“O sweet and strange it is to think that ere this day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun;
Forever and forever with those just souls and true—
And what is life that we should mourn, why make we such ado?”
TENNYSON.
LATE in the afternoon of that day, Doña Inez entered her sick brother's room. A glitter of silk, rose-colored and black, of costly lace and of gems and gold, seemed to surround her. But as she threw aside the mantilla that partially shaded her face, and almost sank on a seat beside the bed, it was easy to see that she was very faint and weary, if not also very sick at heart.
“Santa Maria! I am tired to death," she murmured. "The heat was killing; and the whole business interminably long.”
Gonsalvo gazed at her with eager eyes, as a man dying of thirst might gaze on one who holds a cup of water; but for a while he did not speak. At last he said, pointing to some wine that lay near, beside an untasted meal,—
“Drink, then.”
“What, my brother!" said Doña Inez, reproachfully, "you have not touched food to-day! You—so ill and weak!”
“I am a man—even still," said Gonsalvo with a little bitterness in his tone.
Doha Inez drank, and for a few moments fanned herself in silence, distress and embarrassment in her face.
At last Gonsalvo, who had never withdrawn his eager gaze, said in a low voice,—
“Sister, remember your promise.”
“I am afraid—for you.”
“You need not," he gasped. "Only tell me ail.”
Doña Inez passed her hand wearily across her brow.
“Everything floats before me," she said. "What with the music, and the mass, and the incense; and the crosses, and banners, and gorgeous robes; and then the taking of the oaths, and the sermon of the faith.”
“Still—you kept my charge?”
“I did, brother." She lowered her voice. "Hard as it was, I looked at her. If it comforts you to know that, all through that long day, her face was as calm as ever I have seen it listening to Fray Constantino's sermons, you may take that comfort to your heart. When her sentence had been read, she was asked to recant; and I heard her answer rise clear and distinct, ' I neither can nor will recant.' we Maria Sanctissima! it is all a great mystery.”
There was a silence, then she resumed,—
“And Señor Cristobal Losada—"but the thought of the kind and skillful physician who had watched beside her own sick-bed, and brought back her babe from the gates of the grave, almost overcame her. Turning quickly to other victims, she went on—
“There were four monks of St. Jerome. Think of the White Doctor, that every one believed so good a man, so pious and orthodox! Another of them, Fray Cristobal D'Arellano, was accused in his sentence of some wicked words against Our Lady which, it would seem, he never said. He cried out boldly, before them all, It is false! I never advanced such a blasphemy; and I am ready to prove the contrary with the Bible in my hand.' Every one seemed too much amazed even to think of ordering him to be gagged: and, for my part, I am glad the poor wretch had his word for the last time. I cannot help wishing they had equally forgotten to silence Doctor Juan Gonzales; for it does not appear that he was speaking any blasphemy, but merely a word of comfort to a poor pale girl, his sister, as they told me. Two of them are to die with him—God help them!—Holy Saints forgive me; I forgot we were told not to pray for them," and she crossed herself.
“Does my sister really believe that compassionate word a sin in God's sight?”
“How am I to know? I believe whatever the Church says, of course. And surely there is enough in these days to inspire us with a pious horror of heresy. Pues," she resumed, "there was that long and terrible ceremony of degrading from the priesthood. And yet that Gonsalez passed through it all as calm and unmoved as though he were but putting on his robes to say mass. His mother and his two brothers are still in prison, it is said, awaiting their doom. Of all the relaxed, I am told that only Don Juan Ponce de Leon showed any sign of penitence. For the sake of his noble house, one is glad to think he is not so hardened as the rest. Ay de mi! Whether it be right or wrong, I cannot help pitying their unhappy souls.”
“Pity your own soul, not theirs," said Gonsalvo. "For I tell you Christ himself, in all his glory and majesty, at the right hand of the Father, will stand up to receive them this night, as he did to welcome St. Stephen long ago.”
“Oh, my poor brother, what dreadful words you speak! It is a mortal sin even to listen to you. Take thought, I implore you, of your own situation.”
“I have taken thought," interrupted Gonsalvo, faintly. "But I can bear no more—just now. Leave me, I pray you, alone with God.”
“If you would even try to say an we!—But I fear you are ill—suffering. I do not like to leave you thus.”
“Do not heed me; I shall be better soon. And a vow is upon me that I must keep to-day." Once more he flung the wasted hand across his face to conceal it.
Irresolute whether to go or stay, she stood for some minutes watching him silently. At length she caught a low murmur, and hoping that he prayed, she bent over him to hear. Only three words reached her ear. They were these—"Father, for give them.”
After an interval, Gonsalvo looked up again. "I thought you were gone," he said. "Go now, I entreat of you. But so soon as you know the end, spare not to come and tell me. For I wait for that.”
Thus entreated, Doha Inez had no choice but to leave him alone, which she did.
Evening had worn to night, and night was beginning to wear cowards daybreak, when at last Don Garcia Ramirez, and those of his servants who had accompanied him to the Prado San Sebastian to see the end, returned home.
Doña Inez sat awaiting her husband in the patio. She looked pale and languid; apparently the great holiday of Seville had been anything but a joyful day to her.
Don Garcia divested himself of his cloak and sword, and dismissed the servants to their beds. But when his wife invited him to partake of the supper she had prepared, he turned upon her with very unusual ill-humor. "It is little like thy wonted wit, señora mía, to bid a man to his breakfast at midnight," he said. Yet he drank deeply of the Xeres wine that stood on the board beside the venison pasty and the manchet bread.
At last, after long patience, Doña Inez won from his lips what she desired to hear. "Oh yes; all is over. Our Lady defend us! I have never seen such obstinacy; nor could I have believed it possible unless I had seen it. The criminals encouraged each other to the very last. Those girls, the sisters of Gonsalez, repeated their Credo at the stake; whereupon the attendant Brethren entreated them to have so much pity on their own souls as to say, I believe in the Roman Catholic Church.' They answered, ' We will do as our brother does.' So the gag was removed, and Doctor Juan cried aloud, ' Add nothing to the good confession you have made already.' But for all that, order was given to strangle them; and one of the friars told us they died in the true faith. I suppose it is not a sin to hope they did.”
After a pause, he continued, in a deeper tone, "Señor Cristobal amazed me as much as any of them. At the very stake, some of the Brethren undertook to argue with him. But seeing that we were all listening, and might hear somewhat to the hurt of our souls, they began to speak in the Latin tongue. Our physician immediately did the same. I am no scholar myself; but there were learned men there who marked every word, and one of them told me afterward that the doomed man spoke with as much elegance and propriety as if he had been contending for an academic prize, instead of waiting for the lighting of the fire which was to consume him. This unheard-of calmness and composure, whence is it? The devil's own work, or"—he broke off suddenly and resumed in a different tone, "Señora mía, have you thought of the hour I In Heaven's name, let us to our beds!”
“I cannot go to rest until you tell me one thing more: Doña Maria de Bohorques?”
“Vaya, vaya! have we not had enough of it all?”
“Nay; I have made a promise. I must entreat you to tell me how Doña Maria de Bohorques met her doom.”
“With unflinching hardihood. Don Juan Ponce tried to urge her to yield somewhat. But she refused, saying it was not now a time for reasoning, and that they ought rather to meditate on the Lord's death and passion. (They believe in that, it seems.) When she was bound to the stake, the monks and friars crowded round her, and pressed her only to repeat the Credo. She did so; but began to add some explanations, which, I suppose, were heretical. Then immediately the command was given to strangle, her; and so, in one moment, while she was yet speaking, death came to her.”
“Then she did not suffer? She escaped the fire! Thank God!”
Five minutes afterward, Doña Inez stood by her brother's bed.
He lay in the same posture, his face still shaded by his hand.
“Brother," she said gently—"brother, all is over. She did not suffer. It was done in one moment.”
There was no answer.
“Brother, are you not glad she did not feel the fire? Can you not thank God for it? Speak to me.”
Still no answer.
He could not be asleep! Impossible! —"Speak to me, Gonsalvo!—Brother!”
She drew close to him; she touched his hand to remove it from his face. The next moment a cry of horror rang through the house. It brought the servants and Don Garcia himself to the room.
“He is dead! God and Our Lady have mercy on his soul!" said Don Garcia, after a brief examination.
“If only he had had the Holy Sacrament, I could have borne it I" said Doña Inez; and then, kneeling down beside the couch, she wept bitterly.
So passed the beggar with the King's sons, through the golden gate into the King's own presence-chamber. His wrecked and troublous life over, his passionate heart at rest forever, the erring, repentant Gonsalvo found entrance into the same heaven as D'Arellano, and Gonsalez, and Losada, with their radiant martyr-crowns. In the many mansions there was a place for him, as for those heroic and triumphant ones. He wore the same robe as they—a robe washed and made white, not in the blood of martyrs, but in the blood of the Lamb.