Part 21

José’s Mistake.

“Dark lowers our fate, And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from Nature, shall unloose This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, In the terrific face of armed law, Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee.”

JOANNA BAILLIE.

About sunset one evening, a little more than a fortnight afterwards, Fray Fernando and José were seated at their frugal meal of maize-flour bread and fruit. “O José!” the monk exclaimed suddenly, laying down his knife and looking at his companion with an air of distress, “I have quite forgotten that starving family at Chorillos. I promised to bring them food to-day. _Vae meâ culpa!_ God grant some of them are not dead by this time. I must go to them immediately.” He rose, and began hastily to empty their little store of maize into a cotton cloth.

José rose also, and quietly put on his cap and mantle. “I think I had better take a little flask of sora; some one may be ill,” he said.

“_You!_” exclaimed the monk, looking up from his task of tying the corners of the cloth together. “I am going myself.”

“Excuse me, patre; you know of old I run like the huanucu.”

Under the circumstances, this was an unanswerable argument. José was permitted to depart, well-pleased to save the patre, who had had a hard day’s work already.

Very quickly did his fleet footsteps traverse the rank grass and reeds of the green fields, overhung with drooping willows, that separate Callao from Chorillos, a little hamlet nestling beneath the bold cliff of Marro Solar. He easily found the poor family of Mestizoes, for whom the food was intended, performed his errand of mercy, and set out on his homeward way.

But although he made good speed, the hour was late when he returned. Still, he was rather surprised to see no light in the little latticed window of Fray Fernando’s room. “The patre must have been tired,” he thought, “or he would not have gone to rest ere my return. I am glad I saved him the walk, which, for him, would have been a very long one.”

He knocked gently, and presently heard the approaching footsteps of the old mulatto woman with whom they lodged. Instead of opening the door at once, she stood and asked, with unusual caution, “Quien va?”

“I—Don José.” The door opened. José entered, and passing at once into their little sitting-room, requested a light. When it was brought, he looked around him in surprise and dismay. Where was the patre’s cloak? Where was the Bible—the “Sum of Christian Doctrine”—the little box of sandal-wood, the gift of a grateful mariner, in which the patre used to keep the few papers he had? “What has happened?” he asked.

“About half an hour ago, two hidalgoes came here and took the padre away with them,” said his sable hostess.

“Hidalgoes!” José repeated in amazement. “Friars perhaps you mean?”

“Friars, indeed! I hope I know a holy friar when I see him. I was a Catholic Christian before you were born, young sir; and I have Catholic blood in my veins, which is more than some can say who put ‘Don’ before their names. I tell your Excellency they were Spanish gentlemen, with swords and cloaks.”

“Some one ill, doubtless, on board one of the vessels,” thought José, as he sat down to await the patre’s return. “I wish, however, they could have waited till the morning.—Did he give you any message for me?” asked José as the woman was leaving the room.

“Yes; I was forgetting. It was not much, at all events. He just bade me say to you, ‘Every way He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City.’”

A pang of vague uneasiness shot through the heart of José. He feared—he knew not what. He watched anxiously for the patre’s return. But hour after hour passed away, and he came not. At last it was morning. José threw on his yacollo, and went down to the beach. Few were stirring at that early hour; and none could give him any tidings of Fray Fernando.

“He must have gone to the City,” he said to himself. “At the Franciscan monastery they will surely be able to tell me what has become of him. Perhaps he has suddenly received orders to go to some distant place.” But his alarm was increasing every moment.

José had frequently visited the Franciscan monastery, both with Fray Fernando and by himself; and he was very favourably regarded by its inmates, as an interesting specimen of the educated and Christianized Indian. Two of the brethren readily came to speak with him.

In his usual calm, unimpassioned manner, he told his story; but his hearers gazed at him and at each other in evident blank dismay. Then a rapid Latin colloquy passed between them: they were not aware that José understood the language. “I have feared this for some time,” the elder whispered. “Too clever—too mystical! Ah! the spite of those Dominicans!”

“Had he worn the black cowl, instead of the gray, he might have preached with impunity all the heresies of Luther,” returned the other. “Well, the Holy Office never had a better man or a truer Catholic in its dungeons.”

“Still, you cannot deny that he was very imprudent. _Miserere me!_ We are helpless as sheep against these sons of St. Dominic. If good Fray Tomas de San Martin were but here!”

“He could do nothing in a case of this kind. But—_tace!_ we are forgetting our dark-faced friend.”

“Better he should not suspect the truth. Let us tell him quietly to go his way.—My son,” he said, addressing José in Spanish, “we are led to believe, by what you have told us, that the holy father has been sent, by his spiritual superiors, on some mission of importance requiring haste and secrecy. Where do your kindred reside? Be advised by us, and rejoin them for the present. The Fray’s absence may be lengthened, for anything we know to the contrary.”

José bowed. His lips were silent; nor did his impassive Indian countenance express either the anguish or the resolution that filled his heart. But he said within himself, “God do so to me, and more also, if I go to my people and leave my father alone amongst his enemies.”

From the gate of the Franciscan monastery he went direct to that of the grim dark pile of building called the Santa Casa. Here he rang the bell, and requested an interview with one of their reverences the Lords Inquisitors.

A request heard with surprise, yet granted promptly enough. The Indian might have evidence to give, perhaps important revelations to make.

José glanced coolly around the room to which he was conducted, with its sombre furniture and black tapestry. When the inquisitor, a Dominican monk, made his appearance, he bowed like a Spanish hidalgo, and then with the utmost self-possession preferred his petition. He was Fray Fernando’s servant, he said. The holy father was used to his ministrations, and could not well do without them, more especially as his health was feeble. Might he entreat, therefore, to be permitted to share his imprisonment and to wait on him?

José would gladly have stooped far lower to aid or comfort his adopted father; for love casts out not only fear, but pride.

Whatever astonishment the inquisitor might have felt at his request, he expressed none. He answered courteously that the petition should receive the earliest attention of their reverences, and that he would himself use his best interest to further it. He then asked several questions, which José answered truly, but cautiously, for he was fully alive to the danger of compromising the patre by his admissions.

“The honourable Table of the Holy Office sits to-day,” said this urbane specimen of an inquisitor. “We will try what can be done for you. We hold the character of Fray Fernando in much esteem, and are desirous of showing him all the kindness and consideration in our power.”

“I have been, perhaps, needlessly afraid of these inquisitors,” thought José, who had never heard of “the iron hand within the velvet glove.” He said aloud, “When may I have the honour of waiting on your reverence, in order to be informed of the decision of the holy fathers?”

“You may call to-morrow morning, an hour after matins. Good-day, Señor José.” The last words were spoken with a slight but observable hesitation. The holy father intended to be courteous, but he was really at a loss in what manner to designate a person who adopted the style and title of an Inca, yet described himself as the servant of a Franciscan monk. “Señor José” was a harmless compromise between the much-coveted and high-sounding “Don José” and plain unprefaced “José.”

Next morning, José presented himself at the Santa Casa precisely at the appointed hour. Few ever entered its gloomy gates before or since so willingly. He did not even shudder as he heard them close behind him, he thought only how soon he might be permitted to see the patre.

Unaccountable folly!—are we ready to exclaim, with our ideas of the Holy Inquisition. But from José’s point of view it was nothing of the kind. He knew very well that the Holy Office could pretend to no authority over Indians; the Bull to which it owed its existence in the New World having expressly exempted them from its jurisdiction. Had he chosen to profess a hundred heresies, the dread tribunal could not legally have called him in question for one of them. He had, therefore, on his own account no apprehensions whatever, whilst for Fray Fernando his apprehensions amounted to an agony of fear. He was fully aware that his patron was really guilty of what the inquisitors called heresy, and therefore in deadly peril. Being, moreover, profoundly ignorant of the modes of proceeding adopted by the Holy Office, he could only transfer to it his own ideas of courts of justice and of criminal trials. He supposed that judgment would be given and punishment inflicted speedily and sternly, though possibly in secret. What then remained for love to do save to gain access to the captive, to console, to strengthen, to minister to him—perhaps even (who could tell?) to suggest and carry out some plan of escape? This was the one faint hope he still dared to cherish. The warders and turnkeys of the Santa Casa would surely be of Spanish blood? And might not they be bribed?

It never occurred to him that their reverences the Lords Inquisitors, being of Spanish blood, might be bribed also. So mean a thought of the mysterious dread tribunal he would not have dared to entertain. This was his fatal mistake. When he relinquished his liberty, he relinquished, by the same act, his one real chance of rendering effectual help to Fray Fernando.

He did not enjoy the privilege of a second interview with the suave and courteous inquisitor who conversed with him the evening before. A familiar, in a kind of semi-clerical dress, waited upon him in his stead. This official informed him that his petition had been heard favourably, and then conducted him into a little chamber resembling a monk’s cell. Here he was locked in, and left alone hour after hour, to his great perplexity and annoyance. Evening brought another familiar, who supplied him with food; and of him he inquired the reason of this strange treatment, but was told in answer that the servants of the Holy Office were not permitted to converse with the prisoners.

“_Prisoners!_” José repeated in amazement. “I am no prisoner. I have come here of my own free will.”

But the familiar was not to be entrapped into the violation of a prison rule. He shook his head and left the cell, muttering, as he did so, “Then go away of your own free will.”

As José had come to the Santa Casa with the intention of remaining there (though certainly not as a prisoner), he had brought with him a few necessaries for himself, and some comforts for Fray Fernando. He brought writing materials also; nor did he omit to conceal about his person a sufficient store of the gold he esteemed so necessary to his plans.

Accordingly, the next morning he gave the attendant a little note, praying him to have it transmitted to any one of their reverences the Lords Inquisitors. As the request was not unlawful in itself, and was accompanied by a present, it was not refused; but no answer came, either to that or to the numerous other notes that José sent in the same way, first supplicating, then demanding, explanation and redress.

In this manner weary days passed away, growing at length to long, slow weeks of misery. And José began to give way to despair. He made frequent inquiries about Fray Fernando; and by dint of bribing the familiar who attended him, succeeded in extracting a little information—just enough to increase his uneasiness. The padre had been ill, but was better now. He had undergone two examinations, both of them since José’s incarceration. No one had the least idea what his fate might be. José might be allowed to send him a few trifling presents; but to see him was impossible. It would be as much as the attendant’s life, not to say his place, was worth.

José writhed and struggled like a wild creature caught in a net. It only mocked his misery that he was well fed and carefully attended, and that the few personal requests he thought it worth while to make (as for fresh water and clean garments) were promptly granted. The silence which reigned around him grew insupportable. Often did he compare himself to a traveller in the desert suddenly enwrapped in the folds of a thick mist,—hemming him in like a wall, clinging round him like a garment; while in his wild alarm he calls, and calls again—but in vain—no voice replies, for no human ear is reached by his despairing cry.

Did the last words that had come to him,—that perhaps would ever come to him,—from the loved lips of his father and teacher, return upon his bewildered mind in those dreary hours of pain and perplexity—“Every way He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City”?

XXXVII.

A Disappointed Man.

“Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars; And I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars.”

LONGFELLOW.

Part of the Santa Casa was fitted up, with due pomp and luxury, as the dwelling-place of his Reverence the Lord Inquisitor-General of the Indies; and was not infrequently the scene of a stately hospitality becoming the high position of its occupant. One day his lordship enjoyed the honour of entertaining several distinguished guests. The party consisted of the archbishop and a few of the canons, the priors of three of the great monasteries, with a sprinkling of military and official personages of exalted rank. But the place of honour was occupied by a young man, a stranger in Lima, to whom all present seemed to pay considerable deference.

The inquisitor’s guests did ample justice to a luxurious repast. They ate the savoury flesh of the huanucu, the Peruvian partridge and wild duck, the brains of the llama, the delicate “Manjar blanco”—compounded of the breasts of capons beaten up with rose-water and white sugar—from dishes of gold and silver; and they drank the choice and costly wines of Spain cooled with the ice of the Andes. They were cheerful, even gay, though within the limits of decorum and of stately Spanish reserve and dignity.

At last, however, they ceased even to toy with the luscious grapes and fragrant melons that, newly introduced into that distant land, had a sweetness far beyond their own for the lips of exiles. The table was deserted, and most of the guests sought the garden, where the evening breeze was blowing cool and fresh from the snow-clad mountains. But the stranger lingered still, standing in the deep embrasure of a window. He looked about thirty, but was really much younger;—a handsome man, with a high, narrow forehead, scornful, petulant lips, and brows so often knit in anger or impatience, that the contraction had almost become permanent. Presently the sleek, good-humoured, sensual, yet intelligent Lord Inquisitor glided softly to his side; the black cowl and white frock of the Dominican making a picturesque contrast with the purple velvet and gold lace of the Castilian noble.

They conversed together upon such topics as the inquisitor thought likely to interest Don Francisco Solis de Toledo, nephew of the Viceroy of Peru, now about to take command of the troops on board a stately Spanish man-of-war.

Such an appointment was not considered derogatory to a person of high birth; though not exactly the provision the world might have expected the Viceroy to make for his sister’s son. But Don Francisco Solis was not a man easily provided for. He was overbearing, impracticable, and obstinate to a degree which made him the terror of his friends and patrons. These qualities were in some degree inherent in his character; but a different training might have subdued or softened them. If ever the wholesome discipline of a life amongst equals might have been beneficial to any man, that man was Don Francisco Solis. But it had never been his. Ere his boyhood was over, he had been sent out to the New World to play the tyrant;—a conqueror amongst a nation of slaves. And the curse of the tyrant fell upon him, and ate into his soul. He became at last unable to do anything, save to tyrannize.

Repeated experiments convinced the Viceroy, to his cost, that his brave and gifted young kinsman—for brave and gifted he really was—had utterly incapacitated himself for any career that necessitated his working under any one, or with any one. An exploring expedition into the interior of the country might have brought him fame and fortune, but it could not be undertaken without money and without companions. What was to be done with a man who was sure to quarrel with the moneylenders, and to fight duels with the gentlemen who volunteered to serve under him? Rich as the Viceroy was, he could not provide each of his needy kinsmen with a silver mine for his sole private use. He was glad, therefore, to relieve himself at last of the troublesome Don Francisco by appointing him to the command of the _Trionfo_.

To return then to the inquisitor. He had just been asking, with much courtesy, after the health of his Excellency’s noble lady, the Princess Doña Victoria,—by which stately name Coyllur nũsta was now known.

Having expressed his gratification at the intelligence that the lady was in good health, the churchman continued, “A young Indian nobleman has been brought under my notice lately, who is, as I believe, a relative, or at least a connection, of the illustrious princess.”

Don Francisco, who regarded all his wife’s relatives with profound disdain, looked just the degree of interest that politeness demanded, and played with the costly lace ruffle which half covered his white hand.

The inquisitor resumed, “I must not conceal from your Excellency that the young man I speak of is in rather an unfortunate situation at present. It has been found necessary to place him, for the good of his own soul and the interests of Holy Church, under a degree of restraint.”

“I thought,” said Don Francisco, who would not have cared if the inquisitor had announced that it had been found necessary to hang him,—“I thought your august tribunal did not interfere with ‘los Indios.’”

“True,” replied the churchman. “We cannot prosecute an Indian as a criminal; but we may lawfully employ one as a witness,—and for that purpose we may detain him, if necessary. At first it was in that way that we found it convenient to place the young man I speak of under a light and temporary restraint; but the case in which we expected to require his testimony having taken a turn that renders it superfluous, he might have been set at liberty, but for certain weighty considerations.”—Here the churchman paused, heaved a little sigh, and looked as if doubtful whether he ought to proceed any further.—However, he presently added, “His name is Don José Viracocha; and he claims the right to quarter the sun proper on the shield tierce in fess.[52] Do you know him, most illustrious señor?”

Don Francisco started, and the colour flashed to his white face. “I have reason to know him,” he said. “He is my enemy.”

“Indeed!” returned the inquisitor, with just as innocent a look of surprise as if he had not been aware of the fact, and made the communication for that very reason. “Don Francisco Solis pays the Indian a higher compliment than any of his race could have expected ever to deserve, when he condescends to call him _his_ enemy.”

Don Francisco bowed, then smiled bitterly. “We have good authority, reverend father,” he said, “for esteeming serpents the enemies of the human race. Indians wound like serpents. I believe that young man—who, I have heard, had once the intolerable presumption to consider himself _my_ rival—could give account, if he pleased it, of certain treasures which ought to have been my wife’s portion.”

“Ah, how is that, señor? But forgive my curiosity, if, unfortunately, it should appear impertinent.”

“No forgiveness needed, father. I am not ashamed of aught that concerns me. I leave that to those who climb up to heaven upon crooked ladders.” (He did not mean anything personal by this remark.) “_Pues_, reverend father, I heard a great deal about the golden hoards of the old Inca noble, my wife’s grandfather and guardian. He was called Yupanqui, or some such barbarous name; and he remained a pestilent heathen almost to the end of his days. And I, as a Christian gentleman of Spain, thought that those heathen spoils of his would come well to hand, and in good time, to give retaining fees to a hundred stout free lances, and to find them arms and horses, for a little expedition I contemplated. St. Jago! with a troop like that at my back, I might have shown my illustrious uncle that there are men yet left alive, though Cortez and Pizarro and Hernan de Soto are with the saints. Perhaps, too, that there are barbarian kings and kingdoms yet to conquer, though Tupac Amaru has lost his head,—as he well deserved. But the malice of fortune, who has always shown herself my enemy, would not permit me so much satisfaction. Of old Yupanqui’s boasted treasures, all that ever came my way was a dungeon of a house, all walls and no windows, and a few paltry gold and silver ornaments.”

“Does the noble lady, your Excellency’s wife, know nothing?”

“_Nothing._ That was soon ascertained.”

“Who were most in the confidence of the old Inca?”

“This Viracocha was as a son to him.”

The inquisitor paused. Then he said, very quietly, and without looking at Don Francisco—“For many reasons, I think it will be our wisest course to send the young man to Spain. I have ascertained that he is in the confidence of all the members of the Inca family who are here at present; and that he spends much of his time in secret cabals and consultations with them, Such proceedings _must_ be stopped.—You understand me, señor?—Yet we have no authority to deal with him after any summary fashion; while to detain him in prison here would cause remark and inquiry, perhaps create a scandal. It is an evil world, Señor Don Francisco. We are closely watched, and have to be careful—very careful—not to expose our Holy Office to obloquy by the slightest, the very slightest overstepping of our legitimate powers. ‘Wise as serpents’—you recollect, señor? Furthermore, there is another prisoner also, whose case we may see it advisable to refer to the authorities at home.—The _Trionfo_ is to form one of this year’s Plate fleet, I believe, most illustrious señor?”

Don Francisco bowed.

“For humanity’s sake,” the inquisitor continued, in a low voice, and still without looking at Don Francisco—“for humanity’s sake, I could wish to send these unfortunate persons to Spain in a good and large vessel. The voyage is long, and the precautions rendered necessary by their unhappy position—”