Part 16

“Then I pray of you to accept my gift, señor Englishman,” the other said, adding the last two words in a low voice. Some of the more forward amongst those around beginning to beg from him, he responded at once, “Yes, yes, poor fellows, you shall all have something.” And he scattered small pieces of silver with a liberal hand amongst them, taking especial care that the feeble, worn-out men who sat on the bench next the water should have their full share.[47]

Both Walter’s disposition and his interest led him to share the Indian’s gift very freely with his comrades, of course not forgetting his special friend the matador. And the sweet and luscious chirimoyas proved very acceptable to men obliged to sit unsheltered under the fiery blaze of a tropical sun. Every one supposed that the Indian was the dispenser of his master’s charity, though for what reason either he or the Franciscan monk should have singled out Walter Grey as the chief recipient of their bounty could not be surmised.

The young Englishman’s story was known to all on board. But, fortunately for him, the captain of the galley was no bigot; he was a thoughtless, idle young prodigal, the son of a respectable merchant, sent to sea in despair by his relatives, whose interest procured him the situation he filled. The commander of the troops on board, on the other hand, was far too fine a gentleman to have any concern at all with the slaves, beyond holding his men in readiness to shoot them down if they attempted mutiny. Thus, whilst every one believed, as a matter of course, that Walter Grey, the English heretic, was infinitely worse than a thief or a murderer, no one thought much about him.

The Indian came again the next day with a larger supply of fruit, which, however, he gave to the soldiers. But the disappointment visible in the longing eyes of the thirsty slaves as the store quickly disappeared was soothed by charity of even a more acceptable kind. Many blessings were invoked both upon himself and upon “his reverence the holy father,” whose emissary he was supposed to be—nor did he contradict the supposition. But he contrived, whilst giving silver to the others, to slip a broad piece of gold into the hand of Walter. The Englishman was about to express aloud his astonishment at this liberality, but the Indian caught his eye and whispered, “_Tace_.” As may be imagined, the Latin word, spoken by such lips, only changed Walter’s look of surprise into one of amazement.

After the Indian’s departure he expressed his wonder at the circumstance to his friend the matador.

“Depend upon it, Englishman,” said the old galley-slave in reply, “the good friar has taken pity on you for your youth and your gentle looks, which would strike a stranger, like the sight of a fair green sapling amongst a bundle of dry brown fagots. One can read in his face that he has known much sorrow himself, and therefore, perhaps, his heart is tender for others.”

“But the Indian,” said Walter. “Do you know, matador, that was a _Latin_ word he spoke to me?”

“Why not? He is the servant of a churchman; and ‘he that measures oil gets some on his fingers.’ Though,” he admitted, “he seems wondrously wise and civil—for one of the wild men.”

A concession that moved Walter to draw upon old stores of information, and to talk of the strange civilization of the New World, and the splendours of the two great empires that had already been discovered there. Growing more and more interested as he went on, he conquered Mexico with Cortes, over-ran Peru with Pizarro, and was making rapid progress towards the discovery of El Dorado, when at last the matador brought him to a pause.

“I used to know all these things long ago,” he said. And this was true. Time was when such themes never failed to bring the blood to his cheek and the light to his eye. But now the dry embers were not even stirred by the old fire. “I have done with Golden Cities now,” he went on. “The only one I am ever like to see will not be found beyond those white mountains, but higher up—beyond the stars. Your words, that glitter like gold themselves, mind me of other words heard years and years ago, out of the one story that is all true;—about a City that hath foundations, ay, and streets of gold and gates of pearl.”

The extensive and accurate knowledge of Scripture that Walter had acquired in his childhood was now proving a great comfort to him. He gladly shared his stores with his companion, who listened to the words of Holy Writ with an intense and unflagging interest, contrasting strangely with the seeming indifference with which he heard Walter’s other narratives.

Walter Grey was not now the miserable, dejected wretch, passively accepting his life of suffering, that he had been a short time before. The light of heavenly hope had arisen upon his soul, making all things new. It was worth while to live, since he might live unto God—even in the galleys. Many things in his lot were still hard to bear; but nothing was intolerable, since the worst could only mean death, and death was the gate of everlasting life.

And, as it is God’s will that little things should often contribute not a little to the help and healing of sorrowful hearts, the visits and kindnesses of his Indian friend, which were continued from day to day, proved a wonderful tonic to Walter Grey. The very occupation they gave his mind was a much prized relief from the dreary monotony of slavery. The visits were something to expect, to long for, to think over. It was good also to be able, even in the midst of his poverty, to minister to the need of others; and thus he began to find positive enjoyment in sharing the liberal gifts he received with his less fortunate comrades.

The true explanation, however, of the strange partiality José evinced for him was this. Whilst looking with a pitying eye along the rowers’ benches of the _San Cristofero_, his glance had been suddenly arrested by Walter’s fair, or golden hair. Now, in José’s eyes, fair hair had wonderful significance. It was linked in his thoughts with the Sun, his great Father; and with his ancestor Viracocha, called the fair-haired. And yet more, it was bound up with all those dim, mysterious prophecies—those faint rumours floating amongst his people—of the bearded strangers, wise and mighty and strong to deliver, who were to come to them from beyond the Mother Sea; and for whom many of them had at first mistaken the Spaniards—to their own undoing. The hopes dearest to José’s heart were built upon the fair-haired Englishmen.

Great was his joy, therefore, when he ascertained that Walter was in very deed an Englishman. And he was confirmed in more than one fond delusion by finding that when he addressed a Latin word to the captive, the latter, though naturally surprised, evidently understood him.

He soon found, however, that it was better on the whole to communicate with his new friend in Spanish. And he directed all his address to the task of opening up and improving the means of communication with him. This did not prove so difficult as he had anticipated. Even on board a galley a man’s gift maketh room for him; and José had both the means to offer very acceptable gifts, and the tact to offer them in an acceptable way. It is true that in losing Coyllur he lost also the secret hoards of Yupanqui; a loss for which he grieved little; far less than he rejoiced that they were saved from the covetous gripe of Don Francisco Solis. But Maricancha, who was childless, made him welcome to all that he had. At their last interview, he had pressed upon him as much gold as he could carry, with several valuable jewels.

It was not hard for José, thus amply supplied with the sinews of war, to gratify the officers and soldiers of the _San Cristofero_. They—as well as the galley-slaves—looked upon him as the Indian servant of a Franciscan monk; a character of all others the least likely to excite suspicion. And as José knew well enough that Franciscan monks had not usually the means, even if they had the inclination, to exercise unbounded liberality, he soon gave his friends to understand that his master was the almoner of a rich and pious lady, who had great compassion upon poor galley-slaves, and moreover wished to benefit her soul by works of charity. But it was his finest stroke of policy to bring on board the galley frequent supplies of a fragrant brown leaf, which proved a most welcome gift to all—from the señor commandante, who was not too proud to thank the Indian with an elaborate Spanish bow, to the poor rowers, who begged for it piteously to comfort them under their miseries. If the bearer of such treasures chose to amuse himself for half an hour chatting with the slaves, it was no one’s business to hinder him, and consequently, no one did it.

So José’s friendship with Walter Grey grew and prospered, though under difficulties.

XXVII.

The Matador.

“Some murmur when their sky is clear And wholly bright to view, If one small speck of dark appear On their broad heaven of blue. And some with thankful love are filled If but one gleam of light, One ray of God’s good mercy, gild The darkness of their night.”

ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

Youth despairs easily. The young, unused to sorrow, sink beneath a burden that the aged would bear without a murmur; unused to life, they put the cup aside as soon as the taste grows bitter. But the rebound is easy also. At any moment hope may revive; the flowers may bloom and the birds sing again.

It was wonderful, considering all the circumstances, that Walter Grey did not die. But since life remained, it was not wonderful that even in the galleys his crushed heart began to recover itself, under the combined influences of heavenly hope, and of the thoughtful and generous ministrations of his new friend.

It had at first been no trifling ingredient in his cup of bitterness that the robbers and murderers amongst whom he toiled looked upon him as a wretch infinitely more degraded than themselves. Even the Quatrero was wont to play the Pharisee, and, crossing himself devoutly, to thank God that he was not as this English heretic. But things were altered now. He was beginning to be regarded by his comrades as a person of distinction rather, and one whose intercession might upon occasion do them a good turn. At least he could and did procure for them, or share with them, many a valued gift, including the much-prized tobacco. They thought he owed the special favour he enjoyed to his extremely youthful appearance; José always called him “El Mozo”—the lad.

“Ask our Indian, next time he comes, to tell us his master’s name and his own,” said Walter’s comrades to him one day.

And Walter did so.

José smiled at the question; and very readily informed him that his patre was called Fray Fernando, and “a man more like a saint there never was in the world,” he added. But when pressed to tell his own name, he returned an evasive answer, saying that the rowers ought first to tell him theirs. It was wonderful how far José contrived to lay aside the reserved and stately dignity of his ordinary bearing, and to assume a frank and friendly, even a jovial manner, in talking with these poor men. For it was absolutely necessary to his plans that they should all regard him with confidence, as a friend. Yet he drew the line somewhere; he never touched them.

They complied, gladly enough, with his request; the more hardened telling him their _sobriquets_ with coarse jests and oaths, which he fortunately did not understand. At last, however, it came to the turn of Walter’s special friend, who said simply, “I am called the matador.”

“Matador!” José repeated. “That means—man who slays a bull.”

Great was the astonishment and admiration with which this evidence of José’s knowledge inspired the galley-slaves; and it was certainly remarkable in an Indian.

“And did you really slay a bull, señor matador?” he questioned with interest.

“No, Señor Indio. I only wounded him, and saved a gentleman from being gored.”

“Tell the story, matador,” cried several voices.

“There is none to tell,” said the matador, who, except to his immediate neighbours, rarely spoke at all, and still more rarely spoke of himself. Being, however, urged by José to relate the circumstances, he did so briefly. “Some twelve years ago,” he said, “before we came to the New World, when my arm was stronger, I sat on the first bench, and had leave to go on shore at Carthagena. There was to be a bull-feast the next day; and they were driving the beasts into the city—all the world out to gaze at them, of course. In old days, I knew something of the ring myself. So I must needs stand and gaze with the rest. The first bull was stupid, and made no sport. But the second was an ugly-looking beast—a dry, tough fellow, lean and sharp-horned—”

“Ay, ay,” cried one Spaniard after another, in high delight at hearing once more the language of the sport all had loved in former years; “we know that sort. Hard to kill. No flinchers.”

“_Pues_,” the matador went on, “the poor beast was driven mad by the shouts of the bystanders, and the blows of their goads and sticks. He broke out of the line; and, not knowing his real tormentors, stood roaring and pawing with fury. At last he put his head down as if he meant mischief, and made a determined rush at a dainty young hidalgo who had been doing nothing at all, but who happened to be dressed that day in a new scarlet doublet with a montero to match. He was a brave man, and had his tool ready in an instant. Still, it might have gone hard with him, only that I, knowing the business, snatched a long knife from a butcher who stood at the door of his stall, and turned the creature’s rage against myself. I managed to keep him busy till they rescued me. I could have killed him, of course; but I knew better. Who, I pray you, was to pay for him if I did?”

“I hope the gentleman you rescued paid you?” Walter threw in.

“Oh yes; he behaved well to me. He would gladly have ransomed me, but that could not be. So he lined my pocket with good gold doubloons, and procured me every favour and indulgence in his power. But, enough of me.—Señor Indio, your turn is come now. Slaves though we may be, we like to thank our benefactors, and it is therefore only in reason that we should know their names.”

“You will be little advantaged by knowing mine. Your countrymen call me Don José Viracocha Inca.”

From the much prized Spanish title all present gathered that their Indian friend was a person of distinction; but the rest fell unnoticed on every ear save that of Walter, who started and looked up, with curiosity and interest in his face.

It is not true that romance dies quickly, blighted by the frosts of cold reality. On the contrary, no part of our being is more tenacious of life. It partakes of the nature of perfume,—spiritual, intangible, apparently evanescent, yet lingering strangely and mysteriously in the withered leaf or blossom long after the bright colours have faded, and the very garden where they bloomed has become a desolate waste. The Indian’s quaint, high-sounding name had in it a perfume of old romance that brought back the thoughts of Walter Grey to the familiar room where he had first read the story of Pizarro’s daring and his guilt, and where his young heart had first kindled over those wild, splendid dreams of the lake of Parima, and of the golden city of Manoa. He had a hundred questions to ask the Indian, who soon afforded him an opportunity of putting them, by passing along the benches to distribute the contents of his fruit basket, and stopping, as he always did, near Walter.

José briefly satisfied his curiosity. Yes, he was really a Child of the Sun. Was he proud of his origin? An expressive smile was the answer. Did he worship the sun? No, assuredly; he was a Christian. “But,” leaning over Walter and whispering, “I have hopes of obtaining from the señor commandante permission for you to come on shore. Then I will tell you of my people; and you, in return, will tell me of yours.”

“Don José Viracocha Inca, what has moved you to show me such singular kindness?”

José lowered his voice still further. “You are an Englishman, therefore the Inca’s friend,” he murmured.

Walter looked up wondering. “If in any way I could reward you—,” he began.

“That you can. When you regain your freedom and go home, tell your King what I have just said.”

He was gone ere Walter could answer that he was never likely to go home.

“Matador,” he said that night to his companion, “I am troubled about our Indian friend. What can I do to recompense him? I shall never see my home again—how, then, can I tell king or queen of his strange kindness and friendship?”

“Tell it to the great King,” said the old galley-slave in reply.

XXVIII.

The King of the East.

“He who trod, Very man and very God, This earth in weakness, shame, and pain, Dying the death, whose signs remain, Up yonder on the accursed tree, Shall come again, no more to be Of captivity the thrall, But the one God, all in all, King of kings and Lord of lords, As his servant John received the words, ‘I died, and live for evermore.’”

R. BROWNING.

José’s heart was glad within him. For Fray Fernando had at last obtained permission for the slaves of the _San Cristofero_ to come by turns to his lodging that they might make confession of their sins, and receive private religious instruction and consolation. It is true that the señor commandante had shrugged his shoulders rather scornfully at the request; while the captain had hinted that the trouble the good friar was taking about the souls of the rowers was nearly as superfluous as that of “the over-clean Harcajo people, who wax their asses’ feet.” But both had very good reasons for not crossing his whims, even if they had been still more unaccountable. Nor was there really anything objectionable in his proposal, since he made himself personally responsible for the safe keeping of all the prisoners.

So the poor wretches were allowed to come, two and two together, to the humble lodging of the friar; and many a fearful tale of guilt and shame did they pour into his ear. They were a motley crew. Some of them were Spaniards from the mother country, but a large proportion were Creoles, and there were some Mulattoes, and even two or three Negroes amongst them.

“Poor fellows!” said José compassionately, “one can give them at least a bath, a change of clothing, and a good meal!”

“It is easy for you, José. You only see those low wants of the body that you can supply, or at least alleviate,” Fray Fernando answered sadly. He was sitting at the table, his head resting upon his hands—an image of despondency. “Who will find me a bath for those sin-stained souls—clean raiment to cover them in God’s sight and their own—bread for their bitter hunger of heart?”

“But, patre,” said José again, “you surely can do all that yourself. Else, why are you a patre? Are not the Sacraments for that?”

Fray Fernando sighed. A chill misgiving, that the remedies did not after all reach the seat of the disease, was sinking gradually into his soul. Those degraded beings, into the core of whose hearts sin had eaten like a canker—was any moral restoration possible for them? And without moral restoration, could the spiritual cure he professed to work be real or effectual? What good in giving them absolution from the blasphemies of yesterday, when, through the partition that divided his chamber from José’s, he could hear the new score begun almost ere they had left his presence? Could the conscience indeed be cleansed whilst the heart and the lips remained so fearfully unclean?

Amongst the saddest moments in a man’s life are those in which he begins to suspect the sovereign efficacy of those remedies for the ills of humanity in which hitherto he has trusted without question. They may not, perhaps, have availed for him; but that, he has told himself, is his own fault—he has not applied them rightly. An undercurrent of hope remains that he may do so yet, or that others may do it for him. He may be dying of thirst, yet still the waters of Shiloh go softly; his wound may ache unhealed, yet still there is balm in Gilead. But who shall bring help or comfort to his despairing soul if once he surmises that the fountain is not in Shiloh, that there is no balm in Gilead, nor any physician there?

Hitherto Fray Fernando had blamed himself; he had not doubted his Church. Her mystic sacraments brought no mystic blessing to him, only because he did not fulfil the indispensable conditions of blessing. That they could bring no blessing to others was a new, and, as it then seemed to him, a still more terrible thought.

“Patre,” José resumed, little guessing what was passing in his patron’s mind—“patre, _my_ friend comes to-day. I know you will be very kind to him for José’s sake.”

“For _your_ sake, surely! But a galley-slave is a strange friend for Don José—the Child of the Sun. What have you seen in this youth?”

José answered evasively, “He is so young, patre, to have suffered so much. And he has hair like the tears of Ynty, and eyes the colour of the cloudless sky. Moreover, he is gentle; and he never uses oaths or evil words.”

“Ah! I have observed that myself. I know something of his story: his case is a singular one.”

Fray Fernando was aware that Walter Grey had been a prisoner of the Inquisition. And he surmised that the “penitence” that saved his life was not, probably, the most sincere in the world. If he were a Dominican friar, with heart and soul devoted to the interests of the Holy Office, he might seek for symptoms of a “relapse”—but he was nothing of the kind; he had no wish to meddle in such matters. Whatever he might suspect, or even ascertain, the poor lad should be safe with him, unless he should prove himself unworthy of favour. He said aloud: “You may trust me, José. I will be kind to your friend.”

“Thank you, patre.—Ah! here they come. That tall, brown, bent man is called the matador. He and the Englishman are friends.”

Fray Fernando went to the door to meet his guests, whom he welcomed with the customary “_Pax vobiscum_.” They bowed; the old man bending low, the younger slightly, like an English gentleman acknowledging the salutation of an equal.

According to custom, José set a substantial meal before the visitors. It was not, indeed, usual to partake of food before attending the confessional; but the case of these poor half-starved galley-slaves was peculiar, and in Fray Fernando’s judgment it required peculiar treatment. Whilst they did ample justice to the repast, he would enter freely into conversation with them; and endeavour, in a friendly manner, to learn something of their history. Generally they were disposed to be communicative; being pleased to find themselves listened to with interest, and not without hope of future benefits. But these two were very silent. Walter’s mind was greatly disturbed, on account of the impending interview with the monk. Most gladly would he have avoided the visit, if he could have done so without exciting suspicion, or rather, without actually proclaiming himself a heretic, who refused the sacraments of the Church. But as it happened, this scheme of his Indian friend, devised for his special benefit, was but too likely to prove his undoing. During the meal, he ate little and spoke less, awaiting, with mingled feelings, the dreaded summons to the confessional.

The matador, from long habit, was silent; but his eyes often sought the face of the monk, as if finding a strange attraction there. Something, indeed, there was that affected him like the strain of some half-forgotten melody, which the memory can neither wholly grasp nor let altogether go.