Part 48 (1/2)

”From De Valero? Did you learn from him?” The pale cheek of Carlos crimsoned for a moment, then grew paler than before. ”Tell me, senor, if I may ask it, how long have you been here?”

”That is just what I cannot tell. The first year stands out clearly; but all the after years are like a dream to me. It was in that first year that the caitiff I spoke of anon, who was imprisoned with me--you observe, senor, I had already asked for reconciliation. It was promised me. I was to perform penance; to be forgiven; to have my freedom.

_Pues_, senor, I spoke to that man as I might to you, freely and from my heart. For I supposed him a gentleman. I dared to say that their reverences had dealt somewhat hardly with me, and the like. Idle words, no doubt--idle and wicked. G.o.d knows, I have had time enough to repent them since. For that man, my fellow-prisoner, he who knew what prison was, went forth straightway and delated me to the Lords Inquisitors for those idle words--G.o.d in heaven forgive him! And thus the door was shut upon me--shut--shut for ever. Ay de mi! Ay de mi!”

Carlos heard but little of this speech. He was gazing at him with eager, kindling eyes. ”Were there left behind in the world any that it wrung your heart to part from?” he asked, in a trembling voice.

”There were. And since you came, their looks have never ceased to haunt me. Why, I know not. My wife, my child!” And the old man shaded his face, while in his eyes, long unused to tears, there rose a mist, like the cloud in form as a man's hand, that foretold the approach of the beneficent rain, which should refresh and soften the thirsty soil, making all things young again.

”Senor,” said Carlos, trying to speak calmly, and to keep down the wild tumultuous throbbing of his heart--”senor, a boon, I entreat of you.

Tell me the name you bore amongst men. It was a n.o.ble one, I know.”

”True. They promised to save it from disgrace. But it was part of my penance not to utter it; if possible, to forget it.”

”Yet, this once. I do not ask idly--this once--have pity on me, and speak it,” pleaded Carlos, with intense tremulous earnestness.

”Your face and your voice move me strangely; it seems to me that I could not deny you anything. I am--I ought to say, I _was_--Don Juan Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya.”

Before the sentence was concluded, Carlos lay senseless at his feet.

XLII.

Quiet Days.

”I think that by-and-by all things Which were perplexed a while ago And life's long, vain conjecturings, Will simple, calm, and quiet grow, Already round about me, some August and solemn sunset seems Deep sleeping in a dewy dome, And bending o'er a world of dreams.”--Owen Meredith.

The penitent laid Carlos gently on his pallet (he still possessed a measure of physical strength, and the worn frame was easy to lift); then he knocked loudly on the door for help, as he had been instructed to do in any case of need. But no one heard, or at least no one heeded him, which was not remarkable, since during more than twenty years he had not, on a single occasion, thus summoned his gaolers. Then, in utter ignorance what next to do, and in very great distress, he bent over his young companion, helplessly wringing his hands.

Carlos stirred at last, and murmured, ”Where am I? What is it?” But even before full consciousness returned, there came the sense, taught by the bitter, experience of the last two years, that he must look within for aid--he could expect none from any fellow-creature. He tried to recollect himself. Some bewildering, awful joy had fallen upon him, striking him to the earth. Was he free? Was he permitted to see Juan?

Slowly, very slowly, all grew clear to him. He half raised himself, grasped the penitent's hand, and cried aloud, ”_My father?_”

”Are you better, senor?” asked the old man with solicitude. ”Do me the favour to drink this wine.”

”Father, my father! I am your son. I am Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y Menaya. Do you not understand me, father?”

”I do not understand you, senor,” said the penitent, moving a little away from him, with a mixture of dignified courtesy and utter amazement in his manner strange to behold. ”Who is it that I have the honour to address?”

”O my father, I am your son--your very son Carlos!”

”I have never seen you till--ere yesterday.”

”That is quite true; and yet--”

”Nay, nay,” interrupted the old man; ”you are speaking wild words to me.

I had but one boy--Juan--Juan Rodrigo. The heir of the house of Alvarez de Menaya was always called Juan.”