon me that I must keep today. Once more he flung the wasted hand across his face to conceal it. Irresolute whether to go or stay. She stood for some minutes, watching him silently. At length she caught a low murmur and hoping that he prayed, she bent over him to hear. Only three words reached her ear. They were these. Father, forgive them. After an interval Gonzalvo looked up again. I thought you were gone, he said. Go now, I entreat you. But so soon as you know the end, spare not to come and tell me. For I wait for that. Thus untreated Dona Inés had no choice but to leave him alone, which she did. Evening had worn to-night, and night was beginning to wear towards daybreak, when at last Don Garcia Ramirez, and those of his servants who had accompanied him to the Prados on Sebastian to see the end, returned home. Dona Inés sat awaiting her husband in the patio. She looked pale and languid. Apparently the great holiday of Seville had been anything but a joyful day to her. Don Garcia divested himself of his cloak and sword, and dismissed the servants to their beds. But when his wife invited him to partake of the supper she had prepared, he turned upon her with very unusual ill-humour. At his little like they wanted with Senora Mia, to bid a man to his breakfast at midnight, he said. Yet he drank deeply of the Xerri's wine that stood on the board beside the venison pasty and the munched bread. At last, after a long patience, Dona Inés won from his lips what she desired to hear. Oh yes, all is over. Our Lady the Fentist, I have never seen such obstinacy, nor could I have believed it possible unless I had seen it. The criminals encouraged each other to the very last. Those girls, the Sisters of Gonzales, repeated their credo at the stake, were upon the attendant brethren and treated them to have so much pity on their own souls, as to say, I believe in the Roman Catholic Church. They answered, we will do as our brother does. So the gag was removed, and Doctor One cried aloud, add nothing to the good confession you have made already. But for all that, Ordner was given to strangle them, and one of the friars told us they died in the true faith. I suppose it is not a sin to hope that they did. After a pause, he continued in a deeper tone. Senora Cristobal amazed me as much as any of them. At the very stake, some of the brethren undertook to argue with them. But seeing that we were all listening, and might hear somewhat to the heart of our souls, they began to speak in a Latin tongue. Our physician immediately did the same. I am no scholar myself, but there were learned men there who marked every word, and one of them told me afterwards, that the doomed man spoke with as much elegance and propriety as if he had been contending for an academic prize, instead of waiting for the lighting of the fire which was to consume him. This unheard of conness and composure, whence is it the devil's own work or? He broke off suddenly and resumed in a different tone. Senora Mia, have you thought of the hour? And Heaven's name led us to our beds. I cannot go to rest until you tell me one thing more. Donia Maria de Bajorcas? Vaya, Vaya, have we not had enough of it all? Nay, I have made a promise. I must entreat you to tell me how Donia Maria de Bajorcas met her doom. With unflinching hardy-hood, Don Juan Ponce tried to urge her to yield somewhat, but she refused, saying it was not now a time for reasoning, and that they ought rather to meditate on the Lord's death and passion. They believe in that, they seems. When she was bound to the stake, the monks and friars crowded around her and pressed her only to repeat the credo. She did so, but began to add some explanations, which I suppose were heretical. Then immediately the command was given to strangle her, and so in one moment, while she was yet speaking, death came to her. Then she did not suffer. She escaped the fire. Thank God! Five minutes afterwards, Donia Inés stood by her brother's bed. He lay in the same posture, his face still shaded by his hand. Brother, she said gently, Brother, all is over. She did not suffer. It was done in one moment. There was no answer. Brother, are you not glad she did not feel the fire? Can you not thank God for it? Speak to me. Still no answer. He could not be asleep. Impossible. Speak to me, Gonzalo. Brother! She drew close to him. She touched the hand to remove it from his face. The next moment a cry of horror rang through the house. It brought the servants and Don Garcia himself to the room. He is dead. Couldn't our Lady have mercy on his soul? said Don Garcia after a brief examination. If only he had had the Holy Sacrament, I could have borne it! said Donia Inés, and then, kneeling down beside the couch, she wept bitterly. So passed the beggar with the King's sons, threw the Golden Gate into the King's own presence chamber. His wrecked and troublesome life over, his passionate heart addressed forever, the airing, repentant Gonzalo found entrance into the same heaven as Dariano and Gonzales and Losada, with a radiant martyr crowns. In the many mansions there was a place for him, as for those heroic and triumphant ones. He wore the same robe as they, a robe washed and made white, not in the blood of martyrs, but in the blood of the Lamb. End of Chapter 37