“And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone
To testify of Zion's King and the glory of his throne?
My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak,
Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak;
But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue,
And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be strong.”
MRS. STUART MENTEITH.
MANY a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns of the Church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly enough for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio, which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made him forbear. Not a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by the gaoler's little daughter. On the whole, he was growing accustomed to his prison life. It seemed as though it would last forever; as though every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance. There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count; there were bitter hours— of passionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable fear. But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or sorrow; there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner.
It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the 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 trousers), 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 Munebraga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man's life, helped to give him boldness in his presence.
At Munebraga'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 Munebraga, 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 1 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 offense 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. Furthermore, you can request a copy of the deposition against you, in order to prepare your defense.”
“Always supposing," said Munebraga 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, Munebraga. But Munebraga 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.”
Munebraga 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 Dent 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 I" said Munebraga, 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, Munebraga 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 Munebraga 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 Menaya.”
Keep to thy quires and thine ink-horn, man of law," interposed Munebraga 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 Munebraga 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 Munebraga, 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 afterward confirmed by others. But the first witness had deposed that two gentlemen of the name of Malaya 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 Menaya known to them was the prisoner's brother. But in his favor there was every presumption, both from his character as a gallant officer in the army of the most Catholic king, and from the fact of his voluntary return to Seville; where, instead of shunning, he seemed to court observation, by throwing himself continually in the Inquisitor's way, and soliciting audience of him.
Still, of course, his guilt was possible. But, in the absence of anything suspicious in his conduct, some clearer evidence than the vague deposition alluded to was absolutely necessary, in order to warrant proceedings against him. According to the inquisitorial laws, what they styled "full half proof" of a crime must be obtained before ordering the arrest of the supposed criminal.
And the key to all these perplexities had now to be 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 neighbor; 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?
Munebraga 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 neighbor 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. 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, and 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.'”