“Forgive!—for 'tis sweet to stammer one letter
From the Eternal's language: on earth it is called
' Forgiveness.'”
LONGFELLOW (from the Swedish).
JOSÉ VIRACOCHA was not at all more vindictive than other men. He inherited from his ancestors no implacability of disposition, no burning thirst after vengeance. On the contrary, it was their special glory—a glory that ought to last when other glories fade away—that they saw the beauty of fair Mercy, and wooed and won her to sit beside them on their golden throne. Many a deed of generous magnanimity had place amongst his cherished traditions. He could not remember the first time he had heard how the Inca Mayta caressed and fed the little children of his enemies; how the Inca Huayna Capac taught and acted upon the noble maxim, "We ought to spare our foes, for they will soon be our subjects." But he had now come to a point at which these traditions could not help him. Although the clemency a monarch extends to despairing suppliants at his feet is a fair thing to look upon, and very grateful to eyes fatigued with the monotonous crimson of battle-fields and massacres, still it is not the forgiveness of keen and cruel personal injuries. As surely as the crystal rings when struck, so surely does human nature respond, with the sharp cry of hatred, to the stroke of wrong. There is only One Hand whose touch can bring peace and make silence there.
Jose could not forgive Don Ramon: he had no wish to do it-his soul rose in rebellion at the very thought. He saw clearly all that it involved. If he pardoned Don Ramon, he must pardon also all his enemies, with all their injuries, public and private. He must pardon Don Francisco Solis; and him he hated quite as bitterly as he hated Don Ramon. And there were times when his resentment against both paled and faded before the intensity of his indignation against the spoilers of Tahuantin Suyu. Them also—even them—he must pardon! Impossible! Yet a suspicion, gradually becoming a conviction, was stealing over his heart. It was no other than the King whom he sought—the Divine Monarch and Deliverer, the great Inca of the East—who required this thing of him, who demanded it as the test of his allegiance. If, instead, He had but asked his life-blood!
In his sore dismay and perplexity, he bethought himself of Walter Gray, to whom he was becoming every day more strongly attached, and to whose comfort he ministered in every possible way. Walter would give him the English view of the matter; and that, most probably, would be the true one. So, after Walter's next visit to Fray Fernando, Jose returned with him to the beach; and standing before him as he rested for a little in the welcome shade of a rock, he briefly acquainted him with the strange demand that had been made upon him.
“If," he said, "I proposed stabbing the man through the back, or setting fire to the house where he lies wounded, I could understand the King having somewhat to object. Nor, indeed, would the Incas have approved such practices. But to bid me forgive him from my heart! How can it matter what I feel there? Whose business is that, save my own?”
“It is God's business, Jose;—and the King is God." "I know it," said Jose reverently.
“God sees your heart, reads it through and through, claims it for His own.”
Jose lay down on the sand, and turned his face away from Walter. At last he said,—“I almost wish I had never met you, Señor Hualter." "And why that, Don Jose?”
“You trouble me. Better not to know the King, than to know Him and not to obey Him; and He is hard, hard to obey.”
“Oh no!”
“But yes. I know now why none of the Spaniards really obey Him, though they pretend to do it,— They cannot. Nor can I; I am afraid of Him.”
“You ought not. He loves you, He died for you;—and He only wants you to be like Him.”
“Well, if need were, I could die for Him. But" (a tremor shook his whole frame; not violent—none of his movements were that—but telling of intense repugnance) "this thing I cannot do;—I will not. What use to try? I could never forgive that man, unless I were taken to pieces and made over again.”
“Except a man be born again,'" said Walter Gray, "he shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.'”
“Who says that?”
“The King Himself.”
“I do not understand.—Stay, I do!" he added, after a thoughtful pause. "I remember the patre said those words to me. He told me they meant my baptism. He said I was born then into the Christian Church.”
“You remember your baptism?" asked Walter.
“Of course I do; I was ten years old.”
“What did you feel? Did you receive a new heart, and begin a new life then?”
“In one way, yes. I felt great love for the patre, who, I thought, was claiming me for his own by certain mystic rites and ceremonies; and I gave myself up to him very gladly. But as for thoughts of God or the Church, I had none. Until long afterward, I worshipped my Father the Sun.”
“It is very plain that you still need to be born of water and the Spirit, and to receive the new heart which God alone can give you. And He will. You have only, on your part, to `give yourself up to Him very gladly,' as you did to the padre.—Don Jose," said Walter Gray, starting up suddenly, "I could talk to you for hours; but I dare not linger. Look yonder! The sun touches the sea already; and ere it sinks, I am bound to be on board. There is not a moment to waste; the sunsets are so rapid here. Wonderful, like everything else in this wonderland of yours!”
“I am with you, Señor Hualter," said Jose, suiting the action to the word.
As they walked along together, Walter remarked: "I dare not make the captain angry by delay, lest he should deny me leave another time; and few other times may be left to me now, Don Jose. The Commandante returns from Cuzco tomorrow, and it is whispered he has orders for us. I fear we may be sent to some distant shore, where I shall never see your face or that of Fray Fernando again. It is so lonely on board, now the matador is gone; though, God knows, my heart rejoices at his deliverance. Farewell, Don Jose!”
Next morning Jose said to Fray Fernando: "Patre, I am going to the city to visit some of my people. Will you give me a letter to the monks, and I will bring you back the Book you want?”
“Willingly, my son. But, I pray of thee, come back thyself as speedily as thou canst; for since yesterday there are five men ill of the calenture, and two of the Creoles from San Domingo are dying, as I fear.”
“I will hasten.”
“Hasten thine errands in the city—not thy footsteps by the way; for the heat is fearful today, and I would not have thee get a sunstroke.”
“No fear of that. My Father never hurts his own; he only smites the Spaniards," said Jose, as he started at a brisk pace on his seven miles' walk.
His assertion was not strictly true, however; for the burning sun of Lima proved fatal to many of the Inca family exiled by Spanish tyranny from Cuzco and its neighborhood, and forced to take up their residence on the hot, unhealthy coast.
That day Jose brought back with him in triumph a formidable-looking volume. Fray Fernando laid it aside until the evening; but when the door of their humble dwelling was barred for the night, and the lamp was lighted, he set it on the table before him, and began to read. Melchior prayed him to read aloud, translating the Latin into Spanish as he read. There were few things which he could have refused Melchior; so he turned from the Epistles of St. Paul (which he had been exploring to test the accuracy of Walter Gray's quotations, and to discover, if possible, some key to the perplexities they awakened), and, rightly judging that the Gospels were the best food for the unlearned, he found the opening page of the New Testament, and began to read "The Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”
No man had ever two more attentive hearers. Melchior was soon to know more than even that Book could tell of Him whom his soul loved. Yet every word it revealed was precious. What if, ere long, he should drink from the fountain-head? Hitherto only a few drops in a tiny cup had been borne to his thirsting lips; therefore for the present it was joy enough to stoop over the running stream and drink, and give God thanks for the draft.
Jose, meanwhile, had not yet drunk; though he was sore athirst, and the water was near him. From the day when he learned who the King was from Walter Gray, until that other day when the summons to forgive his enemies smote him to the heart, Jose had occupied somewhat the position of a devout Jew "waiting for the consolation of Israel," looking with earnest faith for a national Messiah, a great Redeemer and Deliverer, who should save his beloved people from all their enemies. Such a Deliverer he was prepared to welcome and to obey, even to the death. But now a lightning flash, scathing and burning while it illumined, had revealed to him the necessity of another deliverance, hitherto undreamt of,—a personal deliverance from sin. He was learning that the Son of God must be sought as the Savior of the soul, or He will not reveal Himself as the King of the nations. Even the question, "Will He restore the Incas?" was postponed, of necessity, until their child found an answer to that other question, "Will He receive me, and make me over again, so that I can serve and please Him?”
He who read was seeking as earnestly as those who listened. Fray Fernando's difficulties were far more complex than those of Jose. He needed everything—truth, peace, light, pardon. There were times when the last seemed the most pressing need of all. If each had tried to condense his longings into a single prayer, that of Fray Fernando would probably have been, "Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin;" and that of Jose, "Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me." Though it is likely Jose would soon have added, "Do good in thy good pleasure unto Zion" (meaning what stood for Zion in his mind); "build thou the walls of Jerusalem.”