The Spanish Brothers

It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the Te Deum for himself; and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant it at Nuera; not in the time of Father Tomas, but in that of his predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease. He was so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large key grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.

Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the prisoner to put on immediately.

Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a passing feeling of indignation. For the very form and fashion of the garments he was thus obliged to assume (a kind of jacket without sleeves, and long loose trowsers), meant to the Castilian noble keen insult and degradation.

"Take off your shoes," said the alcayde. "Prisoners always come before their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me."

It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread took possession of his soul. Heedless of the alcayde's presence, he threw himself for one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek was pale, he could speak calmly. "I am ready," he said.

He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At length he ventured to ask, "Whither are you leading me?"

"Chiton!" said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was not permitted there.

At last they drew near an open door. The alcayde quickened his pace, entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and motioned Carlos to go forward alone.

He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges – the Board, or "Table of the Inquisition." He bowed, though rather from the habit of courtesy, than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood silent.

Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation. The room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there were handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on the estrada six or seven persons were seated. Of these, one alone was covered, he who sat nearest the door by which Carlos had entered, and facing the crucifix. He knew that this was Gonzales de Munebrãga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man's life, helped to give him boldness in his presence.

At Munebrãga's right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos, though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the position he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. One or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far his own inferiors, both in education and in social position.

At length Munebrãga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table. He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his dress to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and administered an oath to him.

It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation. A bench at the Inquisitor's left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired to be seated.

A member of the Board, who bore the title of the Promoter-fiscal, conducted the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment? Carlos answered immediately, "I do."

This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office. They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have induced "their reverences" to order their arrest. With a slight elevation of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued, gently enough, "Are you then aware of having erred from the faith, and by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good Christians? Speak boldly, my son; for to those who acknowledge their faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy."

"I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it."

Here the Dominican prior interposed. "You can ask for an advocate," he said; "and as you are under twenty-five years of age, you can also claim the assistance of a curator.22 Furthermore, you can request a copy of the deposition against you, in order to prepare your defence."

"Always supposing," said Munebrãga himself, "that he formally denies the crime laid to his charge. – Do you?" he asked, turning to the prisoner.

"We understand you so to do," said the prior, looking earnestly at Carlos. "You plead not guilty?"

Carlos rose from his seat, and advanced a step or two nearer to the table where sat the men who held his life in their hands. Addressing himself chiefly to the prior, he said, "I know that by taking the course your reverence recommends to me, as I believe out of kindness, I may defer my fate for a little while. I may beat the air, fighting in the dark with witnesses whom you would refuse to name to me, still more to confront with me. Or, I may make you wring out the truth from me slowly, drop by drop. But what would that avail me? Neither for the truth, nor yet for any falsehood I might be base enough to utter, would you loose your hand from your prey. I prefer that straight road which is ever the shortest way. I stand before your reverences this day a professed Lutheran, despairing of mercy from man, but full of confidence in the mercy of God."

A movement of surprise ran around the Board at these daring words. The prior turned away from the prisoner with a pained, disconcerted look; but only to meet a half-triumphant, half-reproachful glance from his superior, Munebrãga. But Munebrãga was not displeased; far from it. It did not grieve him that the prisoner, a mere youth, "was throwing himself into the fire." That was his own concern. He was saving "their reverences" a great deal of trouble. Thanks to his hardihood, his folly, or his despair, a good piece of work was quickly and easily accomplished. For it was the business of the Inquisitors first to convict; retractations were an after consideration.

"Thou art a bold heretic, and fit for the fire," he said. "We know how to deal with such." And he placed his hand on the bell that was to signal the termination of the interview.

But the prior, recovering from his astonishment, once more interposed. "My lord and your reverence, be pleased to allow me a few minutes, in which I may set plainly before the prisoner both the wonted mercy and lenity of the Holy Office to the repentant, and the fatal consequences of obstinacy."

Munebrãga acquiesced by a nod, then leant back carelessly in his seat; this was not a part of the proceedings in which he felt much interest.

No one could doubt the sincerity with which the prior warned Carlos of the doom that awaited the impenitent heretic. The horrors of the death of fire, the deeper, darker horror of the fire that never dies, these were the theme of his discourse. If not actually eloquent, it had at least the earnestness of intense conviction. "But to the penitent," he added, and the hard face softened a little, "God is ever merciful, and his Church is merciful too."

Carlos listened in silence, his eyes bent on the ground. But when the Dominican concluded, he looked up again, glanced first at the great crucifix, then fixed his eyes steadily on the prior's face. "I cannot deny my Lord," he said. "I am in your hands, and you can do with me as you will. But God is mightier than you."

"Enough!" said Munebrãga, and he rang the hand-bell. After a very short delay, the alcayde reappeared, and led Carlos back to his cell.

As soon as he was gone, Munebrãga turned to the prior. "My lord," he said, "your wonted penetration is at fault for once. Is this the youth whom you assured us a few months of solitary confinement would render pliant as a reed and plastic as wax? Whereas we find him as bold a heretic as Losada, or D'Arellano, or that imp of darkness, little Juliano."

"Nay, my lord, I do not despair of him. Far from it. He is much less firm than he seems. Give him time, with a due mixture of kindness and severity, and, I trust in our Lord and St. Dominic, we will see him a hopeful penitent."

"I am of your mind, reverend father," said the Promoter-fiscal. "It is probable he confessed only to avoid the Question. Many of them fear it more than death."

"You are right," answered Munebrãga quickly.

The notary looked up from his papers. "Please your lordships," he said, "I think it is the sangre azul that makes him so bold. He is Alvarez de Meñaya."

"Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law," interposed Munebrãga angrily. "Thy part is to write down what wiser men say, not to prate thyself." It was well known that the Inquisitor, far from boasting the sangre azul himself, had not even what the Spaniards call "good red blood" flowing in his veins; hence his irritation at the notary's speech.

There is often a great apparent similarity in the effects of quite opposite causes. That which results from a degree of weakness of character may sometimes wear the aspect of transcendent courage. A bolder man than Don Carlos Alvarez might, in his circumstances, have made a struggle for life. He might have fought over every point as it arose; have availed himself of every loophole for escape; have thrown upon his persecutors the onus of proving his crime. But such a course would not have been possible to Carlos. As a running leap is far more easy than a standing one, so to sensitive temperaments it is easier to rush forward to meet pain or danger than to stand still and fight it off, knowing all the time that it must come at last.

He would have been astonished had he guessed the impression made upon his examiners. To himself it seemed that he had confessed his Lord in much weakness. Still, he had confessed him. And shut out as he was from all ordinary "means of grace," the act of confession became a kind of sacrament to him. It was a token and an evidence of Christ's presence with him, and Christ's power working in him. He could say now, "In the day that I called upon thee thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul." And from that hour he seemed to live in greater nearness to Christ, and more intimate communion with him, than he had ever done before.

It was well that he had strong consolation, for his need was great. Two other examinations followed after a short interval; and in both of these Munebrãga took a far more active part than he had done in the first. The Inquisitors were at that time extremely anxious to procure evidence upon which to condemn Fray Constantino, who up to this point had steadily resisted every effort they had made to induce him to criminate himself. They thought it probable that Don Carlos Alvarez could assist them if he would, especially since there had been found amongst his papers a highly laudatory letter of recommendation from the late Canon Magistral.

Still, his assistance was needed even more in other matters. It is scarcely necessary to say that Munebrãga, who forgot nothing, had not forgotten the mysterious appointment made with him, but never kept, by a cousin of the prisoner's, who was now stated to be hopelessly insane. What did that mean? Was the story true; or were the family keeping back evidence which might compromise one or more of its remaining members?

But Carlos was expected to resolve a yet graver question; or, at least, one that touched him more nearly. His own arrest had been decreed in consequence of two depositions against him. First, a member of Losada's congregation had named him as one of the habitual attendants; then a monk of San Isodro had fatally compromised him under the torture. The monk's testimony was clear and explicit, and was afterwards confirmed by others. But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the name of Meñaya had been wont to attend the conventicle. Who was the second? Hitherto this problem had baffled the Inquisitors. Don Manuel Alvarez and his sons were noted for orthodoxy; and the only other Meñaya known to them was the prisoner's brother. But in his favour there was every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary return to Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court observation, by throwing himself continually in the Inquisitor's way, and soliciting audience of him.

Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But, in the absence of anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant proceedings against him. According to the inquisitorial laws, what they styled "full half proof" of a crime must be obtained before ordering the arrest of the supposed criminal.

And the key to all these perplexities had now to be wrung from the unwilling hands of Carlos. This needed "half proof" could, and must, be furnished by him. "He must speak out," said those stern, pitiless men, who held him in their hands.

But here he was stronger than they. Neither arts, persuasions, threats, nor promises, availed to unseal those pale, silent lips. Would torture do it? He was told plainly, that unless he would answer every question put to him freely and distinctly, he must undergo its worst horrors.

His heart throbbed wildly, then grew sick and faint. A dread far keener than the dread of death prompted one short sharp struggle against the inevitable. He said, "It is against your own law to torture a confessed criminal for information concerning others. For the law presumes that a man loves himself better than his neighbour; and, therefore, that he who has informed against himself would more readily inform against other heretics if he knew them."

He was right. His early studies had enabled him to quote correctly one of the rules laid down by the highest authority for the regulation of the inquisitorial proceedings. But what mattered rules and canons to the members of a secret and irresponsible tribunal?

Munebrãga covered his momentary embarrassment with a sneer. "That rule was framed for delinquents of another sort," he said. "You Lutheran heretics have the command, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself,' so deeply rooted in your hearts, that the very flesh must needs be torn from your bones ere you will inform against your brethren.23 I overrule your objection as frivolous."

And then a sentence, more dreaded than the terrible death-sentence itself, received the formal sanction of the Board.

Once more alone in his cell, Carlos flung himself on his knees, and pressing his burning brow against the cold damp stone, cried aloud in his anguish, "Let this cup – only this – pass from me!"

His was just the nature to which the thought of physical suffering is most appalling. Keenly sensitive in mind and body, he shrank in unspeakable dread from what stronger characters might brave or defy. His vivid imagination intensified every pang he felt or feared. His mind was like a room hung round with mirrors, in which every terrible thing, reflected a hundred times, became a hundred terrors instead of one. What another would have endured once, he endured over and over again in agonized anticipation.

At times the nervous horror grew absolutely insupportable. Fearfulness and trembling took hold upon him. He felt ready to pray that God in his great mercy would take away his life, and let the bearer of the dreaded summons find him beyond all their malice.

One thought haunted him like a demon, whispering words of despair. It had begun to haunt him from the hour when poor Maria Gonsalez told him she had seen his brother. What if they dragged that loved name from his lips! What if, in his weakness, he became Juan's betrayer! Once it had been in his heart to betray him from selfish love; perhaps in judgment for that sin he was now to betray him through sharp bodily anguish. Even if his will were kept firm all through (which he scarcely dared to hope), would not reason give way, and wild words be wrung from his lips that would too surely ruin all?

He tried to think of his Saviour's death and passion; tried to pray for strength and patience to drink of his cup. Sometimes he prayed that prayer with strong crying and tears; sometimes with cold mute lips, too weary to cry any longer. If he was heard and answered, he knew it not then.

Days of suspense wore on. They were only less dreary than the nights, when sleep fled from his eyes, and horrible visions (which yet he knew were less horrible than the truth) rose in quick succession before his mind.

One evening, seated on his bench in the twilight, he fell into an uneasy slumber. The dark dread that never left him, mingling with the sunny gleam of old memories, wove a vivid dream of Nuera, of that summer morning when the first great conflict of his life found an ending in the strong resolve, "Juan, brother! I will never wrong thee, so help me God!"

The grating of the key in the door and the sudden flash of the lamp aroused him. He started to his feet at the alcayde's entrance. This time no change of dress was prescribed him. He knew his doom. He cried, but to no human ear. From the very depths of his being the prayer arose, "Father, save – sustain me; I am thine!"

XXXIII.

On the Other Side

"Happy are they who learn at last, —Though silent suffering teach The secret of enduring strength,And praise too deep for speech, — Peace that no pressure from without,No storm within can reach."There is no death for me to fear,For Christ my Lord hath died: There is no curse in all my pain,For he was crucified; And it is fellowship with himThat keeps me near his side."A.L. Waring.

When the light of the next morning streamed in through the narrow grating of his cell, Carlos was there once more, lying on his bed of rushes. But was it indeed the next morning, or was it ten years, twenty years afterwards? Without a painful effort of thought and memory, he himself could scarcely have told. That last night was like a great gulf, fixed between his present and all his past. The moment when he entered that torch-lit subterranean room seemed a sharp, black dividing line, sundering his life into two halves. And the latter half seemed longer than that which had gone before.

Nor could years of suffering have left a sadder impress on the young face, out of which the look of youth had passed, apparently for ever. Brow and lips were pale; but two crimson spots, still telling of feverish pain, burned on the hollow cheeks, while the large lustrous eyes beamed with even unnatural brilliance.

The poor woman, who was doing the work of God's bright angels in that dismal prison, came softly in. How she obtained entrance there Carlos did not know, and was far too weak to ask, or even to wonder. But probably she was sent by Benevidio, who knew that, in his present condition, some human help was indispensable to the prisoner.

Maria Gonsalez was too well accustomed to scenes of horror to be over-much surprised or shocked by what she saw. Silently, though with a heart full of compassion, she rendered the few little services in her power. She placed the broken frame in as easy a position as she could, and once and again she raised to the parched lips the "cup of cold water" so eagerly desired.

He roused himself to murmur a word of thanks; then, as she prepared to leave him, his eyes followed her wistfully.

"Can I do anything more for you, señor?" she asked.

"Yes, mother. Tell me – have you spoken to my brother?"

"Ay de mi! no, señor," said the poor woman, whose ability was not equal to her goodwill. "I have tried, God wot; but I could not get from my master the name of the place where he lives without making him suspect something, and never since have I had the good fortune to see his face."

"I know you have done – what you could. My message does not matter now. Not so much. Still, best he should go. Tell him so, when you find him. But, remember, tell him nought of this. You promise, mother? He must never know it —never!"

She spoke a few words of pity and condolence.

"It was horrible!" he faltered, in faint, broken tones. "Worst of all – the return to life. For I thought all was over, and that I should awake face to face with Christ. But – I cannot speak of it."

There was a long silence; then his eye kindled, and a look of joy – ay, even of triumph – flashed across the wasted, suffering face. "But I have overcome! No; not I. Christ has overcome in me, the weakest of his members. Now I am beyond it – on the other side."

To the poor tortured captive there had been given a foretaste, strange and sweet, of what they feel who stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God in their hands. Men had done their worst – their very worst. He knew now all "the dread mystery of pain;" all that flesh could accomplish in its fiercest conflict with spirit. Yet not one word that could injure any one he loved had been wrung from his lips.

All was over now. In that there was mercy – far more mercy than was shown to others. He had been permitted to drain the cup at a single draught. Now he could feel grateful to the physicians, who with truly kind cruelty (and not without some risk to themselves) had prevented, in his case, that fiendish device, "the suspension of the torture." Even according to the execrable laws of the Inquisition, he had won his right to die in peace.

As time passed on, a blessed sense that he was now out of the hands of man, and in those of God alone, sank like balm upon his weary spirit. Fear was gone; grief had passed away; even memory had almost ceased to give him a pang. For how could he long for the loved faces of former days, when day and night Christ himself was near him? So strangely near, so intimately present, that he sometimes thought that if, through some wonderful relenting of his persecutors, Juan were permitted to come and stand beside him, that loved brother would still seem further away, less real, than the unseen Friend who was keeping watch by his couch. And even the bodily pain, that so seldom left him, was not hard to hear, for it was only the touch of His finger.

He had passed into the clear air upon the mountain top, where the sun shines ever, and the storm winds cannot come. Nothing hurt him; nothing disturbed him now. He had visitors; for what had really placed him beyond the reach of his enemies was, not unnaturally, supposed by them to have brought him into a fitting state to receive their exhortations. So Inquisitors, monks, and friars – "persons of good learning and honest repute" – came in due course to his lonely cell, armed with persuasions and arguments, which were always weighted with threats and promises.

Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, from a great distance. Into "the secret place of the Lord," where he dwelt now, they could not enter. Threats and promises fell powerless on his ear. What more could they do to him? As far as the mere facts of the case were concerned, this security may have been misplaced – nay, it was misplaced; but it saved him from much suffering. And as for promises, had they thrown open the door of his dungeon and bid him go forth free, only that one intense longing to see his brother's face would have nerved him to make the effort.

Arguments he was glad to answer when permitted. It was a joy to speak for his Lord, who had done, and was doing, such great things for him. As far as he could, he made use of those Scripture words with which his memory was so richly stored. But more than once it happened that he was forced to take up the weapons which he had learned in the schools to use so skilfully. He tore sophisms to pieces with the dexterity of one who knew how they were constructed, and astonished the students of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas by vanquishing them on their own ground.

Reproach and insult he met with a fearless meekness that nothing could ruffle. Why should he feel anger? Rather did he pity those who stood without in the darkness, not seeing the Face he saw, not hearing the Voice he heard. Usually, however, those who visited him yielded to the spell of his own sweet and perfect courtesy, and were kinder than they intended to be to the "professed impenitent heretic."