Part 36 (1/2)
[#] The story of the gaoler's servant and his little daughter is historical.
x.x.xII.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
”And shall I fear the coward fear of standing all alone To testify of Zion's King and the glory of his throne?
My Father, O my Father, I am poor and frail and weak, Let me not utter of my own, for idle words I speak; But give me grace to wrestle now, and prompt my faltering tongue.
And name thy name upon my soul, and so shall I be strong.”--Mrs. Stuart Menteith
Many a weary hour did Carlos shorten by chanting the psalms and hymns of the Church in a low voice for himself. At first he sang them loudly enough for his fellow-prisoners to hear; but the commands of Benevidio, which were accompanied even by threats of personal violence, soon made him forbear. Not a few kindly deeds and words of comfort came to him through the ministrations of the poor servant Maria Gonsalez, aided by the gaoler's little daughter. On the whole, he was growing accustomed to his prison life. It seemed as though it would last for ever; as though every other kind of life lay far away from him in the dim distance.
There were slow and weary hours, more than he could count; there were bitter hours--of pa.s.sionate regret, of dark foreboding, of unutterable fear. But there were also quiet hours, burdened by no special pain or sorrow; there were sometimes even happy hours, when Christ seemed very near, and his consolations were not small with his prisoner.
It was one of the quiet hours, when thoughts of the past, not full of the anguish of vain yearning, as they often were, but calm and even pleasant, were occupying his mind. He had been singing the Te Deum for himself; and thinking how sweetly the village choristers used to chant it at Nuera; not in the time of Father Tomas, but in that of his predecessor, a gentle old man with a special taste for music, whom he and his brother, then little children, loved, but used to tease. He was so deeply engaged in feeling over again his poignant distress upon one particular occasion when Juan had offended the aged priest, that all his present sorrows were forgotten for the moment, when he heard the large key grate harshly in the strong outer door of his cell.
Benevidio entered, bearing some articles of dress, which he ordered the prisoner to put on immediately.
Carlos obeyed in silence, though not without surprise, perhaps even a pa.s.sing feeling of indignation. For the very form and fas.h.i.+on of the garments he was thus obliged to a.s.sume (a kind of jacket without sleeves, and long loose trowsers), meant to the Castilian n.o.ble keen insult and degradation.
”Take off your shoes,” said the alcayde. ”Prisoners always come before their reverences with uncovered head and feet. Now follow me.”
It was, then, the summons to stand before his judges. A thrilling dread took possession of his soul. Heedless of the alcayde's presence, he threw himself for one brief moment on his knees. Then, though his cheek was pale, he could speak calmly. ”I am ready,” he said.
He followed his conductor through several long and gloomy corridors. At length he ventured to ask, ”Whither are you leading me?”
”_Chiton!_” said Benevidio, placing his finger on his lips. Speech was not permitted there.
At last they drew near an open door. The alcayde quickened his pace, entered first, made a very low reverence, then drew back again, and motioned Carlos to go forward alone.
He did so; and found himself in the presence of his judges--the Board, or ”Table of the Inquisition.” He bowed, though rather from the habit of courtesy, than from any special respect to the tribunal, and stood silent.
Before any one addressed him, he had ample leisure for observation. The room was large, lofty, and surrounded by pillars, between which there were handsome hangings of gilt leather. At one end, the furthest from him, stood a great crucifix, larger than life. Around the long table on the estrada six or seven persons were seated. Of these, one alone was covered, he who sat nearest the door by which Carlos had entered, and facing the crucifix. He knew that this was Gonzales de Munebrga, and the thought that he had once pleaded earnestly for that man's life, helped to give him boldness in his presence.
At Munebrga's right hand sat a stern and stately man, whom Carlos, though he had never seen him before, knew, from his dress and the position he occupied, to be the prior of the Dominican convent adjoining the Triana. One or two of the subordinate members of the Board he had met occasionally in other days, and he had then considered them very far his own inferiors, both in education and in social position.
At length Munebrga, half turning, motioned him to approach the table.
He did so, and a person who sat at the opposite end, and appeared by his dress to be a notary, made him lay his hand on a missal, and administered an oath to him.
It bound him to speak the truth, and to keep everything secret which he might see or hear; and he took it without hesitation. A bench at the Inquisitor's left hand was then pointed out to him, and he was desired to be seated.
A member of the Board, who bore the t.i.tle of the Promoter-fiscal, conducted the examination. After some merely formal questions, he asked him whether he knew the cause of his present imprisonment? Carlos answered immediately, ”I do.”
This was not the course usually taken by prisoners of the Holy Office.
They commonly denied all knowledge of any offence that could have induced ”their reverences” to order their arrest With a slight elevation of the eyebrows, perhaps expressive of surprise, his examiner continued, gently enough, ”Are you then aware of having erred from the faith, and by word or deed offended your own soul, and the consciences of good Christians? Speak boldly, my son; for to those who acknowledge their faults the Holy Office is full of tenderness and mercy.”
”I have not erred, consciously, from the true faith, since I knew it.”