MORE than two hundred and fifty years have passed since a Spaniard thus wrote of his native land: “In Spain, many very learned, many very noble, and many of the highest gentry, have for this cause” (that of the reformed faith) “been led forth to the scaffold. There is not a city, and, if one may so speak, there is not a village, nor a hamlet, nor a noble house in Spain, that has not had, and still has, one or mere that God of His infinite mercy has enlightened with the light of His gospel. Our enemies have done what they could to put out this light, and thus they have visited with loss of property, of honor, and of life, very many in Spain. And yet it is worthy of note, the more they threaten, scourge, throw into the galleys, imprison, or burn, the more they multiply.”
The good work had been begun and carried on chiefly by the means of Bibles and tracts. Although the Inquisition kept strict watch and strong guard, to prevent all books from entering the land, it was so managed, that they were carried from the border towns to those in the interior, in bales of goods, and were gladly bought by all classes. And thus the work of the Reformation went silent and steadily on. But cloudy days indeed have come over the country of Spain since the times of which we speak; the light has been put out, and “gross darkness covers the people.”
One of the cities in which the Gospel took the deepest root was Seville, a place of great wealth and trade, and famous for its noble palaces, beautiful churches, and ancient dwellings.
Among its other buildings there once stood a long and lofty range, whose gloomy walls and iron-barred windows marked it as a prison. The passenger, as he drew nigh to it, quickened his pace, and trembled at the thought that he might one day be shut up in its dreary cells. This place was the court of the Inquisition, so called, because it was the tribunal set up to inquire into the opinions of any who were inclined to renounce the religion of the land.
This court sent forth a class of monks as its agents, known as the inquisitors, or inquirers, to search out and punish all those who did not promptly submit to the creed of Popery. The steps of these inquisitors took hold on death. Few who went into their presence returned again to their homes. Fires were lit by them, and many faithful servants of Christ were cast into the flames. “Others had trial of cruel mocking, and scourgings, yea, moreover, of bonds and imprisonment.”
The unhappy victim who passed the iron gate of the Inquisition was led through several halls, one opening into the other, and each increasing in darkness, until the last was shrouded in dismal shadows. A single window looked into the yard below, around which were ranged the entrances to the cells, sunk far below the surface of the ground. The descent into these was by many winding ways, that from their depths the cries of the prisoners might not be heard. The sweet light and pure air of heaven entered not there. All was black, and damp, and terrific. In some of these vaults human bones were spread on the ground, and the walls were covered with the names of those who had been left to perish, unpitied and unknown. There were cruel and wicked deeds done in these silent vaults, in the name of the holy and merciful Saviour, which, could we know them, would fill our hearts with shame and horror.
The assistants to the inquisitors were called familiars; that is, those attached to the “family” or order of monks. In the darkness of the night these familiars suddenly stood before the door of a house, with their faces entirely covered with a hood, in which were two small holes for the eyes. No one dared to resist their power, or to assist the object of their search in his escape. It might be that they had got a father to inform against his wife, or a mother against her son, or a brother against a sister; for all the bonds of love and duty were broken by their craft. It was enough if anyone were suspected of having read, or lent, or kept in the house a book of the reformed faith, or had a Protestant for a friend, or had tried to console and aid a prisoner in the cells. They had now come for the unhappy person in an hour when he was at rest. The door must instantly be opened, and at once they seize him, and carry him away to their dungeons; there, perhaps, to lie for many months, in awful suspense, wearied and worn, before he knew the charge that he was called to answer.
Among those who had been seized by the familiars, and brought before the court of Inquisition, was a young Spanish lady, named Maria de Bohorques, the daughter of a gentleman of high condition in Seville, and related to several noble families. Her early youth was full of hope and promise, and her home was cheered by every earthly comfort. But she had been led by Divine grace to give her heart to Christ, and set her affections on things above.
Maria, when about twenty-one years of age, was suspected of being faithless to the Church of Rome.
Her tutor, Doctor Gil, who had been led to embrace the reformed faith, was one of the most learned men of the age. Under his care she had studied the Holy Scriptures in their original languages. A blessing had attended the reading of the word of God; and her gifted and inquiring mind had found the only foundation on which true religion rests. She was not long in learning that the Roman Catholic religion is contrary to the truth of God, and she had courage to make known what she knew and felt.
There were times when Maria thought of the terrible Inquisition. In her hours of secret study and prayer, she had asked of God to give her strength, if the day of trial which had come to many should at last reach her. And now it had come and she stood alone and undefended before her judges.
The maiden martyr was led by the familiars into a secret chamber, where at a table sat the inquisitors, clad in dark robes, their faces scarcely to be seen, from the position in which they sate, amid the deep gloom of the place. Before them was a small wooden cross, and a roll of paper inscribed with the charge against the prisoner. By her side were the familiars, who acted both as guards and witnesses.
Soft words were at first spoken. They told her that they wished well to her soul; that they hoped to restore a stray sheep to the fold. As she listened to their address, Maria prayed in her heart, and strength was given her to be faithful. She boldly owned her hope in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and refused to yield to the smooth speeches or the angry threats of her judges. They then declared that, unless she submitted to the Church of Rome, she should be tried by torture. And to awaken terror in the mind of the young Christian, there were spread out to view the engines of cruelty used in that horrid chamber. She was pointed to the pulley, by which a prisoner was raised to the roof of the dungeon, with heavy weights fastened to the feet; to the rack, on which the body was violently stretched; to the fire, over which the feet of the sufferers were hung.
The judges were concerned to know who were her companions in the faith, and called on her to make them known. But she gave no reply. Again they directed her eyes to the instruments of torture, with a threat of their severest trial. Still she stood firmly in her resolve. The order was now given to stretch her upon the rack; and, like wolves greedy for their prey, the officers seized her, and casting her on the frame, they secured her wrists and feet to the cords. In a few minutes the slow turn of the wheel drew her tender limbs, as though they would be torn from her body.
In this position of agony Maria was again called on to confess; but the bold girl refused to renounce her own faith or betray those she loved. Another turn of the cruel wheel was made, and her joints seemed to start from their sockets. Poor lonely one! the men in whose hands she had fallen had no hearts to teel: to them mercy was unknown. Great as was her misery, and when she thought it had reached its height, it was as though it only had begun. New seats of pain were reached, and in the depth of her woe she called for pity.
Perhaps many have said to themselves, “If we were called to be martyrs we would show our persecutors how to die.” But how little do we know our own weakness! In the hour of her greatest pain, when scarcely sensible of what she said, poor Maria owned that her sister Juana had often spoken to her about the reformed faith, and was a secret follower of it. This confession soon cost Juana her life. To the rack she was quickly brought, and on being removed from it, she lay for a short time in the greatest agony, and then died.
But Maria—what had she done? She felt that she had been faithless to the cause she loved. She had betrayed one dearer to her than her own life. When they took her from the wheel, they carried her to a cell. It was sweet to her to lie on that cold stone floor, and feel that the wheel was no longer dragging her life away. Yet she had only gained a short release at the expense of a beloved sister.
Another day of trial was at hand. Maria was soon doomed to the flames as a heretic; but before the sentence was carried into effect, two priests were sent to her, then another two, and again two more. They went to her cell in the hope that she might yet yield, and profess her faith in the Church of Rome.
It must have been an affecting sight to have beheld that poor young creature—her limbs all bruised and full of intense pain—without any human friend—reclining on the straw of her cell, while she meekly and piously disputed with the crafty priests. She heard their words in patience, and then calmly refused to receive their doctrine. Hour after hour they tried all their art and power, but in vain. She told them of her weakness in suffering; but yet she looked to God for grace to bear all, and to go boldly to the burning pile rather than deny the truth she loved.
On the morning of the 24th of September, 1559, more than one fatal stake was driven in the great square of the city of Seville. A number of the reformed faith were to be burned that day. Among them was Maria de Bohorques. Early in the morning the familiars came to her cell, to carry her to the place of death, for the torture had deprived her of the power to walk. Feeble in body, she was yet strong in heart. Her inward strength was made perfect in weakness and suffering. The Lord was with her; she “endured, as seeing Him who is invisible.” Her looks betrayed no fear; it was to her a day of victory and deliverance. Through the flames she knew that she should pass to glory.
There were other female Protestants burned in Seville’s great square at the same time, and Maria sought to comfort her sister’s martyrs. She invited them to join with her in singing a hymn. And above the noise and tumult of the crowd there assembled, their sweet voices were heard sounding the praises of the Saviour. They then cheered one another as they stood ready for death.
It was usual at such a time, when the victims were bound to the stake, and the torch was about to be applied to the wood, for one more attempt to be made to lead the prisoners to confess. For this purpose several priests, out of regard to the youth, talent, and family connections of Maria, tried yet again to bring her to renounce her faith. She was asked to repeat the Creed, and this she did in a firm voice; but, at the same time, she explained its several parts in the Protestant sense. Finding that they gained nothing by their attempts, the officers were ordered to strangle her. This done the pile was soon lighted, and her body was consumed. Her released spirit passed beyond the reach of her tormentors, there to receive the martyr’s crown from the hands of her Lord and Saviour—a crown which He purchased with His own most precious blood, and which is the rich gift of His grace and love.
As we fondly cherish the memory of those who “loved not their lives unto death,” we may well direct our thoughts to their happy state now in the world of glory.
Who are they, clothed in radiant white,
That stand around you golden throne
Their garments of celestial light,
Pure with a luster not their own?
These are the saints who once below
Walked in the path their Master trod;
Midst pain, and mockery, and woe,
And scorching flames, they sought their God.
Through His dear might who once was slain
Firm at the burning stake they stood,
And washed, from every guilty stain,
Their garments in His precious blood.
Therefore around the throne they stand,
And in His holy temple shine;
Rich in the joy of His right hand,
Robed in His righteousness divine.
There they can never hunger more,
Nor ask the cooling draft in vain;
For He will living waters pour,
And heal from every earthly pain.
In those blest realms of endless day,
The Lamb shall all their wants supply;
And God’s own hand shall wipe away
The falling tear from every eye.