Part 22

Here Don Francisco said, suddenly and sharply, though still with an air of affected indifference, “You had better fling the wretches into the sea at once, and have done with them. They will never survive such a voyage under such circumstances.”

“I should be sorry to think that, señor and your Excellency,” said the Dominican. “For I have quite a personal regard for the last-mentioned prisoner, who is a Spaniard and an ecclesiastic. Since we are speaking freely and in confidence, I may acknowledge that it is from motives of clemency, and to give him a chance of saving his life, that we have decided upon referring his case to the Table at Valladolid. As to the Indian”—the inquisitor mused a little—“if he could only be removed to a safe distance from his brethren—sent amongst the barbarians, for instance—nothing more would be required. We really wish him no harm; our object is to get him out of the country without creating a scandal.”

Perhaps it was the position in which he stood, with his back turned to the light, which gave a pallid look to the face of Don Francisco. Yet this could not account for the sudden flush that passed over it, vanishing again as quickly. But after a moment’s pause he answered, in tones of icy coldness, “If your reverence thinks proper to send prisoners to Spain in the _Trionfo_, I shall do myself the honour of introducing the master of the ship to your notice. You can communicate with him at your pleasure. I hear he is a very worthy fellow, well acquainted with his business.” Then he added languidly, “How hot it is, father! Has not this been a very unhealthy season in Ciudad de los Reyes?”

The inquisitor understood that the subject was dismissed, and performed his part in keeping up the conversation which Don Francisco thus directed into another and indifferent channel. Less than half his active mind sufficed for the effort, leaving the rest at liberty to pursue more interesting subjects. Whilst therefore he talked of the weather, the mists, the sunstrokes, and the calentures, an undercurrent of thought ran on, somewhat after this fashion: “Don Francisco Solis is scarcely grateful for one of the fairest chances a man was ever given of recovering a lost or buried fortune. Still, he is a Toledo; one may trust his honour. If he gets the truth out of this Viracocha, whether by fair means or by foul, he will not forget Mother Church. And he shall not want a broad hint or two on the subject of her claims, seasonably administered.

“As to poor Fray Fernando—unhappy man!—it is the only way of saving him from the fire, into which he is too willing to throw himself, even without the friendly aid of some of my colleagues, who have more zeal than discretion. A curse on their officiousness, beginning with that of our meddlesome brother from Cuba! What good end will it serve to bring upon us and our holy tribunal the suspicion and ill-will of all the Franciscans in the country? And what harm could the poor friar’s heresies have done to a pack of negroes and Indians? The sacrament of baptism is valid, even though administered by a heretic; and that is all they require.”

Don Francisco meanwhile was thinking, for his part: “I wonder who was his reverence’s grandfather? Some low person, I doubt not, with a taint of infidel blood in his veins. Every nobody from the Old World sets up here as ‘Don,’ and ‘Excellency,’ and ‘most illustrious.’ Probably he was engaged in trade. This reverend father, beneath his black cowl, has the soul of a trader. As for that Viracocha,—I hate him. I could better pardon him for hiding the old Inca’s treasures, than for his insufferable presumption in supposing that I—_I_—would actually have condescended to fight with him! If ‘los Indios’ begin to take such airs, to Spaniards and gentlemen, this country will very soon become—” (Here Don Francisco said a strong word to himself.) “The inquisitors might as well stretch a point, for once, and fling the wretch into the fire for worshipping his abominable idols, as no doubt they all do in secret. Still, he may burn, hang, or drown, for aught I care. _I_ shall not soil my fingers with him. No! my Lord Inquisitor forgot whom he addressed, when he presumed to hint that I might degrade myself to the part of torture-master, to wring from this luckless wretch the possession of his secret. No! not for all the gold in Peru. My life for gold, any day; my honour for gold—_never!_”

Other Castilian nobles, in Don Francisco’s place, might have read differently the laws of honour. The means that Spanish knights and gentlemen did not scorn to employ in seeking for the hidden treasures of the New World, are not pleasant to contemplate: witness the well-known story of the heroic Mexican Emperor Guatimozin.

The light by which Don Francisco Solis guided his footsteps was a dim, earth-born glimmer. It was not sunlight, not true starlight even; only the gleam of the red planet Mars, called the “star” of chivalry. Yet, for once, it sufficed to make him aware of a deep pit of moral degradation cunningly dug right across his path. And it taught him to avoid it.

XXXVIII.

Fray Fernando’s Words.

“’Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hear at least each other’s speech, And each turn comforter to each.”

BYRON.

José’s long agony of suspense had an end at last. One evening after nightfall, the familiar who attended his cell conveyed to him a courteously-worded but peremptory order to put on his cap and mantle and follow him forthwith. José obeyed, wondering; and was yet the more surprised to see the attendant make a package of the clothes and other matters belonging to him which were lying about the cell, preparatory to taking them away.

“Are they going to set me free at last?” he asked.

But, as bitter experience might have led him by this time to anticipate, he received no answer. The familiar, carrying a torch and the packet he had made up, conducted him to a side-door of the Santa Casa. This was opened immediately, and he saw—though dimly, for the night was dark—a little troop of horsemen waiting outside. Then a horse, ready saddled, was brought to the door, and a person who seemed to be the leader of the band directed him to mount; adding, however, as he hesitated a moment before obeying,—

“Be not afraid, Indian; one of these gentlemen shall hold your bridle.”

“I am not afraid,” said José, who, though he had never been on horseback in his life, scorned to show reluctance or timidity before these strangers; “but I should like to know whither you are about to take me.”

The officer bent down from his saddle, and whispered—“Let well alone, Indian. You have been most mercifully dealt with by their reverences. Learn that ‘silence is holy,’ and that your tongue may hurt but cannot mend your case.”

Having given José this significant hint, he turned to the still open door, where the alguazil was standing, torch in hand.

“How long are we to be kept waiting here?” he asked impatiently.

“He is coming, señor,” said the attendant.

José mounted without further demur. Then another horse was brought to the door, and held in readiness for another rider. After a brief delay, one came slowly forth, wrapped in a Franciscan monk’s gray cowl and mantle. José half uttered a cry of surprise, perhaps of joy. It was the patre. But the officer again interposed.

“_Quiton!_” he said, and touched his sword.

Nor was Fray Fernando permitted to utter a word. The rapid ride from Lima to Callao was accomplished in perfect silence. The two captives soon found themselves on the seashore. They were then transferred to a little boat, which conveyed them to a stately galleon lying moored in the bay. They were put on board; and a guard of soldiers received them. One steep ladder after another had then to be descended by their unwilling footsteps, until at last the ship’s hold was reached,—and there they lay in midnight darkness, and for a time, it may almost be added, in despair. Even their reunion, after so long a separation, failed to kindle joy or hope: they seemed brought together again only to die. Fray Fernando was the first to recover himself so far as to speak.

“_You_ here, my son José! Why this? Of what have they accused _you_?” he asked.

“In truth, I know not,” José answered, in a weary, hopeless tone. “I was never informed—never tried—never judged.”

“What! never even examined? That, indeed, is strange.”

“I had an interview once with two black monks.”

“Well, and what said they to you?”

“They asked if I could repeat my Credo. I answered,—‘Will your reverences hear it in Quichua, in Spanish, or in Latin?’ In the next place, they inquired if I knew the doctrines of the Catholic faith. I told them they might question me therein. Then, did I detest the wicked idolatries for which my forefathers had gone into everlasting fire? I made answer promptly—‘As for my forefathers, Christ shall judge them, not you; as for myself, I thank His grace that I have turned from dumb idols to serve the living and true God.’ Then—But what does it all matter now?” said José wearily, while the momentary animation of his tone and manner quickly died away.

“It matters much to me, José; for I fear it is on my account you have suffered all this misery.”

“Nay, patre; do not think it. It was—But why seek for reasons? Enough—I am an Indian. The hatred they bear my race—my poor doomed race!—accounts for all.”

After a gloomy pause, he resumed—“And you, patre? You have been ill. I fear—”

“Fear nothing for me. I am well—now,” said the monk. But his faint and broken tones gave the lie to his words of cheer.

Then José shook off the dull lethargy that had well-nigh overpowered him, and roused himself to attend to the one duty that yet remained to him. He drew close to the patre, embraced him tenderly, and from that moment took him completely into his charge. With some of his own clothing he managed to contrive a tolerably comfortable resting-place for his wasted form. He bathed his burning brow; he held his hand in his; he bore the jar of water that had been left in their dungeon once and again to his fevered lips,—but he scarcely spoke a word.

They had before this become aware that the vessel had weighed anchor, and was in motion. By-and-by food was brought to them, and José requested the use of a lamp. He had still the means of bestowing a bribe, as the usual custom of searching prisoners on entering or leaving the Santa Casa, and depriving them of their money and valuables, had been dispensed with in his case. The lamp made its appearance accordingly; a supply of oil was even promised. But at first the light that revealed their faces each to other appeared a doubtful boon: so ghastly, worn, and death-like did Fray Fernando look to José; and such settled, hopeless sorrow did he read in the dusky countenance of his Indian friend. Yet between the two there was a marked difference—like the difference between the morning and the evening twilight. Ill and feeble as Fray Fernando was, he seemed to carry some light within that, as time passed on, kindled into greater brightness hour by hour; while José simply faded.

“Have you no wish, José, to learn whither we are going, and with whom?” Fray Fernando asked, wondering at his apparent indifference to all things save one—Fray Fernando’s own bodily comfort and well-being. “I can tell you somewhat;—though but little, it is true. My case, I have been informed, has been referred to the Table of the Holy Office at Valladolid; though how and wherefore you have been involved in my misfortunes, I am ignorant as yet. But this, at least, I know: we are at present in the _Trionfo_—a great and brave galleon, which is making her voyage, with the rest of the Plate fleet, to the mother country.”

“We shall never reach it,” said José.

“God only knows,” Fray Fernando answered; and the conversation dropped.

A day or two afterwards Fray Fernando resumed it:—

“One of us, at least, will scarcely see the shores of Spain. José—my son José!”

“I am here, patre, close beside you.”

“Come closer yet. Take my hand in yours; let your loving eyes look into mine. I have somewhat to say to you.”

José obeyed. His hand did not tremble and no tear dimmed his eye as he answered, “Speak on, my father.”

“Some there are who die in the face of day, ten thousand eyes to witness their suffering and their patience, ten thousand hearts to judge their cause. José, for years and years my thoughts dwelt upon such a death. I feared it—shuddered at it—fled from it. Ay, when God sent you to me first, a little child, your innocent talk dispelled many a frightful vision of the hideous zamarra, the gazing multitudes, the burning pile. You know all now, José. It is true, you cannot know—but you can guess, far off and dimly—the dark remorse, the haunting terror, of those dreary years.

“Then at last, through God’s great mercy, the burden was lifted from me. I was no murderer. The mark of Cain was gone from my brow. I could go forth erect, and walk amongst my fellow-men, no longer a solitary being, held apart by the awful loneliness of a great crime and a bitter retribution. And then, as if all this had been little in His sight, He gave me more a thousandfold than deliverance, than liberty, than even the brother of my heart restored to me from the dead—He gave me Himself. You know how the light of His presence dawned, grew, brightened around me. You know, for you shared that light. But a strange thing was wrought within me that was hidden even from you, José. The doom that for years had been the haunting terror of my life came back again upon my mind,—but transfigured; no more a terror—a secret thrilling hope. It was as if some veiled, shadowy form, that I thought a demon, had haunted my footsteps night and day, and then suddenly coming up beside me, dropped off the shrouding veil, and stood radiant, an angel of light. No longer did the burning pile mean shame and horror: it meant glory, martyrdom, an abundant entrance into the home and the kingdom prepared for me. It meant His seal—the signet of the King whose purpose none may change—set at last upon my poor spoiled life, in token that He claimed and owned it. It meant fire from heaven consuming the accepted sacrifice. Even when I stood very close to it I felt no fear. And, José, I tell you now, that it was well worth while to stand there face to face with death. God was so near—nearer far than you are—though your hand holds mine, and your breath is on my cheek.

“But after that there came a bitter hour. A dark cloud rose up suddenly and hid Him from me. They, who thought themselves the arbiters of my fate, determined, in mercy as they believed, to spare me the doom of fire. Instead of pronouncing my sentence themselves, they would send me a captive to the mother country. Of course, in this dungeon, and to a man whose strength is wasted as is mine, that means death,—unless God should work a miracle for me. José, I longed to die for Him; but in my own way, not in His. I longed to show forth His mercy and truth with my last look, if not with my last breath, in the great congregation. With the lot that He appointed for me I was not content. Fain would I have escaped it by any means—save _one_. So I mourned bitterly before Him. Then He turned away His face from me, and my heart was cast down within me.

“But He is wiser than I,—and oh, how tender with His wayward child! The first word by which He brought me comfort was thine, José: ‘Every way He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City.’ Still, though comforted, I was not at peace, until at last there came another word, borne softly into the depths of my heart—a brief, simple word, but a word of His—‘Come unto Me.’—‘Unto Me.’ That is enough. That one thought fills all my soul. I care not for the way, since He—He Himself—is the end. I am satisfied. I need no more. Thou hast dealt well with Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word!”

XXXIX.

José’s Words.

“Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark On the mid sea, and with the storm alone; And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown, Its freight of human souls?—the o’ermastering wave, Who shall tell how it rushed, and none to save?”

HEMANS.

Without a word of lamentation, without a tear or sigh, José heard all. He fully comprehended the patre’s situation, and his own. He believed that he must soon close the eyes of his father and his friend; and that duty done, that he must linger on in his frightful prison alone, until Death, the deliverer, should come to him also. It never occurred to him that, after all, he might live to see those distant alien shores towards which his enemies were bearing him. No Child of the Sun, he told himself, could live on for dreary months and months without his Father’s smile, deprived of light and air and liberty.

Fitful longings for these common but most precious boons came and went, troubling with passing storms the deep and bitter waters of anguish that filled his soul like a flood. Often would he start from dreams of the glittering ice-crowned heights of the Andes, as he used to see them from Cerro Blanco; or of the cool interior of Yupanqui’s house, with some melody of his native land, breathed by the lips of Coyllur, still sounding in his ear. Often, again, the great green leaves of the tropical forest would droop over his head; he would touch them, pluck them, feel their moist coolness, watch the sunbeams flicker amongst them, see some bright bird with radiant plumage flit through their overhanging branches, and be wakened by its song, or by the murmuring sound of running waters.

Thus brought back to his misery, he would rise from his place without moan or murmur, trim the lamp, give Fray Fernando food or water, or do for him, most tenderly, any other little office that love and watchful care suggested; but, except to answer his questions, and that briefly, he scarcely ever spoke.

At last a circumstance occurred that partially broke down this mournful stoicism. The position of the prisoners in the dark damp hold was necessarily one of great misery; but they were not treated with intentional inhumanity by those who had the charge of them. Their food was sufficient, though coarse; and if their allowance of water was scanty, so also was that of the ship’s company, and José contrived that the privation should be little felt by the patre. As time wore on, the soldiers whose duty it was to guard them and supply them with necessaries became gradually more friendly and communicative. A belief was gaining ground amongst them that the captives, though prisoners of the Holy Office, were not heretics, but political offenders of some kind; for it was well known that such were occasionally apprehended and punished by the Inquisition. The pious deportment and devout language of Fray Fernando favoured this supposition; but still more the presence of José, since it was inconceivable that an Indian could be a heretic.

Moreover, the soldiers of the _Trionfo_ were sorely in want of interest and occupation during the long voyage, which at best must occupy many months. They were all “señores y caballeros,” who would not, to save the ship from sinking, haul a rope or climb a mast. Except in the improbable event of an enemy appearing in sight, these two hundred and fifty hale and active fighting-men had literally nothing to do save to burnish their armour, to play cards with each other, to quarrel with the Flemish gunners, or to tyrannize over the mariners, who were treated like slaves, and “made to toil and moil for all the rest.” Those therefore who attended the prisoners were very willing to vary the monotony of their lives by exchanging a few words with persons who, for many reasons, excited their curiosity.

Fray Fernando and José soon learned that the señor commandante was at deadly feud with the captain of the ship, an officer who in an English vessel would have been simply called the sailing-master. The soldiers, of course, took part with their commander; and to the surprise of Fray Fernando, who had been told that the ship was an excellent one, railed continually, and “in good set terms,” against the unfortunate _Trionfo_, with all her appurtenances and appointments.

“Is she not a swift sailer?” inquired the captive, naturally anxious to encourage conversation.

“Oh yes. Swift enough, to be sure; everything sacrificed to speed, and to the stowage of her merchandize. See her decks! All for space: not an inch of shelter or vantage-ground where a man could cover his head from an enemy’s fire. Not too sea-worthy either, for all the gallant show she makes. Well we are with the Plate fleet, or we would not sight a hostile flag for ten thousand ‘pieces of eight.’ Worse luck! If on the contrary the ship were what she ought, and the captain anything but ‘a hen,’ with low wretches of mariners without honour or valour, no sight would be more welcome—not even the shores of old Spain.”

Fray Fernando remarked afterwards to José,—“The galleon may be a fine ship for all that. It is evident that the soldiers take their cue from their commander. He must be, as I think, a man of strong though rather peculiar character. I doubt that he is much beloved. His men all fear him, evidently. I should not be surprised to find that some of them hate him.”

“They never mention his name,” said José languidly. “Who is he?”

“What! Do you not know? He is the Viceroy’s nephew, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo.”

José uttered a piteous cry, as one surprised by sharp, uncontrollable anguish.

“What is it, my son José?” Fray Fernando questioned tenderly. But José could not speak. After that one involuntary cry he could only lock his lips with stern resolve. Had he allowed a word, a moan, or even a sigh to escape them, there would have ensued a passion of weeping, to shame his manhood, and—far worse—to alarm and distress the patre beyond description.

The last time Don Francisco Solis and Don José Viracocha met face to face was at the door of Doña Beatriz Coya’s stately mansion in Cuzco. That day, as they exchanged formal salutations, José, strong in the favour of Coyllur, felt his proud triumph over his Castilian rival, and scorned him in his heart. Where was now that old happy, hopeful time? Where was that sweet face—those dark eyes, from which his soul had drunk enchantment? Where were the dreams that filled his heart,—of great deeds to be done for his people, and deliverance to be won for them, perhaps by his arm?

Gone from him, and for ever. He lay in that dismal hold, a captive, with Death already in his heart. The Spaniards had the dominion over the land of his fathers. Don Francisco Solis had the beautiful bride that should have been his; and, as if that were not enough, it seemed he had even the key of his rival’s dungeon—a thought that added the last drop to José’s overflowing cup of bitterness.

What had he left him now to show that the past was not all a dream? Only _this_. He still wore about his person, carefully wrapped in a morsel of parchment, the withered passion-flower. He took it out, and held it near the lamp; a poor, crushed, faded thing, meet emblem of his own crushed hopes and faded life.

“What is that you have there?” Fray Fernando questioned.

José allowed him to take it in his hand. “It has a story?” said the monk. “Tell me, my son, if you will. We are all the world to each other now.”

“The story of one I loved—and lost,” José murmured, in a voice like the ghost of his natural one. “It was Don Francisco Solis who robbed me, making my life desolate. As, every day, his people rob mine. And,” he added yet more sorrowfully, “Christ, the King, does not help us!”

“José, José, come near to me.”

José came near. The monk raised himself, drew his arm tenderly round him, and held him to his heart. “Oh, my son,” he asked very gently, “can you not trust Him still?”