 Dramatis Personae 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. Dramatis Personae. Narrator read by Douglas Pinurelles. Narration by Rapunzelina. Carlos read by Joseph Tabler. Juan de Rodrigo Alvarez de Santiana y Menaya read by Aaron Rivera. Dolores read by Sonia. Frey Sebastian Gomez read by Jason in Panama. Don Manuel Alvarez read by Kay Hand. Don Juan de Penitent read by Victor Villarraza. Student read by David Purdy. De Ceso read by Joe. Gon Salvo read by Christine G. Dr. Cristobal Lozada read by Patrick Seville. Toni Ines read by Rachel. Those around read by Lian Yao Yao. Proverbs read by Mary Ann. The Temptor read by David Purdy. Juliano El Chico read by TJ Burns. The Village Cura read by David Purdy. The Landlord read by David Purdy. Frey Fernando read by Larry Wilson. Frey Casiodoro read by Esther Ben-Samanides. The Aged Monk read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Servant read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Donia Beatriz read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Donia Sancha read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Dumbalthazar read by Larry Wilson. Don Manuel the Younger read by David Purdy. Passerby read by Rachel. Porter read by Lian Yao. Doña Catarina read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Gonzales de Mundo Braga read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Gaspar Benavideo read by Rupert Holliday. The Arcade Servant read by Rachel. Promoter Fiscal read by David Purdy. The Notary read by Rachel. Pryor read by Larry Wilson. Benavideo's Daughter a Child read by Tricia G. Maria Gonzalez read by Tricia G. Don Alonso de Minubraga read by Rachel. Mother read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Juanita read by Joe. Page read by David Purdy. Juan Gonzalez read by David Purdy. Juan Ponce de Leon read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Don Garcia read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Jesuit and Attendant read by Amy Cremor. Llorente read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Juan Solchez read by Rachel. Don Domingo de Roxas read by David Purdy. Herrera read by David Purdy. God's Messenger read by David Purdy. Jorge read by David Purdy. Lord Inquisitor read by Esther Ben-Samanides. Young Monk read by J. Alcotton. End of Dramatis Personae. Chapter 1 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. The Spanish Brothers. Chapter 1. Boyhood. A boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. Long fellow. On one of the green slopes of the Sierra Morena, shaded by a few cork trees, and with wild craggy heights and bare brown ways stretching far above, there stood, about the middle of the sixteenth century, a castle even then old and rather dilapidated. It had once been a strong place, but was not very spacious, and certainly, according to our modern ideas of comfort, the interior could not have been a particularly comfortable dwelling place. A large proportion of it was occupied by the Great Hall, which was hung with faded, well-repared tapestry, and furnished with oaken tables, settles, and benches, very elaborately carved, but bearing evident marks of age. Narrow unglazed slits in the thick wall admitted the light and air, and besides one of these, on a gloomy autumn morning, two boys stood together, watching the rain that poured down without intermission. They were dressed exactly alike, in loose jackets of blue cloth, homespun, and div, but so fresh and neatly fashioned as to look more becoming than many a costly address. Their long stockings were of silk, and their cuffs and wide shirt frills of fine holland, carefully starched and plated. The elder, a very handsome lad who looked fourteen at least but was really a year younger, had raven hair, black sparkling eager eyes, good but strongly marked features, and a complexion originally dark and well tanned by exposure to sun and wind. A broader forehead, wider nostrils, and a weaker mouth distinguished the more delicate-looking younger brother, whose hair was also less dark and his complexion fairer. Rain! Rain! Will it rain forever? Cried, in a tone of impatience, the elder, whose name was Juan, or rather, his proper style and title, and very angry would he have felt had any part been curtailed or omitted, was Don Juan Rodrigo Alvarez de Santillanos y Manalla. He was of the purest blood in Spain, by the father's side of noblest Castilian lineage, by the mothers of an ancient Esturian family. While he knew it, and proudly he held up his young head in consequence, in spite of poverty, and of what was still worse, the mysterious blight that had fallen on the name and fortunes of his house, bringing poverty in its train as the least of its attendant evils. Rising early will not make the daylight come sooner, nor watching bring the sunshine. Said the quick-witted Carlos, who, apt in learning whenever he heard, was already in adept in the proverbial philosophy which was then, and is now, the inheritance of his race. True enough, so let us fetch the canes and have a merry play, or better still, the foils for a fencing match. Carlos acquiesced readily, though apparently without pleasure. In all outward things, such as the choice of pursuits and games, Juan was the unquestioned leader. Carlos never dreamed of disputing his fiat. Yet in other, and really more important matters, it was Carlos, who, quite unconsciously to himself, performed the part of guide to his stronger willed but less thoughtful brother. Juan now fetched the carefully guarded foils with which the boys were accustomed to practice fencing, either as now simply for their own amusement, or under the instructions of the Grey-haired Diego, who had served with their father in the Emperor's Wars, and was now Mayardumo, Butler, and Seneschal all in one. He it was, moreover, from whom Carlos had learned his door of proverbs. Now stand up! Oh, you're too low. Wait a moment. Juan left the hall again, but quickly returned with a large heavy volume, which he threw on the floor, directing his brother to take his stand upon it. Carlos hesitated. But what if the Frey should catch us using our great horrors after such a fashion? I just wish he might. Answered Juan, with a mischievous sparkle in his black eyes. The matter of height being thus satisfactorily adjusted the game began, and for some time went merrily forward. To do the elder brother justice, he gave every advantage to his less active and less skillful companion, often shouting, with very unnecessary exertion of his lungs. Words of direction or warning about forethrust, side thrust, backhand strokes, hitting, and parrying. At last, however, in an unlucky moment, Carlos, through some awkward movement of his own in violation of the rules of the game, received a blow on the cheek from his brother's foil, severe enough to make the blood flow. Juan instantly sprang forward full of vexation within, I think me, on his lips. But Carlos turned away from him, covering his face with both hands, and Juan, much to his disgust, soon heard the sound of a heavy sob. You little coward, he exclaimed, to weep for a blow, shame, shame upon you. Coward yourself, to call ill names one I cannot fight you. Retorted Carlos, as soon as he could speak for weeping. That is every away, little tearful. You, to talk of going to find our father, a brave man you would make to sail to the Indies and fight the savages, better sit at home and spin with Mother Dolores. Far too deeply stung to find a proverb suited to the occasion, or indeed to make any answer whatever, Carlos, still in tears, left the hall with hasty footsteps and took refuge in a smaller apartment that opened into it. The hangings of this room were comparatively new and very beautiful, being tastefully wrought with the needle, and the furniture was much more costly than that in the hall. There was also a glazed window, and near this Carlos took his stand, looking moodily out onto the falling rain and thinking hard thoughts of his brother, who had first heard him so sorely then called him Coward, and last, and farthest of all, had taunted him with his unfitness for the task which, child as he was, his whole heart and soul were bent on attempting. But he could not quarrel very seriously with Juan, nor indeed could he for any considerable time do without him. Before long his anger began to give way to utter loneliness and discomfort and a great longing to be friends again. Nor was Juan much more comfortable, though he told himself that he was quite right to reproof his brother sharply for his lack of manliness, and that he would be ready to die for shame of Carlos when he went to Seville, should disgrace himself before his cousins by crying when he was hurt like a baby or a girl. It's true that in his heart he rather wished he had himself held his peace, or at least had spoken more gently. But he braved it out and stamped up and down the hall, singing, in his cheery voice as he could command. The Sid wrote through the horseshoe gate, Omega like it stood, a symbol of the moon that waned before the Christian rude. He was all sheathed in gold mail, his cloak was white as shroud, his visor down his sword, and sheathed corpse still he rode and proud. Roy! Carlos called it last just a little timidly from the next room. Roy! Roy is the Spanish diminutive of Rodrigo, Juan's second name, and the one by which, for reasons of his own, it pleased him best to be called. So the very use of it by Carlos was a kind of overture for peace. Juan came right gladly at the call, and having convinced himself by moment's inspection that his brother's hurt signified nothing, he completed the reconciliation by putting his arm in a familiar boy's fashion round his neck. Thus, without a word spoken, the brief quarrel was at an end. It happened that the rain was over also, and the sun just beginning to shine out again. It was indeed an effect of the sunlight which had given Carlos a pretext for calling Juan again to his side. Look, Roy! He said, the sun shines on her father's words. These children had a secret of their own, carefully guarded, with the strange reticence of childhood, even from Dolores, who had been their faithful nurse of their infancy, and who still cast upon their young lives the only shadow of motherly love they had ever known. A shadow it is true, pale and faint, yet the best thing that had fallen to their lot, for even Juan could remember neither parent, while Carlos had never seen his father's face, and his mother had died at his birth. Yet it happened that in the imaginary world which the children had created around them, and where they chiefly lived, their unknown father was by far the most important personage. All great nations in their childhood have their legends, their epics, written or unwritten, and their hero, one or many of them, upon whose exploits fancy rings its changers at will, during the ages when national literature, language, and character are in the process of development. So it is with individuals. Children of imagination, especially if they are brought up in seclusion and guarded from course and worldly companionship, are sure to have their legends, perhaps their unwritten epic, certainly their hero. Nor are these dreams of childhood idol fancies. In their time they are good and beautiful gifts of God, helpful for the present, helpful for after-years. There is deep truth in the poet's words, when now art a man, reverence the dreams of thy youth. The Sid Campeador, the Charlemagne, and the King Arthur of our youthful Spanish brothers was no other than Don Juan Alvarez de Manaya, second and last candidate in Nuerra. And as the historical foundation of national romance is apt to be of the slightest, nay, the testimony of credible history is often ruthlessly said at defiance. So it is with the romances of children, nor did the present instance form any exception. All the world said that their father's bones lay breaching upon a wild, arachnian battlefield, but this went for nothing in the eyes of Juan and Carlos Alvarez. Quite enough to build their childish faith upon was a confidential whisper of Dolores when she thought them sleeping, to the village barber surgeon who was helping her to tend them through some childish malady. Dead, wood to all the saints and the blessed Queen of Heaven that we only had assurance of it. They had, however, more than this. Almost every day they read and re-read those mysterious words traced on a diamond by their father's hand as it never entered their heads to doubt. They had once been his favorite place of retirement. El Dorado, Yoje Travado I have found El Dorado. No eyes but their own had ever noticed this inscription and marvelous indeed with the superstructure their fancy can try to raise on the slight and airy foundation of its enigmatic five words. They had heard from the lips of Diego many of the fables current at the period about the golden country of which Spanish adventurers dream so wildly and which they sought so vainly in the new worlds. They were aware that their father in his early days had actually made a voyage to the Indies and they had thoroughly persuaded themselves, therefore, of nothing less than that he was the fortunate discoverer of El Dorado, that he had returned to thither and was running there as king, rich and happy, only perhaps longing for his brave boys to come and join him. And join him one day they surely would even through unheard of dangers of which turns twelve feet high and fiery dragons, things in which they quite believed were among the least might lie in their way, thick as the leaves of the cork trees when the autumn winds swept down through the mountain gorges. Look, Rui, said Carlos, the light is on our father's words. So it is. What good fortune is coming now? Something always comes to us when they look like that. What do you wish for most? A new bow and a set of real arrows tipped with steel. And you? Well, the chronicles of the Cid, I think. I should like that, too. But I should like better still. What? That fray Sebastian would fall ill of the room and find the mountain air too cold for his health, or get some kind of good place at his beloved completum. We might go farther and fair worse, like those that go to look for better bread than wheaten. Returned Carlos, laughing. Wish again, Juan. And truly this time your wish of wishes. What else but to find my father? I mean next to that. Well, truly. To go once more to Sevilla, to see the shops and the bullfights and the great church. To tilt with our cousins and dance the chachuca with donya bea trees. That would not I. There be folk that go out for wool and come home shorn. Though I like donya bea trees as well as anyone. Hush. Here comes Dolores. A tall slender woman robed in black search, relieved by a neat white headdress and entered the room. Dark hair, threaded with silver, and pale, sunken, care-worn features made her look older than she really was. She had once been beautiful and it seemed as though her beauty had been burned up in the glare of some fierce agony rather than had faded gradually beneath the suns of passing years. With the silent strength of a deep, passionate heart that had nothing else left to cling to, Dolores loved the children of her idolized mistress and foster sister. She was chiefly her talent and energy that kept together the poor remains of their fortune. She surrounded them with as many inexpensive comfort as possible. Still, like a true Spaniard she would at any moment have sacrificed their comfort to the maintenance of their rank or the due upholding of their dignity. On this occasion she held an open letter in her hand. Young gentleman. She said, using the formal style of a dress no familiarity ever induced her to drop. I bring you worship's good tidings. Your noble uncle, Don Manuel is about to honor your castle with his presence. Good tidings indeed. I'm as glad as if you had given me a satan du blé. He may take us back with him to Sevilla. Cried Juan. He might have stayed at home with good luck in my blessing. Mermin Carlos. Whether you go to Sevilla or no, Señor Don Juan, said Dolores gravely, may very probably depend on the contentment you give your noble uncle respecting your progress in your Latin, your grammar and your other humanities. A green fig for my noble uncle's contentment. Said Juan irreverently. I know already as much as any gentleman need ten times more than he does himself. I truly. Struck in Carlos coming forward from the embrasure of the window. My uncle thinks a man of learning except he be a fellow of college per chance. Not worth his ears full of water. I heard him say such, only trouble the world and bring sorrow on themselves and other kin. So Juan, it is you who are likely to find favor in his sight after all. Señor Don Carlos, what aids your face? Asked Dolores, noticing now for the first time the marks of the hurt which he had received. Both the boys spoke together. Only a blow caught in fencing all through my own awkwardness. It is nothing. Said Carlos eagerly. I heard him with my foil, it was miss chance. Said Juan, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. Dolores wisely abstained from exhorting them to greater carefulness. She only said, Young gentlemen who mean to be knights and captains must learn to give heart blows and take them. Adding mentally. Bless the lads. May they stand by each other as loyally ten or twenty years hence as they do now. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of the Spanish Brothers by Deborah Alcock. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 2 The Monk's Letter Quote the good fat friar wiping his own mouth to us for faction time. Our Browning Fray Sebastian Gomez to the Honorable Senor Felipe de Santa Maria. Licentiate of theology. Residing at Alcala de Nerez commonly called Complutum. Most illustrious and reverent senor. In my place of banishment amidst these gloomy and inhospitable mountains I frequently solace my mind by reflections upon the friends of my youth of the world. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. I am a man. pass your days amidst scenes so pleasant and occupation so congenial, while I, unhappy, am compelled by fate and by the neglect of friends and patrons to take what I may have in place of having what I might wish. I am, alas, under the necessity of wearing out my days in the ungrateful occupation of instilling the rudiments of humane learning into the dull and careless minds of children, whom to instruct is truly to write upon sand or water. But not to worry your excellent and illustrious friendship with undue prolixity. I shall briefly relate the circumstances which led to my soldier in here. The good fire proceeds with his personal narrative, but my no means briefly, and as it has, more over, little or nothing to do with our story, it may be omitted with advantage. In this desert, as I may truly style it, he continues, Nutriment for the corporeal frame is as poor and bare as Nutriment for the intellectual part is altogether lacking. Alas, for the golden wine of Heres, that ambery nectar wherewith we were want to refresh our jaded spirits. I may not mention now our temperate banquets, the crisp red mullet, the succulent pasties, the delicious ham of Estrimadura, the savory olla podrida. Pure beef is rarely seen, veal never. Our olla is of lean mutton, if it be not rather the flesh of goats, washed down with bad vinegar called wine by courtesy, and supplemented by a few naughty figs or roasted chestnuts, with cheese of goats milk hard as the heads of the rustics who make it. Certainly I am experiencing the truth of the proverb, a bad cook is an inconvenient relation. And marvelily would a casque of Heres wine, if, through the kindness of my generous friends, it could find its way to these remote mountains, mend my fare, and in all probability prolong my days. The provider here is an antiquated sour-faced duena, who rules everything in this old ruin of a castle where poverty and pride are the only things to be found in plenty. She is an Asturian, and came hither in the train of the late unfortunate Countess. Like all of that race, where the very shepherds style themselves nobles, she is proud, but it is just to add that she is also active, industrious, and thrifty to a miracle. But to pass on to affairs of greater importance, I have presumed, on the part of my illustrious friend, some acquaintance with the sorrowful history of my young pupil's family. You will remember the sudden shadow that fell, like the eclipse of one of the bright orbs of heaven, upon the fame and fortunes of the Cond de Nuera, known some fifteen years ago or more as a brilliant soldier and courtier, and personal favorite of his Imperial Majesty. There was a rumor of some black treason. I know not what, but men said it even struck at the life of the great Emperor, his friend and patron. It is supposed that the Emperor, whom God preserved, in his just wrath remembered mercy and generally saved the honour while he punished the crime of his ungrateful servant. At all events the world was told that the Count had accepted a command in the Indies, after that he sailed tither from some port in the Low Countries to which the Emperor had summoned him, without returning to Spain. It is believed that to save his neck from axe and his name from dire disgrace, he signed away by his own act, his large property to the Emperor, and to Holy Church, reserving only a pittance for his children. One year afterwards his death, in battle with the Aurocanian savages, was announced, if I am not mistaken, his Majesty was gracious enough to have masses said for his soul. But at the time the tongue of rumor whispered a far more dreadful ending to the tale. Men hinted that, upon the discovery of his treason, he despaired a like of human and divine compassion, and perished miserably by his own hand. But all possible pains were taken for the sake of the family to hush up the affair, and nothing certain has ever or probably will ever transpire. I am doubtful whether I am not a transgressor in having committed to paper what is written above. Still, as it is written, it shall stand. With you, most illustrious and honorable friend, all things are safe. The youths whom it is my task to instruct are not deficient in parts, but the elder, Don Juan, is idle and insolent, and with all of so fiery a temper that he will brook no manner of correction. The younger, Don Carlos, is more toward in disposition, and really apt at his humanities, were it not that his good-for-nothing brother is forever leading him into mischief. Don Manuel Álvarez, their uncle and guardian, who is a shrewd man of the world, will certainly cause him to enter the church. But I pray, as I am bound in Christian charity, that it may not occur to him to make the latter minute friar, since, as I can testify from sorrowful experience, such go barely enough through this wicked and miserable world. In conclusion I entreat of you, most illustrious friend, with the utmost despatch and carefulness, to commit this writing to the flames, and so I pray our Lady and the Blessed St. Luke upon whose vigil I write, to have you in their good keeping, your unworthy brother, Sebastian. Thus with averted face or head shaken doubtfully, or murmured, I dey me, the world spoke of him of whom his own children, happy at least in this, knew scarce anything, save words that seemed like a cry of joy. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. OF THE SPANISH BROTHERS. BY DEBRA ALCOCK. THIS IS A LIBRAVOX RECORDING. ALL LIBRAVOX RECORDINGS ARE IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. FOR MORE INFORMATION OR TO VOLUNTEER, PLEASE VISIT LIBRAVOX.ORG. CHAPTER III. SORD AND CASIC. THE HELMET AND THE CAP MAKE HOUSE IS STRONG. SPANISH PROVERB. Dawn Manuel Alvarez stayed for several days at Nuera, as the half-ruined castle in Sierra Morena was styled. Grievous during this period were the sufferings of Dolores, and unceasing her efforts to provide suitable accommodation, not merely for the stately infestidious guest himself, but also for the troupe of retainers he saw fit to bring with him, comprising three or four personal attendants, and the half a score of men at arms, though last perhaps really necessary for a journey through that wild district. Dawn Manuel scarcely enjoyed the situation more than did his entertainers, but he esteemed at his duty to pay an occasional visit to the estate of his orphaned nephews to see that it was properly taken care of. Perhaps the only member of the party quite at his ease was the worthy Frey Sebastian, a good-natured self-indulgent friar, with a better education and more refined taste than the average of his order. He was fond of eating and drinking, fond of gossip, fond of a little superficial literature, and not fond of troubling himself about anything. He was comforted by the improved fare Dawn Manuel's visit introduced, and was, moreover, soon relieved from his very natural apprehensions that the guardian of his pupils might express discontent at the slowness of their progress. He speedily discovered that Dawn Manuel did not care to have his nephews made good scholars. He only cared to have them ready in two or three years to go to the University of Coen Plutim, or to that of Salamanca, where they might remain until they were satisfactorily provided for, one in the army, the other in the church. As for Juan and Carlos, they felt with a sure instinct of children, in this respect something like that of animals, that their uncle had little love for them. Juan dreaded more than under circumstances he need have done, too careful inquiries into his progress, and Carlos, while he stood in great outward awe of his uncle all the time, contrived to despise him in his heart, because he neither knew Latin nor could repeat any ballads of the sin. On the third day of his visit after dinner, which was at noon, Dawn Manuel solemnly seated himself in the great carved armchair that stood on the Estrada at one end of the hall, and cemented his nephews to his side. He was a tall, wary-looking man, with a narrow forehead, thin lips, and appointed beard. His dress was of the finest mulberry-coloured cloth, turned back with velvet. Everything about him was rich, handsome, and in mood-keeping, but without extravagance. His manner was dignified, perhaps a little pompous, like that of a man meant on making the most of himself, as he had unquestionably made the most of his fortune. He first addressed one, whom he gravely reminded that his father's imprudence had left him nothing save that poor ruin of a castle, and a few barren acres of rocky ground, at which the boy's eyes flashed, and he shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. Dawn Manuel then proceeded at some length to extol the noble profession of arms as the road to fame and fortune. This kind of language proved much more acceptable to his nephew, and looking up he said promptly, Yes, senior my uncle, I will gladly be a soldier as all my fathers were. Well spoken, and when thou art old enough, I promised to use my influence to obtain for thee a good appointment in his Imperial Majesty's army. I trust that I will honor thy ancient name. You may trust me, said Juan, in slow, earnest tones. Then raising his hat, he went on more rapidly. Beside his own name, Juan, my father gave me that of Rodrigo, borne by the Sidrui Diaz, the Campiador, meaning no doubt to show. Peace, boy! Dawn Miguel interrupted, cutting short the only word that his nephew had ever spoken really from his heart in his presence, with as much unconsciousness as a country man might set his foot upon a gloar worm. Thou words never named Rodrigo after thy seed and his idle romances, thy father called thee so after some madcap friend of his own, of whom the less spoken, the better. My father's friend must have been good noble like himself. Said Juan proudly, almost defiantly, young man, returned Dawn Manuel severely, unlifting his eyebrows as if in surprise at his audacity. Learn that a humbler tone and more courteous manners would become thee in the presence of thy superiors. Then turning haughtily away from him he addressed himself to Carlos. As for thee, nephew Carlos, I hear with pleasure of thy progress in learning. Fray Sebastian reports of thee that thou hast a good ready wit and a retentive memory. Moreover, if I mistake not, sword-cuts are less in thy way than in thy brothers. The service of Holy Mother Church will fit thee like a glove. And let me tell thee, boy, for thou art old enough to understand me. Tis a right good service. Churchmen eat well and drink well. Churchmen sleep soft. Churchmen spend their days fingering the gold other folk toil and bleed for. For those who have fair interest in high places and shuffle their own cards deftly, there be good, fat benefits, comfortable canonries, and perhaps, who knows, a rich bishopric at the end of all, with a matter of ten thousand hard ducats at the least coming in every year to save or spend or lend if you like it better. Ten thousand ducats? Said Carlos who had been gazing in his uncle's face, his large blue eyes full of half-incredulous, half-uncomprehending wonder. I, my son, that is about the least, the archbishop of Seville has sixty thousand every year and more. Ten thousand ducats? Carlos repeated again in a kind of awestruck whisper. That would buy a ship? Yes. Said Don Manuel, highly pleased with what he considered an indication of precocious intelligence in money matters. And an excellent thought that is of thine, my son. A good ship, chartered for the Indies and properly freighted, would bring thee back thy ducats well perfumed. For a ship is sailing while you are sleeping. As the saying is, let the idle man buy a ship or marry a wife. I perceive thou art a youth of much ingenuity. What thinkest thou, then, of the church? Carlos was still too much the child to say anything in answer, except— If it pleased you, senor, my uncle, I should like it well. And thus, with rather more than less consideration of their tasting capacities, than was usual at the time, the future of Juan and Carlos Alvarez was decided. When the brothers were alone together, Juan said, Dolores must have been praying our lady for us, Carlos. An appointment in the army is the very thing for me. I shall perform some great feet of arms like Alfonso Vives, for instance, who took the Duke of Saxony prisoner. I shall win fame and promotion, and then come back and ask my uncle for the hand of his ward, Dona Beatriz. Ah, and I, if I enter the church, I can never marry. Not very, Carlos, rather, ruefully, and with a vague perception that his brother was to have some good thing from which he must be shed out forever. Of course not, but you will not care. Never a whit, said the boy of twelve very confidently. I shall ever have thee one, and all the gold my uncle says churchmen win so easily, I will save to buy our ship. I will also save, so that one day we may sail together. I will be the captain, and thou shalt be the mass priest, Carlos. But I marvel if it be true that churchmen grow rich so fast. The Cura in the village must be very poor, for Diego told me he took old Pedro's cloak because he could not pay the dues for his wife's burial. More shame for him, the greedy vulture. Carlos, you and I have each a half a ducat. Let us buy it back. With all my heart it will be worth something to see the old man's face. The Cura is covetous rather than poor, said one. If poor or no, no one dreams of your being a beggarly cura like that. It is only vulgar fellows of whom they make parish priests in the country. You will get some fine preferment, my uncle says. He ought to know, for he has feathered his own nest well. Why is he rich when we are poor one? Where does he get all this money? The saints know best. He has places under government, something about the taxes. I think that he buys and sells again. In truth, he is not one to measure oil without getting some on his fingers. How different from him our father must have been! Yes, said one, his riches, one by his own sword and battle-axe, and his good right hand, will be worth having. I, and even worth seeing, will they not? So these children dreamed of the future, that future of which nothing was certain except his unlikeness to their dreams. No thing was certain, but what was only too probable? That the brave, free-hearted boy who had never willingly injured anyone, and who was ready to share his last coin with the poor man, would be hardened and brutalized into a soldier of fortune, like those who massacred tribes of trusting and offending Indians or burned Flemish cities to the ground, amidst atrocities that even now make hearts quail and dealers tingle. And yet worse, that the fair child beside him, whose life still shone with that childlike innocence which is truly the dew of youth, as bright and as fleeting, would be turned over, soul and spirit, to a system of training too surely calculated to obliterate the sense of truth, deprave the moral taste, to make natural and healthful joys impossible, and lawful and degrading ones fearfully easy and attainable, to teach the strong nature the love of power, the mean the love of money, and all alike falsehood, cowardice and cruelty. CHAPTER IV. Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of mourning, her tears and her smiles are worth this evening's best light. More. Few are the lives in which seven years come and go without witnessing any great event, but whether they are eventful or no, the years that change children into men must necessarily be important. Three of these important seven, Juan and Carlos Alvarez, spent in their mountain home, the remaining four at the University of Alcala, or Complutum. The university trading was of course needful for the younger brother, who was intended for the church. That the elder was allowed to share the privilege, although destined for the profession of arms, was the result of circumstances. His guardian, Don Manuel Alvarez, although worldly and selfish, still retained a lingering regard for the memory of that lost brother, whose latest message to him had been, Have my boy carefully educated! And moreover, he could scarcely have left the high spirited youth to wear out the years that must elapse before he could obtain his commission in the dreary solitude of his mountain home, with Diego and Dolores for companions, and for sole amusement, a horse and a few greyhounds. Sutter that he should take his chance at Alcala, and enjoy himself there as best he might, with no obligation to severe studying, and but one duty strongly impressed upon him, that of keeping out of debt. He derived real benefit from the university training, though no academic laurels rested on his brow, nor did he take a degree. Freya Sebastian had taught him to read and write, and even can try to pass him through the Latin grammar, of which he afterwards remembered scarcely anything. To have urged him to learn more would have required severity only too popular at the time, but this Freya Sebastian was too timid, too prudent perhaps, to employ, while of interesting him in his studies he never thought. At Alcala, however, he was interested. He did not care indeed for the ordinary scholastic course, but he found in the college library all of the books yet written in his native language, and it was then the palmy age of Spanish literature. Beginning with the poems and romances related to the history of this country, he read through everything, poetry, romance, history, science. Nothing came amiss to him, except perhaps theology. He studied with his special care all that had reference to the story of the New World, whether he hoped one day to go. He attended lectures, he even acquired Latin enough to learn anything he really wanted to know, and could not find except in that language. Thus at the end of his four years residence, he had acquired a good deal of useful, though somewhat desultory, information, and he had gained the art of expressing himself in the purest Castilian by tongue or pen, with energy, vigor, and precision. The sixteenth century gives us many specimens of such men, and not a few of them are Spaniards, men of intelligence and general cultivation, whose profession was that of arms, but who can handle the pen, with as much ease and dexterity as the sword, men who could not only do valiant deeds, but also describe them when done, and that often with singular effectiveness. With his contemporaries one was popular, for his pride was inaggressive, and his fiery temper was counterbalanced by great generosity of disposition. During his residence at Alcala, he fought three duels, one to Chastat, is a fellow student who had called his brother, Danyo Carlotta, the other two and being provoked by the far more serious offence of covert sneers at his father's memory. He also came severely a youth whom he did not think of sufficient rank to honor with his sword, merely for observing when Carlos won a prize from him. Don Carlos Alvarez unites genius and industry, as he would need to do, who is the son of his own good works. But afterwards, when the same student was in danger through poverty of having to give up his career and return home, Juan stole into his chamber during his absence, and furtively deposited four gold zoo cats, which he could ill spare, between the leaves of his brevery. Far more outwardly successful, but more really disastrous was the academic career of Carlos. As a student of theology, most of his days and even some of his nights were spent over the musty tomes of the schoolmen. Like living water on the desert, his young bright intellect was poured out on the dreary sands of scholastic divinity, little else in truth than bad metaphysics, to know appreciable results except its own utter waste. The kindred study of casuistry was even worse than waste of intellect. It was positive defilement and degradation. It was bad enough to tread with painful steps through roads that led nowhere. But it became worse when the roads were mirey and the mud at every step clung to the traveler's feet. Though here the parallel must cease, for the moral defilement alas is the most deadly and dangerous when least felt or heated. Fortunately, or unfortunately, according to how we look on things seen or not seen, Carlos offered to his instructors admirable raw material out of which to fashion a successful even a great churchman. He came to them a stripling of fifteen, innocent, truthful, affectionate. He had parts, as they styled them, and singularly good ones. He had just the acute perception, the fine and ready wit, which enabled him to cut his way through scholastic subtleties and conceits with ease and credit. And to do his teacher's justice, they sharpened his intellectual weapon well until its temper grew as exquisite as that of the cimetar of Saladin, which could divide a god's hangar chief by the thread at a single blow. But how would it fare with such a weapon, and with him who, having proved no other, could wield only that in the great conflict with the dragon that guarded the golden apples of truth? The question is idle, for truth was a luxury of which Carlos was not taught to dream. To find truth, to think truth, to speak truth, to act truth, was not placed before him as an object worth his attainment. Not the true, but the best, was always held up to him as the mark to be aimed at. The best for the church, the best for his family, the best for himself. He had much imagination. He was quick in invention and ready in expedience, good gifts in themselves, but very perilous where the sense of truth is lacking or blunted. He was timid as sensitive and reflective natures are apt to be, perhaps also from physical causes. And in those rough ages, the church offered almost the only path in which the timid man could not only escape infamy, but actually attain to honor. In her service a strong head could more than atone for weak nerves. Power, fame, wealth, might be gained in abundance by the churchmen without stirring from his sour chapel or facing a single drawn sword or loaded musket. Always provided that his subtle, cultivated intellect could guide the rough hands that wielded the swords, or better still, the crowned head that commanded them. There may have been even then at the very university, there certainly were a few years earlier, a little band of students who had quite other aims and who followed other studies than those from which Carlos hoped to read world the success and fame. These youths really desired to find the truth and to keep it, and therefore they turned from the pages of the fathers and the schoolmen to the scriptures in the original language. But the Bible, as they were called, were few and obscure. Carlos did not, during his whole term of residence, come in contact with any of them. The study of Hebrew and even of Greek was by this time discouraged. The breadth of Calumny had blown upon it, linking it with all that was horrible in the eyes of the Spanish Catholics, summed up in the one word, heresy. Carlos never even dreamed of any excursion out of the beaten path marked for him, and which he was travelling so successfully as to distance nearly all his competitors. Both Juan and Carlos still clung fondly to their early dream, though their wider knowledge had necessarily modified some of its details. Carlos, at least, was not quite so confident as he had once been about the existence of El Dorado, but he was as thoroughly determined as Juan to search out the mystery of their fathers' fate and either to clasp his living hand or to stand beside his grave. The love of the brothers and their trust in each other had only strengthened with their years, and was beautiful to witness. Occasional journeys to Seville and brief intervals of making holiday there varied the monotony of their college life and were not without important results. It was the summer of 1556. The great Carlos, so lately King and Kaiser, had laid down the heavy burden of sovereignty and would soon be on his way to pleasant San Uste, to mortify the flesh and prepare for his approaching end as the world believed. But in reality, to eat, drink, and enjoy himself as well as his worn-out body and mind would allow him. Just then our young Juan, healthy, hearty, hopeful, and with the world before him, received the long wish for appointment in the army of the new king of all of Spain, Don Felipe Segunde. The brothers have eaten their last temperate meals together in their handsome, though not very comfortable lodging at Alcala. Juan pushes away the wine-cup that Carlos would feign every field and toys absently with the rind of a melon. Carlos. He says, without looking his brother in the face. Remember that thing of which we spoke? Adding in lower and more earnest tones. So may God remember thee. Surely, brother, you have, however, little fear. Little to fear. And there was the old, quick flash in the dark eyes. It does, foresooth. To spare my aunt's selfishness in my cousin's vanity, she must not be seen at dance, or theater, or bullfeast. It is enough for her to show her face on the Alameda, or at mass to raise me up a host of rivals. Carlos. Still my uncle favors you, and don't you be a trace. Herself will not be found of a different mind when you come home with your promotion and your glory, as you will, my Rui. Carlos. Then, brother, watch thou in my absence, and fail not to speak the right word at the right moment, as thou canst so well. So shall I hold myself at ease, and give my whole mind to the noble task of breaking the heads of all the enemies of my liege lord the king. Then, rising from the table, he girded on his new Toledo sword with his embroidered belt, threw over his shoulders his short scarlet cloak, and flung a gay velvet montero over his rich black curls. Don Carlos went out with him, and mounting the horses a lad from their country home held in readiness. They rode together down the street and through the gate of Alcala. Don won, followed by many admiring gays, and many a hearty— Vaya con Dios!—from his late companions. End of CHAPTER FOUR. CHAPTER FIVE. OF THE SPANISH BROTHERS, BY DEBOR 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 FIVE. Don Carlos forgets himself. A fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind. E.B. Browning. Don Carlos Alvarez found Alcala, after his brother's departure, insupportably dull. Moreover, he had now almost finished his brilliant university career. As soon therefore as he could, he took his degree as licentiate of theology. He then wrote to inform his uncle of the fact, adding that he would be glad to spend part of the interval that must elapsed before his ordination at Seville, where he might attend the lectures of the celebrated Frey Constantino Ponce de la Fuente, professor of divinity in the College of Doctrine in that city. But in fact, a desire to fulfill his brother's last charge weighed more with him than it needed for further instruction, especially as rumors that his watchfulness was not unnecessary had reached his ears at Alcala. He received a prompt and kind invitation from his uncle to make his house his home for as long a period as he might desire. Now although Don Manuel was highly pleased with the genius and industry of his younger nephew, the hospitality he extended to him was not altogether disinterested. He thought Carlos capable of rendering what he deemed an essential service to a member of his own family. The family consisted of a beautiful, gay, frivolous wife, three sons, two daughters, and his wife's orphan niece, Donia Beatriz de la Vela. The two elder sons were cast in their father's mold, which, to speak truth, was rather that of a merchant than of a cavalier. Had he been born of simple parents in the flats of Holland or the back streets of London, of vulgar hands or Thomas, his tastes and capabilities might have brought him honest wealth. But since he had the misfortune to be Don Manuel Alvarez of the bluest blood in Spain, he was taught to look on industry as ineffably degrading, and trade and commerce scarcely best so. Only one species of trade, one kind of commerce, was open to the needy and avaricious but proud grandee. Unhappily it was almost the only kind that is really degrading, the traffic in public money, in places and in taxes. A sweeping rain, leaving no food. Such traffic was in truth. The government was defrauded, the people, especially the poorer classes, were cruelly oppressed. No one was enriched except the greedy dropper, whose birth rendered him infinitely too proud to work, but by no means too proud to cheat and steal. Even Manuel the Younger and Don Balthasar Alvarez were ready and longing to trend their father's footsteps. Of the two pale, dark-eyed sisters, Donia Inés and Donia Sanchez, one was already married, and the other had also planned satisfactory to her parents. But the person in the family who was not of it was the youngest son, Don Gonzalvo. He was the representative, not of his father, but of his grandfather, as we so often see types of character reproduced in the third generation. The first candidate in Uera had been a wild-soiled juror of fortune in the Moorish Wars, fierce and fiery, with strong unbridled passions. At 18, Gonzalvo was his image, and there was scarcely any mischief possible to a youth of fortune in a great city, into which he had not already found his way. For two years he continued to scandalize his family and to vex the soul of his prudent and decorous father. Suddenly, however, change came over him. He reformed, became quiet and regular in his conduct, gave himself up to study, making extraordinary progress in a very short time, and even showed what those around him called a pious disposition. But these hopeful appearances passed us suddenly and as unaccountably as they came. After an interval of less than a year, he returned to his former habits and pledged even more madly than ever into all kinds of vices and dissipation. His father resolved to procure him a commission and send him away to the wars. But an accident frustrated his intentions. In those days, Cavaliers of Frank frequently sought the dangerous triumphs of the bullring. The part of mandatory was performed not as now by hired bravows of the lowest class, but often by scions the most honorable houses. Gonzalvo had more than once distinguished himself in the bloody arena by courage and coolness, but he tempted his fate too often. Upon one occasion he was flung violently from his horse and then gored by the furious bull, whose rage had been excited to the utmost pitch by the cruel arts usually practiced. He escaped with life, but remained a crippled invalid, apparently condemned for the rest of his days to inaction, weakness, and suffering. His father thought a good cannery would be a decent and comfortable provision for him and pressed him accordingly to enter the church. But the invalided youth manifested an intense repugnance to the step, and Don Manuel hopes that the influence of Carlos would help to overcome this feeling, believing that he would gladly endeavor to persuade his cousin that no way of life was so pleasant or so easy as that which he himself was about to adopt. The good nature of Carlos led him to fall heartily into his uncle's plans. He really pitted his cousin moreover, and gladly gave himself to the task of trying in every possible way to console and amuse him. But Gonzalvo rudely repelled all his efforts. In his eyes the destined priest was half a woman, with no knowledge of a man's aims or a man's passions and consequently no right to speak of them. "'Ten priest!' he said to him one day. "'I have as good a mind to turn Turk. Nay, cousin, I am not pious. You may present my origins to our lady with your own, if it so please you. Perhaps you may attend to them better than to those I offered before entering the bullring on that unlucky day of St. Thomas.' Carlos, though not particularly devout, was shocked by this language. "'Take care, cousin,' he said. "'Your words sound rather like blasphemy.' "'And yours sound like the words of what you are, half a priest already.' "'Returning in Salvo.' "'It is ever the priest's cry. If you displease him, open heresy, rank blasphemy. And next, the holy office and a yellow San Benito. I marvel it did not occur to your sanctity to menace me with that.' The gentle tempered Carlos did not answer, a forbearance which further exasperated Gonzavo, who hated nothing so much as being on account of his infirmities, born with like a woman or child. "'But the saints help the churchmen,' he went on ironically. "'Good, simple souls, they do not know even their own business. Else they would smell heresy close enough at hand. What doctrine dost your fray, Constantine, or preach in the great church every feast day, since they made him canon-majestral?' "'The most orthodox and Catholic doctrine and no other,' said Carlos, roused in his turn by the attack upon his teacher, though he did not greatly care for his instructions, which turned principally upon subjects about which he had learned little or nothing in the schools. "'But to hear thee discuss doctrine is to hear a blind man talking of colours.' "'And if I be the blind man talking of colours, thou art the death prating of music,' retorted his cousin. "'Come and tell me, if thou canst, what are these doctrines of thy fray, Constantine, and wherein they differ from the Lutheran heresy? I wager my gold chain and meddle against thy new velvet cloak, that thou wouldst fall thyself into as many heresies by the way as there are nuts in Barthelona.'" Allowing for Gonzalvo's angry exaggeration there was some truth in his assertion. Once out of the region of dialectic subtleties the champion of the schools would have become as weak as another man, and he could not have expounded for a Constantine's preaching, because he did not understand it. "'What, cousin?' he exclaimed, affronted in his tenderest part his reputation as a theological scholar. "'Does thou take me for a barefooted friar or a village cura? Me, who only two months ago was crowned victor in a debate upon the doctrines taught by Ramondas Lulius?' "'But whatever chagrin Carlos may have felt at finding himself utterly unable to influence Gonzalvo, was soon ineffectually banished by the delight with which he watched the success of his diplomacy with Donia Beatrice. Beatrice was almost a child in years and entirely a child in mind and character. Hitherto she had been studiously kept in the background, lest her brilliant beauty should throw her cousins into the shade. Indeed, she would have probably been consigned to a convent, had not her portion been too small to furnish the donative usually bestowed by the friends of a novice upon any really aristocratic establishment. "'And pity it would have been,' thought Carlos. "'That's so fair a flower should wither in a convent garden.' He made the most of the limited opportunities of intercourse which the ceremonious manners of the time and country afforded, even to inmates of the same house. He would stand beside her chair and watch the quick flush mount toward Olive delicately round a cheek as he talked eloquently of the absent one. He never tired of relating stories of one's pro-es, one's generosity. In the last duel he fought, for instance, the ball had passed through his cap and grazed his head, but he only smiled and rearranged his lock, remarking as he did so that the addition of a gold chain and metal-spoiled cap would be as good or better than ever. Then he would dilate on his kindness to the vanquished, rejoicing in the effect produced, a tribute as well to his own eloquence, as to his brother's merit. The occupation was too fascinating not to be resorted to once and again, even had he not persuaded himself that he was fulfilling a sacred duty. Moreover, he soon discovered that the bright dark eyes which were beginning to visit him nightly in his dreams were pining all day for a sight of that gay world from which their owner was jealously and selfishly excluded. So he managed to procure for Donia Beatrice many a pleasure of the kind she most valued. He prevailed upon his aunt and cousins to bring her with them to places of public resort, and then he was always at hand, with the reverence of a loyal cavalier and the freedom of a destined priest, to render her every quiet and intrusive service in his power. At the theater, at the dance, at the numerous church ceremonies, on the promenade, Donia Beatrice was his special charge. Amidst its occupations, pleasant weeks and months, glided by all most unnoticed by him. Never before had he been so happy. Alcala was well enough. He thought. But Seville is a thousand times better. All my life here to foreseems to me only like a dream. Now I am awake. Alas, he was not awake but wrapped in a deep sleep and cradling a bright delusive vision, as yet he was not even as those that dream and know the while they dream. His slumber was too profound even for this dim half-consciousness. No one suspected any more than he suspected himself, the enchantment that was stealing over him. But everyone remarked his frank, genuine manners, his cheerfulness, his good looks. Naturally, the name of Juan dropped gradually more and more out of his conversation. At the same time the thought of Juan faded from his mind. His studies, too, were neglected. His attendance on the lectures of Frey Constantino became little more than a formality, while— Receiving orders. Seemed a remote, if not an uncertain, contingency. In fact he lived in the present, not caring to look either at the past or at the future. In the very midst of his intoxication, a slight accident affected him for a moment with such a chill as we feel when, on a warm spring day, the sun passes suddenly behind a cloud. His cousin, Donia Inés, had been married more than a year to a wealthy gentleman of Seville, Don Garcia Ramirez. Carlos, calling one morning at the lady's house with some unimportant message from Donia Beechers, found her in great trouble on account of the sudden illness of her babe. Shall I go and fetch a physician? He asked, knowing well that the Spanish servants can never be dependent upon to make haste no matter how great the emergency may be. You will do a great kindness, amigo Mio. said the anxious young mother. But which shall I summon? asked Carlos. Our family physician, or Don Garcia's? Don Garcia's, by all means. Dr. Cristobal Lozada. I would not give a green fig for any other in Seville. Do you know his dwelling? Yes, but should he be absent or engaged? I must have him, him and no other. Just before he saved my darling's life. And if my poor brother would but consult him it might fare better with him. Go quickly cousin and fetch him in heaven's name. Carlos lost no time in complying, but on reaching the dwelling of the physician he found that though the hour was early he had already gone forth. After leaving a message he went to visit a friend in the Triana suburb. He passed close by the cathedral with its hundred pinnacles and that wonder of beauty, the old Moorish Giralda, soaring far above it and to the clear southern sky. It occurred to him that a few avais said within for the infant's recovery would be both a benefit to the child and a comfort to the mother. So he entered and was making his way to a godly, tinseled virgin and babe. When having to glance towards a different part of the building his eye rested on the physician with whose person he was well acquainted as he had often noticed him amongst Ray Constantino's hearers. Losado was now pacing up and down one of the side aisles in company with a gentleman of very distinguished appearance. As Carlos drew nearer it occurred to him that he had never seen this personage from any place of public resort. And for this reason, as well as from slight indications in his dress of fashion's current in the north of Spain, he gathered that he was a stranger and surveil who might be visiting the cathedral for motives of curiosity. Before he came up the two men paused in their walk and turning their backs to him stood gazing thoughtfully at the hideous row of red and yellow San Bonitos, or penitential garments that hung above them. Surely, thought Carlos, they might find better objects of attention than these ugly memorials of sin and shame which bear witness that their late miserable wares, Jews, Moors, blasphemers, or sorcerers, have entered their dreary lives of penance if not of penitence. The attention of the stranger seemed to be particularly attracted by one of them, the largest of all. Indeed, Carlos himself had been struck by its unusual size, and upon one occasion he had even had the curiosity to read the inscription, which he remembered because it contained one's favorite name, Rodrigo. It was this. Rodrigo Valer, a citizen of Librecia and Seville, an apostate and false apostle who pretended to be sent from God. And now, as he approached with light though hasty footsteps, he distinctly heard Dr. Cristobalos Sada, still looking at the San Bonito, say to his companion, Yes, Señor. And also, the Conde De Nira, Don Juan Alvarez. Don Juan Alvarez? What possible tie could link his father's name with the hideous thing they were gazing at? And what could the physician know about him of whom his own children knew so little? He stood amazed and pale with sudden emotion. And thus the physician saw him happening to turn at that moment. Had he not exerted all his presence of mind, and he possessed a great deal, he would himself have started visibly. The unexpected appearance of the person of whom we speak is in itself disconcerting, but it deserves another name when we are saying that of him or his which of overheard might endanger life, or what is more precious still than life. Sada was equal to the occasion, however. The usual greetings having been exchanged, he asked quietly whether Sr. Don Carlos had come in search of him, and hoped that he did not owe the honour to any disposition in his worship's noble family. Carlos felt it rather relief under the circumstances to have to say that his cousin Babe was alarmingly ill. You will do us a great favour, he added, by coming immediately. Donia Inés is very anxious. The physician promised compliance, and turning to his companion, respectfully apologised for leaving him abruptly. A sick child's claim must not be postponed, said the stranger in reply, Go, Sr. Doctor, and God's blessing rest on your skill. Carlos was struck by the noble bearing and courteous manner of the stranger, who in his turn was interested by the young man's anxiety about a sick babe, but with only a passing glance at the other, each went his different way, not dreaming that once again at least their paths were destined to cross. The strange mention of his father's name that he had overheard filled the heart of Carlos with undefined Dionysiness. He knew enough by that time to feel his childish belief in his father's stainless virtue a little shaken. What if a dreadful unexplained something, leaking his fate without a convicted heretic, were yet to be learned? After all, the accursed arts of magic and sorcery were not so far removed from the alchemist's more legitimate labours, that a rash or presumptuous student might not very easily slide from one to the other. He had reason to believe that his father had played with alchemy, if he had not seriously devoted himself to his study. Nay, the thought that had sometimes flashed unbidden across his mind, that the Eldorado found might after all have been no other than a philosopher's known. For he who has attained the power of producing gold at will, may be surely sad without any stretch of metaphor to have discovered a golden country. But at this period of his life the personal feelings of Carlos were so keen in absorbing that almost everything, consciously or unconsciously, was referred to them, and thus it was an intense wish sprang up in his heart that his father's secret might have descended to him. Vain wish! The gold he needed or desired must be procured from a less inaccessible region than Eldorado, and without the aid of the philosopher's stone. CHAPTER VI really mere novel writing of a sort, acting, improvising make-believe, surely not downright cheatery, R. Browning. It cost Carlos some time and trouble to drive away the haunting thoughts which the saddest words had awakened, but he succeeded at length, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say the bright eyes in which he smiled to Donia Beatrice accomplished the work for him. Every dream, however, must have a waking. Sometimes a slight sound, ludicrously trivial in its cause, spells a slumber-throught with wondrous visions in which we have been playing the part of kings and emperors. Nephew, Don Carlos, said Don Manuel one day, is it not time you thought of shaving your head? You are learned enough for your orders long ago, and, in a plentiful house, supper is soon dressed. True, senor, my uncle, armored Carlos, looking suddenly aghast. But I am under the canonical age. But you can get a dispensation. By such haste there is time yet to spare. That is not so sure. I hear the cura of San Lucar has one foot in the grave. The living is a good one, and I think I know where to go for it. So take care you lose not a heifer for want of a halter to hold it by. With these words on his lips Don Manuel went out. At the same moment, Gonzalvo, who lay listlessly on a sofa at one end of the room, or rather court, reading Lazario de Tormes, the first Spanish novel, burst into a loud proxiesome of laughter. What may be the theme of your merriment? Ask Carlos, turning his large, dreamy eyes languidly towards him. Yourself, amigo mío! You would make the stoned saints of the cathedral laugh on their pedestals. There you stand, pale as marble, a living image of despair. Come, rouse yourself. What do you mean to do? Will you take what you wish, or let your chance slip by, and then sit and weep because you have it not? Will you be a priest, or a man? Make your choice, desour, for one you must be, and both you cannot be." Carlos answered him not. In truth he dare not answer him. Every word was the voice of his own heart. Perhaps it was also, though he knew it not, the voice of the great tempter. He withdrew to his chamber, and barred and bolted himself in it. This was the first time in his life that solitude was a necessity to him. His uncle's words had brought with him a terrible revelation. He knew himself now too well. He knew what he loved, what he desired, or rather what he hungered and thirsted for with agonizing intensity. No, never the priest's frock for him. He must call Zanya Beatriz de Vilavela his, his, before God's altar, or die. Then came a thought, stinging him with sharp, sudden pain. It was a thought that should have come into him long ago. And with the name, affection, memory, conscious, rose up together within him to combat the mad resolve of his passion. Fiery passion slumbered in the heart of Carlos. Such are sometimes found united with a gentle temper, a weak will, unsensitive nerves, low to their possessor when they are aroused in their strength. Had Carlos been a plain soldier like the brother he was tempted to betray, it is possible he might have come forth from this terrible conflict still holding fast his honor and his brotherly affection. It was his priestly training that turned the scale. He had been taught that simple truth between men and men was a thing of little consequence. He had been taught the art of making a hundred clever, plausible excuses for whatever he saw best to do. He had been taught, in short, every species of sophistry by which, to the eyes of others and to his own also, wrong might be made to seem right and black to appear the purest white. His subtle imagination forged in the fire of his kindled passions chains of reasoning in which no skill could dissect a flaw. One had never loved as he did. One would not care. Probably by this time he had forgotten Danya Beatriz. Besides The tempter whispered furtively within him. He might never return at all. He might die in battle. But Carlos was not yet sunk so low as to give ear for a single instant to this wicked whisper, though certainly he could not henceforth look for his brother to return with the joy with which he had been want to anticipate that event. But in any case, Beatriz herself should be the judge between them. And he told himself that he knew. How did he know it? That Beatriz preferred him. Then it would be only right and kind to prepare one for an inevitable disappointment. This he could easily do. Letters carefully written might gradually suggest to his brother that Beatriz had other views. And he knew one's pride in his fiery temper well enough to calculate that if his jealousy were once aroused these would soon accomplish the rest. Ear-wee, who have been taught from our cradles, too. Speak the truth from the heart. Turn with loathing from the wows of Carlos Alvarez, we ought to remember that he was a Spaniard, one of a nation whose genius and passion is for entry. He was also a Spaniard of the 16th century, but above all he was the Spanish Catholic educated for the priesthood. The ability with which he laid his plans and the enjoyment which its exercise gave him served in itself to blind him to the treachery and ingratitude upon which those plans were founded. He sought an interview with Frey Constantino and employed from him a letter of recommendation to the imperial recluse at San Yuste, whose chaplain and personal favorite the canon magistral had been. But that eloquent preacher, though warm-hearted and generous to a fault, hesitated to grant the request. He represented to Carlos that his imperial majesty did not choose his retreat to be invaded by applicants for favors, and that the journey to San Yuste would therefore be in all probability worse than useless. Carlos answered that he had fully weighed the difficulties of the case, but that if the line of conduct he adopted seemed peculiar, his circumstances were also. He believed that his father, who died before his birth, had enjoyed the special regard of his imperial majesty, and he hoped that for his sake he might now be willing to show him some kindness. At all events he was sure of an introduction to his presence through his mayor Domo, Don Luis Quiquara, lord of Villa Garcia, who was a friend of their house. What he desired to obtain through the kindness of his imperial majesty was a Latin secretariate ship or some similar office at the court of the new king, where his knowledge of Latin and the talents he hoped he possessed might stand him in good stead, and enable him to support, though with modesty, the station to which his birth entitled him. For although already a licenseate of theology and with good prospects in the church, he did not wish to take orders, as he had thoughts of marrying. Frey Constantino felt a sympathy with the young man, and perhaps the rather, because of reports speaks true, he had once been himself in a somewhat similar position. So he compromised matters by giving him a general letter of recommendation, in which he spoke of his talents and his blameless manners as warmly as he could, from the experience of the nine or ten months during which he had been acquainted with him. And although the attention played by Carlos to his instructions had been slight and of late most perfunctory, his great natural intelligence had enabled him to stand his ground more credibly than many far more diligent students. The phrase letter Carlos thankfully added to the numerous laudatory epistles from the doctors and professors of Alcala that he already had in his possession. All these he enclosed in a cedar box, which he carefully locked and consigned in its turn to a traveling portmanteau, along with a fair stock of wearing apparel, sufficiently rich in material to suit his rank but modest in color and fashion. He then informed his uncle that before he took orders it would be necessary for him, in his brother's absence, to take a journey to their little state and set its concerns in order. His uncle, suspecting nothing, approved his plan and insisted on providing him with the attendance of an armed guard to Noora, whither he really intended to go in the first instance. CHAPTER VII. And I should evermore be vexed with thee, in vacant robe or hanging ornament, or ghostly footfall lingering on the stair. TENESON. The journey from the city of oranges to the green slopes of the sea in Amorena ought to have been a delight for one to don Carlos Alvarez. It was certainly bright with hope. He scarcely harbored a doubt of the ultimate success of his plans and the consequent attainment of all his wishes. Already he seemed to feel the soft hand of Donia Beatriz and his, and to stand by her side before the high altar of the great cathedral. And yet, as days passed on, the brightness within grew fainter and an acknowledged shadow, ever deepening, began to take its place. At last he drew near his home and rode through the little grove of cork trees where he and Juan had played his children. When last they were there together the autumn winds were stirring the leaves all dim and discolored about their paths. Now he looked through the fresh green foliage at the deep intense blue of the summer sky. But though scarcely more than twenty, he felt at that moment old and worn and wished back the time of his boyish sports with his brother. However again could he feel quite happy with Juan. Soon, however, his sorrowful fancies were put to flight by the joyous greeting of the hounds. He rushed with much clamor from the castle yard to welcome him. There they were all of them, Pedro, Zina, Pepe, Gruo, Butron. It was Juan who had named them every one. And there at the gates did Diego and Dolores ready to give him joyful welcome. Throwing himself from his horse, he shook hands with these faithful old retainers and answered their kindly but respectful inquiries both for himself and Señor Juan Juan. Then having caressed the dogs, inquired for each of the underservants by name, and given orders for the due entertainment of his guard, he passed on slowly into the great deserted hall. His arrival being unexpected, he merely surrendered his traveling cloak into the hands of Diego and sat down to wait patiently while the servants, always dilatory, prepared for him suitable accommodation. Dolores soon appeared with a flask of wine and some bread and grapes, but this was only a merienda, or slight afternoon luncheon, which she laid before her young master until she could make ready a supper fit for him to partake of. Carlos spent half an hour listening to her tidings of the household in the village, and felt sorry when she quitted the room and left him to his own reflections. Every object on which his eyes rested reminded him of his brother. There hung the crossbow with which in the old days one had made such vigorous war on the works and sparrows. There lay the foils and canes with which they had so often fenced and played. Juan, in his unquestioned superiority, usually so patience with the younger brother's timidity and awkwardness. And upon that bench he had carved with a hunting knife his name in full, adding the title that had expired with his father. The memories these things recalled were becoming intrusive. He would feign shake them off. Gladly would he have had recourse to his favourite pastime of reading, but there was not a book in the castle to his knowledge except the brevery he had brought with him. For lack of more congenial occupation he went out at last to the stable to look at the horses and to talk to those who were grooming and feeding them. Later in the evening Dolores told him that supper was ready, adding that she had laid it in the small inner room, which she thought senior Don Carlos would find more comfortable than the great hall. The inner room was, even more than the hall, haunted by the shadowy presence of Juan, but it was usually daylight when the brothers were there together. Now a tapestry curtain shaded the window, and a silver lamp shelled its light on the well-spread table with a snowy drapery and cover laid for Juan. A lonely meal, however luxurious, is always apt to be somewhat dreary. It seems a provision for the lowest wants of our nature and nothing more. Carlos sought to escape from the depressing influence by giving wings to his imagination, and dreaming of the time when wealth enough to repair and refurnish that half-ruinous old homestead might be his. He pleased himself with the pictures of long tables in the great hall, groaning beneath the weight of bountiful provision for a merry company of guests, upon whom the sweet face of Donya Beecher's might be my welcome. But how idle such fancies! The castle, after all, was Juan's, not his. Unless, indeed, more difficult to these than one should be solved by Juan's death upon some French or Flemish battlefield. This thought he could not bear to entertain. Being suddenly sick at heart he pushed aside his plate of stewed pigeon, and regardless of the feelings of Dolores, sent away untasted her dessert of sweet butter-cake dipped in honey. He was weary, he said, and he would go to rest at once. It was long before sleep would visit his eyelids, and when at last it came his brother's dark, reproachful eyes haunted him still. At daybreak he woke with a start from a fever stream that Juan, all pale and ghost-like, had come to his bedside, and laying his hand on his arms, said solemnly, I claim the jewel, I left thee in trust. Further sleep was impossible. He rose and wandered out into the fresh air. As yet no one was a stir. Farron's sweet was all that met his gaze, the faint pearly light, the first blush of dawn in the quiet sky, the silvery dew that bathed his footsteps. But the storm would then rage more fiercely for the calm without. There was first an agonizing struggle to repress the rising thought. Better, after all, not to do this thing. But in spite of his passionate efforts, the thought gained the hearing. It seemed to cry aloud within him. Better, after all, not to betray Juan, and give up bitres for ever, for ever. He repeated over and over again, beating it, in upon his weary brain, as though it were the burden of a song. He had climbed almost unawares to the top of a rocky hill, and now he stood, looking around to met the prospect, just as if he saw it. In truth he saw nothing, felt nothing outward, until at last a misty mountain rain slipped in his face, refreshing his burning brow with the touch of his cool fingers. Then he descended mechanically, exchanging salutations as if nothing were wrong with him. With the milk made in the wood-boy, he crossed the open courtyard and re-entered the hall. There Dolores and a girl who worked under her were already busy, so he passed them by into the inner room. Its darkness seemed to stifle him. With hasty hand he drew aside the heavy tapestry curtain. As he did so, something caught his eye. For the hundredth time he re-read the mystic inscription on the glass. El Dorado, yo estorvado. And as an infant's touch may open a sleuth that lets in the mighty ocean, those simple words broke up the fountains of the great deep within. He gave full course to the emotions they awakened. Again he heard Juan's voice repeat them. Again he saw Juan's deep earnest eyes look into his, not now reproachfully, but with full unshaken trust, as in the old days when he first said, We will go forth together and find our father. Juan, for other. He cried aloud. I will never wrong thee, so help me God. At that moment the morning sun, having scattered the mist with the glory of its rising, sent one of its early beams to kiss the handwriting on the windowpane. Old token for good. Thought Carlos, whose imaginative nature could play with fancies even in the hours of supreme emotion. And true still even yet. Only the good is all for Juan. For me? Nothing but despair. And so Don Carlos found his disengagno, or disenchantment, and it was a very thorough one. Body and mind were well-nigh exhausted with the violence of the struggle. Perhaps this was fortunate. Even so far that it won for the decision of his better nature, a more rapid and easy acceptance. In a sense and forced season any decision was welcomed to the weary, tempest-tossed soul. It was afterwards that he asked himself, How were long years to be dragged on without the face that was the joy of his heart and the life of his life? How is he to bear the never-ending pain, the aching loneliness of such a lot? Better to die at once than to endure this slow-living death? He knew well that it was not in his nature to point the pistol or the dagger at his own breast, but he might pine away and die silently as many thousands die of blighted hopes and ruin life. Or, and this was more likely perhaps, as time passed on he might grow hard and dead in soul, till at last he would become a dry cold mechanical mass priest, mumbling the church's Latin with thin bloodless lips, a keen eye to his dues, and a heart that might serve for a church relic so much faith would it require to believe that it had been warm and living once. Still, lottably anxious to provide against possible future waverings of the decision so painfully attained, he wrote informing his uncle of his safe arrival, adding that he had fully made up his mind to take orders at Christmas, but that he found it advisable to remain in his present quarters for a month or two. He at once dispatched two of the men-and-arms of the letter, and much was the thrifty Don Manuel surprised that his nephew should spend a handful of silver, reels, in order to inform him of what he knew already. Gloomily the day wore on. The instinctive reserve of a sensitive nature made Carlos talk to the servants, receive the account, inspect the kind and sheep, do everything in short except eat and drink, as he would have done had not a sorrow been all the time crushing his heart. It is true that Dolores, who loved him as her own son, was not deceived. It was for no trivial cause that the young master was pale as a corpse, restless and irritable, talking hurriedly by fitful snatches and then relapsing into moody silence. But Dolores was a prudent woman, as well as a loving and faithful one. Therefore she held her peace and bided her time. But Carlos noticed one effort she made to console him. Coming in towards evening from a consultation with the ego about some cork-trees, which a Marisco merchant-men wished to purchase and cut down, he saw upon his table a carefully sealed wine flask with a cup beside it. He knew whence it came. His father had left in the cellar a small quantity of choice wine of ceris, and this relic of more prosperous times being, like most of their other possessions, in the case of Dolores, was only produced very sparingly and on rare occasions. But she evidently thought, Señor Don Carlos, needed it now. Touched by her watchful and obtrusive affection he would have gratified her by drinking, but he had a peculiar dislike to drinking alone, while he knew he would only render his sanity doubtful by inviting either her or Diego to share the luxurious beverage. So he put her to side for the present and drew towards him a sheet of figures, an ink-corn and a pen. He could not work, however. With the silence and solitude his great grief came back upon him again. But nature all this time had been working silently for him. His despair was giving way to a more violent but less bitter sorrow. Tears came now, a long, passionate fit of weeping relieved his aching heart. Since his early childhood he had not wept thus. An approaching footstep recalled him to himself. He rose with haste and shame and stood beside the window, hoping that his position in the waning light might altogether shield him from observation. It was only Dolores. Señor! She said, entering somewhat hastily. Will it please you to see to those men of Seville that came with your Excellency? They are insulting a poor little moloteer and threatening to rob his packages. Yanghazian carriers and other mule-teers bringing goods across the Sierra Morena from the towns of La Mancha to those of Andalusia, often passed by the castle and sometimes received hospitality there. Carlos rose at once with the summons, saying to Dolores, Where's the boy? He is not a boy, Señor, he is a man, a very little man, but with a greater spirit if I mistake not then some twice his size. It was true enough. On the green plot at the back of the castle, beside which the mountain pathway led, there were gathered the ten or twelve rough, Seville pikemen taken from the lowest of the population and most of them of Moorish blood. In their midst, beside the foremost of his three mules, with an arm thrown round her neck, and the other rays to give effect by animated gestures to his eager oratory, stood the mule-teer. He was a very short, spare, active-looking mad, clad from head to foot in chestnut-coloured leather. His mules were well laid in, each with three large alfhorhas, one at each side and one laid across the neck, but they were evidently well-fed and cared for also, and they presented a gay appearance with their adornments of bright-coloured, worsted tassels and tiny bells. You know, my friends, the mule-teer was saying as Carlos came within hearing, And our heroes alfhorhas are like a soldier's colours. It stands him upon his honour to guard them in violet. No, no, ask him for a test, his purse, his blood. They are at your service, but never touch his colours, if you care for a long life. My honest friend, your colours, as you call them, shall be safe here. Said Carlos kindly. The mule-teer turned towards him a good, humoured, intelligent face, and bowing low thanked him heartily. What is your name? Asked Carlos. And whence do you come? I am Juliano. Juliano el Chico. Juliano and the little men generally call me. Since, as your excellency sees, I am not very great, and I come last from Toledo. Indeed, and what wears do you carry? Some matters, small in bulk, yet costly, which I am bringing for a savilla merchant. Madel de Espinosa by name, if your worship has heard of him. I have mirrors, for example, of a new kind, excellent in workmanship, and true as steel as well they may be. I know the shop of Espinosa well. I have been much in Seville. Said Carlos, with a sudden pang, caused by the wracked election of the many pretty trifles that he had purchased there for Dona Beatriz. But follow me, my friend, and I good supper shall make you amends for the rudeness of these fellows. Andres, take the best care thou canst of his mules. You will be only fair penance for thy sin in molesting their owner. A hundred thousand thanks, senor. Still, with your worships could leave, and no offence to friend Andres. I had rather look to the beast myself. We are old companions. They know my ways, and I know theirs. As you please, my good fellow, Andres will show you the stable, and I shall tell my mire Domo to see that you lack nothing. Again, I render to your excellency my poor but hearty thanks. Carlos went in, gave the necessary directions to Diego, and then returned to a solitary chamber. END OF CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. 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 VIII. THE MULE TEAR. Are ye resigned that they be spent? In such worlds help, the spirits bent. Their awful brows and said, Content! Content it sounded like a men, said by a choir of mourning men, an affirmation full of pain, and patience, eye of glorying, an adoration, as a king, might seal an oath for governing. E.B. Browning. When Carlos stood once more face to face with his sorrow, as he did as soon as he had closed the door, he found that it had changed somewhat its aspect. A trouble often does this when some interruption from the outer world makes us part company with it for a little while. We find on our return that has developed quite a new phase, and seldom a more hopeful one. It now entered the mind of Carlos for the first time that he had been acting very basely towards his brother. Not only had he planned and intended a treason, but by endeavouring to engage the affections of Donia Beatrice he had actually committed one. Heaven grant at night not prove irreparable. Though the time that had passed since his better self-gain the victory was only measured by hours, it represented to him a much longer period. Already, it enabled him to look upon what had gone before, from the vantage ground that some degree of distance gives. He now beheld in true, perhaps even in exaggerated colours, the meanness and treachery of his conduct. He who prided himself upon the nobility of his nature matching that of his birth. He, Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos de Manalla, the gentleman of stainless manners, of reputation untarnished by single blot. He who had never yet been ashamed of anything. In his solitude he blushed and covered his face with shame, as the villainy he had planned rose up before his mind. He would have broken his heart to be scorned by any man, and was it not worse a thousandfold to be thus scorned by himself? He thought even more of the meanness of his plan than of its treachery. Of its sin he did not think at all. Sin was a theological term, which he had been wanted to handle in the schools, and to toss to and fro with the other materials upon which he showed off his dialectic skill. But it no more occurred to him to take it out of the scholastic word and to bring it into that which he really lived and acted, than it did to talk Latin to Diego, or to softly whisper quotations from Thomas Aquinas into the ear of Donia Beatrice, between the pauses of the dance. Scarcely any consideration, however, could have made him more miserable than he was. Past and future, all alike, seemed dreary. Not a happy memory. Not a cheering anticipation could he find to comfort him. He was as one who goes forth to face the driving storm of a wintry night, not strong in hope and courage, a warm hearth behind him and before him the pleasant starry glimmer that tells him another soon to be reached. But chilled, weary, forlorn, the wind whistling through thin garments and nothing to meet his eye but the bare, bleak, shelterless moor stretching far out into the distance. He sat long, too crushed in heart even to finish his slight unimportant task. Sometimes he drew towards him his sheet of figures, and for a moment or two tried to fix his tension upon it, but soon he would push away again or make aimless dots and circles on its margin. While thus engaged, he heard a cheery and not unmolodious voice chanting a fragment of song in some foreign tongue. Listening more attentively, he believed the words were French, and suppose the singer must be his humble guest, the Moultir, on his way to the stable to take a last look at the beloved companions of his toils before he lay down to rest. The man had probably exercised his vocation at some former period in the passes of the Pyrenees, and had thus acquired some knowledge of French. Half an hour's talk with any one seemed to Carlos at that moment a most desirable diversion from the gloom of his own thoughts. He might converse with a stranger when he dared not summon to his presence Diego or Dolores, because they knew and loved him well enough to discover in two minutes that something was seriously wrong with him. He waited until he heard the voice once more close beneath his window, then softly opening it he called the Moultir. Juliano responded with ready alertness, and Carlos, going round to the door, admitted him and led him into his sanctum. I believed, he said, that was a French song I heard you sing. You have been in France then? I, señor, I have crossed the Pyrenees more than once. I have also been in Switzerland. You must then have visited many places worthy of note, and not with your eyes shut, I think. I wish you would tell me for past time the story of your travels. Willingly, señor," said the Moultir, who though perfectly respectful had an ease and independence of manner, then made Carlos suspect it was not the first time he had converse with his superiors. Where shall I begin? Have you ever crossed the Santillianos, or visited the Asturias? No, señor, a man cannot be everywhere. He that rings the bells does not walk in the procession. I am only master of the route from Lyon here, knowing a little also, as I have said, of Switzerland. Tell me first of Lyon's, then, and be seated, my friend. The Moultir sat down, and began his story, telling of the places he had seen with an intelligence that more and more engaged the attention of Carlos, who failed not to draw out his information by many pertinent questions. As they conversed, each observed the other with gradually increasing interest. Carlos admired the Moultir's courage and energy in the prosecution of his calling, and enjoyed his quaint and true observations. Moreover, he was struck by certain indications of a degree of education and even of refinement not usual in his class. Especially, he noticed a small, finely formed hand, which was sometimes in the worth of conversation laid on the table, in which looked as if it had been accustomed to wield some implement far more delicate than a writing whip. Another thing he took note of, though Juliano's language avounded in proverbs, in provincialisms, in quaint and racy expressions, not a single oath escaped his lips. I never saw an arriero before, thought Carlos, who could get through two sentences without half a dozen of them. Juliano, on the other hand, was observing his host, and with a far shooter and deeper insight than Carlos could have imagined. During supper, he had gathered from the servants that their young master was kind-hearted, gentle, easy-tempered, and had never injured anyone in his life. And knowing all this, he was touched with genuine sympathy for the young noble, whose haggard face and sorrowful looks told but too plainly that some great grief was pressing on his heart. Your Excellency must be wary of my stories. He said at length, It is time I left you to your repose. And so indeed it was, for the hour was late. There you go. Said Carlos kindly. You shall drink a cup of wine with me. He had no wine at hand, but the costly beverage Dolores had produced for his own special use. Wondering a little what Juliano would think of such a luxurious beverage, he sought a second cup, for the proud Castilian gentleman was too— Finally courches. Not to drink with his guest, although that guest was only a mule-tear. Juliano, evidently a temperate man, remonstrated. But I have already tasted your Excellency's hospitality. That should not hinder your drinking to my good health. Said Carlos, producing a small hunting-cup, forgotten until now, from the pocket of its doublet. Then filling the larger cup he handed it to Juliano. It was a very little thing, a trifling act of kindness. But to the last hour of his life, Carlos Alvarez thanked God that he had put it into his heart to offer that cup of wine. The mule-tear raised it to his lips, saying earnestly, God grant you health and happiness, noble Signor. Carlos drank also, glad to relieve a sudden, painful feeling of exhaustion. As he sat down the cup, a sudden impulse prompted him to say with a bitter smile, Happiness is not likely to come my way at present. Nay, Signor, and wherefore not? With your good leave, be it spoken, you are young, noble, amiable, with much learning, and excellent parts, as they tell me. All these things may not prevent a man being very miserable. Said Carlos, frankly. God comfort you, Signor. Thanks for your good wish. Said Carlos, rather lightly and conscious of having already said too much. All men have their troubles, I suppose, but most men contrive to live through them, so shall I, no doubt. But God can comfort you. Signor repeated with a kind of wistful earnestness. Carlos, surprised at his manner, looked at him dreamily, but with some curiosity. Signor. Said Juliano, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone, full of meaning. Let your worship excuse a plain man's plain question. Signor, do you know God? Carlos started visibly. Was the man mad? Certainly not, as all his previous conversation were witness. He was evidently a very clever, half-educated man who spoke with just the simplicity and unconsciousness of an intelligent child. And now he had asked a true child's question, one which it would exhaust a wise man's wisdom to answer. Clearly perplexed, Carlos at last determined to take it in its easiest sense. He said, Yes, I have studied theology, and taken out my licentious degree at the University of Alcala. If it please your worship, what may that fine word theology mean? You have said so many wise things that I marvel you know not, science about God. Then, Signor, your Excellency knows about God. But is it not another thing to know God? I know much about the Emperor Carlos, now at San Juste. I could tell you the story of all his campaigns, but I never saw him, still less spoke with him. And far indeed am I from knowing him to be my friend, and so trust in him, that if my mules died, or the old guasels seized me at Cordova for bringing over something contraband, or other mishap befell me, I should go or send to him, certain that he would help and save me. I begin to understand you, said Carlos, and the suspicion crossed his mind that the mule-tear was a friar in disguise. But that could scarcely be, since his black abundant hair showed no marks of the tauncher. After the manner you speak of only great saints know God. Indeed, Signor, can that be true? For I have heard, that our Lord Christ, at the mention of the name Carlos crossed himself, a ceremony which the mule-tear was sowing gross by his argument as to forget, that our Lord Christ came into the world to make man know the Father, and that, to all that believe on him, he truly reveals him. Where did you get this strange learning? It is a simple learning, and yet very blessed, Signor. Return to Liano, evading the question. For those who know God are happy. Whatever sorrows they have without, within they have joy and peace. You are advising me to seek peace in religion? It was singular, certainly, that a mule-tear should advise him. But then this was a very uncommon mule-tear. And so I ought, he added, since I am destined for the church. No, Signor, not to seek peace in religion, but to seek peace from God, and in Christ who reveals him. It is only the words that differ that things are the same. When I say, with all submission to your Excellency, not so. It is Christ Jesus himself, Christ Jesus, God and man, who alone can give the peace and happiness for which the heart aches. Are we oppressed with sin? He says, thy sins are forgiven thee. Are we hungry? He is bread. Thirsty? He is live in water. Weary? He says, come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Man, who or what are you? You are quoting the holy scriptures to me. Do you then read Latin? No, Signor. Said the mule-tear humbly, casting his eyes down to the ground. No? No, Signor, in very truth, but… Well, go on. Juliana looked up a steady light in his eyes. Will you promise, on the faith of a gentleman, not to betray me? He asked. Most assuredly, I will not betray you. I trust you, Signor. I do not believe it would be possible for you to betray one who trusted you. Carlos winced and rather shrank from the mule-tear's look of hearty honest confidence. Though I cannot guess your reason for such precautions, I am willing, if you wish it, to swear secrecy upon the holy crucifix. It needs not, Signor. Your word of honor is as much as your oath. Though I am putting my life in your hands when I tell you that I have dared to read the words of my Lord Christ in my own tongue. Are you then a heretic? Carlos exclaimed, recoiling involuntarily, as one who suddenly sees the plague-spot on the forehead of a friend whose handy has been grasping. That depends on your notion of a heretic, Signor. Many a better man than I has been branded with the name, even the great preacher Don Frey Constantino, whom all the fine lords and ladies in Seville flock to hear his often being called heretic by his enemies. I have resided in Seville and attended Frey Constantino's theological lectures. Said Carlos. Then your worship knows there is not a better Christian in all the Spains, and yet men say that he narrowly escaped a prosecution for heresy. But enough of what men say. Let us hear what God says for once. His words cannot lead us astray. No, not the holy scriptures properly expounded by learned and orthodox doctors, but heretics put their own construction upon the sacred text, which moreover they corrupt and interpolate. Signor, you are a scholar. You can consult the original, and judge for yourself how far that church is true. But I do not want to read heretic writings. Nor I, Signor. Yet I confess that I have read the words of my Saviour in my own tongue, which some misinformed or ignorant paracents call heresy. And through them, to my soul's joy I have learned to know him and the Father. I am bold enough to wish the same knowledge yours, Signor. That same joy may be yours also. The poor man's eye kindled and his features, otherwise homely enough, glowed with an enthusiasm that lent them true spiritual beauty. Carlos was not unmoved. After a moment's pause, he said, If I could procure what you style God's word in my own tongue, I do not say that I would refuse to read it. Should I discover any heretical mistranslation or interpolation, I could blot out the passage or, if necessary, burn the book. I can place in your hands this very hour, the New Testament of our Saviour Christ, widely translated into Castilian by Juan Perez, a learned man, well acquainted with the Greek. What? Have you got it with you? And God's name bring it in then, and at least I will look at it. Be it truly in God's name, Signor. Said Juliano as he left the room. During his absence, Carlos pondered upon the singular adventure. Throughout his lengthened conversation with him, he had discerned no marks of heresy in the mules here, except his possession of the Spanish New Testament. And being very proud of his dialectic acuteness, he thought he should certainly have discovered such had they existed. He had need to be a clever heretic that would circumvent me. He said, with the vanity of a young and successful scholar. Moreover, his ten-months attendance on the lectures of Frey Constantino had, unconsciously to himself, somewhat imbued his mind with liberal ideas. He could have read the Vulgate al-Alcala, had he cared to do so, only he never had. Where then could be the harm of glancing out of mere curiosity at a Spanish translation from the same original? He regarded the New Testament in the light of some very dangerous, though effective weapon of the explosive kind, likely to overwhelm with terrible destruction that careless or ignorant meddler with its intricacies, and therefore wisely forbidden by the authorities, though unable in scientific hands such as his own it might be harmless and even useful. But it was a very different matter for the poor man who brought it to him. Was he after all a madman, or was he a heretic, or was he a great saint, or a holy hermit in disguise? But whatever his spiritual peril might or might not be, it was only too evident that he was incurring temporal dangers of a very awful kind. And perhaps he was doing so in the simplicity of ignorance. Carlos could not do less than warm him of them. He soon returned, and drawing a small brown volume from beneath his leather jerkin, and invited it to the young nobleman. My friend? Said Carlos kindly as he took it from him. Do you know what you dare by offering this to me, or even by keeping it yourself? I know it well, Signor. Was the calm reply, and the Mule-Tier's dark eye met his undauntedly. You are playing a dangerous game, this time you are safe, but take care. You may try it once too often. I shall not, Signor. I shall witness for my lord just so often as he permits. When he has no more need of me, he will call me home. God help you! I fear you are throwing yourself into the fire, and for what? 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. Signor, I have counted the cost, and I shall pay the price right willingly. I leave within your hands the treasure brought at such cost, but God alone, by his divine spirit, can reveal to you its true worth. Signor, seek that spirit. Nay, be not offended. You are very noble and very lenient, and it is a poor and ignorant man who speaks to you, but that poor man is risking his life for your soul's salvation, and thus he proves at least how true his desire to see you one day at the right hand of Christ, his king and master. Adios, Signor. He bowed low, and before Carlos had sufficiently recovered from his astonishment to say a word in answer, he had left the room and closed the door behind him. Strange being! Thought Carlos. But I shall talk with him again to-borrow. And ere he was aware his eyelids were wet, for the courage and self-sacrifice of the pure mule-tier had stirred some answering court of emotion in his heart. Probably in spite of all appearances to the contrary he was a madman, or else he was a heretical fanatic. But he was a man willing to brave numberless sufferings, of which the death of torture would be the last and least, to bring his fellow men something which he imagined would make them happy. The church has no more orthodox son than I, said Don Carlos Alvarez, but I shall read his book for all that. Then the hour being late he retired to rest and slept soundly. He did not rise exactly with the sun, and when he came forth from his chamber breakfast was already in preparation. Where is the mule-tier who was here last night? He asked Dolores. He was up and away at sunrise. She answered. Fortunately it is not my custom to stop in bed and see the sunshine. So I just caught him loading his mules, and gave him a piece of bread and cheese, and a draft of wine. A smart little man he is, and one who knows his business. I wish I had seen him ere he left, said Carlos aloud. Shall I ever look upon his face again? He added, mentally. Carlos Alvarez saw that face again, not by ray of sun or moon nor yet by the gleam of the student's lamp, but clear and distinct in a lurid, awful light more terrible than the Egyptian darkness, yet fraught with strange blessing, since it showed the way to the city of God, where the sun no more goes down, neither death the moon withdraw herself. Juliano Alchico, otherwise Julien Fernandez, is no fancy sketch, no character of fiction. It is a matter of history that cunningly stowed away in his alforhas amongst the ribbons, laces, and other trifles that form the restensible freight. There was a large supply of Spanish New Testaments, the translation of Juan Perez, and that, in spite of all the difficulties and dangers of his self-imposed task, he succeeded in conveying his precious charge safely to Seville. Our cheeks grow pale, our hearts shudder, at the thought of what he and others dared, that they might bring to the lips of their countrymen that living water, which was truly The blood of the men that went for it in jeopardy of their lives. More than jeopardy. Not alone did Juliano brave danger. He encountered certain death. Sooner or later it was impossible that he should not fall into the pitiless grasp of that hideous engine of royal and priestly tyranny, called the Holy Inquisition. We have no words in which to praise a cherosim as his. Believe that, and we may be content to leave it. To him whose lips shall one day produce the sublime award. Well done, good and faithful servant. Swear thou into the joy of thy Lord. But in the view of such things done and suffered for his name's sake, there is another thought that presses on the mind. How real and great! Nay, how unedderably precious! Must be that treasure which men were found willing at such cost, not only to secure for themselves, but even to impart to others. End of Chapter 8