CHAPTER XXVII.

During the whole time of the march from Tlascala to Cholula, an unusual gloom lay upon the spirits of Calavar; and so great was his abstraction, that, though pursuing his way with a sort of instinct, he remained as insensible to the presence of his kinsman as to the attentions of his followers. He rode at a distance from the rear of the army; and such was the immobility of his limbs and features, saving when, stung by some secret thought, he raised his ghastly eyes to heaven, that a stranger, passing him on the path, might have deemed that his grave charger moved along under the weight of a stiffened corse, not yet disrobed of its arms, rather than that of a living cavalier. When the army halted at noon to take food, he retired, with his attendants, to the shadow of a tree; where, without dismounting, or receiving the fruits which Jacinto had gathered, to tempt him to eat, he sat in the same heavy stupor, until the march was resumed. Neither food nor water crossed his lips, during the entire day; nor did the neophyte suffer any to be proffered him, when he came to reflect that this day was an anniversary, which the knight was ever accustomed to observe with the most ascetic abstinence and humiliation. For this reason, also, though lamenting the necessity of such an observance, he neither presumed himself to vex his kinsman with attentions, nor suffered any others to intrude upon his privacy, excepting, indeed, the Moorish page, whose gentle arts were so wont to dispel the gathering clouds. But this day, even Jacinto failed to attract his notice; and, despairing of the power of any thing but time, to terminate the paroxysm, he ceased his efforts, and contented himself with keeping a distant watch on all Don Gabriel's movements, lest some disaster might happen to him on the journey. No sooner, as had been hinted by Fabueno, had the army arrived at its quarters in the sacred city, than the knight betook him to the solitude of a chamber in the very spacious building; where, after a time, he so far shook off his lethargy, as to desire the presence of the chaplain, with whom he had remained ever since, engaged in his devotions. Hither, guided by Marco, came now Don Amador, conducting Jacinto. The interview with Cortes had swallowed up more than an hour, and when the neophyte stood before the curtained door of his kinsman, a light, flashing through the irregular folds, dispelled the darkness of the chamber. As he paused for an instant, he heard the low voice of the priest, saying,

"Sin no more with doubt.--_Spera in Deo_: grace is in heaven, and mercy knoweth no bounds.--_Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus._"

A few other murmurs came to his ear; and then the chaplain, pushing aside the curtain, issued from the apartment.

"Heaven be with thee, my son," he said to Amador; "thy kinsman is greatly disordered, but not so much now as before."

"Is it fitting I should enter, father?"

"Thy presence may be grateful to him; but surely," he continued, in an under voice, "it were better for the unhappy knight, if he were among the priests and physicians of his own land. A sore madness afflicts him: he thinks himself beset with spectres.--I would thou hadst him in Spain!"

"If heaven grant us that grace!" said Amador, sorrowfully.--"But he believes that God will call him to his rest, among the heathen.--Tarry thou at the door, Jacinto," he went on, when the father had departed; "have thyself in readiness, with thy lute, for perhaps he may be prevailed upon to hear thee sing; in which case, I have much hope, the evil spirit will depart from him."

He passed into the chamber: the knight was on his knees before a little crucifix, which he had placed on a massive Indian chair; but though he beat his bosom with a heavy hand, no sound of prayer came from his lips. Don Amador placed himself at his side, and stood in reverential silence, until his kinsman, heaving a deep sigh, rose up, and turning his haggard countenance towards him, said,--

"Neither penance nor prayer, neither the remorse of the heart nor the benediction of the priest, can wipe away the sorrow that comes from sin. God alone is the forgiver;--but God will not _always_ forgive!"

"Say not so, my father," cried Amador, earnestly; "for it is a deep crime to think that heaven is not ever merciful."

"Keep thyself free from the stain of blood-guiltiness," said Don Gabriel, with a manner so mild, that the neophyte had good hope the fit had indeed left him, "and mercy will not be denied thee.--Have I not afflicted thee, my friend?" he continued faintly. "Thou wilt have much to forgive me; but not long. I will remember, in my death hour, that thou hast not forsaken me."

"Never will I again leave thee!" said Amador, fervently. "I forgot thee once; and besides the pang of contrition for that act, heaven punished me with a grief, that I should not have known, had I remained by thy side. But now, my father, wilt thou not eat and drink, and suffer Jacinto to sing to thee?"

"I may neither eat nor drink this night," said Calavar; "but methinks I can hear the innocent orphan chant the praises of the Virgin; for to such she will listen!"

Amador strode to the door; but Jacinto had vanished--He had stolen away, the moment that his patron entered.

"Perhaps he has gone to fetch his instrument. Run thou in search of him, Marco, and bid him hasten."

Before the novice could again address himself to his kinsman, Marco returned. The page was not to be found; the sentinel at the door had seen him pass into the court-yard, but whether he had re-entered or not, he knew not;--he had not noted.

"Is it possible," thought Don Amador, "that the boy could so wilfully disobey me? Perhaps the general hath sent for him again: for, notwithstanding all his protestations of satisfaction, it seemed to me, that, while he spoke, there was still a something lurking in his eye, which boded no good to Abdalla. I will look for the boy myself."

He charged Marco to remain by his lord, sought an audience with the general, whom he found engaged in earnest debate with Duero, De Leon, and other high officers. Don Hernan satisfied him that he had not sent for Jacinto,--that he had not thought of Abdalla; and with an apology for his intrusion, the novice instantly withdrew.

"The story is true!" said Cortes with a frown, "and that pestilent young cub of heathenism has fled to give the traitor warning. But he that passes, unquestioned, at the gate where Sandoval stands the watchman, must have the devil for his leader, or, at least, his companion. I hope he will not murder the boy; for he is a favourite with Calavar, a subtle knave, a good twangler; and it is natural he should play me even a knave's trick for his father!"

In the meanwhile, after hunting in vain about the different quarters of the building, as well as the court-yard, for the vanished Jacinto, the novice returned to the chamber of his kinsman. But Calavar also had disappeared,--not, indeed, in disorder, but in great apparent tranquillity; and he had commanded Marco not to follow him.

"He has gone to the fields," muttered Amador; "such is his practice at this season: but there is no good can come of solitude. I know not what to think of that boy; but assuredly, this time, it will be but my duty to censure him." And so saying, Don Amador also passed into the open air.