the last look, a tale of the spanish inquisition, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ it is in the middle of the sixteenth century, and in spain, where the inquisition, and subsequent torturing and burning to death by the catholic church, of those who would not agree to its tenets, is getting under way. an archbishop calls at the house of a former friend of his, a woman who had refused him in love. the woman is the widow of a great nobleman. the archbishop is chatting to his former friend's daughter, and is thinking how like the child is to what she had been. unfortunately the child artlessly gives away the fact that the family had now adopted protestantism, due perhaps to her father having met luther while on visits to germany. some years later the child is now grown up, and has two suitors, one of whom is a rich catholic, and the other is a much poorer man but a protestant. she and others are meeting at the house of a woman who often has such clandestine all-protestant meetings, when they hear that a person they all know has gone mad and has run around telling everyone about these protestant meetings. the inquisition of course, with spies everywhere, hears all about it. from then onward the story takes many of them to the jails of the inquisition, and some are burnt at the auto-da-fe, a ritualised torture ceremony ending in death at the stake. the book is short, only three hours to read, but very tensely written by this great author. audiobook recommended. ________________________________________________________________________ the last look, a tale of the spanish inquisition, by w.h.g. kingston. chapter one. an unwelcome visitor. the beauty of seville is proverbial. "who has not seen seville, has not seen a wonder of loveliness," say the spaniards. they are proud indeed of seville, as they are of everything else belonging to them, and of themselves especially, often with less reason. we must carry the reader back about three hundred years, to a beautiful mansion not far from the banks of the famed guadalquiver. in the interior were two courts, open to the sky. round the inner court were marble pillars richly carved and gilt, supporting two storeys of galleries; and in the centre a fountain threw up, as high as the topmost walls, a bright jet of water, which fell back in sparkling spray into an oval tank below, full of many-coloured fish. in the court, at a sufficient distance from the fountain to avoid its spray, which, falling around, increased the delicious coolness of the air, sat a group of ladies employed in working tapestry, the colours they used being of those bright dyes which the east alone could at that time supply. the only person who was moving was a young girl, who was frolicking round the court with a little dog, enticed to follow her by a coloured ball, which she kept jerking, now to one side, now to the other, laughing as she did so at the animal's surprise, in all the joyousness of innocent youth. she had scarcely yet reached that age when a girl has become conscious of her charms and her power over the sterner sex. the ladies were conversing earnestly together, thinking, it was evident, very little of their work, when a servant appearing announced the approach of don gonzales munebrega, bishop of tarragona. for the peculiar virtues he possessed in the eye of the supreme head of his church, he was afterwards made archbishop of the same see. uneasy glances were exchanged among the ladies; but they had scarcely time to speak before a dignified-looking ecclesiastic entered the court, followed by two inferior priests. one of the ladies, evidently the mistress of the house, advanced to meet him, and after the usual formal salutations had been exchanged, he seated himself on a chair which was placed for him by her side, at a distance from the rest of the party, who were joined, however, by the two priests. the young girl no sooner caught sight of the bishop from the farther end of the hall, where the little dog had followed her among the orange trees, than all trace of her vivacity disappeared. "ah, dona mercia, your young daughter reminds me greatly of you at the same age," observed the bishop, with a sigh, turning to the lady, who still retained much of the beauty for which the young girl was conspicuous. "you had not then entered the priesthood; and on entering it, and putting off the secular habit, i should have thought, my lord, that you would have put off all thoughts and feelings of the past," answered dona mercia calmly. "not so easy a task," replied the bishop. "a scene like this conjures up the recollection of days gone by and never to return. you--you, dona mercia, might have saved me from what i now suffer." "you speak strangely, don gonzales," said dona mercia. "why address such words to me? our feelings are not always under our own control. i know that you offered me your hand, and the cause of my rejecting your offer was that i could not give you what alone would have made my hand of value. i never deceived you, and as soon as i knew your feelings, strove to show you what were mine." "indeed, you did!" exclaimed the bishop, in a tone of bitterness. "you say truly, too, that we cannot always control our feelings. my rival is no more; and did not the office into which i rashly plunged cut me off from the domestic life i once hoped to enjoy, what happiness might yet be mine!" "oh, my lord, let me beg you not to utter such remarks," said dona mercia, in a voice of entreaty. "the past cannot be recalled. god chasteneth whom he loveth. he may have reserved for you more happiness than any earthly prosperity can give." a frown passed over the brow of the priest of rome. the lady of the mansion, anxious to turn the current of the bishop's thoughts, and to put a stop to a conversation which was annoying her-fearing, indeed, from her knowledge of the man, that it might lead to some proposal still more painful and disagreeable--called her young daughter, leonor de cisneros, to her. dona leonor approached the bishop with downcast looks. "you are wonderfully demure now, my pretty maiden," he remarked in a bantering tone, his countenance brightening, however, for an instant as he spoke to her; "but you were gay and frolicking enough just now, when i entered. how is that?" "it becomes me to be grave in your presence, my lord," was the answer. "but you are generally happy and joyous, are you not?" asked the bishop. "yes, especially when i think of the good and loving master i desire to serve," answered the young girl, innocently. "who is that?" asked the romish priest, not guessing whom she could mean. "the lord jesus christ, who died on calvary that i might be washed from my sins by his precious blood there shed for me," answered the young girl, promptly. "ah! but you love the holy virgin, the immaculate mother of god, too, do you not?" asked the priest. "yes, indeed, i do love the holy virgin, for she was blessed among women, and nurtured and brought up the dear jesus, who died for me and for her too, that we might be saved," said dona leonor, without hesitation. "ah! what! do not you pray to the holy virgin, little maiden?" asked the priest, looking at her sternly. "this must be looked to," he muttered to himself. "why should i pray to her, when i have the gentle loving jesus, to whom i may go in prayer at all times and in all places?" she asked with simplicity, and with a tone of surprise that the priest should not agree with her. "and you do not pray to the saints either, then, perhaps?" he asked, before the girl had finished the last sentence. "oh, no! they are dead and cannot hear me. i pray only to the good jesus, who always is ready to hear me; for he loves me more than my dear father did, or even than my mother can," answered dona leonor. "these are not catholic doctrines, young lady," said the bishop in a tone of harshness he had not yet used. "who taught them to you? they smack strongly of heresy." "i do not know what heresy means," answered dona leonor, in an artless tone. "my dear father taught me what i know about the loving jesus-that he is the only friend in whom human beings can really trust. it was the sure knowledge of this which comforted him through his illness, and made his deathbed so happy and glorious. he told us to meet him in heaven, and i do hope to meet him there some day. the thought of that makes me extremely happy, whenever it comes to my mind." "you hold very strange doctrines, child," said the bishop, sharply. "has your mother embraced them?" "i know nothing about doctrines, my lord," answered dona leonor. "i think that my mother must hope to meet our dear father in heaven, or she would be very miserable; and i am sure she cannot hope to get there except through her trust in the blood of jesus. i hope, my lord bishop, that you expect to go there by that sure and only way." "i cannot expect to go there except by the way the church points out, and i cannot even know that there is a heaven except through what the church teaches," answered the bishop, in a voice that sounded somewhat husky. "that is the true catholic doctrine, maiden, which it behoves all spaniards to believe, and which they must be compelled to believe. you understand, maiden. tell your mother what i say. but here she comes." dona mercia, wishing to escape from the remarks of her former admirer, had joined the rest of her guests, and afterwards retired to give some direction for their entertainment, little dreaming of the dangerous turn the conversation between her daughter and the bishop would take. "ah, dona mercia, i find that your daughter is a little heretic, and holds in but slight respect the doctrines of the church. as she tells me she was instructed in them by her late father, and as he must have imbibed such abominable principles during his visits to germany from that arch-heretic luther, i trust that they have proceeded no farther. but let me advise you to be cautious, dona mercia, and to inculcate catholic principles into the mind of your daughter. remember that from henceforth the eyes of the inquisition will be upon you." "my lord bishop, i have ever endeavoured to do my duty to my god, to my child, and to all around me," answered dona mercia, meekly, unconsciously placing her hands across her bosom. "i trust that i have no cause to tremble, should the eyes of the whole world be upon me." "the eyes of the inquisition are more piercing than those of the whole world combined," answered don gonzales, in a low voice, which came hissing forth from between his almost clenched lips, in a tone which was calculated to produce more effect on the mind of the hearer than the loudest outburst of passion. when the bishop rose from his seat, he approached the rest of the company with a smiling aspect, and addressed them with that dignified courtesy for which spaniards have ever been celebrated. few would have guessed the feelings which were even then agitating his bosom; still, the party felt relieved when he and his softly-spoken, keen-eyed attendants took their departure. chapter two. the inquisition. at the time our story commences, the inquisitors scarcely suspected how far the opinions they so much dreaded had extended. they had satisfied themselves hitherto with burning jews, moors, and the poorer class of christians, whose opinions did not agree with those of the roman catholic church. thus, when don gonzales munebrega, soon after his arrival at seville on ecclesiastical business, paid the visit which has been described to dona mercia de cisneros, he was considerably startled at hearing her young daughter utter expressions which showed that she had been taught doctrines of a heretical character. the whole family were in his power. he had once loved dona mercia; she had rejected him. how should he now use that power? tumultuous feelings agitated his bosom as he mounted the richly-caparisoned mule which stood ready to convey him to the convent where he lodged. this was not the only visit he paid to dona mercia; but, though courteous to her guest, she was ever on her guard, and carefully kept leonor out of his way. for once in his life he was baffled. whenever he paid his visits the same caution was observed. at length he was compelled to take his departure from seville. years rolled on, but he never forgot the remarks made to him by the young leonor de cisneros. he had hated her father, he had been rejected by her mother. it is difficult to describe the feelings with which he regarded the daughter, still less those which he had entertained for the mother. were they holy and pure? the lives of thousands of cardinals, bishops, and priests of all degrees, is the best answer to the question. don gonzales munebrega was rising in the church. he had become archbishop of tarragona. his heart had become harder and harder; in reality an infidel--an alien from god--a hater of all that was pure and holy, he thought that he was becoming devout. he was resolved that if he was not on the right way to heaven, no one else should get there by any other. the war was now to begin against heresy and schism--terms abused, especially the latter, at the present day almost as much as in the darker days of popish supremacy. there are to be found clergymen of the church of england who can, unconcernedly, see many of their flock going over to the church of rome, whom they have possibly led half-way there; and yet should any of the rest of their congregation, disgusted with their ritualistic practices, or fearing the effect of their false teaching on their children, strive to set up an independent place of worship, or to join any already established body of christians, anathemas are hurled at their heads, and they are told that they are guilty of the heinous crime of schism--schism, in the sense they give it, a figment of sacerdotalism, priestcraft, and imposture. but does the crime of schism not exist? ay, it does; but it is schism from the true church of christ, the church of which he is the head corner-stone, the beautified in heaven, the sanctified on earth; from god's people, who are with him in glory, who are with us here below, who are yet to be born; from the glorious company of the redeemed; from jesus christ, the lamb of god, slain for the sins of the whole world, the risen saviour, the one intercessor between god and man. those are guilty of trying to create schism who tell god's people--trusting to the same precious blood shed on calvary--that it is a crime to worship together, to commemorate the lord's death together, to put out the right hand of fellowship, to call each other brethren; ay, those are the causers of schism, against whose evil machinations christian men have cause to pray. but we must return to spain. the year 1552 arrived. during it an _auto-da-fe_ was celebrated at seville, but as only a few poor moors and jews were burnt, it did not create much sensation; still there was no lack of spectators to see the burning. several criminals were condemned to do penance on the occasion, and among them was the once celebrated preacher, dr egidius, whose crime was being true to his lord and master. the high conical cap and yellow robe in which he appeared could not make him ridiculous in the eyes of many of his fellow-citizens, even of those who did not sympathise with his opinions. at length he was liberated, and once more mixed with his friends at seville. it was necessary, however, for him to be very cautious, lest, as his movements were watched, he should draw suspicion on them. soon after he was released, he set out for valladolid, where his wounded spirit was much refreshed by finding the progress the gospel had made in that city and its neighbourhood. over-fatigued by his return journey, he died shortly after his arrival in seville. god, however, did not leave his church in seville without a minister. constantine ponce de la fuente, on the death of egidius, obtained the post of canon-magistrate in the cathedral of seville, previously held by him. this made him the principal preacher in the place, and gave him great influence, which he used in spreading the truth of the gospel. he published numerous evangelical works suited to the understanding of the least educated of his countrymen. his system was not so much to attack the errors of rome, as to bring the light of the gospel to shine on their minds through his addresses and writings. in valladolid and the surrounding towns and villages, men of talent and eminence were equally zealous in spreading protestant opinions. they were embraced by the greater part of the nuns of santa clara and of the sistercian order of san belem, and converts were found among the class of devout women, called in spain _beatas_, who are bound by no particular rule, but addict themselves to works of charity. one of the most active propagators of the reformed doctrines in the surrounding country was don carlos de seso, who had for important services been held in high honour by charles the fifth, and had married dona isabella de castilla, a descendant of the royal family of castile and leon. these few examples are sufficient to show the progress made by the reformation at that time among the highest and most intelligent classes of the community in spain--made, too, in spite of the ever-watchful eyes of the officers of the inquisition, and notwithstanding the almost certain death with torture, and by fire, which would be the lot of any denounced by its familiars. in spain, in those days, as at present, it was the custom for ladies of rank to receive guests at their houses on certain days of the week. dona mercia de cisneros was holding such a reception one evening. guests of all opinions came. there were a large number of protestants; they knew each other to be protestants, but to the rest of the guests their opinions were unknown. among the guests were two young men who, though apparently strangers to each other, were attracted by the same object--admiration for dona leonor, the youthful daughter of the house. don francisco de vivers, the elder of the two, was an inhabitant of seville, of considerable wealth and excellent family. he was considered amiable and generous; and was, moreover, handsome and agreeable in his manners, dressed well, and possessed a house and equipages surpassed by few. he was not at all insensible of his own qualifications for winning a young lady's heart, and was, therefore, greatly puzzled at discovering that dona leonor seemed insensible to them. don francisco loved the world and his wealth far too much to give his heart to god; and dona leonor had resolved not to marry any one who would not make up his mind to do so. possibly too, he might scarcely have heard of the reformed doctrines; he was a firm roman catholic. it was a faith which exactly suited him. he found it so easy for a person of his wealth to clear off any sins which might trouble his conscience. the other young man who has been spoken of seemed to be a stranger in the place, though several affectionate greetings which he received showed that he was not so altogether. he was dressed in black, the usual costume of a lawyer in those days, and though not so handsome as don francisco, his broad forehead, clear eye, and firm mouth, showed that he was far his superior in intellect. dona leonor no longer turned away her head when he approached her, as she had done when don francisco drew near, but received him with a friendly smile, while an acute observer might have discovered that a blush suffused her cheek while he spoke. don francisco watched him at a distance, and an expression denoting angry jealousy came over his countenance as he saw the intimate terms which existed between the two. he little dreamed, however, of the cause of the earnest love which one felt for the other: it was the pure holy faith which both enjoyed, the same common trust, the same hope, the same confidence in the one ever-loving saviour. they believed that they were to be united, not only for a time, but for eternity. their acquaintance had commenced during a visit dona leonor had paid to some relatives residing in the town of toro, of which place antonio herezuelo, the young man who has been described, was an advocate. it soon ripened into affection. no barrier existed between them, for the acute lawyer had already been converted to the truth, and, head and heart alike convinced, held firmly to it as the anchor of his soul. dona mercia did not oppose their union, for she perceived that antonio herezuelo possessed courage, determination, and a superior intellect, beside a gentle and loving disposition--qualities calculated to secure her daughter's happiness, and which would enable him to protect her during the troublous times which she feared might be coming on spain. she knew well what had happened, and what was occurring in the netherlands, as did all the educated persons in spain; but that did not prevent those who had the gospel offered to them from accepting its truths, or from endeavouring to make them known among their companions. those who were in the church, and whose position enabled them to preach, promulgated gospel truth openly, while laymen spoke of it to their friends in private, or addressed small assemblies of persons who appeared disposed to receive it. chapter three. a narrow escape. the young couple, now formally betrothed, appeared everywhere together in public, and it was understood that before long their marriage would be solemnised. many of the places, however, frequented by people of their rank, they avoided--the bull-fights and the religious spectacles-the one tending to brutalise the people, the other to foster the grossest superstition. among the houses at which they visited at seville was that of the widow dona isabel de baena. her guests, however, it was understood, only came by invitation. most of them approached her house cautiously--sometimes alone, or only two or three together--generally when it grew dusk, and muffled in their cloaks so that their features could not be discerned. often there was a large assemblage of persons at dona isabel's house thus collected, though the spies of the inquisition had not observed them assembling. though sedate and generally serious in their manner, they were neither sad nor cast down; indeed, a cheerfulness prevailed among the company not often seen in a spanish assembly. dona leonor was there with her mother. don antonio herezuelo set out from his lodgings with the purpose of going there also. he had not gone far when, suddenly turning his head, he found that he was closely followed. under ordinary circumstances this would have caused him little concern, but at present he knew the importance of being cautious. he remembered that by going down a lane near at hand he might return home again. this he did, and walking on rapidly, got rid, as he supposed, of his pursuer. after remaining a short time he again sallied forth, and taking a circuitous way to dona isabel's house, arrived there safely, and, as he hoped, without being observed. leonor had become anxious about him. she told him so when he arrived. "do not on similar occasions fear, my beloved," he answered, with that brave smile which frequently lighted up his countenance. "god protects those who put their whole trust in him--not a half trust, but the whole entire trust." "yes, i know, and yet surely many of those who were tortured and suffered in the flames in the low countries put their trust in him," answered leonor. "i shudder when i think of the agonies those poor people must have endured." again that smile came over herezuelo's countenance. "sometimes he requires those whom he loves best, and who love him, to suffer for him here, that he may give them a brighter crown, eternal in the heavens-the martyr's crown of glory," he answered. "ah, yes, i know that thought should sustain a person," she remarked; "yet all tortures must be hard for poor, frail human bodies to bear." "yes, if people trust to their own strength and courage they will mostly shrink at the time of trial, but if they trust to the strength god gives them, they will as surely bear with fortitude whatever he may allow to be layed on them," was the answer. "not one, but a hundred such assurances he gives us in his holy word. `my grace is sufficient for thee,' he says to all who trust in him, as he said to the apostle paul. it is not moral, nor is it physical courage which will sustain a person under such circumstances. no, dear one, it is only courage which firm faith, or rather, the holy spirit of god, can give." "i know that--i feel that; yet it is very dreadful to think that those we love and honour may be brought to undergo such suffering." "not if we remember that they may thus be enabled to honour and glorify their loving lord and master," answered herezuelo. "but see, here comes don carlos de seso, one of the noblest of our band of evangelists. i heard that he was about to visit seville. to him i owe my knowledge of the truth. he has, since his marriage with dona isabella de castilla, who is, you know, a descendant of the royal family of castile and leon, settled at villamediana, near logrono. his evangelistic efforts at that place have been as greatly blessed as they were at valladolid; and among many others, the parish priest of his own village has been converted to the truth. at pedroso also, the parish priest, pedro de cazalla, has been brought to a knowledge of the truth, and now preaches it freely in his own and the neighbouring villages. oh, it is glorious work; would that this whole nation might receive the gospel!" "say rather the whole earth," said leonor. "if spain becomes the mistress of the world, she will spread everywhere the glorious light of truth." "but if she puts out that light, she will as surely spread darkness and error," observed antonio, with a sigh. "see, de seso is about to address us. let us pray that, whatever god in his wisdom orders, we may believe in his justice, and submit to his will." a large number of persons had by this time assembled in dona isabel de baena's rooms. among them, strange as it may seem, were a considerable number of monks, and even several nuns, though such rather in their outward garb than in reality. the latter belonged to the nunnery of saint elizabeth, while the monks had come from the hieronomite convent of san isidoro del campo, situated about two miles from seville. there was also present domingo de guzman, a son of the duke of medina sidonia, and preacher of the dominican monastery of saint paul. as soon as he had embraced the reformed principles, he became more zealous in propagating them. such, indeed, was generally the case with all those in prominent positions who embraced the gospel. they were in earnest. they had counted the cost, and well knew that should the inquisition discover their proceedings, the stake would be their doom. both don carlos de seso and don domingo de guzman addressed the congregation of earnest believers on this occasion. they prayed also with all the fervour of true believers, and hymns were sung of praise to him who had called them out of darkness into his marvellous light. don carlos had deplored the want of books, and of bibles especially, by which the truth might the more rapidly be made known, and had prayed that god would supply that want. scarcely was the service concluded, when there was a commotion among the guests, and it was announced that a brave christian friend, julian hernandez, after undergoing many dangers and difficulties, and great fatigue, had arrived with a supply of the books which were so much required. a short time afterwards there was a cry of julianillo, or little julian, and a remarkably small but stoutly built man, dressed as a muleteer, entered the room. the guests crowded eagerly around him to hear his adventures. he had many to relate. how often he had narrowly escaped capture with his precious burden! but the lord had preserved him. had he been taken, he and his books together would have been committed to the flames. god had determined that the seed of those books should take root in the hearts of many natives of spain, to bring forth fruit to his glory. julianillo's success made him resolve to set forth again to bring a fresh supply across the pyrenees. some of the more timid of his friends advised him not to make the attempt. "satan and his priests will not like me to bring them," he answered laughingly. "those testaments and luther's writings are the arms they dread more than anything else. that makes me feel sure that i am doing god's work in bringing them, and that he will take care of me while i am so employed." a brave and faithful answer, little julian. oh, what noble, true hearts there were in spain in those days! and though many were crushed and destroyed, still some survived, and their descendants at the present day may yet become the salt of their native land--lights set on a hill to enlighten their long benighted countrymen. before the guests separated another short prayer was offered up, and a gospel hymn was sung. scarcely had the notes of the last verse died away, when a servant who had been sent out on a message hurried into the room. "bad news! bad news!" he exclaimed. "we are all lost; the cause of the pure faith is lost; the inquisitors will have their way." the guests gathered round the man with anxious looks, for they knew well that at any moment they might be placed in the perilous position he announced. "the widow dona maria gomez is the cause of it all," the man answered, to the eager questions put to him. "she is acquainted with every one of us, and we all thought her a true christian. every one here is also acquainted with the learned doctor francisco zafra. the poor lady had, it appears, gone mad, and had been placed by her friends under doctor francisco's care. as he is with us, this would not have been of much consequence, had not dona maria managed to escape from his custody. now, horrible to relate, she has made her way to the inquisition at triana, and has denounced all the protestants in seville. as she was making her way to the inquisition, she cried out what she was going to do, accusing all her former friends, and declaring that she should have no rest till she had seen every one of them committed to the flames. doctor zafra has never even been suspected by the inquisitors of favouring the lutherans. now, as he will be among the first denounced by the wretched widow, he has no chance of escaping. what shall we do? what shall we do?" "do!" exclaimed a voice; "put our trust in god, and act like men! do! pardon me for speaking, senors--keep together and defy our enemies!" it was julianillo who uttered these brave words. "but then we may all be captured together like fish by one net," observed a gentleman. "let us pray, friends, for guidance and protection to the loving saviour whom we serve," said don carlos de seso. "he will direct us, and enable us to undergo whatever he may think right for his own honour and glory." don carlos setting the example, the whole party sank on their knees, while he offered up a deeply fervent, though short, prayer for the assistance all needed. refreshed, the company arose. "i cannot agree with our friend julianillo that it will be wise to keep together," observed the lawyer herezuelo. "should the unhappy widow bring the accusation she threatened, and the officers of the inquisition find us all together, they will naturally suspect that the information is well founded. no; let us retire each one to his own house, avoiding observation as much as we can. there let us be together in spirit, praying for each other. we should fear no harm when god is with us." another short prayer was offered up and the christian friends left the house as they had come--two and three together, in different directions, hoping thus to avoid observation. the monks returned to their convent, not, however, without having first been supplied with books from the rich stores which julianillo had brought, and for which their brethren within its walls were eagerly looking. all the other guests went laden in the same way, and thus the holy bible and the works of luther, and others, were quietly and secretly distributed throughout the surrounding towns and villages. herezuelo begged that he might accompany dona mercia and her daughter to their home, for it was fearfully possible that even on their way they might be seized by the officers of the inquisition and carried off to its dungeons. the last to leave the house was julianillo. the lady of the house inquired where he was going. "to bring to my famishing countrymen a fresh supply of food for the soul," he answered. "but surely you have done enough, julianillo. you run a fearful risk of losing your life," observed the lady. "enough, signora! enough service to our loving lord and master!" exclaimed the little muleteer. "oh, no, no! as long as there are persons in spain desiring to learn about the blessed jesus, so long will i try to bring them books which tell them about him. and as to fearing the dangers which may overtake me, i am in the hands of one who can protect me through far greater than are in my path at present; and should he ever require me to witness to the truth of his gospel, i know that he will give me strength to undergo all the trials and torments with which its foes may seek to afflict me." brave julianillo! he went along the street singing a joyous air. to the words, however, he wisely did not give utterance. he took the way to the lodgings of the advocate, herezuelo. don antonio had not arrived. after waiting some time, julian became anxious. could he have been seized by the officers of the inquisition? it was too likely. herezuelo had, he knew, openly preached the doctrines of the reformation in his part of the country. at last, julian thought that he might possibly be at dona mercia's. "why did not that occur to me before?" he said to himself. "of course, if i knew that there was danger, i should stay by the side of my intended wife." he hurried off to dona mercia's abode. he was at once admitted. he found the family in some consternation, for it was reported that doctor zafra had himself been seized, and, if so, there could be little doubt that he would be put to the torture and made to confess that the persons denounced by the poor mad woman were really guilty of entertaining lutheran opinions. herezuelo was endeavouring to comfort his friends. he could not but feel that the reports were possibly true. of human help, therefore, he could not speak. an attempt to flee from the country would be hopeless, but he could point to jesus christ, to the god of mercy and love. "ah, my dear friends," observed don antonio, "never let us forget that he has redeemed us and washed our sins away; and if he thinks fit to call us to himself, even through fiery trials, he will give us strength to endure all that we may be called on to suffer, that we may glorify his name." "just the remark i lately made, senors," observed julianillo, who at that moment entered the room. "satan tries to frighten us, and to make us believe that he is stronger than our master; but praised be god, we know that we serve one all-powerful to save, and who can, if he will, crush satan under his foot." "the truth, brave julianillo," exclaimed herezuelo, who in the volunteer muleteer found one whose heart sympathised cordially with his own. "and what do you propose doing?" "wait till daylight, and see what comes of this matter," answered julianillo. "those who fly will be the first suspected. doctor zafra is a wise man. sense may be given to him to outwit the inquisitors, or should he fail to do that, he will, i have hopes, suffer torture rather than betray his friends. in the meantime, cavalheros, let us be wise, and seek for strength and endurance from the giver of all power and might." following the advice of the muleteer, or rather the example of the apostles of old, those assembled knelt down in prayer, thus gaining strength and courage for what they might have to undergo. oh, that christians at the present day would remember that by earnest, frequent, persevering prayer, mountains will be removed, guidance obtained, difficulties overcome! the greater part of the night was thus spent in prayer. as soon as the morning dawned, and people were once more passing to and fro in the streets, herezuelo and julianillo went forth to try and ascertain the fate of doctor zafra, on which apparently their own and that of so many of their friends depended. should the mad widow's story be believed, there could be no doubt that such an _auto-da-fe_ would take place as had seldom been witnessed in spain. they kept at a distance from each other, lest being seen together they might be suspected; thus, though fearless for themselves, wisely taking every precaution to avoid danger. herezuelo, as he walked along, thought of his beloved leonor, so delicate, so gentle, so faithful. he himself was ready to undergo any torture the cruel inquisitors might think fit to inflict on him, but how would she be able to endure their barbarities? his heart rose in his bosom as he thought of this, and he could not help praying that a power might arise by which the foes of freedom would be driven from the land. at first he thought of an arm of flesh, carnal weapons--that some hero might arise who would liberate long-enslaved spain; but, by degrees, a better spirit exerted its influence. "through the sword of the spirit, the word of god, can error, superstition, tyranny alone be conquered." he said to himself, "ah! julianillo is a greater hero than i am or can ever become, inasmuch as he does more to spread the holy bible throughout spain than any other man." hour after hour the friends waited in the neighbourhood of the inquisition, in vain endeavouring to ascertain what had become of the widow and doctor zafra. in despair, they were about returning, when a _caleche_ appeared, in which sat the doctor, with the widow by his side. he seemed calm and unconcerned, his attention being apparently wholly occupied in calming the agitation of the poor woman. not a glance did he bestow on either the advocate or julianillo. they had good hopes that the inquisitors had been satisfied; or, thought herezuelo, "can the doctor have become a traitor; and is he allowed by the inquisitors to go free that he may the more readily entrap others into their toils?" it was too probable that such an idea was correct; but herezuelo quickly banished it as ungenerous from his mind, and hurried back to dona mercia's house with the satisfactory information that doctor zafra was free. julianillo arrived soon after, and expressing his belief that all were safe, stated that he intended to re-commence his perilous expedition to germany. still some hours must elapse before the truth could be ascertained for a certainty, as it would not be safe to visit doctor zafra's house till dark. much of the interval was spent in reading the scriptures and in prayer. at length the truth was known. the sagacious zafra, on being summoned, went boldly to the inquisitors, with a fearless, self-satisfied countenance. he laughed when the names of those denounced by the widow were read over to him. "she has been mad for many a day, and a strong proof of her madness is that she should have picked out persons the most unlikely in spain to be guilty of such heresies," he replied. "devout and exemplary i know they are; and those among them with whom i am acquainted are especially lovers of the true faith, and are persons in whom i have unbounded confidence." the inquisitors, on hearing this, were so fully convinced that the poor widow's representations had no other foundation than the visionary workings of a disordered brain, that they allowed the learned doctor to depart with her under his charge. thus was the danger to the infant church at seville for the time mercifully removed, and while it gained strength to endure the coming persecutions, the number of christ's true disciples was much increased. chapter four. signs of danger. two years had passed away. leonor de cisneros had become the wife of antonio herezuelo, the advocate; they had settled at toro, but occasionally made visits to seville and to valladolid, where they enjoyed the society of other protestants--many of them illustrious, both by birth and talents, among the nobles of spain. the year 1558, fearfully memorable in spain, at length commenced. philip was about to return to his paternal dominions. charles the fifth was in his retirement in the convent of saint juste. the inquisitor-general, valdes, became more than ever certain that heresy was extending. herezuelo and dona leonor were at valladolid. they were at their lodgings in that city when a certain juan garcia, a goldsmith, was announced. he was well-known there as a sincere protestant. it was his office to summon the brethren to meet together for prayer and sermon. the advocate, who knew him to be a true man, welcomed him cordially, and promised to attend the meeting. it was to be held at the house once occupied by dona leonor de vibero, the mother of doctor cazalla. she herself had been dead for some few years, as were several of her children; but her house had been continued to be used, as it now was, as a meeting place for protestants. juan garcia had a good deal of information to communicate with regard to the progress made by protestant principles. he was very sanguine as to the success of the cause; and as the members of the church had so long evaded the lynx eye of the inquisitors, he had every reason to hope that they would continue to do so. in his rounds he encountered julian hernandez, the persevering bible importer. a warm greeting passed between the two friends. julianillo was on the point of starting on another expedition, and could not attend the meeting that night. his heart would be with his co-religionists, and his prayers would ascend with theirs as he followed his mules over the sierra. "the time may come, ere long, when we may worship together in public, and the books which i now bring in small numbers with difficulty and danger, may arrive in shiploads and be sold openly," he added, as he shook his friend's hand. the goldsmith shook his head. "that time is, i fear, a long way off," he answered; "yet it behoves us, nevertheless, to pray for it." juan garcia, having performed his duties, returned to his home. he was not happy there. his wife, maria vallanegra, did not entertain his opinions. now, it could have mattered very little what maria thought on the subject, had she not gone to confession, where, not content with confessing her own sins, she took upon herself, at the instigation of the priest, to confess her husband's also. what the priest said to her it is not necessary to repeat. she had had the same sort of things said before, and had not been shocked. he now, however, before he allowed her to depart, brought the enormity of her conduct fully before her, and told her that he could not afford her absolution, because she was married to one who held heretical notions, unless she could manage to get him duly punished. she had made her confession; but, after all, she had to go home without receiving absolution. she had observed that her husband was away from home occasionally for some hours, and not engaged in business; also, he occasionally remained out at night for a considerable time, and declined telling her where he had been. she had made a statement to that effect to the priest, together with her suspicions that lutheranism had something to do with the matter. "then obtain all the information you can; and if you discover anything of importance, not only shall you receive absolution for all your yet unpardoned sins, but you shall receive a handsome reward, and a plenary indulgence for the future," answered the confessor. "exert your woman's wit. think of the indulgence you will obtain, and if your husband is, as you suspect, a heretic, he is utterly unworthy of your consideration. you cannot wish to associate with him in this world; and in the next, if you go to heaven, you must be ever separated from him." thus exhorted, the wretched maria returned to her home. she knew that her husband had a secret, and she resolved to discover it. if he should prove to be a lutheran, it would be a pious act for her to deliver him up to justice. she procured a mantilla, such as is worn occasionally by tradesmen's wives, and even ladies when going to confession, of a manufacture different from that which her husband was accustomed to see her wear. to throw him off his guard, she lavished on him far more affection than was her custom, and pretended to forget that she had ever complained of his leaving home without telling her where he was going. more than once she put on her mantilla to follow him, but before he had got far she lost sight of him in the crowd. at length, one evening, when the weather was rainy, and there were fewer people abroad than usual, she saw he was preparing to go out; and managing to leave the house before him, she concealed herself within an archway, whence she could watch which way he went. he came out; she followed him stealthily, but quickly. he called at several houses, she noted them carefully; then he went on till he came to the mansion of the cazalla family. he was admitted at a side door. she took up her post at a spot whence she could watch the door. her labours were to be rewarded. scarcely had her husband entered than several other persons arrived, and then more and more, by twos and threes. many of them she saw by their dress and carriage, as the lights their servants carried fell on them, were evidently persons of rank. she wished that she could venture to follow them into the house, to learn more about the matter. still, the information she had gained might prove of the greatest value. the next morning she hurried off to inform her father confessor of her discovery. he told her to keep secret what she had seen; and the next time her husband went out at that hour, to come instantly and let him know. the next prayer-meeting took place, and maria gave timely notice of it to her father confessor, fre antonio lobo. had he been addicted to giving expression to his feelings, he would have rubbed his hands with satisfaction; he merely cautioned maria to be silent as the grave as to what she had told him, and immediately set off to give the long wished-for information to his superiors. the chief inquisitor, the stern archbishop, three other dignitaries appointed by the holy father the pope to assist him in the extirpation of heresy by the destruction of heretics with fire and sword, and several other high officers, were seated in the council hall of the inquisition when father antonio lobo appeared among them. some of them, like anglers, who, having been long unsuccessful in their attempts to hook their finny prey, declare that there are no fish in the lake, had inclined to the opinion that their countrymen were too staunch adherents of the pope ever to be led astray by the doctrines of luther. "it may be as you suppose, fre ignacio," observed the grand inquisitor to one of his assistants, who had made a remark to that effect. "but remember that it is our duty to seek diligently for all who may be opposed to our order and system, and to destroy them without compunction, with their wives and children, so that none of the viper's brood remains to sting us." the stern expression visible on the countenances of those he addressed, as the light from the brass lamp which hung from the vaulted roof fell on them, showed that they were fully ready to carry out his advice to the extreme. a grim smile played over their features when fre antonio made his report. "i knew that before long we should gain the tidings we desired," observed the chief inquisitor. "in capturing a few we must take care that the rest do not escape us. officers must be placed to watch all those who come forth from the cazalla palace, and they must be followed to their homes and never again lost sight of. meantime, messengers must be despatched forthwith throughout the kingdom, and all the ramifications of this most accursed heresy traced out, so that on a given day all the heretics which exist in it may be seized together and brought to punishment. we must surround the whole brood with our nets, and let not one escape." the proposal was thoroughly in accordance with the wishes of most of the council. no time was lost in carrying out the proposed plan. through the assistance of the artful maria, who continued, in spite of his caution, to worm out some important secrets from juan garcia, every protestant in valladolid was discovered and marked for destruction. officers and familiars of the inquisition were also placed on the highways leading to the frontiers, so that any suspected person attempting to escape from the country might be captured. the protestants, meantime, continued to preach the truth, and hold their meetings as before, not, however, without a sense of the danger in which they were placed. how the feeling came on them they were not aware. still it did not make even the most timid wish to abandon their principles, but rather drew them nearer to god, and made them more and more sensible of their entire dependence on him. the difficulties encountered by those attempting to escape from the country were very great. few persons experienced greater than did the monks of san isidoro, near seville. nearly all the convents in its neighbourhood had been leavened with the reforming principles. they had been originally introduced into that of san isidoro by the celebrated doctor blanco, who afterwards for a time abandoned them, or rather, it may be said that a timid disposition made him conceal them. he taught his brethren that true religion was very different from what it was vulgarly supposed to be; that it did not consist in chanting matins and vespers, or in performing any of those acts of bodily service in which their time was occupied, and that if they desired to have the approbation of god, it behoved them to have recourse to the scriptures to know his mind. after a few years a still more decided change took place in the internal state of the monastery. an ample supply of copies of the scriptures, and of protestant books in the spanish language having been received, they were read with avidity by the monks, and contributed at once to confirm those who had been enlightened, and to extricate others from the prejudices by which they were enthralled. in consequence of this, they and their prior agreed to reform their religious institute. their hours of prayer, as they were called, which had been spent in solemn mummeries, were appointed for hearing prelections on the scriptures; prayers for the dead were omitted, or converted into lessons for the living; papal indulgences and pardons, which had formed a lucrative and engrossing traffic, were entirely abolished; images were allowed to remain, as they could not have been removed without attracting notice, though they received no homage; habitual temperance was substituted in the room of superstitious fasting; and novices were instructed in the principles of true piety, instead of being initiated into the idle and debasing habits of monachism. by their conversation also abroad, and by the circulation of books, these zealous monks diffused the knowledge of the truth through the adjacent country, and imparted it to many individuals who resided in towns at a considerable distance from seville. chapter five. the storm breaks. the advocate herezuelo returned one afternoon to his lodgings in good spirits. he had been pleading an important cause, which he had gained-right against wrong--the cause of a widow and her children; on one side helplessness and poverty, on the other power and wealth. it had been held that the widow had no prospect of success till the young advocate undertook her cause. leonor rejoiced with her husband. he had been prompted by no expectation of fee or reward; but simply from a desire, through love of his blessed master, to assist the distressed. it was a happy evening to both of them. they sat in a balcony overlooking an orange-grove, the soft air they breathed made fragrant by the sweet-scented flowers. the stars shone brilliantly in the clear sky; and as, their hands clasped together, they gazed upwards into the immeasurable space, they felt what happiness would be theirs, could they be allowed to wing their flight in company to that blessed region where all is peace, and quiet, and joy. "but we may yet have work to do on earth in our master's service, dear one," observed antonio. "let us be content to remain till he calls us, and let our earnest prayer be that he will then, in his loving mercy, summon us together. it would be grievous to be parted from you, my beloved leonor, even for a brief season." "i pray that, through god's mercy, that day may never come," said leonor, looking with deep affection at her husband. "oh, let us not think even such an event possible." they were interrupted by the arrival of a visitor. several other friends had called to congratulate herezuelo on his success. the fresh visitor was in the garb of a laic; but when he threw back the cloak which concealed his features, the advocate and dona leonor saw before them their friend don domingo de roxas, the well-known prior and preacher, a son of the marquis de poza. "i have come to bid you farewell, dear friends," he said. "it may be for a short time--it may be for ever. this is no safe country for one who has preached the truth openly as i have done, and i have, therefore, resolved to escape to geneva, where i hope to remain till happier times come for our poor benighted spain. on my way i must visit our beloved brother, don carlos de seso, and, it may be, induce him to accompany me, for i fear that neither is he safe while the inquisitors are seeking for victims to satisfy their thirst for blood." "we may say, rather, that while those miserable slaves to the tyranny and superstition of rome think that any remain who have been freed from that hideous system they will endeavour, by every cruelty they can devise, to destroy them, if they cannot bring them back to slavery," observed herezuelo. "of all the men in existence, i pity the officials of the papal system, and more especially the inquisitors and their families, be they cardinals, bishops, or other ecclesiastics, however wealthy and powerful. while we endeavour to counteract their designs, and to escape from their power, let us pray that their hearts may be turned from darkness to light, and that they may learn to know, love, and imitate that same jesus whom they now persecute." "amen! i pray for them likewise," said don domingo. "but i must not delay. i came to advise you, my friend, to quit valladolid. it is no longer a safe place for you, for even were your religious opinions not suspected, you have made mortal enemies of those whom you so signally defeated at law this morning." "you are right, my friend; and we purpose, god willing, leaving this city for toro to-morrow morning by daybreak," answered herezuelo. "we shall not be out of danger even there; but i have duties to perform at that place, and i shall at all events be at my post." "i wish you had arranged to start to-night," said don domingo. "the delay of a few hours is dangerous. if, indeed, you can discover an excuse for leaving the country altogether, let me entreat you to do so. the storm i see coming may blow over; but you are a man of note, and as the tallest trees are the most quickly blown down, you would be the first assailed." "i have no fancy for fleeing from danger, and feel disposed rather to face my enemies, and argue the case with them," observed the advocate. "the only arguments they trust to are the rack and the stake," answered don domingo. "against them your eloquence will avail you nothing. trust not to any one of the romish priesthood, nor to those under their influence; they are sworn foes of true religion and liberty, and the more enlightened they believe you to be the more eager they will be for your destruction." these and other arguments used by don domingo at length induced herezuelo to agree to set forth on his journey immediately that he could procure a conveyance for his wife and her attendant. don domingo himself offered, indeed, to remain and assist them; but of this the advocate would not hear, and the friends departed, the former taking the road for calahora, where he hoped to meet with de seso. don domingo, who was dressed as a spanish cavalier of rank, attended by a servant, pushed on at a rapid rate. he was no coward, but he knew full well what the inquisition had in store for him should he be taken, and he wished to escape their treatment. he avoided as much as possible all inns and places resorted to by the public, and kept, when he could, out of the high road. he hoped thus to reach de seso, and to persuade him to bear him company in his flight. calahora was reached without interruption. the noble de seso was very unwilling to believe the reports which don domingo brought him. "you go, my friend; but i cannot carry my wife and young children, and will not desert them," he answered. no arguments would move him. he did not even think that the inquisitors would venture to interfere with persons in his position. reluctantly don domingo left his friends to proceed on his journey. hoping to avoid observation, he turned out of the high road, with the intention of continuing his journey during the moonlit hours of the night. he had not gone far when he saw approaching him a man riding a tall mule, and leading a string of five or six pack mules. the muleteer was jogging on, to all appearance, carelessly singing what sounded like one of the plaintive ditties then become common in spain, though learned from the moors. there was something, however, in the tone, and in a few of the words that reached the ear of don domingo, which made him look hard at the muleteer. "my friend, if i mistake not, julianillo!" he exclaimed. "what brings you this way?" "evil times, don domingo; for i know you in spite of your disguise," answered julianillo. "i received notice from a trusty friend that all the passes are guarded, and that i shall not have a chance of escaping, nor will you. for the present, if we would be safe, we must lie concealed. come with me; we shall not be the first christians compelled, for the truth's sake, to take shelter in the caves of the earth; nor shall we be the last. i wish that we could give notice to more of our brethren, who might join us." the arrangements proposed by julianillo were now concluded; and, followed by don domingo, he led the way down a road, or bridle path rather, which branched off to the right. scarcely had he turned aside when the noise of horses' feet coming rapidly along the road was heard. don domingo's servant, who was some little way behind, came spurring on crying out, "flee, master, flee! they are officers of justice! they are in pursuit of us!" the advice was followed, but the path was rough. don domingo's horse stumbled, and in another instant he and his servant found themselves in the power of the officers of the inquisition. their mouths were instantly gagged, and a dark cloak and hood were thrown over their heads, completely concealing their figures and features. some of the horsemen pushed on, but after a short time returned, and don domingo had the satisfaction of believing, from some of the expressions they let fall, that julianillo had escaped. as far as he could judge, his steps were retraced till the party reached the neighbourhood of calahora; they were then joined by another band of horsemen escorting prisoners. he had too much reason to fear that his friend de seso was one of them. among the prisoners were several females--of that he was certain. he longed to ascertain if his suspicions were correct. so strictly, however, was each individual prisoner guarded, that he might never have ascertained the truth, had not a storm suddenly burst on the heads of the escort. shelter was not far off, and while the horsemen were pushing on to gain it, one of the party made a bold attempt to escape. he had grasped the rein of one of the female's horses, when a flash of lightning made it rear, and he had great difficulty in saving the rider from being thrown to the ground. in doing so, his hood became disarranged, and the features of de seso were revealed. the officers of the inquisition immediately seized him and secured him more carefully, while he and the lady were separated. "alas! my noble friend is in the same condition as myself," thought domingo. "may god in his mercy support him; but he suffers not alone. he will feel the sufferings of his beloved wife even more than his own. and we, alas! alas! are but a few, perhaps, out of many hundred christians now in the power of these monsters of the inquisition." the unfortunate prisoners were allowed no rest, were permitted to communicate with no one, but were hurried on till they reached the portals of that mansion of horror and despair--the inquisition. but was it to them an abode of despair? no! a power more than human supported them. that strength which never fails those who put their faith in god held them up; for god has promised that his holy spirit, the comforter, will be with them who trust in him in all their troubles and afflictions. as soon as they passed through the gates, each of the prisoners was conducted blindfolded to separate cells. into these dark and foul holes delicate women and men, accustomed to all the refinements the age afforded, were thrust indiscriminately. no couch, no chairs, even, were allowed them; when weary of standing, they were compelled to sit down on the hard, cold and damp flag-stones. scarcely a ray of light was admitted into their dens; the only sounds which ever reached their ears being occasionally the groans and cries of their companions in suffering. the system pursued by the inquisitors was too generally known to allow them a ray of hope that they would escape without the most fearful torture, or the alternative of giving evidence to condemn those nearest and dearest to them. chapter six. the arrest. antonio herezuelo and his wife leonor knelt in prayer after their friend had left them. on rising from their knees, they decided not to make the attempt to escape. "we cannot flee from the country, and the alguazils of the inquisition can as easily find us at our house as in the city of valladolid, should they suspect us of holding to the true faith," said antonio, calmly. "our heavenly father knows what is best, and he may require us to testify to the truth of the doctrine we have learned of him through the teaching of the holy spirit, and let us rejoice rather than grieve if we are so honoured. oh, my beloved leonor, be firm, whatever happens; cling to the truth as it is in christ jesus. never allow that saint in heaven or priest on earth has the power to come between us and our one great loving mediator, who stands at the right hand of god, pleading that he paid once and for all a full and complete ransom for us. never acknowledge that by the word of a man bread and wine can be changed into the body and blood of our lord jesus christ, of that lord who is now in heaven, standing at the right hand of god, pleading that body broken, that blood flowing freely for all of us; pleading that all-sufficient, all-perfect, all-complete sacrifice made once, and never to be repeated, on calvary. never dishonour that saviour, that precious blood-shedding, by acknowledging that it was insufficient to wash away all stains of sin, and that the fires of purgatory are required to cleanse the soul from sin, and to make it pure and holy, and fit to enter the presence of god. oh, never acknowledge that any being in heaven or in earth has a heart more loving, more gentle, more merciful than the heart of jesus, or that there exists a being, create or uncreate, who will more willingly hear our prayers, and bear them to the throne of grace--not even his mortal mother, who, though blessed among women, herself required, as being a daughter of adam, to be sprinkled by his blood to obtain salvation. do not own that sinful man, though he be called a priest, can absolve his fellow-sinner from sin, or that prayers can avail for those who have passed away without accepting the perfect salvation offered them here on earth. die rather than be guilty of that gross idolatry of worshipping the elements of bread and wine, unchanged and unchangeable as they must ever be; and above all things hold fast to god's blessed testament to fallen man, and refuse to acknowledge any doctrine which cannot be clearly proved from its whole and entire tenor." "husband, dear husband, i will," answered leonor, solemnly. "set me the example, and i shall be firm." "dear wife, trust not to my example, but seek strength from the holy spirit. he will guide and support you. your husband is but a frail man. dearly as i love you, there is one who loves you more; trust him." much more passed between them. how solemn was that conversation! what deep, earnest, true love did herezuelo exhibit to his young wife! it was interrupted by a sound which a quick ear only could have detected. it was that of footsteps stealthily ascending the stairs. herezuelo arose, and unconsciously placed his hand on his sword, as the door burst open, and several dark and masked figures entered the room. "antonio herezuelo and leonor de cisneros, you are our prisoners," said one who appeared to be in command of the rest; "you are summoned to appear before the tribunal of the holy office to answer to certain charges which will there be made known to you." antonio, though brave as a lion, saw that resistance was useless. "if you will allow my wife time to put on her walking dress, we shall be ready to accompany you," he answered, with as firm a voice as he could command; but when he turned round to speak to leonor, she was not to be seen, though he caught sight of a figure closely enveloped in a dark cloak, borne rapidly along a passage leading from the room by two of the alguazils. he attempted to follow, being sure that it was his wife thus forcibly carried off; but the moment he moved he found himself seized, and his arms pinioned behind him, while two men stood on either side of him with pistols presented at his head. in vain he struggled; in vain he attempted to free himself. the cords which bound him were drawn tighter and tighter. he was in the hands of those who had long utterly disregarded human misery and suffering. in vain he pleaded, in vain he petitioned that he might see his beloved wife, even for a few moments, that he might have some parting words with her. he spoke as to men who were deaf. not the slightest answer by word or sign did they give him, but immediately proceeded to examine all the cases and drawers and boxes in the room. they then went to the sleeping apartment, searching it throughout, and taking possession of every scrap of written paper, as well as of all the books they could find. there were gestures of triumph and satisfaction exhibited when a bible and hymn-book were drawn forth. antonio fancied that he could see the dark eyes of the familiars flashing under their hoods as they handed the books to each other. the advocate knew well the language those eyes spoke. "here we have evidence which will convict him without doubt; no hope for him, no prospect of escape." yet he stood calm and motionless, striving by a mighty effort to quell the agitated feelings of his bosom, and to seek strength from the only source whence it could be obtained. he seemed as though he had succeeded, when a faint cry reached his ear. he knew the voice; it was that of his wife. in an instant he had torn asunder the bonds which held him; he had dashed on either side the cowled alguazils who crowded round, and at a bound dashed through the doorway, down the passage whence the sound proceeded. "leonor! leonor! i come to you," he cried out; but as he uttered the words, a blow from a heavy staff on the forehead laid him senseless on the ground. when he returned to consciousness, it was to find himself in a narrow, dark, and noisome cell, which he well knew must be one of the secret prisons of that fearful institution, the inquisition. he had often heard of the horrors those gloomy walls could reveal. he knew that thousands of his fellow-creatures had been confined within them; that very many had never again seen the light of day; that others had been brought forth as spectacles to be mocked at, dressed in fantastic costumes, and thus had been committed to the flames. on the hard flag-stones he knelt down, and then, in close communion with his god, he obtained a strength and courage which no human power could have given him. hour after hour, and day after day, passed away, and he remained alone in darkness, a cowled figure entering occasionally, and as quickly retiring, without uttering a word or making a sign. when not engaged in prayer, his thoughts were with leonor; and even when thus engaged, they often turned to her, and she became their chief and absorbing subject, that she might have strength, that she might have courage to hold to the truth. at length the moment arrived when his powers of endurance were to be put to the test--his faith, his courage. the door opened, and six familiars, with their countenances masked, and their figures concealed by dark robes, entered his cell. his eyes, long accustomed to darkness, could scarcely endure the light from a torch which one of them carried, but he saw that they made signs to him to rise and accompany them. he knew that to disobey would be useless. rising from the ground on which he had been resting, he endeavoured by earnest prayer to nerve himself for the fearful ordeal through which he might have to go. chapter seven. the torture. antonio herezuelo was only one of many who on that unhappy night were seized by the officers of the inquisition and dragged off to prison. in consequence of the information given by the wife of juan garcia, eighty persons were immediately apprehended in valladolid, among those who had been present at the meetings; and in seville and its neighbourhood two hundred were betrayed into the hands of the inquisitors by the treachery of a pretended member of the protestant church, and the superstitious fears of another. the first, suspecting that some of his acquaintances entertained lutheran opinions, insinuated himself into their confidence for the express purpose of learning their secrets and of betraying them. the latter, hearing lutheran principles denounced in the most fearful language, as the only means of saving himself from the results of the anathemas, hurried off and informed against all those he knew to be protestants. dismay seized upon large numbers of the most timid of the protestants; and as people are often panic-struck when a ship strikes the rocks, and leap overboard into the raging surf, so some of them hurried off to the triana, and accused themselves to the inquisitors of entertaining doctrines for which the stake was the sure punishment. others, who had been before unsuspected, betrayed themselves by the hurried manner of their flight. thus in a few days the chief members of all the protestant churches throughout spain were either in prison, or fugitives, or hiding in the caves of the earth, among mountains and forests. in no place, however, were they safe, and many even of those abroad were betrayed into the hands of the emissaries of the inquisition, and dragged back to spain to suffer death at the stake. the inquisitors were not content with those who denounced themselves. every possible means was employed to discover heretics, and to assist the object philip renewed a royal ordinance--fallen into desuetude-allowing to informers the fourth part of the property of those guilty of heresy. this abominable edict greatly increased the zeal and activity of the vile tribe. pope paul the fourth also assisted with eagerness in the object, and issued a bull enjoining all confessors to examine their penitents, from the highest to the lowest, and to charge them to denounce all whom they knew to be guilty of buying, selling, reading, or possessing any book prohibited by the holy office, the punishment being death. the great aim of the papists was to strike terror into the minds of the whole nation; and while they had not the most distant intention of extending mercy to those who professed themselves penitent, they were nevertheless anxious to secure a triumph to the catholic faith (as they called their system of idolatry and tyranny), by having in it their power to read, in the public _auto-da-fe_, the forced retractions of those who had embraced the truth. antonio herezuelo stood before the council of inquisitors. so well-known is the scene that it scarcely requires description. it is too true a picture--an exhibition of devilish ingenuity of man when he desires to tyrannise over his fellow-creatures, unsurpassed in cruelty by the heathen or most barbarous nations of ancient or modern days. there sat the inquisitors in a gloomy vaulted chamber--on one side the fearful rack, with grim, savage executioners ready to perform their office, a black curtain only partly concealing other instruments of torture, with hooded familiars standing silently round; while at the table sat two secretaries, ready to note every word uttered by the prisoner, to be wrested, if possible, to his destruction. the only person whose countenance could have been regarded with satisfaction was the prisoner. he stood calm and undaunted amidst those cruel men, who had resolved on his death. hark! the president addresses him in a harsh, pitiless voice: "antonio herezuelo, you have been accused by most credible witnesses of holding in disrespect many of the principal articles of our most holy faith. what have you to answer for yourself?" "that i hold most sincerely and truly all the doctrines necessary for my eternal salvation, and all other doctrines which i find clearly set forth in god's blessed word, sent in his mercy and love as a sure guide to perishing man," answered antonio, boldly. "then you consider the bible, by which so many are misled, as the only guide and rule of faith?" said the chief inquisitor. "you set at nought the authority of the church?" "i bow with all submission to the authority of the church in all points in which she is clearly guided by holy scripture," answered herezuelo, who still clung, as did many of the protestants of those days, to the false idea that there exists only one sole visible church on earth; and believing that such a church does exist, supposed it to be, in spite of all its errors, the church of rome. "then, heretic, you dare to say that the bible is above the church?" exclaimed the inquisitor. "why, fool, it is through the church that you have a bible; but it is not fit that the laity should possess it, for they can only, as we have evidence that you and others have done, make a most improper use of it. therefore it is a prohibited book, and yet you dare to acknowledge that you have both possessed one and studied it. ay, you have done so, and to your own utter destruction of body and soul." "to the salvation of my soul," said antonio, boldly. "our blessed lord himself appealed to scripture on many occasions, and to scripture i appeal and trust." "then you reject the traditions of the church?" said the inquisitor, looking towards the secretary, who was busily noting down all the questions he put, and the answers made by the prisoner. "by tradition we may be deceived. scripture is a sure guide, which, through the teaching of the holy spirit, will lead us infallibly aright," answered herezuelo. "oh, what abominable--what terrible heresy!" exclaimed the inquisitor. "you deny, too, that the blessed virgin should be adored and honoured above christ, as, being his mother, and, from being a woman, more ready to hear the prayers of the faithful than he can be?" "the virgin mary was blessed in that she became the earthly mother of jesus, and thus she was peculiarly honoured among women; but i find nowhere in scripture that prayers should be made to her; on the contrary, at the marriage feast of cana of galilee, our lord says, `woman, what have i to do with thee?' when she ventured to interfere in a matter she was incapable of understanding. saint mark tells us of the remark made by our lord when told that his mother and his brethren waited without: `who is my mother or my brethren? whosoever shall do the will of god, the same is my brother, and my sister, and mother.' when hanging on the cross, too, and looking down on mary and his beloved disciple john, he said, `woman, behold thy son!' and then, addressing his disciple, he said, `behold thy mother!' `and from that hour that disciple took her to his own home.' not a word more does the holy spirit reveal to us of the history of the mortal mother of jesus. all we know is, that, as a mortal child of adam, she must have been saved by his precious blood shed on calvary, for without that blood shed there is no remission of sins." the inquisitor rose from his seat as if he would tear off his clothes, and sat down again, exclaiming, "blasphemy! blasphemy! you deny, too, i hear, the necessity of confession and of priestly absolution?" "i nowhere find it written that we are to confess our sins to man, but always to god. `a broken and a contrite heart, o lord, thou wilt not despise.' in the epistle of james (chapter verse 16), he says, `confess your faults to _one another_, and pray for _one another_, that ye may be healed'; that is to say, if you have trespassed one against another, or if one brother has offended another. nowhere do i find, however, that on sinners coming in faith to our blessed lord, does he require them to confess their sins to him before he will hear them. he says, simply, `thy faith hath made thee whole; go, and sin no more.' i find it also written, `neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name given among men whereby we may be saved!' when our lord sent out his disciples, he said to them that all those who would accept the offers of the gospel would be forgiven, or would have their sins remitted through them, or rather through their preaching; and those who, in spite of the preaching, refused to accept the offer, would have their sins retained. through faith in jesus christ only can a person obtain forgiveness of sins; and john says, `he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life, and he that believeth not the son shall not see life; but the wrath of god abideth on him.' this great truth a minister has the power to declare, but in no other way has he, according to the scriptures, the right to absolve any persons from their sins. i hold that when our lord said to his disciples, `whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained,' he said it not only to all the ministers of the gospel, but to all christian men who go forth with the bible in their hands, that they should declare the glorious gospel truth that all who trust in him, jesus christ, are forgiven; but that all who refuse to trust in him still remain in their sins--their sins are retained." "oh, what hideous blasphemy!" exclaimed the inquisitor, he and his associates lifting up their hands as if in horror at what antonio had said. "but go on, go on, fill up the measure of your iniquities. how do you interpret, `whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven'?" "much in the simple way that i interpret the previous passage. the apostles, as employed in preaching the christian doctrine among the jews, were to release or loose them from certain obligations of the mosaic law; but as they were not to release them from them all, they were to pronounce what were to be retained, or by what they were still to be bound; in other words, when a thing might lawfully be done among the jews, it was a common mode of expression to say that that thing was loosed to them, and that if anything was unlawful for them to do, it was bound to them. the meaning of the expression was thus very clear to the jews who heard him. so peter understood the same expression, and he knew perfectly well that he was simply to declare, both to jew and gentile, what was to be believed, and what was not to be believed, thus unlocking to them the doors of the kingdom of heaven, inviting them to come in, to become subjects of christ. such are his keys. on the great truth which he had confessed, `thou art the christ, the son of the living god,' was christ's spiritual church to be founded, as on a rock against which the powers of hell are never to prevail." "most horrible! most horrible!" cried the inquisitor. "then you do not acknowledge the authority of the church, that his holiness the pope is the successor of saint peter, that the priesthood have power to forgive sins?" "the scriptures speak nowhere of saint peter having a successor, nor does our lord give authority to him to appoint one," said herezuelo, boldly. "no church can have authority with regard to spiritual matters except such as is clearly derived from the bible, which is equally open to all men, while the only priest a christian can acknowledge is the one great high priest standing at the right hand of god, ever making intercession for us." "horrible! horrible!" again cried the inquisitor. "then, if you do not acknowledge the priesthood, you deny the doctrine of transubstantiation, the great work performed at the mass, the chief glory of the church?" "certainly, i deny that the bread and wine at the mass are changed in any way into the body and blood of christ, with the soul and deity, the bones and sinews," answered herezuelo, solemnly. "i deny that when jesus said, `i am the living bread which came down from heaven,' he was even speaking of the last supper, or that he intended that it should be supposed that he was to become literally bread and wine, or rather that bread and wine should become him, any more than that he should become a door, or a shepherd, or a rock, to all of which he likens himself. he says, `the words that i speak unto you they are spirit, and they are life'; and then he continues, as if he would say, `come to me, and believe on me, for that is what i mean by eating my flesh and drinking my blood; he that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst. as by eating bread and drinking wine your physical body is sustained, so by believing that my body was broken for you on the accursed tree, and that my blood was shed for you, will your spiritual life be sustained; and i enjoin you to meet together occasionally to break bread and to drink wine in remembrance of me. moreover, i promise you that as oft as you do this in my name, through love of me, i will be spiritually in the midst of you.' no other construction can i put on these words of our lord, and in that faith i am prepared to die." "and die you shall, audacious heretic!" exclaimed the inquisitor, who was no other than the infamous munebrega, archbishop of tarragona, who had come over from seville in consequence of the illness of his colleague. his eyes rolled; he gnashed with his teeth in fury at finding himself unable to intimidate the prisoner--he, before whom so many men of rank and condition had been compelled to humble themselves. he remembered, too, whose husband the prisoner was--the daughter of one who had despised and rejected him. "to the rack with him! to the rack! we must learn from him what other persons hold these abominable opinions, while we teach him to abandon them himself. spare him not: for his soul's good his body must be afflicted." antonio herezuelo cast his eyes to heaven, and from the depths of his heart there came up a prayer, earnest, solemn, of mighty power. not for himself he prayed--not even for the beloved wife of his bosom; but he prayed that in the fiery trial he was to undergo he might not dishonour his holy faith; that he might hold fast to the truth; that the love of christ, by which he keeps his own, might be exhibited through him. to resist would have been useless; and yet it cost him a hard struggle to submit to the indignities to which he was subjected by the brutal executioners ordered to carry out the inquisitor's sentence. there he stood, full of life and strength and energy, capable of enjoying to the full all the blessings that god has bestowed in this life on man. even the confinement to which he had been subjected had not been able sensibly to diminish the strength of his well-knit frame. in another instant he was thrown, naked, and bound hand and foot, on to the cruel rack, every sinew and muscle of his body extended to the utmost, whilst agonising wrenches were given of the most fearful character, as the screws and ropes of the horrid instrument were set in motion. not a word did he utter; scarcely a groan escaped from his bosom, though every limb was suffering the most excruciating torture; the blood gushed from his nostrils and mouth, his eyes well nigh started from their sockets. his physical nature at length gave way, though his courage did not fail him. he fainted. death would have been a happy release, but his torturers took pains not to allow him that boon; restoratives were administered, and consciousness again returned. the surgeon who stood by, however, gave notice that he must not be subjected, for a time, to equal torture, or he would sink under it. he was therefore removed on a blood-besprinkled stretcher to another chamber, and the inquisitors proceeded with callous indifference to examine a fresh prisoner who was now brought forward. the person who was next led before the inquisitors was of a character very different from that of herezuelo. a glance at the rack made him tremble in every limb. the inquisitors saw immediately that he would afford them but little trouble, though, at the same time, that he might be made useful by his giving information regarding others. he might have passed in the world in quiet times as an earnest true christian, but now alarm for his personal safety overcame every other consideration. he at once incriminated himself, and was soon induced to bring damnatory accusations against his friends. when all the information which could thus be obtained from him was secured, he was dismissed, though still ignorant of the fate which awaited him--it might be, if victims were required, to be consigned to the flames, or perhaps to add to the sad band of penitents supposed to have recanted their errors. such was the character of several of those accused of heresy, though by far the larger number of persons seized by the inquisition gladly suffered death rather than deny the truth. and now another prisoner appears--a female. she is clothed in black from head to foot. as the light from the lamp which hangs from the roof falls on her countenance, it is seen to be very pale, but not enough so to detract from the beauty of those young and fair features. "leonor de cisneros, you are brought here accused of holding opinions which, if generally entertained, would be subversive of the opinions of our holy faith," said the inquisitor, in a peculiarly harsh voice. "have you become sensible of your errors? and are you prepared to recant them?" "i hold to the doctrines which i have been taught from my earliest days, and which i find clearly set forth in the blessed word of god. i am, therefore, not aware that i hold any errors," answered leonor, calmly. "what do you mean by god's holy word?" asked the inquisitor. "the bible," said leonor, firmly. "are you aware that the bible is prohibited to the laity, and that, were it not so, it is not susceptible of any private interpretation?" asked the inquisitor. "i am aware that without the aid of god's holy spirit, which when christ ascended up on high, he promised to us as our instructor and enlightener, we cannot expect to read aright this blessed gospel," said leonor. "i am aware that in the second epistle of saint peter, 1st chapter, 20th verse, there is this expression--`knowing this first, that no prophecy of the scripture is of any private interpretation.' 21st, `for the prophecy came not in old time by the will of man; but holy men of god spake as they were moved by the holy ghost.' i am aware, however, that the greek word epilusis, which has been translated interpretation, means rather _impetus_, _impulse_; and therefore that the clear meaning is that no writer of the scripture wrote according to his own mind or thoughts, but entirely as he was moved or impelled by the holy spirit. therefore peter in no respect contradicts his lord, who says, addressing the people, `search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which speak of me.' oh, my lords, what i have done--what thousands have done in spain--has simply been to obey our loving saviour in reading his holy word, in striving to carry out his precepts by assembling ourselves together in prayer, by exhorting and comforting one another. if this be a crime, i am a criminal; but if not, why imprison us? why torture us? why kill us?" she stretched out her hand as she spoke. her youth and beauty, her pathetic look, the truth which came from her lips, might have moved hearts of stone, but nothing could move the demon-inspired minds of the inquisitors of spain--the base instruments of the pope and his supporters, valdes and philip. they compressed their lips as leonor spoke. "you have disobeyed the church," answered the inquisitor, with an unmoved countenance. "unless you recant your errors, your punishment is certain. it may be that you will see the wisdom of so doing, and follow the example of those you love best. remove the woman." so ended the first trial of leonor de cisneros. the inquisitors consulted together how she should be treated. she was evidently not likely to change her opinions by argument; the archbishop was unwilling to have her subjected to torture. he had made up his mind that her husband must die. he was too clever a heretic, even should he recant, to be allowed to live. he was not likely ever to recant. but leonor, she must be won over; her life must be saved. notwithstanding her knowledge of scripture, the clear declaration she had made of protestant principles, the archbishop did not despair. he had seen many who, firm at first, had, after a few weeks' solitary confinement and scanty food, with occasional visits from friends desirous of saving them, completely recanted, and acknowledged their errors. he knew, too, the subtle arguments, the system of deception, the threats, the promises, the various artful methods of proceeding which could be brought to bear on a prisoner. should these fail, he had other means in store by which he hoped to make her give up what he honestly thought her folly. how could a weak woman venture to set herself up in opposition to the church? many others, to be sure, had ventured to do the same, but few had spoken as she had done, and several had at sight of the rack recanted, and given all the information required of them. chapter eight. the stake. it was midnight. eighteen days had passed since antonio herezuelo had been stretched on the rack. his lacerated flesh had healed, his stretched sinews had recovered somewhat of their original strength. his cheeks were still pale, his voice, when he spoke to himself, was hollow, his eye had lost its brightness, yet his mind retained much of its usual vigour; his spiritual life had never flagged nor had his faith grown dim. he was pacing slowly and still painfully up and down his cell, when the door silently opened, and a friar stood before him. a harsh voice uttered these words: "antonio herezuelo, i have come to announce to you that unless you renounce your errors, and are forthwith reconciled to the church, you will to-morrow suffer the just punishment of your infidelity, your blasphemies, your crimes." "i have confessed myself to god, who can alone forgive sins, as a lost, undone sinner, though washed in the precious blood of jesus, and redeemed through faith in his perfect and complete sacrifice. i have, therefore, become one of the church of the first-born. i am reconciled to god, from whom i was once separated," answered herezuelo. "what more would you have me do?" "the church knows nothing of the expressions you utter. be reconciled to her; that is what you have to do, or you and your errors will be burnt together." "i cannot abandon the faith i hold, even to escape the cruel death you threaten," answered the advocate. "prepare, then, obstinate heretic, to meet it!" answered the friar, savagely. "be assured that there will be no mitigation of your sentence unless you recant; and then, in her loving mercy and kindness, if you are reconciled and confess, you will enjoy the privilege of being strangled before the flames reach your body." a scornful smile came over the features of the prisoner. "a gracious boon, forsooth! and this church calls itself after the name of the gentle, loving saviour, who went about doing acts of kindness and mercy, and saving from physical suffering all who came to him desiring to be cured!" "i came not to bandy words with you," cried the monk; "the flames which you will feel to-morrow will give you a foretaste of those you will have to endure throughout eternity as the consequence of your obduracy." "our blessed lord says, `i say unto you, my friends, be not afraid of them which kill the body, and after that have no more than that they can do. but i will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: fear him, which after he hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, i say unto you, fear him.'" herezuelo spoke these words calmly, and added, "now, friar, i own that you and those you serve can kill my body, but you can do no more: my soul is in the keeping of my loving saviour; neither the powers of earth nor hell can prevail against it; therefore i am fearless." with a curse, the friar turned and left the cell. herezuelo sought strength in prayer for the fiery trial he was to go through. "it will endure but for a few minutes, and oh, then the eternity of bliss which will follow!" he ejaculated. "why should i fear? why should i tremble? my trust is in god." ere the sun, rising in a cloudless sky, gilded the spires of the numerous churches of valladolid, on the 21st of may, 1559, their bells began to toll solemnly, and crowds to assemble in vast numbers in the streets. it was trinity sunday; but it was not because it was the sabbath that the citizens were so early afoot, but there was to be a grand spectacle, looked for with almost the same eagerness as a bull-fight. the first grand _auto-da-fe_ of protestants was to take place that day, and all the people were eager to gaze at it--most of them for the sake of seeing so many lost and abandoned monsters put out of the world. for this it was that the people came from all parts of the city and surrounding country into the grand square of valladolid to witness the spectacle which had been prepared for them by those who impiously called themselves ministers of the loving jesus. in a short time the whole of the grand square was filled with impatient spectators, except that space occupied by two large platforms between the church of saint francis and the house of the consistory. in front of the town-house, and close to the platform intended for the inquisitors, a large box or deep-covered balcony had been erected for the use of the royal family, which they could enter without interruption from the crowd, and from whence they could enjoy a full view of the prisoners. near it was a high altar, with the usual crucifixes, candlesticks, vases, and other ornaments of the romish worship, made on this occasion as imposing as possible. in the box sat dona juana, queen-dowager of portugal, and governess of the kingdom during the absence of her brother, philip the second, in the netherlands. she was accompanied by her unhappy nephew, don carlos, heir-apparent to the throne, then a lad only of fourteen. it is said that on that occasion he vowed an implacable hatred to the inquisition. to that fell tribunal, there can be little doubt, he became a helpless victim. intimation of the intended festival had publicly been made in all the churches and religious houses in the neighbourhood. the attendance of the civil authorities and of the clergy was requested; and that the multitude might be encouraged to come, an indulgence of forty days was proclaimed to all who should witness the ceremonies of the act. while outside preparations were going forward, the officials of the inquisition were busy within the walls of the prison. the prisoners, being assembled, were clothed in the several dresses in which they were to make their appearance in public. those who had erred only in a slight degree were clothed simply in black. the other prisoners wore a san-benito, a loose garment of yellow cloth, called in spanish _zamara_, and on their heads was placed a high conical pasteboard cap, called _coroza_. on the dresses of those who were to be strangled were painted flames burning downwards, called _fuego revolto_, to intimate that they had escaped the fire; while the san-benito and coroza of those doomed to be burnt alive were covered with flames burning upwards, around which were painted devils carrying the faggots or fanning the fire. now, on that bright may morning, a procession was to be seen moving forth from the inquisition of valladolid. first marched a band of soldiers to clear the way, and then came a number of priests in their gaudy robes--alb, chasuble, tunic, and other garments, the names of which are familiar to modern ears. they were attended by acolytes and boys of various theological colleges, chanting the litany in alternate choruses. then came the mournful band of prisoners--those in black first, those marked with the _fuego revolto_ following, and those destined to the flames walking last. each prisoner was attended by two familiars of the inquisition, and each of those destined to die, in addition, was accompanied by two friars, who employed all the arguments they could bring forward, all the eloquence they could command, in endeavouring to induce the prisoners to recant and confess their errors. among the last of the sad band came antonio herezuelo. though his face was pale, he walked with a firm step, and he replied now with a smile, now with a few gentle words, to the exhortations of the two friars. he, as was the case with his companions, had a halter round his neck, and in his hand he carried an extinguished torch, while his companions destined to the stake also carried extinguished torches or crosses. many trembled and tottered as they moved along; indeed, no one bore himself more bravely than the young advocate. after the prisoners came the local magistrates, the judges, and officers of state, accompanied by a train of nobility on horseback. then came the secular and monastic clergy; and at some distance, as if they were too great and important to mingle with ordinary people, rode in slow and solemn pomp the members of the holy office, preceded by their fiscal, bearing the standard of the inquisition. that accursed bloodstained banner was composed of red silk damask, on which the names and insignia of pope sextus the fourth, and ferdinand the catholic, the founders of the hellish tribunal, were conspicuous; and it was surmounted by a crucifix of massive silver overlaid with gold, which the ignorant populace had been taught to hold in the highest veneration. these were the persons who were to take the chief part in the performances of the day; they were followed by their familiars on horseback, who, with many of the principal gentry of the country, formed their body-guard. with a few years' judicious educating by the jesuits, and a continuance of supineness and incredulity as to rome's designs on the part of british protestants, of which all denominations are guilty, it is not at all impossible that similar scenes may be enacted in england. ritualistic forms and ceremonies, and public processions, and, still more, the insidious teaching of numbers professing to be ministers of religion, are accustoming the people to a system which must end in their subjugation to sacerdotal despotism. an immense concourse of people of the lower ranks closed the procession, vociferating to one another, with open eyes and necks stretched out eager to catch a sight of the condemned prisoners and the grand inquisitors as they ascended their respective platforms. the latter took their places, and then the queen-regent and the young prince took their places in the royal box, or bed of state, as it was called, surrounded by a number of the chief nobility of the kingdom. it was six o'clock in the morning, and the sun was already glittering on the gilded crosses and other devices on the tops of the banners, when, the company having taken their places, francisco baca, the presiding inquisitor, was seen advancing to the bed of state on which the regent and her nephew were seated; and then, in an authoritative tone, he proffered to them an oath to support the holy office, and to reveal to it everything contrary to the faith which might come to their knowledge. the prince was seen to hesitate, and not till urged by his aunt would he consent to take the oath. it was the first time such an oath had been exacted from any of the royal family. poor prince! that look of his sealed his fate! antonio herezuelo, from the moment he saw his wife dragged off by the familiars of the inquisition, had been kept in utter ignorance of what had become of her. not a reply could he get from any of the stern familiars who attended him. it vain he petitioned to be told whether she was in their power--whether she was well in health--whether she had been placed under examination. a sinister look was the only answer he received. "ay, i must trust in god!" yes, antonio, you--all who are in trouble, sickness, or any other adversity--may trust in him with confidence, assured that he in his good time will bring you out of all your troubles. as the familiars were clothing the prisoners in their habits of infamy, herezuelo thought to himself, "how can i more advantageously employ the last moments of my life than by declaring to the misguided people the glad tidings of salvation, by telling them of the saviour's love, and that they require no other priest, no other intercessor than he?" thus resolved to speak, he walked firmly onward to death, like a soldier to the fatal breach; but ere he reached the platform, at a sign from the monks, who had in vain, with all the sophistries they could utter, been endeavouring to shake his faith, one of the familiars thrust a gag into his mouth, which the other secured, and he was rendered speechless. bitter for an instant was the anguish he felt, but prayer quickly restored to him his serenity. "see! see! there is his lordship melchior cano, bishop of the canaries, mounting the pulpit. listen! he is to preach the sermon," was repeated by many in the crowd. in flowing language and sonorous tones the bishop put forth the claims of the church of rome to infallibility. he spoke of the importance of unity, of the crime of heresy and schism; and, finally, he enlarged on the duty of all catholics to deliver over to justice all who were in the slightest degree guilty of those crimes. the sermon concluded, the clerk of the tribunal read the sentence of the penitents, who, on their knees, and with their hands laid on the missal, repeated the confession. those around them stood aside as the presiding inquisitor, descending from his throne, advances to the altar, and absolves the penitents _a culpa_ under the obligation to bear the several punishments which have been awarded, whether banishments, penances, whipping, hard labour, or imprisonment--the deprivation of property being in all cases rigidly enforced, to the great advantage of the inquisitors. the bishop, then, in a loud voice, administered to all present on the platform, as well as to the surrounding multitude, an oath binding them to live and die in the communion of the roman church, and to uphold and defend against all adversaries the tribunal of the holy inquisition. as he spoke the multitude fell on their knees, lowly bowing their heads. of the vast assemblage two men only were standing, with heads erect and arms folded on their bosoms. they were the martyrs resolved to undergo the fiery trial of the stake rather than disavow one article of their holy faith. they were antonio herezuelo, the advocate, and francisco de vibero cazalla, parish priest of hermigos, who was likewise gagged. there were twelve other unhappy persons condemned to death, but, having confessed, they were allowed the poor favour of being strangled before their bodies were committed to the flames. they, less courageous than the advocate and francisco cazalla, were compelled to kneel. but why does antonio herezuelo start and cast an inquiring look towards the group of black penitents kneeling near the altar? before he could cast a second look they were hid from his sight; and now the bishop of placencia advances towards the group of those sentenced to death, and with a knife commences the operation of degrading the priests by scraping off the crown of the head the part which was supposed to have received the holy oil at their consecration. then garment after garment was torn from them, the bishop pronouncing all the time terrible curses on their heads. this done, the secular judges were summoned to receive the prisoners, and the inquisitor formally delivered them over into their hands, saying, as he did so, in a hypocritical tone of compassion, "we beseech you to treat these poor people with the utmost commiseration--not to break a bone of their bodies, nor to shed a drop of their blood." he said this, not only knowing that the prisoners were to be executed, but having especially arranged that they should be so-having, indeed, a few days before, acquainted the judge with the number of prisoners to be delivered over to him, in order that the required quantity of stakes, faggots, and other things necessary for the execution might be in readiness. the canons of the romish church, however, denounced against ecclesiastics who should be accessory to the inflicting of any bodily injury, and the above-mentioned expressions were used to avoid the censure of irregularity. the magistrates, on their part, swore that they would faithfully execute the sentences against the persons of the heretics delivered over to them. all these ceremonies--audacious mockery of justice--occupied several hours; and now the condemned prisoners were compelled to march in front of the royal box, and pass those who had by recanting escaped the extreme penalty of the law. again antonio herezuelo looked eagerly at the black penitents. what an expression of agony was seen to rise on his countenance as he beheld among them his beloved leonor, the wife of his bosom, formerly united to him, as he supposed, in the one blessed faith and hope which animated his own soul. who could paint the feelings which passed through his swelling heart? he would have given worlds to have been able to utter a loving entreaty to her again to take hold of the blessed truths of which he was even then reaping the fruition; but the gag prevented him. one prayer he breathed from the depths of his soul for her, and as he passed he cast at her a look of such unutterable agony, yet of such loving reproof and regret, that, like the lightning's flash, it went to her heart. well she understood its meaning. "oh, my beloved leonor," it seemed to say, "why did you not seek for grace to hold fast to the truth, and for strength to go through the fiery trial, that, as we have lived happily together on earth, we might have ascended together to be ever with our risen lord and saviour?" full well she understood that silent appeal. it sunk into her heart. "yes, yes, my antonio, i will join you," she exclaimed, stretching out her hands towards him. in vain she made the attempt to rush into his arms, for the cruel familiars held her back. in vain she struggled. she saw that to join her beloved lord in life was hopeless. she drew herself up with dignity. "inquisitors, i will die with my husband," she exclaimed. "i renounce for ever the gross errors of the romish faith, which i have been induced to assume. i am ready to die as a true protestant--a believer in the simple truths of the gospel." "away with her! away with her to prison!" cried the inquisitor. "she is mad; she is beside herself!" "i am a protestant. i will die with my husband," exclaimed leonor; but before she could say more a gag was thrust into her mouth, and she was surrounded by friars and familiars, so as to conceal her from the public view. the look herezuelo cast towards leonor was the last he gave her on earth. not another was allowed him. he was hurried off by the stony-hearted familiars, with his brother martyrs and their companions in affliction. the first part of the exhibition had been a cruel, a blasphemous mockery--that which was to follow was to be a diabolical reality. those condemned to death, either by fire or strangulation, were now formed into a melancholy procession, each person accompanied as before by familiars and monks, the latter disturbing the last moments of their yellow-robed victims by their senseless exhortations. thus they proceeded slowly through the gates, accompanied by nearly all those who had witnessed the first part of the proceedings; the eager crowd making their observations on the appearance and bearing of the sufferers, many of the more brutal mocking and jeering, especially as they caught sight of the two principal martyrs. it might have seemed strange to them that of all the human beings collected they should have appeared the calmest, though the look of agony which arose on herezuelo's brow at the sight of his wife had not yet left it. arrived at the spot where the stakes were erected and the faggots piled up, further efforts were made to induce cazalla and herezuelo to recant. the former, seeing his brother augustine not at the stake, but among those who were to be strangled before being burned, signified his sorrow by an expressive motion of his hands. the latter remained firm as before, unmoved by all the exhortations of the priests and monks. even when instigated by his tempters, the unhappy doctor augustine cazalla urged him to be reconciled to the church of rome, he turned on him a look of sorrow and compassion, mingled with contempt, which at once silenced the recreant from the truth. herezuelo's calmness seemed to excite the rage and all the evil passions of the priests and soldiers. they cursed and swore and reviled him in every possible way. "ah! ah! in a short time, in spite of your bold looks, you will be in hell with your associate, luther," they shouted. to these and similar expressions he made no sign of complaints--only turning his eyes to that blue sky to which his beautified spirit was about to wing its flight towards the martyr's crown of glory awaiting him in the realms of the blessed. the faggots were lighted, the flames ascended, when one of the soldiers, enraged at his constancy, plunged his lance into his body, and thus saved him from the pangs he might otherwise have had to suffer. his fellow-martyr died with equal firmness, and the other victims were strangled before their bodies were cast into the flames. with them at the same time were also cast the bones and effigy of dona leonor de vibero, which had appeared at the _auto_. this was done because at her house the protestants had frequently assembled for prayer and praise. in a short time, of the fourteen human beings who had dragged their tortured, lacerated limbs to the spot, a few ashes alone remained. such was the termination of the first great _auto-da-fe_ of protestants in spain. there was yet another spectacle to be witnessed that day. it was to see the house of dona leonor de vibero, the mother of the cazallas, razed to the ground, and the place on which it stood sown with salt. on the spot a pillar, with an inscription stating the cause of its demolition, was immediately afterwards erected, and stood till the commencement of the present century. it is easy to conceive how dona leonor de cisneros had been induced apparently to abandon the faith to which she had so long adhered. falsehoods and devices of all sorts had been employed to induce her to make her peace with rome. every argument which sophistry could invent had been brought forward to shake her belief. there was a rack, with other fearful tortures, and the stake, on the one hand, and forgiveness and reconciliation with the church on the other--ay, and a happy life with her antonio. when at last the inquisitors found her stubborn, they did not hesitate to assure her that she had less wisdom than her husband, who had lately--convinced that the protestant cause was lost in spain--agreed heartily to conform to the faith of rome, and to be reconciled to the church. a rigid course of penance was prescribed for her, and after its performance she was told that she would be set free, and allowed to join her husband, who, as had been some others, would be banished the kingdom, though possibly a milder punishment might be awarded him. could it be possible that her husband would abjure his principles? her faith wavered. if she remained obstinate, he might, she was assured, be brought out to witness her death. she was meditating on these things in her solitary cell when the door opened, and the archbishop munebrega stood before her. he spoke to her gently and kindly, as an old family friend. he would urge her to take his advice, and conform at once. long she thought on the subject, but she could not pray for guidance. why? her conscience revolted against the act she contemplated. in a husky voice she told the archbishop that she would yield. "we will endeavour, then, to induce the advocate herezuelo to yield also, lovely leonor," said the archbishop, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. "why, you told me that my husband had already yielded!" exclaimed leonor, scarcely conscious of the act. "i surely could not have said so, as i am not cognisant of the fact," answered munebrega blandly. "be assured that for your sake i will endeavour to win him over to the truth." much more was urged by the archbishop, but poor leonor's mind was in too great a whirl to understand the meaning of what he said. cruel indeed was the conflict going on within her. "for the sake of appearances you will have to undergo some penances; but i will take care that they shall be as light as possible, that your health may be in no way injured," he remarked; and with a treacherous smile the tempter left her. no words can describe the unhappy leonor's feelings at seeing her husband among those condemned to the stake. it had been hoped by munebrega, from the position in which she was placed, that she would not have discovered him. the effect has been described. on being conducted back to the convent to which she had been removed, she at once refused to continue the penances which had been prescribed. no persuasions could make her alter her determination; and therefore, as an obstinate heretic, she was returned to a cell in the inquisition. munebrega was soon in her presence. he reminded her that she was a widow and helpless--that he had the power of setting her at liberty. he entreated her on his knees once more to recant--to preserve her life--not to allow her beauty to be marred by a long imprisonment. she turned from him with loathing. munebrega well knew the importance of caution. his chief and brother inquisitors were very indifferent what means were made use of (even the most abominable), provided they contributed to bring about the objects they had in view; but they would allow no private interests to be gratified. day after day munebrega visited the unhappy lady. his protestations, his arguments, every subject he introduced, only tended to strengthen her resolution. "get thee behind me, satan," was her daily ejaculation when he appeared. she did not trust to her own strength, but hourly sought strength and grace from above to withstand all the trials and temptations to which she was exposed. like peter, she had fallen once; severe was the lesson she had learned. like peter's repentance, hers had been deep and truly sincere. no longer did she trust to herself. munebrega at last retired, gnashing his teeth at having been foiled by a weak woman, utterly incapable of comprehending the mighty power which had been fighting on her side against him. he now allowed other persons to attempt to move her. among others, her former admirer, don francisco de vivers, was induced to visit her. he was still unmarried. what arguments he used it is not necessary to state. he was not hardened to the craft of the priests, and he left the prison abashed and confused. he visited her again more than once, and the idea was entertained by the inquisitors that he was moving her obdurate heart. at length, however, he was missing from valladolid, and some of his friends feared, from some words that he had let drop, that he had offended the inquisitors, and was immured in their prisons. it would be impossible to imagine, much less to describe, the cruelties practised on leonor de cisneros; and yet there were many hundreds of delicately-nurtured females and hidalgos of high rank suffering as she was physically in the numerous prisons of the inquisition throughout spain--many shut up in loathsome dungeons, destined never again to see the light of day. numerous _autos-da-fe_ succeeded each other for the purpose of stamping out protestant principles from spain. the second celebrated at valladolid took place on the 8th of october, 1559, for the purpose of celebrating the return of philip the second, husband of queen mary of england, who was employed at that time in burning her own bishops and other subjects for the same cause. king philip was himself present, enjoying the spectacle, with his unhappy son carlos, his sister, the prince of parma, three ambassadors from france, and a numerous assembly of prelates and nobility of both sexes. the inquisitor-general, valdes, advancing to the bed of state, administered the same oath which had been taken by don carlos and the queen of portugal. philip took it without hesitation, and, rising from his seat, drew his sword, in token of his determination to use it in support of the holy office. a similar group to that before described, clothed in yellow garments covered with pictures of flames and devils, stood on the platform before the king and his court. the most noble-looking and highest in rank was don carlos de seso, the upturning flames on whose robe showed that he was doomed to the stake. with him was domingo de roxas, pedro de cazalla, parish priest of pedroso, who was destined to share the fate of his family. dona isabella de castilla, wife of don carlos de seso, was there, and her niece, dona catalina--condemned to lose all their property, to wear the san-benito, and to be imprisoned for life. there were also three nuns of san belem; one of them, dona mariana de guevara, was condemned to be strangled and then thrown into the flames; she was highly born, and even connected with valdes, the chief inquisitor, but he could not save her from the consequences of her opinions. his subordinates resisted the applications he was said to have made on her behalf as an interference with their jurisdiction, and a proof of partiality and weakness unworthy of one of those whose office required him to be insensible to the feelings of nature and friendship. the death of don carlos de seso was worthy of his life; though gagged on the platform and on the way to execution, the instrument was removed when he was bound to the stake by the friars, who stood round exhorting him to confess. he replied in a loud voice, "i could demonstrate to you, unhappy men, that you ruin yourselves by not imitating my example; but there is no time. executioners, light the pile which is to consume me." these were his last words. the order was instantly obeyed, and, looking up, he died without a groan. another martyr was juan sanchez. entrapped in the low countries by the emissaries of the inquisition, he was brought a prisoner to valladolid, and condemned to the stake. the cords which bound him having rapidly been consumed, he leaped unconsciously on to the stage where the friars were confessing some who had recanted at the last moment. the friars immediately collected round him, and urged him to retract his errors. looking at the unhappy penitents who were risking their salvation to escape a few moments' suffering, and then at the noble de seso, standing unmoved amid the rising flames, he walked deliberately back to the stake, exclaiming, "i will die like de seso." more fuel was brought, and he was quickly in the joy of his lord. numbers bore testimony to "the truth as it is in jesus" by dying fearlessly like de seso. at the same time, eight females, of irreproachable character, some of them of high rank, were burned alive; among them maria gomez, who so nearly betrayed the protestants during a sudden fit of insanity. having recovered her senses she returned to the protestant faith, and soon was brought before the inquisitors. she suffered with her three daughters and a sister. so hardened had the populace become by similar scenes, that not a single expression of sympathy escaped them as they thus witnessed the destruction of a whole family. year after year passed away, and the same horrors continued to be enacted; the bloody-minded inquisitors being hounded on to their work of death by the bigot king; that king who, it has truly been said, was busily engaged in making spain what she in a few years became, the lowest and least influential among the nations of europe; while as truly was elizabeth, by her wise measures, laying the foundation of england's greatness and power. chapter nine. freedom. we must return once more to the unhappy leonor de cisneros. she was seated on a rough bench in her dungeon beneath the halls of the inquisition. one gleam of light only was admitted by a small aperture, leading into a courtyard, far above her head. the gleam fell on her marble countenance, pale as that of one who has ceased to breathe. her once rich hair, now glistening like snow, hung over her shoulders, while her figure was draped in the dark robe she was doomed to wear. heavy chains hung on her arms, which she could with difficulty lift to her head, whenever she strove to press her hands upon her burning brow. even the agony of mind and body which she had endured had scarcely dimmed her beauty. though her eyes had lost their lustre, yet in them was a fixed look of courage and resignation. now she knelt down on the cold stones before the stool, and lifted up her manacled hands to heaven, towards which her countenance was turned, earnestly imploring strength and resolution to withstand the fearful temptations to which she was exposed. she was not disappointed. while she thus knelt, the door of her dungeon grated on its hinges. slowly, and not without difficulty, she rose from her knees, and stood prepared to receive her visitor, whoever he might prove to be. she dreaded lest she should see the arch-fiend munebrega; but instead of him, don francisco de vivers stood before her. he advanced a few paces into the vault, and placed the lantern he bore on a stone shelf projecting from the wall on one side of the cell. he did not speak till the door closed behind him. he then stood before her with his plumed hat held in his hand, keeping still at the distance of a few paces. "dona leonor," he said, "i come to bid you farewell. the words you spoke to me during my last visits to you sunk deep down in my heart. the glorious truths you explained took root, and have since by god's grace been abundantly watered. i obtained a copy of his blessed word. i sought for instruction from those able to give it, and i am now ready, if it is his will, to add my testimony to the truth by my blood. i was sent here to win you back to life, and to gain you over to the false faith of rome. you have been the cause of my becoming a thorough protestant, and being made willing, if called upon, to suffer death-such death, that is, as man is able to inflict upon his fellow-man. yet i am young, and do not desire to die. i have therefore resolved to quit my country for another land, where i may freely worship god according to the dictates of my conscience. i knew that you would rejoice to hear this. i therefore resolved, at every risk, to seek another interview with you. dear lady, you will pardon me for the words i spoke to you on my former visits. i uttered them in my ignorance. i thought that i was thus benefiting you, instead of endeavouring to deprive you of that joy unspeakable which is prepared for those who truly love the lord, and are ready to give up all for him." "oh, believe me, don francisco, when i say it, i have nothing to pardon," replied dona leonor. "i rejoice to hear of your determination. alas! i fear you would not benefit our unhappy countrymen by remaining among them. the spirit of evil has gained the supremacy; and while he reigns, with the sanguinary inquisitors as his ministers, the truth can never make progress in the country. go, then, don francisco; my prayers, day and night, will be offered up to the throne of mercy that you may be protected from the dangers of your journey, and safely reach the haven of rest. it is mockery to speak of joy, but such joy as i am now capable of feeling will be mine when i hear that you have safely reached your destination. and oh, don francisco, pray for me, not that my life may be prolonged, but that i may have courage and support in the trials i may be called upon henceforth to bear; and that it may be god's will that i may, ere long, be emancipated from my bondage, not to go forth into the world, but to be raised on wings of light to join my martyred husband, now singing praises with the heavenly choir before the great white throne of our loving father." "dona leonor, your wishes shall ever be a law to me," answered don francisco. "i shall see you no more on earth. even should i be successful in escaping from this unhappy country, i believe that i shall never again return to it; and even if i did, i should not be permitted to see you. i hear that many spanish protestants are assembled at genoa, among whom are several who were once monks at san isidoro. thither i have resolved to bend my steps, that i may worship with them, and gain from them instruction and counsel." "i thank our heavenly father that you have resolved on this step," answered leonor, "and i pray that you may be more successful than were my beloved herezuelo and myself. oh, that i had not believed the falsehoods that were told me before that dreadful day when i last met him on earth! bitterly have i repented my weakness and want of faith. i should have known that no human power would have induced him to deny his lord and master, even for the sake of saving his life and being reunited with me. ah, how weak and faithless was i! but i thank my god that, through the influence of the holy spirit, i had strength and power given me boldly to declare my faith in the truth, even though my so doing has brought me into this dungeon, and will ere long cast my body amid those flames which consumed the mortal frame of my husband. oh, believe me, don francisco, to that day i look forward with eagerness and joy. my heart will bound with thankfulness when i am told to prepare for going forth to the stake." don francisco stepped forward and raised the manacled hand of the speaker to his lips. then, casting one more glance of respect and sorrow at that still lovely countenance before him, he hastened from the cell, drawing his hat over his brow to conceal his agitation; then wrapping his cloak around him, he took his way through the narrow passages which led to the vaults, guided by one of the familiars of the inquisition, till he reached the door of an apartment, at which his guide stopped and knocked. a voice desired him to enter. don francisco passed through the doorway, and stood in the presence of the archbishop munebrega. "do you expect to move her, don francisco?" asked the archbishop, eyeing him narrowly. "my lord, i do not," answered don francisco, firmly; "yet i warn you that severe treatment will not effect your purpose. for myself, i would beg that i might not be again requested to visit her; but i yet entreat that her chains may be removed, and that she may be placed in a room where the light of day is allowed to enter, and be supplied with food such as her delicate nature requires." "don francisco, you ask what it may be impossible for me to grant," answered the archbishop, again casting a penetrating glance towards him; "but i will make known your request to my coadjutors, and, should they see fit, it may be granted." don francisco was glad when the interview with the archbishop came to a close. he well knew the character of the man with whom he had to deal, and he dreaded lest any word he might incautiously drop should betray him. he hurried home. already he had made every preparation which was possible for his journey. as the shades of evening drew on he left his house, and all the comforts and luxuries it contained, feeling that he should never return. keeping his countenance concealed with his cloak, he passed unquestioned through the gates. now he hurried on at a rapid pace for a league or more from the city. then, turning on one side, he entered a small wood. he had not gone far when he found, standing under the trees, two horses, held by a short man in the costume of a muleteer. "ah! my friend julianillo, i knew that i could trust you, and i am thankful that you have not failed me. it is time, if i would save my life, that i should leave valladolid. already the savage munebrega suspects me, and i have bidden farewell to her for whose sake alone i should desire to remain in spain. i could not bear to see her die; and yet, knowing the savage hearts of her persecutors, and her own firm resolve, i feel sure that, ere long, she will add another to the glorious list of martyrs. she has bidden farewell to the world and her fellow-creatures, and places her trust in one who alone can give her strength to undergo the trials she may be called upon to endure." "true, don francisco, true," answered julianillo; "but we must not delay. a few minutes may make the difference between life and safety, and imprisonment and death. when our brother don domingo de roxas attempted to escape, from a short delay caused by his visit to the noble de seso, he fell into the power of the inquisitors. but you, i trust, are not suspected, and we may in safety gain the borders of spain without impediment. it will be necessary, however, to use caution, and above all things to trust to no one. there are guards on all the roads, and spies at every inn, ready to entrap the unwary." saying this julianillo held the stirrup while don francisco threw himself into the saddle. he then mounted his own horse, and together they rode out of the wood, and took the road towards the frontier. julianillo knew every part of the country. each highway and every by-path was as familiar to him as if he had it mapped down before his eyes. often and often he had travelled those roads, with his bales of goods surrounding the copies of the bible and the works of luther and others, which he had brought across the pyrenees into spain. he had, of late, however, been compelled to give up bringing any more copies of god's word into the country. he had, instead, devoted himself to assisting protestants to escape from their persecutors. those who had trusted themselves entirely to his care and guidance he had never failed to convey safely to their destination. their horses were fresh, and they were thus able to gallop in the greater part of the night. when morning broke, valladolid was many miles behind them. as soon as the horses were rested they again proceeded on their journey. they thus continued till they were within a half-day's journey of the frontier. "we are now approaching the most dangerous part of the road," observed julianillo to don francisco. "it would be safer for you not to appear to be under my guidance. i may possibly be suspected, and as i am well-known, i should certainly be seized, while you might be allowed to continue your journey. but whatever happens, take no notice of me, and let us appear to be total strangers to each other." these remarks were made when the travellers were yet some distance from the inn where they intended to stop. julianillo rode on ahead, don francisco following at a distance, so as just to keep him in view. when don francisco entered the common room of the inn, julianillo was already there, seated among a number of muleteers and other persons, laughing and joking with them. don francisco, on entering, took no notice of him, but placed himself at an unoccupied part of the long table, at the other end of the room. the guests were waiting for dinner, and in a short time large dishes of fried beans and pork were placed on the table. don francisco could with difficulty partake of the rough fare put before him. he ordered, however, a flagon of wine, and requested the host to partake of it, who, nothing loth, accepted his offer. the guests had only just seated themselves when a party of mounted alguazils arrived at the inn, and, having stabled their horses, walked in to partake of the dinner going forward. julianillo appeared in no way to be disconcerted. it was an anxious time for don francisco, for he could not help fearing that the alguazils were in search of suspected persons. having allowed time for the horses to rest, julianillo started up, and beginning to sing a well-known comic air, sauntered out of the inn towards the stables. don francisco waited till he supposed his companion was on the road, and then, paying his reckoning to the landlord, begged that his horse might be brought round. just as he was mounting, the landlord whispered in his ear-"stop not till you have gained the other side of the border, and then be not content till you are many leagues from it." "i know not what you mean," answered don francisco, carelessly; "but supposing the advice to be of value, i should be truly grateful to you for it." saying this he rode quietly through the street of the village. he had not gone far when he heard the mounted guards who had entered the inn following close behind. instead of attempting to escape them he drew in his rein to allow them to come up with him. it was a moment to try the nerves of most men. they, however, rode by, saluting him as they passed, when they continued at a rapid rate. fearing, should he show any inclination to push on, he might be stopped, he continued at a leisurely pace in the direction taken by julianillo. in a short time the sound of horses approaching him reached his ears, and he saw the very same party he had met before returning with someone among them. as he drew near, great was his grief to recognise julianillo. following the advice given him by that brave man, he approached the troop with as unconcerned a countenance as he could assume. "who have you got there?" he asked in a calm tone. "a culprit who has long eluded us, but who has been caught at last, as many others who now think themselves safe will be ere long," was the answer. anxious as he felt to assist julianillo, he was well aware of the uselessness of making the attempt; the words he had just heard making him more anxious than ever to escape from the country. he therefore rode forward with the same unconcerned air which he had assumed on approaching the emissaries of the inquisition. following the advice of the innkeeper, as soon as he was out of sight of the party he put spurs to his horse, and ere night closed in he was many leagues within the territory of france. his adventures were like those of others who made their escape from the inquisition. being well supplied with money, he had, however, less difficulty than many others. he ultimately succeeded in reaching genoa. there, though he was at first looked upon with suspicion, he was soon able to prove the sincerity of his conversion, and was received as a faithful protestant among the brethren assembled in that city. meantime julianillo was led by his captors to seville. he was there brought before the inquisitors. with undaunted eye and firm countenance he confronted his judges, who were at the same time his accusers. he denied nothing. he was accused of having been one of the chief instruments in disseminating the gospel throughout spain. he smiled calmly at the words addressed to him. "i should indeed be proud to have performed so excellent a work," he answered; "but those who have far more influence than i possess have had that honour. if i brought the word of life to those perishing for lack of it, i merely performed the part of the baker's boy who brings the loaves to the door. it depended upon the people whether they would take the bread of life; and if they took it, whether they would feed on it. hear me, ye ministers of tyranny and falsehood: i glory in declaring that i believe the only knowledge we possess of the perfect and all-sufficient sacrifice which christ offered up once for all on calvary, is that revealed to us in the bible, and applied to our hearts by the holy spirit. i believe that the pope and priests of rome are ignorant of this great and glorious truth, that `the just shall live by faith,' and faith alone. in this belief i have now for many years lived, rejoicing also." "silence him! away with him!" cried the inquisitors, in deep and angry voices. "he is hopelessly contumacious. a speedy death by fire must be his doom." julianillo smiled calmly as he heard these words pronounced. "for many years i have been prepared for this," he answered. "when i undertook the work in which i have been engaged, i counted the cost. i knew that i should have a rich reward, and all you can do is to hasten the time when i am to wear that crown of glory prepared for me in the skies; and, humble though i am, i feel well assured that it is a brilliant and a glorious crown." before julianillo could say more he was hurried away from the hall of the inquisition, and thrown into a dark and noisome dungeon, there to remain till the day fixed for the next _auto-da-fe_, at which he was to suffer the extreme penalty inflicted by the inquisition. he was among those who suffered on the day already described, when don carlo de seso received the crown of martyrdom. though he boasted of no exalted rank or lineage, yet, bold in the faith, he died as bravely as the most noble. on the morning of the _auto_, addressing his fellow-prisoners, he exclaimed, "courage, comrades! this is the hour in which we may show ourselves valiant soldiers of jesus christ. let us now bear faithful testimony to his truth before men, and within a few hours we shall receive the testimony of his approbation before angels, and triumph with him in heaven." these words were repeated to the inquisitors, and they, knowing full well his courage and determination, ordered him to be gagged, lest, when marching forth among the other condemned criminals, he should address the multitude, and perhaps gain their sympathy, or induce them to accept the truth, for holding which he was condemned to suffer. in spite of the gag, he continued by his gestures to encourage his companions condemned to death with himself; and thus until the flames rose up fiercely around him, he bore witness to the truth, and endeavoured to support them to the last. meantime the unhappy leonor de cisneros lingered on in prison. every effort was made by the inquisitors and their familiars of high and low degree to induce her to recant, but she continued contumacious. once only a gleam of satisfaction was seen to pass over her countenance; it was when a few words, incautiously let drop by one of her visitors, informed her that don francisco de vivers had escaped from spain, and had arrived safely at genoa. was it in mercy, because her bigoted persecutors yet hoped that she would recant, that her life was still spared? or was it because their vindictive feelings made them unwilling to liberate their captive, and terminate her sufferings by consigning her to that death for which she waited longingly? often she exclaimed with the apostle paul, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the just to happiness unspeakable, "for me to live is christ, and to die is gain." year after year passed by, and still she remained a prisoner in those dreadful dungeons. she had but numbered twenty-two summers when consigned to them, and eight long winters of existence passed afterwards over her head. during those weary years that heroic woman, with the most perfect constancy, endured insults, torture, starvation, while compelled to listen to all the arguments which cunning priests could adduce to make her change her faith. at length, once more she stood before the judgment-seat of the inquisitors, among whom the archbishop munebrega presided. did no recollection of that young woman's mother, whom he had once fondly loved, or thought he loved, cross his mind? did he not remember dona leonor herself, when in her early youth, radiant in beauty, he first beheld her, and heard from her lips the startling acknowledgment that she believed the simple word of god and trusted to it? now she stood before him a pale wan woman, weighed down with grief and physical suffering. again she was asked if she would recant, and reminded that it was for the last time. "oh, no, no!" she answered, her heart bounding with joy at the announcement. the captive was to be set free. now, in solemn mockery, the inquisitors arose, and pronounced dona leonor de cisneros hopelessly contumacious, and condemned her to the flames. a bright gleam rested on her countenance as she heard her sentence, but she uttered not a word, she made not a movement till summoned to return to her cell. the 26th of september, 1568, at length arrived. ere the dawn had broken in the outer world she rose from her hard pallet. yet, hard as it was, her slumber had been calm and sweet. she knew not that it was her last day on earth. kneeling, she lifted up her hands in prayer. she prayed for her persecutors. she prayed that the day-star might yet arise over spain, and the gospel be preached throughout the length and breadth of the land. the door opened. a harsh voice ordered her to rise from her knees; prayer was not for one whom the church had excommunicated. she obeyed. a monk, with a savage gleam in his eyes, stood before her. at the door were several familiars. the monk's errand was soon told. he had come to conduct her to the courtyard where the victims destined to appear in the _auto-da-fe_ were collecting. the cruelties, the mockeries, the blasphemies of those hideous spectacles have often been described. all, all, leonor endured, not only with patience and courage, but with a rejoicing heart. calm and unmoved she listened to the long sermon poured forth by the bishop of zamora, who, from a lofty pulpit, addressed himself both to the victims and the populace. when the blasphemous ceremonies were brought to a conclusion, joy lighted up her countenance. firmly she walked to the place of execution, and submitted without a murmur to be bound to the stake. the moment she had longed for had arrived! the flames rose up around her, and her emancipated spirit flew to rejoin her beloved husband, and to be for ever with their lord. the end. the history and romance of crime from the earliest times to the present day [illustration] the grolier society london [illustration] spanish prisons the inquisition at home and abroad prisons past and present _by_ major arthur griffiths _late inspector of prisons in great britain_ _author of "the mysteries of police and crime "fifty years of public service," etc._ _the inquisitor-general and the catholic sovereigns_ the mandate of expulsion of the jews from spain was issued by ferdinand and isabella in 1492. this edict no doubt originated with torquemada, who was very bitter against the jews. when he learned that a number of their leaders were in conference with the king and queen, and offering an immense ransom, torquemada rushed into the presence bearing a crucifix on high and crying in stentorian tones that the sovereigns were about to act the part of judas iscariot. "here he is!" he exclaimed. "sell him again, not for thirty pieces of silver, but for thirty thousand!" and flinging the crucifix on the table he ran out in a frenzy. this turned the tables and the decree for expulsion was confirmed. the grolier society spanish prisons the inquisition at home and abroad prisons past and present _by_ major arthur griffiths _late inspector of prisons in great britain_ _author of "the mysteries of police and crime "fifty years of public service," etc._ [illustration] the grolier society edition nationale limited to one thousand registered and numbered sets. number 307 introduction a considerable portion of this volume is devoted to the spanish inquisition, which was, for three centuries, the most important force in spain. thousands were condemned by its tribunals, and its prisons and punishments make up a large part of the penal history of that country. much exaggeration has crept into the popular accounts, but the simple truth must cause a shudder, when read to-day. the institution was created to deal with heresy, that is, with a departure from the accepted canons. the idea that there can be unity in diversity was not understood. the spiritual and the temporal powers were closely related, and bishop and king, pope and emperor, all believed that uniformity was necessary. hence, heresy was everywhere treated as high treason not only to the church but to the state as well. the spanish inquisition was a state affair as well as an ecclesiastical court. we shall see that the jurisdiction of the inquisition was not confined to the suppression of heresy. many crimes which to-day are purely state concerns, were then punished by it, including bigamy, blasphemy, perjury, unnatural crimes, and witchcraft. the spanish inquisition deserves credit for discouraging persecution of the last named offence, and thereby saved the lives of thousands, who, in any other state would have been executed. the adaptation to penal purposes of ancient buildings, to be found throughout the length and breadth of spain, was very common, as these were immediately available although generally unsuitable. chief among them are the many monastic buildings vacated when the laws broke up religious houses in spain and which were mostly converted into prisons, but little deserving the name. some of these houses have been utilised as gaols pure and simple; some have served two or more purposes as at huelva, where the convent-prison was also a barrack. spain has been slow in conforming to the movements towards prison reform. she could not afford to spend money on new constructions along modern lines, and the introduction of the cellular system is only of recent date. the model prison of madrid, which has replaced the hideous saladero, was only begun in 1887. but a few separate prisons had already been created, such as those of loja, pontevedra, barcelona, vittoria and naval carnero. these establishments are new to spain but their methods and aims are too well known to call for fresh description. more interest attaches to the older forms that have so long served as places of durance. contents chapter page introduction 5 i. the inquisition in spain 11 ii. persecution of jews and moors 32 iii. prisons and punishments 63 iv. the inquisition abroad 91 v. the inquisition in portugal and india 110 vi. early prisons and prisoners 123 vii. presidios at home and abroad 150 viii. life in ceuta 182 ix. brigands and brigandage 212 x. a bright page in prison history 236 list of illustrations the grand inquisitor and the catholic sovereigns _frontispiece_ the alhambra palace, granada _page_ 52 the question " 116 castel dell' ovo " 150 spanish prisons chapter i the inquisition in spain beginning and growth of religious persecution--temporal power of the papacy--pope innocent iii creates the first "inquisitors"--domingo de guzman founder of the inquisition--founder of the dominican order of friars--the "ancient" inquisition--penances inflicted--persecution of the jews in spain--institution of the "modern" inquisition under ferdinand and isabella--headquarters at seville--frequent _autos da fé_--thomas de torquemada the first inquisitor-general--the privileges of the office--torquemada's life and character--sufferings of accused persons. the record of religious persecution furnishes some of the saddest pages in the world's history. it began with the immediate successors of constantine the great, the first christian prince. they promulgated severe edicts against heretics with such penalties as confiscation, banishment and death against breaches of catholic unity. in this present tolerant age when every one may worship god after his own fashion, it is difficult to realise how recent a growth is toleration. for more than six centuries the flames of persecution burned fiercely throughout christendom, lighted by the strong arm of the law, and soldiers were constantly engaged to extirpate dissent from the accepted dogmas with fire and sword. the growth of the papacy and the assumption of the temporal power exalted heresy into treason; independence of thought was deemed opposition to authority and resistance to the universal supremacy of the church. the popes fighting in self-defence stimulated the zeal of their followers unceasingly to stamp out heresy. alexander iii in the 12th century solemnly declared that every secular prince who spared heretics should be classed as a heretic himself and involved in the one common curse. when the temporal power of the popes was fully established and acknowledged, the papacy claimed universal sovereignty over all countries and peoples and was in a position to enforce it by systematic procedure against its foes. pope innocent iii, consumed with the fervour of his intolerant faith, determined to crush heresy. his first step was to appoint two "inquisitors" (the first use of the name) and two learned and devout friars, who were really travelling commissioners, were sent to perambulate christendom to discover heresy. they were commended to all bishops, who were strictly charged to receive them with kindness, treat them with affection, and "help them to turn heretics from the error of their way or else drive them out of the country." the same assistance was expected from the rulers of states who were to aid the inquisitors with equal kindness. the mission began in the south of france and a crusade was undertaken against the albigensians and waldensians, those early dissidents from the church of rome, who drew down on themselves the unappeasable animosity of the orthodox. the campaign against these original heretics raged fiercely, but persecution slackened and might have died out but for the appearance of one devoted zealot whose intense hatred of heresy, backed by his uncompromising energy, revived the illiberal spirit and organised fresh methods of attack. this was domingo de guzman, a spanish monk who accompanied foulques, bishop of toulouse, when he left his desolated diocese to take part in the fourth lateran council, assembled at rome in 1215. this domingo, historically known as st. dominic, was the founder of the dominican order of friars. though generally accepted as such by church historians, it is now argued that st. dominic was not really the founder of the inquisition[1] and that although he spent the best years of his life in combating heresy he took no more prominent part in persecution than hundreds of others. his eulogistic biographer describes him as "a man of earnest, resolute purpose, of deep and unalterable convictions, full of burning zeal for the propagation of the faith, yet kindly in heart, cheerful in temper and winning in manner.... he was as severe with himself as with his fellows.... his endless scourgings, his tireless vigils, his almost uninterrupted prayer, his superhuman fasts, are probably only harmless exaggerations of the truth." the dominicans boasted that their founder exhaled "an odour of sanctity" and, when his tomb was opened, a delicious scent issued forth, so penetrating that it permeated the whole land, and so persistent that those who touched the holy relics had their hands perfumed for years. [1] lea. history of the inquisition. vol. i. p. 299. whatever the personal character of dominic and whether or no he laboured to carry out the work himself, there can be no doubt that his order was closely identified with the inquisition from the first. its members were appointed inquisitors, they served in the prisons as confessors, they assisted the tribunals as "qualificators," or persons appointed to seek out proof of guilt, or estimate the extent or quality of the heretical opinions charged against the accused; the great ceremonials and _autos da fé_ were organised by them; they worked the "censure" and prepared the "index" of prohibited books. the dominicans were undoubtedly the most active agents in the inquisition and they owed their existence to him, even if he did not personally take part in its proceedings. the following quotation from prescott's "history of ferdinand and isabella" may well be inserted here. "some catholic writers would fain excuse st. dominic from the imputation of having founded the inquisition. it is true he died some years before the perfect organisation of that tribunal; but as he established the principles on which, and the monkish militia by whom it was administered, it is doing him no injustice to regard him as its real author." the sicilian writer, paramo, indeed, in his heavy quarto, traces it up to a much more remote antiquity. according to him god was the first inquisitor and his condemnation of adam and eve furnished the models of the judicial forms observed in the trials of the holy office. the sentence of adam was the type of the inquisitional "reconciliation," his subsequent raiment of skins of animals was the type of the _sanbenito_, and the expulsion from paradise, the precedent for the confiscation of the goods of heretics. this learned personage deduces a succession of inquisitors through the patriarchs, moses, nebuchadnezzar, and king david, down to john the baptist, and he even includes our saviour in whose precepts and conduct he finds abundant authority for the tribunal. the "ancient inquisition," as that first established in spain is generally called, had many of the features of the "modern" which dates from the reign of ferdinand and isabella, and which will presently be described at some length. its proceedings were shrouded in the same impenetrable secrecy, it used the same insidious modes of accusation, supported them by similar tortures, and punished them with similar penalties. a manual drawn up in the fourteenth century for the guidance of judges of the holy office prescribes the familiar forms of artful interrogation employed to catch the unwary, and sometimes innocent victim. the ancient inquisition worked on principles less repugnant to justice than the better known, but equally cruel modern institution, but was less extensive in its operations because in the earlier days there were fewer heretics to persecute. the ancient inquisition was so unsparing in its actions that it almost extirpated the albigensian heresy. the punishments it inflicted were even more severe than in the modern. upon such as escaped the stake and were "reconciled," as it was styled, a terrible "penance" was imposed. one is cited by llorente[2] as laid down in the ordinances of st. dominic. the penitent, it was commanded, should be stripped of his clothes and beaten by a priest three sundays in succession from the gate of the city to the door of the church; he must not eat any kind of meat during his whole life; must abstain from fish, oil and wine three days in the week during life, except in case of sickness or excessive labour; must wear a religious dress with a small cross embroidered on each breast; must attend mass every day, if he has the means of doing so, and vespers on sundays and festivals; must recite the service for the day and night and repeat the paternoster seven times in the day, ten times in the evening, and twenty times at midnight. if he failed in any of these requirements, he was to be burned as a "relapsed heretic." [2] history of the inquisition. chief among the causes that produced the new or "modern" inquisition was the envy and hatred of the jews in spain. fresh material was supplied by the unfortunate race of israel, long established in the country, and greatly prosperous. they had come in great numbers after the saracenic invasion, which indeed they are said to have facilitated, and were accepted by some of the moorish rulers on nearly equal terms, and were treated with a tolerance seldom seen among mahometans, though occasional outbursts of fanaticism rendered their position not quite secure. under these generally favourable auspices the jews developed in numbers and importance. their remarkable instinct for money making and their unstinting diligence brought them great wealth. their love of letters and high intelligence gave them preëminence in the schools of the moorish cities of cordova, toledo and granada, where they helped to keep the flame of learning bright and shining through the darkest ages. they became noted mathematicians, learned astronomers, devoted labourers in the fields of practical and experimental science. their shrewdness in public affairs and their financial abilities commended them to the service of the state, and many rose to the highest civic dignities at both christian and moorish courts. often, despite prohibitory laws, they collected the revenues and supervised the treasuries of the kingdoms of castile and aragon, while in private life they had nearly unlimited control of commerce and owned most of the capital in use. after the christian conquest, their success drew down upon them the envy and hatred of their less flourishing fellow subjects, who resented also that profuse ostentation of apparel and equipage to which the jewish character has always inclined. their widespread practice of usury was a still more fruitful cause for detestation. often large sums were loaned, for which exorbitant rates of interest were charged, owing to the scarcity of specie and the great risk of loss inherent to the business. as much as twenty, thirty-three, and even forty per cent. per annum was exacted and paid. the general animosity was such that a fanatical populace, smarting under a sense of wrong, and urged on by a no less fanatical clergy broke out at times into violence, and fiercely attacked the jews in the principal cities. the _juderías_, or jewish quarters, were sacked, the houses robbed of their valuable contents, precious collections, jewels and furniture were scattered abroad, and the wretched proprietors were massacred wholesale, irrespective of sex and age. according to the historian, mariana, fifty thousand jews were sacrificed to the popular fury in one year, 1391, alone. this was the turning point in spanish history. fanaticism once aroused, did not die until all jews were driven out of spain. it brought into being another class also, the _conversos_, or "new christians," _i. e._ jews who accepted christian baptism, though generally without any spiritual change. at heart and in habits they remained jews. the law was invoked, too, to aggravate their condition. legislative enactments of a cruel and oppressive kind were passed. jews were forbidden to mix freely with christians, their residence restricted to certain limited quarters, they were subject to irksome, sumptuary regulations, debarred from all display in dress, forbidden to carry valuable ornaments or wear expensive clothes, and they were held up to public scorn by being compelled to appear in a distinctive, unbecoming garb, the badge or emblem of their social inferiority. they were also interdicted from following certain professions and callings. they might not study or practise medicine, might not be apothecaries, nurses, vintners, grocers or tavern keepers, were forbidden to act as stewards to the nobility or as farmers or collectors of the public revenues, although judging from repeated re-enactments, these laws were evidently not strictly enforced, and often in some districts were not enforced at all. fresh fuel was added to the fiery passions vented on the jews by the unceasing denunciation of their heresy and dangerous irreligion, and public feeling was further inflamed by grossly exaggerated stories of their hideous and unchristian malpractices. the curate of los palacios has detailed some of these in his "chronicle," and they will serve, when quoted, to show what charges were brought against the jew in his time. "this accursed race (the israelites)," he says, speaking of the proceedings taken to bring about their conversion, "were either unwilling to bring their children to be baptised, or if they did, they washed away the stain on the way home. they dressed their stews and other dishes with oil instead of lard, abstained from pork, kept the passover, ate meat in lent, and sent oil to replenish the lamps of their synagogues, with many other abominable ceremonies of their religion. they entertained no respect for monastic life, and frequently profaned the sanctity of religious houses by the violation or seduction of their inmates. they were an exceedingly politic and ambitious people, engrossing the most lucrative municipal offices, and preferring to gain their livelihood by traffic, in which they made exorbitant gains, rather than by manual labour or mechanical arts. they considered themselves in the hands of the egyptians whom it was a merit to deceive and rob. by their wicked contrivances they amassed great wealth, and thus were able often to ally themselves by marriage with noble christian families." the outcry against the jews steadily increased in volume. the clergy were the loudest in their protests against the alleged abominations, and one dominican priest, alonso de hojeda, prior of the monastery of san pablo in seville, with another priest, diego de merlo, vigorously denounced the "jewish leprosy" so alarmingly on the increase and besought the catholic sovereigns to revive the holy office with extended powers as the only effective means of healing it. the appeal was strongly supported by the papal nuncio at the court of castile. ferdinand and isabella, as devout catholics, deplored the prevalence of heresy, which they acknowledged to be rampant, and yet they hesitated to surrender any of their independence. no other state in europe was so free from papal control or interference. some of the conversos held high places about the court and they, of course, used every effort to strengthen the reluctance of the queen, particularly. on the other hand, the dominican monk, thomas de torquemada, her confessor in her youth, strove to instil the same spirit of unyielding fanaticism that possessed himself, and earnestly entreated her to devote herself to the "extirpation of heresy for the glory of god and the glorification of the catholic faith." she long resisted but yielded at last to the unceasing importunities of the priests around her, and consented to solicit a bull from the pope, sixtus iv, to introduce the modern inquisition into castile. it was issued, under the date of november 1st, 1478, and authorised the appointment of two or three ecclesiastical inquisitors for the detection and suppression of heresy throughout spain. one difference from the usual form establishing such tribunals was the location of the power of appointment of inquisitors, which was vested in the king and queen instead of in provincials of the dominican or franciscan orders. heretofore the appointment of inquisitors had been considered a delegation of the authority of the holy see, something entirely independent of the secular power. but so jealous of outside interference were the spanish rulers and the spanish people, that the pope was forced to give way. though he and his successors vainly strove to recover the power thus granted, they were never entirely successful, and the spanish inquisition remained to a large extent a state affair, and this fact explains much which otherwise is inexplicable. for example the confiscations passed into the royal instead of into the papal treasury. at first mild measures were to be tried. cardinal mendoza, archbishop of seville, had drawn up a catechism instructing his clergy to spare no pains in illuminating the benighted israelites by a candid exposition of the true principles of christianity. progress was slow, and after two years the results were so meagre that it was thought necessary to proceed to the nomination of inquisitors, and two dominican monks, fra miguel de morillo, and juan de san martin, were appointed with full powers, assisted by an assessor and a procurator fiscal. the jews played into the hands of their tormentors. great numbers had been terrified into apostasy by the unrelenting hostility of the people. their only escape from the furious attacks made upon them had been conversion to christianity, often quite feigned and unreal. the proselytising priests, however, claimed to have done wonders; one, st. vincent ferrer, a dominican of valencia, had by means of his eloquence and the miraculous power vouchsafed him, "changed the hearts of no less than thirty-five thousand of house of judah." these numerous converts were of course unlikely to be very tenacious in their profession of the new faith, and not strangely laid themselves open to constant suspicion. many were denounced and charged with backsliding, many more boldly reverted to judaism, or secretly performed their old rites. now uncompromising war was to be waged against the backsliding "new christians" or conversos. the inquisitors installed themselves in seville, and made the dominican convent of san pablo their first headquarters, but this soon proved quite insufficient in size and they were allowed to occupy the fortress of the triana, the great fortress of seville, on the right bank of the guadalquivir, the immense size and gloomy dungeons of which were especially suitable. this part of the city was much exposed to inundations, and when, in 1626, it was threatened with destruction by an unusually high flood, the seat of the tribunal was removed to the palace of the caballeros tellos taveros in the parish of san marco. in 1639 it returned to the triana which had been repaired, and remained there till 1789, when further encroachments of the river caused it to be finally transferred to the college of las beccas. the triana is now a low suburb, inhabited principally by gipsies and the lower classes. it was at one time the potters' quarter where the famous _azulejo_ tiles were made, and its factories to-day produce the well known majolica vases and plates with surface of metallic lustre. one of the first steps of the inquisition was to put a summary check to the exodus of the jews who had been fast deserting the country. all the magnates of castile, dukes, counts, hidalgos and persons in authority, were commanded to arrest all fugitives, to sequestrate their property and send them prisoners to seville. any who disobeyed or failed to execute this order were to be excommunicated as abettors of heresy, to be deposed from their dignities and deprived of their estates. such orders were strange to the ears of the turbulent nobles who had been accustomed to pay little heed to pope or king. a new force had arisen in the land. on the castle of the triana,[3] already described, a tablet was erected over the portals with an inscription, celebrating the inauguration of the first "modern inquisition" in western europe. the concluding words were:--"god grant that for the protection and augmentation of the faith it may abide unto the end of time. arise oh lord, judge thy cause! catch yet the foxes (heretics)!" [3] the counts of san lucar were hereditary alcaldes of triana, and in return for surrendering the castle, they were granted the dignity of alguazil mayor of the inquisition. it was worth 150,000 maravedis a year and the holder of the office provided a deputy. the maravedi, once a gold coin of some value, latterly represented only 3/8 of a cent. just now, by an ill-advised move, the conversos lost the sympathy of all. diego de susan, one of the richest citizens of seville, called a meeting of the "new christians" in the church of san salvador. it was attended by many high officials, and even ecclesiastics of jewish blood. susan suggested that they collect a store of arms, and that at the first arrest, they rise and slay the inquisitors. the plan was adopted but was betrayed by a daughter of susan, who had a christian lover. the plotters were arrested at once, and on february sixth, 1481, six men and women were burned and others were severely punished. the hunt was cunningly organised. an "edict of grace" was published promising pardon to all backsliders if they would come voluntarily and confess their sins. many sought indulgence and were plied with questions by the inquisitors to extract evidence against others. on the information thus obtained the suspected were marked down, seized and carried off to the prisons. any adherence to jewish customs gave opportunity for denunciation, and the severe measures rapidly reduced the numbers of the backsliding jewish-christians. in seville alone, according to llorente, two hundred and ninety-eight persons were burnt in less than a year, and seventy-nine were condemned to perpetual imprisonment. great sums ought to have passed into the treasury, then and afterwards, from the confiscated property of rich people who perished at the stake or were subjected to fine and forfeiture. but the great engine of the inquisition was excessively costly. the pageants at the frequent _autos da fé_ were lavishly expensive, a great staff of officials, experts, familiars and guards was maintained, and, in addition, the outlay on the place of execution, the "_quemadero_" or burning place, a great pavement on a raised platform adorned with fine pillars and statues of the prophets, was very considerable, while the yearly bill for fuel, for faggots and brush wood rose to a high figure. undoubtedly there was considerable embezzlement also. there was evidently too much work for two men, so in february, 1482, seven additional inquisitors were commissioned by the pope on the nomination of the sovereigns, and some of these were exceedingly zealous. there was, however, much confusion because of the lack of a unifying authority. the sovereigns were determined that the institution must be kept under the control of the state, and so a council of administration usually called _la suprema_ was added to those already existing, and was charged with jurisdiction over all measures concerning the faith. at the head was placed a new officer, later called the inquisitor-general. the inquisitor-general was hardly a subject. he had direct access to the sovereign and exercised absolute and unlimited power over the whole population and was superior to all human law. no rank, high or low escaped his jurisdiction. royal personages were not exempt from his control, for the holy office invaded the prince's palace as well as the pauper's hovel. there was no sanctity in the grave, for corpses of heretics were ruthlessly disinterred, mutilated and burned. the first inquisitor-general under the new organisation was thomas de torquemada, who has won for himself dreadful immortality from the signal part he played in the great tragedy of the inquisition. he was a dominican monk, a native of old castile, who had been confessor and keeper of the queen's conscience to isabella in her early days and constantly sought to instil his fiery spirit into her youthful mind. "this man," says prescott, "who concealed more pride under his monastic weeds than might have furnished forth a convent of his order, was one of that class with whom zeal passes for religion and who testify their zeal by a fiery persecution of those whose creed differs from their own; who compensate for their abstinence from sensual indulgence by giving scope to those deadlier vices of the heart, pride, bigotry and intolerance which are no less opposed to virtue and are far more extensively mischievous to society." the cruelties which he perpetrated grew out of a pitiless fanaticism, more cruel than the grave. he was rigid and unbending and knew no compromise. absolutely fearless, he directed his terrible engine against the suspect no matter how high-born or influential. torquemada was appointed in 1483 and was authorised from rome to frame a new constitution for the holy office. he had been empowered to create permanent provincial tribunals under chief inquisitors which sat at toledo, valladolid, madrid and other important cities, and his first act was to summon some of these to seville to assist him in drawing up rules for the governance of the great and terrible engine that was to terrorise all spain for centuries to come. the principles of action, the methods of procedure, the steps taken to hunt up victims and bring them under the jurisdiction of the court, secure conviction and enforce penalties, are all set out at length in the record of the times. "a bloody page of history," says the historian, "attests the fact that fanaticism armed with power is the sorest evil that can befall a nation." for generations the spanish people, first the jews, then the moriscos, lastly the whole native born community lay helpless in the grip of this irresponsible despotism. few, once accused, escaped without censure of some sort. llorente declares with his usual exaggeration that out of a couple of thousand cases, hardly one ended in acquittal and the saying became proverbial that people if not actually roasted by the inquisition were at least singed. in order to appreciate fully the harshness of the spanish inquisition and the cruelties perpetrated for several centuries, under the guise of religion, we must trace the steps taken by the holy office, its guiding principles and its methods of procedure. the great aim at the outset was to hunt up heretics and encourage the denunciation of presumed offenders. good catholics were commanded by edicts published from the pulpits of all churches to give information against every person they knew or suspected of being guilty of heresy, and priests were ordered to withhold absolution from any one who hesitated to speak, even when the suspected person was a near relation, parent, child, husband or wife. all accusations whether signed or anonymous were accepted, but the names of witnesses were also required. on this sometimes meagre inculpation victims might be at once arrested, though in some cases, censors must first pass upon the evidence. often not a whisper of trouble reached the accused until the blow actually fell. kept thus in solitary imprisonment, cut off entirely from his friends outside, denied the sympathy or support he might derive from their visits or communications, he was left to brood despairingly, a prey to agonised doubts, in ignorance even of the charges brought against him. a few brief extracts from the depositions of witnesses might be read to him, but the statements were so garbled that he could get no clue to names or identities. if there were any facts favourable to him in the testimony they were withheld from him. if he could, however, name as mortal enemies some of the witnesses, their testimony was much weakened. facts of time, place and circumstance in the charges preferred were withheld from him and he was so confused and embarrassed that unless a man of acuteness and presence of mind he might become involved in inextricable contradictions when he attempted to explain himself. on the other hand judges were guided and supported by the most minute instructions. "it is the high and peculiar privilege of the tribunal that its officers are not required to act with formality; they need observe no strict forensic rules and therefore the omission of what ordinary justice might exact does not invalidate its actions, provided only that nothing essential to the proof be wanting." the first essential of justice, as we understand it, was ignored. an accused person arraigned for heresy was expected to incriminate himself, to furnish all necessary particulars for conviction. testimony could be received from persons of any class or character. "they might be excommunicate, infamous, actual accomplices, or previously convicted of any crime." the evidence of jews and infidels might be taken also, even in a question of heretical doctrine. wife, children, relatives, servants, might depose against a heretic. "a brother may declare against a brother and a son against a father." the witnesses met with no mercy. if any one did not say all he could, or seemed reluctant to speak, the examiners occasionally ruled that torture should be applied. chapter ii persecution of jews and moors increased persecution of the jews--accusations made against them--ferdinand introduces the modern inquisition into the kingdom of aragon in 1484--fray gaspar juglar and pedro arbués appointed inquisitors--assassination of pedro arbués--punishment of his murderers--increased opposition against the holy office--arrest of the infante don jaime for sheltering a heretic--expulsion of the jews from spain--appeal to the king to revoke this edict--ferdinand inclined to yield, but torquemada over-rules him--sufferings of the jews on the journey--death of torquemada--hernando de talavera appointed archbishop of granada--his success with the moors--don diego deza new inquisitor-general--succeeded by ximenes de cisneros--his character and life--appointed primate of all spain--his severity with the moors--university of alcalá founded by ximenes--accession of charles v--persecution of moors--expulsion. the fires of the modern inquisition, it was said, had been lighted exclusively for the jews. the fiery zeal of torquemada and his coadjutors was first directed against the spanish children of israel. the jews constantly offered themselves to be harassed and despoiled. they were always fair game for avaricious greed. the inquisitors availed themselves of both lines of attack. jewish wealth steadily increased as their financial operations and their industrial activities extended and flourished. when the catholic kings embarked upon the conquest of granada, the jews found the sinews of war; jewish victuallers purveyed rations to the armies in the field; jewish brokers advanced the cash needed for the payments of troops; jewish armourers repaired the weapons used and furnished new tools and warlike implements. at the same time the passions of the populace were more and more inflamed against the jews by the dissemination of scandalous stories of their blasphemous proceedings. it was seriously asserted by certain monks that some jews had stolen a consecrated wafer with the intention of working it into a paste with the warm blood of a newly killed christian child and so produce a deadly poison to be administered to the hated chief inquisitor. another report was to the effect that crumbs from the holy wafer had been detected between the leaves of a hebrew prayer book in a synagogue. one witness declared that this substance emitted a bright effulgence which gave clear proof of its sanctity and betrayed the act of sacrilege committed. other tales were circulated of the diabolical practices of these wicked jewish heretics. ferdinand in 1484 proceeded to give the modern inquisition to the kingdom of aragon, where the "ancient" had once existed but had lost much of its rigour. it was a comparatively free country and the holy office had become little more than an ordinary ecclesiastical court. but king ferdinand was resolved to reëstablish it on the wider basis it had assumed in castile and imposed it upon his people by a royal order which directed all constituted authorities to support it in carrying out its new extended functions. a dominican monk, fray gaspar juglar, and a canon of the church, pedro arbués, were appointed by torquemada to be inquisitors for the diocese of saragossa. the new institution was most distasteful to the aragonese, a hardy and independent people. among the higher orders were numbers of jewish descent, filling important offices and likely to come under the ban of the inquisition. the result was a deputation to the pope and another to the king representing the general repugnance of the aragonese to the institution and praying that its action might be suspended. neither pope nor king would listen to the appeal and the holy office began its work. two _autos da fé_ were celebrated in saragossa, the capital, in 1484, when two men were executed. horror and consternation seized the conversos and a fierce desire for reprisals developed. they were resolved to intimidate their oppressors by some appalling act of retaliation and a plot was hatched to make away with one of the inquisitors. the conspirators included many of the principal "new christians," some of whom were persons of note in the district. a considerable sum was subscribed to meet expenses and pay the assassins. pedro arbués was marked down for destruction but, conscious of his danger, continually managed to evade his enemies. he wore always a coat of mail beneath his robes when he attended mass in the cathedral, and every avenue by which he could be approached in his house was also carefully guarded. at length he was taken by surprise when at his devotions. he was on his knees before the high altar saying his prayers at midnight, when two men crept up behind him unobserved and attacked him. one struck him with a dagger in the left arm, the other felled him with a violent blow on the back of the neck by which he was laid prostrate and carried off dying. with his last breath he thanked god for being selected to seal so good a cause with his blood. his death was deemed a martyrdom and caused a reaction in favour of the inquisition as a general rising of the new christians was feared. the storm was appeased by the archbishop of saragossa who gave out publicly that the murderers should be rigorously pursued and should suffer condign punishment. the promise was abundantly fulfilled. a stern recompense was exacted from all who were identified with the conspiracy. the scent was followed up with unrelenting pertinacity, several persons were taken and put to death, and a larger number perished in the dungeons of the inquisition. all the perpetrators of the murder were hanged after their right hands had been amputated. the sentence of one who had given evidence against the rest was commuted in that his hand was not cut off till after his death. a native of saragossa had taken refuge in tudela where he found shelter and concealment in the house of the infante, don jaime, the illegitimate son of the queen of navarre, and nephew of king ferdinand himself. the generous young prince could not reject the claims of hospitality and helped the fugitive to escape into france. but the infante was himself arrested by the inquisitors and imprisoned as an "impeder" of the holy office. his trial took place in saragossa, although navarre was outside its jurisdiction, and he was sentenced to do open penance in the cathedral in the presence of a great congregation at high mass. the ceremony was carried out before the archbishop of saragossa, a boy of seventeen, the illegitimate son of king ferdinand, and this callow stripling in his primate's robes ordered his father's nephew to be flogged round the church with rods. the second story is much more horrible. one gaspar de santa cruz of saragossa had been concerned in the rebellion, but escaped to toulouse where he died. he had been aided in his flight by a son who remained in saragossa, and who was arrested as an "impeder" of the holy office. he was tried and condemned to appear at an _auto da fé_, where he was made to read an act which held up his father to public ignominy. then the son was transferred to the custody of the inquisitor of toulouse who took him to his father's grave, forced him to exhume the corpse and burn it with his own hands. the bitter hatred of the jews culminated in the determination of the king and queen, urged on by torquemada, to expel them entirely from spain. the germ of this idea may be found in the capitulation of granada by the moors, when it was agreed that every jew found in the city was to be shipped off forthwith to barbary. it was now argued that since all attempts to convert them had failed, spain should be altogether rid of them. the catholic king and queen were induced to sign an edict dated march 30th, 1492, by which it was decreed that every jew should be banished from spain within three months, save and except those who chose to apostasise and who, on surrendering the faith of their fathers, might be suffered to remain in the land of their adoption, with leave to enjoy the goods they had inherited or earned. no doubt this edict originated with torquemada. dismay and deep sorrow fell upon the spanish jews. the whole country was filled with tribulation. all alike cried for mercy and offered to submit to any laws and ordinances however oppressive, to accept any terms, to pay any penalties if only they might escape this cruel exile. leading jews appeared before king ferdinand and pleaded abjectly for mercy for their co-religionists, offering an immediate ransom of six hundred thousand crowns in gold. the king was inclined to clemency, but the queen was firm. he saw the present advantage, the ready money, and doubted whether he would get as much from the fines and confiscations promised by the inquisitors. but at that moment, so the story goes, torquemada rushed into the presence bearing a crucifix on high and cried in stentorian tones that the sovereigns were about to act the part of judas iscariot. "here he is! sell him again, not for thirty pieces of silver, but for thirty thousand!" and flinging the crucifix on to the table, he ran out in a frenzy. this turned the tables, and the decree for expulsion was confirmed. the terms of the edict were extremely harsh and peremptory. as a preamble the crimes of the jews were recited and the small effect produced hitherto by the most severe penalties. it was asserted that they still conspired to overturn christianity in spain and recourse to the last remedy, the decree of expulsion, under which all jews and jewesses were commanded to leave spain and never return, even for a passing visit, on pain of death, was therefore necessary. the last day of july, 1492, or four months later, was fixed for the last day of their sojourn in spain. after that date they would remain at the peril of their lives, while any person of whatever rank or quality who should presume to receive, shelter, protect or defend a jew or jewess should forfeit all his property and be discharged from his office, dignity or calling. during the four months, the law allowed the jews to sell their estates, or barter them for heavy goods, but they were forbidden to remove gold or silver or take out of the kingdom other portable property which was already prohibited by law from exportation. during the preparation for, and execution of this modern exodus, the condition of the wretched israelites was heart-rending. torquemada had tried hard to proselytise, had sent out preachers offering baptism and reconciliation, but at first few listened to the terms proposed. all owners of property and valuables suffered the heaviest losses. enforced sales were so numerous that purchasers were not to be easily found. fine estates were sold for a song. a house was exchanged for an ass or beast of burden; a vineyard for a scrap of cloth or linen. despite the prohibition much gold and silver were carried away concealed in the stuffing of saddles and among horse furniture. some exiles at the moment of departure swallowed gold pieces, as many as twenty and thirty, and thus evaded to some extent the strict search instituted at the sea ports and frontier towns. at last in the first week of july, all took to the roads travelling to the coast on foot, on horse or ass-back or were conveyed in country carts. according to an eye-witness, "they suffered incredible misfortunes by the way, some walking feebly, some struggling manfully, some fainting, many attacked with illness, some dying, others coming into the world, so that there was not a christian who did not feel for them and entreat them to be baptised." here and there under the pressure of accumulated miseries a few professed to be converted, but such cases were very rare. the rabbis encouraged the people as they went and exhorted the young ones to raise their voices and the women to sing and play on pipes and timbrels to enliven them and keep up their spirits. ships were provided by the spanish authorities at cadiz, gibraltar, carthagena, valencia and barcelona on which fifteen hundred of the wealthy families embarked and started for africa, italy and the levant, taking with them their dialect of the spanish language, such as is still talked at the places where they landed. of those who joined in the general exodus some perished at sea, by wreck, disease, violence or fire, and some by famine, exhaustion or murder on inhospitable shores. many were sold for slaves, many thrown overboard by savage ship captains, while parents parted with their children for money to buy food. on board one crowded ship a pestilence broke out, and the whole company was landed and marooned on a desert island. other infected ships carried disease into the port of naples, where it grew into a terrible epidemic, by which twenty thousand native neapolitans perished. those who reached the city found it in the throes of famine, but were met in landing by a procession of priests, led by one who carried a crucifix and a loaf of bread, and who intimated that only those who would adore the first would receive the other. in papal dominions alone was a hospitable reception accorded. the pope of the time, alexander vi, was more tolerant than other rulers. the total loss of population is now difficult to ascertain, but undoubtedly it has been greatly exaggerated. the most trustworthy estimate fixes the number of emigrants at one hundred and sixty-five thousand, and the number dying of hardships and grief before leaving at about twenty thousand. probably fifty thousand more accepted baptism as a consequence of the edict. the loss entailed in actual value was incalculable and a vast amount of potential earnings was sacrificed by the disappearance of so large a part of the most industrious members of the population. the king and queen greatly impoverished spain in purging it of hebrew heresy. their action however was greeted with applause by other rulers who did not go to the same lengths on account of economic considerations. they were praised because they were willing to sacrifice revenue for the sake of the faith. open judaism no longer existed in spain. there were left only the apostates, or new christians. that many of these were christians in name and kept the mosaic law in every detail is undoubted. as jews they were not subject to the inquisition. as professing christians, any departure from the established faith subjected them to the penalties imposed upon heretics. in spite of the high positions which many achieved, they were objects of suspicion, and with the increasing authority of the inquisition their lot grew harder. torquemada had been active not only against the jews, but against all suspected of any heresy, no matter how influential. the odium he incurred raised up constant accusations against him, and he was obliged on three occasions to send an agent to rome to defend his character. later his arbitrary power was curtailed by the appointment of four coadjutors, nominally, to share the burthens of office, but really to check his action. on the whole he may be said to take rank among those who have been the authors of evil to their species. "his zeal was of such an extravagant character that it may almost shelter itself under the name of insanity." his later days were filled with constant dread of assassination, and when he moved to and fro his person was protected by a formidable escort, a bodyguard of fifty familiars of the holy office mounted as dragoons and a body of two hundred infantry soldiers. yet he reached a very old age and died quietly in his bed. estimates of the numbers convicted and punished during his administration differ widely. llorente, who is, however, much given to exaggeration, states that eight thousand eight hundred were burned alive, and that the total number condemned was more than one hundred and five thousand. on the other hand langlois,[4] whose estimate is accepted by vancandard, and other catholic writers, thinks that the number put to death was about two thousand. [4] langlois, l'inquisition d'après des tableaux recénts (1902), quoted by vancandard (conway's translation, 1908). death overtook him when a fresh campaign against heresy was imminent. the conquest of the kingdom of granada by ferdinand and isabella opened up a new field for the proselytising fervour of the inquisition, which was now resolved to convert all mahometan subjects to the christian faith. a friar of the order of st. jerome, hernando de talavera, a man of blameless life, a ripe scholar, a persuasive preacher, deeply read in sacred literature and moral philosophy, had been one of the confessors to royalty, and had been raised to the bishopric of avila. but he had begged to be allowed to resign it and devote himself entirely to the conversion of the moors. the pope granted his request and appointed him archbishop of granada with a smaller revenue than that of the diocese he left, but he was humble minded, had no craving to exhibit the pomp and display of a great prelate and devoted himself with all diligence to the duties of his new charge. he soon won the hearts of the moors who loved and venerated him. he proceeded with great caution, made no open show of his desire to convert them, and strictly refrained from any coercive measures, trusting rather to reason them out of their heterodox belief. he caused a translation to be made of the bible into arabic, distributed it, encouraged the moors to attend conferences, and come to him in private to listen to his arguments. being thus busily engaged, he withdrew to a great extent from the court of ferdinand and isabella, who came more and more under the influence of fiery bigots, to whom the mild measures of the archbishop became profoundly displeasing. the inquisitors, with don diego deza who had succeeded torquemada, at their head, incessantly entreated the sovereigns to proceed with more severity, and went the length of advising the immediate expulsion of all moors who hesitated to accept conversion and baptism forthwith. they urged that it was for the good of their souls to draw them into the fold and insisted that it would be utterly impossible for christian and moslem to live peacefully and happily side by side. the king and queen demurred, temporising as they had done with the revival of the inquisition. it might be dangerous, they argued, to enforce penalties that were too harsh. their supremacy was hardly as yet consolidated in granada; the moors had not yet entirely laid aside their arms and unwise oppression might bring about a resumption of hostilities. they hoped that the moors, like other conquered peoples, would in due course freely adopt the religion of their new masters. loving kindliness and gentle persuasion would more surely gain ground than fierce threats and arbitrary decrees. so for seven or more years the conciliatory methods of archbishop talavera prevailed and met with the approval of ferdinand and isabella. but now a remarkable man of very different character appeared upon the scene and began to advocate sterner measures. this was a franciscan monk, ximenes de cisneros, one of the most notable figures in spanish history, who became in due course inquisitor-general and regent of spain. a sketch of his life may well be given to enable us better to understand the times. ximenes de cisneros better known, perhaps, under his first name alone, was the scion of an ancient but decayed family and destined from his youth for the church. he studied at the university of salamanca and evinced marked ability. after a stay in rome, the best field for preferment, he returned to spain with the papal promise of the first vacant benefice in the see of toledo. the archbishop had other views, however, and when ximenes claimed the cure of uceda, he was sent to prison in its fortress and not to the presbytery. for six years ximenes asserted his pretensions unflinchingly and was at last nominated, when he exchanged to a chaplaincy in another diocese, that of siguenza, where he continued his theological studies and acquired hebrew and chaldee. here he came under the observation of the bishop mendoza, who afterwards became cardinal primate of spain, and who enjoyed the unbounded confidence of queen isabella. mendoza when invited to recommend to her a new confessor, in succession to talavera on his translation to the see of granada, fixed upon ximenes of whom he had never lost sight since their first acquaintance at siguenza. ximenes, meanwhile, had become more and more devoted to his sacred calling. his marked business aptitudes had gained for him the post of steward to a great nobleman, the conde de cifuentes, who had been taken prisoner by the moors. but secular concerns were distasteful to him and ximenes resigned his charge. his naturally austere and contemplative disposition had deepened into stern fanatical enthusiasm and he resolved to devote himself more absolutely to the service of the church. he entered the franciscan order, threw up all his benefices and employments, and became a simple novice in the monastery of san juan de los reyes in toledo, where his cloister life was signalised by extreme severity and self-mortification. he wore haircloth next his skin, slept on the stone floor with a wooden pillow under his head, tortured himself with continual fasts and vigils, and flogged himself perpetually. at last he became a professed monk, and because of the fame of his exemplary piety, great crowds were attracted to his confessional. he shrank now from the popular favour and retired to a lonely convent in a far off forest, where he built himself a small hermitage with his own hands and where he passed days and nights in solemn abstraction and unceasing prayer, living like the ancient anchorites on the green herbs he gathered and drinking water from the running streams. self centred and pondering deeply on spiritual concerns, constantly in a state of mental exaltation and ecstasy, he saw visions and dreamed dreams, believing himself to be in close communication with celestial agencies and was no doubt on the eve of going mad, when his superiors ordered him to reside in the convent of salceda, where he became charged with its administration and management, and was forced to exercise his powerful mind for the benefit of others. it was here that the call to court found him and he was summoned to valladolid and unexpectedly brought into the presence of the queen. isabella was greatly prepossessed in his favour by his simple dignity of manner, his discretion, his unembarrassed self-possession and above all his fervent piety in discussing religious questions. yet he hesitated to accept the office of her confessor, and only did so on the condition that he should be allowed to conform to the rules of his order and remain at his monastery except when officially on duty at the court. soon afterwards, he was appointed provincial of the franciscans in castile and set himself to reform their religious houses, the discipline of which was greatly relaxed. sloth, luxury and licentiousness prevailed and especially in his own order, which was wealthy and richly endowed with estates in the country, and stately dwellings in the towns. these monks, styled "conventuals," wasted large sums in prodigal expenditure, and were often guilty of scandalous misconduct which ximenes, as an observantine, one of a small section pledged to rigid observance of monastic rules, strongly condemned. he was encouraged and supported in the work of reform by isabella and a special bull from rome armed him with full authority. his rigorous and unsparing action met with fierce opposition, but he triumphed in the end and won a notable reward. when the archbishop of toledo died, in 1495, ximenes, unknown to himself, was selected for the great post of primate of all spain and lord high chancellor of castile. the right to nominate was vested in the queen, and ferdinand in this instance begged her to appoint his natural son, alfonso, already archbishop of saragossa, but a child almost in years. she firmly and unhesitatingly refused and recommended her confessor to the pope as the most worthy recipient of the honour. when the bull making the appointment arrived from rome, the queen summoned ximenes to her presence handed him the letter and desired him to open it before her. on reading the address, "to our venerable brother, francisco ximenes de cisneros, archbishop of toledo," he changed colour, dropped the letter, and crying, "there must be some mistake," ran out of the room. the queen, in surprise, waited, but he did not return and it was found that he had taken horse and fled to his monastery. two grandees were despatched in hot haste to ride after him, overtake him and bring him back to madrid. he returned but still resisted all the entreaties of his friends and the clearly expressed wishes of his sovereign. finally his persistent refusal was overborne, but only by the direct command of the pope, who ordered him to accept the post for which his sovereigns had chosen him. he has been sharply criticised for his apparent humility, but it is generally admitted that he was sincere in his refusal. he was already advanced in years, ambition was dying in him, he had become habituated to monastic seclusion and his thoughts were already turned from the busy turmoil of this world to the life beyond the grave. however reluctant to accept high office, ximenes was by no means slow to exercise the power it gave him. he ruled the spanish church with a rod of iron, bending all his energies to the work of reforming the practices of the clergy, enforcing discipline and insisting upon the maintenance of the strictest morality. he trod heavily, made many enemies, and stirred so much ill feeling that the malcontents combined to despatch a messenger to lay their grievances before the pope. the officious advocate, however, got no audience but went home to spain, where twenty months' imprisonment taught him not to offend again the masterful archbishop of toledo. ximenes in insisting upon a strict observance of propriety and the adoption of an exemplary life, was in himself a model to the priesthood. he never relaxed the personal mortifications which had been his rule when a simple monk. he kept no state and made no show, regulating his domestic expenditure with the strictest and most parsimonious economy, until reminded by the holy see that the dignity of his great office demanded more magnificence. still, when he increased his display and the general style of living in household, equipages and the number of his retainers, he continued to be as harsh as ever to himself. in spite of all opposition and discontent he pursued his course with inflexible purpose. his spirit was unyielding, and his energetic proceedings were unremittingly directed to the amelioration and improvement in the morals of the clergy with marked success. and now he set himself with the same uncompromising zeal to extirpate heresy. having begged archbishop talavera to allow him to join in the good work at granada, he took immediate advantage of the consent given and began to attack the moorish unbelievers in his own vigorous fashion. his first step was to call together a great conference of learned mussulman doctors, to whom he expounded with all the eloquence he had at his command, the true doctrines of the catholic faith and their superiority to the law of mahomet. he accompanied his teaching with liberal gifts, chiefly of costly articles of apparel, a specious though irresistible bribery, which had the desired effect. great numbers of the moorish doctors came over at once and their example was speedily followed by many of their illiterate disciples. so great was the number of converts that no less than three thousand presented themselves for baptism in one day, and as the rite could not be administered individually, they were christened wholesale by sprinkling them from a mop or hyssop which had been dipped in holy water, and from which the drops fell upon the proselytes as it was twirled over the heads of the multitude. these early successes stimulated the primate's zeal and he next adopted more violent measures by proceeding to imprison and impose penalties upon all moors who still stood out against conversion. he was resolved not merely to exterminate heresy, but to destroy the basis of belief contained in the most famous arabic manuscripts, large quantities of which were collected into great piles and burned publicly in the great squares of the city. many of these were beautifully executed copies of the koran; others, treasured theological and scientific works, and their indiscriminate destruction is a blot upon the reputation of the cultivated prelate who had created the most learned university in spain. more temperate and cautious people besought ximenes to hold his hand. but he proceeded pertinaciously, declaring that a tamer policy might serve in temporal matters, but not where the interests of the soul were at stake. if the unbeliever could not be drawn he must be driven into the way of salvation, and he continued with unflinching resolution to arrest all recusants, and throw them into the prisons which were filled to overflowing. discontent grew rapidly and soon broke into open violence. when an _alguazil_ in granada was leading a woman away as a prisoner, the people rose and released her from custody. the insurrection became general in the city and assumed a threatening aspect. granada was full of warlike moors and a mob besieged ximenes in his house until he was rescued by the garrison of the alhambra. the king and queen were much annoyed with ximenes and condemned his zealous precipitancy, but he was clever enough to vindicate his action and bring the sovereigns to believe that it was imperative that the rebellious moors must be sharply repressed. now a long conflict began. forcible conversion became the order of the day; baptism continued to be performed in the gross upon thousands, the alternative being exile, and numbers were actually deported to barbary in the royal ships. a fierce civil conflict broke out in the alpujarras beyond granada, which required a royal army to quell. the object sought was the welfare of the state by producing uniformity of faith. [illustration: _peint par benjamin constant_ _photogravure goupil & c^{ie}._ _the alhambra palace, granada_ the beautiful moorish stronghold during the time of the supremacy of the moors was often made the home of slaves captured in near-by frontier towns of andalusia, who endured hateful bondage under the rule of the mohammedan monarch. granada and its palace were finally captured by ferdinand and isabella, and the alhambra is to-day the finest example of moorish architecture, with its delicate elaboration of detail.] ximenes found a strenuous supporter in diego deza, the inquisitor-general, who was eager to emulate the strictness of his predecessor, torquemada. deza was a dominican who had been at one time professor of theology and confessor to the queen. he was by nature and predilection exactly fitted for his new office upon which he entered with extensive powers. a bull from pope alexander vi dated 1499 invested him with the title of "conservator of the faith" in spain. deza gave a new constitution to the holy office and prescribed that there should be a general "inquest" in places not yet visited, and that edicts should be republished requiring all persons to lay information against suspected heretics. he stirred up the zeal of all subordinate inquisitors and was well served by them, especially by one, lucero, commonly called _el tenebroso_, "the gloomy," whose savage and ruthless proceedings terrorised cordova where he presided. he made a general attack upon the most respectable inhabitants and arrested great numbers, many of whom were condemned and executed. informers crowded lucero's ante-chamber bringing monstrous tales of heretical conspiracies to reëstablish judaism and subvert the church. his familiars dragged the accused from their beds to answer to these charges and the prisons overflowed. cordova was up in arms and many would have offered armed resistance to the inquisition, but the more circumspect people, the bishop and chapter, some of the nobility and the municipal council appealed to deza praying him to remove lucero. the inquisitor-general however turned furiously upon the complainants and caused them to be arrested as abettors of heresy. philip i, acting for his wife juana, the daughter of ferdinand and isabella, was inclined to listen to the complainants, and suspended both deza and lucero from their functions. but his sudden death stayed the relief he had promised, and the tormenting officials returned to renew their oppression. the cordovese would not tamely submit and appealed to force. a strong body of men under the marques de priego attacked the "holy house," broke open the prison and liberated many of those detained, shutting up the officers of the inquisition in their place. lucero took to flight upon a swift mule and escaped. though for a time deza continued to keep his influence, he was shortly forced to resign and cordova became tranquil. deza's persecution had spared no one. in the eight years during which he held office, one account, probably greatly exaggerated, says that 2,592 persons were burned alive, some nine hundred were burned in effigy, and thirty-five thousand were punished by penance, fines and confiscations. the fall of deza and the hostile attitude of the people warned the authorities that the affairs of the inquisition must be managed more adroitly. new inquisitors must be appointed and choice fell upon ximenes de cisneros, who had already played a foremost part in proselytising, but who now was willing to adopt more moderate measures. the pope in giving his approval sent him a cardinal's hat as a recompense for past services, and as an encouragement to act wisely in the future. he had a difficult task. disaffection, strongly pronounced, prevailed through the kingdom and the inquisition was everywhere cordially detested. ximenes strove to appease the bitter feeling by instituting a searching inquiry into the conduct of his immediate predecessor, deza, and promising to hear all complaints and redress all grievances. he created a "catholic congregation" as a special court to investigate the actions of lucero in the proceedings growing out of the charges against archbishop talavera and his family. this court in due course pronounced a verdict of acquittal and rehabilitation of the talaveras. ruined houses were rebuilt, the memory of the dead restored to honour and fame, and this act of grace was published at valladolid with great solemnity in the presence of the kings, bishops and grandees. nevertheless ximenes had no desire to remodel the holy office or limit its operations to any considerable extent. on the contrary, he bent all his efforts to develop its influence and make it an engine of government, utilising it as a political as well as a religious agency. it was as rigorous as ever but he set his face like a flint against dishonesty. he systematised the division of the realm into inquisitorial provinces, each under its own inquisitor with headquarters in the principal cities, such as seville, toledo, valladolid, murcia, and in sardinia and sicily beyond the seas. his personal ascendancy became extraordinary. he enjoyed the unbounded confidence and favour of the sovereign. he had been created cardinal of spain, a title rarely conferred. as archbishop of toledo, he was the supreme head of the spanish clergy, and as inquisitor-general, he was the terror of every priest and every layman within his jurisdiction. he had, in fact, reached the highest ecclesiastical rank, short of the papacy and as he rose higher and higher he wielded powers little short of an independent absolute monarch, and his zeal in the cause of his religion grew more and more fervent and far-reaching. no doubt in an earlier age he would have turned crusader, but now he sought to crush the fugitive moors who had escaped into northern africa, whence they made constant descents upon the south of spain, burning to avenge the wrongs of their co-religionists, and were a constant scourge and source of grievous trouble. the evils centred in the province of oran, a fortified stronghold--the most considerable of the moslem possessions on the shores of the mediterranean--whence issued a swarm of pirate cruisers, manned by the exiles driven out of spain, who had sought and found a welcome refuge in oran. ximenes was resolved to seize and sweep out this hornets' nest and undertook its conquest on his own account. much ridicule was levelled at this "monk about to fight the battles of spain," but he went forth undeterred at the head of a powerful army, conveyed by a strong fleet from cartagena, which he landed at the african port of mazalquivir, and after some desperate fighting made himself master of oran. after his successful african campaign he resumed his duties of chief inquisitor, and the holy office under his fierce and vigorous rule became more than ever oppressive. ximenes pursued his unwavering course and encouraged his inquisitors in their unceasing activity. he desired to extend the power and influence of the inquisition, and established it in the new countries recently added to the spanish dominion. a branch was set up in the newly conquered province of oran, and another farther afield in the recently discovered new world beyond the atlantic. on the initiative of ximenes fray juan quevedo, bishop of cuba, was appointed chief inquisitor in the kingdom of terrafirma, as the territories of the new world were styled. the energetic pursuit of heresy did not monopolise the exertions of ximenes. he founded the great university of alcalá, a vast design, a noble seat of learning richly endowed with magnificent buildings and a remarkable scheme of education, which produced the ablest and most eminent scholars. another great monument is the well known polyglot bible, designed to exhibit the scriptures in their various ancient languages, a work of singular erudition upon which the munificent cardinal expended vast sums. ximenes lived to the advanced age of eighty-one, long enough to act as regent of spain during the interregnum preceding the arrival of charles i, better known as the emperor charles v. the immediate cause of his death was said to have been the receipt of a letter from the emperor in which he was coldly thanked for his services and desired to retire to his diocese, to "seek from heaven that reward which heaven alone could adequately bestow." in his last moments he is reported to have said, "that he had never intentionally wronged any man; but had rendered to every one his due, without being swayed, as far as he was conscious, by fear or affection." he combined a versatility of talent usually found only in softer and more flexible characters. though bred in the cloister, he distinguished himself both in the cabinet and the camp. for the latter, indeed, so repugnant to his regular profession, he had a natural genius, according to the testimony of his biographer; and he evinced his relish for it by declaring that "the smell of gunpowder was more grateful to him than the sweetest perfume of arabia!" in every situation, however, he exhibited the stamp of his peculiar calling; and the stern lineaments of the monk were never wholly concealed under the mask of the statesman or the visor of the warrior. he had a full measure of the religious bigotry which belonged to the age; and he had melancholy scope for displaying it, as chief of that dread tribunal over which he presided during the last ten years of his life. the accession of the grandson of ferdinand and isabella to the spanish throne as charles i (better known as the emperor charles v), seemed to foreshadow a change in the relations of the inquisition and the state. the young sovereign was born in ghent and was more fleming than spaniard. though his grandfather left in his will solemn injunctions "to labour with all his strength to destroy and extirpate heresy" and to appoint ministers "who will conduct the inquisition justly and properly for the service of god and the exaltation of the catholic faith, and who will also have great zeal for the destruction of the sect of mahomet," it was reported that he sympathised with the critics of the inquisition and was disposed to curtail its activity. the influence of his old tutor, adrian of utrecht, whom he commissioned inquisitor-general, first of aragon, and, after the death of ximenes, of castile also, changed him however into a strong friend and staunch supporter of the institution. cardinal manrique, who followed as inquisitor-general, was a man of more kindly disposition, charitable and a benefactor to the poor. he was inclined to relax the severities of the holy office but it was urged upon him that heresy was on the increase on account of the appearance of lutheran opinions and the bitterest persecution was more than ever essential. protestants began to appear sporadically and called for uncompromising repression. the writings of luther, erasmus, melancthon, zwingli, and the rest of the early reformers were brought into spain, but the circulation was adjudged a crime, though erasmus had once been a favourite author. the inquisition later prepared an _index expurgandorum_, or list of condemned and prohibited literature. all books named on it were put under the ban of the law. possession of a translation of the bible in the vulgar tongues was forbidden in 1551, and the prohibition was not lifted until 1782. by that time there was no longer such keen interest in its contents, and the book was little circulated. in 1825 the british and foreign bible society sent one of its agents into spain to distribute it, and his adventures are described autobiographically in that interesting work, george borrow's "bible in spain." in spite of all the efforts to make good catholics and good spaniards of the moriscos, little real progress was made. they had accepted baptism under compulsion, not realising that thereby they were brought under control of the church. little effort was made to instruct them, moreover, and as a result thousands, nominally christians, observed scrupulously the whole moslem ritual, used the old language, and kept their old costume. some, to be sure, were hardly to be distinguished from the spaniards with whom they had intermarried, but, on the whole, they seemed an unassimilable element in the population. when philip ii succeeded his father, charles v, in 1556, he determined to take strong measures. a decree proclaimed in granada in 1566 forbade the use of the distinctive dress and of the moorish names. the old customs were to be abandoned, and all the baths were to be destroyed. rebellion followed this edict, and, for a time, it was doubtful whether it could be crushed. finally open resistance was overcome, and several thousand were transferred to the mountains of northern spain. meanwhile the inquisition was active, and thousands were brought to trial for pagan practices. prejudice continued to grow, and fanatics declared that spain could never prosper until the "evil seed" was destroyed or expelled from the christian land. jealousy of the prosperity of the moriscos led the populace to agree with the bigots, and finally expulsion was unanimously decreed by the council of state, in 1609, during the reign of philip iii. valencia was first purged, and next murcia, granada, andalusia, old and new castile and aragon. afterward vigorous attempts to root out individuals of moorish blood, who had become indistinguishable because of their strict conformity, were made. great suffering was incurred by the unfortunate exiles and many died. those who reached africa carried with them a hatred which persists to the present. the number driven out is uncertain. the estimates vary from three hundred thousand to three million. probably the most accurate estimate is that of six hundred thousand. in this number were included the most skilful artisans, and the most industrious and most thrifty portion of the population. it was a mistake from which spain has never recovered. chapter iii prisons and punishments prisons, usually, a part of the building occupied by court--better than civil prisons--torture inflicted--no new methods invented--description of various kinds--two lutheran congregations broken up--description of some famous _autos da fé_--famous victims--englishmen punished--archbishop carranza's trial. the prisons of the inquisition fall under two great heads, the "secret prisons" in which those awaiting trial were confined, and the "penitential prisons" where sentences were served. generally there were also _cárceles de familiares_ where officers of the institution charged with wrong-doing were confined. in some tribunals there were others variously called _cárceles medias_, _cárceles comunes_, and _cárceles públicas_, where offenders not charged with heresy might be confined. the secret prisons, however, have most fired the imagination. a man might disappear from his accustomed haunts, and for years his family and friends be ignorant of his condition, or even of his very existence, until one day he might appear at an _auto da fé_. what went on within the walls was a mystery. seldom did any hint of the proceedings leak out. everyone was sworn to secrecy, and the arm of the inquisition was long, if the luckless witness or attendant failed to heed his instructions. these prisons were almost invariably a part of the building occupied by the tribunal. in valencia, it was the archbishop's palace; in saragossa, the royal castle; in seville, the triana; in cordova, the alcázar, and so on. in some, there were cells and dungeons already prepared, in others, they were constructed. there was no common standard of convenience or sanitation. in many cases, generally, perhaps, they were superior to the common jails in which ordinary prisoners were confined. yet we know that some were entirely dark and very damp. others were so small that a cramped position was necessary, and were hardly ventilated at all. sometimes they were poorly cared for, and loathsome filth and vermin made them unendurable. many places were used for prisons during the three hundred years of the inquisition, and no statement is broad enough to cover them all. the mortality was high, yet not so high as in the prisons generally. since many were unsuitable and often unsafe, the wearing of fetters was common. prisoners often, incidentally, speak of their chains. occasionally more than one prisoner occupied the same room, and much evidence was secured in this way, as each hoped to lighten his own punishment by inculpating others. writing materials were permitted, though every sheet of paper must be accounted for and delivered into an official's hands. lights were not permitted however. yet entire secrecy was not always secured. attendants were sometimes bribed, and by various ingenious methods, communications occasionally found their way in or out. again in cases of severe sickness, the prisoner might be transferred to a hospital, which however must account for him if he recovered. cardinal adrian, the inquisitor-general, reminded the tribunals that the prison was for detention, not for punishment, that prisoners must not be defrauded of their food, and that the cells must be carefully inspected. these and similar instructions issued at intervals were not always obeyed, for inquisitors were often negligent. according to lea, "no general judgment can be formed as to the condition of so many prisons during three centuries, except that their average standard was considerably higher than that in other jurisdictions, and that, if there were abodes of horror, such as have been described by imaginative writers they were wholly exceptional."[5] again the same author quotes instances where prisoners speak of improved health, due to better food in prison than they were accustomed to at home, and in summing up declares that the general management was more humane than could be found elsewhere, either in or out of spain. [5] lea. history of the inquisition in spain. vol. ii. p. 526. we may briefly recapitulate the various processes of the inquisition in order, as they obtained. first came the denunciation, followed by seizure and the commencement of an inquiry. the several offences imputed were next submitted to those logical experts named "qualifiers" who decided, so to speak, "whether there was a true bill," in which case the procurator fiscal committed the accused to durance. three audiences were given him, and the time was fully taken up with cautions and monitions. the charges were next formulated but with much prolixity and reduplication. they were not reduced to writing and delivered to the accused for slow perusal and reply, but were only read over to him, hurriedly. on arraignment he was called upon to reply, then and there, to each article, to state at once whether it was true or false. the charges were usually originated by an informer and resort was had, if necessary, to "inquiry," the hunting up of suspicious or damaging facts on which evidence was sought, in any quarter and from any one good or bad. if the accused persisted in denial he was allowed counsel, but later the counsel became an official of the inquisition and naturally made only a perfunctory defence. an appeal to torture was had if the prisoner persisted in denying his guilt, in the face of plausible testimony, or if he confessed only partially to the charges against him, or if he refused to name his accomplices. a witness who had retracted his testimony or had contradicted himself, might be tortured in order that the truth might be made known. it was admitted, however, that torture was by no means an infallible method for bringing out the truth. "weak-hearted men, impatient of the first pain, will confess crimes they never committed and criminate others at the same time. bold and strong ones will bear the most severe torments. those who have been already on the rack are likely to bear it with greater courage, for they know how to adapt their limbs to it and can resist more powerfully." it may be admitted that the system was so far humane that the torture was not applied until every other effort had been tried and had failed. the instruments of torture were first exhibited with threats, but when once in use, it might be repeated day after day, "in continuation," as it was called, and if any "irregularity" occurred, such as the death of a victim, the inquisitors were empowered to absolve one another. nobles were supposedly exempted from torture, and it was not permissible by the civil laws in aragon, but the holy office was nevertheless authorised to torture without restriction all persons of all classes. torture was not inflicted as a punishment by the inquisition, nor was it peculiar to its trials. until a comparatively recent date it was a recognised method of securing testimony, accepted in nearly all courts of europe as a matter of course. the inquisition seems to have invented no new methods, and seldom used the extreme forms commonly practised. in fact in nearly every case, torture was inflicted by the regular public executioner who was called in for the purpose and sworn to secrecy. the list of tortures practised on civil prisoners was long, and they seem to us now fiendish in their ingenuity. a complete course would require many hours, and included apparently the infliction of pain to every organ or limb and to almost every separate muscle and nerve. the records of the inquisition show almost invariably the infliction of a few well known sorts. some sorts were abandoned because of the danger of permanent harm, and others less violent, but probably no less painful, were substituted. often the record states that the prisoner "overcame the torture," _i. e._ was not moved to confess. evidently, though the whole idea is abhorrent to us to-day, torture as inflicted was less awful than some writers would have us believe.[6] [6] lea. history of the inquisition in spain. vol. iii. a curious memento of the methods employed by the holy office has been preserved in an ancient "manual of the inquisition of seville," a thin quarto volume bound in vellum, with pages partly printed, partly in manuscript. it bears the date 1628, and purports to be compiled from ancient and modern instructions for the order of procedure. it was found in the palace of the inquisition at seville, when it was sacked in the year 1820. one part of this manual details the steps to be taken, "when torture has to be performed." the criminal having been brought into the audience, was warned that he had not told the entire truth, and as he was believed to have kept back and hidden many things, he was about to be "tormented" to compel him to speak out. formal sentence to the torture chamber was then passed, after "invoking the name of christ." it was announced that the "question" would be administered. the method of infliction was detailed whether by pulleys or by water or cords, or by all, to be continued for "as long a time as may appear well," with the proviso that if in the said torment, "he (or she) should die or be wounded, or if there be any effusion of blood or mutilation of member, the blame should be his (or hers) not ours." here follows in manuscript the description of the torments applied to one unfortunate female whose name is not given. "on this she was ordered to be taken to the chamber of torment whither went the lords inquisitors, and when they were there she was admonished to tell the truth and not to let herself be brought into such great trouble. "her answer is not recorded. "carlos felipe, the executor of justice, was called and his oath taken that he would do his business well and faithfully and that he would keep the secret. all of which he promised. "she was told to tell the truth or orders would be given to strip her. she was commanded to be stripped naked. "she was told to tell the truth or orders would be given to cut off her hair. it was taken off and she was examined by the doctor and surgeon who certified that there was no reason why she should not be put to the torture. "she was commanded to mount the rack and to tell the truth or her body should be bound; and she was bound. she was commanded to tell the truth, or they would order her right foot to be made fast to the _trampazo_."[7] [7] _trampazo_ means, exactly, an "extreme tightening of cords": _la ultima de las vueltas que se dan en el tormento de las cuerdas_. after the _trampazo_ of the right foot that of the left followed. then came the binding and stretching of the right arm, then that of the left. after that the _garrote_ or the compression of the fleshy parts of the arms and thighs with fine cords, a plan used to revive any person who had fainted under the torture. last of all the _mancuerda_ was inflicted, a simultaneous tension of all the cords on all the limbs and parts. the water torture was used to extort confession. the patient was tightly bound to the _potro_, or ladder, the rungs of which were sharp-edged. the head was immovably fastened lower than the body, and the mouth was held open by an iron prong. a strip of linen slowly conducted water into the mouth, causing the victim to strangle and choke. sometimes six or eight jars, each holding about a quart, were necessary to bring the desired result. this is the "water-cure" found in the philippines by american soldiers when the islands were captured. if these persuasions still failed of effect, or if the hour was late, or "for other considerations" the torment might be suspended with the explanation that it had been insufficiently tried and the victim was taken back to his prison to be brought out again after a respite. if, on the other hand, a confession was secured, it was written down word for word and submitted to the victim for ratification after at least twenty-four hours had elapsed. if he revoked the confession, he might be tortured again. when a number of cases had been decided, the suprema appointed a day, usually a sunday or a feast day, for pronouncing sentence. this was an _auto da fé_, literally an "act of faith." the greater festivals, easter day, christmas day, or sundays in advent or lent were excepted because these holy days had their own special musical or dramatic entertainments in the churches. the day fixed was announced from all the pulpits in the city (seville or madrid or cordova as the case might be) and notice given that a representative of the inquisition would deliver a "sermon of the faith" and that no other preacher might raise his voice. the civil authorities were warned to be ready to receive their victims. at the same time officials unfurled a banner and made public proclamation to the effect that "no person whatever his station or quality from that hour until the completion of the _auto_ should carry arms offensive or defensive, under pain of the greater excommunication and the forfeiture of such arms; nor during the same period should any one ride in coach, or sedan chair, or on horseback, through the streets in the route of the procession, nor enter the enclosure in which the place of execution (_quemadero_) was erected," which was usually beyond the walls. on the eve of the great day a gorgeous procession was organised, for which all the communities of friars in the city and neighbourhood assembled at the holy house of the inquisition, together with the commissaries and familiars of the holy office. they sallied forth in triumphal array, followed by the "qualifiers" and experts, all carrying large white tapers, lighted. in their midst a bier was borne covered with a black pall, and, bringing up the rear, was a band, instrumental and vocal, performing hymns. in this order the procession reached the public square, when the pall was removed from the bier and a green cross disclosed which was carried to the altar on the platform, and there erected surrounded by a dozen candles. the white cross was carried to the burning place. now a strong body of horse and a number of dominican friars took post to watch through the night and the rest of the actors dispersed. at the same time those who were to suffer were prepared for the fatal event. all were shaved close, both head and beard, so that they might present an appearance of nakedness and humiliation suitable to their forlorn condition. at sunrise on their last day they were arrayed in the prescribed garb and brought from their cells into the chapel or great hall. the least heinous offenders were in coarse black blouses and pantaloons, and were bare-footed and bare-headed. the worst culprits were in the _sanbenito_ or penitential sack of yellow canvas, adorned with a st. andrew's cross in bright red paint, and they often carried a halter round their necks as a badge of ignominy. those to die at the stake were distinguished by black _sanbenitos_ with painted flames and wore on their heads a conical paper headdress in the shape of a bishop's mitre, but also resembling somewhat a fool's cap. this was called the _coroza_, a contemptuous form of _corona_ or crown. to make the clothing more hideous, it was decorated by coarse pictures of devils in flames. the condemned as they passed on their way were assailed to the last with importunate exhortations to repent, and a promise was held out to them that if they yielded they would be rewarded by a less painful death, and would be strangled before the flames reached them. all the penitents were obliged to sit upon the ground in profound silence and without so much as moving a limb, while the slow hours dragged themselves along. in the morning a sumptuous meal was set before them, and they were suffered to eat their fill. all the officials and visitors were also regaled before the day's business began. after the sermon, the secretary read to all the people the oath pledging them to support the inquisition. then sentences were pronounced, beginning with the lesser offenders and proceeding to the graver. the punishments ranged from a reprimand, through abjuration, fines, exile, for a longer or shorter period, destruction of residence, penance, scourging, the galleys, imprisonment, wearing the _sanbenito_ or penitential garment, up to "relaxation to the secular arm;" _i. e._ death by fire. these penalties carried with them civil disability, and tainted the blood of the descendants of the condemned as well. penance might be inflicted in various forms. the condemned, perhaps, might be required to fast one day in every week, to recite a specified number of prayers on appointed days, or to appear at the church door with a halter around his neck on successive sundays. when scourging was inflicted, the penitent, naked to the waist, was placed astride an ass, and paraded through the principal streets preceded by the town crier. meanwhile the executioner, accompanied by a clerk to keep tally, plied the _penca_ or leather strap, but was charged most solemnly not to draw blood. usually two hundred lashes was the limit. theoretically a heretic who escaped the stake by confession was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. this penalty might be served in a prison, a monastery, or in a private house. as a matter of fact, comparatively few were kept in prisons as the expense of maintenance was a heavy burden, and the sentences were usually changed to deportation to the colonies, or assignment to the galleys, or else the sentence was shortened. the trial and sentence of the bodies of the dead was common, but it was not peculiar to the inquisition. as late as 1600, in scotland, the bodies of the earl of gowrie and his brother were brought into court, and sentenced to be hanged, quartered and gibbeted. logan of restalrig, in 1609, three years after his death, was tried on the charge of being concerned in the same conspiracy, was found guilty and his property was confiscated. in recounting the punishments imposed by the inquisition, we must not forget that it assumed jurisdiction over many crimes which to-day are tried by the civil courts. bigamy was punished as, by a second marriage, the criminal denied the authority of the church which makes marriage a sacrament. certain forms of blasphemy also were brought before it, and perjury as well. personation of the priesthood, or of officials of the inquisition, was punished, and later it gained jurisdiction over unnatural crimes. sorcery and witchcraft, which in other states, including the american colonies, were considered subjects for the secular courts, were within the jurisdiction of the spanish inquisition. strange as it may appear at first thought, the attitude of the inquisition toward the witchcraft delusion was one of skepticism almost from the beginning. individual inquisitors, influenced by the well nigh universal belief, were occasionally active, but the suprema moderated their zeal. in 1610 an _auto_ was held at logroño, which was the centre of wild excitement. twenty-nine witches were punished, six of whom were burned, and the bones of five others who had died in prison were also consumed. the eighteen remaining were "reconciled." in 1614, however, the suprema drew up an elaborate code of instructions to the tribunals. while not denying the existence of witchcraft, these instructions treated it as a delusion and practically made proof impossible. as a result of this policy the victims of the craze in spain can be counted almost by the score, while in almost every other country of europe, they are numbered by the thousand. in great britain the best estimate fixes the number of victims at thirty thousand, and as late as 1775 the great legal author, sir william blackstone, says that to deny "the actual existence of witchcraft and sorcery is at once flatly to contradict the revealed word of god."[8] [8] lea. history of the inquisition in spain. vol. iv. heresy, of course, according to the views not only of catholics but of protestants, deserved death as a form of treason. tolerance is a modern idea. calvin burned servetus at geneva and was applauded for it. protestants in england persecuted other protestants as well as catholics. the impenitent heretic in spain was burned alive. that one, who after conviction, expressed his repentance, and his desire to die in the church was usually strangled before the flames touched him. before going on to describe some famous _autos da fé_ and the subsequent infliction of the death penalty, a word of explanation is in order. protestant doctrines were introduced into spain either by foreigners or by natives who travelled or studied in foreign lands, but made slow headway. in 1557 a secret organisation, comprising about one hundred and twenty members, was discovered in seville. the next year another little band of about sixty was found in valladolid. the almost simultaneous exposure of these two heretical organisations, both of which included some prominent people, created great commotion. charles v, then living at san yuste, whither he had retired after his abdication, wrote to his daughter juana, who was acting as regent in the absence of philip ii, urging the most stringent measures and advocating that the heretics be pursued mercilessly. little stimulation of the inquisition was necessary, and the two little congregations were destroyed. a part of those condemned at valladolid were sentenced at a great _auto da fé_ held on trinity sunday, may 21st, 1559, in valladolid, not before philip ii, who was abroad, but his sister, princess juana, presided and with her was the unhappy prince, don carlos. it was a brilliant gathering, a great number of grandees of spain, titled noblemen and gentlemen untitled, ladies of high rank in gorgeous apparel, all seated in great state to watch the arrival of the penitential procession. fourteen heretics were to die, sixteen more to be "reconciled" but to be branded with infamy and suffer lesser punishments. among the sufferers were many persons of rank and consideration such as the two brothers cazalla and their sister, children of the king's comptroller, one of them a canon of the church, the other a presbyter, and all three members of the little lutheran congregation. their mother had died in heresy and on this occasion her effigy, clad in her widow's weeds and wearing a mitre with flames, was paraded through the streets and then burned publicly. her house, where lutherans had met for prayer, was razed to the ground and a pillar erected with an inscription setting forth her offence and sentence. another victim was the licentiate, antonio herrezuelo, an impenitent lutheran, the only one who went to the stake unmoved, singing psalms by the way, and reciting passages of scripture. they gagged him at last and a soldier in his zeal stabbed him with his halberd, but the wound was not mortal and bleeding and burning, he slowly expired. the sixteen who survived the horrors of the day were haled back to the prison of the inquisition to spend one more night in the cells. next morning they were again taken before the inquisitors who exhorted them afresh, and their sentences were finally read to them. some destined to the galleys were transferred first to the civil prison to await removal, after they had been flogged through the streets and market places. others clad in the _sanbenito_ and carrying ropes were exposed to the hoots and indignities of the ribald crowd. all who passed through the hands of the holy office were sworn to seal up in everlasting silence whatever they had seen, heard or suffered, on peril of a renewed prosecution. philip ii was present at the second great _auto_ in valladolid in october of the same year, when the remainder of the protestants were sentenced. his wife, queen mary of england, was dead, and he returned to spain by way of the netherlands, embarking at flushing for laredo. rough weather and bad seamanship all but wrecked his fleet in sight of port, and philip vowed if he were permitted to set foot on shore, to prosecute the heretics of spain unceasingly. he was saved from drowning and went at once to valladolid to carry out his vow. the ceremony was organised with unprecedented pomp and splendour. the king came in state, rejoicing that several notable heretics had been reserved to die in torments, for his especial delectation. his heir, don carlos, prince of asturias, was also present but under compulsion; he was, at that time, no more than fourteen years of age and had writhed with agony at the sight of the suffering at the former _auto_. moreover, when called upon to swear fidelity to the inquisition, he had taken the oath with great reluctance. not so king philip, who when called upon to take the same oath at the second _auto da fé_, rose in his place, drew his sword and brandished it as he swore to show every favour to the holy office and support its ministers against whomsoever might directly or indirectly impede its efforts or affairs. "_asi lo juro_," he said with deep feeling. "thus i swear." the victims at this great _auto da fé_ were many and illustrious. one was don carlos de seso, an italian of noble family, the son of a bishop, a scholar who had long been in the service of the emperor charles v, and was chief magistrate of toro. he had married a spanish lady and resided at logroño, where he became an object of suspicion as a professor of lutheranism, and was arrested. they took him to the prison of valladolid, where he was charged, tortured and condemned to die. when called upon to make confession, he wrote two full sheets denouncing the catholic teaching, claiming that it was at variance with the true faith of the gospel. the priests argued with him in vain, and he was brought into church next morning, gagged, and so taken to the burning place, "lest he should speak heresy in the hearing of the people." at the stake the gag was removed and he was again exhorted to recant but he stoutly refused and bade them light up the fire speedily so that he might die in his belief. much grief was felt by the dominicans at the lapse of one of their order, fray domingo de rojas, who was undoubtedly a lutheran. on his way to the stake he strove to appeal to the king who drove him away and ordered him to be gagged. more than a hundred monks of his order followed him close entreating him to recant, but he persisted in a determined although inarticulate refusal until in sight of the flames. he then recanted and was strangled before being burned. one juan sanchez, a native of valladolid, had fled to flanders, but was pursued, captured and brought back to spain to die on this day. when the cords which had bound him snapped in the fire, he bounded into the air with his agony but still repelled the priests and called for more fire. nine more were burned in the presence of the king, who was no merely passive spectator, but visited the various stakes and ordered his personal guard to assist in piling up the fuel. the congregation at seville were sentenced at _autos_ held in 1559 and 1560. on december 22d of the latter year, there were fourteen burned in the flesh and three in effigy. the last were notable people. one was doctor egidio, who had been a leading canon of seville cathedral, and who had been tried and forced to recant his heresies in 1552. after release he renewed his connection with the lutherans, but soon died and was buried at seville. his corpse was exhumed, brought to trial, and burnt with his effigy; all his property was confiscated and his memory declared infamous. another was doctor ponce de la fuente, a man of deep learning and extraordinary eloquence who had been chaplain and preacher to the emperor. he followed the imperial court into germany, then returned to charm vast congregations in seville, but his sermons were reported by spies to be tainted with the reformed doctrines. he was seized by the inquisition and many incriminating papers were also taken. when cast into a secret dungeon and confronted with these proofs of his heresy, he would make no confession, nor would he betray any of his friends. he was transferred to a subterranean cell, damp and pestiferous, so narrow he could barely move himself, and was deprived of the commonest necessaries of life. existence became impossible under such conditions, and he died, proclaiming with his last breath that neither scythians nor cannibals could be more cruel and inhuman than the barbarians of the holy office. the third effigy consumed was that of doctor juan pérez de pineda, then a fugitive in geneva. chief among the living victims was julian hernandez, commonly called _el chico_, "the little," from his diminutive stature. yet his heart was of the largest and his courage extraordinary. he was a deacon in the reformed church and dared to penetrate the interior of spain, disguised as a muleteer, carrying merchandise in which lutheran literature was concealed. being exceedingly shrewd and daring he travelled far and wide, beyond castile into andalusia, distributing his books among persons of rank and education in all the chief cities. his learning, skill in argument, and piety, were not less remarkable than the diligence and activity by which he baffled all efforts to lay hold of him. at last he was caught and imprisoned. relays of priests were told off to controvert his opinions, and he was repeatedly tortured to extract the names of those who had aided him in his long and dangerous pilgrimage through the peninsula, but he was staunch and silent to the last. a citizen of london, one nicholas burton, was a shipmaster who traded to cadiz in his own vessel. he was arrested on the information of a "familiar" of the inquisition, charged with having spoken in slighting terms of the religion of the country. no reason was given him, and when he protested indignantly, he was thrown into the common gaol and detained there for a fortnight, during which he was moved to administer comfort and preach the gospel to his fellow-prisoners. this gave a handle to his persecutors and he was removed on a further charge of heresy to seville, where he was imprisoned, heavily ironed in the secret gaol of the inquisition in the triana. at the end he was condemned as a contumacious lutheran, and was brought out, clad in the _sanbenito_ and exposed in the great hall of the holy office with his tongue forced out of his mouth. last of all, being obdurate in his heresy, he was burned and his ship with its cargo was taken possession of by his persecutors. the story does not end here. another englishman, john frampton, an attorney of bristol, was sent to cadiz by a part-owner to demand restoration of the ship. he became involved in a tedious law suit and was at last obliged to return to england for enlarged powers. bye and bye he went out a second time to spain, and on landing at cadiz was seized by the servants of the inquisition and carried to seville. he travelled on mule back "tied by a chain that came three times under its belly and the end whereof was fastened in an iron padlock made fast to the saddle bow." two armed familiars rode beside him, and thus escorted and secured, he was conveyed to the old prison and lodged in a noisome dungeon. the usual interrogatories were put to him and it was proved to the satisfaction of the holy office that he was an english heretic. the same evidence sufficed to place him on the rack, and after fourteen months, he was taken to be present as a penitent at the same _auto da fé_ which saw burton, the ship's captain, done to death. frampton went back to prison for another year and was forbidden to leave spain. he managed to escape and returned to england to make full revelation of his wrongs, but the ship was never surrendered and no indemnity was obtained. other englishmen fell from time to time into the hands of the inquisition. hakluyt preserved the simple narratives of two english sailors, who were brought by their spanish captors from the indies as a sacrifice to the "holy house" of seville, though the authenticity of the statement has been attacked. one, a happy-go-lucky fellow, miles phillips, who had been too well acquainted in mexico with the dungeons of the inquisition, slipped over the ship's side at san lucar, near cadiz, made his way to shore, and boldly went to seville, where he lived a hidden life as a silk-weaver, until he found his chance to steal away and board a devon merchantman. the other, job hortop, added to his two years of mexican imprisonment, two more years in seville. then "they brought us out in procession," as he tells us, "every one of us having a candle in his hand and the coat with s. andrew's cross on our backs; they brought us up on an high scaffold, that was set up in the place of s. francis, which is in the chief street in seville; there they set us down upon benches, every one in his degree and against us on another scaffold sate all the judges and the clergy on their benches. the people wondered and gazed on us, some pitying our case, others said, 'burn those heretics.' when we had sat there two hours, we had a sermon made to us, after which one called bresina, secretary to the inquisition, went up into the pulpit with the process and called on robert barret, shipmaster, and john gilbert, whom two familiars of the inquisition brought from the scaffold in front of the judges, and the secretary read the sentence, which was that they should be burnt, and so they returned to the scaffold and were burnt. "then, i, job hortop and john bone, were called and brought to the same place, as the others and likewise heard our sentence, which was, that we should go to the galleys there to row at the oar's end ten years and then to be brought back to the inquisition house, to have the coat with st. andrew's cross put on our backs and from thence to go to the everlasting prison remediless. "i, with the rest were sent to the galleys, where we were chained four and four together.... hunger, thirst, cold and stripes we lacked none, till our several times expired; and after the time of twelve years, for i served two years above my sentence, i was sent back to the inquisition house in seville and there having put on the above mentioned coat with st. andrew's cross, i was sent to the everlasting prison remediless, where i wore the coat four years and then, upon great suit, i had it taken off for fifty duckets, which hernandez de soria, treasurer of the king's mint, lent me, whom i was to serve for it as a drudge seven years." this victim, too, escaped in a fly-boat at last and reached england. the records of the inquisition of this period contain the name of an eminent spanish ecclesiastic who offended the holy office and felt the weight of its arm. this was bartolome de carranza, archbishop of toledo, primate of spain, a dominican,--whose rise had been rapid and who was charged with leanings toward lutheranism. in early life he had passed through the hands of the inquisition and was censured for expressing approval of the writings of erasmus, but no other action was taken. his profound theological knowledge indeed commended him to the councils of the church, for which he often acted as examiner of suspected books. carranza's connection with english history is interesting. at the time of queen mary's marriage with philip ii, he came to london to arrange, in conjunction with cardinal pole, for the reconciliation of england to rome. he laboured incessantly to win over british protestants, "preached continually, convinced and converted heretics without number, ... guided the queen and councils and assisted in framing rules for the governance of the english universities." he was particularly anxious for the persecution of obstinate heretics, and was in a measure responsible for the burning of thomas cranmer, archbishop of canterbury. his zeal and his great merits marked him down as the natural successor to the archbishopric of toledo, when it became vacant, and he was esteemed as a chief pillar of the catholic church, destined in due course to the very highest preferment. he might indeed become cardinal and even supreme pontiff before he died. yet when nearing the topmost pinnacle he was on the verge of falling to the lowest depths. he had many enemies. his stern views on church discipline, enunciated before the council of trent, alienated many of the bishops, who planned his ruin and secretly watched his discourses and writings for symptoms of unsoundness. valdés, the chief inquisitor, was a leading opponent and industriously collected a mass of evidence tending to inculpate carranza. he had used "perilous language" when preaching in england, especially in the hearing of heretics, and one witness deposed that some of his sermons might have been delivered by melancthon himself. he had affirmed that mercy might be shown to lutherans who abjured their errors, and had frequently manifested scandalous indulgence to heretics. valdés easily framed a case against carranza, strong enough to back up an application to the pope to authorise the inquisition to arrest and imprison the primate of spain. paul iv, the new pope, permitted the arrest. great circumspection was shown in making it because of the prisoner's rank. carranza was invited to come to valladolid to have an interview with the king, and, with some misgivings, the archbishop set out. a considerable force of men was gathered together by the way--all loyal to the inquisition--and at the town of torrelaguna, the arrest was made with great formality and respect. on reaching valladolid the prisoner begged he might be lodged in the house of a friend. the holy office consented but hired the building. the trial presented many serious difficulties. here was no ordinary prisoner; carranza was widely popular, and the supreme council of the kingdom was divided as to the evidences of his guilt. nearly a hundred witnesses were examined, but proof was not easily to be secured. besides, carranza had appealed to the supreme pontiff. year after year was spent in tiresome litigation and a fierce contest ensued between rome and the spanish court which backed up the inquisition. at length, after eight years' confinement, the primate was sent to cartagena to take ship for rome, accompanied by several inquisitors and the duke of alva, that most notorious nobleman, the scourge and oppressor of the netherlands. all landed at civita vecchia and the party proceeded to the holy city, when carranza was at once lodged in the castle of st. angelo, the well known state prison. he was detained there nine years, until released by pope gregory xiii. he was censured for his errors, and required to abjure the lutheran principles found in his writings, and was relieved from his functions as archbishop, to which, however, his strength, impaired by age and suffering, was no longer equal. while visiting the seven churches as a penance, he was taken ill, april 23d, 1576, and soon died. before his death, however, the pope gave him full indulgence. those who saw him in his last days record that he bore his trials with dignity and patience. but this learned priest who had been called to the highest rank of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, only to be himself assailed and thrown down, was the same who had sat in cruel judgment upon thomas cranmer and compassed his martyrdom. chapter iv the inquisition abroad fresh field for the inquisition in spanish america--operations begun by ximenes and more firmly established by charles v--spanish viceroys' complaints--zeal of the inquisitors checked for a while--revived under philip ii--royal edict forbidding heretics to emigrate to spanish america--inquisition extended to the low countries--dutch rebellion proceedings--the inquisition of the galleys instituted by philip--growing dislike of the inquisition--experiences of carcel, a goldsmith--his account of an _auto da fé_--decline of the powers of the inquisition. the acquisition of spanish america opened a fresh field for the activity of the inquisition. besides the natives there were the new christians who had fled across the seas seeking refuge from intolerance in the old country. although the emigration of heretics was forbidden after a time, lest they should spread the hateful doctrines, cardinal ximenes, when inquisitor-general, resolved that the new world should have its own holy office, and appointed fray juan de quevedo, then bishop of cuba, as inquisitor-general of the "tierra firma" as the spanish mainland was commonly called. the inquisition was more broadly established by charles v, who empowered cardinal adrian to organise it and appoint new chiefs. the dominicans were supreme, as in the old country, and proceeded with their usual fiery vigour, wandering at large through the new territories and spreading dismay among the native population. the indians retreated in crowds into the interior, abandoned the christianity they had never really embraced, and joined the other native tribes still unsubdued. the spanish viceroys alarmed at the general desertion complained to the king at home and the excessive zeal of the inquisitors was checked for a time. but when philip ii came into power he would not agree with this milder policy, and although the inquisitors were no longer permitted to perambulate the country districts hunting up heretics, the holy office was established with its palaces and prisons in the principal cities and acted with great vigour. three great central tribunals were created at panama, lima, and at cartagena de las indias, and persecution raged unceasingly, chiefly directed against jews and moors. in the city of mexico also there was an inquisitor-general. a royal edict proclaimed that "no one newly converted to our holy faith from being moor or jew nor his child shall pass over into our indies without our express license." at the same time the prohibition was extended to any who had been "reconciled," and to the child or grandchild of anyone who had worn the _sanbenito_ or of any person burnt or condemned as a heretic ... "all, under penalty of loss of goods and peril of his person, shall be perpetually banished from the indies, and if he have no property let them give him a hundred lashes, publicly." the emperor, charles v, is responsible for the extension of the inquisition from spain to the low countries, by which he repaid the loyal service and devotion the dutch people had long rendered him. this inquisition was headed at first however by a layman, and then four inquisitors chosen from the secular clergy were named. the netherlanders resisted stoutly its establishment and its operation, and in 1646 it was provided that no sentence should go into effect unless approved by some member of the provincial council. heretics were condemned of course, but the number was not large, though in some way grossly exaggerated reports of the numbers of victims have gained credence. finally, on the application of the people of brabant, who declared that the name would injure commercial prosperity in their district, the name was dropped altogether. at best it was a faint and feeble copy of the spanish institution, and during the reign of charles was little feared. in proof we may cite the fact that eleven successive edicts were necessary to keep the inquisition at work between 1620 and 1650. philip ii, on his accession, attempted to increase the power of the institution, with the hope of uprooting the reformed doctrines. the assertion, often made, however, that the inquisition is responsible for the revolt of the netherlands is entirely too broad. other factors than religious differences entered into the complex situation. the terrible war which finally resulted in the independence of the protestant netherlands, falls outside the plan of this volume. philip wished to extend the sway of the inquisition and planned a naval tribunal to take cognisance of heresy afloat. he created the inquisition of the galleys, or, as it was afterwards styled, of the army and navy. in every sea port a commissary general visited the shipping to search for prohibited books and make sure of the orthodoxy of crews and passengers. even cargoes and bales of merchandise were examined, lest the taint of heresy should infect them. this marine inspection was most active in cadiz, at that time the great centre of traffic with the far west. a visitor from the holy office with a staff of assistants and familiars boarded every ship on arrival and departure and claimed that their authority should be respected, so that nothing might be landed or embarked without their certificate. the merchants resented this system which brought substantial commercial disadvantages, and the ships' captains disliked priestly interference with their crews, whose regular duties were neglected. the men were kept below under examination, when they were wanted on deck to make or shorten sail or take advantage of a change in the wind or a turn in the tide. by degrees the marine inquisition was thought to impede business on the high seas and fell into disuse. under succeeding sovereigns the holy office was still favoured and supported, but the reign of philip iii witnessed loud and frequent remonstrances against its operation. the cortes of castile implored the king to put some restraint upon the too zealous inquisitors, but they still wielded their arbitrary powers unchecked, and philip sought further encouragement for them from rome. the accession of philip iv to the throne was celebrated by an _auto da fé_, but no victim was put to death, and the only corporal punishment inflicted was the flogging of an immoral nun who professed to have made a compact with the devil. she was led out gagged, and, wearing the _sanbenito_, received two hundred lashes followed by perpetual imprisonment. philip iv strove for a time to check the activity of the inquisition, but he was too weak and wavering to make permanent headway against an institution, the leaders of which knew precisely what they were striving for, and pertinaciously pursued it. a graphic account of what purport to have been the painful experiences of a poor soul who fell at a later date into the clutches of the inquisitors is related by himself in a curious pamphlet printed in seville, by one carcel, who was a goldsmith in that city. evidently there is the work of another hand in it, however, as it is written with too much regard for the dramatic to have been his own composition. the description of the _auto_ is also unusual, and not according to the usual procedure. he says that he was arrested on the 2nd of april, 1680, at ten o'clock in the evening, as he was finishing a gold necklace for one of the queen's maids of honour. a week after his first arrest carcel was examined. we will quote his own words:-"in an ante-room," he says, "a smith frees me of my irons and i pass from the ante-chamber to the 'inquisitor's table,' as the small inner room is called. it is hung with blue and citron-coloured taffety. at one end, between the two grated windows, is a gigantic crucifix and on the central estrade (a table fifteen feet long surrounded by arm-chairs), with his back to the crucifix, sits the secretary, and on my right, francisco delgado ganados, the grand inquisitor, who is a secular priest. the other inquisitors had just left, but the ink was still wet in their quills, and i saw on papers before their chairs some names marked with red ink. i am seated on a low stool opposite the secretary. the inquisitor asks my name and profession and why i come there, exhorting me to confess as the only means of quickly regaining my liberty. he hears me, but when i fling myself weeping at his knees, he says coolly there is no hurry about my case; that he has more pressing business than mine waiting, (the secretary smiles), and he rings a little silver bell which stands beside him on the black cloth, for the alcaide who leads me off down a long gallery, where my chest is brought in and an inventory taken by the secretary. they cut my hair off and strip me of everything, even to my ring and gold buttons; but they leave me my beads, my handkerchief and some money i had fortunately sewn in my garters. i am then led bareheaded into a cell, and left to think and despair till evening when they bring me supper. "the prisoners are seldom put together. silence perpetual and strict is maintained in all the cells. if any prisoner should moan, complain or even pray too loud, the gaolers who watch the corridors night and day warn them through the grating. if the offence is repeated, they storm in and load you with blows to intimidate the other prisoners, who, in the deep grave-like silence, hear your every cry and every blow. "once every two months the inquisitor, accompanied by his secretary and interpreter, visits the prisoners and asks them if their food is brought them at regular hours, or if they have any complaint to make against the gaolers. but this is only a parade of justice, for if a prisoner dares to utter a complaint, it is treated as mere fanciful ravings and never attended to. "after two months' imprisonment," goes on carcel, "one saturday, when, after my meagre prison dinner, i give my linen, as usual, to the gaolers to send to the wash, they will not take it and a great cold breath whispers at my heart--to-morrow is the _auto da fé_. when, immediately after the vespers at the cathedral, they ring for matins, which they never do but when rejoicing on the eve of a great feast, i know that my horrid suspicions are right. was i glad at my escape from this living tomb, or was i paralysed by fear, at the pile perhaps already hewn and stacked for my wretched body? i know not. i was torn in pieces by the devils that rack the brains of unhappy men. i refused my next meal, but, contrary to their wont, they pressed it more than usual. was it to give me strength to bear my torture? do god's eyes not reach to the prisons of the inquisition? "i am just falling into a sickly, fitful sleep, worn out with conjecturing, when, about eleven o'clock at night, the great bolts of my cell grind and jolt back and a party of gaolers in black, in a flood of light, so that they looked like demons on the borders of heaven, come in. "the alcaide throws down by my pallet a heap of clothes, tells me to put them on and hold myself ready for a second summons. i have no tongue to answer, as they light my lamp, leave me and lock the door behind them. such a trembling seizes me for half an hour, that i cannot rise and look at the clothes which seem to me shrouds and winding sheets. i rise at last, throw myself down before the black cross i had smeared with charcoal on the wall, and commit myself, as a miserable sinner, into god's hands. i then put on the dress, which consists of a tunic with long, loose sleeves and hose drawers, all of black serge, striped with white. "at two o'clock in the morning the wretches came and led me into a long gallery where nearly two hundred men, brought from their various cells, all dressed in black, stood in a long silent line against the wall of the long, plain vaulted, cold corridor where, over every two dozen heads, swung a high brass lamp. we stood silent as a funeral train. the women, also in black, were in a neighbouring gallery, far out of our sight. by sad glimpses down a neighbouring dormitory i could see more men dressed in black, who, from time to time, paced backwards and forwards. these i afterwards found were men doomed also to be burnt, not for murder--no, but for having a creed unlike that of the jesuits. whether i was to be burnt or not i did not know, but i took courage, because my dress was like that of the rest and the monsters could not dare to put two hundred men at once into one fire, though they did hate all who love doll-idols and lying miracles. "presently, as we waited sad and silent, gaolers came round and handed us each a long yellow taper and a yellow scapular, or tabard, crossed behind and before with red crosses of saint andrew. these are the _sanbenitos_ that jews, turks, sorcerers, witches, heathen or perverts from the roman catholic church are compelled to wear. now came the gradation of our ranks--those who have relapsed, or who were obstinate during their accusations, wear the _zamarra_, which is gray, with a man's head burning on red faggots painted at the bottom and all round reversed flames and winged and armed black devils horrible to behold. i, and seventy others, wear these, and i lose all hope. my blood turns to ice; i can scarcely keep myself from swooning. after this distribution they bring us, with hard, mechanical regularity, pasteboard conical mitres (_corozas_) painted with flames and devils with the words '_sorcerer_' and '_heretic_' written round the rim. our feet are all bare. the condemned men, pale as death, now begin to weep and keep their faces covered with their hands, round which the beads are twisted. god only--by speaking from heaven--could save them. a rough, hard voice now tells us we may sit on the ground till our next orders come. the old men and boys smile as they eagerly sit down, for this small relief comes to them with the refreshment of a pleasure. "at four o'clock they bring us bread and figs, which some drop by their sides and others languidly eat. i refuse mine, but a guard prays me to put it in my pocket for i may yet need it. it is as if an angel had comforted me. at five o'clock, at daybreak, it was a ghastly sight to see shame, fear, grief, despair, written on our pale livid faces. yet not one but felt an undercurrent of joy at the prospect of any release, even by death. "suddenly, as we look at each other with ghastly eyes, the great bell of the giralda begins to boom with a funeral knell, long and slow. it was the signal of the gala day of the holy office, it was the signal for the people to come to the show. we are filed out one by one. as i pass the gallery in the great hall, i see the inquisitor, solemn and stern, in his black robes, throned at the gate. beneath him is his secretary, with a list of the citizens of seville in his wiry twitching hands. the room is full of the anxious frightened burghers, who, as their names are called and a prisoner passes through, move to his trembling side to serve as his godfather in the act of faith. the honest men shudder as they take their place in the horrible death procession. the time-serving smile at the inquisitor, and bustle forward. this is thought an honourable office and is sought after by hypocrites and suspected men afraid of the church's sword. "the procession commences with the dominicans. before them flaunts the banner of the order in glistening embroidery that burns in the sun and shines like a mirror, the frocked saint, holding a threatening sword in one hand, and in the other, an olive branch with the motto, 'justitia et misericordia' (justice and mercy). behind the banner come the prisoners in their yellow scapulars, holding their lighted torches, their feet bleeding with the stones and their less frightened godfathers, gay in cloak and sword and ruff tripping along by their side, holding their plumed hats in their hands. the street and windows are crowded with careless eyes, and children are held up to execrate us as we pass to our torturing death. the _auto da fé_ was always a holiday sight to the craftsmen and apprentices; it drew more than even a bull fight, because of the touch of tragedy about it. our procession, like a long black snake, winds on, with its banners and crosses, its shaven monks and mitred bare-footed prisoners, through street after street, heralded by soldiers who run before to clear a way for us--to stop mules and clear away fruit-stalls, street-performers and their laughing audiences. we at last reach the church of all the saints, where, tired, dusty, bleeding and faint we are to hear mass. "the church has a grave-vault aspect and is dreadfully like a charnel house. the great altar is veiled in black, and is lit with six silver candlesticks, whose flames shine like yellow stars with clear twinkle and a soft halo round each black, fire-tipped wick. on each side of the altar, that seems to bar out god and his mercy from us and to wrap the very sun in a grave cloak, are two thrones, one for the grand-inquisitor and his counsel, another for the king and his court. the one is filled with sexton-like lawyers, the other with jewelled and feathered men. "in front of the great altar and near the door where the blessed daylight shines with hope and joy, but not for us, is another altar, on which six gilded and illuminated missals lie open; those books of the gospels, too, in which i had once read such texts as--god is love; forgive as ye would be forgiven; faith, hope, charity: these three, but the greatest of these is charity. near this lesser altar the monks had raised a balustraded gallery, with bare benches, on which sat the criminals in their yellow and flame-striped tabards with their godfathers. the doomed ones came last, the more innocent first. those who entered the black-hung church first, passing up nearest to the altar sat there, either praying or in a frightened trance of horrid expectancy. the trembling living corpses wearing the mitres, yellow and red, came last, preceded by a gigantic crucifix, the face turned from them. "immediately following these poor mitred men came servitors of the inquisition, carrying four human effigies fastened to long staves, and four chests containing the bones of those men who had died before the fire could be got ready. the coffers were painted with flames and demons and the effigies wore the dreadful mitre and the crimson and yellow shirt all a-flame with paint. the effigies sometimes represented men tried for heresy since their death and whose estates had since been confiscated and their effigies doomed to be burnt as a warning; for no one within their reach may escape if they differ in opinion with the inquisition. "every prisoner being now in his place--godfathers, torchmen, pikemen, musketeers, inquisitors, and flaunting court--the provincial of the augustins mounted the pulpit, followed by his ministrant and preached a stormy, denouncing, exulting sermon, half an hour long (it seemed a month of anguish), in which he compared the church with burning eloquence to noah's ark; but with this difference, that those animals who entered it before the deluge came out of it unaltered, but the blessed inquisition had, by god's blessing, the power of changing those whom its walls once enclosed, turning them out meek as the lambs he saw around him so tranquil and devout, all of whom had once been cruel as wolves and savage and daring as lions. "this sermon over, two readers mounted the pulpit to shout the list of names of the condemned, their crimes (now, for the first time, known to them) and their sentences. we grew all ears and trembled as each name was read. "as each name was called the alcaide led out the prisoner from his pen to the middle of the gallery opposite the pulpit, where he remained standing, taper in hand. after the sentence he was led to the altar where he had to put his hand on one of the missals and to remain there on his knees. "at the end of each sentence, the reader stopped to pronounce in a loud, angry voice, a full confession of faith, which he exhorted us, the guilty, to join with heart and voice. then we all returned to our places. my offence, i found, was having spoken bitterly of the inquisition, and having called a crucifix a mere bit of cut ivory. i was therefore declared excommunicated, my goods confiscated to the king, i was banished spain and condemned to the havana galleys for five years with the following penances: i must renounce all friendship with heretics and suspected persons; i must, for three years, confess and communicate three times a month; i must recite five times a day, for three years, the pater and ave maria in honour of the five wounds; i must hear mass and sermon every sunday and feast day; and above all, i must guard carefully the secret of all i had said, heard, or seen in the holy office (which oath, as the reader will observe, i have carefully kept). "the inquisitor then quitted his seat, resumed his robes and followed by twenty priests, each with a staff in his hand, passed into the middle of the church and with divers prayers some of us were relieved from excommunication, each of us receiving a blow from a priest. once, such an insult would have sent the blood in a rush to my head, and i had died but i had given a return buffet; now, so weak and broken-spirited was i, i burst into tears. "now, one by one, those condemned to the stake, faint and staggering, were brought in to hear their sentences, which they did with a frightened vacancy, inconceivably touching, but the inquisitors were gossiping among themselves and scarcely looked at them. every sentence ended with the same cold mechanical formula: that the holy office being unhappily unable to pardon the prisoners present, on account of their relapse and impenitence, found itself obliged to punish them with all the rigour of earthly law, and therefore delivered them with regret to the hands of secular justice, praying it to use clemency and mercy towards the wretched men, saving their souls by the punishment of their bodies and recommending death, but not effusion of blood. cruel hypocrites! "at the word blood the hangmen stepped forward and took possession of the bodies, the alcaide first striking each of them on the chest to show that they were now abandoned to the rope and fire." then he goes on to describe the scene at the _quemadero_, which, however, included nothing of importance not already mentioned elsewhere. after the death of philip iv, and during the minority of his son, charles ii, father nithard, a jesuit, who combined the two forces long in opposition, the disciples of loyola and the descendants of torquemada, was for a time inquisitor-general. the holy office was hotly opposed by don john of austria, a natural son of philip iv, who rose to political power and would have fallen a victim to the inquisition had not popular indignation sided with him against nithard, who fled from spain to rome. he was stripped of all his offices but still kept the favour of the queen-mother who finally secured for him from pope clement x the coveted cardinal's hat. don john was unequal to the task of curbing the power of the inquisition, however, and the institution claimed wider and wider jurisdiction. growing dissatisfaction prevailed, and in 1696, the king, charles ii, summoned a conference or grand junta to enquire into the complaints that poured in from all quarters against the inquisition. it was composed of two councillors of state from castile, aragon, the indies, and the spanish provinces in italy, with two members of the religious orders. it reported that the holy office exercised illegal powers, still arrogated the right to throw persons of rank into prison and cover their families with disgrace. it punished with merciless severity the slightest opposition or disrespect shown to dependents or familiars who had come to enjoy extensive and exorbitant privileges. they claimed secular jurisdiction in matters nowise appertaining to religion, and set aside restrictions contained in their own canon law. the junta strongly recommended that these restrictions should be rigidly enforced, and that no one should be thrown into the prisons of the inquisition, save on charges of an heretical nature. it urged the right of appeal to the throne, and the removal of all causes to the royal courts for trial. it detailed the privileges granted to the servants of the holy office. even a coachman or a lackey demanded reverence and might conduct himself with unbounded insolence. if a servant girl were not treated obsequiously in a shop she might complain and the offender was liable to be cast into the dungeons of the inquisition. so great was the discontent, so many tumults arose, that the junta would have all such unrighteous privileges curtailed, and would authorise the civil courts to keep the encroachments of the holy office in check. with the eighteenth century the authority of the holy office visibly waned. philip v, a french prince, and a grandson of louis xiv, whose succession produced the long protracted war of the spanish succession, declined to be honoured with an _auto da fé_ at his coronation, but he maintained the inquisition as an instrument of despotic government, and actually used it to punish as heretics those who had any doubt concerning his title to the crown. yet he rather used the inquisition than supported it; for he deprived of his office an inquisitor-general who had presumed to proceed for heresy against a high officer. the cortes of castile again, (1714), recorded their condemnation, but without any further benefit than that which must eventually result from the disclosure of a truth. the same body reiterated their disapproval a few years afterwards, (1720). but while philip v used the inquisition for his own service, and the heretical doctrine which had prevailed two centuries before no longer left a trace behind, there were multitudes of persons accused of attempting to revive judaism and others gave offence by their efforts to promote freemasonry. this gave the inquisitors abundant pretext for the discharge of their political mission. during the reigns of charles iii and charles iv, a revival of literature and an advance in political science guided the attention of the clergy and the government to the position of the court of rome, as well as to the proceedings of the inquisitors. the former of these monarchs nearly yielded to the advice of his councillors to suppress the inquisition, as well as to expel the jesuits. he banished the society, but, in regard to the inquisition, said: "the spaniards want it and it gives me no trouble." meanwhile death sentences nearly ceased, and once when a good man was sentenced to be delivered to the secular arm, in compliance with the letter of the law, the inquisitors let him go free. by this contrivance don miguel solano, priest of esco, a town in aragon, walked out of the prison of the inquisition in saragossa, as a maniac, forgiven his heresy, and lived on as a maniac, exempted from priestly ministrations, while every one knew him to be a reasonable man and treated him accordingly. in the end he died, refusing extreme unction, and was buried in unconsecrated ground within the walls of the inquisition on the banks of the ebro. chapter v the inquisition in portugal and india the inquisition in spain abolished by napoleon's invasion--its revival--persecution of the freemasons--the "tribunal of faith" established--inquisition in portugal--the case of an englishman who is arrested, tortured and burnt alive--difference between the inquisitions of spain and portugal--the supreme power of the holy office in portugal in the eighteenth century--the terrible earthquake at lisbon--establishment of the holy office in india at goa--description of the inquisition prison at goa by m. dellon--case of father ephrem--his arrest and rescue by the english from the hands of the inquisitors. napoleon's invasion of spain and the removal of the young king, ferdinand vii, to france, put an end to the inquisition. when the emperor took possession of madrid, he called upon all public bodies to submit to his authority, but the holy office refused. whereupon he issued an order to arrest the inquisitors, abolish the inquisition, and sequestrate its revenues. all spain did not readily yield to the french conqueror, and when the cortes met in cadiz they empowered one of the inquisitors, who had escaped, to reconstitute the tribunal, but it was never really restored. at the same time, the governing powers appointed a special commission to enquire into the legal status of the ancient body, and to decide whether the inquisition had any legal right to exist. a report was published in 1812, reviewing its whole history and condemning it as incompatible with the liberties of the country. the indictment against it was couched in very vigorous language. it was held to have been guilty of the most harsh and oppressive measures; to have inflicted the most cruel and illegal punishments; "in the darkness of the night it had dragged the husband from the side of his wife, the father from the children, the children from their parents, and none may see the other again until they are absolved or condemned without having had the means of contributing to their defence or knowing whether they had been fairly tried." the result was a law passed by the cortes to suppress the inquisition in spain. the restoration of ferdinand vii, at the termination of the war in 1814, gave the inquisition fresh life. he resented the action taken by the cortes, arrested its members, and cast them into prison, declaring them to be infidels and rebels, and forthwith issued a decree reviving the tribunal of the holy office. its supreme council met in seville and persecution was renewed under the new inquisitor-general, xavier mier y campillo, who put out a fresh list of prohibited books, tried to raise revenues and issued a new edict of faith. there might have been another _auto da fé_ even in the nineteenth century, but informers would not come forward and latter-day victims could not be found. dread, nevertheless, prevailed, and numbers fled for refuge into foreign lands. fierce energy was directed against the freemasons, for during the french occupation, the palace of the inquisition at seville had been used, partly as a common gaol and partly as a freemasons' lodge. the members of the craft who were found in spain were dealt with as heretics, and all freemasons were excommunicated. for a time the inquisition languished, although favoured by the arbitrary régime introduced by ferdinand vii, who sought to reinstate it on its former lines. it was destroyed or at least suspended by the revolution of 1820, and on his restoration, the king did not reëstablish it, though the officials still hoped for a better day and continued to draw their salaries. some of the bishops established _juntas de fé_, which took up much the same work, and july 26th, 1826, a poor schoolmaster cayetano ripoll, was hanged for heresy--the last execution for this crime in spain. finally, january 4th, 1834, the inquisition was definitely abolished, and the _juntas de fé_ were abolished the next year. the inquisition extended its influence into the neighbouring country of portugal, which was an independent kingdom until conquered by philip ii in 1580. here persecution prevailed from the fifteenth century, chiefly of the jews and new christians, who flocked into the country from spain, and were treated with great severity. the holy office was set up in lisbon under an inquisitor-general, diego de silva, and portugal was divided into inquisitional districts. _autos da fé_ were frequent, and on a scale hardly known in spain, though the records are fragmentary. from among the cases reported, we may quote that of an englishman, a native of bristol, engaged in commerce in lisbon, who boldly assaulted the cardinal archbishop in the act of performing mass. gardiner, as fiercely intolerant as those of the dominant religion who were worshipping according to their own rites, attacked the priest when he elevated the host, "snatched away the cake with one hand, trod it under his feet, and with the other overthrew the chalice." the congregation, at first utterly astounded, raised one great cry and fell bodily upon the sacrilegious wretch, who was promptly stabbed in the shoulder and haled before the king, who was present in the cathedral, and forthwith interrogated. it was thought that he had been instigated by the english protestants to this outrageous insult, but he declared that he had been solely moved by his abhorrence of the idolatry he had witnessed. he was imprisoned and with him all the english in lisbon. so soon as his wound was healed, he was examined by the holy office, tortured and condemned. then he was carried to the market place on an ass and his left hand was cut off; thence he was taken to the river side and by a rope and pulley hoisted over a pile of wood which was set on fire. "in spite of the great torment he continued in a constant spirit and the more terribly he burned the more vehemently he prayed." he was in the act of reciting a psalm, when by the use of exceeding violence, the burning rope broke and he was precipitated into the devouring flames. a fellow lodger of gardiner was detained in the inquisition for two years, and was frequently tortured to elicit evidence against other englishmen, but without avail. a scotch professor of greek in the university of coimbra was charged with lutheranism, and imprisoned for a year and a half, after which he was committed to a monastery so that he might be instructed by the monks in the true religion. they did not change his views and he was presently set free. another, an english shipmaster, was less fortunate and was burned alive as a heretic at lisbon. it has been observed that, on comparison of the inquisitions of spain and portugal, a certain marked difference was disclosed between them. the same precise rigour of the spanish inquisitors was not exhibited by the portuguese. in portugal the discipline was more savage yet more feeble. yet in the latter country there was a brutal and more wanton excess in inflicting pain at the _autos da fé_. when convicts were about to suffer they were taken before the lord chief justice to answer the enquiry as to what religion they intended to die in. if the answer was "in the roman catholic apostolic," the order was given that they should be strangled before burning. if in the protestant, or in any other religion, death in the flames was decreed. at lisbon the place of execution, as has been said, was at the waterside. a thick stake was erected for each person condemned, with a wide crosspiece at the top against which a crosspiece was nailed to receive the tops of two ladders. in the centre the victim was secured by a chain, with a jesuit priest on either side, seated on a ladder, who proceeded to exhort him to repentance. if they failed they declared they left him to the devil and the mob roared, "let the dog's beard be trimmed," in other words, "his face scorched." this was effected by applying an ignited furze bush at the end of a long pole till his face was burned and blackened. the record of the portuguese inquisition to 1794 shows a total of one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five relaxed in person, _i. e._ executed, six hundred and thirty-three relaxed in effigy, and twenty-nine thousand, five hundred and ninety penanced. the portuguese were the first europeans to trade with the far east and, after vasco de gama had discovered india, albuquerque annexed and occupied goa, which might have become the seat and centre of the great empire which fell at length into british hands. portugal sacrificed all power and prosperity to the extirpation of heresy in its new possessions and was chiefly concerned in the establishment of the holy office in india. the early portuguese settlers in the east clamoured loudly for the inquisition; the jesuit fathers who were zealous in their propaganda in india declared that the tribunal was most necessary in goa, owing to the prevailing licentiousness and the medley of all nations and superstitions. it was accordingly established in 1560, and soon commenced its active operations with terrific vigour. general baptisms were frequent in this the ecclesiastical metropolis of india, and so were _autos da fé_ conducted with great pomp with many victims. a light upon the proceedings of the holy office in goa is afforded by the story told by a french traveller, m. dellon, who was arrested at the instance of the portuguese governor at damaum, and imprisoned at goa in the private prison of the archbishop. "the most filthy," says dellon, "the darkest and most horrible of any i had ever seen.... it is a kind of cave wherein there is no day seen but by a very little hole. the most subtle rays of the sun cannot enter it and there is never any true light in it. the stench is extreme...." m. dellon was dragged before the board of the holy office, seated in the holy house, which is described as a great and magnificent building, "one side of a great space before the church of st. catherine." there were three gates. the prisoners entered by the central or largest, and ascending a stately flight of steps, reached the great hall. behind the principal building was another very spacious, two stories high and consisting of a double row of cells. those on the ground floor were the smallest, due to the greater thickness of the walls, and had no apertures for light or air. the upper cells were vaulted and whitewashed, and each had a small strongly grated window without glass. the cells had double doors, the outer of which was kept constantly open, an indispensable plan in this climate or the occupant must have died of suffocation. [illustration: _peint par d. f. laugée_ _photogravure goupil & c^{ie}._ _the question_ one of the forms of torture before a tribunal of the inquisition, used in the examination of the accused. lighted charcoal was placed under the victim's feet, which were greased over with lard, so that the heat of the fire might more quickly become effective.] the régime was, to some extent, humane. water for ablutions was provided and for drinking purposes, food was given sparingly in three daily meals, but was wholesome in quality. physicians were at hand to attend the sick and confessors to wait on the dying, but they administered no unction, gave no viaticum, said no mass. if any died, as many did, his death was unknown to all without. he was buried within the walls with no sacred ceremony, and if it was decided that he had died in heresy, his bones were exhumed to be burnt at the next act of faith. while alive he lived apart in all the strictness of the modern solitary cell. alone and silent, for the prisoner was forbidden to speak, he was not allowed even to groan or sob or sigh aloud. the holy office in goa was worked on the same lines as that of spain as already described and by the same officers. there was the _inquisidor mor_ or grand-inquisitor, a secular priest, a second or assistant inquisitor, a dominican monk, with many deputies; "qualifiers," to examine books and writings; a fiscal and a procurator; notaries and familiars. the authority of the tribunal was absolute in goa except that the great officials, archbishop and his grand-vicar, the viceroy and the governor, could not be arrested without the sanction of the supreme council in lisbon. the procedure, the examination and use of torture was exactly as in other places. m. dellon was taxed with having spoken ill of the inquisition, and was called upon to confess his sins, being constantly brought out and again relegated to his cell and continually harassed to make him accuse himself, until in a frenzy of despair he resolved to commit suicide by refusing food. the physician bled him and treated him for fever, but he tore off the bandages hoping to bleed to death. he was taken up insensible, restored by cordials, and carried before the inquisitor, where he lay on the floor and was assailed with bitter reproaches, heavily ironed and sent back to languish in his cell in a wild access of fury approaching madness. at last the great day of the act of faith approached, and dellon heard on every side the agonised cries of both men and women. during the night the alcaide and warders came into his cell with lights bringing a suit of clothes, linen, best trousers, black striped with white. he was marched to join a couple of hundred other penitents squatted on the floor along the sides of a spacious gallery, all motionless but in an agony of apprehension, for none knew his doom. a large company of women were collected in a neighbouring chamber and a third lot in _sanbenitos_, among whom the priests moved seeking confessions and if made the boon of strangulation was conceded before "tasting the fire." shortly before sunrise the great bell of the cathedral tolled and roused the city into life. people filled the chief streets, lined the thoroughfares and crowded into places whence they might best see the procession. with daylight dellon saw from the faces of his companions that they were mostly indians with but a dozen white men among them. m. dellon went barefoot with the rest over the loose flints of the badly paved streets, and, at length, cut and bleeding, entered the church of st. francisco, for the ceremony could not be performed under the fierce sky of this torrid climate. dellon's punishment was confiscation of all his property, and banishment from india, with five years' service in the galleys of portugal. the rest of his sad adventures may be told briefly. he was brought back to lisbon and worked at the oar with other convicts for some years, when at the intercession of friends in france the portuguese government consented to release him. there is no record that the french authorities made any claim or reclamation for the ill-usage of a french subject. it was otherwise with their neighbours, the english, who even before their power in india was established, would not suffer the portuguese authorities in goa to ill-treat a person who could claim british protection. a french capuchin, named father ephrem, had visited madras when on his way to join the catholic mission in pegu. he was invited to remain in madras and was promised entire liberty with respect to his religion, and permitted to minister to the catholics already settled in the factory. in the course of his preaching he laid down a dogma offensive, as it was asserted, to the mother of god, and information thereof was laid with the inquisitors at goa, who made their plans to kidnap father ephrem and carry him off to goa, some six hundred miles distant from madras. the plot succeeded and the french capuchin was lodged in the prison of the holy office at goa. this was not to be brooked by the english in madras. an english ship forthwith proceeded to goa and a party of ten determined men, well-armed, landed and appeared at the gates of the inquisition and demanded admittance. leaving a couple of men on guard at the gate, the rest entered the gaol and insisted at the point of the sword that father ephrem should be forthwith surrendered to them. an order thus enforced was irresistible, and the prisoner was released, taken down to the ship's boat, reëmbarked and carried back in safety to madras. the aims of the inquisition are no longer those of modern communities. so widely has the idea of toleration extended, that we often forget how recent it is. the relations of church and state are so changed in the last two centuries, that it is difficult to understand the times of the spanish inquisition. then it was universally believed that orthodoxy in faith was intimately connected with loyalty to the state. as a matter of fact, nearly all the earlier heretical movements were also social or political revolts. it is, therefore, easy to see how heresy and high treason came to appear identical. some of the inquisitors were corrupt, others were naturally cruel, others, drunk with power, were more zealous in exerting that power than they were in deciding between guilt and innocence. on the other hand many were zealous because of their honesty. if a man believes that he knows the only hope of salvation, it is perfectly logical to compel another by force, if necessary, to follow that hope. any physical punishment is slight compared with the great reward which reconciliation brings. on the other hand, if he is firm in his heresy, he is as dangerous as a wild beast. we are more tolerant now, less certain, perhaps, of our ground, but three or four hundred years ago these points were a stern reality. that many inquisitors were more concerned with the church as an institution than as a means of salvation is also true. they punished disrespect to an officer or to a law more severely than they did a doctrinal error, but that was, perhaps, inevitable. the spanish inquisition, which, as has been said, was to some extent a state affair, punished many for what we might call trifling offences, or, indeed, no offence at all, but it was an intolerant age, in and out of spain. the number punished has been grossly exaggerated, but it was enough to injure spain permanently, to crush out freedom of thought and action to an unwarrantable extent. the historian must attribute much of spain's decadence to the work of the mistaken advocate of absolute uniformity. chapter vi early prisons and prisoners slow development of prison reform in spain--description of the old saladero--george borrow's account of his arrest and imprisonment there--balseiro's escape and subsequent escapades--he seizes the two sons of a wealthy basque and holds them for ransom--his capture and execution--the _valientes_ or bullies--the cruelties they practised upon their weaker fellow prisoners--don rafael salillas' description of the seville prison. the prisons in spain have been generally divided into three categories: first, the _depositos correcionales_, the _cárceles_ or common gaols, one in the capital of each province, to which were sent accused persons and all sentenced to two years or less; second, the _presidios_ of the peninsula for convicts between two years and eight years; and third, the african penal settlements for terms beyond eight years. the character and condition of the bulk of these places of durance long continued most unsatisfactory. in 1888 in an official report, the minister of grace and justice said, "the present state of the spanish prisons is not enchanting. they are neither safe nor wholesome, nor adapted to the ends in view." this criticism was fully borne out by the result of a general inquiry instituted. it was found that of a total of four hundred and fifty-six of the correctional prisons only one hundred and sixty-six were really fit for the purpose intended and the remainder were installed in any buildings available. some were very ancient, dating back to the 16th century; and had once been palaces, religious houses, castles or fortresses. many of these buildings were ancient monuments which suffered much injury from the ignoble rôle to which they were put. a protest was published by a learned society of madrid against the misuse of the superb ex-convents of san gregorio in valladolid and san isidro del campo near seville, and the mutilation by its convict lodgers of the very beautiful gateway of the templo de la piedad in guadalajara. the installation of the prison at palma de mallorca all but hopelessly impaired the magnificent cloisters of the convent of san francisco, a thirteenth century architectural masterpiece, and a perfect specimen of the ogival form, like nothing else in spain. within a short period of ten years several of these interesting old buildings were ruined. the entire convent prison at coruña sank, causing many casualties, loss of life and serious wounds. sometimes the authorities hired private dwellings to serve as prisons, or laid hands on whatever they could find. at granada a slice of the court house was used, a dark triangle to which air came only from the interior yard. the prison of allariz at orense was on the ground floor of a house in the street, having two windows looking directly on to it, guarded by a grating with bars so far apart that a reasonably thin man could slip through. one of the worst features of many of these ancient prisons was their location in the very heart of the towns with communication to the street. friends gathered at the _rejas_ outside, and the well known picture of flirtation at the prison window was drawn from life. a common sight also was the outstretched hand of the starving prisoner imploring alms from the charitable, for there was no regular or sufficient supply of provisions within. free access was also possible when the domestic needs of the interior took the prisoners to the public well in the street. the carmona gaol in seville was for years half in ruins; no sunlight reached any part of it with the exception of two of the yards; the dungeons had no ventilation except by a hole in their doors; an open sewer ran through the gaol, the floors were always wet, fleas abounded, as also rats, beetles and cockroaches; cooking was done in one corner of the exercising yard and clothes were washed in the other. the removal of the gaol was ordered and plans for a new building prepared in 1864, but they were pigeon-holed until 1883, then sent back to be revised, and the project is still delayed. the colmenar prison of malaga was always under water in heavy rain, and although simple repairs would have rectified this, nothing was done. the prison of leon was condemned in 1878 as unfit for human habitation, and its alcalde (governor) stated that it had been reported for a century or more that it wanted light, air and sanitary arrangements; typhoid was endemic and three alcaldes had died of zymotic disease in a few years. it was generally denounced as "a poisonous pesthouse, a judicial burial ground." the totana prison of murcia was not properly a prison, but only a range of warehouses and shops fit for the storage of grain and herbs, but wholly unsuitable to lodge human beings. the district governor speaking of the infiesto prison at oviedo in 1853 wrote: "humanity shudders at the horrible aspect of this detestable place." at cartagena the common gaol was on the ground floor of the _presidio_ or convict prison. here the innocent, still untried prisoners occupied a dark, damp den, enduring torments of discomfort, speedily losing health and strength, and exposed by its ruinous condition to the extremes of heat and cold in the varying seasons. females were lodged on a lower floor, darker and closer and even exposed to the worst temptations. the convicts of the _presidio_ had free access to their prison and immorality could not be prevented; no amount of supervision (and there was really none) could have checked the moral contamination more easily conveyed than the physical. these painful facts may be read in an official report dated october, 1877, and are practically the same as those detailed in the famous indictment of john howard just a century earlier.[9] [9] "vida penal en espana," by rafael salillas, madrid, 1888. many of the makeshift prisons mentioned above were located in the very heart of towns and were without boundary walls or means of separation from the public, and two hundred and sixty-four had windows giving upon the streets. it was impossible to ensure safe custody so limited was the supervision, so insecure and ruinous the state of these imperfect prisons. escapes had been of very frequent occurrence, but the total number could not be stated owing to the absence of accurate records from year to year. one authority gave the annual average of escapes as thirty-four, ranging over five successive years. they were greatly facilitated by the slack, slipshod system of discipline and the careless guard kept at the gates through which crowds constantly passed in and out. friends admitted wholesale to visit prisoners brought in disguises and easily helped them to evade the vigilance of warders and keepers. escapes were most numerous in the small gaols,--about three to one when compared to those from the _presidios_,--and were often effected on the way to gaol through the neglect or connivance of the escort, especially when the journey was made on foot and officers in charge willingly consented to linger on the road in order to enjoy themselves in the taverns and drinking shops. they even allowed their prisoners to pay lengthened visits to their own homes if situated anywhere near. a famous escape took place, _en masse_, in one of the prisons on the occasion of a theatrical performance given by the prisoners in honour of the governor's birthday. permission had been duly accorded and the function was organised on an imposing scale. the stage was erected in an open space, scenery provided and a fine curtain or act drop behind which the usual preparations were made. these had not gone beyond rehearsal, however. all was ready to "ring up," the prison audience all seated, enduring with increased impatience and dissatisfaction the long wait which seemed and was actually endless. at last the authorities interposed and the governor sent a messenger behind the curtain with a peremptory order to begin. there was no company. every single soul, manager and actors had disappeared under cover of the curtain. a great hole or gap had been made in the outer wall, through which all of the performers had passed out to freedom. numerous as are the escapes, recaptures are also frequent. that fine corps, the _guardias civiles_, which constitutes the rural police of spain, always so active in the prevention and suppression of crime, has been highly successful in the pursuit of fugitives, few of whom remain at large for any length of time. travellers in spain, especially in the country districts, must have been struck with the fine appearance of these stalwart champions of the law. they are all old soldiers, well trained and disciplined, ever on the side of order, never mixing in politics, and conspicuous for their loyalty to the existing régime. the most disgraceful of the old prisons were in madrid. the saladero which survived until very recently had been once an abattoir and salting place of pigs. but it replaced one more ancient and even worse in every aspect. the earlier construction is described by a spanish writer, don francisco lastres, as the most meagre, the darkest, dirtiest place imaginable. it had yet a deeper depth, an underground dungeon, commonly called "el infierno," hell itself, in which light was so scarce that when new comers arrived, the old occupants could only make out their faces by striking matches, manufactured from scraps of linen steeped in grease saved from their soup or salad oil. when the gaol was emptied it was so encrusted with abominable filth that to clean it was out of the question and the whole place was swept bodily out of existence. this must have been the prison in which george borrow was confined when that enterprising englishman was arrested for endeavouring to circulate the bible in spain, as the agent and representative of the british bible society in 1835 and the following years. his experiences as told by himself constitute one of the most thrilling books of adventure in the english language, and his strangely interesting personality will long be remembered and admired. he had led a very varied life, had wandered the world over as the friend and associate of those curious people, the gipsies, whose "crabbed" language he spoke with fluency and to whose ways and customs he readily conformed. readers whom his "lavengro" and "the romany rye" have delighted will bear witness to the daring and intrepid character which carried him safely through many difficult and dangerous situations. he was a man of great stature, well trained in the art of self defence, as he proved by his successful contest with the "flaming tinker" described in "lavengro." the bigoted spanish authorities caught a tartar in borrow. it was easy to arrest him as he was nothing loth to go to gaol; he had long been thinking, as he tells us, "of paying a visit to the prison, partly in the hope of being able to say a few words of christian instruction to the criminals and partly with a view to making certain investigations in the robber language of spain." but, once in, he refused to come out. he took high ground; his arrest had been unlawful; he had never been tried or condemned and nothing would satisfy him but a full and complete apology from the spanish government. he was strongly backed up by the british ambassador and he was gratified in the end by the almost abject surrender of the authorities. but he spent three weeks within the walls and we have to thank his indomitable spirit for a glimpse into the gloomy recesses of the carcel de la corte, the chief prison, at that time, of the capital of spain. the arrest was made openly in one of the principal streets of madrid by a couple of _alguazils_ who carried their prisoner to the office of the _corregidor_, or chief magistrate, where he was abruptly informed that he was to be forthwith committed to gaol. he was led across the plaza mayor, the great square so often the scene in times past of the _autos da fé_. borrow, as he went, cast his eyes at the balcony of the city hall where, on one occasion, "the last of the austrian line in spain (philip ii) sat, and, after some thirty heretics of both sexes had been burnt by fours and fives, wiped his face perspiring with heat and black with smoke and calmly inquired, '_no hay mas?_'" (no more to come?) for which exemplary proof of patience he was much applauded by his priests and confessors, who subsequently poisoned him. "we arrived at the prison," borrow goes on, "which stands in a narrow street not far from the great square. we entered a dusty passage at the end of which was a wicket. there was an exchange of words and in a few moments i found myself within the prison of madrid, in a kind of corridor which overlooked at a considerable altitude what appeared to be a court from which arose a hubbub of voices and occasional wild shouts and cries...." several people sat here, one of whom received the warrant of committal, perused it with attention and, rising, advanced towards borrow. "what a figure! he was about forty years of age and ... in height might have been some six feet two inches had his body not been curved much after the fashion of the letter s. no weasel ever appeared lanker; his face might have been called handsome, had it not been for his extraordinary and portentous meagreness; his nose was like an eagle's bill, his teeth white as ivory, his eyes black (oh, how black!) and fraught with a strange expression; his skin was dark and the hair of his head like the plumage of a raven. a deep quiet smile dwelt continually on his features, but with all the quiet it was a cruel smile, such a one as would have graced the countenance of a nero. "'_caballero_,' he said, 'allow me to introduce myself as the alcaide of this prison.... i am to have the honour of your company for a time, a short time doubtless, beneath this roof; i hope you will banish every apprehension from your mind. i am charged to treat you with all respect, a needless charge and _caballero_, you will rather consider yourself here as a guest than as a prisoner. pray issue whatever commands you may think fit to the turnkeys and officials as if they were your own servants. i will now conduct you to your apartment. we invariably reserve it for cavaliers of distinction. no charge will be made for it although the daily hire is not unfrequently an ounce of gold.' "this speech was delivered in pure sonorous castilian with calmness, gravity and almost dignity and would have done honour to a gentleman of high birth. now, who in the name of wonder, was this alcaide? one of the greatest rascals in all spain. a fellow who more than once by his grasping cupidity and his curtailment of the miserable rations of the prisoners caused an insurrection in the court below only to be repressed by bloodshed and the summoning of military aid; a fellow of low birth who five years previously had been a drummer to a band of royalist volunteers." the room allotted to borrow was large and lofty, but totally destitute of any kind of furniture except a huge wooden pitcher containing the day's allowance of water. but no objection was made to borrow's providing for himself and a messenger was forthwith despatched to his lodgings to fetch bed and bedding and all necessaries, with which came a supply of food, and the new prisoner soon made himself fairly comfortable. he ate heartily, slept soundly and rejoiced next day to hear that this illegal arrest and confinement of a british subject was already causing the high-handed minister who had ordered it, much uneasiness and embarrassment. borrow steadfastly refused to go free without full and ample reparation for the violence and injustice done to him. "take notice," he declared, "that i will not quit this prison till i have received full satisfaction for having been sent hither uncondemned. you may expel me if you please, but any attempt to do so shall be resisted with all the bodily strength of which i am possessed." in the end the _amende_ was made in an official document admitting that he had been imprisoned on insufficient grounds, and borrow went out after three weeks' incarceration, during which he learned much concerning the prison and the people it contained. he refrains from a particular description of the place. "it would be impossible," he says, "to describe so irregular and rambling an edifice. its principal features consisted of two courts, the one behind the other, in which the great body of the prisoners took air and recreation. three large vaulted dungeons or _calabozos_ occupied the three sides of the (first) court ... roomy enough to contain respectively from one hundred to one hundred and fifty prisoners who were at night secured with lock and bar, but during the day were permitted to roam about the courts as they thought fit. the second court was considerably larger than the first, though it contained but two dungeons, horribly filthy and disgusting, used for the reception of the lower grades of thieves. of the two dungeons one was if possible yet more horrible than the other. it was called the _gallinería_ or 'chicken coop' because within it every night were pent up the young fry of the prison, wretched boys from seven to fifteen years of age, the greater part almost in a state of nudity. the common bed of all the inmates of these dungeons was the ground, between which and their bodies nothing intervened save occasionally a _manta_ or horse cloth or perhaps a small mattress; this latter luxury was however of exceedingly rare occurrence. "besides the _calabozos_ connected with the courts were other dungeons in various parts of the prison, some of them quite dark, intended for the reception of those whom it might be deemed expedient to treat with peculiar severity. there was likewise a ward set apart for females. connected with the principal corridor were many small apartments where resided prisoners confined for debt or for political offences, and, lastly, there was a small _capilla_ or chapel in which prisoners cast for death passed the last three days of their existence in the company of their ghostly advisers. "i shall not forget my first sunday in prison. sunday is the gala day ... and whatever robber finery is to be found in it is sure to be exhibited on that day of holiness. there is not a set of people in the world more vain than robbers in general, more fond of cutting a figure whenever they have an opportunity. the famous jack sheppard delighted in sporting a suit of genoese velvet and when he appeared in public generally wore a silver hilted sword by his side.... many of the italian bandits go splendidly decorated, the cap alone of the haram pacha, the head of the cannibal gipsy band which infested hungary at the conclusion of the 18th century, was adorned with gold and jewels to the value of several thousand guilders.... the spanish robbers are as fond of display as their brethren of other lands, and whether in prison or out are never so happy as when decked out in a profusion of white linen in which they can loll in the sun or walk jauntily up and down." to this day, snow-white linen is an especial mark of foppery in the spanish peasant. to put on a clean shirt is considered a sufficient and satisfactory substitute for a bath and in the humblest house a white table cloth is provided for meals and clean sheets for the beds. borrow gives a graphic picture of the "tip-top thieves" he came across. "neither coat nor jacket was worn over the shirt, the sleeves of which were wide and flowing, only a waistcoat of green or blue silk with an abundance of silver buttons which are intended more for show than use, as the waistcoat is seldom buttoned. then there are wide trousers something after the turkish fashion; around the waist is a crimson _faja_ or girdle and about the head is tied a gaudily coloured handkerchief from the loom of barcelona. light pumps and silk stockings complete the robber's array. "amongst those who particularly attracted my attention were a father and son; the former a tall athletic figure, of about thirty, by profession a housebreaker and celebrated through madrid for the peculiar dexterity he exhibited in his calling. he was in prison for an atrocious murder committed in the dead of night in a house in carabanchel (a suburb of madrid), in which his only accomplice was his son, a child under seven years of age. the imp was in every respect the counterpart of his father though in miniature. he too wore the robber shirt sleeves, the robber waistcoat with the silver buttons, the robber kerchief round his brow and, ridiculously enough, a long manchegan knife in the crimson faja. he was evidently the pride of the ruffian father who took all imaginable care of him, would dandle him on his knee, and would occasionally take the cigar from his own mustachioed lips and insert it in the urchin's mouth. the boy was the pet of the court, for the father was one of the 'bullies' of the prison and those who feared his prowess and wished to pay their court to him were always fondling the child." borrow when in the "carcel de la corte" renewed his acquaintance with one, balseiro, whom he had met in a low tavern frequented by thieves and bull fighters on a previous visit to madrid. one of these, sevilla by name, professed deep admiration for the englishman and backed him to know more than most people of the "crabbed" gitano language. a match was made with this balseiro who claimed to have been in prison half his life and to be on most intimate terms with the gipsies. when borrow came across him for the second time he was confined in an upper story of the prison in a strong room with other malefactors. there was no mistaking this champion criminal with his small, slight, active figure and his handsome features, "but they were those of a demon." he had recently been found guilty of aiding and abetting a celebrated thief, pepe candelas, in a desperate robbery perpetrated in open daylight on no less a person than the queen's milliner, a frenchwoman, whom they bound in her own shop, from which they took goods to the amount of five or six thousand dollars. candelas had already suffered for his crime, but balseiro, whose reputation was the worse of the two, had saved his life by the plentiful use of money, and the capital sentence had in his case been commuted to twenty years' hard labour in the _presidio_ of malaga. when borrow condoled with him, balseiro laughed it off, saying that within a few weeks he would be transferred and could at any time escape by bribing his guards. but he was not content to wait and joined with several fellow convicts who succeeded in breaking through the roof of the prison and getting away. he returned forthwith to his evil courses and soon committed a number of fresh and very daring robberies in and around madrid. at length dissatisfied with the meagre results and the smallness of the plunder he secured, balseiro planned a great stroke to provide himself with sufficient funds to leave the country and live elsewhere in luxurious idleness. a basque named gabira, a man of great wealth, held the post of comptroller of the queen's household. he had two sons, handsome boys of twelve and fourteen years of age respectively, who were being educated at a school in madrid. balseiro, well aware of the father's strong affection for his children, resolved to make it subservient to his rapacity. he planned to carry off the boys and hold them for ransom at an enormous price. two of his confederates, well-dressed and of respectable appearance, drove up to the school and presenting a forged letter, purporting to be written by the father, persuaded the schoolmaster to let them go out for a jaunt in the country. they were carried off to a hiding place of balseiro's in a cave some five miles from madrid in a wild unfrequented spot between the escorial and the village of torre lodones. here the two children were sequestered in the safekeeping of their captors, while balseiro remained in madrid to conduct negotiations with the bereaved father. but gabira was a man of great energy and determination and altogether declined to agree to the terms proposed. he invoked the power of the authorities instead, and, at his request, parties of horse and foot soldiers were sent to scour the country and the cave was soon discovered, with the children, who had been deserted by their guards in terror at the news of the rigorous search instituted. further search secured the capture of the accomplices and they were identified by their young victims. balseiro, when his part in the plot became known, fled from the capital but was speedily caught, tried, and with his associates suffered death on the scaffold. gabira with his two children was present at the execution. a brief description of the old saladero, which has at last disappeared off the face of the earth, may be of interest. it stood at the top of the santa barbara hill on the left hand side, in external aspect a half-ruined edifice tottering to its fall, propped and buttressed, at one corner quite past mending, at another showing rotten cement and plaster with its aged weather-worn walls stained with great black patches of moisture and decay. a poor and wretched place outside with no architectural pretensions, its interior was infinitely worse. it was entered by a wide entrance not unlike that of an ancient country inn or hostelry with a broken-down wooden staircase, leading to a battered doorway of rotten timbers. the portals passed, the prison itself was reached, a series of underground cellars with vaulted roofs purposely constructed, as it seemed, to exclude light and prevent ventilation, permeated constantly with fetid odours and abominable foul exhalations from the perpetual want of change of atmosphere or circulation of fresh air. yet human beings were left to rot in these nauseous and pestiferous holes for two or three years continuously. at times the detention lasted five years on account of the disgracefully slow procedure in the law courts and this although trials often ended in acquittal or a verdict of non-responsibility for the criminal act charged. many of the unfortunate wretches subjected to these interminable delays and waiting judgment, therefore still innocent in the eyes of the law, were yet herded with those already convicted of the most heinous offences. this neglect of the rules, generally accepted as binding upon civilised governments in the treatment of those whom the law lays by the heels, produced deplorable results. the gaol fever, that ancient scourge which once ravaged ill-kept prisons and swept away thousands, but long ago eliminated from proper places of durance, survived in the saladero of madrid until quite a recent date. forty cases occurred as late as 1876 and zymotic disease was endemic in the prison. it was also a hotbed of vice, where indiscriminate association of all categories, good, bad and indifferent--the worst always in the ascendent, fostered and developed criminal instincts and multiplied criminals of the most daring and accomplished kind. when, with a storm of indignant eloquence, an eminent spanish deputy, don manuel silvela, denounced the saladero in the cortes and took the lead in insisting upon its demolition, he pointed out its many shortcomings. it was in the last degree unhealthy; it was nearly useless as a place of detention, for the bold or ingenious prisoner laughed at its restraints and escapes took place daily to the number of fourteen and sixteen at a time. if, however, with increased precautions it was possible to keep prisoners secure within the walls, nothing could save them from one another. contamination was widespread and unceasing in a mass of men left entirely to themselves without regular occupation, without industrial labour or improving education and with no outlet for their energies but demoralising talk and vicious practices. not strangely the saladero became a great criminal centre, a workshop and manufactory of false money, where strange frauds were devised, such as the _entierro_[10] or suggested revelation of hidden treasure, the well known spanish swindle which has had ramifications almost all over the world. [10] see _post_, p. 161. an independent witness, nevertheless, speaking from experience, the same george borrow already quoted, has a good word to say for the inmates of spanish gaols. he was greatly surprised at their orderly conduct and quiet demeanour. "they had their occasional bursts of wild gaiety; their occasional quarrels which they were in the habit of settling in a corner of the interior court with their long knives, the result not infrequently being death or a dreadful gash in the face or abdomen; but upon the whole their conduct was infinitely superior to what might have been expected from the inmates of such a place. yet this was not the result of coercion or any particular care which was exercised over them; for perhaps in no part of the world are prisoners so left to themselves and so utterly neglected as in spain, the authorities having no further anxiety about them than to prevent their escape, not the slightest attention being paid to their moral conduct,--not a thought bestowed on their health, comfort or mental improvement whilst within the walls. yet in this prison of madrid, and i may say in spanish prisons in general (for i have been an inmate of more than one), the ears of the visitor are never shocked with horrid blasphemy and obscenity as in those of some other countries and more particularly in civilised france, nor are his eyes outraged or himself insulted as he would assuredly be were he to look down upon the courts from the galleries of the bicêtre (in paris)." and yet in this prison of madrid were some of the most desperate characters in spain; ruffians who had committed acts of cruelty and atrocity sufficient to make one shudder with horror. gravity and sedateness are the leading characteristics of the spaniards, and the worst robber, except in those moments when he is engaged in his occupation, (and then no one is more sanguinary, pitiless and wolfishly eager for booty), is a being who can be courteous and affable and who takes pleasure in conducting himself with sobriety and decorum. borrow thought so well of these fellow-prisoners that he was willing to entertain them at dinner in his own private apartment in the gaol, and the governor made no objection to knocking off their irons temporarily so that they might enjoy the meal in comfort and convenience. a more intimate acquaintance with the inner life of the spanish gaols has been accorded by a modern writer, don rafael salillas. he summarises all its evils in the single word "money." all disorders and shortcomings, the corruption, the absence of discipline, the cruelties perpetrated, the prevailing license, the shameful immorality constantly winked at or openly permitted, have had one and the same origin, the use and misuse of the private funds the prisoners have at their disposal. until quite a recent date, everything, even temporary liberty, had its price in spanish prisons. this vicious system dated from the times when the "alcaide" or head of an establishment, the primary purpose of which was the safe custody of offenders, bought his place and was permitted to recoup himself as best he could out of his charges. the same abominable practice was at one time almost a world-wide practice, but nowhere has it flourished so largely as in spain. no attempt was made to check it; it was acknowledged and practically deemed lawful. in an ancient work on the prison of seville, dating from the sixteenth century, the writer, christobal de chaves, classifies the interior under three heads; the spaces entered respectively by three doors of gold, silver or copper, each metal corresponding to the profits drawn from each. imprisonment might be made more tolerable by payment regulated according to a fixed tariff. for a certain sum any prisoner might go home to sleep, he might purchase food where little, if any, was provided, he might escape fetters or purchase "easement of irons," as in the old english prisons. to enhance the value of the relief afforded worse hardships were inflicted at the outset. restraint was made most irksome in the beginning of imprisonment. the fetters were then the heaviest and most varied, the deepest and vilest dungeons were the first quarters allotted. a plain hint of relaxation and alleviation was given, to be obtained at a price and the converse made equally certain. increased pain and discomfort were the penalty for those who would not, or, worse still, who could not produce the extortionate sums demanded. tasks imposed were rendered more difficult; it was a common practice to oil or grease the rope by which water was raised from a well, so that it should slip through the fingers and intensify the labour. when authority had sold its good will or wrung the life blood from its victims they were handed over to the tender mercies of their fellow prisoners, the self-constituted masters and irresponsible tyrants in the place. the most brutal and overbearing ruled supreme within the walls and levied taxes by the right of the strongest. the "garnish" of the old british prisons, the enforced payments to gain a first footing, was exacted to the last in spain from all new arrivals and was called "_cobrar el patente_," _i. e._ collecting the dues. to hesitate or refuse payment was promptly punished by cruel blows; the defaulters were flogged; they got the _culebrazo_ (whipping) with a rope kept for the purpose. the quite penniless were despoiled of their clothing and consoled with the remark that it was better for them to take to their beds because they were naked, than on account of injuries and wounds, or they wrapped themselves up in some ragged cloak infested with fleas. the bullies or _valientes_ were not interfered with by the authorities but rather supported by them. in fact they played into each other's hands. both worked their wicked will upon their victims and in their own way,--the authorities by right of the legal powers they wielded, the master-prisoners by force of character and the strength of their muscles. both squeezed out money like juice from a lemon, robbed, swindled or stole all that came in their way. guzman de alfarache, the typical thief of the time of philip ii, whose life and adventures are told by the author of the most famous of the picaresque novels, describes his journey from seville to cadiz to embark upon one of the galleys which made up the naval power of spain. "as we started on the road, we came upon a swine-herd with a number of young pigs, which we surrounded and captured, each of us taking one. the man howled to our commissary that he should make us restore them, but he turned a deaf ear and we stuck to our plunder. at the first halt we laid hands on other goods and concealed them inside one of the pigs when the commissary interposed, discovered the things and took possession of them himself." the alcaide of the prison turned everything to profit. he sold the government stores, bedding and clothing to the prison bullies who retailed the pieces to individual prisoners. he trafficked in the disciplinary processes, accepting bribes to overlook misconduct, and pandered to the worst vices of the inmates by allowing visitors of both sexes to have free access to them and to bring in all manner of prohibited articles, unlimited drink, and dangerous weapons, knives and daggers and other arms for use in attack and defence in the quarrels and murderous conflicts continually occurring. a fruitful source of profit was the sale of privileged offices, permits to hawk goods and to trade within the precincts of the prison. salillas when he visited the seville prison not many years ago, saw numbers of prisoners selling cigars and cigarettes in the yards, various articles of food, such as _gazpacho_, the popular salad of andalusia, compounded of oil and bread soaked in water, and drinks including _aguardiente_, that powerful spanish spirit akin to hollands. some kept gaming tables and paid a tax on each game and its profits and especially when the "king" was turned up at "monte." salillas publishes a list of prices that ruled for places, privileges and boons conceded to the prisoners. to become a "_cabo de vara_," a "corporal carrying the stick" or wand of office, cost from eight to sixteen dollars. "who and what was the _cabo de vara_?" he asks and answers the question. "a hybrid creature the offspring of such diverse parents as the law and crime; half murderer, half robber, who after living in defiance of the law is at least prevented from doing further harm in freedom, is locked up and entrusted with executive authority over companions who have passed through the same evil conditions and are now at his mercy. he is half galley-slave chained to the oar, half public functionary wearing the badge of officialdom and armed with a stick to enforce his authority. he represents two very opposite sets of ideas; on the one hand that of good order and the maintenance of penal discipline, on the other that of a natural inclination towards the wrong doing in which he has been a practitioner and for which he is, in a way, enduring the penalty. to succeed he must possess some strongly marked personal qualities; he should be able to bully and impose his will upon those subjected to his influence, overbearing, masterful, swaggering, ready to take the law into his own hands and insist upon its observance as he chooses to interpret its dictates." the post of hospital orderly or cook or laundry-man could be secured for about the same price, while a small fee to the prison surgeon gained a perfectly sound man admission to hospital for treatment he did not need, but in which he was much more comfortable than in the ordinary prison. the place of prison barber was to be bought for four dollars; employment as a shoemaker two dollars; relief from a punishment ordered three dollars; permission to pay a visit home, four dollars. these prices were not definitely settled and unchangeable. where a certain profit could be extracted from a particular post such as the charge of the canteen it was put up to auction and knocked down to the highest bidder. chapter vii presidios at home and abroad the presidio or convict prison--stations at home and in northern africa--convict labour--cruelties inflicted on the presidiarios employed in road making--severity of the régime at valladolid--evils of overcrowding--ceuta--its fortifications--early history--the _entierro_ or "spanish swindle"--several interesting instances--monsignor x--armand carron--m. elked--credulity of the victims--boldness of the swindlers--attempt to dupe a yorkshire squire--discovery of the fraud. the spanish "presidios" or penal establishments for offenders sentenced to long terms are the counterpart of the english convict prisons. they are of two classes, those at home in provincial capitals or in fortresses and strongholds, and those abroad installed in north africa, as the alternative or substitute for the penal colonies beyond the sea established by italy and france. home presidios are at burgos, cartagena, granada, ocana, santona, valladolid and saragossa. there are two at valencia, one at tarragona and two more at alcalá de henares. of the foregoing that of cartagena was especially constructed to meet the needs of the arsenal and dockyard and is spoken of as deplorably deficient by those who visited it. four hundred convicts were lodged miserably in one dormitory; their bedding consisted of a rough mattress and one brown rug; clothing was issued only every two years; the dietaries were supplied by a thievish contractor who supplied a soup consisting of beans boiled in water, abstracting the ration of oil and bacon. a presidio of ancient date was installed in the arsenal of la carraca near cadiz, a survival really of the _galera_ or galleys planted on shore when human motive power ceased to be used in propelling warships. [illustration: _castel dell' ovo_ situated on a high rocky island near the shore of naples, it was a place of great security. a number of the islands in the bay of naples have been utilised as prisons and as penal settlements.] a terrible story is preserved of the cruelties inflicted on a number of these _presidiarios_ employed to make the road between san lucar de barrameda and puerto santa maria. their labour was leased to an inhuman contractor who worked them literally to death. they were half-starved, over-burthened with chains and continually flogged so that within one year half their whole number of one thousand had disappeared; they had died "of privation, of blows, hunger, cold, insufficient clothing and continuous neglect." the contractor cleared a large profit, but lost it and died in extreme poverty after having been arraigned and tried for his life as a murderer. the presidio of valladolid was also condemned for the severity of its régime. the climate alternated between great summer heat and extreme cold in winter, but the convicts worked in the quarries in all weathers. the death record rose in this prison to such a high figure that a third of the average total population of three thousand perished within eighteen months. the general average of the presidios was low but as a rule the death rate was not high. even when twenty per cent. of males and twenty-five per cent. of the females were sick and hospital accommodation was scarce and imperfect, the deaths did not exceed two and a half per cent. per annum and this included the fatal results of quarrels ending in duels to the death. one of the most serious evils was overcrowding. official figures give the prison population as about nineteen thousand and the available house-room was for not more than twelve thousand. salillas puts it at a much lower total, asserting there was barely room for three thousand. while the prisons of cuba are not strictly within the scope of this work, one of historic and particular interest may be mentioned. this is morro castle, which still guards the harbour of havana. it was begun in 1589, soon after the unsuccessful attack on havana by drake, and was finished in 1597. in 1862 it was partly destroyed by the english who captured it and remained in possession of the city for a year. the arms of the city, granted by royal decree, were appropriately three castles of silver on a blue field, and a golden key. the castles were la fuerza, el morro and la punta, guarding the harbour. the ancient fortress has been described as a "great mass of dun coloured rock and tower and battlement and steep, of which the various parts seem to have grown into one another." it contains cells as damp, dark and unwholesome as those in the notorious dungeons of the old world. this is testified to by a california journalist, charles michelson, who was arrested by mistake and thrown into a cell in the castle just before the spanish-american war. although he was liberated in two days, his experience was not soon forgotten. the cell was an arch of heavy masonry, damp with the moisture of years. the only window was high up in the arch, and there was no furniture--no bed, blanket or chair. he was not without company of a kind, however, for the place was full of cockroaches and rats. when he clambered up and tried to look out of the window, which commands a fine view of the harbour, a guard outside poked at him with a bayonet. the soup brought him was, he said, "strong and scummy, and the can had been so recently emptied of its original contents that there was a film of oil over the top of it." his interpreter, who was arrested at the same time, fared worse, for he was bound and kept in even a fouler cell. in the days of spanish sovereignty, many cuban prisoners were shot and their bodies were hurled from the outer wall of the castle to the sharks of the so-called "shark's nest," forty feet below, on the gulf side. there are said to be many caverns in the castle through which the rush and noise of the waves make music, but this is probably due to the winds rather than the tides. spain maintains several presidios beyond sea, chiefly on the north african coast, and there is one also at palma de mallorca, one of the balearic islands. those in africa are alhucemas, melilla, peñon de velez de la gomera, chaferinas and ceuta, immediately opposite gibraltar, which is no doubt the first and original of all spanish presidios. the expression when first used was taken to convey the meaning of a penal settlement, established within a fortress under military rule and guardianship, with its personnel constantly employed on the fortifications, constructing, repairing and making good wear and tear, and answering, if need be, the call to arms in reinforcement of the regular garrison. the early records of ceuta prove this. this stronghold, on one side rising out of the sea, with its landward defences ever confronting a fierce hostile power, was exposed at all times to siege and incursion. when the moorish warriors became too bold the spanish general sallied forth to beat up their quarters, destroy their batteries and drive them back into the mountains. working parties of _presidiarios_, armed, accompanied the troops and did excellent service, eager, as the old chronicler puts it, to clear their characters by their heroism, "always supposing that blood may wash out crime." ceuta was a type of the military colony beyond sea, held by a strong garrison against warlike natives who resisted the invasion and would have driven out the intruders. the settlement was secured by continual fortification in which the abundant penal labour was constantly employed. its social conditions were precisely similar to those which obtained in the early days of australian transportation and such as prevail to-day in the french penal colony of new caledonia. the population is made up of two principal classes, bond and free. the first are convicts serving their sentences and the second the officials who guard them. ordinary colonists have not settled to any large extent in these north african possessions. a few traders and agriculturists have come seeking such fortune as offers and the number of residents is increased by released convicts, the counterpart of the emancipist class in the antipodes, who remain with the prospect of earning a livelihood honestly, instead of lapsing into evil courses on their return to the mother country. ceuta is essentially a convict city, not exactly founded by penal labour but enlarged and improved by it and served by it in all the needs of daily domestic life. the first period of close confinement on arrival is comparatively brief and is spent in the prison proper outside the city at hard labour in association on the fortifications, in the workshops and quarries. in the second period the convicts are permitted to enter the city and are employed under supervision in warehouses, offices and in water carrying. in the third period, commonly called from "gun to gun," extending daily from the morning gun fire until the evening, the convicts are allowed to go freely into the city and work there on their own account. the fourth and last, entered when two thirds of the whole sentence has been completed, is called "under conditions," that is to say, in conditional freedom, and the convicts are let out to private employers precisely as they were "assigned" in old australian days. they may live with their masters, sleep out, and are only obliged to report at the prison once a month for muster. more than a third of the total number are thus employed. the result is that ceuta offers the singular spectacle that it is nominally a prison, but the bulk of the prisoners live beyond the walls, quite unguarded and really in the streets forming part of the ordinary population. convicts are to be met with at every corner, they go in and out through the front doors of houses, no one looks at them in surprise, no one draws aside to let them pass. the situation is described graphically by salillas. "who is the coachman on the box? a convict. who is the man who waits at table? a convict. the cook in the kitchen? a convict. the nursemaid in charge of the children? a convict (male). are their employers afraid of being robbed or murdered? not in the least." another eye witness[11] writes:-[11] relosillas, "four months in ceuta." "could this happen in any other city in spain? if the inhabitants found themselves rubbing shoulders with the scum of the earth, with the worst malefactors, with criminals guilty of the most heinous offences, would they have enjoyed one moment's peace? could they overcome the natural repugnance felt by honest and respectable people for those whom the law has condemned to live apart? the fact is that at ceuta no one objects. the existing state of things is deemed the most natural thing in the world. it has been too long the rule and it is claimed seriously that no evil consequences have resulted. the utmost confidence is reposed in these ex-criminals whose nature has been seemingly quite changed by relegation to the african presidio. they wash and get up linen without losing more pieces than a first class washerwoman, they wait on the children with the tenderest concern, they perform all sorts of household service, go to market, run messages, polish the floors and the furniture with all the zeal and industry of the best servants in the world. the most cordial relations exist between employers and their convict attendants and cases have been known where the former have carried the latter back to spain to continue their service. one was a chinese cook who was excused ten years' supervision to go back with his master." it is claimed by the champions of ceuta that despite the freedom accorded to the convicts their conduct is exemplary. "i can certify," says relosillas[12] "that during a whole year there were but three or four instances of crime amongst the convicts employed in domestic service." others however are not so laudatory. an independent witness, doña concepcion arenal, has little good to say of the prisons. "in them justice is punished or rather crucified," she wrote, "and with it hygiene, morality, decency, humanity, all, in a word, which every one who is not himself hateful and contemptible, respects. it is impossible to give any idea of the _cuartel principal_ or chief convict barrack in the place. we can only refer to its terrible and revolting demoralisation." yet she is inclined to contradict herself and argues that the convict when trusted will behave well. his life on the whole is light and easy; he has sufficient food, congenial company, and can better his position by steady industry; he wears no chains, performs no rude or laborious tasks and is driven neither into insubordination nor crime. [12] "four months in ceuta." the statements just quoted are hardly credible and cannot be reconciled with the reports of others, from personal experience. mr. cook, an english evangelist, who has devoted himself to extensive prison visitation, has drawn a dark picture of this ideal penal settlement as he saw it in 1892. at that date general idleness was the rule. hundreds hung about with no work to do. criminals with the worst antecedents were included in the prison population. one had been a _bandido_ or brigand who had been guilty of seven murders; another had four murders to his credit and one assassin was in a totally dark cell, confined hand and foot, condemned to death and daily expecting to be shot. no fewer than one hundred and twelve slept in one large room without more supervision than that exercised by their fellows discharging the functions of warders. mr. cook expresses his wonder that they did not break out oftener into rebellion. as a matter of fact and as against the statement given above, outbreaks were not uncommon with fierce attacks upon officers and murderous affrays among the prisoners. crime and misconduct are certainly not unknown in ceuta. a gruesome description was given by a correspondent writing to the _london times_ in the year 1876. when he visited the citadel prison he found from eight hundred to one thousand convicts lodged there in a wretched condition, clad only in tattered rags, the cast off uniforms of soldiers, generally insufficient for decency. they tottered in and out of the ruinous sheds supposed to shelter them, quarrelled like hyenas over their meagre and repulsive rations, which were always short through the dishonesty of the thieving contractor, and fought to the death with the knives which every one carried. each shed contained from one to two hundred where they lay like beasts upon the ground. vermin crept up the wall and dirt abounded on all sides. "no words of mine," said this outspoken eye-witness, "can paint the darkness, the filth, the seething corruption of these dens of convicts, dens into which no streak of sunlight, divine or human, ever finds its way, and where nothing is seen or heard but outrage and cruelty on the one hand, misery and starvation and obscenity on the other." there was a worse place, the "presidio del campo," or field prison in which the hard labour gangs[13] employed on the fortifications were housed in still filthier hovels, with less food and more demoralisation. this same correspondent when he enquired his way to the presidio was told by a spanish officer: "they are not presidios but the haunts of wild beasts and nurseries of thieves." obviously there is much discrepancy in the various accounts published. [13] irons are not carried by the convicts, not even by those sentenced to imprisonment "in chains," _con la cadena_. they were considered an interference with the efforts and strength of the labourer. the true state of the case may best be judged by examining and setting forth the conditions prevailing. on the surface the convicts may seem to abstain from serious misconduct, but even this may be doubted from the facts in evidence. "it is a wild beasts' cage," writes one well informed authority. it may be to some extent a cage without bars, or in which the wild beasts are so tamed that they may be allowed to go at large and do but little harm, but evil instincts are at times in the ascendancy as shown in the quarrels and disorders that occur, but to no greater extent says the apologist than in any of the prisons on the spanish mainland. it may be that the régime is so mild that the convicts yield willingly to it without a murmur and seldom rise against it. but the very atmosphere of the place is criminal. there may be few prison offences where rules are easy but if serious offences against discipline are but rarely committed within the limits, others against society are constantly prepared for execution beyond. ceuta is a hot bed of crime, the seed is sown there, nourished and developed to bear baleful fruit afterwards. it is a first class school for the education of thieves, swindlers, coiners, and forgers who graduate and take honours in the open world of evil doing. it is the original home, some say, of the famous fraud, peculiarly spanish, called the _entierro_, which still flourishes and draws profit as ever, not from spain alone, but from far and wide in nearly all civilised countries. the _entierro_, or the "burial" literally translated, means an artful and specious proposal to reveal the whereabouts of a buried treasure. it is another form of the well known "confidence trick" or, as the french call it, the "_vol à l'americaine_," and we cannot but admire the ingenuity and inventiveness so often displayed in its practice, while expressing surprise at the credulity and gullibility of those who are deluded by it. it originates as a rule in a letter addressed from the prison to some prominent person in spain or elsewhere, for the astute practitioner is well provided with lists of names likely to be useful to him in his business. it is on record that a seizure was made in the presidio of granada of a whole stock in trade, a great mass of information secretly collected from all parts of the world to serve in carrying out the fraud of the _entierro_, and with it a number of forms of letters in various european languages. the invitation is marked "very private and confidential" and conveys with extreme caution and mystery the suggestion that for a sufficient consideration the secret hiding place of a very valuable treasure will be confided to the person addressed. colour is given to the proposal by some plausible but not always probable story on which it is based. in one case the writer pretended to be a spanish officer who had received from the hands of napoleon iii himself, when flying to england in september, 1870, a casket of jewels which he was charged to convey to the countess of montijo, mother of the empress eugenie, in madrid. the messenger had however become involved in a carlist or revolutionary movement and was now in prison, but he had succeeded before arrest in burying the jewels in a remote spot so cleverly concealed that he alone possessed the secret. the liberal offer was made to the person addressed of a fourth share of the total value provided he would transmit to the prisoner correspondent through a sure hand, indicated, the sum of three hundred pounds in cash by means of which he could secure release and proceed to unearth the treasure. another story is as follows: one day the regular mail boat brought to ceuta an italian ecclesiastic, a high dignitary of the church, of grave and venerable appearance, who proceeded at once to make a formal call upon the commandant or general commanding for the time being. he was in search of certain information and he more particularly desired to be directed to an address he sought, that of a small house in a retired spot in one of the small little-frequented streets in the hilly town. he carried with him a heavy and rather bulky handbag which when he started from the general's he begged he might leave in his charge on the plea that its contents were valuable. after the lapse of two or three hours the monsignor returned with terrified aspect and evidently in the greatest distress of mind. he entreated that a priest might be summoned to whom he might confess, and his wish was forthwith gratified. the moment he had unbosomed himself to his ghostly adviser, he seized his handbag and ran down to the port just in time to catch the return mail boat to algeciras. the priest who had heard his confession was to be released from the secret confided to him and reveal it to the authorities as soon as the safe arrival of the mail boat at the mainland was signalled across to ceuta. then the whole story came out. monsignor x was one of the most trusted and confidential chaplains of his holiness the pope and he had gone to ceuta in the interests of an ex-carlist general who had the misfortune to be detained there as a political prisoner. a sum of money was needed to compass his escape from the presidio and help him to reach in safety the burying place of a vast treasure, to disinter it and apply it to the furtherance of the civil war in progress. this general seems to have satisfied the papal dignitaries of his identity and good faith; his communication was endorsed with plans and statements pointing to the whereabouts of the hidden treasure, and the method by which the money he needed for his enterprise was to be used, was minutely described. he said he was too closely watched to allow any messenger to reach him direct, but he had friends in ceuta, two titled ladies, near relatives who had been permitted to live in the prison town and to visit him from time to time and who would pass the money to him when it was brought to ceuta. monsignor x landed as we have seen and learned where he was to go, but with commendable caution he hesitated to take his money with him. he would hand it over when he had made the personal acquaintance of the general's aristocratic friends. they did not prove very desirable acquaintances. he found the house he was to visit, was admitted without question, but then the door was shut behind him and he was murderously assailed by half a dozen convicts, knife in hand. he was ordered to give up the money he had brought, and when on searching him it was found missing, he was rifled of everything he carried in his pockets, both his watch and a considerable sum in cash. his life was spared because it was certain that his prolonged absence would lead to a hue and cry, but he was obliged to swear that he would not attempt to leave the house for one clear hour so that the robbers might make good their escape. moreover he was warned if he gave the alarm he would certainly be assassinated. hence his desire to pass beyond the straits of gibraltar before the outrage became known. when the house was visited it was found empty and unfurnished with not a sign of life on the premises. the most interesting feature in the story is that the swindlers should fly at such high game, but it is founded on undoubted fact. the carlist insurrection was often used to father the attempt to defraud. in another case a letter conveyed to the proprietor of a vineyard at maestrazgo the alluring news that a large sum in gold was hidden on his ground, the accumulated contributions of carlist supporters in the neighbourhood. the exact position would be revealed and a plan forwarded in exchange for a sum of four thousand dollars in hard cash, which was to be forwarded to ceuta according to certain precise instructions. the money was sent but no reply came. days and weeks passed and at last, weary of waiting and a little unhappy, the easily duped victim made up his mind to cross to ceuta in person and bring his disappointing correspondent to book. the wine grower unhappily landed in the presidio on the day they were baiting a bull in the streets, a game constantly played and with more danger to the passers-by than the players. the bull goaded into a state of fury attacked the new comer and tossed him so that he fell to the ground with both legs broken. the poor man got no plan and no news of his dollars. all he gained was two months in bed lying between life and death. the writer relosillas, who filled the place of an inspector or surveyor of works at ceuta, has given some of his personal experiences in that convict prison.[14] he describes how on one occasion he was present at a free fight among the convicts in the barracks which had been originally a franciscan convent. he was in his own office at a late hour, hard by, when he heard a terrible uproar in the great dormitory and ran over to exercise his authority and prevent bloodshed. knives were out and being freely used by combatants ranged on two sides, one lot backing up a friend who had been robbed of a photograph of his sister, the other lot defending the thief, who had stolen the portrait for use in a buried treasure swindle. he had created her a marchioness and intended to forward it as a bait to show his intimacy with the aristocracy and prepare the way for the fraud. the case may be quoted to show how minutely the practitioners in the _entierro_ studied their ground and acquired the means of operating. in all spanish prisons and notably in ceuta, cunning convicts are to be found, men of ability and experience, who have travelled far and wide, who are conversant with many languages and well acquainted with prominent people in other countries and the leading facts and particulars of their lives. [14] _catorce meses en ceuta_, malaga, 1886. a few additional stories of swindles akin to the _entierro_ are of much interest. a french landowner by name armand carron, a resident of a small town in the department of finistère, received, some time ago, a letter from ceuta, signed santiago (or james) carron. the writer explained that he was a native of finistère where the frenchman resided; that he was a namesake and a member of the landowner's family, son of a first cousin of his who had left france many years before and settled in spain with wife and three sons, of whom he, santiago carron, now alone survived. this santiago, the letter went on, had been placed by his father in the military college at segovia, had served through all the subaltern grades as an artillery officer, had risen to the rank of brigadier and in that capacity had been sent out in command of the district of the cinco villas in cuba, where he had married the daughter of don diego calderon, a wealthy havana merchant, and the owner of vast sugar plantations. his wife had brought him a dowry of four million reales (£40,000) and had died leaving him a daughter called after her mother, juanita, now about 17 years old. this girl, the only object of her father's love and care, had been by him sent to europe and placed for her education at the convent of the sacre coeur at chamartin near madrid. his career in the army had been for many years very fortunate and his wedded life in cuba exceedingly happy. he had been laden with honours by a grateful government and received many proofs of his country's trust, but lately the officer in charge of the chest of the military district at cinco villas had absconded and run away to new york with a sum of two million reales. as he, the brigadier, was answerable for his subaltern's conduct and was not willing to sacrifice one half of his wife's--now his daughter's--fortune to pay for the defaulter, he had been summoned to spain and then relegated, or sent as a prisoner on parole to the fortress at ceuta to take his trial before a court martial, which owing to the dilatoriness of all things in spain might sit till doomsday. after thus giving an account of himself and his belongings the brigadier proceeded to explain the reasons which induced him to address himself to his unknown french relative. having suffered much from long exposure to the heat of a tropical climate he felt old before his time, and his hereditary enemy, the gout, had by several sharp twinges made him aware of the precariousness of his tenure of life. he had only that one daughter in the world, the sole heiress of a considerable patrimony who might at any moment be deprived of her natural protector and for whose final education and introduction into society it was his duty to provide. the girl had great natural gifts, had inherited her mother's creole beauty, and the accounts of her proficiency, given by the nuns at chamartin were most flattering to his paternal pride. he was anxious to appoint a guardian to his daughter and he could think of no one fitter in every respect for that charge than his only relative, m. armand carron. he (the brigadier) had lately been diligently looking over his father's papers; had found among them very numerous and interesting family documents--ample evidence that a hearty and loving correspondence had for many years been kept up between his father, vincent carron, and the father of m. armand carron, also called armand, and he followed up the narrative with frequent allusions to several incidents occurring in the early youth of the two cousins, with descriptions of localities, common acquaintances and the usual joys and sorrows alternating in their domestic circles. altogether it was a well contrived, plausible story verging so closely upon probability as to avoid shipwreck upon the rock of truth. m. armand carron of finistère did not think it right or expedient to cast doubt on the genuineness of the communication. he answered the brigadier's appeal by calling him "my dear cousin," saying he had a perfect recollection of his father's frequent allusions to vincent carron, the cousin who had grown up with him in their own home and only left their native town on arriving at man's estate. after heartily congratulating the brigadier on his conspicuous career which reflected so much lustre on their own name, and condoling with him about the momentary cloud that had now--undeservedly he felt sure--settled upon it, he assured his newly found relative of his sympathy and of his readiness to look upon the brigadier's daughter as his own child, to receive her into the bosom of his family and take that care of her which so precious a jewel as she was described to be, must fully deserve. so the matter was settled. the correspondence between the two newly found relatives continued for six or seven months and became very affectionate and confidential. the brigadier sent the frenchman his photograph and that of his daughter, both taken in havana and bearing the name and trade mark of the artist. the one represented a middle-aged officer of high rank in full uniform and with the grand cross of san hermengeldo on his breast, a fine manly countenance with long grey silky moustache; the other exhibiting the arch, pretty countenance of a brunette in her teens, with smooth bands of raven hair on either side of her low forehead and the shade of a moonlit night in her dark eyes; a bright blooming creature with dimples and pouting lips and a look of humour and frolic and sense in every feature. together with the photographs came a letter of juanita carron to the brigadier, her father, from the convent, and bearing the chamartin postmark, in which the girl congratulated her father on his discovery of his finistère relative, expressed a firm confidence that her loving father would long be spared to her and concluded that she would for her part, in the worst event, willingly acknowledge her relative as a second father and acquiesce in every arrangement that might be made for her welfare. seven months passed and the post one morning brought m. armand carron a letter with the ceuta postmark, but no longer in his cousin's handwriting. the writer who signed himself don francisco muñoz, parish priest of san pedro in ceuta, announced the death of brigadier santiago carron, which had occurred seven days before the date of the letter. he stated that the brigadier, brought to the last extremity by a sudden attack of gout, had been attended, by him, don francisco, as priest in his last hours, and been instructed to wind up all his earthly affairs both in ceuta and in madrid. he was further empowered to remove the señorita juanita, the brigadier's daughter, from the chamartin convent and take charge of her during her journey to finistère where she should be delivered into the hands of her appointed guardian. the priest's letter enclosed the printed obituary handbill announcing the brigadier's decease, according to spanish custom, the last will and testament of the deceased appointing m. armand carron sole executor, guardian and trustee of his only daughter juanita, and entrusting to him the management of her fortune of one million francs, (£40,000), mentioning the banks in paris and amsterdam in which that sum lay in good state securities. the whole document was duly drawn up by a notary, with witnesses' signatures, seals, etc., and even with certificates of the brigadier's burial, the signatures and stamps of the civil and military authorities at ceuta and those of the governor in command of the place. at the close of this minute statement the priest expressed his readiness to comply with the brigadier's instructions by travelling to madrid, receiving the young juanita from the hands of the sacre coeur nuns and continuing with her the journey to finistère, immediately upon hearing from m. armand carron that he was prepared to receive his lovely ward. m. armand carron answered by return of post that his house and arms were open to welcome his relative's orphan child. where there came after some time another letter from don francisco muñoz explaining that the brigadier, although the most methodical and careful of men, had left some trifling debts at ceuta and there were the doctors' and undertakers' bills to be settled: also the travelling expenses for himself and the young lady which he, the priest, was not able to defray. besides all this the papers, deeds, books and other portable property left by the brigadier, some of it very valuable, but also bulky--among which were the certificates of the state securities deposited in the french and dutch banks--which at the express desire of the deceased would have at once to be conveyed to finistère. he, the priest, would have to be responsible for all this, so that, what with the boarding money and fees due to the nuns, and the clothes, linen and other necessaries the young lady might require to fit herself for appearance in the world, an expense would have to be incurred of which it was difficult to calculate the exact amount. the conclusion was that he could not undertake the journey unless m. armand carron supplied him with a round sum of money, say four thousand francs, which he could forward in french bank notes and in a registered letter addressed not to him but to a doña dolores mazaredo, a pious woman, whom her reduced fortunes had compelled to take service as a washerwoman of the ceuta state prison. the reason alleged by the priest for receiving the money in this roundabout way was that as the brigadier had died in debt to the state and the government might suspect that property belonging to the deceased had come into his, the priest's charge and be subject to the law of embargo on the brigadier's effects, it was desirable that every precaution should be taken to disarm suspicion and prevent injury. the fraud was entirely successful and in due course the letter from finistère enclosing bank notes for four thousand francs was delivered to the washerwoman and from her passed into the hands of the sharpers whose deep laid plan and transcendent inventive powers were thus crowned with full success. m. armand carron heard no more of his orphaned relative. the most astonishing feature in the "spanish swindle," as it is commonly and almost universally known, is the extent to which it is practised and in countries far remote from those in which the trick originates. in one case a resident in the argentine republic received a letter from madrid which he communicated to the press stating that he could not conceive how his name and address had become known. but it was clear that the argentine and many other directories were possessed by the swindler, for similar letters all conveying the usual rosy stories of hidden treasure had come into the country wholesale. the fraudulent agent had long discovered that the credulity and cupidity on which he trades are universal weaknesses and that he is likely to find victims in every civilised part of the world. at another time germany was inundated with typewritten letters from the spanish prisoner, and the correspondent cleverly accounted for his use of the machine by stating that he was employed as a convict clerk in the office of the governor of the prison. an attempt of the same kind was tried on a swiss gentleman of geneva, but it failed signally. the swindler in barcelona thought he had beguiled his correspondent into purchasing certain papers at the price of twelve thousand francs by which a treasure was to be found, and sent a young woman to geneva to receive the cash. but the swiss police, having been informed of the transaction, were on the alert, and when she kept her appointment with the proposed dupe she was taken into custody. an individual staying at the same hotel and said to have been in communication with her was also arrested. the emissary denied all complicity in the intended fraud protesting that she had been commissioned by a stranger she met in barcelona to convey a letter to geneva and bring back another in return. the ubiquity of the swindle is proved by the adventures of a certain m. elked, a restaurateur of buda-pest, who was lured into making a journey to madrid, carrying with him a sum of ten thousand francs in cash. the money was to be used in securing possession of a fortune of three hundred thousand francs, part of which was lying in a trunk deposited in the cloak room of a french railway station and part in the strong room of a berlin bank. elked was to get the half in return for his advance. on arrival in madrid he met the representative of his correspondent and was shown bogus receipts from the railway and bank. to remove all possible doubt it was suggested that telegrams should be sent to the railway station and to the bank and in due course what purported to be replies were brought to elked by a pretended telegraph messenger. the sham telegrams finally convinced him of the genuineness of the business and he arranged to meet the swindler in a certain café to hand over the ten thousand francs. all this time an eye was kept upon elked by a brother hungarian named isray, a commercial traveller, who had come to madrid by the same train and who on hearing the purpose of the restaurateur's visit had vainly tried to persuade him that the affair was a fraud. isray followed his infatuated compatriot to the café in a very low quarter of madrid and arrived just in time to see three men attempting to hustle elked into a carriage. he had apparently hesitated to hand over the money at the last moment and the ruffians were attempting to get him away to a spot where he could be conveniently searched and robbed. isray drew his revolver and fired two or three shots at elked's assailants, but did not succeed in hitting any one. he contrived however to injure the horse and the struggle ended in the three bandits running away, leaving elked still in possession of his money. no passers-by offered the hungarians any assistance during the fight, nor did any police appear on the scene. when elked subsequently complained to the police authorities they simply laughed at him for displaying so much credulity. the victims of the "spanish swindle" are certainly not entitled to much sympathy. although arrests are occasionally made, the spanish police have never been able to cope very successfully with the ancient and ever flourishing fraud. some of the spanish prisoner's lies are the crudest and most transparent attempts at fraud, but a few are really very fine works of art. an english country gentleman once received the following letter: "dear sir and relative: not having the honour to know you but for the reference which my dead wife, mary--your relative--gave me, who in detailing the various individuals of our family warmly praised the honest and good qualities which distinguished you, i now address myself to you for the first time and perhaps for the last one considering the grave state of my health, explaining my sad position and requesting your protection for my only daughter, a child of fourteen years old whom i keep as a pensioner in a college--" this is the prelude to a really clever and picturesque story of the writer's adventures in cuba, where, after having been secretary and treasurer to martinez campos, he had subsequently been driven by general weyler to join the insurgents, and was eventually forced to flee the country taking with him his fortune of thirty-seven thousand pounds. subsequently being summoned to spain by the illness of his "only daughter child" he deposited the money in a london bank under the form of "security document." after this we are introduced to the old mechanism of this venerable swindle. the deposited note was concealed in a secret drawer of the prisoner's portmanteau. the prisoner had been arrested on his arrival in spain, but a trusty friend at large was willing to assist him in recovering the money for the benefit of his child, if only the dear relative in england "would advance the necessary funds for expenses." it is possible to imagine that anyone who had never heard of these ingenious frauds might be taken in by such a plausible narrative, but it is difficult to understand such ignorance. a letter was received from the castle of montjuich in barcelona by a man in dublin, who showed it to several friends in the city explaining the process. it was new to them all, and arrests of persons who had all but succeeded in completing this well-worn confidence trick are constantly made in london. the boldness of these attempts may be seen in the case of the swindlers who despatched three letters identically the same, to three persons who were near neighbours, residing at north berwick near edinburgh. the letter dated from madrid and said:- "sir, detained here as a bankrupt, i ask if you would help me to withdraw the sum of fr. 925,000 (£37,000) at present lodged in a secure place in france. it would be necessary for you to visit madrid and obtain possession of my baggage by paying a lien on it. in one valise concealed in a secret niche is the document which must be produced as a warrant for the delivery of the above mentioned sum. i propose to hand you over a third of the whole in return for your outlay and trouble." the rest of the letter simply contained instructions as to telegraphing an answer to madrid. the whole was a very stupid and clumsy attempt to deceive, lacking all the emotional appeals, the motherless child, the persecuted political adherent of a failing cause. worse yet it openly invited co-operation with a bankrupt seeking to defraud his creditors. nor is there any effort to explain the selection of these three particular persons in the same small town as parties to the fraud, and the only conclusion is that dupes had been found even under such circumstances who were afterward reluctant to reveal their own foolishness. a more elaborate fraud was perpetrated soon after the fall of cartagena; the story ran as follows: two of the well known leaders of the hare-brained republican movement that led to that catastrophe,--general contreras and señor galdez,--both deputies of the constituent cortes, came as fugitives to england and lodged in the bank of england a sum amounting to several millions of reales in state securities, obtaining for them of course the regular certificates and receipt from the bank. these two spanish gentlemen afterwards lived for some time on the continent. general contreras took up his quarters as a political exile in france and señor galdez ventured under a disguise into spain, where he had the misfortune to be recognised, arrested and shut up in the saladero. the certificates had been left in england in trusty hands, in a trunk belonging to señor galdez, who from his prison sent directions that the box should be sent by rail to madrid addressed to a person enjoying his full confidence. this person however had some claim upon señor galdez for an old debt of six thousand francs or about two hundred and forty pounds and insisted upon payment of this sum before he would either part with the trunk or allow it to be opened and the precious certificates to be taken from it. the matter required delicate handling, for señor galdez was a prisoner, general contreras an exile, both beyond reach, and about the money they had placed in the bank there might lie some mystery into which it was not desirable that enquiry should be made. an easy way of getting at the contents of the trunk could be found if any one would think it worth while to supply two hundred and forty pounds, settle the claims of señor galdez's creditor, and laying hold of the certificates, convey them to england and withdraw the securities from the bank. a man whose name was given and whose address was in the calle de la abada or rhinoceros street, madrid, would undertake to carry through the negotiations if any one would call upon him with the needful two hundred and forty pounds and allow him half an hour to rescue the trunk and deliver the certificates. the worthy yorkshire squire to whom intimation had been conveyed of the coup there was to be made, looked upon the story as extremely probable. he fancied it was corroborated by a good deal of circumstantial evidence and thought he might venture on the speculation. a professional adviser whom he consulted undertook to do the job for him and carry the two hundred and forty pounds to the calle de la abada, taking a revolver with him, as a precaution, and intending to deliver the money in bank of england notes, the numbers of which should be stopped the moment he found out that any trick was being played on his good faith. further enquiries were made, however, before any decided steps were taken, and it was ascertained beyond doubt that señor galdez was no longer a prisoner, that general contreras had come back from banishment, that the house in the calle de la abada was a notorious haunt of malefactors and den of thieves, and the whole scheme was another instance of the criminal ingenuity of the spanish swindler. chapter viii life in ceuta dangerous weapons manufactured within the prison walls--frequent quarrels--murderous assaults on warders of constant occurrence--disorders and lack of discipline owing to the employment of prisoners as warders--the "_cabos de vara_"--these posts sold to the highest bidder--salillas' description of these convict warders--worst criminals often promoted to exercise authority over their fellows--terrible evils arising from such a state of affairs--description of ceuta--life at ceuta no deterrent to crime by reason of the pleasant conditions under which the convicts lived--popularity of the theatre in spanish prisons--escapes from ceuta--the case of el niño de brenes--the different characteristics of the andalusians and aragonese--foreigners from spanish colonies imprisoned at ceuta--chinamen and negroes--dolores, the negro convict--his assassination by two fellow convicts--political prisoners--carlists--different types of murderers. life is held cheap in ceuta and indeed in all spanish presidios and gaols. the saying "a word and a blow," may be expanded into "a word and a knife thrust." the possession of a lethal weapon is common to all prisoners and prevails despite prohibiting regulations. fatal affrays are of constant occurrence. at valladolid five men were wounded in a fight over cards, which were openly permitted. an official enquiry followed, with the result that on a search instituted through the prison, numbers of large knives were discovered and many smaller daggers. it is pretended by the authorities that the introduction of such weapons as well as of spirits and packs of cards cannot be prevented. the gate keepers however exercise no vigilance or are readily bribed to shut their eyes. the ruinous condition of many gaols with their numerous cracks and openings and holes in the walls is partially responsible. as a natural consequence blood flowed freely when rage and unbridled passion were so easily inflamed and the means of seeking murderous satisfaction were always ready to hand. quarrels grew at once into fierce fights which could not be prevented and must be fought out then and there even to the death. chains and stone walls and iron bars were ineffective in imposing order. there could be no semblance of discipline where the two essentials were absolutely wanting, supervision and honest service in the keepers. knives were often provided by the ingenious adaptation of all kinds of material within the walls, such as one-half of a pair of scissors firmly fixed in a handle bound round with cloth; or a piece of tin doubled to form a blade and stiffened by two pieces of wood to keep the point sharp; or the handle of a wooden spoon sharpened and as formidable as an inflexible fish bone.[15] other arms carried and used on occasion for premeditated or unexpected attack or in set, formal encounters were a razor, a file, a carpenter's adze, a hammer, a cobbler's awl. [15] i have seen a precisely similar weapon in an english convict prison, the product of an evil-minded prisoner who used it in an assault upon his officer. some surprising figures have been collected by salillas to show how frequent was the appeal to violence and how fatal the consequences of the bloodthirsty strife so constantly breaking out among the more reckless members of this hot-tempered latin race. they had often their origin in drunken quarrels, for _aguardiente_, the spanish equivalent to whiskey or gin, was always plentiful, introduced almost openly by the warders. ancient feuds were revived when the opportunity of settling them was offered by the chance meeting in the gaol. occasionally a homicidal lunatic ran loose about the yards and struck blindly at any inoffensive person he met when the furious fit was on him. salillas tells us that in one year sixteen murderous assaults were committed upon warders,[16] and twenty-four free fights occurred among the prisoners, eleven of whom were killed outright and forty-two seriously wounded. one truculent ruffian fell upon an aged wardsman (a convict also), struck him with a shoemaker's knife and then, brandishing his weapon, defied interference or the rescue of his victim whom he "finished" with repeated blows. a valencian newspaper describes an encounter between two inmates of the torres serranos prison in that city. "without warning or suggesting the cause of difference the two silently hurried to a large empty room, rushed at each other with their knives, and the only sounds heard were those of blows struck and warded off and of shuffling feet as they circled round each other. warders headed by the governor (alcaide) strove to separate the combatants and succeeded at last in doing so but at peril of their lives. both the antagonists were wounded, one had his cheek laid open and the other's face was horribly gashed. at saragossa an old man who complained that one of his blankets had been stolen was fiercely attacked in the shoemaker's shop by the thief, who had been cutting out sole leather with a heavy iron tool. deadly wounds were inflicted on the victim, but the infuriated aggressor stood over him, keeping those who would have interposed at bay until it was clearly evident that death had supervened. [16] an official report dated 1888 gives a total of 221 prisoners in the whole of the establishments admitted into hospital suffering from wounds, fractures and contusions received in the gaols. the primary cause of the chronic discreditable, disgraceful disorder that reigned in the spanish prisons was the prevailing custom of employing prisoners in the service and discipline of the prisons. this practice is now universally condemned as reprehensible and it has been abolished in most civilised countries and even in spain. the excuse offered which long passed current in spain was the expense entailed by employing a proper staff of officers, a necessity in every well ordered prison administration. but till quite a recent date the control and supervision of prisoners in spanish gaols was practically their own affair. there were the usual superior officials, assisted by a few free overseers (_capataces_) but the bulk of the work was entrusted to the _cabos de vara_. the vicious system was the more objectionable from the uncertainty which prevailed in its working. if the _cabo de vara_ had been carefully selected from the best and most exemplary prisoners some of the worst evils might have been avoided. but it was all a matter of chance. not only was there no selection of the best but there was no rejection or elimination of the worst candidates. in some conspicuous cases the office of _cabo de vara_ was suffered to fall into the hands of men altogether unfit to hold it. two in particular may be quoted, those of pelufo and carrillo, who having first committed atrocious crimes, escaped punishment and were actually promoted. one, pelufo, was a convict in the presidio of cartagena who murdered a _cabo_ and cut his way out of the st. augustin prison, knife in hand; the other, carrillo, slew a comrade in a duel in the presidio of san miguel de los reyes (valencia) and both were subsequently appointed _cabos_, "a reward," as a witty official said, "which they had earned by their services to penitentiary methods." with such examples and under such authorities serious crimes were naturally numerous. a few may be mentioned. a _cabo_ named casalta killed a fellow _cabo_ in st. augustin prison of valencia with five cruel thrusts and afterwards stabbed an officer to the heart. when the military guard came up he seriously injured one of the soldiers and wounded two convicts, one in the head, the other in the back. casalta was however condemned to a fresh sentence of twelve years. one ferreiro volta cut a comrade's throat for having given evidence against the man, pelufo, already mentioned. many more cases of the same heinous character where the homicidal instinct had full play may be picked out of the published lists. in one prison thirteen already guilty of murder or attempted murder repeated their crimes as prisoners; in another nine convicted of maliciously wounding, pursued the practice or were guilty of awful threats to murder in the gaols. the cases might be multiplied almost indefinitely but it will suffice to indicate the terrible conditions constantly prevailing. no doubt murderous attacks were often stimulated by the tyranny of the prisoner _cabos_, against whom their fellows, goaded to desperation, rose and wreaked vengeance. the discipline exercised by these prisoner warders was naturally not worth much. it was their duty to correct and restrain their comrades, to assist in their pursuit when they escaped after having originally most probably facilitated the evasion, to side with the authority in cases of serious insubordination and disturbance. but they were weak vessels yielding readily to temptation, accepting bribes hungrily, swallowing drink greedily when offered, quickly cowed by the threats of prison bullies and surrendering at discretion when opposed. but even although there were good and trusty men to be found at times among them, no real reliance could be placed in them. they generally represented fifty per cent. of the staff and the necessity for the substitution of the non-convicted, properly paid, fairly honourable warders has been very wisely decided upon. the chief danger lay in their close and intimate association with the rest, day and night constantly alone when no official supervision was possible. their value depended entirely upon their personal qualifications. if they were weak-kneed and invertebrate, they could apply no check upon the ill-conditioned, could neither intimidate nor repress: if on the other hand they were of masterful character with arrogant, overbearing tempers, they might do immense mischief by tyrannising over their charges and leading them astray. men of this class often claimed an equality with the recognised officials, treated them with off-hand familiarity, spoke without saluting or removing their caps, while insolently puffing the smoke of a half-consumed cigarette in faces of the officers. salillas sums up the type as "semi-functionary, semi-convict and all hangman." the external aspect of ceuta is not unpleasing. it is built on seven hills, the highest of which is topped by the fortress, and in the word "septem" we may trace the name ceuta. it still possesses a few moorish remains, for it was once an important moorish city. some of the streets show a tesselated pavement of red, white and green tiles, and house fronts are to be seen in white, black and serpentine marble with decorated scroll work running in a pattern below the gutter. it has some claims to be picturesque and possesses certain artistic architectural features. an imposing barrack, that called del valle, built by prison labour, is considered one of the finest spanish military edifices. it has also a cathedral dedicated to our lady of africa, engineering and artillery yards, a military hospital, another church, public offices, and above all a palace of the governor and general commanding. the latter in particular, with its extensive grounds, handsome façade, and suites of fine rooms, the whole well mounted and served by a large staff of convict attendants, is the envy of all other government officials. one wide street traverses the city from west to east crossed by a network of smaller ways, all airy and well ventilated by sea breezes and constantly illuminated by a brilliant sun. from time to time convicts in their distinctive dress pass along, but scarcely cast a shadow upon the scene, showing few signs of their thraldom and passing along with light-hearted freedom, smoking excellent tobacco or singing a gay song. no beggars offend the eye, for to solicit public charity is strictly forbidden. generally a contented well-to-do air is worn by the crowd, and even the convicts are decently dressed. other inhabitants, moors from the mainland, and jews long established in commerce seem prosperous and evidently possess ample means gained by their industry and thrift. the presidio or prison proper of ceuta covers a large part of the peninsula or promontory and embraces four distinct districts; the first is situated in the new or modern town; the second lies just outside it; the third is within the old town and the fourth is beyond the outer line of walls. the first part is connected with the third by a drawbridge called _boquete de la sardina_ or the "sardine's entrance"; the second with the third by a portcullis; the third with the fourth and last by the outer gate of the city. in the first are the artisans' quarters, situated in the cloisters of an ancient monastery, that of san francisco, and but for the patching and whitewashing would look quite ruinous. it is neither secure nor of sufficient size. the night guards are posted in the old mortuary house, the bars to many windows are of wood. the building contains offices, schoolhouse, store for clothing and the workshops, these being in a sort of patio or courtyard, or in hollow spaces in the cloisters, and are simply dens and rookeries, in part exactly over the old burial ground. the handicrafts pursued when i visited it were various: men were making shoes; fourteen tailors were at work; a blacksmith with a life sentence constantly hammered out the red hot iron; a tinsmith produced many useful articles; a turner at his lathe worked admirably in the old meat bones and fashioned handles for walking sticks and umbrellas. this turner earned much money and was comfortably lodged. convicts at ceuta are not deprived of their profits and spend their money buying better food, superior clothing and _aguardiente_ and using it to bribe their overseers, or they cleverly conceal it, adding constantly to their store. industry is a chief source of wealth, but many political prisoners bring large sums in with them, or it is smuggled in to them, and a successful hit with the "buried treasure fraud" will supply plenty of cash. other industries followed are carpentering and the construction of trunks and boxes which sell well. a number of looms are engaged in weaving canvas for the manufacture of sails for the local shipping, rough material for sacking and clothing of the convicts, all in large quantities and to a really valuable extent. these workshops are filled by the prisoners in the first stage of their detention. the water-carriers and clerks in the government office are in the second period, and on reaching the third the convicts obtain the privilege of going at large to accept employment in the town "from gun to gun." the prison hospital is situated in this first district, an ancient edifice erected with part of the funds subscribed in times past to purchase freedom for christian captives enslaved by the barbary moors. the building is of good size, well ventilated, and enjoys good hygienic conditions. but the defects and shortcomings in spanish administration extend even to ceuta and the prison hospital, which a local authority says "is detestably organised and mounted miserably." the roof is so slight that it affords no proper protection in summer and the intense heat of the blazing sun striking through is very injurious to the patients. the medical resources are small and inferior; the beds few and unclean; the whole of the interior arrangements, furniture fittings and appliances, insufficient and worn out. there is no mortuary and to add a small detail in proof of the imperfections, autopsies were performed in a small den, part of the hospital proper, without disinfectants and the essential appliances for carrying out post mortems. patients seldom made a long stay in the hospital, for they were rarely admitted until they had reached the last stages of an illness and came in as a rule only to die. the second district contains the principal quarters for convicts. one is in the chief barrack called _cuartel principal_ and another in the fortress _el hacho_.[17] some further evidence of their evil condition may be extracted from an account given by salillas. "it is impossible to conceive," he writes, "a more unsuitable, unsavoury place for a prison. the rooms and dormitories occupied by the convicts are dark and gloomy, always damp, full of pestilential odours and dirty beyond description. the floors are of beaten earth, ever secure hiding places for all forbidden articles, weapons, tools for compassing escape, jars of drink, the fiery and poisonous _aguardiente_. it seems to me extraordinary," he goes on to say, "that life under such conditions is possible. a thousand and odd men who seldom if ever wash, who never change their clothes, are crowded together promiscuously in small, unclean, ill-ventilated, noisome dens and must surely engender and propagate loathsome epidemic disease." the fetid air is foul with the noisome exhalations of many generations of pestiferous people. it is one sink of concentrated malaria--a reeking hot bed of infection. the services of supply are carried out with abominable carelessness: the kitchen is an abode of nastiness: the cooking is performed by repulsive looking convicts in greasy rags who plunge their dirty arms deep into the seething mess of soup which they bail out into buckets, a malodorous compound of the colour and consistency of the mortar used in building a wall. [17] see ante, pp. 159 sqq. close by is another quarter in which convicts are lodged, _el hacho_, or the hilly ground or topmost point of ceuta on which is placed the citadel which crowns the fortifications. it takes the overflow from the principal barrack and is moreover generally occupied by the worst characters, the most insubordinate and incorrigible members of the prison population. the rooms, as in the barrack below, are dirty, overcrowded and insecure, but a few windows of the upper story open on to the mediterranean and are not always protected by either wooden or iron bars. _el hacho_ contains within its limits a certain number of solitary cells, well known and much dreaded by the habitual criminals of spain. they are essentially punishment cells used in the coercion of the incorrigible and are just as dark, damp and wretched as the larger rooms. but the solitary inmate in each cell is generally kept chained to the wall or is as it is styled _amarrado en blanca_, nearly naked and heavily ironed. the treatment is exemplary in its cruelty, but does not necessarily cure the subject. there was one irreclaimable upon whom several years of the _calabozo_ had had no effect. he had been sentenced to be thus chained up as the penalty for murderously wounding an overseer in _el hacho_, but he did not mend his manners. on one occasion on the arrival of a new governor all under punishment were pardoned. this convict when sent out forthwith furiously attacked the first warder he met and was again condemned to be locked up as a ceaseless danger to the presidio. he is remembered as little more than a youth, but with a diabolical countenance and indomitable air. the district of the _barcas_ does not contain a barrack properly speaking, but there is a space cut in the thickness of the line wall entering a patio or courtyard which gives upon seven rooms, some high, some low; of these three and part of the yard were filled with munitions of war, and a battery of artillery was placed over the dormitories on their upper floor. many of the convicts are employed as boatmen and watchmen in the port, others have charge of the walls and carry water up to the guardhouses on the higher level. they also attend to the service of the drawbridge between the old and new town. one who was employed as gatekeeper at the drawbridge was well remembered. he was trusted to call on all convicts who passed to produce their permits of free circulation or to enter and leave the fortress. he had a pleasant rubicund face, was one armed, a little deaf, but with very sharp eyes, not easily hoodwinked. he was a confirmed gossip who picked up all the news which he retailed to all who passed in and out. escapes were of constant occurrence at ceuta, but few occurred by the drawbridge of the _barcas_. half way up the road from the town to the citadel and the fort of the seraglio was the jadu barrack which was occupied by the convicts who were engaged in agricultural work, in making tiles and burning charcoal. many of these were foreigners and negroes. the bulk of the residents was made up of those who had completed three fourths of their sentences and lived "under conditions," or in a state of conditional or semi-freedom. there was little wrong-doing in jadu, thefts were rare, fights and quarrels seldom took place. the seraglio was a fortified barrack of rectangular shape occupied by troops of the garrison and lodging an odd hundred convicts labouring on adjacent farms in private hands. it will be observed that the convicts established in these last-named quarters beyond the walls do not appear to exhibit all the unpleasant features attributed to them by some writers in recording their experiences of ceuta.[18] no doubt the truth lies somewhere between the two extremes but it is certain that the chief penal colony of spain shares to a marked extent the drawbacks inseparable from all forms of penal colonisation. we may see, beyond all question, that at ceuta no beneficial results are achieved by the system. criminals who undergo the penalty are not improved by it; their reformation, too generally a will-o'-the-wisp under the very best auspices, is not even attempted, much less assured. on the other hand, it is perfectly clear that evil is perpetually in the ascendent, that criminal tendencies are largely encouraged by the facilities given in the education and practice of wrong doing; that the presidio itself is a criminal centre where the seeds of crime are sown and their growth fostered despite the difficulties of distance and inconvenience. the fear of penal exile is no deterrent to crime for the simple reason that life in ceuta is not particularly irksome and that the convict finds many compensations there. the obligation to hard labour is not strictly enforced. man must work, but not hard and chiefly for his own advantage, to gain the means of softening and bettering his lot. he passes his time very much as he pleases. though he rises with the sun, as is the universal custom of his country, he turns out of bed without giving a thought to personal cleanliness and proceeds to his appointed labour leisurely, after disposing of his breakfast, adding perhaps more toothsome articles of food, including a morning drink of _aguardiente_ bought from the hawkers and hucksters awaiting him at the prison gates. he is dressed in prison uniform, but it is sufficient and suitably varied with the season. he is not hampered by fetters, as the ancient practice of chaining convicts together in couplets has long since ceased. the wearing of irons fell into disuse years ago at the building of the great barrack del valle, when several deplorable accidents occurred and it was found that chains interfered with the free movement of workmen on scaffolding and so forth. the idea was that irons should again be imposed at the conclusion of the building; "but all who thought so did not know spanish ways, nor the despotism of custom when once established."[19] "to-day (1873)," says same writer, "there are not fifty suits of chains in the storehouse and not more than twenty are worn by special penalty and by no means as a general practice." the convict loafs about the rooms or courtyard or idly handles the tools of his trade, gossiping freely with his comrades, or taking a hand at _monte_ or _chapas_ with the full permission of warders not indisposed to have a "little on the games"; he finds easy means to issue into the streets to carry on some delectable flirtation; there may be a bull baiting afoot, a _novillos_ in which all may join, or a theatrical performance is being given by a convict company in one of the penal establishments. [18] see ante, p. 159. [19] relosillas. the theatre is a passion with the average spaniard and the taste extends to those in durance. cases constantly occur in which popular plays have been reproduced in prisons situated in the principal cities. salillas[20] states that almost all the prisons of spain had their theatre and he gives the names of burgos, ceuta, ocana, valladolid, saladero (madrid) and alcalá de henares. one writer who visited the prison performance at seville of a musical piece, the "viejas ricas de cadiz," said it was given well and that the vocal talent was considerable in that and other prisons. at the presidio of san miguel de los reyes the convicts were heard singing a chorus on christmas eve which was perfectly executed and with great feeling. [20] "vida penal en espana." in the valladolid gaol the theatre was regularly installed by a company of forty convicts who had contributed substantial sums for the purpose. it had working committees with rules and regulations formally sanctioned by the governor of the province. the theatre with seats for an audience of four hundred, and four private boxes holding twelve persons each, was constructed in a building which afterwards became the blacksmith shops. a refreshment room was provided in which a contractor dispensed sweets and pastry and strong drink; real actresses were engaged from outside at a salary of a dollar for each performance; invitations were issued to the free residents and the convicts paid two reales for admission. well known, high class plays were produced, comedies, dramas and comic operas. the whole proceeding was a caricature upon prison discipline and the authorities who permitted it were very properly sharply and severely condemned. they exposed themselves to reproof and worse for flagrant contempt of the most ordinary restrictions in allowing women to pass in constantly, and in permitting the sale of alcoholic liquors. that a place of durance, primarily intended for the restraint and punishment of evil doers should be converted into a show and spectacle was an intolerable misuse of power and a disgraceful travesty of the fitness of things. the positive evil engendered was seen in the wholesale escape of the theatrical company, while the audience patiently waited in front of the curtain which "went up" eventually on a wholly unexpected performance.[21] [21] see ante, p. 128. in the matter of escapes ceuta was famous. it was not difficult to get away from that imperfectly guarded stronghold when the convict had means to bribe officers or buy a boat and had the courage to make the voyage across the straits of gibraltar. the story of one veteran convict who escaped from ceuta is interesting because he was driven to take himself off by what he no doubt deemed the ill-judged severity of his injudicious keepers. this was an old brigand known as "_el niño de brenes_," (the lad of brenes), a name he must have earned some time back for he was a man aged seventy when he "withdrew" (the word is exact) from ceuta. he was a well-behaved, well-to-do convict of affable address who had gained many staunch friends among the officials and his own comrades. the position he had created for himself was one of practical ease and comfort; he lived in _el hacho_ pursuing various industries, usury among the rest, and gradually grew so rich that he gained possession of a strip of land which he cultivated profitably and kept a fine poultry yard as well as many sheep and goats. el niño was a tall well built old man, dark-skinned, with abundant white hair. he was of highly respectable appearance, very stout and sleek, and, being on the best of terms with his masters, he took upon himself to discard the prison uniform and dress himself as an andalusian peasant with gaiters and red sash and _sombrero calañes_ (round hard hat). not strangely this presumption displeased the authorities and he was told that he must conform to the rules and appear in the proper convict clothing and cease to act as a money lender to his poorer brethren. he received this intimation with a smiling protest; he pointed out that he used his influence in pacifying ill-conditioned convicts, in staving off disturbances and preventing quarrels. if his services were not better appreciated and he was tied down to the strict observance of the ordinary rules he would move further away; his remaining in the presidio was quite a matter of favour and he had always at his disposal the means to make his escape, and if he were interfered with he would take his departure. this impudent reply quite exasperated the authorities, who thereupon resolved to employ sharp measures. the facts as he had stated them were more or less true and the blame lay really with the faulty and inefficient régime in force. but the authorities would not tamely submit to be defied and a peremptory order was issued that he should dispose of his private property by a certain date, wind up his financial affairs and renounce all idea of exceptional treatment. el niño took this as a threat to which there could be but one reply. he gathered together his cash and portable property and quietly disappeared. a hue and cry was raised; the usual signals flew at the signal staff; all gates and exits were closely watched; the police were unceasingly active in pursuit, but the fugitive had laid his plans astutely and was never recaptured. having the command of ample means he doubtless used them freely to purchase freedom by taking some sure road past the frontier or across the sea. allies and auxiliaries were never wanting to the enterprising fugitive willing to pay liberally for assistance. in one case a convict had the courage to allow himself to be shut up in a chest half full of tobacco and to be thus conveyed to gibraltar, to which it was returned as containing damaged goods. gibraltar is a free port and the chest was landed without question. then the consignee opened it without delay and extracted the fugitive convict uninjured. the last part of the story is somewhat incredible and we may wonder why the fugitive did not succumb to the discomforts of his narrow receptacle, want of air, the exhalations of the tobacco and the shakings and bumping of the box as it made its voyage, albeit a short one, from ceuta to the rock. an escape on a large scale was effected from the principal barrack when eighteen convicts descended into the drains, and finding their progress unimpeded threaded them safely and passing under the outer wall reached the outlet to the sea. it happened that the water was high and that there was a great conflict of currents in which that setting inward had most force and the exit was blocked by the stormy waves. some of the convicts committed themselves to the waters but were washed back with violence against the rocky fortifications and all of them in terror for their lives raised loud cries, calling for help. the sentries gave the alarm, the guards ran down and recaptured all the fugitives but one, a fine swimmer who persisted in his attempt and was swept seaward clear of the rough water till he was able to regain the shore on the far side of the moorish sentries. the prison population of ceuta is made up of a number of motley, polyglot types of the many diverse families that compose the spanish race and of other distinct nationalities. the spaniards are generally classified under two principal heads: the aragonese and the andalusians. the first named comprises all from the northern provinces who are generally coarse, quarrelsome and brutal, sentenced chiefly for crimes of violence, murders premeditated and committed under aggravated circumstances, the outcome of furious and ungovernable passion. the andalusian is of more generous character, lively and light-hearted, but of unsettled disposition and much impelled to attempt escapes. he is a chronic grumbler constantly moved to complain, dissatisfied with his rations and clamorous for special privileges. the aragonese on the other hand suffers long in silence which leads eventually, after long brooding, into mutinous combination. the andalusian makes his grievances heard by word of mouth, the aragonese rushes without notice into overt action and organised attack. another distinct section of the spanish race is the galician and the native of the asturias, a sober, quiet and well-conducted people at home, who exhibit great ferocity as convicts. sanguinary encounters are little known in these provinces, but when an asturian or galician takes the life of his enemy, he uses artifice and waylays him, decoying him into an ambush and murdering him often with horrible mutilation. a criminal feature, peculiar to the women of these provinces, is their addiction to the use of poison. other spanish females will use violence and inflict lethal wounds openly, but the galician woman administers poison secretly, deliberately choosing her victims among her nearest relatives. the colonial empire of spain, now a thing of the past, contributed in its time a substantial contingent of yellow and black convicts, chinamen from the philippines and negroes from cuba. it was a reprehensible practice to associate these foreigners with the european convicts and it produced many evils. the chinaman was often shamefully ill-treated. he bore it patiently, but at times when goaded beyond endurance, retaliated with bloodthirsty violence. the story of one negro convict, a rather remarkable person, is still remembered at ceuta. he rejoiced in the somewhat inappropriate feminine name of dolores, and despite his colour was a singularly handsome man. he had a slight, active figure, a highly intelligent face and a clear, penetrating eye. his mental faculties were of a high order, although he had received only an indifferent education. he had the fondness of his race for fine clothes and although conforming to the prison uniform wore it with a certain distinction, improving and adding to it where possible and having quite a gentlemanly appearance. he had been guilty of a hideous murder in havana for which he had received a nearly interminable sentence. his behaviour in gaol was orderly and submissive and he always displayed the utmost loyalty to his masters, who in return lightened his lot as far as was possible. dolores, as a rule, was of a patient disposition, although he was easily roused into fits of violent temper and could be at times, according to his treatment, either a lion or a lamb. it seemed almost incomprehensible that the mild eyes so calm and peaceable, when he was unmoved, could blaze with sudden fury or that his small delicately shaped hands could fasten murderously on a fellow creature's throat. tyranny and oppression were intolerable to him and he altogether declined to submit to be domineered over by the chief bully in the prison. his defiance led to an embittered conflict--a duel fought out with knives--in which the black champion conquered after inflicting many deep wounds upon his antagonist. with his victory dolores gained also the implacable ill-will of his fellows. they put him on his trial, in a corner of the principal barrack and condemned him to death, which would certainly have been inflicted had not the authorities interposed to give him their protection. he was removed to _el hacho_ and placed in one of the separate cells used generally for the punishment of the incorrigible.[22] this was fatal to him. two water-carriers belonging to the hostile faction entered the cell when dolores was engaged in writing with his back to the door, and throwing themselves upon him gave him two mortal wounds under the left shoulder. in this supreme moment dolores put forth his tremendous strength, caught his assailants by their necks and broke them before the warders could interfere on either side. dolores died but he is still remembered in the prison annals as one of the most valiant and indomitable convicts who had ever been detained in the presidio. [22] see ante, p. 194. another alien convict to whom relosillas pays a high tribute was his own chinese servant, a convict known as "juan de la cruz, the asiatic." he seems to have been unceasingly loyal and devoted in his service, an admirable cook, an indefatigable nurse, a faithful watchman who guarded his effects and secured his privacy. juan had many accomplishments; he could weave shade hats of the finest palm fibre, he was as clever as any seamstress with his needle; he was a first-class housemaid and laundress; he could make a dollar go further in the market than the most economical housewife. he drove the most astonishing bargains with the hucksters and purveyors of food, fish and game, with which ceuta was plentifully supplied. he had been condemned to a long term for a murder committed in havana at a hotel, of which he was the chief cook. in appearance he was younger than his years, tall, thin, anæmic looking, shortsighted, with jet black hair and oblique eyes. he was a man of great intelligence, a dramatic author in chinese and was released before his time to accompany the director general of prisons to madrid as his cook. in the end he started a fruit shop in the capital and prospered greatly. an entirely different class of prisoners came to ceuta in considerable numbers from time to time,--those exiled for political misdeeds. a whole discipline battalion was composed of military offenders, among them a number of artillerymen condemned for the rising in barcelona and crowds of carlists and those concerned in the so-called cantonal risings. one or two politicals were strange characters, such as the old soldier named "_el cojo_" (the lame man) of cariñena, a conceited veteran very proud of his many campaigns in which he had served, and who went everywhere on donkey back, being infirm and crippled. another was the ex-curé of berraonda, a biscayan priest of ferocious aspect, tall, corpulent, dark-skinned, with an abundant snow white bushy beard, which grew to his waist and which was left untouched by the prison barber. speaking in general terms of the whole body all types of character were represented. some when in funds liked to pose as dandies with fine linen, smart shoes or rope sandals tied with ribbons and coloured sashes (fajas); others, the larger number, were coarse and brutal ruffians, without private means, or too idle to acquire them by the labour of their hands, much given to drunkenness and very quarrelsome in their cups. the attitude of most convicts is mute irritation against everyone, but they especially hate their warders and superiors; they are surly and forbidding in manner, silent as to their past, little disposed to talk of their criminal adventures. yet they display the most contradictory traits. even when they have been guilty of the most horrible misdeeds they often show a calm, innocent face and are little vexed by conscience. one who was noted for his submissive demeanour and who in any trouble always sided with authority, was a parricide who had killed his father under the most revolting conditions. this youth, barely of age at the time of his crime, had sought his father's consent to his marriage with an unworthy character, and when refused, he retaliated by beating in his parent's brain with a pickaxe. the fit of homicidal fury which possessed him drove him to kill his father's donkey also and the dog which had been at his heels. then, having satiated his rage, he went home seemingly undisturbed, and made some paltry excuse for his father's absence. when the corpse was found he was arrested on suspicion, but for want of more than circumstantial evidence escaped the garrote, and was sent to ceuta for life. yet this miscreant betrayed no outward sign of the horrible passions that sometimes dominated him, but was always placid and of an engaging countenance. he was lamblike in his demeanour, most attentive to his religious duties, never missed a mass or failed to confess. he was devoted to children and his greatest pleasure was to fondle the baby child of one of the warders which he carried about in his arms in the streets of ceuta. he seemed absolutely callous and insensible to the prickings of conscience, but he showed in two ways that he was consumed with remorse. when any reference was made to his crime, at the slightest hint or the vaguest question, a fierce look came into his eyes, his mouth closed, his hand sought his knife and he was ready to attempt some fresh act of violence. the other sign of his mental distress was that he seldom slept and never soundly or for long, and his nights were disturbed with groans, deep sighs, even yells of despair. yet his general health was good, he ate with appetite, maintained his strength well, and there was no apparent mental failure. but he was no doubt mad and under a more intelligent system of jurisprudence he would have been relegated to a criminal lunatic asylum. there is no record however that at ceuta he had been seized again by homicidal mania. there were many other types of murderers in ceuta. the husbands who had killed their wives formed a distinct group. jealousy because of real or fancied injury led to the vindictive thirst for revenge and this was more frequently found in the peasant than in the higher and better educated classes. death had been inflicted in most cases by violence, but one aggrieved othello chose poison, rejoicing in the acute suffering produced by arsenic. another, who was half a frenchman, adopted the french method of dismemberment, and to dispose of the damning evidence of the corpse, cut it up into small pieces and distributed them far and wide, but could not hide them effectually. extenuating circumstances were allowed him and he went to ceuta, where he is said to have lived quite contentedly, never regretting the savage act that had avenged his dishonour and made him a widower. ceuta made its own murderers. duels to the death were of constant occurrence as elsewhere, and the authorities rarely interfered even when fatal consequences ensued. on this point relosillas says: "during my stay of fourteen months in ceuta hardly an hour passed without a serious quarrel, not a day when some one was not wounded, not a week without a violent death in the _cuartel principal_. these troubles were due invariably to the same causes, the admission of _aguardiente_ and the facility with which knives and lethal weapons could be obtained--points already noted and discussed at the beginning of this chapter. the drink was always on tap, as it could be introduced without difficulty through the dishonesty of the warders and the unlimited traffic with the townspeople. the weapons were never wanting, as it was impossible to check their presence, for no convict would be without his long sharp knife ready for instant use. chapter ix brigands and brigandage disordered state of spain at the accession of isabella--brigandage raised into an organised system by lawless nobility and rebels--the revival of the santa hermandad or holy brotherhood--this institution revived again in the 19th century under the name of "migueletes"--attack on the mail coach outside madrid--the famous brigand josé maria--his daring robberies in the serrania--his early life--english officers from gibraltar captured and held to ransom--beloved and venerated by the peasants--in 1833 appointed an officer of the migueletes--brigandage not extinct in spain--don julian de zugasti appointed governor of cordova--methods of procedure--the famous robber vizco el borje--his seizure of don pedro de m.--enormous ransom extorted--agua dulce. brigandage, the form of organised highway robbery practised by bands of thieves in countries where roads are long and lonely and imperfectly guarded, has been always popular with the latin races. it suited the tastes and temperament of reckless people who defied the law and laughed at the attempt to protect defenceless wayfarers. their activity was stimulated by the long wastes of rugged country that separated the towns, giving harbourage and security to the robbers who issued forth to prey upon travellers and easily retired to their rocky fastnesses and escaped pursuit. these ishmaelites have been especially active in spain and italy and the aggressive spirit that moved them is not yet entirely extinct. more settled government has produced a more effective police in these latter days, but acts of brigandage in its latest development, that of "holding up" modern means of conveyance, express trains, bicycles and motor cars, have occurred, and may be reasonably expected to increase. brigandage is as old as the hills in spain and some of its earliest phases are well worth describing before they are forgotten or replaced by newer processes. we may look back and gather some idea of those early days in spain. when isabella, the catholic, ascended the throne of castile, she was called upon to govern a country profoundly demoralised, infested with evil doers and dominated by a turbulent and vicious nobility. the throne was an object of contempt, the treasury empty, the people poverty stricken, and the princes of the church rebellious and rejoicing in large revenues. a lawless aristocracy hungry for independent authority were fighting for their own lands or conspiring secretly to overawe the crown. titled alcaldes, traitors and rebels, openly raised brigandage into a system, exacted tribute by blackmail from the lower classes, and made unceasing war upon the higher. within the kingdom a rival pretender aimed at the crown. one near neighbour, alfonso v of portugal, menaced the peace of the country and kept an army on the frontier; another, louis xi of france, crafty and unscrupulous, constantly threatened war and held his army in guipuscoa. in a few short years the whole aspect of the country was changed. isabella brought her rebellious nobles to their knees, all of them asking pardon and promising allegiance; the french army withdrew hastily to france; the portuguese was defeated and expelled; the claimant to the throne was imprisoned and numbers of high-born criminals suffered on the scaffold. the great ecclesiastics disgorged much of their wealth to buy forgiveness, the robber haunts were attacked and destroyed, the high-roads became perfectly safe, thieves and highwaymen took to honest labour. now the revenue was largely improved, the law was respected, crime was actively pursued and rigorously punished. but for the terrors and cruelties practised by the inquisition, spain would have enjoyed unbroken domestic peace and all the benefits accruing from general good government. these satisfactory results were largely achieved by the excellent police organised by isabella and her husband, ferdinand. the revival and consolidation of the "santa hermandad" or holy brotherhood which had always existed in the country districts to secure peace and tranquillity, but heretofore wielding smaller powers, worked wonders. a comprehensive system was now introduced by which all parts were patrolled by well-armed guardians of the law, mounted and on foot, who checked, prevented or punished misdeeds. in every collection of thirty houses or more two officials were appointed to deal with all offenders according to a strict code. every thief when taken was punished with fine, flogging and exile, in penalties proportioned to the amount stolen. for more heinous offences his ears were cut off and he got a hundred lashes, or yet again one of his feet was amputated and he was peremptorily forbidden to ride on a horse or mule at peril of his life. a sentence of death was carried out by shooting with arrows. this ancient hermandad was at one time revived in the _migueletes_, a body of men organised early in the nineteenth century to act as escorts to private travellers, as the regular mails and diligences were under the protection of troops provided by the government. the _migueletes_ were a semi-military force composed of picked youths of courageous conduct, wearing uniform and armed with a short gun, with a sword, a single pistol and carrying a cord by which to secure their prisoners. the _migueletes_ took their name from one miguel de pratz, who had been a lieutenant of caesar borgia. they were often recruited from the robbers who were offered service as a condition of pardon when captured, and afterwards behaved admirably. no one with an escort of ten or twelve _migueletes_ need fear attack. the mail coach was sometimes attacked, and on one occasion was stopped at almuwadiel outside madrid. it carried several passengers, among others an englishman, a german artist and a spaniard. at the first appearance of the brigands, the guard threw himself on the ground with his face in the mud and the postillions did the same. when summoned to deliver up their possessions, the englishman gave up his well filled purse and was warmly thanked; the german artist would have been ill-treated as a punishment for his empty pockets, but was spared when his poverty was explained; the spaniard was caught attempting to conceal his valuables in the carriage lining and narrowly escaped a beating. the coach was at last permitted to proceed and at parting the leader of the band shook hands with the englishman and said he was a real gentleman, the german was ignored and the spaniard was sharply taken to task for his attempted "fraud." to this period (1825-35) belongs the famous brigand, josé maria, the spanish fra diavolo, whose name is still remembered in the "serrania" or mountain country of ronda and throughout southern andalusia, for his daring robberies and continual defiance of the authorities. a "pass" or safe conduct granted by him was a better protection than any official escort. so great was his power that he was known by the proud title of "el señor del campo" (the lord of the country), and he ruled more absolutely in andalusia than king ferdinand in spain. travellers paid him a head tax, blackmail was levied on all public conveyances and, as has been said, he issued passports at a price to all who chose to pay for his protection. strong bodies of troops were sent against him, but he managed always to elude or oppose them successfully. josé maria started in life as a small cultivator in a village near antequera, but, unable to earn a decent living, he took to the more profitable business of smuggling, a profession greatly honoured and esteemed in spain. in one of his operations he was drawn into an affray with the soldiers and unfortunately shot and killed one of them. he at once fled to the mountains, where he was soon surrounded by other no less reckless companions, all of them outlaws like himself, and became the chief and centre of the band which soon spread terror throughout southern spain. his headquarters were in the rugged and lofty mountain district of ronda near the little town of grazalema, but he was ubiquitous in his rapid movements and traversed the whole of andalusia. a story is preserved of an english nobleman who travelled to spain for the express purpose of making his acquaintance but long sought him in vain in his favourite haunts and much disappointed retraced his steps to madrid. but on the road between carmona and ecija[23] he had the questionable good fortune to meet josé maria in person, who thanked him courteously for the compliment he had paid him in seeking an interview, in return for which he proceeded to relieve his lordship of his valuables and his baggage so that he might continue his journey without encumbrance. he had many ways of levying contributions. one was to send a messenger to some landed proprietor, demanding a large sum of money, and declaring that if it was not paid he would swoop down to lay waste his lands and burn his house over his head. another plan was to take post with his gang, all of them well mounted and fully armed, on the highroad just outside some populous city, and "hold up" every one who passed in or out, seizing all ready money and carrying off to some secret fastness all persons known to possess means. [23] this town of ecija is renowned in the history of spanish brigandage as the home of the "seven sons of ecija," a very daring and dangerous band whose achievements have been told by the spanish novelist, fernandez y gonzalez. english officers, part of the garrison of the rock of gibraltar, did not escape the exactions of josé maria. once a shooting party in the woods near gibraltar was suddenly attacked and captured, but after the first surprise they showed fight and a brigand was wounded. the lives of all of them were in danger but were saved on the persuasion of josé maria that they would be more valuable as prisoners for whom a large ransom would be obtained than as corpses. one of the party was accordingly sent to the rock to procure the money while the rest were detained as hostages for his return at a certain hour the next day. the messenger was warned that if a rescue was attempted, the whole of the prisoners would be instantly massacred. he reached the rock after gunfire, but the gates were presently especially opened to admit him, the money was collected, not without difficulty, and was conveyed to the brigands in sufficient time to secure the release of the captives. for some time later english officers were forbidden to go into spain except in sufficient numbers to set the brigands at defiance. in quite recent years (1871) two gentlemen, natives of the rock, were carried off and detained until a large ransom was paid. josé maria dominated the country for nearly ten years. the secret of his long continued impunity may be traced to the fact that many of the local authorities, influenced either by fear or interest, were in collusion with him, and that the peasantry all wished him success; for, as he never oppressed them, but assisted and protected their smuggling transactions in which they are nearly all, in one way or other, engaged by opposing the regular troops, he was greatly beloved and venerated. he was in fact regarded as a hero; for such a life, wild and adventurous, where there is plenty of plunder and no laborious duty, has wondrous charms in the eyes of the lower andalusians, by whom the laws of _meum_ and _tuum_ have never been well understood. how long josé might have continued in power it is impossible to say, but like some other great personages he chose to abdicate. in 1833, he made his own terms with the queen's government, agreeing to break up his band on condition of receiving an _indulto_, or pardon for all past offences, and a salaried appointment as an officer of migueletes, or "police." he did not long exercise this honest calling, for soon after, when attempting to secure some of his former comrades who had taken refuge in a farmhouse, he was shot dead as he burst open the door. with all his bad qualities, josé had some of a redeeming character. among these were his kindness to his female prisoners, his generosity to the poor, and his forbearance, for he frequently restrained his troop from acts of violence, and displayed on occasions a certain chivalrous nobility of character, hardly to be expected from a robber. in person he was very small, scarcely more than five feet in height, with bowed legs; but he was stout, strong and active and made amends in boldness, determination and talent for his physical deficiencies. his success and the long continued control which he exercised over the lawless fellows who composed his band proved that he possessed the difficult art of command. his courage indeed was proverbial. as an instance of it, it is reported that he once ventured into the presence of the prime minister at madrid and dared to beard him in his own house. brigandage has not wholly disappeared in spain although it no longer exists on the grand scale of former days when the mountain passes and lesser highways were infested by robber bands led by daring and unscrupulous chiefs who stopped travellers, blackmailed landed proprietors and carried off country folk whom they held to ransom often for considerable sums. to-day, if the knights of the road are still to be met with occasionally, they are for the most part paltry pilferers bent on stealing small sums from the poorer folk returning from market, or in rare cases holding up some solitary vehicle and its defenceless passengers. these are of the type of the old fashioned _salteadores_ or "jumpers," so named because they jumped out from behind a rock and dropped suddenly on their prey with the old peremptory summons of "_boca abajo!_" "_boca à tierra!_" "faces down! mouth to the ground!" the cry may still be heard, and it means mischief when backed as of old by the muzzle of a gun protruding from the bushes in some narrow pass or defile. they are courageous too, these spanish road agents, ready to fight at need as well as to rob, to overbear resistance and to meet the officers of the law with their own weapons. a story is told of one daring ruffian, rullo de zancayro, who, in 1859, murdered the alcalde of his village and was followed by two _guardias civiles_. at the end of a long chase they went too near some brushwood, when one was shot dead and the fugitive made good his escape. in the year 1870 brigandage was general throughout spain, but the heart and centre of it was the province of andalusia, with branches and ramifications everywhere, spreading dismay and apprehension among all peaceable people. this was in the interregnum that followed the revolution which drove queen isabella from the throne. there was safety for no one. respectable landowners dared not visit nor reside upon their estates for fear of attack, dreading robbery with violence or seizure of their persons, and they constantly received threatening letters demanding the purchase of immunity on the payment of considerable sums. the roads were more than ever insecure, trains and diligences were repeatedly held up, and small parties of travellers or solitary wayfarers were certain to be laid under contribution. it was claimed that the _guardias civiles_, the fine rural police, were no longer active but were diverted from their legitimate duties by political party leaders in power. so many bitter complaints, so many indignant demands for protection, reached the central government in madrid, that the authorities resolved to put down brigandage with a strong hand. a new governor of cordova was appointed, a man of vigour and determination, armed with full powers to purge the province of its desperadoes. the choice fell upon don julian de zugasti y saenz, who had been a member of the cortes and employed as civil administrator, first as governor of teruel, where he had restored order in a period of grave disorder, and at burgos, where he had laid bare a formidable conspiracy against the government. when zugasti undertook the task, it was high time to adopt energetic measures. there was no security for life or property as robberies on a large scale were perpetrated both in town and country. well-to-do citizens were seized in the public streets and carried off to sequestration; farmers and cultivators were compelled to share their produce, their harvests, and their herds with the brigands who swooped down on them; the police were impotent or too much overawed to interfere in the interest of honest folk. the prevailing anarchy and widespread lawlessness were a disgrace to any country that called itself civilised. zugasti did a great work in restoring order and giving security to the disturbed districts. the whole story is told at some length in his book on "bandolerismo,"[24] which deals with brigandage in spain from its very beginnings, describing the principal feats of the banditti. [24] "bandolerismo estudo social y memorias historicas," by don julian de zugasti. madrid, 1876. at the outset he was faced with a most difficult situation. crimes in great number had been committed with impunity. many of their perpetrators were wholly hidden from the authorities, while others were perfectly well known. a crowd of spies were ever on the watch and ready, whether from greed or to curry favour, with abundant information of openings that offered for attempts at crime. on the other hand the _guardias civiles_ were greatly discouraged and far too weak in numbers for the onerous duties they were expected to perform. judges were dishonest and had been known to accept bribes, the ordinary police were torpid, nearly useless and generally despised. a complete reform in the administration of justice was a crying need, as the power and authority of the law were completely broken down. the new governor was helpless and handicapped on every side. his representations to the government for support were but coldly received and he had to rely on such scanty means as he had at hand. he looked carefully into the character of all police employés and dismissed all of doubtful reputation. he established a system of supplying the _guardias civiles_ at all stations with photographs of criminals at large whom they could identify and arrest, and insisted on strictly revising the permits issued to carry arms, allowing none but respectable persons to do so. the prohibition was extended to all kinds of knives, many of them murderous weapons of the well known type. the quarters of all evil doers he heard of were broken up, including the farm which had come to be called ceuta because it harboured a mob of ex-convicts, escaped prisoners who were eager to resume their depredations by joining themselves to the plans and projects of others. these active measures were bitterly resented and vigorously resisted by all evil doers, who went so far as to seek the removal of the governor, and it was falsely announced in more than one newspaper that he had sent in his resignation. the disastrous consequence was the immediate revival of brigandage in various forms. horses and cattle were once more stolen in the open country and a house in the town of estado was broken into and a large amount in cash and securities with much valuable jewelry was seized. at the same time ten prisoners escaped in a body from the gaol of that city. on the highroad between posadas and villaviciosa, seven armed men robbed nineteen travellers, and a party had the audacity to carry off a child of nine and hold him to ransom. the police and well-disposed people were greatly disheartened, the _guardias civiles_, which had done excellent service in capturing more than a hundred prisoners in a short time, slackened in their endeavours, while the municipal police, which had forty captures to its credit, also held their hand. the whole situation was greatly aggravated and crime gained the ascendancy. but zugasti rose to the occasion, publicly denied the report of his resignation; the government published a complimentary decree commending his conduct, and his pursuit of wrong doers was continued with renewed energy. naturally he incurred the bitterest hostility and went constantly in danger of his life. he received anonymous letters containing the most bloodthirsty threats and was warned by his friends that they could not possibly support or protect him. undeterred he held his way, bravely and wisely organised an association akin to the "regulators" of the wild days in the western states of the united states to patrol the country and insure the general safety, and employed a large force of secret police agents to perambulate the country, keeping close watch upon suspicious persons, travelling by all trains, patrolling all roads, visiting taverns in low quarters, entering the prisons in disguise and gaining the confidence of the fellow prisoners. zugasti himself spent long periods in the various gaols, observing, investigating and interviewing notable offenders. the thoroughness of his proceedings might be gathered from the choice he made of his agents. one of the most useful was an idiot boy, whose weak-mindedness was relieved by some glimmerings of sense and who passed entirely unsuspected by those upon whom he spied. his foolish talk and silly ways gained him ready admission into cafés and clubs, where he was laughed at and treated as a butt upon whom food, drink and unlimited cigars were generously bestowed. he had the gift of remaining wide awake while seeming to be sound asleep, his ears ever on the stretch to pick up compromising facts which were openly mentioned before him. he had also a prodigious memory and seldom forgot what he heard, storing up everything to be produced later when he attended upon the governor. in this way zugasti often heard of crimes almost as soon as they were planned, and could hunt up their perpetrators without delay. on one occasion a mysterious crime was unravelled by placing the idiot in the same cell with two of the suspected actors, who entirely believed in the imbecility of their cell companion and unguardedly revealed the true inwardness of the whole affair. the _ladron en grande_, the "robber chief" at the head of a numerous band, is still to be met with, although rarely representing the type of the famous josé maria. these leaders rose to the command of their lawless fellows by force of superior will, and they were unhesitatingly obeyed and followed with reckless devotion in the constant commission of crime. one or two noted specimens have survived till to-day and some account of them may be extracted from recent records. vizco el borje was long a terror to the peaceable people in northern andalusia. he was originally an officer of _carabineros_, the "custom house" regiment of spain, but had been, in his own judgment, unjustly dismissed and found himself deprived of the means of subsistence. falling lower and lower, step by step he became an outcast, an ishmaelite consumed with an intense hatred of all social arrangements, with his hand against every man. he began business as a smuggler and soon took to worse, following the spanish proverb:- "de contrabandista e ladron no haymas que un escalon." "there is only one short step from smuggler to thief," and vizco quickly crossed the narrow space and became a notorious criminal. he carried on the war against law and order with constantly increasing recklessness and more and more daring outrages. his strong personal character, his iron will, his unbounded courage and boldness gave him a great ascendancy over the men who collected around him and who served him with the greatest loyalty and unstinting effort. one of his exploits may be quoted at some length as exhibiting his methods and the success that generally attended them. a certain landowner, don pedro de m----, whose estates were in the neighbourhood of the mountain village of zahrita, was in the habit of providing bulls free of charge for the amusement of the villagers, at the annual festival of their patron saint. amateur bull fighters are always to be found to take part in the performance of a _novillos_, or game with young bulls. don pedro like many of his class was also an _aficionado_, an amateur devoted to bull fighting, and he loved to pick out himself the animals he gave from his herds, trying first their temper and their aptitude for the so-called sport of _tauromaquia_. he was thus engaged, assisted by his steward and a herdsman, and had dismounted with the steward to walk round the herd, when the ominous cry was raised, "_boca abajo!_" and they found themselves covered by the rifles of three brigands who had crept upon them unobserved. resistance was hopeless, though they also were armed, for their guns hung at the saddles of their horses, which they led at the full length of their reins, and to have made any hostile move would have drawn down a murderous fire. the chance soon passed, for one of the robbers quickly took possession of both horses and guns. the seizure was complete and the captors proceeded to carry off their prize. all remounted by order of the chief of the band, who took the lead, and the party started in single file along the narrow mountain path, an armed escort bringing up the rear. they made straight for the upper sierra, avoiding the frequented track until they reached a dense thicket, where a halt was called and a scout sent on ahead. after an interchange of whistled signals, nine other horsemen rode up, the two prisoners were ordered to dismount, their eyes closely bandaged, and they were warned that their lives depended upon their implicit obedience to the orders they received. then the march was resumed. the road led constantly upward, becoming more and more rugged and precipitous till from the utter absence of brushwood and the stumbling of their horses they knew that they were climbing through a mountainous region. another halt was called, all again dismounted, and the prisoners were led on foot along a narrow passage, that from the echoing sounds and the closeness of the air evidently penetrated far into the hill. it opened presently into an extensive cavern, probably the long-abandoned workings of some ancient roman mine. here their bandages were removed and don pedro saw that he was in the presence of the three bandits who had first made him prisoner. the cave contained nothing but a few empty boxes, on one of which was a light, a flickering wick in a saucerful of oil. another box was offered don pedro as a seat, writing materials were produced and he was desired to write from dictation as follows:- "dear father, i am in the power of the 'sequestradores,' who make good plans and bind fast. it is madness to put the government on their track--they will escape and you will lose your son. your secrecy and your money can at once free me. you can send the silver by diego our steward, who is the bearer of this. let him appear on the mountain between grazalema and el bosque, riding a white donkey and bringing ten thousand dollars." here the prisoner stopped short and point blank refused to demand so large a sum, declaring that to pay it his brothers would be robbed of their patrimony and that he had no right to ask even when his life was at stake for more than his individual share as one member of a large family. it was a fair argument and he held out so staunchly that the brigand was pleased to reduce the demand to six thousand dollars. the letter conveying these terms was then completed, signed and delivered to diego, who was told to make the best of his way to xeres, and as dawn had now broken he had no difficulty in finding the road. don pedro was hospitably entertained. a wine skin (_borracha_) was broached and a plentiful supper laid out. the day was spent in sleep, but at nightfall the march was resumed. the prisoner was once more blindfolded, the weary pilgrimage, halting by day, travelling by night for three nights in succession, was resumed. on one occasion he seemed near rescue. a cry of "civiles! civiles!" was raised, an alarm of the near approach of the much dreaded _guardias civiles_. orders were promptly issued to prepare for action. the brigands closed their ranks, sent their prisoner to the rear and took post to open fire. in the confusion don pedro, keenly alert for the deliverance that seemed so near, managed to lift the bandage over his eyes sufficiently to peep around. the party stood on a narrow ledge of the mountain side, straight cliff above, sheer drop below: movement forward or back was alone feasible. meanwhile the increasing clatter of hoofs betrayed the enemy's approach, nearer and nearer, and the brigands barring the narrow road hoped to take them at a disadvantage and, after shooting them down, make good their retreat. but the sight of the first horse showed that it had been a false alarm. these were not "_civiles_" but "_contrabandistas_," smugglers not policemen, friends not foes. a long train of animals, heavily laden with goods that had paid no duty, were being guided across the mountains. don pedro's hopes were crushed out of him when he heard the interchange of friendly greetings: "_muy buenas noches!_" on one side and "_vayan ustedes con dios_," on the other; "good night!" and "go in god's keeping," and room was made by the robbers for the safe passage of the smuggling train. on the third day news came that the authorities were on the alert and it would be unsafe to meet the messenger returning on his white donkey. another tryst was therefore appointed. don pedro's father was desired to send half the whole sum demanded to grazalema and the other half was carried by a man on the white donkey to a lonely spot among the hills. the father started in person on the long ride from xeres to grazalema weighted with three thousand dollars in cash, reached his destination safely but remained there for a couple of days tortured with suspense. on the third morning he was approached by a man leading a pony laden with rolls of the rough brown cloth manufactured in grazalema, who said under his breath as he passed, "follow me." the peddler led the way to a small draper's shop where the same cloth was exposed for sale and, dismounting, passed into the back premises, where another man, also a peddler, was seated waiting. this was vizco el borje himself, who at once asked for the money, producing don pedro's pencil case as his credentials. the dollars had been sewn for security into the pack saddle of the pony which had brought the old man, and they were extracted, counted and handed over. vizco forthwith climbed on top of the pile of cloth carried by his own mount and rode boldly out of the town. meanwhile diego, the steward on the white donkey, with the remaining three thousand dollars patiently hung about the mountain lair to which he had been directed, and at last encountered a goatherd at the entrance of the village, who told him to ride on till he met a woman dressed in black seated by the side of a well. "she will ask you the time, and you will answer twelve o'clock, at which she will guide you to the spot where you are expected." it was a cavern in the hill and he was met there by his young master don pedro safe and sound. the money was handed over, but no release was permitted until news came of the delivery of the other half, when the prisoners were guided to a path familiar to them and they were free to return home. next evening they rode into xeres after a captivity of fifteen days. the end of vizco el borje was such as might be expected. he was shot down by the _guardias civiles_. for a long time he carried his life in his hands and had many hairbreadth escapes, saved always by his fine pluck and resourcefulness. at last the authorities had positive information of his whereabouts, gained through treachery, and he was surrendered. he made a gallant defence, but his retreat was cut off and he was soon overpowered. when he fell his body had been pierced by five rifle bullets. another type of brigand was agua dulce, who worked on a much smaller scale, but was long a terror in the neighbourhood of xeres. he was a mean, contemptible ruffian who preyed upon charcoal burners, poor travellers, carriers and workmen returning home with their hard earned wages. he had one narrow escape. after securing an unusually large sum, the equivalent of £600, all in small coins, he was caught dividing these with two accomplices in a wine shop. his arrest and imprisonment followed. when called upon to account for his possession of the gold, agua dulce explained that he had got it in the course of a business transaction in seville and was removed to that city for trial, where he was acquitted, although little doubt was entertained of his guilt. for years he continued his depredations, committing for the most part small thefts and petty larcenies. now and again he made bold coups, as when, under threat of damaging a herd of valuable mares, he extorted three thousand dollars from a lady who raised horses. he levied a thousand dollars on another landowner by using the same menace and a third gentleman, who had stoutly refused to be blackmailed and who owned a large drove of donkeys, found them all with their throats cut lying by the high road. when his misdeeds became too numerous to be borne the municipal guard of gorez swore to put an end to him. a hot pursuit was organised and he was found at a ford near a wood belonging to the duke of san lorenzo, where he was caught hiding among the trees. two guards opened fire, which was returned, with the result that one guard was killed and one robber. agua dulce, who was still alive, got into the covert, and shots were again and again exchanged, ending in the destruction of the brigand. a later affair with brigands occurred at gibraltar in 1870, when two gentlemen, natives of the rock, much given to hunting and taking long rides in the neighbourhood, were waylaid and made prisoners. they were carried off to a lonely house in the hills near ronda and detained for ransom, which was advanced by the british government through the governor of the fortress of gibraltar, and eventually repaid by the spanish authorities. after the money had been paid over the _guardias civiles_ intercepted the robbers and shot them down. chapter x a bright page in prison history wonderful results achieved by colonel montesinos in the presidio at valencia--montesinos repairs and reconstructs the prison with convict labour--his system of treatment--period--marvellous success in reforming criminals--convicts entrusted with confidential despatches in civil war--armed to resist attack on the prison by insurgents--employed to hunt down brigands--movement towards prison reform in 1844--three new model prisons planned for madrid--executions--the "garrote"--account of the trial and execution of josé de rojas--the condemned cell at the saladero--an englishman's description of a spanish execution. the reader who has followed this detailed description of spanish penal methods has realised the hideous shortcomings of spanish prisons, the horrible practices so constantly prevailing within the walls, the apparently incurable nature of the criminals who regularly fill them, and he might reasonably doubt that definite and substantial amendment was possible. yet the contrary is true and to the most marked and astonishing degree if we are to believe the facts on record. in one instance the personal character of one man, backed by his unshaken determination and the exercise of a resolute and inflexible will, brought a large mass of convicts into an admirable condition of self-control and good behaviour. the story reads like a fairy tale, as set forth in contemporary chronicles. one of the most interesting accounts is to be found in a book of travels entitled "spain as it is," by a mr. hoskins, in which he gives his personal observations of the results achieved in the prison at valencia by the enlightened administration of its governor, colonel montesinos. a brief account of the man himself should precede our appreciation of his work. montesinos was a soldier, trained to arms, whose education and experience were entirely military. he had no previous acquaintance with or insight into prison systems, although he had travelled far and wide in many countries. he had never visited or inspected their penal establishments nor had he penetrated into any single prison in his native spain. he served in the spanish army, beginning as a cadet at fourteen, was actively engaged in the war of independence, and was carried off as a prisoner into france. when set free at the conclusion of peace, he accepted a post in the secretariat of the war office at madrid, where he remained for five years. then came the political troubles which ended in the fall of the constitutional government in 1823 and the surrender of cadiz. with many other soldiers and citizens, he left spain and wandered through europe and america, with no very definite idea of examining into the laws and customs of other countries, but gaining knowledge and breadth of views. on his return to spain when close on forty years of age he was appointed governor of the convict prison in valencia. montesinos entered upon his duties with a firm conviction of the paramount importance of military discipline, of that passive and unquestioning obedience to authority, the absolute surrender of individual volition, the complete subjection of the many to the single will of one superior master, which he believed to be the essence of all personal government and more particularly in a prison. to enforce such discipline was the only effectual method of securing good order and the due subordination of the rough and possibly recalcitrant elements under his command. in this he entirely succeeded and established an extraordinary influence over his charges. he became an autocrat but in the best sense; his prisoners resigned themselves submissively and unhesitatingly to his control, anxious to gain his good will by their exemplary demeanour and their unvarying desire to behave well. what he actually made of his charges, how he succeeded in changing their very natures, in transforming lawbreakers and evil doers into honest, trustworthy persons, successfully restraining their evil instincts, will be best realised by a few strange facts which, if not positively vouched for, would be considered beyond belief. but before relating these marvellous results it will be well to describe in some detail the processes adopted by him and the principles on which he acted. when colonel montesinos was appointed governor of the valencian convent prison, it was located in an ancient mediæval edifice known as the "_torres de cuarte_," two towers flanking the great gate which gave upon the suburb known as "_el cuarte_." this semi-ruinous building, dating from the fifteenth century, lodged about a thousand prisoners, herded together in a number of dark, dirty, ill-kept and insecure chambers, wholly unfit for human habitation. they were on several floors communicating by narrow passages and tortuous staircases, below which were deep underground cellars divided up into obscure foul dungeons, which were always humid from the infiltration from the city ditch and into which neither sunlight nor fresh air came to dry up the damp pavement and the streaming walls. montesinos saw at once that it would be impossible to introduce reforms in such a building and he laboured hard to move into better quarters, securing at length, after a long correspondence, new quarters in the monastery of st. augustine, which indeed was but little better. here also the buildings had fallen into disrepair. a large part was without roof, there was little flooring, and many broken windows and decayed walls offered numerous facilities for escape. extensive repairs were indispensable, yet funds were wanting, for the spanish government was sorely taxed to meet the expenses of the civil war (carlist) now in full swing. nevertheless montesinos, strenuous and indefatigable, a host in himself, transferred his people, a thousand convicts of dangerous character, into their new abode and set them to work to repair and reconstruct the old building. he meant to succeed, by drawing upon his own limitless energies, creating means from his own native resources, and was backed by the ready response of those he brought under the dominion of an indomitable will. all difficulties yielded before his intense spirit. he was the very incarnation of activity and it was enough to look at him to be spurred on to assiduous effort. his personal traits and their effect upon his surroundings are thus described by his biographer, vincente boix,--"there can be no doubt that his martial air, his tall figure and the look in his face, a mixture of imperious command with great kindliness and shrewd appreciation of willing effort, had a marked effect upon his people, and convicts who had been once coerced and driven by the fear of punishment yielded much more readily to his moral force. his obvious determination and strength of character got more out of them than threats or penalties, although, if needs were, he was ready enough to appeal to the strong arm. they acknowledged his superiority, and rough undisciplined men, quite capable of rising against authority when unchecked or weakly held, succumbed to his lightest word like children to their father. they yielded even against the grain absolute compliance to his lightest wish without needing a sharp look or a cross word." it will be interesting to follow montesinos' procedure. under his system the treatment was progressive and divided into three periods; first, that of chains; second, that of labour; and third, that of conditional liberation. this arrangement is in some respects akin to that generally known as the "irish" system as practised many years ago with conspicuous success. (1) the wearing of irons at that time was general in spain, although now the practice has fallen into disuse. with montesinos the rule was to impose irons of varying weight graduated to the length of sentence. a two years' man carried them of four pounds' weight; a four years' man of six pounds, while between six and eight years they were of eight pounds. they consisted of a single chain fastened to a fetter on the right ankle, while the other end was attached to a waist belt, a method supposed to cause no great inconvenience. with montesinos the period of wearing them was of short duration. it terminated on the day that the convict petitioned for regular employment, for on first reception, after having entered the first courtyard, which was kept bright with garden flowers and the songs of many birds in cages hanging around, the new arrival was given no work. he remained at the depot idle and silent, for no conversation was permitted, although he was associated with others, and if he put a question to a neighbour he got no reply. weariness and boredom soon supervened in this period of first probation and the convict was keen to pass on. he appealed to his officer, who told him to seek employment at some trade. "i know none." "then learn one, you cannot get quit of your irons in any other way." if the convict hesitated he was left studiously to himself, unhappy and ashamed, for his condition was deemed disgraceful. he could not hold his head up, for a wide gulf separated him from others who had escaped the chain. he was a marked man, shunned and sneered at, and was required to work from the second day at ignominious and humiliating labour, such as sweeping, cleaning, and so forth. they were the helots and scavengers of the prison. their lot was the more unbearable because they were debarred from many privileges conferred on those who were at regular labour, and who were earning wages to spend in part upon themselves. these regular labourers might buy toothsome food and cigars, the delight of every spaniard's heart. meanwhile the governor had been watching him closely, noting his disposition and whether or not he was desirous of taking up work which was so much to his advantage and of which he would be speedily deprived unless he applied himself to it with zeal and unflagging industry. (2) a wide choice of labour obtained in valencia. trades and handicrafts were varied and numerous. carpenters, turners, saddlers, shoemakers, fanmakers, workers with esparto grass, weavers of palm straw hats, silk spinners, tailors, basket makers, were all represented, and the total was some forty trades, with seven hundred artisans. to-day there would be nothing remarkable in this industrial activity, which may be seen in well governed prisons, but in valencia at that date (1835-40) it was a novelty due very largely to montesinos' initiative, and he could boast that out of three thousand convicts, barely a fourth left prison without having acquired some smattering of a trade. stress must not be laid upon the exact amount of skill possessed by these prison taught artisans, and it is to be feared that it was no more thorough than in these latter days of ours, when the same principles as those of montesinos have actuated prison administration. this is the crux of the system of prison instruction. it cannot be expected to turn out workmen sufficiently well trained and expert to go out into the open labour market, so generally overcrowded, and compete for wages against the free labourer who has had the benefit of full apprenticeship. adults cannot easily acquire knowledge and dexterity in the use of tools, and inevitable waste of materials accompanies the experiments made by unskilled hands. we have no record of how far these drawbacks affected montesinos' well-meant practice. (3) we have no facts to show how far the third period, that of conditional liberation, was successful at valencia. there is no possibility of knowing definitely whether it was really tried or went beyond the enunciation of the theory so long in advance of our modern practice. it is little likely, however, that the effective and elaborate method of police supervision on which it is absolutely dependent was in existence or even understood in spain in the days of montesinos. no permanent results seemed to have been achieved by the montesinos system. there is no record that it survived the man who created it or that the government sought to extend the admirable principles on which it rested. it was essentially a one man system, depending entirely for success on the personal qualities of the individual called upon to carry it out. montesinos was not, however, singular in his remarkable achievement. the german obermaier did much the same in the prison of kaiserslautern, and captain maconochie in norfolk island exercised a notable mastery over the australian convicts. the effects produced by montesinos were little less than phenomenal. he so developed the probity of his convicts that he could rely implicitly upon their honesty and good faith. during the civil war he sent them with confidential despatches to commanders in the field and never had cause to regret the trust placed in them. they were sent out as scouts seeking information of the enemy's movements and brought in news with punctuality and despatch. a message was brought one day to the governor directing him to send a clerk to fetch a thousand dollars from the provincial treasury. montesinos forthwith summoned one of his convicts and despatched him, carrying with him the receipt for the money. within half an hour the man returned with the dollars. whenever a convict escaped from the presidio, a rare occurrence indeed, other convicts were despatched in pursuit and seldom failed to bring in the fugitive. at one time the spanish government decided to build a new prison in the capital and to employ convict labour in the construction. the governor of the presidio of valencia was ordered to send up a number of prisoners, and next day at daylight they marched, taking with them a quantity of material, the whole escorted by a small body of _cabos_, "prisoner warders," and commanded by a veteran overseer. the journey was safely made to madrid without the smallest mishap, not a sign or symptom of misbehaviour shown on the road, and the alcaldes of the towns on the route, after anticipating the worst evils, were agreeably surprised and were satisfied to lodge the travellers at night in private houses if there was no prison accommodation. a second experiment of the kind was made in the same year. on a previous occasion valencia was threatened by a strong force of carlists under that distinguished carlist general, cabrera, and it was feared that he would capture a large body of convicts at that time employed on a new road, las cabrillas, a little distance from the city. there were hardly any troops in the capital except the city militia only recently organised and barely equal to the duties and dangers imposed upon them. great fears were entertained that cabrera would seize the convicts and incorporate with his own force. montesinos was desired to prevent this, and he turned up in person one evening at las cabrillas, where he assumed command and drew off the greater number, happily escaping without attack or interference by the enemy. so loyal was the demeanour of the valencian prisoners that under the direction of montesinos at another time they were armed and resisted an attack made upon the gates of their convent prison by the insurgents in a rising in valencia. the following extraordinary story is related in an official publication by the well known poet don ramon de campoamor, at that time governor of the province of valencia. a formidable band of brigands was devastating the neighbourhood of valencia and a reign of terror prevailed. the governor sent for colonel montesinos and inquired whether there were any old brigands among the convicts in custody and who were willing to atone for past misdeeds by coming to the assistance of the authorities. montesinos, who made it a rule to know all his prisoners by heart, their present dispositions, and indeed their inmost thoughts, spoke confidently of one as quite a reformed character, and at the governor's request entrusted him with the special mission of clearing out the country. the convict, after receiving his instructions, went out with a sufficient escort, hunted down the brigands, broke up their bands, killing or capturing the whole. here the commanding influence of montesinos was paramount even beyond the walls of the presidio. by the power of his strong will he called out fine qualities and exacted loyal service from the worst materials whom he had won to a high sense of discipline. a minor and more sentimental instance is recorded of the confidence he could repose in his reformed criminals. the mother of one of the convicts was at the point of death. the man was summoned to the governor's office and informed of her desperate condition. "do you wish to see her in her last moments?" asked the governor. "can i trust you to return if i give you permission to leave the prison for a time?" the man much moved solemnly promised not to misuse his liberty. he was allowed to exchange his prison uniform for a peasant's dress; he went without escort to his mother's cottage, received her blessing, and went back to durance as had been agreed. the experience of valencia was unique and short-lived. a commendable effort was made to extend the principles on which montesinos had acted, and decrees embodying them and recommending them for general adoption were issued but soon became a dead letter. excellent in theory, their success depended entirely on the man to give them effect. a second montesinos did not appear and spanish prisons continued to exhibit the worst features down to the present day. a movement towards prison reform had been commenced as early as 1844, when three new "model" prisons were planned for madrid, but their construction was long delayed. about the same date a model convict prison was planned at valladolid, but slow progress was made with this and with other new prisons, including that of saragossa, and at the casa de galera of alcalá de henares. a penitentiary was also projected on the island of cabrera, opposite cadiz. the chief effort was concentrated on the model prison of madrid, which was undertaken in 1876 after much debate and discussion. it was to be an entirely new building, to which were devoted all the funds that might have been expended upon the impossible reform and repair of the hideous old saladero. several years passed before the building began, and not until 1884 did the tenants of the dismantled saladero move into the new prison. it is for the most part on the cellular or separate system, by which each individual is held strictly apart from his fellows, according to the most modern ideas, which have claimed to have exerted a potent effect in the reformation of offenders and the diminution of crime. nevertheless the system is still in its trial and its beneficial results are by no means universally conceded. the new prison is a very distinct improvement on the old, and the former horrors and atrocities are fast disappearing, but the secluded solitary life has its own peculiar terrors which press hardly on transgressors, with results that are very distinctly deterrent if not very largely reformatory. what those actually subjected to the treatment feel we may read in their own effusions. the literary quality of prison writers does not rank high but they sometimes put their views forcibly. one says of the "model":--"if i leave this trying place alive i can at least declare that i have been buried underground and had made the acquaintance of the grave diggers." another writer:--"if you wish to know what life is like here, come and take your lodging inside. they are handsome, but curious, well provided with means to drive you out of your mind. there is a water tap which overflows in drought and runs dry in wet weather; a pocket handkerchief and a towel; a plate, a basin and a wooden spoon, a broom, a dust box, one blanket and a mattress with four straws that gives you pain in every limb: many things more, but one alone much needed is absent, a rope by which you commit suicide." it has been said that the worst use to which a man may be put is to shut him up in a prison. a still more wasteful extravagance is to put him out of the world. the penalties known to spanish law have been very various; there have been many forms of imprisonment, perpetual imprisonment, greater or less detention, exile, the application of fetters of several sorts, handcuffs, shackles, the _guarda amigo_ or "holdfriend," the "persuader" or "come along with me"; the leg irons and waist chains of varying weights. penal labour was enforced in _maniobras infimas_ by convicts chained together on public works, fortifications, harbours and mines. all forms of secondary punishment have been inflicted, winding up with capital, the death sentence inflicting the extreme penalty of the law. this last irrevocable act does not find favour with all spanish legists, whose chief objection is the familiar one that when a judicial error has been committed, rectification is altogether impossible. spain can add one to the many well known cases such as those of callas and lesurques, and it may be quoted here as it is probably little known. the case occurred in seville and grew out of a sudden quarrel in a tavern followed by a fight to the death with knives. the combatants went on the ground and attacked each other in the regular fashion when one dropped to the ground mortally wounded and the other with his second ran away. the wounded man's second went up to see whether his principal was dying or already dead, when he got up and declared that he was entirely unhurt. he had slipped upon a stone and fallen with the obviously cowardly desire to escape from his antagonist's attack. the second was furiously angry and rated his man soundly. he retorted fiercely and another quarrel and another encounter ensued, also with knives, in which the first man again fell and this time was killed outright, by his own second, who at once made off. the body lay where it had fallen until next morning, when the police found it. the story of the original quarrel but nothing of the second had become known, and it was naturally concluded that death had been inflicted by the first combatant. on the face of it the evidence was conclusive against him, and he did not attempt to deny the facts as they appeared when arrested and put upon his trial. at that time the law treated homicide in a duel as murder and the victim suffered the extreme penalty without protest, believing himself to be guilty. the truth was never known, until the real offender, years after, confessed the part he had played, but too late of course to prevent the judicial murder of the innocent man. this case has naturally been added to give weight to the many powerful arguments against capital punishment. the extreme penalty of the law is nowadays inflicted in spain by the _garrote_, a method of strangulation by the tightening of an iron collar, the substitute for hanging introduced by king ferdinand vii (1820). till then the hanging was carried out in the clumsiest and most brutal manner. the culprits were dragged by the executioner up the steps of a ladder leaning against the scaffold. at a certain height he mounted on the victim's shoulders and thus seated flung himself off with his victim underneath. as they swung to and fro the hangman's fingers were busily engaged in choking the convict so as to complete the strangulation. the _garrote_ is a very simple contrivance. the condemned man sits on a stool or low seat, leaning his back against a strong, firm upright post to which an iron collar is fixed. this, when opened, encircles his neck, and is closed and tightened by a powerful screw, worked by a lever from behind. death is instantaneous. public executions must prove very popular performances with a people who still revel in a bull fight and flock to look at the hairbreadth escapes of human beings from hardly undeserved death by the horns of a fierce beast tortured into madness. de foresta, an italian traveller,[25] tells us that never was a greater concourse seen in madrid than that which collected in 1877 to witness the execution of two murderers, mollo and agullar, when it was estimated that 80,000 people were present. ford describes an execution in seville in 1845 when the crowd was enormous and composed largely of the lower orders, of the humbler ranks, "who hold the conventions of society very cheap and give loose rein to their morbid curiosity to behold scenes of terror, which operates powerfully on the women, who seem irresistibly impelled to witness sights the most repugnant to their nature and to behold sufferings which they would most dread to undergo," and many of whom "brought in their arms young children at the beginning of life to witness its conclusion." "they desire to see how the criminal will conduct himself, they sympathise with him if he displays coolness and courage, and despise him on the least symptom of unmanliness." [25] la spagna; da irun a malaga, by adolfo de foresta, bologna, 1879. ford in his "gatherings from spain" gives a graphic account of the execution of a highway robber, one of the band of the famous josé maria already mentioned. the culprit, josé de rojas, was nicknamed "veneno," poison, from his venomous qualities and had made a desperate resistance before he was finally overcome by the troops who captured him. he fell wounded with a bullet in his leg, but killed the soldier who ran forward to secure him. when in custody he turned traitor and volunteered to betray his old associates and give such information as would lead to their arrest if his own life was spared. the offer was accepted and he was sent out with a sufficient force to seize them. such was the terror of his name that all surrendered, but not to him. on this quibble the indemnity promised him was withdrawn, he was brought to trial, condemned, and in due course executed on the plaza san francisco, which adjoins the prison in seville and is commonly used for public executions. ford was admitted within the walls and describes veneno "_en capilla_," a small room set apart as a condemned cell, the approach to which was thronged with officers, portly franciscan friars and "members of a charitable brotherhood collecting alms from the visitors to be expended in masses for the eternal repose of the soul of the criminal. the levity of those assembled without, formed a heartless contrast with the gloom and horror of the melancholy interior of the _capilla_. at the head of the cell was placed a table with a crucifix, an image of the virgin and two wax tapers, near which stood a silent sentinel with a drawn sword. another soldier was stationed at the door with a fixed bayonet. in a corner of this darkened compartment lay veneno curled up like a snake, with a striped coverlet drawn closely over his mouth, leaving visible only a head of matted locks, and a glistening dark eye rolling restlessly out of its deep socket. on being approached he sprang up and seated himself on a stool. he was almost naked, but a chaplet of beads hung across his exposed breast and contrasted with the iron chains around his limbs.... the expression of his face though low and vulgar was one which, once seen, was not easily forgotten. his sallow complexion appeared more cadaverous in the uncertain light and was heightened by a black unshorn beard, growing vigorously on a half-dead countenance. he appeared to be reconciled to his fate and repeated a few sentences, the teaching of the monks, as by rote. his situation was probably more painful to the spectator than himself, an indifference to death arising rather from an ignorance of its dreadful import than from high moral courage." when veneno came out to die he was clad in a coarse yellow baize gown, the colour which in spain denotes the crime of murder and appropriated always to judas iscariot in spanish paintings, the colour, too, of the _sanbenito_ or penitential cloak worn by the victims of the inquisition at an _auto da fé_. he walked slowly, stopping often to kiss the crucifix held to his lips by the attendant confessor, a monk of the franciscan order, whom it was the convict's privilege to choose for himself to accompany him to the scaffold. he was met there by the executioner, a young man dressed in black who proceeded to bind his naked legs and arms so tightly that they swelled and turned black: a necessary precaution, as this very executioner's father had been killed when struggling with a convict unwilling to die. veneno made no resistance, but he spoke with supreme contempt of this degraded functionary, saying, "_mi delito me mata no ese hombre_" (my crime kills me and not this creature). he uttered many pious ejaculations, and his dying cry was, "viva la virgen santisima." the last scene was ghastly in the extreme. while the priest stood by, "a bloated corpulent man more occupied in shading the sun from his face than in his ghostly office," the robber sat with a writhing look of agony, grinding his clenched teeth. the executioner took the lever of the screw in both hands, gathered himself up for a strong muscular effort, drew the iron collar tight while an attendant threw a black handkerchief over the face. a convulsive pressure of the hands and a heaving of the chest were the only visible signs of the passing of the convict's spirit. "after a pause of a few moments the executioner cautiously peeped under the handkerchief and, after having given another turn of the screw, lifted it off, carefully put it in his pocket and proceeded to light a cigar. the face of the dead man was slightly convulsed, the mouth open, the eye balls turned into their sockets from the wrench. a black bier with two lanterns fixed on staves was now set down before the scaffold. a small table and a dish into which alms were again collected to be paid to the priests who sang masses for his soul was also brought forward.... the body remained on the scaffold till after noon. it was then thrown into a scavenger's cart and led by the _pregonero_ or common crier beyond the jurisdiction of the city to a square platform called the "mesa del rey," the king's table, where it was to be quartered and cut up. here the carcass was hewed and hacked into pieces by the bungling executioner and his assistants." the condemned cell at the saladero was a part of the prison chapel in which the spanish convict spent the last twenty-four hours of life and was a horrible and painfully gruesome hole. the _capilla_ is described by de foresta, who saw it when it was on the eve of abolition. it was of narrow dimensions, damp, dark, windowless and lighted only with one or two small candles burning upon the altar which occupied a large space filling all one wall. in a corner cut off by a black iron railing from the rest of the chapel was a small space fitted with a bed or stone shelf with rings to which the convict's chains were fastened and where he knelt close to the bars to converse with or confess to the ministering priests. the chapel was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp and one or two wax candles. its walls and floor were damp and it received light and air only through the door. this gruesome den rejoiced in the name _el confortador_, or the "place of comfort." another traveller gives the following graphic account of a spanish execution:-"at seven we find ourselves in the crowd immediately beneath the prison walls. large bodies of troops are drawn up on either side of the _plaza_ and there is a tolerably large concourse of male spectators present. in a few minutes the mournful cortége appears upon the wall. first comes the executioner, the spanish calcraft, a wiry looking fellow, carrying a coil of rope; next comes a very stout padre armed with a baton, and bawling out prayers at the top of his voice; he is followed by the convict, who walks on in prison uniform, with his neck bare and arms pinioned, clasping the cross in his hands and looking literally in a blue fright; a couple more priests and two armed sentries complete the group, who range themselves along the wall, the criminal in the centre. the terrible scene is long protracted. the fat padre roars out _ave marias_, exhortations and prayers, waving his baton frantically in the air and making the miserable wretch repeat after him. he then clasps him in his arms, and sitting down on chairs opposite each other, they are covered with a large black pall held by the supernumerary priests; under this they remain for some time perfectly motionless, while the poor creature is unburdening his soul and pouring forth his load of crimes into the ear of his confessor. "the nerves of the spectators are strained to an intense pitch during the awful pause, as is evident from the oppressive silence which prevails and the anxious looks directed at the scaffold. at length the pall is removed and the executioner proceeds to business. the culprit is made to sit against an upright post to which he is firmly lashed; the _garrote_, a machine consisting of an iron collar worked back by a powerful screw and a long lever, is carefully adjusted round his neck, a small handkerchief thrown over his face and all is ready. the priest recommences shouting while the executioner, preparing himself for a mighty effort, suddenly turns the handle two or three times as quick as lightning; the head of the victim drops, the knees and arms quiver for a few seconds and all is over. priests and sentries retire, calcraft peeps under the handkerchief and, whipping it off with a jerk, immediately disappears, leaving the ghastly corpse exposed to open view. it is a sickening and disgusting sight: the face is of a livid hue, the tongue protruding, and shedding saliva on the breast; the bystanders shudder, the troops march off with drums gaily beating and the crowd slowly disperses. i make a rapid sketch of the body and return to the hotel fully satisfied that, were it not for the cruel state of suspense in which the criminal is kept before the execution, the punishment of the _garrote_ is far more merciful and expeditious than the less speedy death by hanging in this country." the profession of hangman does not entitle those who practise it to the very highest honour, although in france in the case of the sansons it was an hereditary office in which son succeeded father for many generations and the family took considerable pride in their functions. in spain the _verdugo_ is by no means a popular person. de foresta, the italian traveller already quoted, tells us that in several towns he saw a person of forbidding aspect who was walking about with a camp stool under his arm and generally shunned. on enquiry he was informed that this was the gentleman who administered the _garrote_. he was strictly forbidden to take a seat at a café or in any place of public resort, hence the camp stool on which he rested himself when tired. no one recognised or addressed to him a single word. de foresta's comment on this is a story of the french executioner who, when called to nice to guillotine a criminal, was unable to find anywhere to lay his head. he was turned away from every door, was refused a mouthful of food and was obliged to dine on what he could find at the railway station restaurant, and he spent the night in walking up and down the platform. it may not be generally known that in england the executioner is provided with board and lodging in the gaol where his victim is waiting to be "finished." * * * * * transcriber's notes: italic text is denoted by _underscores_. superscript text is represented with carat and brackets (i.e. e=mc^{2} ) minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/houseoftormentta00gulliala house of torment a tale of the remarkable adventures of mr. john commendone gentleman to king philip ii of spain at the english court by c. ranger-gull author of "the serf," etc. new york dodd, mead and company 1911 published september, 1911 the quinn & boden co. press rahway, n. j. dedication to david whitelaw souvenir of a long friendship _my dear david,_ _since i first met you, considerably more than a decade ago, in a little studio high up in a great london building, we have both seen much water flow under the bridges of our lives._ _we have all sorts of memories, have we not?_ _late midnights and famishing morrows, in the gay hard days when we were endeavouring to climb the ladder of our art; a succession of faces, a welter of experiences. some of us fell in the struggle; others failed and still haunt the reprobate purlieus of fleet street and the strand! there was one who achieved a high and delicate glory before he died--"tant va la cruche à l'eau qu'à la fin elle se casse."_ _there is another who is slowly and surely finding his way to a certainty of fame._ _and the rest of us have done something, if not--as yet--all we hoped to do. at any rate, the slopes of the first hills lie beneath us. we are in good courage and resolute for the mountains._ _the mist eddies and is spiralled below in the valleys from which we have come, but already we are among the deep sweet billows of the mountain winds, and i think it is because we have both found our "princess galvas" that we have got this far upon the way._ _we may never stand upon the summit and find that tempest of fire we call the sun full upon us. but the pleasure of going on is ours still--there will always be that._ _ever your friend, c. ranger-gull._ contents i in the queen's closet; the four faces ii the house of shame; the ladder of glory iii the meeting with john hull at chelmsford iv part taken in affairs by the half testoon v the finding of elizabeth vi a king and a victim. two grim men vii hey ho! and a rumbelow! viii "why, who but you, johnnie!" ix "misericordia et justitia" x the silent men in black xi in the box xii "tendimus in latium" chapter i in the queen's closet; the four faces sir henry commendone sat upon an oak box clamped with bands of iron and watched his son completing his morning toilette. "and how like you this life of the court, john?" he said. the young man smoothed out the feather of his tall cone-shaped hat. "truly, father," he answered, "in respect of itself it seems a very good life, but in respect that it is far from the fields and home it is naught. but i like it very well. and i think i am likely to rise high. i am now attached to the king consort, by the queen's pleasure. his highness has spoken frequently with me, and i have my commission duly written out as _caballerizo_." "i never could learn spanish," the elder man replied, wagging his head. "father chilches tried to teach me often of an afternoon when you were hawking. what does the word mean in essence?" "groom of the body, father--equerry. it is doubtless because i speak spanish that it hath been given me." "very like, johnnie. but since the queen, god bless her, has come to the throne, and england is reconciled to holy church, thou wert bound to get a post at court. they could not ignore our name. i wrote to the bishop of london myself, he placed my request before the queen's grace, and hence thou art here and in high favour." the young man smiled. "which i shall endeavour to keep," he answered. "and now i must soon go to the queen's lodging. i am in attendance on king philip." "and i to horse with my men at noon and so home to kent. i am glad to have seen thee, johnnie, in thy new life, though i do not love london and the court. but tell me of the queen's husband. the neighbours will all want news of him. it's little enough they like the spanish match in kent. give me a picture of him." "i have been at court a month," john commendone answered, "and i have learned more than one good lesson. there is a spanish saying that runs this way, '_palabras y plumas viento las heva_' (words and feathers are carried far by the wind). i will tell you, father, but repeat nothing again. kent is not far away, and i have ambition." sir henry chuckled. "prudent lad," he said; "thou art born to be about a palace. i'll say nothing." "well then, here is your man, a pedant and a fool, a stickler for little trifles, a very child for detail. her grace the queen and all the nobles speak many languages. every man is learned now. his highness speaks but spanish, though he has a little french. never did i see a man with so small a mind, and yet he thinks he can see deep down into men's hearts and motives, and knows all private and public affairs." sir john whistled. he plucked at one of the roses of burnt silver embroidered upon the doublet of green tissue he was wearing--the gala dress which he had put on for his visit to court, a garment which was a good many years behind the fashion, but thought most elegant by his brother squires in kent. "so!" he said, "then this match will prove as bad for the country as all the neighbours are saying. still, he is a good catholic, and that is something." john nodded carelessly. "more so," he replied, "than is thought becoming to his rank and age by many good catholics about the court. he is as regular at mass, sermons, and vespers as a monk--hath a leash of friars to preach for his instruction, and disputes in theology with others half the night till her grace hath to send one of her gentlemen to bid him come to bed." "early days for that," said the kentish gentleman, "though, in faith, the queen is thirty-eight and----" john started. "whist!" he said. "i'm setting you an evil example, sir. long ears abound in the tower. i'll say no more." "i'm mum, johnnie," sir henry replied. "i'll break in upon thee no more. get on with thy tale." "'tis a bargain then, sir, and repeat nothing i tell you. i was saying about his highness's religion. he consults don diego deza, a dominican who is his confessor, most minutely as to all the actions of life, inquiring most anxiously if this or that were likely to burden his conscience. and yet--though her grace suspects nothing--he is of a very gross and licentious temper. he hath issued forth at night into the city, disguised, and indulged himself in the common haunts of vice. i much fear me that he will command me to go with him on some such expedition, for he begins to notice me more than any others of the english gentlemen in his company, and to talk with me in the spanish tongue...." the elder man laughed tolerantly. "every man to his taste," he said; "and look you, johnnie, a prince is wedded for state reasons, and not for love. the ox hath his bow, the faulcon his bells, and as pigeon's bill man hath his desire and would be nibbling!" john commendone drew himself up to his full slim height and made a motion of disgust. "'tis not my way," he said. "bachelor, i hunt no fardingales, nor would i do so wedded." "god 'ild you, johnnie. hast ever taken a clean and commendable view of life, and i love thee for it. but have charity, get you charity as you grow older. his highness is narrow, you tell me; be not so yourself. thou art not a little pot and soon hot, but i think thou wilt find a fire that will thaw thee at court. a young man must get experience. i would not have thee get through the streets with a bragging look nor frequent the stews of town. but young blood must have its may-day. whilst can, have thy may-day, johnnie. have thy door shadowed with green birches, long fennel, st. john's wort, orphine, and white lilies. wilt not be always young. but i babble; tell me more of king philip." the tall youth had stood silent while his father spoke, his grave, oval face set in courteous attention. it was a coarse age. henry the eighth was not long dead, and the scandals of his court and life influenced all private conduct. that queen mary was rigid in her morals went for very little. the lady elizabeth, still a young girl, was already committing herself to a course of life which--despite the historians of the popular textbooks--made her court in after years as licentious as ever her father's had been. old sir henry spoke after his kind, and few young men in 1555 were so fastidious as john commendone. he welcomed the change in conversation. to hear his father--whom he dearly loved--speak thus, was most distasteful to him. "his highness is a glutton for work," the young man went on. "i see him daily, and he is ever busy with his pen. he hateth to converse upon affairs of state, but will write a letter eighteen pages long when his correspondent is in the next room, howbeit the subject is one which a man of sense would settle in six words of the tongue. indeed, sir, he is truly of opinion that the world is to move upon protocols and apostilles. events must not be born without a preparatory course of his obstetrical pedantry! never will he learn that the world will not rest on its axis while he writeth directions of the way it is to turn." sir henry shook himself like a dog. "and the queen mad for such a husband as this!" he said. "aye, worships him as it were a saint in a niche. a skilled lutanist with a touch on the strings remarkable for its science, speaking many languages with fluency and grace, latin in especial, her grace yet thinks his highness a great statesman and of a polished easy wit." "how blind is love, johnnie! blinder still when it cometh late. a cap out of fashion and ill-worn. 'tis like one of your french withered pears. it looks ill and eats dryly." "i was in the queen's closet two days gone, in waiting on his highness. a letter had come from paris, narrating how a member of the spanish envoy's suit to that court had been assassinated. the letter ran that the manner in which he had been killed was that a jacobin monk had given him a pistol-shot in the head--'_la façon que l'on dit qu'il a etté tuè, sa etté par un jacobin qui luy a donnè d'un cou de pístolle dans la tayte_.' his highness took up his pen and scrawled with it upon the margin. he drew a line under one word '_pístolle_'; 'this is perhaps some kind of knife,' quoth he; 'and as for "_tayte_," it can be nothing else but head, which is not _tayte_, but _tête_ or _teyte_, as you very well know.' and, father, the queen was all smiles and much pleased with this wonderful commentary!" sir henry rose. "i will hear no more," he said. "it is time i went. you have given me much food for thought. fare thee well, johnnie. write me letters with thy doings when thou canst. god bless thee." the two men stood side by side, looking at each other in silence, one hale and hearty still, but with his life drawing to its close, the other in the first flush of early manhood, entering upon a career which promised a most brilliant future, with every natural and material advantage, either his already, or at hand. they were like and yet unlike. the father was big, burly, iron-grey of head and beard, with hooked nose and firm though simple eyes under thick, shaggy brows. john was of his father's height, close on six feet. he was slim, but with the leanness of perfect training and condition. supple as an eel, with a marked grace of carriage and bearing, he nevertheless suggested enormous physical strength. the face was a pure oval with an olive tinge in the skin, the nose hooked like his sire's, the lips curved into a bow, but with a singular graveness and strength overlying and informing their delicacy. the eyes, of a dark brown, were inscrutable. steadfast in regard, with a hint of cynicism and mockery in them, they were at the same time instinct with alertness and a certain watchfulness. he seemed, as he stood in his little room in the old palace of the tower, a singularly handsome, clever, and capable young man, but a man with reservations, with secrets of character which no one could plumb or divine. he was the only son of sir henry commendone and a spanish lady of high birth who had come to england in 1512 to take a position in the suite of catherine of arragon, three years after her marriage to henry viii. during the early part of henry's reign sir henry commendone was much at windsor and a personal friend of the king. those were days of great brilliancy. the king was young, courteous, and affable. his person was handsome, he was continually engaged in martial exercises and all forms of field sports. sir henry was one of the band of gay youths who tilted and hawked or hunted in the great park. he fell in love with the beautiful young juanita de senabria, married her with the consent and approbation of the king and queen, and immediately retired to his manors in kent. from that time forward he took absolutely no part in politics or court affairs. he lived the life of a country squire of his day in serene health and happiness. his wife died when john--the only issue of the marriage--was six years old, and the boy was educated by father chilches, a placid and easy-going spanish priest, who acted as domestic chaplain at commendone. this man, loving ease and quiet, was nevertheless a scholar and a gentleman. he had been at the court of charles v, and was an ideal tutor for johnnie. his religion, though sincere, sat easily upon him. the divorce from rome did not draw him from his calm retreat, the oath enforcing the king's supremacy had no terrors for him, and he died at a good old age in 1548, during the protectorate of somerset. from this man johnnie had learnt to speak spanish, italian, and french. naturally quick and intelligent, he had added something of his mother's foreign grace and self-possession to the teachings and worldly-wisdom of don chilches, while his father had delighted to train him in all manly exercises, than whom none was more fitted to do. sir henry became rich as the years went on, but lived always as a simple squire. most of his land was pasturage, then far more profitable than the growing of corn. tillage, with no knowledge of the rotation of crops, no turnip industry to fatten sheep, miserable appliances and entire ignorance of manures, afforded no interest on capital. but the export of wool and broadcloth was highly profitable, and sir henry's wool was paid for in good double ryals by the manufacturers and merchants of the great towns. john commendone entered upon his career, therefore, with plenty of money--far more than any one suspected--a handsome person, thoroughly accomplished in all that was necessary for a gentleman of that day. in addition, his education was better than the general, he was without vices, and, in the present reign, the consistent catholicity of his house recommended him most strongly to the queen and her advisers. * * * * * "so god 'ild ye, johnnie. come not down the stairs with me. let us make farewell here and now. i go to the constable's to leave my duty, and then to take a stirrup-cup with the lieutenant. my serving-men and horses are waiting at the south of white tower at coal harbour gate. farewell." the old man put his arms in their out-moded bravery round his son and kissed him on both cheeks. he hugged like a bear, and his beard was wiry and strong against the smooth cheeks of his son. then coughing a little, he almost imperceptibly made the sign of the cross, and, turning, clanked away, his sword ringing on the stone floor and his spurs--for he wore riding-boots of spanish leather--clicking in unison. john was left alone. he sat down upon the low wooden bed and gazed at the chest where the knight had been sitting. the little room, with its single window looking out upon the back offices of the palace, seemed strangely empty, momentarily forlorn. johnnie sighed. he thought of the woods of commendone, of the old tudor house with its masses of chimneys and deep-mullioned windows--of all that home-life so warm and pleasant; dawn in the park with the deer cropping wet, silver grass, the whistle of the wild duck as they flew over the lake, the garden of rosemary, st. john's wort, and french lavender, which had been his mother's. then, stifling a sigh, he sprang to his feet, buckled on his sword--the fashionable "whiffle"-shaped weapon with globular pommel and the quillons of the guard ornamented in gold--and gave a glance at a little mirror hung upon the wall. by no means vain, he had a very careful taste in dress, and was already considered something of a dandy by the young men of his set. he wore a doublet of black satin, slashed with cloth of silver; and black velvet trunks trussed and tagged with the same. his short cloak was of cloth of silver lined with blue velvet pounced with his cypher, and it fell behind him from his left shoulder. he smoothed his small black moustache--for he wore no beard--set his ruff of two pleats in order, and stepped gaily out of his room into a long panelled corridor, a very proper young man, taut, trim, and _point device_. there were doors on each side of the corridor, some closed, some ajar. a couple of serving-men were hastening along it with ewers of water and towels. there was a hum and stir down the whole length of the place as the younger gentlemen of the court made their toilettes. from one door a high sweet tenor voice shivered out in song- "filz de venus, voz deux yeux desbendez et mes ecrits lisez et entendez..." "that's mr. ambrose cholmondely," johnnie nodded to himself. "he has a sweet voice. he sang in the sextette with lady bedingfield and lady paget last night. a sweet voice, but a fool! any girl--or dame either for that matter--can do what she likes with him. he travels fastest who travels alone. master ambrose will not go far, pardieu, nor travel fast!" he came to the stair-head--it was a narrow, open stairway leading into a small hall, also panelled. on the right of the hall was a wide, open door, through which he turned and entered the common-room of the gentlemen who were lodged in this wing of the palace. the place was very like the senior common-room of one of the more ancient oxford colleges, wainscoted in oak, and with large mullioned windows on the side opposite to a high carved fire-place. a long table ran down the centre, capable of seating thirty or forty people, and at one end was a beaufet or side-board with an almost astonishing array of silver plate, which reflected the sunlight that was pouring into the big, pleasant room in a thousand twinkling points of light. it was an age of silver. the secretary to francesco capella, the venetian ambassador to london, writes of the period: "there is no small innkeeper, however poor and humble he may be, who does not serve his table with silver dishes and drinking cups; and no one who has not in his house silver plate to the amount of at least £100 sterling is considered by the english to be a person of any consequence. the most remarkable thing in london is the quantity of wrought silver." the gentlemen about the queen and the king consort had their own private silver, which was kept in this their common messroom, and was also supplemented from the household stores. johnnie sat down at the table and looked round. at the moment, save for two serving-men and the pantler, he was alone. before him was the silver plate and goblet he had brought from commendone, stamped with his crest and motto, "_sapere aude et tace_." he was hungry, and his eye fell upon a dish of perch in foyle, one of the many good things upon the table. the pantler hastened up. "the carpes of venison are very good this morning, sir," he said confidentially, while one serving-man brought a great piece of manchet bread and another filled johnnie's flagon with ale. "i'll try some," he answered, and fell to with a good appetite. various young men strolled in and stood about, talking and jesting or whispering news of the court, calling each other by familiar nicknames, singing and whistling, examining a new sword, cursing the amount of their tailors' bills--as young men have done and will do from the dawn of civilisation to the end. john finished his breakfast, crossed himself for grace, and, exchanging a remark or two here and there, went out of the room and into the morning sunshine which bathed the old palace of the tower in splendour. how fresh the morning air was! how brilliant the scene before him! to his right was the coal harbour gate and the huge white tower. two royal standards shook out in the breeze, the leopards of england and blazoned heraldry of spain, with its tower of gold upon red for castile, the red and yellow bars of arragon, the red and white checkers of burgundy, and the spread-eagle sable of sicily. to the left was that vast range of halls and galleries and gardens which was the old palace, now utterly swept away for ever. the magnificent pile of brick and timber known as the queen's gallery, which was the actual royal lodging, was alive and astir with movement. halberdiers of the guard were stationed at regular distances upon the low stone terrace of the façade, groups of officers went in and out of the doors, already some ladies were walking in the privy garden among the parterres of flowers, brilliant as a window of stained glass. the gilding and painted blazonry on the great hall built by henry iii glowed like huge jewels. on the gravel sweep before the palace grooms and men-at-arms were holding richly caparisoned horses, and people were continually coming up and riding away, their places to be filled by new arrivals. it is almost impossible, in our day, to do more than faintly imagine a scene so splendid and so debonair. the clear summer sky, its crushed sapphire unveiled by smoke, the mass of roofs, flat, turreted, embattled--some with stacks of warm, red chimneys splashed with the jade green of ivy--the cupulars and tall clock towers, the crocketed pinnacles and fantastic timbered gables, made a whole of extraordinary beauty. dozens of great gilt vanes rose up into the still, bright air, the gold seeming as if it were cunningly inlaid upon the curve of a blue bowl. the pigeons cooed softly to each other, the jackdaws wheeled and chuckled round the dizzy heights of the white tower, there was a sweet scent of wood smoke and flowers borne upon the cool breezes from the thames. the clocks beat out the hour of noon, there was the boom of a gun and a white puff of smoke from the constable tower, a gay fanfaronade of trumpets shivered out, piercingly sweet and triumphant, a distant bell began to toll somewhere over by st. john's chapel. john commendone entered the great central door of the queen's gallery. he passed the guard of halberdiers that stood at the foot of the great staircase, exchanging good mornings with mr. champneys, who was in command, and went upwards to the gallery, which was crowded with people. officers of the queen's archers, dressed in scarlet and black velvet, with a rose and imperial crown woven in gold upon their doublets, chatted with permanent officials of the household. there was a considerable sprinkling of clergy, and at one end of the gallery, nearest to the door of the ante-room, was a little knot of dominican monks, dark and somewhat saturnine figures, who whispered to each other in liquid spanish. john went straight to the ante-room entrance, which was screened by heavy curtains of tapestry. he spoke a word to the officer guarding it with a drawn sword, and was immediately admitted to a long room hung with pictures and lit by large windows all along one side of its length. here were more soldiers and several gentlemen ushers with white wands in their hands. one of them had a list of names upon a slip of parchment, which he was checking with a pen. he looked up as john came in. "give you good day, mr. commendone," he said. "i have you here upon this paper. his highness is with the queen in her closet, and you are to be in waiting. lord paget has just had audience, and the bishop of london is to come." he lowered his voice, speaking confidentially. "things are coming to a head," he said. "i doubt me but that there will be some savage doings anon. now, mr. commendone, i wish you very well. you are certainly marked out for high preferment. your cake is dough on both sides. see you keep it. and, above all, give talking a lullaby." john nodded. he saw that the other knew something. he waited to hear more. "you have been observed, mr. commendone," the other went on, his pointed grey beard rustling on his ruff with a sound as of whispering leaves, and hardly louder than the voice in which he spoke. "you have had those watching you as to your demeanours and deportments whom you did not think. and you have been very well reported of. the king likes you and her grace also. they have spoken of you, and you are to be advanced. and if, as i very well think, you will be made privy to affairs of state and policy, pr'ythee remember that i am always at your service, and love you very well." he took his watch from his doublet. "it is time you were announced," he said, and turning, opened a door opposite the tapestry-hung portal through which johnnie had entered. "mr. commendone," he said, "his highness's gentleman." an officer within called the name down a short passage to a captain who stood in front of the door of the closet. there was a knock, a murmur of voices, and john was beckoned to proceed. he felt unusually excited, though at the same time quite cool. old sir james clinton at the door had not spoken for nothing. certainly his prospects were bright.... in another moment he had entered the queen's room and was kneeling upon one knee as the door closed behind him. the room was large and cheerful. it was panelled throughout, and the wainscoting had been painted a dull purple or liver-colour, with the panel-beadings picked out in gold. the roof was of stone, and waggon-headed with welsh groins--that is to say, groins which cut into the main arch below the apex. two long venice mirrors hung on one wall, and over the fire-place was a crucifix of ivory. in the centre of the place was a large octagonal table covered with papers, and a massive silver ink-holder. seated at the table, very busy with a mass of documents, was king philip ii of spain. don diego deza, his confessor and private chaplain, stood by the side of the king's chair. seated at another and smaller table in a window embrasure queen mary was bending over a large flat book. it was open at an illuminated page, and the sunlight fell upon the gold and vermilion, the _rouge-de-fer_ and powder-blue, so that it gleamed like a little _parterre_ of jewels. it was the second time that john commendone had been admitted to the privy closet. he had been in waiting at supper, the queen had spoken to him once or twice; he was often in the king consort's lodging, and was already a favourite among the members of the spanish suite. but this was quite different. he knew it at once. he realised immediately that he was here--present at this "domestic interior," so to speak, for some important purpose. had he known the expressive idiom of our day, he would have said to himself, "i have arrived!" philip looked up. his small, intensely serious eyes gave a gleam of recognition. "buenos dias, señor," he said. john bowed very low. suddenly the room was filled with a harsh and hoarse volume of sound, a great booming, resonant voice, like the voice of a strong, rough man. it came from the queen. "mr. commendone, come you here. his highness hath work to do. art a lutanist, lady paget tells me, then look at this new book of tablature with the voice part very well writ and the painting of the initial most skilfully done." the young man advanced to the queen. she held out her left hand, a little shrivelled hand, for him to kiss. he did so, and then, rising, bent over the wonderfully illuminated music book. the six horizontal lines of the lute notation, each named after a corresponding note of the instrument, were drawn in scarlet. the arabic numerals which indicated the frets to be used in producing the notes were black and orange, the initial h was a wealth of flat heraldic colour. "his golden locks time hath to filuer turnde" the queen read out in her great masculine voice,--a little subdued now, but still fierce and strong, like the purring of a panther. "what think you of my new book of songs, mr. commendone?" "a beautiful book, madam, and fit for your grace's skill, who hath no rival with the lute." "'tis kind of you to say so, mr. commendone, but you over compliment me." she bent her brows together, lost in serious thought for a moment, and drummed with lean fingers upon the table. suddenly she looked up and her face cleared. "i can say truly," she continued, "that i am a very skilled player. for a woman i can fairly put myself in the first rank. but i have met others surpassing me greatly." she had thought it out with perfect fairness, with an almost pedantic precision. woman-like, she was pleased with what the young courtier had said, but she weighed truth in grains and scruples--tithe of mint and cummin, the very word and article of bald fact; always her way. "and here, mr. commendone," she continued, "is my new virginal. it hath come from firenze, and was made by nicolo pedrini himself. my lord mayor begged our acceptance of it." the virginal was a fine instrument--spinet it came to be called in elizabeth's reign, from the spines or crow-quills which were attached to the "jacks" and plucked at the strings. the case was made of cypress wood, inlaid with whorls of thin silver and enamels of various colours. "we were pleased at the lord mayor's courtesy," the queen concluded, and the change in pronoun showed john that the interview was over in its personal sense, and that he had been very highly honoured. he bowed, with a murmur of assent, and drew aside to the wall of the room, waiting easily there, a fresh and gallant figure, for any further commands. nor did it escape him that the queen had given him a look of prim, but quite marked approval--as an old maid may look upon a handsome and well-mannered boy. the queen pressed down the levers of the spinet once or twice, and the thin, sweet chords like the ghost of a harp rang out into the room. john watched her from the wall. the divine right of monarchs was a doctrine very firmly implanted in his mind by his upbringing and the time in which he lived. the absolutism of henry viii had had an extraordinary influence on public thought. to a man such as john commendone the monarch of england was rather more than human. at the same time his cool and clever brain was busily at work, drinking in details, criticising, appraising, wondering. the queen wore a robe of claret-coloured velvet, fringed with gold thread and furred with powdered ermine. over her rather thin hair, already turning very grey, she wore the simple caul of the period, a head-dress which was half bonnet, half skull-cap, made of cloth of tinsel set with pearls. small, lean, sickly, painfully near-sighted, yet with an eye full of fierceness and fire--your true tudor-tiger eye--she was yet singularly feminine. as she sat there, her face wrinkled by care and evil passions even more than by time, touching the keys of her spinet, picking up a piece of embroidery, and frequently glancing at her husband with quick, hungry looks of fretful and even suspicious affection, she was far more woman than queen. the great booming voice which terrified strong men, coming from this frail and sinister figure, was silent now. there was pathos even in her attitude. a submissive wife of philip with her woman's gear. the king of spain went on writing, coldly, carefully, and with concentrated attention, and john's eyes fell upon him also, his new master, the most powerful man in the world of that day. king of spain, naples, sicily, duke of milan, lord of franche comté and the netherlands, ruler of tunis and the barbary coast, the canaries, cape de verd islands, philippines and spice islands, the huge west indian colonies, and the vast territories of mexico and peru--an almost unthinkable power was in the hands of this man. as it all came to him, johnnie shuddered for a moment. his nerves were tense, his imagination at work, it seemed difficult to breathe the same air as these two super-normal beings in the still, warm chamber. from outside came the snarling of trumpets, the stir and noise of soldiery--here, warm silence, the scratching of a pen upon parchment, the echo of a voice which rolled like a kettle-drum.... suddenly the king laid down his pen and rose to his feet, a tall, lean, sombre-faced man in black and gold. he spoke a few words to father diego deza and then went up to the queen in the window. the monk went on arranging papers in orderly bundles, and tying some of them with cords of green silk, which he drew from a silver box. john saw the queen's face. it lit up and became almost beautiful for a second as philip approached. then as husband and wife conversed in low voices, the equerry saw yet another change come over mary's twitching and expressive countenance. it hardened and froze, the thin lips tightened to a line of dull pink, the eyes grew bitter bright, the head nodded emphatically several times, as if in agreement at something the king was saying. then john felt some one touch his arm, and found that the dominican had come to him noiselessly, and was smiling into his face with a flash of white teeth and steady, watchful eyes. he started violently and turned his head from the royal couple in some confusion. he felt as though he had been detected in some breach of manners, of espionage almost. "buenos dias, señor, como anda usted?" don diego asked in a low voice. "thank you, i am very well," johnnie answered in spanish. "como está su padre?" "my father is very well also. he has just left me to ride home to kent," john replied, wondering how in the world this foreign priest knew of the old knight's visit. it was true, then, what sir james clinton had said! he was being carefully watched. even in the royal closet his movements were known. "a loyal gentleman and a good son of the church," said the priest, "we have excellent reports of him, and of you also, señor," he concluded, with another smile. john bowed. "_los negocios del politica_--affairs of state," the chaplain whispered with a half-glance at the couple in the window. "there are great times coming for england, señor. and if you prove yourself a loyal servant and good catholic, you are destined to go far. his most catholic majesty has need of an english gentleman such as you in his suite, of good birth, of the true religion, with spanish blood in his veins, and speaking spanish." again the young man bowed. he knew very well that these words were inspired. this suave ecclesiastic was the power behind the throne. he held the king's conscience, was his confessor, more powerful than any great lord or minister--the secret, unofficial director of world-wide policies. his heart beat high within him. the prospects opening before him were enough to dazzle the oldest and most experienced courtier; he was upon the threshold of such promotion and intimacies as he, the son of a plain country gentleman, had never dared to hope for. it had grown very hot; he remarked upon it to the priest, noticing, as he did so, that the room was darker than before. the air of the closet was heavy and oppressive, and glancing at the windows, he saw that it was no fancy of strained and excited nerves, but that the sky over the river was darkening, and the buildings upon london bridge stood out with singular sharpness. "a storm of thunder," said don diego indifferently, and then, with a gleam in his eyes, "and such a storm shall presently break over england that the air shall be cleared of heresy by the lightnings of holy church--ah! here cometh his grace of london!" the captain of the guard had suddenly beaten upon the door. it was flung open, and sir james clinton, who had come down the passage from the ante-room, preceded the bishop, and announced him in a loud, sonorous voice. johnnie instinctively drew himself up to attention, the chaplain hastened forward, king philip, in the window, stood upright, and the queen remained seated. from the wall johnnie saw all that happened quite distinctly. the scene was one which he never forgot. there was the sudden stir and movement of his lordship's entrance, the alteration and grouping of the people in the closet, the challenge of the captain at the door, the heralding voice of sir james--and then, into the room, which was momentarily growing darker as the thunder clouds advanced on london, bishop bonner came. the man _pressed_ into the room, swift, sudden, assertive. in his scarlet chimere and white rochet, with his bullet head and bristling beard, it was as though a shell had fallen into the room. a streak of livid light fell upon his face--set, determined, and alive with purpose--and the man's eyes, greenish brown and very bright, caught a baleful fire from the waning gleam. then, with almost indecent haste, he brushed past john commendone and the eager spanish monk, and knelt before the queen. he kissed her hand, and the hand of the king consort also, with some murmured words which johnnie could not catch. then he rose, and the queen, as she had done upon her arrival from winchester after her marriage, knelt for his blessing. commendone and the chaplain knelt also; the king of spain bowed his head, as the rapid, breathless pattering latin filled the place, and one outstretched hand--two white fingers and one white thumb--quivered for a moment and sank in the leaden light. there was a new grouping of figures, some quick talk, and then the queen's great voice filled the room. "mr. commendone! see that there are lights!" johnnie stumbled out of the closet, now dark as at late evening, strode down the passage, burst into the ante-room, and called out loudly, "bring candles, bring candles!" even as he said it there was a terrible crash of thunder high in the air above the palace, and a simultaneous flash of lightning, which lit up the sombre ante-room with a blinding and ghostly radiance for the fraction of a second. white faces immobile as pictures, tense forms of all waiting there, and then the voice of sir james and the hurrying of feet as the servants rushed away.... it was soon done. while the thunder pealed and stammered overhead, the amethyst lightning sheets flickered and cracked, the white whips of the fork-lightning cut into the black and purple gloom, a little procession was made, and gentlemen ushers followed johnnie back to the royal closet, carrying candles in their massive silver sconces, dozens of twinkling orange points to illumine what was to be done. the door was closed. the king, queen, and the bishop sat down at the central table upon which all the lights were set. don diego deza stood behind philip's chair. the queen turned to john. "stand at the door, mr. commendone," she said, "and with your sword drawn. no one is to come in. we are engaged upon affairs of state." her voice was a second to the continuous mutter of the thunder, low, fierce, and charged with menace. save for the candles, the room was now quite dark. a furious wind had risen and blew great gouts of hot rain upon the window-panes with a rattle as of distant artillery. johnnie drew his sword, held it point downwards, and stood erect, guarding the door. he could feel the tapestry which covered it moving behind him, bellying out and pressing gently upon his back. he could see the faces of the people at the table very distinctly. the king of spain and his chaplain were in profile to him. the queen and the bishop of london he saw full-face. he had not met the bishop before, though he had heard much about him, and it was on the prelate's countenance that his glance of curiosity first fell. young as he was, johnnie had already begun to cultivate that cool scrutiny and estimation of character which was to stand him in such stead during the years that were to come. he watched the face of edmund bonner, or boner, as the bishop was more generally called at that time, with intense interest. boner was to the queen what the dominican deza was to her husband. the two priests ruled two monarchs. in the yellow candle-light, an oasis of radiance in the murk and gloom of the storm, the faces of the people round the table hid nothing. the bishop was bullet-headed, had protruding eyes, a bright colour, and his moustache and beard only partially hid lips that were red and full. the lips were red and full, there was a coarseness, and even sensuality, about them, which was, nevertheless, oddly at war with their determination and inflexibility. the young man, pure and fastidious himself, immediately realised that boner was not vicious in the ordinary meaning of the word. one hears a good deal about "thin, cruel lips"--the queen had them, indeed--but there are full and blood-charged lips which are cruel too. and these were the lips of the bishop of london. there was a huge force about the man. he was plebeian, common, but strong. don diego, commendone himself, the queen and her husband, were all aristocrats in their different degree, bred from a line--pedigree people. that was the bond between them. the bishop was outside all this, impatient of it, indeed; but even while the groom of the body twirled his moustache with an almost mechanical gesture of disgust and misliking, he felt the power of the man. and no historian has ever ventured to deny that. the natural son of the hedge-priest, george savage--himself a bastard--walked life with a shield of brutal power as his armour. the blood-stained man from whom--a few years after--queen elizabeth turned away with a shudder of irrepressible horror, was the man who had dared to browbeat and bully pope clement vii himself. he took a personal and undignified delight in the details of physical and mental torture of his victims. in 1546 he had watched with his own eyes the convulsions of dame anne askew upon the rack. he was sincere, inflexible, and remarkable for obstinacy in everything except principle. as ambassador to paris in henry's reign he had smuggled over printed sheets of coverdale's and grafton's translation of the bible in his baggage--the personal effects of an ambassador being then, as now, immune from prying eyes. during the protectorate he had lain in prison, and now the strenuous opposer of papal claims in olden days was a bishop in full communion with rome. ... he was speaking now, in a loud and vulgar voice, which even the presence of their majesties failed to soften or subdue. --"and this, so please your grace, is but a sign and indication of the spirit abroad. there is no surcease from it. we shall do well to gird us up and scourge this heresy from england. this letter was delivered by an unknown woman to my chaplain, father holmes. 'tis a sign of the times." he unfolded a paper and began to read. "i see that you are set all in a rage like a ravening wolf against the poor lambs of christ appointed to the slaughter for the testimony of the truth. indeed, you are called the common cut-throat and general slaughter-slave to all the bishops of england; and therefore 'tis wisdom for me and all other simple sheep of the lord to keep us out of your butcher's stall as long as we can. the very papists themselves begin now to abhor your blood-thirstiness, and speak shame of your tyranny. like tyranny, believe me, my lord, any child that can any whit speak, can call you by your name and say, 'bloody boner is bishop of london'; and every man hath it as perfectly upon his fingers'-ends as his paternoster, how many you, for your part, have burned with fire and famished in prison; they say the whole sum surmounteth to forty persons within this three-quarters of this year. therefore, my lord, though your lordship believeth that there is neither heaven nor hell nor god nor devil, yet if your lordship love your own honesty, which was lost long agone, you were best to surcease from this cruel burning of christian men, and also from murdering of some in prison, for that, indeed, offendeth men's minds most. therefore, say not but a woman gave you warning, if you list to take it. and as for the obtaining of your popish purpose in suppressing the truth, i put you out of doubt, you shall not obtain it as long as you go to work this way as ye do; for verily i believe that you have lost the hearts of twenty thousand that were rank papists within this twelve months." the bishop put the letter down upon the table and beat upon it with his clenched fist. his face was alight with inquiry and anger. every one took it in a different fashion. philip crossed himself and said nothing, formal, cold, and almost uninterested. don diego crossed himself also. his face was stern, but his eyes flitted hither and thither, sparkling in the light. then the queen's great voice boomed out into the place, drowning the thunder and the beating rain upon the window-panes, pressing in gouts of sound on the hot air of the closet. her face was bagged and pouched like a quilt. all womanhood was wiped out of it--lips white, eyes like ice.... "i'll stamp it out of this realm! i'll burn it out. jesus! but we will burn it out!" the bishop's face was trembling with excitement. he thrust a paper in front of the queen. "madam," he said, "this is the warrant for doctor rowland taylor." mary caught up a pen and wrote her name at the foot of the document in the neat separated letters of one accustomed to write in greek, below the signature of the chancellor gardiner and the lords montague and wharton, judges of the legantine court for the trial of heretics. "i will make short with him," the queen said, "and of all blasphemers and heretics. there is the paper, my lord, with my hand to it. a black knave this, they tell me, and withal very stubborn and lusty in blasphemy." "a very black knave, madam. i performed the ceremony of degradation upon him yestereen, and, by my troth, never did the walls of newgate chapel shelter such a rogue before. he would not put on the vestments which i was to strip from him, and was then, at my order, robed by another. and when he was thoroughly furnished therewith, he set his hands to his sides and cried, 'how say you, my lord, am i not a goodly fool? how say you, my masters, if i were in chepe, should i not have boys enough to laugh at these apish toys?'" the queen crossed herself. her face blazed with fury. "dog!" she cried. "perchance he will sing another tune to-morrow morn. but what more?" "i took my crosier-staff to smite him on the breast," the bishop continued. "and upon that mr. holmes, that is my chaplain, said, 'strike him not, my lord, for he will sure strike again.' 'yes, and by st. peter will i,' quoth doctor taylor. 'the cause is christ's, and i were no good christian if i would not fight in my master's quarrel.' so i laid my curse on him, and struck him not." the king's large, sombre face twisted into a cold sneer. "_perro labrador nunca buen mordedor_--a barking dog is never a good fighter," he said. "i shall watch this clerk-convict to-morrow. methinks he will not be so lusty at his burning." the bishop looked up quickly with surprise in his face. "my lord," the queen said to him, "his majesty, as is both just and right, desireth to see this blasphemer's end, and will report to me on the matter. mr. commendone, come here." johnnie advanced to the table. "you will go to sir john shelton," the queen went on, "and learn from him all that hath been arranged for the burning of this heretic. the king will ride with the party and you in close attendance upon his majesty. only you and sir john will know who the king is, and your life depends upon his safety. i am weary of this business. my heart grieves for holy church while these wolves are not let from their wickedness. go now, mr. commendone, upon your errand, and report to father deza this afternoon." she held out her hand. john knelt on one knee and kissed it. as he left the closet the rain was still lashing the window-panes, and the candles burnt yellow in the gloom. by a sudden flash of lightning he saw the four faces looking down at the death warrant. there was a slight smile on all of them, and the expressions were very intent. the great white crucifix upon the panelling gleamed like a ghost. chapter ii the house of shame; the ladder of glory it was ten o'clock in the evening. the thunderstorm of the morning had long since passed away. the night was cool and still. there was no moon, but the sky above london was powdered with stars. the palace of the tower was ablaze with lights. the king and queen had supped in state at eight, and now a masque was in progress, held in the glorious hall which henry iii painted with the story of antiochus. the sweet music shivered out into the night as john commendone came into the garden among the sleeping flowers. "and the harp and the viol, the tabret and pipe, and wine are in their feasts." commendone had never read the bible, but the words of the prophet would have well expressed his mood had he but known them. for he was melancholy and ill at ease. the exaltation of the morning had quite gone. though he was still pleasantly conscious that he was in a fair way to great good fortune, some of the savour was lost. he could not forget the lurid scene in the closet--the four faces haunted him still. and he knew also that a strange and probably terrible experience waited him during the next few hours. "god on the cross," he said to himself, snapping his fingers in perplexity and misease--it was the fashion at court to use the great tudor oaths--"i am come to touch with life--real life at last. and i am not sure that i like it. but 'tis too new as yet. i must be as other men are, i suppose!" as he walked alone in the night, and the cool air played upon his face, he began to realise how placid, how much upon the surface, his life had always been until now. he had come to court perfectly equipped by nature, birth, and training for the work of pageantry, a picturesque part in the retinue of kings. he had fallen into his place quite naturally. it all came easy to him. he had no trace of the "young gentleman from the country" about him--he might have started life as a court page. but the real emotions of life, the under-currents, the hates, loves, and strivings, had all been a closed book. he recognised their existence, but never thought they would or could affect him. he had imagined that he would always be aloof, an interested spectator, untouched, untroubled. and he knew to-night that all this had been but a phantom of his brain. he was to be as other men. life had got hold on him at last, stern and relentless. "to-night," he thought, "i really begin to live. i am quickened to action. some day, anon, i too must make a great decision, one way or the other. the scene is set, they are pulling the traverse from before it, the play begins. "i am a fair white page," he said to himself, "on which nothing is writ, i have ever been that. to-night comes master scrivener. 'i have a mind to write upon thee,' he saith, and needs be that i submit." he sighed. the music came to him, sweet and gracious. the long orange-litten windows of the palace spoke of the splendours within. but he thought of a man--whose name he had never heard until that morning--lying in some dark room, waiting for those who were to come for him, the man whom he would watch burning before the sun had set again. it had been an evening of incomparable splendour. the king and queen had been served with all the panoply of state. the duke of norfolk, the earls of arundel and pembroke, lord paget and lord rochester, had been in close attendance. the duke had held the ewer of water, paget and rochester the bason and napkin. after the ablutions the bishop of london said grace. the queen blazed with jewels. the life of seclusion she had led before her accession had by no means dulled the love of splendour inherent in her family. even the french ambassador, well used to pomp and display, leaves his own astonishment on record. she wore raised cloth of gold, and round her thin throat was a partlet or collar of emeralds. her stomacher was of diamonds, an almost barbaric display of twinkling fire, and over her gold caul was a cap of black velvet sewn with pearls. during the whole of supper it was remarked that her grace was merry. the gay lords and ladies who surrounded her and the king--for all alike, young maids and grey-haired dames of sixty must blaze and sparkle too--nodded and whispered to each other, wondering at this high good-humour. when the server advanced with his white wand, heading the procession of yeomen-servers with the gilt dishes of the second course--he was a fat pottle-bellied man--the queen turned to the duke of norfolk. "_dame!_" she said in french, "here is a prancing pie! _ma mye!_ a capon of high grease! methinks this gentleman hath a very single eye for the larder!" "yes, m'am," the duke answered, "and so would make a better feast for polypheme than e'er the lean odysseus." they went on with their play of words upon the names of the dishes in the menu.... "but say rather a porpoise in armour." "halibut engrailed, madam, hath a face of peculiar whiteness like the under belly of that fish!" "a jowl of sturgeon!" "a florentine of puff paste, m'am." "_habet!_" the queen replied, "i can't better that. could you, lady paget? you are a great jester." lady paget, a stately white-haired dame, bowed to the duke and then to the queen. "his grace is quick in the riposte," she said, "and if your majesty gives him the palm--_qui meruit ferat_! but capon of high grease for my liking." "but you've said nothing, lady paget." "my wit is like my body, m'am, grown old and rheumy. the salad days of it are over. i abdicate in favour of youth." again this adroit lady bowed. the queen flushed up, obviously pleased with the compliment. she looked at the king to see if he had heard or understood it. the king had been talking to the bishop of london, partly in such latin as he could muster, which was not much, but principally with the aid of don diego deza, who stood behind his majesty's chair, and acted as interpreter--the dominican speaking english fluently. during the whole of supper philip had appeared less morose than usual. there was a certain fire of expectancy and complacence in his eye. he had smiled several times; his manner to the queen had been more genial than it was wont to be--a fact which, in the opinion of everybody, duly accounted for her grace's high spirits and merriment. he looked up now as lady paget spoke. "_ensalada!_" he said, having caught one word of lady paget's speech--salad. "yes, give me some salad. it is the one thing"--he hastened to correct himself--"it is one of the things they make better in england than in my country." the queen was in high glee. "his highness grows more fond of our english food," she said; and in a moment or two the comptroller of the household came up to the king's chair, followed by a pensioner bearing a great silver bowl of one of those wonderful salads of the period, which no modern skill of the kitchen seems able to produce to-day--burridge, chicory, bugloss, marigold leaves, rocket, and alexanders, all mixed with eggs, cinnamon, oil, and ginger. johnnie, who was sitting at the esquires' table, with the gentlemen of the body and privy closet, had watched the gay and stately scene till supper was nearly over. the lights, the music, the high air, the festivity, had had no power to lighten the oppression which he felt, and when at length the king and queen rose and withdrew to the great gallery where the masque was presently to begin, he had slipped out alone into the garden. "his golden locks time hath to silver turned." the throbbing music of the old song, the harps' thridding, the lutes shivering out their arpeggio accompaniment, the viols singing together--came to him with rare and plaintive sweetness, but they brought but little balm or assuagement to his dark, excited mood. ten o'clock beat out from the roof of the palace. johnnie left the garden. he was to receive his instruction as to his night's doing from mr. medley, the esquire of sir john shelton, in the common room of the gentlemen of the body. he strode across the square in front of the façade, and turned into the long panelled room where he had breakfasted that morning. it was quite empty now--every one was at the masque--but two silver lamps illuminated it, and shone upon the dark walls of the glittering array of plate upon the beaufet. he had not waited there a minute, however, leaning against the tall carved mantelpiece, a tall and gallant figure in his rich evening dress, when steps were heard coming through the hall, the door swung open, and mr. medley entered. he was a thick-set, bearded man of middle height, more soldier than courtier, with the stamp of the barrack-room and camp upon him; a brisk, quick-spoken man, with compressed lips and an air of swift service. "give you good evening, mr. commendone," he said; "i am come with sir john's orders." johnnie bowed. "at your service," he answered. the soldier looked round the room carefully before speaking. "there is no one here, mr. medley," johnnie said. the other nodded and came close up to the young courtier. "the masque hath been going this half-hour," he said, in a low voice, "but his highness hath withdrawn. her grace is still with the dancers, and in high good-humour. now, i must tell you, mr. commendone, that the queen thinketh his highness in his own wing of the palace, and with don diego and don de castro, his two confessors. she is willing that this should be so, and said 'good night' to his highness after supper, knowing that he will presently set out to the burning of dr. taylor. she knoweth that the party sets out for hadley at two o'clock, and thinketh that his highness is spending the time before then in prayer and a little sleep. i tell you this, mr. commendone, in order that you go not back to the masque before that you set out from the tower to a certain house where his highness will be with sir john shelton. you will take your own servant mounted and armed, and a man-at-arms also will be at the door of your lodging here at ten minutes of midnight. the word at the coal harbour gate is 'christ.' with your two men you will at once ride over london bridge and so to duck lane, scarce a furlong from the other side of the bridge. doubtless you know it"--and here the man's eyes flickered with a half smile for a moment--"but if not, the man-at-arms, one of sir john's men, will show you the way. you will knock at the big house with the red door, and be at once admitted. there will be a light over the door. his highness will be there with sir john, and that is all i have to tell you. afterwards you will know what to do." johnnie bowed. "give you good night," he said. "i understand very well." as soon as the esquire had gone, johnnie turned out of the common room, ascended the stairs, went to his own chamber and threw himself upon the little bed. he had imagined that something like this was likely to occur. the king's habits were perfectly well known to all those about him, and indeed were whispered of in the court at large, queen mary, alone, apparently knowing nothing of the truth as yet. the king's unusual bonhomie at supper could hardly be accounted for, at least so johnnie thought, by the fact that he was to see his own and the queen's bigotry translated into dreadful reality. to the keen young student of faces the king had seemed generally relieved, expectant, with the air of a boy about to be released from school. now, the reason was plain enough. his highness had gone with sir john shelton to some infamous house in a bad quarter of the city, and it was there the equerry was to meet him and ride to the death scene. johnnie tossed impatiently upon his bed. he remembered how on that very morning he had expressed his hopes to sir henry that his duties would not lead him into dubious places. a lot of water had run under the bridges since he kissed his father farewell in the bright morning light. his whole prospects were altered, and advanced. for one thing, he had been present at an intimate and private conference and had received marked and special favour--he shuddered now as he remembered the four intent faces round the table in the privy closet, those sharp faces, with a cruel smirk upon them, those still faces with the orange light playing over them in the dark, tempest-haunted room. "i' faith," he said to himself, "thou art fairly put to sea, johnnie! but i will not feed myself with questioning. i am in the service of princes, and must needs do as i am told. who am i to be squeamish? but hey-ho! i would i were in the park at commendone to-night." about eleven o'clock his servant came to him and helped him to change his dress. he wore long riding-boots of spanish leather, a light corselet of tough steel, inlaid with arabesques of gold, and a big quilted spanish hat. over all he fastened a short riding-cloak of supple leather dyed purple. he primed his pistols and gave them to a man to be put into his holsters, and about a quarter before midnight descended the stairs. he found a man-at-arms with a short pike, already mounted, and his servant leading the other two horses; he walked toward the coal harbour gate, gave the word to the lieutenant of the guard, and left the tower. a light moon was just beginning to rise and throw fantastic shadows over tower hill. it was bright enough to ride by, and johnnie forbade his man to light the horn lantern which was hanging at the fellow's saddle-bow. they went at a foot pace, the horses' feet echoing with an empty, melancholy sound from the old timbered houses back to the great bastion wall of the tower. the man-at-arms led the way. when they came to london bridge, where a single lantern showed the broad oak bar studded with nails, which ran across the roadway, johnnie noticed that upon the other side of it were two halberdiers of the tower guard in their uniforms of black and crimson, talking to the keeper of the gate. as they came up the bar swung open. "mr. commendone?" said the keeper, an elderly man in a leather jerkin. johnnie nodded. "pass through, sir," the man replied, saluting, as did also the two soldiers who were standing there. the little cavalcade went slowly over the bridge between the tall houses on either side, which at certain points almost met with their overhanging eaves. the shutters were up all over the little jewellers' shops. here and there a lamp burned from an upstairs window, and the swish and swirl of the river below could be heard quite distinctly. at the middle of the bridge, just by the well-known armourer's shop of guido ponzio, the italian sword-smith, whose weapons were eagerly purchased by members of the court and the officers both of the tower and whitehall, another halberdier was standing, who again saluted commendone as he rode by. it was quite obvious to johnnie that every precaution had been taken so that the king's excursion into _les coulisses_ might be undisturbed. the pike was swung open for them on the south side of the bridge directly they drew near, and putting their horses to the trot, they cantered over a hundred yards of trodden grass round which houses were standing in the form of a little square, and in a few minutes more turned into duck lane. at this hour of the night the narrow street of heavily-timbered houses was quite dark and silent. it seemed there was not a soul abroad, and this surprised johnnie, who had been led to understand that at midnight "the lane" was frequently the scene of roistering activity. now, however, the houses were all blind and dark, and the three horsemen might have been moving down a street in the city of the dead. only the big honey-coloured moon threw a primrose light upon the topmost gables of the houses on the left side of "the lane"--all the rest being black velvet, sombreness and shadow. john's mouth curved a little in disdain under his small dark moustache, as he noted all this and realised exactly what it meant. when a king set out for furtive pleasures, lesser men of vice must get them to their kennels! lights were out, all manifestation of evil was thickly curtained. the shameless folk of that wicked quarter of the town must have shame imposed upon them for the night. the king was taking his pleasure. john commendone, since his arrival in london, and at the court, had quietly refused to be a member of any of those hot-blooded parties of young men who sallied out from the tower or from whitehall when the reputable world was sleeping. it was not to his taste. he was perfectly capable of tolerating vice in others--looking on it, indeed, as a natural manifestation of human nature and event. but for himself he had preferred aloofness. nevertheless, from the descriptions of his friends, he knew that duck lane to-night was wearing an aspect which it very seldom wore, and as he rode slowly down that blind and sinister thoroughfare with his attendants, he realised with a little cold shudder what it was to be a king. he himself was the servant of a king, one of those whom good fortune and opportunity had promoted to be a minister to those almost super-human beings who could do no wrong, and ruled and swayed all other men by means of their divine right. this was a position he perfectly accepted, had accepted from the first. already he was rising high in the course of life he had started to pursue. he had no thought of questioning the deeds of princes. he knew that it was his duty, his _métier_, in life to be a pawn in the great game. what affected him now, however, as they came up to a big house of free-stone and timber, where a lanthorn of horn hung over a door painted a dull scarlet, was a sense of the enormous and irrevocable power of those who were set on high to rule. no! they were not human, they were not as other men and women are. he had been in the queen's closet that morning, and had seen the death warrant signed. the great convulsion of nature, the furious thunders of god, had only been, as it were, a mere accompaniment to the business of the four people in the queen's lodge. a scratch of a pen--a man to die. and then, during the evening, he had seen, once more, the king and queen, bright, glittering and radiant, surrounded by the highest and noblest of england, serene, unapproachable, the centre of the stupendous pageant of the hour. and now, again, he was come to the stews, to the vile quarter of london, and even here the secret presence of a king closed all doors, and kept the pandars and victims of evil silent in their dens like crouching hares. as they came up to the big, dark house, a little breeze from the river swirled down the lane, and fell fresh upon johnnie's cheek. as it did so, he knew that he was hot and fevered, that the riot of thought within him had risen the temperature of his blood. it was cool and grateful--this little clean breeze of the water, and he longed once more, though only for a single second, that he was home in the stately park of commendone, and had never heard the muffled throb of the great machine of state, of polity, and the going hither and thither of kings and queens. but it only lasted for a moment. he was disciplined, he was under orders. he pulled himself together, banished all wild and speculative thought--sat up in the saddle, gripped the sides of his cob with his knees, and set his left arm akimbo. "this is the house, sir," said the trooper, saluting. "very well," johnnie answered, as his servant dismounted and took his horse by the bridle. johnnie leapt to the ground, pulled his sword-belt into position, settled his hat upon his head, and with his gloved fist beat upon the big red door before him. in ten seconds he heard a step on the other side of the door. it swung open, and a tall, thin person, wearing a scarlet robe and a mask of black velvet over the upper part of the face, bowed low before him, and with a gesture invited him to enter. johnnie turned round. "you will stay here," he said to the men. "be quite silent, and don't stray away a yard from the door." then he followed the tall, thin figure, which closed the door, and flitted down a short passage in front of him with noiseless footsteps. he knew at once that he was in queer street. the nondescript figure in its fantastic robe and mask struck a chill of disgust to his blood. it was a fantastic age, and all aberrations--all deviations--from the normal were constantly accentuated by means of costumes and theatric effect. the superficial observer of the manners of our day is often apt to exclaim upon the decadence of our time. one has heard perfectly sincere and healthy englishmen inveigh with anger upon the literature of the moment, the softness and luxury of life and art, the invasion of sturdy english ideals by the corrupt influences of france. "give me the days of good queen bess, the hearty, healthy, strong tudor life," is the sort of exclamation by no means rare in our time. ... "bluff king hal! drake, raleigh, all that rough, brave, and splendid time! think of shakespeare, my boy!" whether or no our own days are deficient in hardihood and endurance is not a question to be discussed here--though the private records of england's last war might very well provide a complete answer to the query. it is certain, however, that in an age when personal prowess with arms was still a title to fortune, when every gentleman of position and birth knew and practised the use of weapons, the under-currents of life, the hidden sides of social affairs, were at least as "curious" and "decadent" as anything montmartre or the quartier latin have to show. it must be remembered that in the late tudor age almost every one of good family, each gentleman about the court, was not only a trained soldier, but also a highly cultured person as well. the renaissance in italy was in full swing and activity. its culture had crossed the alps, its art was borne upon the wings of its advance to our northern shores. grossness was refined.... johnnie twirled his moustache as he followed the nondescript sexless figure which flitted down the dimly-lit panelled passage before him like some creature from a masque. at the end of the passage there was a door. arrived at it, a long, thin arm, in a sleeve of close-fitting black silk, shot out from the red robe. a thin ivory-coloured hand, with fingers of almost preternatural length, rose to a painted scarlet slit which was the creature's mouth. the masked head dropped a little to one side, one lean finger, shining like a fish-bone, tapped the mouth significantly, the door opened, some heavy curtains of flanders tapestry were pushed aside, and the equerry walked into a place as strange and sickly as he had ever met in some fantastic or disordered dream. johnnie heard the door close softly behind him, the "swish, swish" of the falling curtains. and then he stood up, his eyes blinking a little in the bright light which streamed upon them--his hand upon his sword-hilt--and looked around to find himself. he was in a smallish room, hung around entirely with an arras of scarlet cloth, powdered at regular intervals with a pattern of golden bats. the floor was covered with a heavy carpet of flanders pile--a very rare and luxurious thing in those days--and the whole room was lit by its silver lamps, which hung from the ceiling upon chains. on one side, opposite the door, was a great pile of cushions, going half-way up the wall towards the ceiling--cushions as of strange barbaric colours, violent colours that smote upon the eye and seemed almost to do the brain a violence. in the middle of the room, right in the centre, was a low oak stool, upon which was a silver tray. in the middle of the tray was a miniature chafing-dish, beneath which some volatile amethyst-coloured flame was burning, and from the dish itself a pastille, smouldering and heated, sent up a thin, grey whip of odorous smoke. the whole air of this curious tented room was heavy and languorous with perfume. sickly, and yet with a sensuous allurement, the place seemed to reel round the young man, to disgust one side of him, the real side; and yet, in some low, evil fashion, to beckon to base things in his blood--base thoughts, physical influences which he had never known before, and which now seemed to suddenly wake out of a long sleep, and to whisper in his ears. all this, this surveyal of the place in which he found himself, took but a moment, and he had hardly stood there for three seconds--tall, upright, and debonair, amid the wicked luxury of the room--when he heard a sound to his left, and, turning, saw that he was not alone. behind a little table of italian filigree work, upon which were a pair of tiny velvet slippers, embroidered with burnt silver, a sprunking-glass--or pocket mirror--and a tall-stemmed bottle of wine, sat a vast, pink, fleshy, elderly woman. her face, which was as big as a ham, was painted white and scarlet. her eyebrows were pencilled with deep black, the heavy eyes shared the vacuity of glass, with an evil and steadfast glitter of welcome. there were great pouches underneath the eyes; the nose was hawk-like, the chins pendulous, the lips once, perhaps, well curved and beautiful enough, now full, bloated, and red with horrid invitation. the woman was dressed with extreme richness. fat and powdered fingers were covered with rings. her corsage was jewelled--she was like some dreadful mummy of what youth had been, a sullen caricature of a long-past youth, when she also might have walked in the fields under god's sky, heard bird-music, and seen the dew upon the bracken at dawn. johnnie stirred and blinked at this apparition for a moment; then his natural courtesy and training came to him, and he bowed. as he did so, the fat old woman threw out her jewelled arms, leant back in her chair, stuttering and choking with amusement. "_tiens!_" she said in french, "_monsieur qui arrive!_ why have you never been to see me before, my dear?" johnnie said nothing at all. his head was bent a little forward. he was regarding this old french procuress with grave attention. he knew now at once who she was. he had heard her name handed about the court very often--madame la motte. "you are a little out of my way, madame," johnnie answered. "i come not over thames. you see, i am but newly arrived at the court." he said it perfectly politely, but with a little tiny, half-hidden sneer, which the woman was quick to notice. "ah! monsieur," she said, "you are here on duty. _merci_, that i know very well. those for whom you have come will be down from above stairs very soon, and then you can go about your business. but you will take a glass of wine with me?" "i shall be very glad, madame," johnnie answered, as he watched the fat, trembling hand, with all its winking jewels, pouring vin de burgogne into a glass. he raised it and bowed. the old painted woman raised her glass also, and lifted it to her lips, tossing the wine down with a sudden smack of satisfaction. then, in that strange perfumed room, the two oddly assorted people looked at each other straightly for a moment. neither spoke. at length madame la motte, of the great big house with the red door, heaved herself out of her arm-chair, and waddled round the table. she was short and fat; she put one hand upon the shoulder of the tall, clean young man in his riding suit and light armour. "_mon ami_," she said thickly, "don't come here again." johnnie looked down at the hideous old creature, but with a singular feeling of pity and compassion. "madame," he said, "i don't propose to come again." "thou art limn and debonair, and a very pretty boy, but come not here, because in thy face i see other things for thee. lads of the court come to see me and my girls, proper lads too, but in their faces there is not what i discern in thy face. for them it matters nothing; for thee 'twould be a stain for all thy life. thou knowest well whom i am, monsieur, and canst guess well where i shall go--e'en though his most catholic majesty be above stairs, and will get absolution for all he is pleased to do here. but you--thou wilt be a clean boy. is it not so?" the fat hand trembled upon the young man's arm, the hoarse, sodden voice was full of pleading. "_ma mère_," johnnie answered her in her own language, "have no fear for me. i thank you--but i did not understand...." "boy," she cried, "thou canst not understand. many steps down hellwards have i gone, and in the pit there is knowledge. i knew good as thou knowest it. evil now i know as, please god, thou wilt never know it. but, look you, from my very knowledge of evil, i am given a tongue with which to speak to thee. keep virgin. thou art virgin now; my hand upon thy sword-arm tells me that. keep virgin until the day cometh and bringeth thy lady and thy destined love to thee." there were tears in the young man's eyes as he looked down into the great pendulous painted face, from which now the evil seemed to be wiped away as a cloth wipes away a chalk mark upon a slate. as the last ray of a setting sun sometimes touches to a fugitive glory--a last fugitive glory--some ugly, sordid building of a town, so here he saw something maternal and sweet upon the face of this old brothel-keeper, this woman who had amassed a huge fortune in ministering to the pride of life, the pomp, vanity, and lusts of principalities and powers. he turned half round, and took the woman's left hand in his. "my mother," he said, with an infinitely winning and yet very melancholy gaze, "my mother, i think, indeed, that love will never come to me. i am not made so. may the mother of god shield me from that which is not love, but natheless seemeth to have love's visage when one is hot in wine or stirred to excitement. but thou, thou wert not ever...." she broke in upon him quickly. her great red lips pouted out like a ripe plum. the protruding fishy eyes positively lit up with disdain of herself and of her life. "_mon cher_," she said, "_holà!_ i was a young girl once in lorraine. i had a brother--i will tell you little of that old time--but i have blood." "yes," she continued, throwing back her head, till the great rolls of flesh beneath her chin stretched into tightness, "yes, i have blood. there was a day when i was a child, when the poet jean d'aquis wrote of us- 'quand nous habitions tous ensemble sur nos collines d'autrefois, où l'eau court, où le buisson tremble dans la maison qui touche aux bois.' ... it was." suddenly she left johnnie standing in the middle of the room, and with extraordinary agility for her weight and years, glided round the little table, and sank once more into her seat. the door at the other end of the room opened, and a tall girl, with a white face and thin, wicked mouth, and a glorious coronal of red hair came into the room. "'tis finished," she said, to the mistress of the house. "sir john shelton is far in drink. he----" she stopped suddenly, as she saw johnnie, gave him a keen, questioning glance, and then looked once more towards the fat woman in the chair. madame nodded. "this is his highness's gentleman," she said, "awaiting him. so it's finished?" the girl nodded, beginning to survey johnnie with a cruel, wicked scrutiny, which made him flush with mingled embarrassment and anger. "his highness is coming down, mr. esquire," she said, pushing out a little red tip of tongue from between her lips. "his highness...." the old woman in the chair suddenly leapt up. she ran at the tall, red-haired girl, caught her by the throat, and beat her about the face with her fat, jewelled hands, cursing her in strange french oaths, clutching at her hair, shaking her, swinging her about with a dreadful vulgar ferocity which turned john's blood cold. as he stood there he caught a glimpse, never to be forgotten, of all that underlay this veneer of midnight luxury. he saw vile passions at work, he realised--for the first time truly and completely--in what a hideous place he was. the tall girl, sobbing and bleeding in the face, disappeared behind the arras. the old woman turned to johnnie. her face was almost purple with exertion, her eyes blazed, her hawk-like nose seemed to twitch from side to side, she panted out an apology: "she dared, monsieur, she dared, one of my girls, one of my slaves! hist!" a loud voice was heard from above, feet trampled upon stairs, through the open door which led to the upper parts of the house of ill-fame came sir john shelton, a big, gross, athletic man, obviously far gone in wine. he saw johnnie. "ah, mr. commendone," he said thickly. "here we are, and here are you! god's teeth! i like well to see you. i myself am well gone in wine, though i will sit my horse, as thou wilt see." he lurched up to johnnie and whispered in the young man's ear, with hot, wine-tainted breath. "he's coming down," he whispered. "it's your part to take charge of his highness. he's----" sir john stood upright, swaying a little from the shoulders, as down the stairway, framed in the lintel of the door, came king philip of spain. the king was dressed very much as johnnie himself was dressed; his long, melancholy face was a little flushed--though not with wine. his eyes were bright, his thin lips moved and worked. directly he saw commendone his face lit up with recognition. it seemed suddenly to change. "ah, you are here, mr. commendone," he said in spanish. "i am glad to see you. we have had our amusements, and now we go upon serious business." the alteration in the king's demeanour was instant. temperate, as all spaniards were and are, he was capable at a moment's notice of dismissing what had passed, and changing from _bon viveur_ into a grave potentate in a flash. he came up to johnnie. "now, mr. commendone," he said, in a quiet, decisive voice, "we will get to horse and go upon our business. the _señor don_ here is gone in wine, but he will recover as we ride to hadley. you are in charge. let's begone from this house." the king led the way out of the red room. the old procuress bowed to the ground as he went by, but he took no notice of her. johnnie followed the king, sir john shelton came staggering after, and in a moment or two they were out in the street, where was now gathered a small company of horse, with serving-men holding up torches to illumine the blackness of the night. they mounted and rode away slowly out of duck lane and across london bridge, the noise of their passing echoing between the tall, barred houses. several soldiers rode first, and after them came sir john shelton. commendone rode at the king's left hand, and he noticed that his highness's broad hat was pulled low over his face and a riding cloak muffled the lower part of it. behind them came the other men-at-arms. as soon as they were clear of the bridge the walk changed into a trot, and the cavalcade pushed toward aldgate. not a soul was in the streets until they came to the city gate itself, where there was the usual guard. they passed through and came up to the "woolsack," a large inn which was just outside the wall. in the light of the torches commendone could see that the place was obviously one of considerable importance, and had probably been a gentleman's house in the past. large square windows divided into many lights by mullions and transoms took up the whole of the front. the roofs were ornamental, richly crocketed and finialed, while there was a blazonry of painted heraldry and coats of arms over and around the large central porch. large stacks of tall, slender chimney-shafts, moulded and twisted, rose up into the dark, and were ornamented over their whole surface with diaper patterns and more armorial bearings. the big central door of the "woolsack" stood open, and a ruddy light beamed out from the hall and from the windows upon the ground-floor. as they came up, and sir john shelton stumbled from his horse, holding the king's stirrup for him to dismount, commendone saw that the space in front of the inn, a wide square with a little trodden green in the centre of it, held groups of dark figures standing here and there. halberds rose up against the walls of the houses, showing distinctly in the occasional light from a cresset held by a man-at-arms. sir john shelton strode noisily into a big panelled hall, the king and commendone following him, johnnie realising that, of course, his highness was incognito. the host of the inn, putton, hurried forward, and behind him was one of the sheriffs of london, who held some papers in his hand and greeted sir john shelton with marked civility. the knight pulled himself together, and shook the sheriff by the hand. "is everything prepared," he said, "mr. sheriff?" "we are all quite ready, sir john," the sheriff answered, looking with inquiring eyes at commendone and the tall, muffled figure of the king. "two gentlemen of the court who have been deputed by her grace to see justice done," sir john said. "and now we will to the prisoner." putton stepped forward. "this way, gentlemen," he said. "dr. taylor is with his guards in the large room. he hath taken a little succory pottage and a flagon of ale, and seemeth resigned and ready to set out." with that the host opened a door upon the right-hand side of the hall and ushered the party into a room which was used as the ordinary of the inn, a lofty and spacious place lit with candles. there was a high carved chimney-piece, over which were the arms of the vintners' company, sable and chevron _cetu_, three tuns argent, with the figure of bacchus for a crest. a long table ran down the centre of the place, and at one end of it, seated in a large chair of oak, sat the late archdeacon of exeter. three or four guards stood round in silence. dr. rowland taylor was a huge man, over six feet in height, and more than a little corpulent. his face, which was very pale, was strongly cast, his eyes, under shaggy white brows, bright and humorous; the big, genial mouth, half-hidden by the white moustache and beard, both kindly and strong. he wore a dark gown and a flat velvet cap upon his head, and he rose immediately as the company entered. "we are come for you, dr. taylor," the sheriff said, "and you must immediately to horse." the big man bowed, with quiet self-possession. "'tis very well, master sheriff," he said; "i have been waiting this half-hour agone." "bring him out," said sir john shelton, in a loud, harsh voice. "keep silence, master taylor, or i will find a way to silence thee." john commendone shivered with disgust as the leader of the party spoke. even as he did so he felt a hand upon his arm, and the tall, muffled figure of the king stood close behind him. "tell the knight, señor," the king said rapidly in spanish, "to use the gentleman with more civility. he is to die, as is well fitting a heretic should die, for god's glory and the safety of the realm. but he is of gentle birth. tell sir john shelton." commendone stepped up to sir john. "sir," he said, in a voice which, try as he would, he could not keep from being very disdainful and cold--"sir, his highness bids me to tell you to use dr. taylor with civility, as becomes a man of his birth." the half-drunken captain glared at the cool young courtier for a moment, but he said nothing, and, turning on his heel, clanked out of the room with a rattle of his sword and an aggressive, ruffling manner. dr. taylor, with guards on each side, the sheriff immediately preceding him, walked down the room and out into the hall. commendone and the king came last. johnnie was seized with a sudden revulsion of feeling towards his master. this man, cruel and bigoted as he was, the man whom he had seen with fanaticism and the blood lust blazing in his eye, the man whom he had seen calmly leaving a vile house, was nevertheless a king and a gentleman. the young man could hardly understand or realise the extraordinary combination of qualities in the austere figure by his side of the man who ruled half the known world. again, he felt that sense of awe, almost of fear, in the presence of one so far removed from ordinary men, so swift in his alterations from coarseness to kingliness, from relentless cruelty to cold, sombre decorum. dr. taylor was mounted upon a stout cob, closely surrounded by guards, and with a harsh word of command from sir john, the party set out. the host of the "woolsack" stood at his lighted door, where there was a little group of serving-men and halberdiers, sharply outlined against the red-litten façade of the quaint old building, and then, as they turned a corner, it all flashed away, and they went forward quietly and steadily through a street of tall gabled houses. directly the lights of the inn and the square in front of it were left behind, they saw at once that dawn was about to begin. the houses were grey now, each moment more grey and ghostly, and they were no longer sable and shapeless. the air, too, had a slight stir and chill within it, and each moment of their advance the ghostly light grew stronger, more wan and spectral than ever the dark had been. pursuant to his instructions, commendone kept close to the king, who rode silently with a drooping head, as one lost in thought. in front of them were the backs of the guards in their steel corselets, and in the centre of the group was the massive figure of the man who was riding to his death, a huge, black outline, erect and dignified. john rode with the rest as a man in a dream. his mind and imagination were in a state in which the moving figures around him, the cavalcade of which he himself was a part, seemed but phantoms playing fantastic parts upon the stage of some unreal theatre of dreams. he heard once more the great man-like voice of queen mary, but it seemed very far away, a sinister thing, echoing from a time long past. the music of the dance in the palace tinkled and vibrated through his subconscious brain, and then once more he heard the voice of the evil old woman of the red house, the voice of one in hell, telling him to flee youthful lusts, telling him to wait stainless until love should come to him. love! he smiled unconsciously to himself. love!--why should the thoughts of love come to a heart-whole man riding upon this sad errand of death; through ghostly streets, stark and grey?... he looked up dreamily and saw before him, cutting into a sky which was now big and tremulous with dawn, the tower of st. botolph's church, a faint, misty purple. far away in the east the sky was faintly streaked with pink and orange, the curtain of the dark was shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. the western sky over st. paul's was already aglow with a red, reflected light. the transition was extraordinarily sudden. every instant the aspect of things changed; the whole visible world was being re-created, second by second, not gradually, but with a steady, pressing onrush, in which time seemed merged and forgotten, to be of no account at all, and a thing that was not. johnnie had seen the great copper-coloured moon heave itself out of the sea just like that--the world turning to splendour before his eyes. but it was dawn now, and in the miraculously clear, inspiring light, the countless towers and pinnacles of the city rose with sharp outline into the quiet sky. the breeze from the river rustled and whispered by them like the trailing skirts of unseen presences, and as the cool air in all its purity came over the silent town, the feverishness and sense of unreality in the young man's mind were dissolved and blown away. how silent london was!--the broad street stretched out before them like a ribbon of silver-grey, but the tower of st. botolph's was already solid stone, and no longer mystic purple. and then, for some reason or other, john commendone's heart began to beat furiously. he could not have said why or how. there seemed no reason to account for it, but all his pulses were stirred. a sense of expectancy, which was painful in its intensity, and unlike anything he had ever known before in his life, pervaded all his consciousness. he gripped his horse by the knees, his left hand holding the leather reins, hung with little tassels of vermilion silk, his right hand resting upon the handle of his sword. they came up to the porch of the church, and suddenly the foremost men-at-arms halted, the slight backward movement of their horses sending those who followed backward also. there was a pawing of hooves, a rattle of accoutrements, a sharp order from somewhere in front, and then they were all sitting motionless. the moment had arrived. john commendone saw what he had come to see. from that instant his real life began. all that had gone before, as he saw in after years, had been but a leading up and preparation for this time. standing just outside the porch of the church was a small group of figures, clustering together, white faces, pitiful and forlorn. dr. taylor's wife, suspecting that her husband should that night be carried away, had watched all night in st. botolph's porch, having with her her two children, and a man-servant of their house. the men-at-arms had opened out a little, remaining quite motionless on their horses. sir john shelton, obviously mindful of commendone's warning at the "woolsack," remained silent also, his blotched face grey and scowling in the dawn, though he said no word. the king pulled his hat further over his eyes, and johnnie at his right could see perfectly all that was happening. he heard a voice, a girl's voice. "oh, my dear father! mother! mother! here is my father led away." almost every one who has lived from any depth of being, for whom the world is no grossly material place, but a state which is constantly impinged upon and mingles with the unseen, must be conscious that at one time or other of his life sound has been, perhaps, the most predominant influence in it. now and again, at rare and memorable intervals, the grossness of this tabernacle wherein the soul is encased is pierced by sound. more than all else, sound penetrates deep into the spiritual consciousness, punctuates life, as it were, at rare moments of emotion, gathering up and crystallising a thousand fancies and feelings which seem to have no adequate cause among outward things. johnnie had heard the sound of his mother's voice, as she lay dying--a dry, whispering, husky sound, never to be forgotten, as she said, "johnnie, promise mother to be good; promise me to be good." he had heard the sweet sound of the death mort winded by the huntsman in the park of commendone, as he had run down his first stag--in the voice of the girl who cried out with anguish in the pure morning light, he heard for the third or fourth time, a sound which would always be part of his life. "_o, my dear father! mother! mother! here is my father led away._" she was a tall girl, in a long grey cloak. her hair, growing low upon her forehead, and very thick, was the colour of ripe corn. great eyes of a deep blue, like cut sapphire, shone in the dead white oval of her face. the parted lips were a scarlet eloquence of agony. by her side was a tall, grey-haired dame, trembling exceedingly. one delicate white hand flickered before the elder woman's eyes, all blind with tears and anguish. then the doctor's wife cried, "rowland, rowland, where art thou?" dr. taylor answered, "dear wife, i am here." then she came to him, and he took a younger girl, who had been clinging to her mother's skirts, his little daughter mary, in his arms, dismounting from his horse as he did so, with none to stay him. he, his wife, and the tall girl elizabeth, knelt down and said the lord's prayer. at the sight of it the sheriff wept apace, and so did divers others of the company, and the salt tears ran down johnnie's cheeks and splashed upon his breast-plate. after they had prayed dr. taylor rose up and kissed his wife, and shook her by the hand, and said: "farewell, my dear wife, be of good comfort, for i am quiet in my conscience. god shall stir up a father for my children." after that he kissed his daughter mary and said, "god bless thee and make thee his servant," and kissing elizabeth also he said, "god bless thee. i pray you all stand strong and steadfast unto christ his word, and keep you from idolatry." the tall lady clung to him, weeping bitterly. "god be with thee, dear rowland," she said; "i shall, with god's grace, meet thee anon in heaven." then johnnie saw the serving-man, a broad, thick-set fellow, with a keen, brown face, who had been standing a little apart, come up to dr. taylor. he was holding by the hand a little boy of ten years or so, with wide, astonished eyes, thomas, the doctor's son. when dr. taylor saw them he called them, saying, "come hither, my son thomas." john hull lifted the child, and sat him upon the saddle of the horse by which his father stood, and dr. taylor put off his hat, and said to the members of the party that stood there looking at him: "good people, this is mine own son, begotten of my body in lawful matrimony; and god be blessed for lawful matrimony." johnnie upon his horse was shaking uncontrollably, but at these last words he heard an impatient jingle of accoutrements by his side, and looking, saw that the face of his highness was fierce and angry that an ordained priest should speak thus of wedlock. but this was only for a passing moment; the young man's eyes were fixed upon the great clergyman again in an instant. the priest lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and prayed for his son. he laid his hand upon the child's head and blessed him; and so delivered the child to john hull, whom he took by the hand and said, "farewell, john hull, the faithfullest servant that ever man had." there was a silence, broken only by the sobbing of women and a low murmur of sympathy from the rough men-at-arms. sir john shelton heard it and glanced quickly at the muffled figure of the king. it was a shrewd, penetrating look, and well understood by his highness. this natural emotion of the escort, at such a sad and painful scene, might well prove a leaven which would work in untutored minds. there must be no more sympathy for heretics. sir john gave a harsh order, the guard closed in upon dr. taylor, there was a loud cry from the archdeacon's wife as she fell fainting into the arms of the sturdy servant, and the cavalcade proceeded at a smart pace. john looked round once, and this is what he saw--the tall figure of elizabeth taylor, fixed and rigid, the lovely face set in a stare of horror and unspeakable grief, a star of sorrow as the dawn reddened and day began. and now, as they left london, the progress was more rapid, the stern business upon which they were engaged looming up and becoming more imminent every moment, the big man in the centre of the troop being hurried relentlessly to his end. and so they rode forth to brentwood, where, during a short stay, sir john shelton and his men caused to be made for dr. taylor a close hood, with two holes for his eyes to look out at, and a slit for his mouth to breathe at. this they did that no man in the pleasant country ways, the villages or little towns, should speak to him, nor he to any man. it was a practice that they had used with others, and very wise and politic. "for," says a chronicler of the time, "their own consciences told them that they led innocent lambs to the slaughter. wherefore they feared lest if the people should have heard them speak or have seen them, they might have been more strengthened by their godly exhortations to stand steadfast in god's word, to fly the superstitions and idolatries of the papacy." all the way dr. taylor was joyful and merry, as one that accounted himself going to a most pleasant banquet or bridal. he said many notable things to the sheriff and the yeomen of the guard that conducted him, and often moved them to weep through his much earnest calling upon them to repent and to amend their evil and wicked living. oftentimes, also, he caused them to wonder and rejoice, to see him so constant and steadfast, void of all fear, joyful in heart, and glad to die. at one time during their progress he said: "i will tell you, i have been deceived, and, as i think, i shall deceive a great many. i am, as you see, a man that hath a very great carcase, which i thought would have been buried in hadley churchyard, if i died in my bed, as i well hoped i should have done; but herein i see i was deceived. and there are a great number of worms in hadley churchyard, which should have had a jolly feed upon this carrion, which they have looked for many a day. but now i know we are to be deceived, both i and they; for this carcase must be burnt to ashes; and so shall they lose their bait and feeding, that they looked to have had of it." sir john shelton, who was riding by the side of commendone, and who was now sober enough, the wine of his midnight revels having died from him, turned to johnnie with a significant grin as he heard dr. taylor say this to his guards. shelton was coarse, overbearing, and a blackguard, but he had a keen mind of a sort, and was of gentle birth. "listen to this curtail dog, mr. commendone," he said, with a sneer. "a great loss to the church, i' faith. he talketh like some bully-rook or clown of the streets. and these are the men who in their contumacy and their daring deny the truth of holy church----" he spat upon the ground with disgust. commendone nodded gravely. his insight was keener far than the other's. he saw, in what bishop heber afterwards called "the coarse vigour" of the archdeacon's pleasantry, no foolish irreverence indeed, but the racy english courage and humour of a saintly man, resolved to meet his earthly doom brightly, and to be an example to common men. johnnie was the son of a bluff kentish squire. he knew the english soil, and all the stoic hardy virtues, the racy mannerisms which spring from it. courtier and scholar, a man of exquisite refinement, imbued with no small share of foreign grace and courtliness, there was yet a side of him which was thoroughly english. he saw deeper than the coarse-mouthed captain at his side. the voices of those who had gathered round the porch of st. botolph's without aldgate still rang in his ears. the sheriff and his company, when they heard dr. rowland taylor jesting in this way, were amazed, and looked one at another, marvelling at the man's constant mind, that thus, without any fear, made but a jest at the cruel torment and death now at hand prepared for him. the sun clomb the sky, the woods were green, the birds were all at matins. through many a shady village they passed where the ripening corn rustled in the breeze, the wood smoke went up in blue lines from cottage and manor house, the clink of the forge rang out into the street as the blacksmiths lit their fires, the milkmaids strode out to find the lowing kine in the pastures. it was a brilliant happy morning as they rode along through the green lanes, a very bridal morning indeed. when they were come within two miles of hadley, dr. taylor desired for a while to light off his horse. they let him do it, and the sheriff at his request ordered the hood to be removed from him. the whole troop halted for a minute or two, and the doctor, says the chronicler, "leaped and set a frisk or twain as men commonly do in dancing. 'why, master doctor,' quoth the sheriff, 'how do you now?' he answered, 'well, god be praised, good master sheriff, never better; for now i know i am almost at home. i have not pass two stiles to go over, and i am even at my father's house.' "'but, master sheriff,' said he, 'shall we not go through hadley?' "'yes,' said the sheriff, 'you shall go through hadley.' "'then,' said he, 'o good lord! i thank thee, i shall yet once more ere i die see my flock, whom thou, lord, knowest i have most heartily loved and truly taught. good lord! bless them and keep them steadfast in thy word and truth.'" the streets of hadley were beset on both sides of the way with women and men of the town and the country-side around, who awaited to see dr. taylor. as the troop passed by, now at walking pace, when the people beheld their old friend led to death in this way, their voices were raised in lamentation and there was great weeping. on all sides john commendone heard the broad homely suffolk voices, lifted high in sorrow. "ah, good lord," said one fat farmer's wife to her man, "there goeth our good shepherd from us that so faithfully hath taught us, so fatherly hath cared for us, so godly hath governed us." and again, the landlord of the "three cranes" at hadley, where the troop stopped for a moment to water their horses at the trough before the inn, and the country people surged and crowded round: "o merciful god; what shall we poor scattered lambs do? what shall come of this most wicked world! good lord! strengthen him and comfort him. alack, dear doctor, may the lord help thee!" the great man upon his horse, towering above the yeomen of the guard who surrounded him, lifted his hand. "friends," he said, "and neighbours all, grieve not for me. i have preached to you god's word and truth, and am come this day to seal it with my blood." johnnie would have thought that the people who bore such an obvious love for their rector, and who now numbered several hundreds--sturdy country-men all--would have raised an outcry against the sheriff and his officers. many of them had stout cudgels in their hands, some of them bore forks with which they were going to the fields, but there was very little anger. the people were cowed, that was very plain to see. the power of the law struck fear into them still; the long, unquestioned despotism of henry viii still exercised its sway over simple minds. now and again, as the horses were being watered, a fierce snarl of anger came from the outskirts of the crowd. commendone himself, with his somewhat foreign appearance, and the tall, muffled figure of the king, excited murmurs and insults. "they be spaniards," one fellow cried, "they two be--spaniards from the queen's papist husband. how like you this work, master don?" but that was all. once sir john shelton looked with some apprehension at the king, but the king understood nothing, and though the sturdy country-folk in their numbers might well have overcome the guard, a rescue was obviously not thought of nor was the slightest attempt at it made. all this was quite homely and natural to johnnie. he felt with the people; he had spent his life in the country. down at quiet, retired commendone his father and he were greatly loved by all the farmers and peasants of the estate. his mother--that graceful spanish lady--had endeared herself for many years to the simple folk of kent. old father chilches had said mass in the chapel at commendone for many years without let or hindrance. catholic as the house of commendone had always been, there was nothing bigoted or fanatical in their religion. and now the young man's heart was stirred to its very depths as this homely rustic folk lifted up their voices in sorrow. even then, however, he questioned nothing in his mind of the justice of what was to be done. despite the infinite pity he felt for this good pastor who was to die and his flock who grieved him so, he was yet perfectly loyal in his mind to the power which ordained the execution, part of whose machinery he was. the queen had said so; the monarch could do no wrong. there were reasons of state, reasons of polity, reasons of religion which he himself was not competent to enter into or to discuss, but which he accepted blindly then. and so, as they moved onwards towards aldham common, where the final scene was to be enacted, he moved with the others, one of the ministers of doom. and through all the bright morning air, through the cries and tears of the country-folk, he heard one voice, the voice of a girl, he saw one white and lovely face ever before his eyes. when they came to aldham common there was a great multitude of people gathered there. "what place is this?" dr. taylor asked, with a smile, though he knew very well. "and what meaneth it that so much people are gathered together?" the sheriff, who was a stranger to this part of the country, and who was very agitated and upset, answered him with eager and deprecating civility. "it is aldham common, dr. taylor, the place where you must suffer; and the people are come to look upon you." the good man hardly knew what he was saying. dr. taylor smiled once more. "thanked be god," he said, "i am even at home," and alighted from his horse. sir john shelton, who also dismounted, snatched the hat from the doctor's head, which was shown to be clipped close, like a horse's back in summer time--a degradation which bishop bonner had caused to be performed upon him the night before as a mean and vulgar revenge for the doctor's words to him at the ceremony of his degradation. but when the people saw dr. taylor's reverent and ancient face and his long white beard, they burst into louder weeping than ever, and cried, "god save thee, good dr. taylor! jesus christ strengthen thee, and help thee; the holy ghost comfort thee," and many other suchlike godly wishes. they were now come into the centre of aldham common, where already a posse of men sent by the sheriff of the county were keeping a space clear round a tall post which had been set into the ground, and which was the stake. sir john shelton, who now assumed complete command of the proceedings, gave several loud orders. the people were pressed back with oaths and curses by the yeomen of the escort, and dr. taylor was hurried quickly towards the stake. the long ride from london had not been without a certain quiet and dignity; but from this moment everything that was done was rude, hurried, and violent. the natural brutality of shelton and his men blazed up suddenly. what before had been ineffably sad was now changed to horror, as john commendone sat his horse by the side of the man whose safety he was there to guard, and watched the final scene. dr. taylor, who was standing by the stake and disrobing, wished to speak to the people, but the yeomen of the guard were so busy about him that as soon as he opened his mouth one or another of these fellows thrust a fist or tipstaff into his mouth. they were round him like a pack of dogs, snarling, buffeting him, making him feel indeed the bitterness of death. this was done by sir john shelton's orders, no doubt committed to him from london, for it was obvious that any popular feeling in the martyr's favour must be suppressed as soon as possibly could be done. if dr. taylor had been allowed to speak to the surging crowd that knew and loved him, the well-known voice, the familiar and beloved exhortations might well have aroused a fury against the ministers of the law which they would be powerless to withstand. dr. taylor himself seemed to recognise this, for he sat down upon a stool which was placed near the stake and did not offer to speak again. he looked round while three or four ill-favoured fellows in leather were bringing up bundles of furze and freshly cut faggots to the stake, and as he was obviously not about to address the people, the guard was a little relaxed. he saw pressing on the outskirts of the crowd an old countryman, with a brown wrinkled face. "soyce," he called out cheerily, "i pray thee come and pull off my boots, and take them for thy labour. thou hast long looked for them, now take them." the ancient fellow, who was indeed the sexton of hadley church, came trembling up, and did as the rector asked. then dr. taylor rose up, and put off his clothes unto his shirt, and gave them away. which done, he said with a loud voice, "good people! i have taught you nothing but god's holy word and those lessons that i have taken out of god's blessed book, the holy bible." he had hardly said it when a sergeant of the guard, named homes, gave him a great stroke upon the head with a waster, and said, "is that the keeping of thy promise, thou heretic?" the venerable head, now stained with blood, drooped, and for a moment the vitality and vigour seemed to go from the rector. he saw that it was utterly useless, that there was no hope of him being allowed to address his folk, and so he knelt down and prayed in silence. while he was praying a very old woman, in poor rags, that was standing among the people, ran in and knelt by his side, and prayed with him. homes caught hold of her and tried to drag her from the doctor, but she screamed loudly and clung to the rector's knees. "tread her down with horses; tread her down," said sir john shelton, his face purple with anger. but even the knight's men would not do it, and there was such a deep threatening murmur from the crowd that shelton forbore, and the old woman stayed there and prayed with the doctor. at last he rose, blessing her, and, dressed only in his shirt, big, burly, and very dignified, he went to the stake and kissed it, and set himself into a pitch barrel, which they had put for him to stand in. he stood there so, with his back upright against the stake, with his hands folded together, and his eyes towards heaven, praying continually. four men set up the faggots and piled them round him, and one brought a torch to make the fire. as the furze lit and began to crackle at the bottom of the pile, the man homes, either really mad with religious hatred, or, as is more probable, a brute, only zealous to ingratiate himself with his commander, picked up a billet of wood and cast it most cruelly at the doctor. it lit upon his head and broke his face, so that the blood ran down it. then said dr. taylor, "o friend, i have harm enough; what needed that?" then, with sir john shelton standing close by, and the people round shuddering with horror, the rector began to say the psalm _miserere_ in english. sir john shot out his great red hand and struck the martyr upon the lips with his open palm. "ye knave," he said, "speak latin; i will make thee." at that, john commendone, scarcely knowing what he did, leapt from his horse and caught shelton by the shoulder. with all the strength of his young athletic frame he sent him spinning away from the stake. sir john staggered, recovered himself, and with his face blazing with anger, rushed at the young man. at that the king suddenly wheeled his horse, and interposed between them. "keep you away, sir john," he said in spanish, "that is enough." the knight did not understand the king's words, but the tone and the accent were significant. with a glare of fury at johnnie, he slunk aside to his men. the calm voice of the rector went on reciting the words of the psalm. when it was finished he said the gloria, and as the smoke rolled up around him, and red tongues of flame began to be brightly visible in the sunlight, he held up both his hands, and said, "merciful father of heaven, for jesus christ my saviour's sake, receive my soul into thy hands." so stood he still without either crying or moving, with his hands folded together, until suddenly one of the men-at-arms caught up a halbert and struck him on the head so that the brains fell out, and the corpse sank into the fire. "thus," says the chronicler, "the man of god gave his blessed soul into the hands of his merciful father, and his most dear and certain saviour jesus christ, whom he most entirely loved, faithfully and earnestly preached, obediently followed in living, and constantly glorified in death." chapter iii the meeting with john hull at chelmsford john commendone, sir john shelton, and the king of spain walked up a flight of broad stone steps, which led to the wide-open door of mr. peter lacel's house on the far side of aldham common. it was now about ten o'clock in the morning, or a little after. as soon as the body of the martyr had fallen into the flames, sir john had wheeled round upon his horse, and, attended by his men, had trotted away, breaking through the crowd, who had rushed to the smouldering pyre and were pressing round it. they had gone some three hundred yards on to the common at a quick pace. "i don't like this at all, sire," sir john had muttered to the king. "the people are very turbulent. it will be as well, i think, that we go to the 'crown.' it is that large house on the other side of the common. there we shall find entertainment and refreshment, for i am told it is a good inn by a letter from the sheriff, mr. peter lacel--whom i had looked to see here as was duly arranged." then sir john had stopped suddenly. "he cometh," he cried. "that is mr. lacel with his yeomen," and as the knight spoke johnnie saw a little party upon horseback galloping towards them. foremost of them was a bluff, bearded country gentleman, his face agitated and concerned. "good sir john," said the gentleman as he reined up his horse, "i would not have had this happen for much money. i have mistook the hour, and was upon some county business with two of the justices at my house. is it all over then? hath dr. taylor suffered?" "the runagate is stone dead," shelton replied. "it is all over, and hath passed off as well as may be, though i like not very much the demeanour of the people. but how do you, mr. lacel?" "i do very well, thank you," the sheriff answered, "but i hope much, sir john, that this mischance of mine will not be accounted to me as being any lack of zeal to her grace." shelton waved his hand. "no," he said, "we know you very well, mr. lacel. lack of loyalty will never be put to your charge. but now, doubtless, you will entertain us, for we have ridden since early dawn, and are very tired." mr. lacel's face shone with relief. "come you, sir john," he said, "come you with these gentlemen and your men forthwith to the manor. you must indeed be weary and needing refreshment. but what of yonder?" he pointed in front of him, and sir john turned in his saddle. a few hundred yards away a dense crowd was swaying, and above their heads even now was a column of yellow smoke. "there is no need for you there, mr. lacel," sir john replied. "the sheriff of london and his men are doing all that is needful. i am here with mine, and we shall all be glad to taste your hospitality after this business. this,"--he made a little gesture of the hand towards johnnie--"is mr. commendone, sir henry commendone's son, of kent, attached to the king's person, and here to-day to report of dr. taylor's burning to the queen. this"--here he bowed towards philip--"a spanish nobleman of high degree, who is of his majesty's gentlemen, and who hath ridden with us." "bid ye welcome, gentlemen," said mr. lacel, "and now, an ye will follow me, there is breakfast ready in the manor, and you can forget this nasty work, for i doubt none of you like it better than myself." with that the whole party had trotted onwards towards the sheriff's house. the men-at-arms were met by grooms and servants, and taken round to the buttery. john, shelton, and the king walked up the steps and into a great hall, where a long table was laid for their reception. the king, whose demeanour to his host was haughty and indifferent, spoke no word at all, and sir john shelton was in considerable embarrassment. at all costs, the king's incognito must be preserved. mr. lacel was a catholic gentleman of suffolk, a simple, faithful, unthinking country squire, who, at the same time, had some local influence. it would never do, however, to let the sheriff know that the king himself was under his roof, and yet his highness's demeanour was so reserved and cold, his face so melancholy, frozen, and inscrutable, that shelton was considerably perplexed. it was with a sense of great relief that he remembered the king spoke but little english, and he took mr. lacel aside while serving-men were placing chairs at the table, and whispered that the don was a cold, unlikeable fellow, but high in the royal favour, and must be considered. "not a testoon care i," mr. lacel answered. "i am glad to see ye, sir john, and these court gallants from spain disturb me not at all. now, sit ye down, sit ye down, and fall to." they all sat down at the table. the king took a silver cup of wine, bowed to his host, and sipped. his face was very yellow, his eyes dwindled, and a general air of cold and lassitude pervaded him. suddenly he turned to commendone, who was sitting by his side watching his master with eager and somewhat frightened attention. "señor," he said, in spanish, "señor commendone, i am very far from well. the long ride hath tired me. i would rest. speak to sir john shelton, and ask this worthy _caballero_, who is my host, if i may retire to rest." johnnie spoke at once to mr. lacel, explaining that the spanish nobleman was very fatigued and wished to lie down. the sheriff jumped up at once, profuse in hospitality, and himself led the way, followed by the king and commendone, to an upper chamber. they saw the king lie down upon the bed, and curtains pulled half-way over the mullioned windows of the room, letting only a faint beam of sunlight enter there. "thy friend will be all right now, mr. commendone," said the squire. "these spanish gentlemen are not over-strong, methinks." he laughed roughly, and johnnie heard again, in the voice of this country gentleman, that dislike of spain and of the spanish match, which his own father shared. they went out of the room together, and johnnie shrugged his shoulders--it was absolutely necessary that the identity of the king should not be suspected. "well, well, mr. lacel," he said, linking his arm within his host's, and assuming a friendly country manner--which, of course, came perfectly natural to him, "it is not for you and i to question or to make comment upon those gentlemen from over-seas who are in high favour in london just now. let us to breakfast." in a minute more they were sitting at the table, where sir john shelton was already busy with wine and food. for a few minutes the three men ate in silence. then mr. lacel must have from them every detail of the execution. it was supplied him with great vigour and many oaths by sir john. mr. lacel shook himself. "i am indeed sorry," said he, "that i was not at the execution, because it was my bounden duty to be there. natheless, i am not sorry for myself. to see a rogue or masterless man trussed up is very well, but dr. rowland taylor that was rector here, and hath in times past been a guest at this very table--well, i am glad i did not see the man die. was a pleasant fellow, could wind a horn or throw a falcon with any of the gentry round, had a good lusty voice in a chorus, and learning much beyond the general." "mr. lacel, mr. lacel," sir john shelton said in a loud and rather bullying voice, "surely you have no sympathy nor liking for heretics?" "not i, i' faith," said the old gentleman at the top of the table, striking the thick oak with his fist. "i have been a good catholic ever, and justice must be done. 'twas the man i liked, master shelton, 'twas the man i liked. now we have here as rector a mr. lacy. he is a good catholic priest, and dutiful at all his services. i go to mass three times a week. but father lacy, as a man, is but a sorry scrub. he eateth nothing, and a firkin of ale would last him six months. still, gentlemen, ye cannot live on both sides of a buckler. poor roly taylor was a good, honest man, a sportsman withal, and well loved over the country-side--i am glad i saw not his burning. certainly upon religion he was mad and very ill-advised, and so dies he. i trust his stay in purgation be but short." sir john shelton put down his tankard with a crash. "my friend," he said, "doth not know that his grace of london did curse this heretic? i myself was there and heard it." the ruffian lifted his tankard of wine to his lips, and took a long draught. his face was growing red, his eyes twinkled with half-drunken cunning and suspicion. "aye," he cried, "i heard it--'and by the authority of god the father almighty, and of the blessed virgin mary, of st. peter and paul, and of the holy saints, we excommunicate, we utterly curse and ban, commit and deliver to the devil of hell, ye that have in spite of god and of st. peter, whose church this is, in spite of holy saints, and in spite of our most holy father the pope, god's vicar here on earth, denied the truths of holy church. accursed may ye be, and give body and soul to the devil. we give ye over utterly to the power of the fiend, and thy soul when thou art dead shall lie this night in the pains of hell-fire, as this candle is now quenched and put out.'" as he finished, sir john knocked over a tall glass cruet of french vinegar, and stared with increasing drunkenness at his host. mr. lacel, simple gentleman that he was, was obviously disgusted at his guest. he said very little, however, seeing that the man was somewhat gone in liquor, as johnnie also realised that the stale potations of the night before were wakened by the new drink, and rising up into shelton's brain. "well, well, sir john," mr. lacel replied, "i am no theologian, but i am a good son of the church, and have always been, as you and those at court--those in high places, sir john," he said it with a certain emphasis and spirit--"know very well." the quiet and emphatic voice had its effect. shelton dropped his bullying manner. he was aware, and realised that mr. lacel probably knew also, that he was but a glorified man-at-arms, a led captain, and not at all in the confidence of great people, nor acquainted with private affairs of state. he had been puffed up by his recent association with the king in his vile pleasures, but a clever ruffian enough, he saw now that he had gone too far. he saw also that john commendone was looking at him with a fixed and disdainful expression. he remembered that the young courtier was high in the good graces of the king and queen. "i' faith," he cried, with an entire change of manner--"i' faith, old friend peter, i was but jesting; we all know thou art loyal to church and state, their law. mr. commendone, i ask you, hast seen a more----" johnnie's voice cut into the man's babbling. "sir john," he said, "if i were you i would go upstairs and see how the spanish gentleman doeth." he looked very keenly, and with great meaning, at the knight. sir john pushed his chair from the table. "spine of god," he cried thickly, "and i was near forgetting his highness. i will to him at once." he stumbled away from the table, pulled himself together, and, following mr. lacel's butler, who had just come into the hall, ascended the broad stairway. mr. lacel looked very curiously at johnnie. "sir," he said in a low voice, looking round the hall to see if any servant were within earshot, "that drunkard hath said more than he meant. i am not quite the country fool i seem to be, but least said is soonest mended. i have known sir john shelton for some years--a good man in the chase, a soldier, but a drunken fool withal. i know your name, and i have met your father at the wool exchange in london. we are both of catholic houses, but i think none of us like what is going on now, and like to go on since"--here he dropped his voice almost to a whisper, and glanced upwards to the gallery which ran round the hall--"since her grace had wedded out of the kingdom. but we must say nothing. who that gentleman upstairs is, i do not seek to know, but i tell you this, mr. commendone, that, heretic or none, i go to-morrow morning to father lacy and give him a rose-angel to say masses for the soul of a good dead friend of mine. i shall not tell him who 'tis, and he's too big a fool to ask, but----" the old man's voice caught in his throat. he lifted his cup, and instinctively johnnie did the same. "here's to him," mr. lacel whispered, "and to his dame, a sweet and gracious lady, and to his little lad thomas, and the girl mary; they have oft sat on my knee--for i am an old widower, mr. commendone--when i have told them the tale of the babes in the wood." tears were in the sheriff's eyes, and in the eyes of the young man also, as he raised his cup to his lips and drank the sad and furtive toast. "and here," mr. lacel continued, lifting his cup once more, and leaning forward over the table close to his, "and here's to lizzie, whom dear dr. taylor adopted to be as his own daughter when she was but a little maid of three. here's to elizabeth, the sweetest girl, the most blithe companion, the daintiest, most brave little lady that ever trod the lanes of suffolk----" he had hardly finished speaking, and johnnie's hand was trembling as he lifted the goblet to his lips, when there was a noise in the gallery above, and sir john shelton, pale of face, and followed by the butler, came noisily down the oak stairs. the knight's manner was more than a little excited. "mr. commendone," he said in a quick but conciliatory voice, "his highness--that is to say, the spanish gentleman--is very fatigued, and cannot ride to london to-day." he turned to mr. lacel. "peter," he said, and his voice was now anxious and suave, the voice of a man of affairs, and with something definite to say, "peter, i must claim your hospitality for the night for myself and for my spanish friend. also, i fear, for my men." mr. lacel bowed. "sir john," he said, "my poor house is very gladly at your disposal, and you may command me in all ways." "i thank you," sir john answered, "i thank you very much. you are doing me a service, and perhaps other people a service which----" he broke off shortly, and turned once more to commendone. "mr. commendone," he said, "it is requisite that you will at once to horse with your own servant and one of my men, and ride to london--excuse me, peter, but i have a privy word to say to the esquire." he drew johnnie aside. "you must ride post-haste to the queen," he said, "and tell her that his majesty is very weary or eke unwell. he will lie the night here and come to london with me in the morning, and by the mass, mr. commendone, i don't envy you your commission!" "i will go at once," johnnie answered, looking at his watch. "very good, mr. commendone," sir john answered. "i am not of the privy closet, as you know. you are in communion with her grace, and have been. but if all we of the guard hear is true, then i am sorry for you. natheless, you must do it. tell her grace of the burning--oh, tell her anything that commendeth itself to you, but let her not think that his highness is upon some lover's business. and of duck lane not a word, not a single word, as you value your favour!" "it is very likely, is it not, sir john," commendone answered, "that i should say anything of duck lane?" the sneer in his voice was so pronounced that the big bully writhed uneasily. "surely," he replied, "you are a very pattern and model of discretion. i know it well enough, mr. commendone." johnnie made his adieux to his host. "but what about your horses, sir?" the old gentleman asked. "as i understand it, you ride post-haste to london. your nag will not take you there very fast after your long ride." "i must post, that is all," johnnie answered. "i can get a relay at chelmsford." "nay, mr. commendone, it is not to be thought of," said the squire. "now, look you. i have a plenty horses in my stables. there is a roan mare spoiling for work that will suit you very well. and what servants are you taking?" sir john shelton broke in. "hadst better take thy own servant and two of my men," he said. "you will be riding back upon the way we came, and i doubt me the country folk are too friendly." "that is easy done," said mr. lacel. "i can horse your yeomen also. in four days i ride myself to westminster, where i spend a sennight with my brother, and hope to pay my duties at the court when it moveth to whitehall, as i hear it is about to do. the horses i shall lend you, mr. commendone, can be sent to my brother's, sir frank lacel, of lacel house." "i thank you very much, sir," johnnie answered, "you are very kind." and with that he said farewell, and in a very few minutes was riding over aldham common, on his way back to london. right in the centre of the common there was still a large crowd of people, and he saw a farm cart with two horses standing there. he made a wide detour, however, to get into the main road for hadley, shrinking with a sudden horror, more poignant and more physically sickening than anything he had known before, from the last sordid and grisly details of the martyr's obsequies. ... no! anything would be better than to see this dreadful cleaning up.... the big rawbone mare which he was riding was fresh and playful. johnnie was a consummate horseman, and he was glad of the distraction of keeping the beast under control. she had a hard mouth, and needed all his skill. for four or five miles, followed by his attendants at a distance of two or three hundred yards, he rode at a fast canter, now and then letting the mare stretch her legs upon the turf which bordered the rough country road. after this, when the horse began to settle down to steady work, he went on at a fast trot, but more mechanically, and thought began to be born within him again. until now he had seemed to be walking and moving in a dream. even the horrors he had seen had been hardly real. inexperienced as he was in many aspects of life, he yet knew well that the man with an imagination and sensitive nerves suffers far more in the memory of a dreadful thing than he does at the actual witnessing of it. the very violence of what he had seen done that day had deadened all the nerves, forbidding full sensation--as a man wounded in battle, or with a limb lopped off by sword or shot, is often seen looking with an amazed incredulity at himself, feeling no pain whatever for the moment. it was now that john commendone began to suffer. every detail of dr. taylor's death etched themselves in upon his brain in a succession of pictures which burnt like fire. as this or that detail--in colour, movement, and sound--came back to him so vividly, his heart began to drum, his eyes to fill with tears, or grow dry with horror, the palms of his hands to become wet. he lived the whole thing over again. and once more his present surroundings became dream-like, as he cantered through the lanes, and what was past became hideously, dreadfully real. yet, as the gallant mare bore him swiftly onwards, he realised that the horror and disgust he felt were in reality subservient to something else within him. his whole being seemed quickened, infinitely more alert, ready for action, than it had ever been before. he was like a man who had all his life been looking out upon the world through smoked or tinted glasses--very pleased and delighted with all he saw, unable to realise that there could be anything more true, more vivid. then, suddenly, the glass is removed. the neutral greyness which he has taken for the natural, commendable view of things, changes and falls away. the whole world is seen in an infinity of light and colour undreamed of, unexpected, wonderfully, passionately new. it was thus with johnnie, and the fact for some time was stunning and paralysing. then, as the brain adjusted itself slowly to fresh and marvellous conditions, he began to question himself. what did it mean? what did it mean to him? what lay before? quite suddenly the explanation came, and he knew. it was the face of a tall girl, who stood by st. botolph's tower in the ghostly dawn that had done this thing. it was her voice that had rent aside the veil; it was her eyes of agony which lit up the world so differently. with that knowledge, with the quick hammering of love at a virgin heart, there came also an enormous expectation. till now life had been pleasant and happy. all the excitements of the past seemed but incidents in a long tranquillity. the orchestra had finished the prelude to the play. now the traverse was drawn aside, and action began. as the young man realised this, and the white splendour of the full summer sun was answered by the inexpressible glow within, he realised, physically, that he was galloping madly along the road, pressing his spurs to his horse's flanks, riding with loose rein, the stirrups behind him, crouching forward upon the peaked saddle. he pulled his horse up within two or three hundred yards, though with considerable difficulty, the animal seeming, in some subtle way, to share and be part of that which was rioting within his brain. he pulled her up, however, and she stood trembling and breathing hard, with great clots of white foam covering the rings of the bit. he soothed her, patting the strong veined neck with his hand, bringing it away from the darkening hide covered with sweat. then, when she was a little more at ease, he slipped from the saddle and led her a few paces along the road to where in the hedge a stile was set, upon which he sat himself. he held hold of the rein for a minute until he saw the mare begin to crop the roadside grass quietly enough, when he released her. for a mile or more the road by which he had come stretched white and empty in the sun. there was no trace of his men. he waited there till they could come up to him. he began to talk to himself in slow, measured terms, his own voice sounding strange in his ears, coming to them with a certain comfort. it was as though once more he had regained full command and captaincy of his own soul. there were great things to be done, he was commander of his own legions, and, like a general before a battle, he was issuing measured orders to his staff. "so that it must be; it must be just that; i must find elizabeth"--his subconscious brain heard with a certain surprise and wonder how the slow voice trembled at the word--"i must find elizabeth. and then, when i have found her, i must tell her that she, and she alone, is to be my wife, and my lady ever more. i must sue and woo her, and then she must be my wife. it is that which i have to do. the court is nothing; my service is nothing; it is elizabeth!" the mare raised her head, her mouth full of long sweet grass, and she looked at him with mild, brown eyes. he rose from the stile, put his hand within his doublet, and pulled out a little crucifix of ebony, with a christ of gold nailed to it. he kissed it, and then, singularly heartened and resolute in mind, he mounted again, seeing, as he did so, that his men were coming up behind. he waited till they were near and then trotted off, and in an hour came to the outskirts of chelmsford town. it was now more than two hours after noon, and he halted with his men at the "tun," the principal inn of the place, and adjacent to a brewery of red brick, where the famous chelmsford ale--no less celebrated then than now--was brewed. he rode into the courtyard of the inn, and the ostlers came hurrying up and took his horse away, while he went into the ordinary and sat down before a great round of beef. the landlord, seeing a gentleman of quality, bustled in and carved for him--a pottle-bellied, voluble man, with something eminently kindly and human in his eye. "from the court, sir, i do not doubt?" he said. johnnie nodded. "if i mistake not, you are one of the gentlemen who rode with the sheriff and dr. rowland taylor this morning?" "that was i," johnnie answered, looking keenly at the man. "i would have wagered it was, sir. we saw the party go by early. is the doctor dead, sir?" johnnie nodded once more. "and a very right and proper thing it is," the landlord continued, "that such should die the death." "and why think you that, landlord?" johnnie asked. the landlord scratched his head, looking doubtfully at his guest. "it is not for me to say, sir," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "i am but a tradesman, and have no concern with affairs of state. i am a child in these things, but doubtless what was done was done very well." johnnie pushed away the pewter plate in front of him. "my man," he said, "you can speak freely to me. what think you in truth?" the landlord stared at him for a moment, and then suddenly sat down at the table. "i don't know, sir," he said, "who or what you may be. as thou art from the court, thou art a good catholic doubtless, or wouldst not be there, but you have an honest face, and i will tell you what i think. under king hal i gat me to church, and profited well thereby in that reign, for the abbey being broke up, and the friars dispersed, there was no more free beer for any rogue or masterless man to get from the buttery, aye, and others of this town with property, and well-liked men, who would drink the monks' brew free rather than pay for mine own. so, god bless king henry, i say, who brought much custom to mine inn, being a wise prince. and now, look you, i go to mass, and custom diminisheth not at all. i have had this inn for thirty years, my father before me for fifty; and in this inn, sir, i mean to die. it is nothing to me whether bread and wine are but bread and wine, or whether they be that which all must now believe. i am but a simple man, and let wiser than i decide, keeping always with those who must certainly know better than i. meanwhile i shall sell my beer and bring up my family as an honest man should do--god's death! what is that?" he started from his chair as johnnie did likewise, for even as the man spoke a most horrid and untoward noise filled all the air. both men rushed to the bulging window of leaded glass, which looked out into the high street. there was a huge shouting, a frightful stamp and clatter as of feet and horses' hooves upon the stones, but above all there came a shrill, snarling, neighing noise, ululating with a ferocity that was not human, a vibration of rage, which was like nothing commendone had ever heard before. "jesus! but what is this?" johnnie cried, flinging open the casement, his face suddenly white with fear--so utterly outside all experience was the dreadful screeching, which now seemed a thousand times louder. he peered out into the street and saw people rushing to the doors and windows of all the houses opposite, with faces as white and startled as his own. he looked to the right, for it was from there the pealing horror of sound was coming, but he could see nothing, because less than twenty yards away the high street made a sudden turn at right angles towards the market place. "it is some devil, certes," the landlord panted. "apollyon must have just such a voice. what----" the words died away upon his lips, and in a moment the two men and all the other watchers in the street knew what had happened. with a furious stamping of hooves, round the corner of an old timbered house, leaping from the ground in ungovernable fury, and in that leaping advancing but very slowly, came a huge stallion, black as a coal, its eyes red with malice, its ears laid back over its head, the huge bull-like neck erect, and smeared with foam and blood. commendone had never seen such a monster; indeed, there were but few of them in england at that time--the product of lanarkshire mares crossed with the fierce flanders stallions, only just then introduced into england by that earl of arran who had been a suitor for the hand of the princess elizabeth. the thing seemed hardly horse, but malignant demon rather, and with a cold chill at their hearts the landlord and his guest saw that the stallion gripped a man by one arm and shoulder, a man that was no more a man, but a limp bundle of clothes, and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. the bloody and evil eyes glared round on every side as the great creature heaved itself into the air, the long "feather" of silky hair about its fetlocks waving like the pennons of lances. there was a dreadful sense of _display_. the stallion was consciously and wickedly performing, showing what it could do in its strength of hatred--evil, sentient, malign. it tossed the wretched man up into the air, and flung him lifeless and broken at its fore feet. and then, horror upon horror, it began to pound him, smashing, breaking, and treading out what little life remained, with an action the more dreadful and alarming in that it was one absolutely alien to the usual habits of the horse. it stopped at last, stiffened all over, its long, wicked head stretched out like that of a pointing dog, while its eyes roved round as if in search of a new victim. there was a dead silence in the street. then johnnie saw a short, thick-set man, with a big head and a brown face, come out from the archway opposite, where he had been standing in amazement, into the full street, facing the silent, waiting beast. something stabbed the young man's heart strangely. it was not fear for the man; it was quite distinct from the breathless excitement and sickening wonder of the moment. johnnie had seen this man before. with slow, very slow, but resolute and determined steps, the man drew nearer to the stallion. he was within four yards of it, when it threw up its head and opened its mouth wide, showing the great glistening yellow teeth, the purple lips curling away from them, in a rictus of malignity. from the open mouth, covered with blood and foam, once more came the frightful cry, the mad challenge. even as that happened, the man, who carried a stout stick of ash such as drovers used, leapt at the beast and struck it full and fair upon the muzzle, a blow so swift, and so hefty withal, that the ash-plant snapped in twain and flew up into the air. the next thing happened very swiftly. the man, who had a short cloak upon his arm, threw it over the stallion's head with a sudden movement. there was a white flash in the sunshine, as his short knife left his belt, and with one fierce blow plunged deep into the lower portion of the stallion's neck just above the great roll of fat and muscle which arched down towards the chest. then, with both hands at the handle of the knife, the man pulled it upwards, leaning back as he did so, and putting all his strength into what he did, cutting through the living veins and trachea as a butcher cuts meat. there was a dreadful scream, which changed upon an instant to a cough, a fountain of dark blood, and the monster staggered and fell over upon its side with a crash. a minute afterwards commendone was out in the high street mingling with the excited crowd of townspeople. he touched the sturdy brown-faced man upon the shoulder. "come into the inn," he said. "i have somewhat to say to you, john hull." chapter iv part taken in affairs by the half testoon it was seven o'clock in the evening when john commendone arrived at the tower. he went to the queen's gallery, and found that her majesty had just come back from vespers in st. john's chapel, and was in the privy garden with some of her ladies. mr. ambrose cholmondely was lieutenant of the guard at this hour, and johnnie went to him, explaining that he must see the queen at once. "she won't see any one, commendone," young mr. cholmondely answered. "i really cannot send your name to her grace." "but i must see her grace. it is highly important." cholmondely looked at commendone. "you have ridden far and fast," he said. "you might even be the bearer of despatches, my friend john. but i cannot send in your name to the queen. even if i could, i certainly would not do so when you are like this, in such disorder of dress. you've come from no battle-field with news of victory. if the matter urgeth, as you say, then you have your own remedy. the king consort lies ill in his own lodging; he hath not been seen of any one since supper last night. i don't know where you have been or what you have been doing, and it is no concern of mine, i' faith, but you can very well go to the king's quarters, where, if your business is as you say, one of the dons or spanish priests will speedily arrange an audience for you with her grace." johnnie knew the rigid etiquette of the court very well. technically young mr. cholmondely was within his rights. he had received orders and must obey them. upon the other hand, no one knew better than commendone that this young gallant was a fool, puffed up with the favour of ladies, and who from the first had regarded him as in some sense a rival--was jealous of him. john realised in a moment that no one of the court except the queen and king philip's private gentlemen knew of his highness's absence. it had been put about that he was ill. it would have been an easy thing for johnnie to turn away from the gate of the privy garden, where, in the soft sunset light, mr. cholmondely ruffled it so bravely, and find father diego. but he was in no mood at that moment for compromise. he was perfectly certain of his own right to admission. he knew that the tidings he bore were far more important than any point of etiquette. he was cool and suave enough as a general rule--not at all inclined, or a likely person, to infringe the stately machinery which controlled the lives of monarchs. but now he was in a mood when these things seemed shrunken, smaller than they had ever been before. he himself was animated by a great private purpose, he bore a message from the king himself to the queen; he was in a state of exaltation, and looking at the richly dressed young courtier before him, remembering what a popinjay and lap-dog of ladies he was, he felt a sudden contempt for the man who barred his way. he wouldn't have felt it before, but he was older now. he had bitten in upon life, an extraordinary strength and determination influenced him and ran in his blood. "mr. cholmondely," he said, "nevertheless, i will go to the queen, as i am, and go at once." cholmondely was just inside the gates which led to the privy garden, strolling up and down, while outside the gates were two archers of the queen's guard, and a halberdier of the garrison, who was sitting upon a low stone bench. johnnie had passed the men and was standing within the garden. "you will, mr. commendone?" johnnie took a step forward and brushed the other away with his left arm, contemptuously, as if he had been a serving-man. then he strode onwards. the other's sword was out of his scabbard in a second, and he threw himself on guard, his face livid with passion. johnnie made no motion towards his own sword hilt, but he grasped the other's light rapier with his right hand, twisted it away with a swift muscular motion, broke it upon his knee and flung the pieces into cholmondely's face. "i go to her majesty," he said. "when i have done my business with her, i will see you again, mr. cholmondely, and you can send your friend to my lodging." without a further glance at the lieutenant of the guard he hurried down a broad gravelled path, edged with stocks, asters and dark green borders of box, towards where he knew he would find the queen. cholmondely stood, swaying and reeling for a second. no word escaped him, but from his cheek, cut by the broken sword, came a thin trickle of scarlet. johnnie had turned out of the broad walk and into the terraced rose-garden, which went down to the river--where he saw a group of brightly-dressed ladies, rightly conjecturing that the queen was among them--when he heard running steps behind him. cholmondely had almost caught him up, and a dagger gleamed in his right hand. a loud oath burst from him, and he flung himself upon commendone. at the exact moment that he did so, the ladies had turned, and saw what was going on; and while the two young men wrestled together, cholmondely vainly trying to free his dagger-arm from commendone's vice-like grip, there came a loud, angry voice which both knew well, booming through the pergolas of roses. the instant the great voice struck upon their ears they fell away from each other, arms dropped to their sides, breaths panting, eyes of hate and anger suddenly changed and full of apprehension. there were one or two shrieks and feminine twitters, a rustle of silk skirts, a jangle of long silver chatelaines, and like a bouquet of flowers coming towards them, the queen's ladies hurried over the lawn; her grace's small form was a little in advance of the rest. queen mary came up to them, her thin face suffused with passion. "sirs," she shouted, "what mean you by this? are gentlemen of our court to brawl in our gardens? by the mass, it shall go very hard with you gentlemen. it----" she saw commendone. her voice changed in a second. "mr. commendone! mr. commendone! you here? i had looked to see you hours agone. where is----" she had nearly said it, but a warning flash from the young man's eyes stayed the wild inquiry upon her lips. clever as she was, the queen caught herself up immediately. "what is this, sir?" she said, more softly, and in spanish. johnnie sank on one knee. "i have just come to the tower, m'am," he said, "with news for your majesty. as you see, i am but just from my horse. i sought you post-haste, and were told that you were here. unfortunately, i could not persuade mr. cholmondely of the urgency of my business. he had orders to admit no one, and daring greatly, i pushed past him, and in the execution of his duty he followed me." the queen said nothing for a moment. then she turned upon cholmondely. "and who are you, mr. cholmondely," she said in a cold, hard voice, "to deny the esquire our presence when he comes with special tidings to us?" cholmondely bowed low. "i did but hold to my orders, madam," he said, in a low voice. the queen ground her high-heeled shoe into the gravel. "your sword, mr. cholmondely," she said, "you will hand it to the esquire, and you will go to your lodging to await our pleasure." at that, the lieutenant of the guard gave a loud sob, and his face became purple. the queen looked at him in amazement and then saw that his scabbard was empty. in a moment johnnie had whipped out his own riding-sword and pressed it into mr. cholmondely's hand. "stupid!" he said, "here thou art. now give it me in order." the queen had taken it all in immediately. the daughter of a king to whom the forms and etiquette of chivalry were one of the guiding principles of life, she realised in a moment what had occurred. "boys! boys!" she said, impatiently. "a truce to your quarrels. if mr. commendone robbed you of your sword, mr. cholmondely, he hath very well made amends in giving you his. you were right, mr. cholmondely, in not admitting mr. commendone to our presence, because you knew not the business upon which he came. and you were right, mr. commendone, in coming to us as you did at all hazards. art two brave, hot-headed boys. now take each other's hand; let there be no more of this, for"--and her voice became lowing and full of menace again--"if i hear so much as the rattle of thy swords against each other, in future, neither of thee will e'er put hand to pummel again." the two young men touched each other's hand--both of them, to tell the truth, excessively glad that affairs had turned out in this way. "get you back to your post," the queen said to the lieutenant. "mr. commendone, come here." she turned swiftly, passing through her ladies, who all remained a few yards behind. "well, well," she said impatiently, "hath his highness returned? hath he borne the fatigue of the journey well?" most carefully, with studied phrases, furtively watching her face, with the skill and adroitness of an old courtier, johnnie told his story. at any moment he expected an outburst of temper, but it did not come. to his surprise, the queen was now in a quiet and reflective mood. she walked up and down the bowling green with him, her ladies standing apart at one edge of it, nodding and whispering to see this young gallant so favoured, and wondering what his mission might be. the queen asked johnnie minute questions about mr. peter lacel's house. was it well found? would his highness find proper accommodation to lie there? was mr. lacel married, and had he daughters? johnnie assured her grace that mr. lacel was a widower and without children. he could plainly see that the queen had that fierce jealousy of a woman wedded late. not only the torturing of other women, but also the stronger and more pervading dislike of a husband living any life, going through any experiences that she herself did not share. at the same time, he saw also that the queen was doing her very best to overcome such thoughts as these, was endeavouring to assume the matron of common sense and to put the evil thing away from her. then, just as the young man was beginning to feel a little embarrassed at the quick patter of questions, wondering if he would be able to be as adequate as hitherto, remembering guiltily where he had met the king the night before, the queen ceased to speak of her husband. she began to ask him of dr. rowland taylor and his end. he told her some of the details as quietly as he could, trying to soften the horror which even now overwhelmed him in memory. at one question he hesitated for a moment, mistaking its intent, and the queen touched him smartly on the arm. "no, no," she said, "i don't want to hear of the runagate's torment. he suffered rightly, and doubtless his sufferings were great. but tell me not of them. they are not meet for our ears. tell me of what he said, and if grace came to him at last." he was forced to tell her, as he knew others would tell her afterwards, of the sturdy denial of the martyr till the very end. and as he did so, he saw the face, which had been alight with tenderness and anxiety when the king's name was mentioned, gravely judicial and a little disgusted when the actual sufferings of the archdeacon were touched upon, now become hard and cruel, aflame with bigotry. "they shall go," the queen said, rather to herself than to him. "they shall be rooted out; they shall die the death, and so may god's most holy church be maintained." at that, with another and astonishing change of mood, she looked at the young man, looked him up and down, saw his long boots powdered with dust, his dress in disorder, him travel-stained and weary. "you have done well," she said, with a very kindly and eminently human smile. "i would that all the younger gentlemen of our old houses were like you, mr. commendone. his highness trusts you and likes you. i myself have reason to think well of you. you are tired by your long ride. get you to your lodging, and if so you wish it, you shall do as you please to-night, for when his highness returns i will see that he hath no need of you. and take this from your queen." in her hand the queen carried a little volume, bound in nile-green skin, powdered with gold heraldic roses. it was the _tristia et epistolae ex ponto_ of ovid, which she had been reading. johnnie sank upon one knee and took the book from the ivory-white and wrinkled hand. "madam," he said, "i will lose my life rather than this gracious gift." "hey ho!" the queen answered. "tell that to your mistress, mr. commendone, if you have one. still, the book is rare, and when you read of the poet's sorrows at tomi, think sometimes of the giver who--and do not doubt it--hath many sorrows of her own. it is an ill thing to rule we sometimes think, mr. commendone, but god hath put us in our place, and we must not falter." she turned. "lady paget," she called, "i have done with this young spark for the nonce; come you, and help me pick red roses, red roses, for my chamber. the king loveth deep red roses, and i am told that they are the favoured flower of all noble gentlemen and ladies in the dominions of spain." bowing deeply once more, and walking backwards to the edge of the bowling green, johnnie withdrew. he passed through the flower-bordered ways till he came to the gate of the garden. outside the gate this time, on the big gravelled sweep which went in front of the palace, cholmondely was walking up and down, the blood dried upon his cheek, but not washed away. he turned in his sentinel's parade as johnnie came out, and the two young men looked at each other for a moment in silence. "what's it to be?" johnnie said, with a smile--"lincoln's inn fields to-morrow morning? her grace will never know of it." "i was waiting for you, johnnie," the other answered. "no, we'll not fight, unless you wish it. come you to the common room, and the pantler shall boil his kettle and brew us some sack." johnnie thrust his arm into the other's and together they passed away from the garden, better friends at that moment than they had ever been before--friends destined to be friends for two hours before they were to part forever, though during these hours one of them was to do the other a service which would help to alter the whole course of his life. they went into the common room, and the pantler was summoned and ordered to brew them a bowl of sack--simply the hot wine and water, with added spices, which our grandmothers of the present time sipped over their cards, and called negus. commendone sunk down into a big oak chair, his hands stretched out along the arms, his whole body relaxed in utter weariness, his dark face now grown quite white. there were lines about his eyes which had not been there a few hours before. the eyes themselves were dull and glassy, the lips were flaccid. cholmondely looked at him in amazement. "go by, jeronymo!" he said, using a popular tag, or catch-word, of the time, the "what ho, she bumps!" of the period, though there were no music-halls in those days to popularise such gems of phrase. "what ails you, esquire? i was frightened also by her grace, and, i' faith, 'tis a fearful thing to hear the voice of majesty in reproof. but thou camest better out of it than i, though all was well at the end of it for both of us. is it with you still?" johnnie shook his head feebly. "no," he said, lifting a three-handled silver cup of sack to his lips. "'twas not that, though i was sorely angered with you, ambrose; but i have had a long journey into the country, and have returned but half an hour agone. i have seen much--much." he put one hand to his throat, swallowing as he spoke, and then recollecting himself, adding hurriedly, "upon affairs of state." the other gallant sipped his wine. "thou need'st not have troubled to tell me that," he said dryly. "when a gentleman bursts into the privy garden against all order he is doubtless upon business of state. what brought you to this doing i do not know, and i don't ask you, johnnie. all's well that ends well, and i hope we are to be friends." "with all my goodwill," commendone answered. "we should have been friends before." the other nodded. he was a tall, handsome young man, a little florid in face, but of a high and easy bearing. there was, nevertheless, something infinitely more boyish and ingenuous in his appearance than in that of commendone. the latter, perhaps of the same age as his companion, was infinitely more unreadable than the other. he seemed older, not in feature indeed, but in manner and capability. cholmondely was explicit. there was a swagger about him. he was thoroughly typical. johnnie was cool, collected, and aware. "to tell you the truth, commendone," cholmondely said, with a light laugh which rang with perfect sincerity, "to tell you the truth, i have been a little jealous of you since you came to court. thou art a newcomer here, and thou hast risen to very high favour; and then, by the mass! thou dost not seem to care about it all. here am i, a squire of dames, who pursue the pleasures of venus with great ardour and not ever with success. but as for thee, john commendone of kent, i' faith, the women are quarrelling for thee! eyes grow bright when thou comest into the dance. a week agone, at the barrier fight in the great hall, cicily thwaites, that i had marked out for myself to be her knight, was looking at thee with the eyes of a duck in a tempest of thunder. so that is that, johnnie. 'tis why i have not liked thee much. but we're friends now, and see here----" he stepped up to the young man in the chair and clapped his hand upon his shoulder. "see here," he went on in a deeper voice, "thou hast well purged the dregs and leaven of my dislike. thou gav'st me thy sword when hadst disarmed me, and i stood before her grace shamed. i don't forget that. i will never forget it. there will never be any savour or smell of malice between thou and me." the wine had roused the blood in commendone's tired veins. he was more himself now. the terrible fatigue and nerve tension of the past few hours was giving place to a sense of physical well-being. he looked at the handsome young fellow before him standing up so taut and trim, with the sunlight pouring in upon his face from one of the long open windows, his head thrown slightly back, his lips a little parted, bright with the health of youth, and felt glad that ambrose cholmondely was to be his friend. and he would want friends now, for some reason or other--why he could not divine--he had a curious sense that friends would be valuable to him now. he felt immeasurably older than the other, immeasurably older than he had ever felt before. there was something big and stern coming into his life. the diplomatic, the cautious, trained side of him knew that it must hold out hands to meet all those that were proffered in the name of friend. cholmondely sat down upon the table, swinging his legs backwards and forwards, and stroking the smooth pointed yellow beard which lay upon his ruff, with one long hand covered with rings. "and how like you, johnnie," he said, "your attendance upon his majesty? from what we of the queen's household hear, the garden of that service is not all lavender. nay, nor ale and skittles neither." johnnie shrugged his shoulders, his face quite expressionless. in a similar circumstance, ambrose cholmondely would have gleefully entered into a gossip and discussion, but commendone was wiser than that, older than his years. he knew the value of silence, the virtue of a still tongue. "sith you ask me, ambrose," he answered, sipping his wine quietly, "i find the service good enough." the other grinned with boyish malice. there was a certain rivalry between those english gentlemen who had been attached to king philip and those who were of the queen's suite. her majesty was far more inclined to show favour to those whom she had put about her husband than to the members of her own _entourage_. they were picked men, and the gay young english sparks resented undue and too rapid promotion and favour shown to men of their own standing, while, catholics as most of them were, there was yet an innate political distrust instilled into them by their fathers and relations of this spanish match. and many courtiers thought that, despite all the safe-guards embodied in the marriage contract, the marriage might yet mean a foreign dominion over the realm--so fond and anxious was the queen. "each man to his taste," cholmondely said. "i don't know precisely what your duties are, johnnie, but for your own sake i well hope they don't bring you much into the companionship of such gentry as sir john shelton, let us say." johnnie could hardly repress a start, though it passed unnoticed by his friend. "sir john shelton?" he said, wondering if the other knew or suspected anything of the events of the last twenty-four hours. "sir john shelton? it's little enough i have to do with him." "and all the better." johnnie's ears were pricked. he was most anxious to get to know what was behind cholmondely's words. it would be worth a good deal to him to have a thorough understanding of the general court view about the king consort. he affected an elaborate carelessness, even as he did so smiling within himself at the ease by which this boy could be drawn. "why all the better?" he said. "i care not for a bully-rook such as shelton any more than you, but i have nothing to do with him." "then you make no excursions and sallies late o' nights?" commendone's face was an elaborate mask of wonder. "sallies o' nights?" he said. the other young man swung his legs to and fro, and began to chuckle. he caught hold of the edge of the table with both hands, and looked down on johnnie in the chair with an amused smile. "and i had thought you were right in the thick of it," he said. "thy very innocence, johnnie, hath prevented thee from seeing what goes on under thy nose. why, his highness, sir john shelton, and mr. clarence attwood leave the tower night after night and hie them to old mother motte's in duck lane whenever the queen hath the vapours and thinketh her lord is in bed, or at his prayers. phew!"--he made a gesture of disgust. "it stinketh all over the court. i see, commendone, now why thou knowest nothing of this. the king chooseth for his night-bird friends ruffians like shelton and attwood. he would not dare ask one that is a gentleman to wallow in brothels with him. but be assured, i speak entirely the truth." johnnie shrugged his shoulders once more. "i know nothing of it," he said, with a quick, side-long glance at ambrose cholmondely. "i am not asked to be esquire on such occasions, at any rate." "and wouldst not go if thou wert," cholmondely said, loudly. "nor would any other gentleman that i know of--only the very scum and vermin of the court. the game of love, look you, is very well. i am no purist, but i hunt after my own kind, and so should we all do. i don't bemire myself in the stews. well, there it is. and now, much refreshed by this good wine, and much heartened by our compact, i'll leave thee. i must get back to guard at the garden gate. her grace will be leaving anon to dress for supper. perchance to-night the king will be well enough to make appearance. while thou hast been away, he hath been close in his quarters and very sick. the spanish priests have been buzzing round him like autumn wasps. and thorne, the chirurgeon from wood street, a very skilful man, hath, they say, been summoned this morning to the palace. addio!" with a bright smile and a wave of his hand, he flung out of the room. johnnie finished the lukewarm sack in his goblet. he had learnt something that he wished to know, and as he saw his friend pass beyond the windows outside, his feet crunching the gravel and humming a little song, johnnie smiled bitterly to himself. he knew rather more about king philip's illness than most people in england at that moment. and as for duck lane--well! he knew something of that also. as the thought came to him, indeed, he shuddered. he remembered the great ham-like face of the procuress who kept this fashionable hell. he heard her voice speaking to him as, very surely, she spoke to but few people who visited her there. he thought of ambrose cholmondely's fastidiousness, and he smiled again as he wondered what the esquire would say if he only knew. it was not a merry smile. there was no humour in it. it was bitter, cynical, and fraught with something of fear and expectation. he had drunk the wine, and it had reanimated him physically; but he rose now and realised how weary he was in mind, and also--for he was always most scrupulous and careful about his dress--how stained and travel-worn in appearance. he walked out of the common room, his riding sword and spurs clanking as he did so, mounted the stairway of the hall and entered the long corridor which led to his own room. he had nearly got to his doorway when he heard, coming from a little way beyond it, a low, musical, humming voice. he remembered with a start that there was an interview before him which would mean much one way or the other to his private desires. during the interview with the queen and the squabble with ambrose cholmondely--as also afterwards, when he was drinking in the common room--he had lost mental sight and grip of his own private wishes and affairs. now they all came back to him in a flash as he heard the humming voice coming from the end of the corridor- "bartl'my fair! bartl'my fair! swanked i and drank i when i was there; boiled and roast goose and baiting of bear, who plays with cudgels at bartl'my fair?" he turned into his own room and looked round. he saw that some of his accoutrements had been taken away. there were vacant pegs upon the walls. he sat down upon the small low bed, bent forward, clasped his hands upon his knees, and wondered whether he should speak or not. he wondered very greatly whether he dare make a query, start an investigation, nearer to his heart than anything else in the world. at chelmsford he had run out of the tun inn and touched the burly man who had killed the maddened stallion on the shoulder. he had brought him into the ordinary, sat him down in a chair, put a great stoup of ale before him, and then begun to talk to him. "i know who you are," he said, "very well, because i was one of the gentlemen riding from town to hadley with your late master, dr. taylor. i saw you when his reverence was wishing good-bye outside st. botolph, his church, and i heard the words your master said--eke that you were the 'faithfullest servant that ever a man had.' what do you here now, john hull?" the man had drunk his great stoup of ale very calmly. the daring deed in which he had been engaged had seemed to affect his nerves in no way at all. he was shortish, thick-set, with a broad chest measurement, and a huge thickness between chest and back. his face was tanned to the colour of an old saddle, very keen and alert, and he was clean-shaved, a rather odd and distinguishing feature in a serving-man of that time. he told johnnie that, now he knew, he recognised him as one of the company who rode with dr. taylor to his death. he had followed the cavalcade almost immediately, and on foot. the way was long, and he had arrived at chelmsford faint and weary with very little money in his pouch, and been compelled to wait there a time for rest and food. his design was to proceed to hadley, where he knew he could get work and would be welcome. mr. peter lacel, he told johnnie in the inn, would doubtless employ him, for though a catholic gentleman, he had been a friend of the rector's in the past. "you want work, then?" johnnie had said. "you do not wish to be a masterless man, a hedge-dodger, poacher, or a rogue?" "work i must have, sir," john hull replied, "but it must be with a good master. mr. peter lacel will take me on. masterless, i should be a very great rogue." all this happened in the dining-room of the chelmsford inn, johnnie sitting in his chair and looking at the thick, brown-faced man with a cool scrutiny which well disguised the throbbing excitement he felt at seeing him--at meeting him in this strange, and surely pre-ordained fashion. "i'll tell thee who i am," johnnie had said to the man, naming himself and his state. "that the doctor spoke of you as he did when going to his death is enough recommendation to me of your fidelity. i need a servant myself, but i would ask you this, john hull: you are, doubtless, of a certain party. if i took you to my service, how would you square with who and what i am? a led man of mine must be loyal." hull had answered but very little. "ye can but try me, sir," he said, "but i will come with you to london very joyfully. and i well think----" he stopped, mumbled something, and stood there, his hands stained with the blood of the horse he had killed, rather clumsy, very much tongue-tied, but with something faithful and even hungry in his eyes. johnnie's own servant was a man called thumb, a dissolute london fellow, who had been with him for a month, and who had performed his duties in a very perfunctory way. life had been so quick and vivid, so full of movement and the newness of court life, that the groom of the body had hardly had time to remember the personal discomfort he endured from the fellow who had been recommended to him by one of the lieutenants of the queen's archers. he had always meant to get rid of him at the first opportunity. now the opportunity presented itself, though it was not for mere convenience that commendone had engaged his new servitor. he had not the slightest doubt in his own mind that the man was sent to him--put in his way--by the power which ruled and controlled the fortunes of men. living as he did, and had done for many years, in a quiet, fastidious, but very real dream and communion with things that the hand or body do not touch and see, he had always known within himself that the goings-in and goings-out of those who believe depend not at all upon chance. like all men of that day, commendone was deeply religious. his religion had not made him bigoted, though he clung to the church in which he had been brought up. but, nevertheless, it was very real to him. there were good and bad angels in those days, who fought for the souls of men. the powers of good and evil were invoked.... the esquire was certain that this sturdy john hull had come into his life with a set purpose. he was riding back to london with one fixed idea in his mind. one word rang and chimed in his brain--the word was "elizabeth!" he had left chelmsford with john hull definitely enrolled as his servant, had hired a horse for him from the landlord of the "tun," and had taken him straight to the tower. when he had entered within the walls, he had told his man thumb that he would dismiss him on the morrow, and pay him his wages due. he had told him, moreover, that--just as he was hurrying to the privy garden with news for the queen--he must take john hull to his quarters and put him into the way of service. for a moment, thumb had been inclined to be insolent, but one single look from the dark, cool eyes, one hinted flash of anger upon the oval olive-coloured face, had sent the londoner humbly to what he had to do; while the fellow looked, not without a certain apprehension, at the thick-set quiet man who followed him to be shown his new duties.... "the spanish don came over seas, hey ho nonino; a gracious lady tried to please, hey ho nonny. the country fellows strung their bows, hey ho nonino; what 'twill be, no jack man knows! hey ho nonny." johnnie jumped up from his bed, strode out of the room, walked a yard or two down the corridor, and entered another and larger room, which he shared with three other members of the suite. it was the place where they kept their armour, their riding-boots, and some of their swords. as he came in he saw that hull was sitting upon an overturned barrel, which had held quarels for cross-bows. the man had tied a piece of sacking round his waist and over his breeches, and was hard at work. johnnie's three or four damascened daggers were rubbed bright with hog's lard and sand. his extra set of holster pistols gleamed fresh and new--the rust had been all removed from flint-locks and hammers; while the stocks shone with porpoise oil. and now the new servant was polishing a high-peaked spanish saddle, and all the leather trappings of a charger, with an inside crust of barley bread and a piece of apple rind. directly the man saw his new master he stood up and made a saluting motion with his hand. johnnie looked at him coldly, though inwardly he felt an extreme pleasure at the sight of his new recruit so lately added to him, so swift to get to work, and withal so blithe about it. "you must not sing the songs i have heard you singing," he said, shortly. "don't you know where you are?" "i had forgotten, sir," the man replied. "i have a plaguey knowledge of rhymes. they do run in my head, and must out." "they must not, i assure you," johnnie answered, "but i like this well enough. hast got thee to work at once, then." "i love it, sir. to handle such stuff as yours is rare for a man like me. look you here, sir"--he lifted up a small dagger which he withdrew from its sheath of stag's leather, dyed vermilion--"hear how it ringeth!" he twanged the supple blade with his forefinger, and the little shivering noise rang out into the room. the man's keen, brown face was lit up with simple enjoyment. "i love weapons, master," he said, as if in apology. johnnie knew at once that here was the man he had been looking for for weeks. the man who cared, the faithful man; but he knew also, or thought he knew, that it was but poor policy to praise a servant unduly. "well, well," he said, "you can get on with your work. to-morrow morning, i will see you fitted out as becometh my body servant. to-night you will go below with the other men. i have spoken to the intendant that i have a new servant, and you will have your evening-meat and a place to lie in." he turned to go. with all his soul he was longing to ask this man certain questions. he believed that he had been sent to him to tell him of the whereabouts of the girl to whom, so strangely, at such a dreadful hour, he had vowed his life. but the long control over temperament and emotion which old father chilches had imposed upon him--the very qualities which made him, already, a successful courtier--stood him in good stead now. the dominant desire of his heart was to be repressed. he knew very well, he realised perfectly clearly, how intimate a member of dr. taylor's household this faithful servant--"the faithfullest servant that ever man had"--must have been. and knowing it, he felt sure that the time was not yet come to ask john hull any questions. he must arouse no suspicions within the man's mind. hull had entered his service gladly, and promised to be more than adequate and worthy of any trust that could be reposed in him. but he had seen johnnie riding away with his beloved master, one of those who had taken him to torture and death. the very shrewdness and cleverness imprinted upon the fellow's face were enough to say that he would at once take alarm at any questioning about dr. taylor's family, at this moment. john hull scraped with his foot and made a clumsy bow as his new master turned away. then, suddenly, he seemed to remember something. his face changed in expression. "god forgive me, sir," he said, "indeed, i had near forgot it. when i went into your chamber and took this harness for cleaning, there was a letter lying there for you. i can read, sir; dr. taylor taught me to read somewhat. i took the letter, fearing that it might be overlooked or e'en taken away, for there are a plaguey lot of serving-men in this passage. 'tis here, sir, and i crave you pardon me for forgetting of it till now." he handed johnnie a missive of thick yellow-brown paper--such as was woven from linen rags at arches smithfield factory of that day. the letter was folded four-square and tied round with a cord of green silk, and where the threads intersected at the back was a broad seal of dull red wax, bearing the sign of a lamb in its centre. johnnie pulled off the cord, the wax cracked, and the thick yellow paper rustled as he pulled it open. this was the letter: "honoured sir,--this from my house in chepe. thy honoured father who hath lately left the city hath left with me a sum of money which remaineth here at your charges, and for your disposal thereof as you may think fit. this shall be sent to you upon your letter and signature, to-morrow an you so wish. "natheless, should you come to my house to-night i will hand it into your keeping in gold coin. i will say that sir henry expressed hope that you might care to come to my poor house which has long been the agency for commendone. for your father's son, sir, there will be very open welcome. "your obt. svt., and good friend, robert cressemer, alderman of ye city of london." commendone read the letter through with care. his father had been most generous since johnnie had arrived at court, and the young man was in no need of money. sir henry had, indeed, hinted that further supplies would be sent shortly, and he must have arranged it with the alderman ere he left the city. johnnie sighed. his father had always been good to him. no desire of his had ever been left ungratified. many sons of noblemen at court had neither such a generous allowance nor perfect equipment as he had. he never thought of his father and the old house in kent without a little pang of regret. was it worth it all? were not the silent woods of commendone, with their shy forest creatures, better far than this stately citadel and home of kings? his life had been so tranquil in the past. the happy days had gone by with the regularity of some slow-turning wheel. now all was stress and turmoil. dark and dreadful doings encompassed him. he was afloat upon strange waters, and there was no pilot aboard, nor did he know what port he should make, what unknown coast-line should greet his troubled eyes when dawn should come. these thoughts were but fleeting, as he sat in his bedroom, where he had taken the letter from mr. cressemer. he sent them away with an effort of will. the past life was definitely over; now he must gather himself together and consider the immediate future without vain regrets. as he mounted the stairs from the common room he had it in mind to change from his riding costume and sleep. he needed sleep. he wanted to enter that mysterious country so close to the frontiers of death, to be alone that he might think of elizabeth. he knew now how men dreamed and meditated of their loves, why lovers loved to be alone. he held the letter in his hand, looking down at the firm, clear writing with lack-lustre eyes. what should he do? sleep, lose himself in happy fancies, or go to the house of the alderman? he had no court duties that night. he knew robert cressemer's name well. every one knew it in london, but commendone had heard it mentioned at home for many years. mr. cressemer, who would be the next lord mayor, was one of those merchant princes who, ever since the time of that great commercial genius, henry vii, had become such an important factor in the national life. for many years the alderman, the foundation of whose fortune had been the export of english wool, had been in intimate relations, both of business and friendship, with sir henry commendone. the knight's wool all went to the warehouses in chepe. he had shares in the fleet of trading vessels belonging to cressemer, which supplied the wool-fairs of holland and the netherlands. the childlike and absolutely uneconomic act of edward vi which endeavoured to make all interest illegal, and enacted that "_whoever shall henceforth lend any sum of money for any manner of usury, increase, lucre, gain or interest to be had, received, or hoped for, over and above the sum so lent_," should suffer serious penalties, had been repealed. banking had received a tremendous impetus, robert cressemer had adventured largely in it, and sir henry commendone was a partner with him in more than one enterprise. of all this johnnie knew nothing. he had not the slightest idea how rich his father was, and knew nothing of the fortune that would one day be his. he did know, however, that mr. cressemer was a very important person indeed, the admired and trusted confidant of sir henry, and a man of enormous influence. such a letter, coming from such a man, was hardly to be neglected by a young courtier. johnnie knew how, if one of his colleagues had received it, it would have been shown about in the common room, what rosy visions of fortune and paid bills it would invoke! he read the letter again. there was no need to go to mr. cressemer's house that night if he did not wish to do so. he was weary, he wanted to be alone to taste and savour this new thing within him that was called love. yet something kept urging him to go, nevertheless. he could not quite have said what it was, though again the sense that he stood very much alone and friends were good--especially such a powerful one as this--crossed his mind. and, as an instance of the quite unconscious but very real revolution that had taken place in his thoughts during the last forty hours, it is to be noted that he _did_ feel the need of friends and supporters. yet he was high in favour with the king and queen, envied by every one, certain of rapid advancement. but he no longer thought anything of this. those great ones were on one side of a great _something_ which he would not or could not define. he was on the other, he and the girl with eyes of crushed sapphire and a red mouth of sorrow. it would be politic to go.... "i'll put it to chance," he said to himself at length. "how doth ovid have it?... "'_casus ubique valet; semper tibi pendeat hamus: quo minime credas gurgite, piscis erit_.' i remember father chilches' translation: "'there's always room for chance, so drop thy hook, a fish there'll be when least for it you look.' here goes!" he opened his purse to find a coin with which to settle the matter, and poured out the contents into his palm. there were eight or nine gold sovereigns of henry viii, beautiful coins with "_hiberniæ rex_" among the other titles, which were still known as "double ryals," three gold ducats, coined in that year, with the queen and king consort _vis-à-vis_ and one crown above the heads of both, and one little silver half testoon. he put the gold back in his purse and held out the small coin upon his hand. "what is't to be, little testoon?" he said whimsically, looking at the big m and crown, "bed and thoughts of her, or the worshipful master cressemer and, i don't doubt, a better supper than i'm likely to get in the tower? 'm,' i go." he spun the coin, and it came down with the initial uppermost. he laughed and flung it on to a shelf, calling john hull to help him change his dress. nothing told him that in that spin he had decided--or let it better be said there was decided for him--the whole course of his life. at that actual moment! thus the intrusion of the little testoon. chapter v the finding of elizabeth at a little before nine in the late twilight, commendone left the tower. he was attended by john hull, whom he had armed with the short cutlass-shaped sword which serving-men were allowed to wear. he might be late, and the city was no very safe place in those days for people returning home through the dark. johnnie knew, moreover, that he would be carrying a considerable sum in gold with him, and it was as well to have an attendant. they walked towards chepe, johnnie in front, his man a yard or so behind. it was summer-time, but even in summer london went to bed early, and the prentices were returning home from their cudgel-play and shooting at the butts in finsbury fields. the sky was a faint primrose above the spires of the town. the sun, that tempest of fire, had sunk, but still left long lines in the sky, lines which looked as if they had been drawn by a vermilion pencil; while, here and there, were locks, friths, and islands of gold and purple floating in the sky, billowed and upheaved into an infinity of distant glory. they went through the narrow streets beneath the hundreds of coloured signs which hung from shop and warehouse. at a time when the ordinary porter, prentice, and messenger could hardly read, each place of business must signify and locate itself by a sign. a merchant of those days did not send a letter by hand to a business house, naming it to the messenger. he told the man to go to the sign of the three cranes, the gold pig on a black ground, the tower and dragon in such and such a street. london was not lit on a summer night at this hour. in the winter, up to half-past eight or so the costers' barrows with their torches provided the only illumination. after that all was dark, and in summer there was no artificial light at all when the day had gone. they came up to the cross standing to the east of wood street, which was silhouetted against the last gleams of day in the sky. its hexagonal form of three sculptured tiers, which rose from one another like the divisions of a telescope, cut out a black pattern against the coloured background. the niches with their statues, representing many of the sovereigns of england, were all in grey shadow, but the large gilt cross which surmounted it still caught something of the evening fires. to the east there was the smaller tower of octagonal form, which was the conduit, and here also the top was bathed in light--a figure standing upon a gilded cone and blowing a horn. the gutters in the streets were dry now, for the rain storm of two days ago had not lasted long, and they were sticky and odorous with vegetable and animal filth. the two men walked in the centre of the street, as was wiser in those days, for--as still happens in the narrow quarters of old french towns to-day--garret windows were open, and pails were emptied with but little regard for those who were passing by. when they came into chepe itself, things were a little less congested, for great houses were built there, and johnnie walked more quickly. many of the houses of the merchant princes were but little if at all inferior to the mansions of the nobility at that time. they stood often enough in gloomy and unfrequented courts, and were accessible only by inconvenient passages, but once arrived at, their interiors were of extraordinary comfort and magnificence. johnnie knew that mr. cressemer's house was hereabouts, but was not certain of the precise location. he looked up through the endless succession of saracens' heads, tudor roses, blue bears, and golden lambs, but could see nothing in the growing dark. he turned round and beckoned to john hull. "you know the city?" he said. "very well, master," the man answered, looking at him, so johnnie thought, with a very strange expression. "then, certes, you can tell me the house of master robert cressemer, the alderman," said johnnie. hull gave a sudden, violent start. his eyes, always keen and alert, now grew wide. "sir," he said, "i know that house very well, but what do you there?" johnnie stared at him in amazement for a moment. then the blood mantled in his cheeks. "sirrah," he said, "what mean you by this? what is it to you where i go or what i do?" there was nobody in their immediate vicinity at the moment, and the thick-set serving-man, by a quick movement, placed himself in front of his master, his right hand upon the newly-provided sword, his left playing with the hilt of the long knife which had served him so well at chelmsford. "i said i would be loyal to ye, master," the fellow growled, "but i see now that it cannot be. i will be no servant of those who do burn and slay innocent folk, and shalt not to the alderman's if thou goest with evil intent." an enormous surprise almost robbed the young man of his anger. was this man, this "faithfullest servant," some brigand or robber, or assassin, in disguise? what could it mean? his hand was upon his sword in a moment, it was ready to flash out, and the accomplished fencer who had been trained in every art and trick of sword-play, knew well that the strength of the thick-set man before him would avail nothing. but he waited a moment, really more interested and surprised than angered or alarmed. "i don't want to kill you, my good man," he said, "and so i will give you leave to speak. but by the mass! this is too much; an you don't explain yourself, in the kennel and carrion you lie." "i beg your pardon, sir," hull answered, his face taking into it a note of apology, "but you come from the court; you rode with those bloody villains that did take my dear master that was to his death. are you not now going with a like intent to the house of mr. cressemer?" "i don't know," johnnie answered, "why i should explain to you the reason for my visit to his worship, but despite this gross impudence, i will give you a chance, for i have learnt to know that there is often an explanation behind what seemeth most foul. the alderman is one of the oldest and best friends my father, the knight of kent, hath ever had. the letter thou gavest me two hours agone was from his worship bidding me to supper. and now, john hull, what hast to say before i slit you?" for answer, john hull suddenly fell upon his knees, and held out his hands in supplication. "sir," he said, in a humble voice, "i crave that of your mercy and gentleness you will forgive me, and let this pass. sure, i knew you for a gallant gentleman, and no enemy to my people when first i saw you. i marked you outside st. botolph's church, and knew you again at chelmsford. but i thought you meant harm...." his voice died away in an inarticulate mumble. he seemed enormously sincere and penitent, and dreadfully embarrassed also by some knowledge or thought at the back of his mind, something which he feared, or was unable to disclose. johnnie's heart was beating strangely, though he did not know why. he seemed to tread into something strange and unexpected. life was full of surprises now. all he said was: "make a fool of thyself no longer, john hull; get up and lead me to his worship's. i forgive thee. but mark you, i shall require the truth from you anon." the man scrambled up, made a clumsy bow, and hurried on for a few yards, until a narrow opening between two great stacks of houses disclosed itself. he walked down it, his shoes echoing upon a pavement stone. johnnie followed him, and they came out into a dark courtyard in which a single lantern of glass and iron hung over a massive door studded with nails. "this is his worship's house," said john hull. johnnie went up to the door and beat upon it with the handle of his dagger, standing on the single step before it. in less than half a minute, the door was opened and a serving-man in livery of yellow stood before him. "mr. john commendone," johnnie said, "to see his worship the alderman upon an invitation." the man bowed, opened the door still wider, and invited johnnie into a large flagged hall, lit by three silver lamps. "worshipful sir," he said, "my master told me that perchance you would be a-coming this night, and he awaits you in the parlour." "this is my servant," johnnie said to the man, and even as he did so, he saw a look of immense surprise, mingled with welcome, upon the fellow's face. "i will take him to the kitchen, your worship," the man said, and as he spoke, a footman came out of a door on the opposite side of the hall, bowed low to johnnie, and led him up a broad flight of stairs. commendone shrugged his shoulders. there were mysteries here, it seemed, but so far they were none of his, and at any rate he was within the house of a friend. at first there was no evidence of any particular luxury, and johnnie was surprised. though he had little idea how wealthy his own father had become, the great house of commendone was a very stately, well-found place. he knew, moreover, that mr. robert cressemer was one of the richest citizens of london, and he had heard his friends talking at court of the state and splendour of some of those hidden mansions which clustered in the environs of chepeside, wood street, and basinghall street. he had not gone much farther in his progress when he knew. he passed through a pair of folding doors, inlaid with rare woods--a novelty to him at that time, for he had never travelled in italy or france. he walked down a broad corridor, the walls hung with pictures and the floor tesselated with wood, and was shown by another footman who was standing at a door at the end of the corridor into a superb room, wainscoted with cedar up to half of its height, and above it adorned with battles of gods and giants in fresco. the room was brilliantly lit by candles, at frequent intervals all round the panelled walls, and close to the gilded beading which divided them from the frescoes above, were arms of some black wood or stone, which they were he could not have said, stretched out, and holding silver sconces in which the candles were set. it was as though gigantic moors or nubians had thrown their arms through the wall to hold up the light which illuminated this large and splendid place. at one end of the room was a high carved fire-place, and though it was summer, some logs of green elm smouldered and crackled upon the hearth, though the place was cool enough. seated by the fireside was a stout, short, elderly man, with a pointed grey beard, and heavy black eyebrows from beneath which large, slightly prominent, and very alert eyes looked out. his hair was white, and apparently he was bald, because a skull cap of black velvet covered his head. he wore a ruff and a long surtout of wool dyed crimson, and pointed here and there with braid of dark green and thin lace of gold. a belt of white leather was round his middle, and from it hung a chatelaine of silver by his right side, from which depended a pen case and some ivory tablets. on his left side, johnnie noticed that a short serviceable dagger was worn. his trunk hose were of black, his shoes easy ones of spanish leather with crimson rosettes upon the instep. "mr. john commendone," said the footman. mr. cressemer rose from his seat, his shrewd, capable face lighting up with welcome. "ah," he said, "so thou hast come to see me, mr. commendone. 'tis very good of thee, and a welcome sight to eyes which have looked upon your father so often." he went up to the slim young man as the footman closed the door, and shook him warmly by the hand, looking him in the face meanwhile with a keen wise scrutiny, which made johnnie feel young, inexperienced, a little embarrassed. he felt he was being summed up, judged and weighed, appraised in the most kindly fashion, but by one who did not easily make a mistake in his estimate of men. at court, king philip had regarded him with cold interest, the queen herself with piercing and more lively regard. since his arrival in london, johnnie had been used to scrutinies. but this was different from any other he had known. it was eminently human and kindly first of all, but in the second place it was more searching, more real, than any other he had hitherto undergone. in short, a king or queen looked at a courtier from a certain point of view. would he serve their ends? was he the right man in the right place? had they chosen well? there was nothing of this now. it was all kindliness mingled with a grave curiosity, almost with hope. johnnie, who was much taller than mr. cressemer, could not help smiling a little, as the bearded man looked at him so earnestly, and it was his smile that broke the silence, and made them friends from that very moment. the alderman put his left hand upon johnnie's shoulder. "lad," he said, and his voice was the voice of a leader of men, "lad, i am right glad to see thee in my poor house. art thy father's son, and that is enough for me. come, sit you down t'other side of the fire. come, come." with kindly geniality the merchant bustled his guest to a chair opposite his own, and made him sit. then he stood upon a big hearthrug of bear-skin, rubbed his hands, and chuckled. "when i heard ye announced," he said, "i thought to myself, 'here's another young gallant of the court keen on his money; he hath lost no time in calling for it.' but now i see thee, and know thee for what thou art--for it is my boast, and a true one, that i was never deceived in man yet--i see my apprehensions were quite unfounded." johnnie bowed. for a moment or two he could hardly speak. there was something so homelike, so truly kind, in this welcome that his nerves, terribly unstrung by all he had gone through of late, were almost upon the point of breakdown. this was like home. this was the real thing. this was not the court--and here before him he knew very well was a man not only good and kindly, but resolute and great. "now, i'll tell thee what we'll do, master johnnie, sith thou hast come to me so kindly. we will sip a little water of holland--i'll wager you've tasted nothing like it, for it cometh straight from the english exchange house at antwerp--and then we will to supper, where you will meet my dear sister, mistress catherine cressemer, who hath been the long companion of my widowerhood, and ordereth this my house for me." he turned to where a square sheet of copper hung from a peg upon a cord of twisted purple silk. taking up the massive silver pen case at the end of his chatelaine, he beat upon the gong, and the copper thunder echoed through the big room. a man entered immediately, to whom mr. cressemer gave orders, and then sat himself down upon the other side of the fire. "your father," he said confidentially, "came to me after he left you in the tower the morning before this. he was very pleased with what he saw of you, master johnnie, and what he heard of you also. art going to be a big man in affairs without doubt. i wish i had met ye before. i have been twice to commendone park. once when thou wert a little rosy thing of two year old or less, and the señora--holy mary give her grace!--had thee upon her knee. i was staying with the knight. and then again when father chilches was thy tutor, and thou must have been fourteen year or more. i was at the park for three days. but thou wert away with thy aunt, miss commendone, of wanstone court, and i saw nothing of thee." "so you knew my mother," johnnie said eagerly. "aye, that i did, and a very gracious lady she was, master commendone. i will tell thee of her, and thy house in those days, at supper. my sister will be well pleased to hear it also. meanwhile"--he sipped at the white liqueur which the servant had brought, and motioned johnnie towards his own thin green glass with little golden spirals running through it--"meanwhile, tell me how like you the court life?" johnnie started. they were the exact words of his father. "i am getting on very well," he said in reply. "so i hear, and am well pleased," the alderman answered. "you have everything in your favour--a knowledge of spanish, a pleasant presence, and trained to the usage of good society. but, though you may not think it, i have influence, even at court, though it is in no ways apparent. tell me something of your aims, and your views, and i shall doubtless be able to help your advancement. there are ticklish times coming, be certain of that, and my experience may be of great service to you. her grace, god bless her! is, i fear--i speak to you as man to man, mr. commendone--too keen set and determined upon the papal supremacy for the true welfare of this realm. i am catholic. i have always been catholic. but doctrine, and a purely political dominion from rome, aye, or from spain either, is not what we of the city, and who control the finances of the kingdom much more than less, desire or wish to see. after all, mr. commendone, i trust i make myself clearly understood to you, and that you are of the same temper and mind as your father and myself; after all is loudly set and perchance badly done, we have to look to the upholding of the realm, inside and out, rather than to be fine upon points of doctrine." he leant forward in his seat with great earnestness, clasped his right hand, upon the little finger of which was a great ring, with a cut seal of emerald, and brought it down heavily upon the table by his side. "i believe," he said, "in the mass, and if i were asked to die for my belief, that would i do. i would do it very reluctantly, master john. i would evade the necessity for doing it in every way i knew. but if i were set down in front of judges or eke inquisitors, and asked to say that when the priest hath said the words of consecration, the elements are not the very true body of our lord jesus, then i would die for that belief. and of the invocation of saints, and of the greatest saint of all--our lady--i see no harm in it, but a very right and pleasant practice. for, look you, if these are indeed, as we believe and know clustering around the throne of god, which is the holy trinity, then indeed they must hear our prayers, if we believe truly in the communion of saints; and hearing them, being in high favour in heaven, their troubles past and they glorified, certes, we down here may well think their voices will be heard around the throne. that is true catholic doctrine as i see it. but of the power of the bishop of rome to direct and interfere in the honest internal affairs of a country--well, i snap my fingers at it. and of the power of the priesthood, which is but part of the machinery by which his holiness endeavoureth to accrue to himself all earthly power, at that also i spit. from my standpoint, a priest is an ordained man of god; his function is to say mass, to consecrate the elements, and so to bring god near to us upon the altar. but of your confessions, your pryings into family life, your temporal dominion, i have the deepest mistrust. and also, i think, that the cause of holy church would be much better served if its priests were allowed--for such of them as wished it--to be married men. a man is a man, and god hath given him his natural attributes. i am not really learned, nor am i well read in the history of the world, but i have looked into it enough, master commendone, to know that god hath ordained that men should take women in marriage and rear up children for the glory of the lord and the welfare of the state. mark you"--his face became striated with lines of contempt and dislike--"mark you, this celibacy is to be the thing which will destroy the power of the sacrificing priest in the eyes of all before many hundred years have passed. i shall not see it, thou wilt not see it. we are good church of england men now, but what i say will come to pass, and then god himself only knoweth what anarchs and deniers, what blasphemers and runagates will hold the world. "her grace," he went on, "believeth that as moses ordered blasphemers to be put to death, so she thinketh it the duty of a christian prince to eradicate the cockle from the fold of god's church, to cut out the gangrene that it may not spread to the sounder parts. but her grace is a woman that hath been much sequestered all her life till now. she cometh to the throne, and is but--i trust i speak no treason, mr. commendone--a tool and instrument of the priests from spain, and the man from spain also who is her lord. why! if only the church in this realm could go on as king henry started it--not a new church, mind you, but a church which hath thrown off an unnecessary dominion from italy--if it could go on as under the reign of the little king edward was set out and promised very well, 'twould be truly catholic still, and the priests of the church would be all married men and citizens within the state, with a stake in civil affairs, and so by reason of their spiritual power and civil obligations, the very bulwark of society." johnnie listened intently, nodding now and then as the alderman made a point, and as he himself realised the value of it. "look you, master commendone," his worship continued, "look you, only yesterday a worthy clergyman, whom i knew and loved, a man of his inches, a shrewd and clever gentleman of good birth, was haled from the city down to his own parish and burnt as a heretic. heretic doubtless the good man was. he would be living now if he had not denied the blessed and comforting truth of transubstantiation before that blood-stained wolf, the bishop of london. the man i speak of was a good man, and though he was mistaken on that issue, he would, under kindlier auspices, doubtless have returned to the central truth of our religion. he was married, and had lived in honourable wedlock with his wife for many years. she was a lady from wales, and a sweet woman. but it was his marriage as much as any other thing about him that brought him to his death." the alderman's voice sank into something very like a whisper. "one of my men," he said, "was riding down with the sheriff of london to hadley, where dr. taylor, he of whom i speak, suffered this very morning. at five this afternoon my man was back, and told me how the good doctor died. he died with great constancy, very much, mr. commendone, as one of the old saints that the romans did use so cruelly in the early years of our lord's church. yet, as something of a student of affairs--and dr. taylor is not the first good heretic who hath died rather than recant--i see that the married clergy suffer with the most alacrity. and why? because, as i see it, they are bearing testimony to the validity and sanctity of their marriage. the honour of their wives and children is at stake; the desire of leaving them an unsullied name and a virtuous example, combined with a sense of religious duty. and thus the heart derives strength from the very ties which in other circumstances might well tend to weaken it. "i am in mourning to-night, mourning in my heart, mr. commendone, for a good, mistaken friend who hath suffered death." as his voice fell, the alderman was looking sadly into the red embers of the fire with the music of a deep sadness and regret in his voice. he wasn't an emotional man at all--by nature that is--johnnie saw it at once. but he saw also that his host was very deeply moved. johnnie rose from his chair. "you are telling me no news at all, mr. alderman," he said. "i had orders, and i was one of those who rode with sir john shelton and the sheriff to take dr. taylor to the stake at aldham common." mr. cressemer started violently. "mother of god!" he said, "did you see that done?" johnnie nodded. he could not trust himself to speak. the alderman's cry of horror brought home to him almost for the first time not the terror of what he had seen--that he had realised long ago--but a sense of personal guilt, a disgust with himself that he should have been a participator in such a deed, a spectator, however pitying. he felt unclean. then he said in a low voice: "what i tell you, mr. cressemer, will, i know, remain as a secret between us. i feel i am not betraying any trust in telling _you_. i am, as you know, attached to the person of his majesty, and i have been admitted into great confidence both by him and her grace the queen. the king rode to hadley disguised as a simple cavalier, and i was with him as his attendant." he stopped short, feeling that the explanation was bald and unsufficing. the alderman stepped up to johnnie and put his hand upon his arm. "poor lad, poor lad," he said in tones of deepest pity. "i grieve in that thou hadst to witness such a thing in the following of thy duty." "i had thought," the young man faltered, his assurance deserting him for a moment at the words of this reverend and broad-souled man, "i thought you would think me stained in some wise, mr. cressemer. i...." "whist!" the elder man answered impatiently. "have no such foolish thoughts. am i not a man of affairs? do i not know what discipline means? but this gives me great cause for thought. you have confided in me, mr. commendone, and so likewise will i in you. this morning the doctor's wife, his little son, and little daughter mary, set off for the marches of wales with a party of my men and their baggage. mistress taylor was born a rhyader, of a good family in conway town. her brother liveth there, and all her friends are of wales. it was as well that the dame should leave the city at once, for none knoweth what will be done to the relations of heretics at this time----why, man! thou art white as linen, thy hand shakes. what meaneth it?" johnnie, in truth, was a strange sight as he stood in front of his host. all his composure was gone. his eyes burnt in a white face, his lips were dry and parted, there was an almost terrible inquiry in his whole aspect and manner. "'tis nothing," he managed to say in a hoarse voice, which he hardly knew for his own. "pr'ythee continue, sir." mr. cressemer gave the young man a keen, questioning glance before he went on speaking. then he said: "as i tell you, these members of the good doctor's family are now safely on their way, and god grant them rest and peace in their new life. they will want for nothing. but the doctor's other daughter, mistress elizabeth, was not his own daughter, but was adopted by him when she was but a little child. the girl is a very sweet and good girl, and my sister, mistress catherine, has long loved her. and as this is a childless house, alas! the maid hath come to live with us and she will be as my own daughter, if god wills it." "she is well?" johnnie asked, in a hoarse whisper. the alderman shook his head sadly. "she is the bravest maiden i have ever met," he said. "she hath stuff in her which recalls the ladies of old rome, so calm and steadfast is she. there is in her at this time some divine illumination, mr. commendone, that keepeth her strong and unafraid. ah, but she is sore stricken! she knew some hours agone of the doings at hadley, for as i told you, one of my men brought the news. she hath been in prayer a long time, poor lamb, and now my sister is with her to hearten her and give her such comfort as may be. god's ways are very strange, mr. john. who would have thought now that you should come to this house to-night from that butchery?" he sighed deeply. johnnie made the sign of the cross. "god moveth in a mysterious way," he said, "to perform his wonders. he rides upon the tempest, and eke directs the storm, and leadeth pigmy men and women with a sure hand and a certain purpose." "say not 'pigmy,' mr. john," the alderman answered, "we are not small in his eyes, though it is well that we should be in our own. but you speak with a certain meaning. you grew pale just now. i think you may justly confide in me. i am of thy father's age, and a friend of thy father's. what is it, lad?" speaking with great difficulty, looking downwards at the floor, johnnie told him. he told him how he had met john hull and taken him into his service, how that even now the man was in the kitchen among the servants of the alderman. he told of the fellow's menace in chepe, and how inexplicable it had seemed to him. then he hesitated, and his voice sunk into silence. "ye saw the poor lamb?" mr. cressemer said in a low voice, which nevertheless trembled with excitement. "ye saw her weeping as good dr. taylor was borne away? ye took this good varlet hull into thy service? and now thou art in my house. it seemeth indeed that god's finger is writing in the book of thy life; but i must hear more from thee, mr. commendone. tell me, if thou wilt, what it may mean." johnnie straightened himself. he put his hand upon the pummel of his sword. he looked his host full in the eyes. "it means this, sir," he said, in a quiet and resolute voice. "all my life i have kept myself from those pleasures and peccadilloes that young gentlemen of my station are wont to use. i have never looked upon a maiden with eyes of love--or worse. before god his throne, our lady the blessed virgin, and all the crowned saints i say it. but yester morn, when i saw her weeping in the grey, my heart went out from me, and is no more mine. i vowed then that by god's grace i would be her knight and lover for ever and a day. my employment hath not to-day given me the opportunity to go to mass, but i have promised myself to-morrow morn that in the chapel of st. john i will vow myself to her with all fealty, and indeed nor man, nor power, nor obstacle of any sort shall keep me from her, if god allows. wife she shall be to me, and so i can make her love me. all this i swear to you, by my honour"--here he pulled his sword from the scabbard and reverently kissed the hilt--"and to the blessed trinity." and now he pulled his crucifix from his doublet, and kissed it. then he turned away from the alderman, took a few steps to the fire-place, and leant against the carving, his head bowed upon his arms. there was a dead silence in the big room. tears were gathering in the eyes of the grave elderly man, while his mind worked furiously. he saw in all this the direct hand of providence working towards a definite and certain end. he had loved the slim and gracious lad directly he saw him. his heart had gone out to one so gallant and one so debonair, the son of his old and trusted friend. he had long loved the rector of hadley's sweet daughter, who was so idolised also by mistress catherine cressemer, his sister. during the reign of edward vi the girl had often come up to london to spend some months with her wealthy and influential friends. she had a great part in the heart of the childless widower. now this strange and wonderful thing had happened. these thoughts passed through the old man's mind in a few seconds, while the silence was not broken. then, as he was about to turn and speak to johnnie, the door of the room opened quickly, and a short, elderly woman hurried in. she was very simply dressed in grey woollen stuff, though the bodice and skirt were edged with costly fur. the white lace of bruges upon her head framed a face of great sweetness, and now it was alive with excitement. she was a little woman, fifty years of age, with a flat wrinkled face; but her eyes were full of kindness, and, indeed, so was her whole face, although her lips were drawn in by the loss of her front teeth, and this gave her a rather witch-like mouth. "robert! robert!" she said in a high, excited voice. "john hull, that was servant to our dear doctor, is in this house. the men have him in the kitchen--word has just been sent up to me. what shall we do? dear lizzie--she is more tranquil now, and bearing her cross very bravely--dear lizzie had thought not to see him again. will it be well that we should have him up? think you the child can bear seeing him?" the lady had piped this out in a rush of excited words. then suddenly she saw johnnie, who had turned round and stood by the fire, bowing. his face was drawn and white, and he was trembling. "catherine," mr. cressemer said, "strange things are happening to-night, of which i must speak with you anon. but this is mr. john commendone, son of our dear knight of kent, who hath come to see me, and who haply or by design of god was forced to witness the death of dr. rowland this morning." johnnie made a low bow, the little lady a lower curtsey. then, heedless of all etiquette, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, she trotted up to the young man and caught hold of both his hands, looking up at him with the saddest, kindest face he had ever seen. "oh, boy, boy," she said, "thou hast come at the right time. we know with what constancy the doctor died, but our lamb will be well content to hear of it from kindly lips, for she is very strong and stedfast, the pretty dear! and thou hast a good face, and surely art a true son of thy father, sir henry of commendone." chapter vi a king and a victim. two grim men there was a "red mass," a votive mass of the holy ghost, sung on the next morning in the tower. the king and queen, with all the court, were present. johnnie knelt with the gentlemen attached to the persons of the king and queen, the gentlemen ushers behind them, and then the military officers of the guard. the _veni creator spiritus_ was intoned by the chancellor, and the music of the mass was that of dom giovanni palestrina, director of sacred music at the vatican at that time. the music, which by its dignity and beauty had alone prevented the council of trent from prohibiting polyphonic music at the mass, had a marvellous appeal to the esquire. it was founded upon a _canto fermo_, a melody of an ancient plain song of the middle ages, and used in high mass from a very remote period. the six movements of the kyrie, gloria, credo, sanctus, benedictus, and agnus dei were of a superlative technical excellence. the trained ear, the musical mind, were alike enthralled by them. tinel, waddington, and christopher tye had written no music then, and the mellow angelic harmonies of messer palestrina were all new and fresh in their inspiration of dignity, grandeur, and devotion, most precious incense, as it were, about the feet of the lord. the bishop of london was celebrant, and father deza deacon. the queen and king received in the one kind, while two of the re-established carthusians from sheen, and two brigittine monks from sion, held a white cloth before their graces. this was not liked by many there--it had always been the privilege of peers. but of this commendone knew nothing. the hour was for him one of the deepest devotion and solemnity. he had not slept all the night long. for a few moments he had seen elizabeth, had spoken with her, had held her by the hand. his life was utterly and absolutely changed. his mind, excited with want of sleep, irrevocably stamped and impressed by the occupation of the last two days, was caught up by the exquisite music into a passionate surrender of self as he vowed his life to god and his lady. earth and all it held--save only her--was utterly dissolved and swept away. an unspeakable peace and stillness was in his heart. much, we read, is required from those to whom much is given, and johnnie was to go through places far more terrible than the valley of the shadow of death ever is to most men before he saw the dawn. when the mass was said--the final "_missa est_" was to ring in the young man's ears for many a long day--he went to breakfast. he took nothing in the common room, however, but john hull brought him food in his own chamber. the man's brown, keen face beamed with happiness. he was like some faithful dog that had lost one master and found another. he could not do enough for johnnie now--after the visit to mr. cressemer's house. he took charge of him as if he had been his man for years. there was a quiet assumption which secretly delighted commendone. there they were, master and man, a relationship fixed and settled. on that afternoon there was to be a tournament in the tilting yard, and johnnie meant to ride--he had nearly carried away the ring at the last joust. hull knew of it--in a few hours the fellow seemed to have fallen into his place in an extraordinary fashion--and he had been busy with his master's armour since early dawn. while johnnie was making his breakfast, though he would very willingly have been alone, and indeed had retired for that very purpose, hull came bustling in and out of the armour-room his face a brown wedge of pleasure and excitement. the _volante pièce_, the _mentonnière_, the _grande-garde_ of his master's exquisite suite of light milan armour shone like a newly-minted coin. the black and lacquered _cuirasse_, with a line of light blue enamel where it would meet the gorget, was oiled and polished--he had somehow found the little box of bandrols with the commendone colour and cypher which were to be tied above the coronels of johnnie's lances. and all the time john hull chattered and worked, perfectly happy, perfectly at home. already, to commendone's intense amusement, the man had become dictatorial--as old and trusted servants are. he had got some powder of resin, and was about to pour it into the jointed steel gauntlet of the lance hand. "it gives the grip, master," he said. "by this means the hand fitteth better to the joints of the steel." "but 'tis never used that i know of. 'tis not like the grip of a bare hand on the ash stave of a pike...." there was a technical discussion, which ended in johnnie's defeat--at least, john hull calmly powdered the inside of the glaive. he was got rid of at last, sent to his meal with the other serving-men, and commendone was left alone. he had an hour to himself, an hour in which to recall the brief but perfect joy of the night before. they had taken him to elizabeth after supper, his good host and hostess. there was something piteously sweet in the tall slim girl in her black dress--the dear young mouth trembling, the blue eyes full of a mist of unshed tears, the hair ripest wheat or brownest barley. she had taken his hand--hers was like cool white ivory--and listened to him as a sister might. he had sat beside her, and told her of her father's glorious death. his dark and always rather melancholy face had been lit with sympathy and tenderness. quite unconscious of his own grace and grave young dignity, he had dwelt upon the martyr's joy at setting out upon his last journey, with an incomparable delicacy and perfection of phrase. his voice, though he knew it not, was full of music. his extreme good looks, the refinement and purity of his face, came to the poor child with a wonderful message of consolation. when he told her how a brutal yeoman had thrown a faggot at the archdeacon, she shuddered and moaned a little. mr. cressemer and his sister looked at johnnie with reproach. but he had done it of set purpose. "and then, mistress elizabeth," he continued, "the doctor said, 'friend, i have harm enough. what needeth that?'" his hand had been upon his knee. she caught it up between her own--innocent, as to a brother, unutterably sweet. "oh, dear father!" she cried. "it is just what he would have said. it is so like him!" "it is liker christ our lord," robert cressemer broke in, his deep voice shaking with sorrow. "for what, indeed, said he at his cruel nailing? '[greek: pater, aphes autois ou gar oidasi ti poiusi.]'" ... and then they had sent johnnie away, marvelling at the goodness, shrewdness, and knowledge of the alderman, with his whole being one sob of love, pity, and protection for his dear simple mourner--so crystal clear, so sisterlike and sweet! * * * * * it was time to go upon duty. johnnie looked at his thick oval watch--a "nuremberg egg," as it was called in those days--cut short his reverie of sweet remembrance, and went straight to the king consort's wing of the palace. when he was come into the king's room he found him alone with torromé, his valet, sitting in a big leather-covered arm-chair, his ruff and doublet taken off, and wearing a long dressing-gown of brown stuff, a friar's gown it almost seemed. the melancholy yellow face brightened somewhat as the esquire came in. "i am home again, señor," he said in spanish, though "_en casa_" was the word he used for home, and that had a certain pathos in it. "there is a _torneo_, a _justa_, after dinner, so they tell me. i had wished to ride myself, but i am weary from our _viajero_ into the country. i shall sit with the queen, and you, señor, will attend me." he must have seen a slight, fleeting look of disappointment upon commendone's face. himself, as the envoy suriano said of him in 1548, "deficient in that energy which becometh a man, sluggish in body and timid in martial enterprise," he nevertheless affected an exaggerated interest in manly sports. he had, it is true, mingled in some tournaments at brussels in the past, and calvera says that he broke his lances, "very much to the satisfaction of his father and aunts." but in england, at any rate, he had done nothing of the sort, and his voice to commendone was almost apologetic. "we will break a lance together some day," he said, "but you must forego the lists this afternoon." johnnie bowed very low. this was extraordinary favour. he knew, of course, that the king would never tilt with him, but he recognised the compliment. he knew, again, that his star was high in the ascendant. the son of the great charles v was reserved, cautious, suspicious of all men--except when, in private, he would unbend to buffoons and vulgar rascals like sir john shelton--and the icy gravity of his deportment to courtiers seldom varied. commendone was quite aware that the king did not class him with men of shelton's stamp. he was the more signally honoured therefore. "this night," his grace continued, "after the jousts, your attendance will be excused, señor. i retire early to rest." the esquire bowed, but he had caught a certain gleam in the king's small eyes. "duck lane or bankside!" he thought to himself. "thank god he hath not commanded me to be with him." johnnie was beginning to understand, more than he had hitherto done, something of his sudden rise to favour and almost intimacy. the king consort was trying him, testing him in every way, hoping to find at length a companion less dangerous and drunken, a reputation less blown upon, a servant more discreet.... he could have spat in his disgust. what he had tolerated in others before, though loftily repudiated for himself, now became utterly loathsome--in king or commoner, black and most foul. the king wore a mask; johnnie wore one also--there was _finesse_ in the game between master and servant. and to-night the king would wear a literal mask, the "_maschera_," which badovardo speaks of when he set down the frailties of this monarch for after generations to read of: "_nelle piaceri delle donnè è incontinente, predendo dilletatione d'andare in maschera la notte et nei tempi de negotii gravi_." then and there johnnie made a resolution, one which had been nascent in his mind for many hours. he would have done with the court as soon as may be. ambition, so new a child of his brain, was already dead. he would marry, retire from pageant and splendour even as his father had done years and years ago. with elizabeth by his side he would once more live happily among the woods and wolds of commendone. torromé, the _criado_ or valet, came into the room again from the bed-chamber. his highness was to change his clothes once more--at high noon he must be with the queen upon state affairs. the chancellor and lord wharton were coming, and with them brookes, the bishop of gloucester, the papal sub-delegate, and the royal proctors, mr. martin and mr. storey. the prelates, ridley and latimer, were lying in prison--their ultimate fate was to be discussed on that morning. the king had but hardly gone into his bed-chamber when the door of the closet opened and don diego deza entered, unannounced, and with the manner of habitude and use. he greeted commendone heartily, shaking him by the hand with considerable warmth, his clear-cut, inscrutable face wearing an expression of fixed kindliness--put on for the occasion, meant to appear sincere, there for a purpose. "i will await his grace here," the priest said, glancing at the door leading to the bedroom, which was closed. "i am to attend him to the council chamber, where there is much business to be done. so next week, mr. commendone, you'll be at whitehall! the court will be gayer there--more suited to you young gallants." "for my part," johnnie answered, "i like the tower well enough." "hast a contented mind, señor," the priest answered brightly. "but i hap to know that the queen will be glad to be gone from the city. this hath been a necessary visit, one of ceremony, but her grace liketh the palace of westminster better, and her castle of windsor best of all. i shall meet you at windsor in the new year, and hope to see you more advanced. wilt be wearing the gold spurs then, i believe, and there will be two knights of the honoured name of commendone!" johnnie answered: "i think not, father," he said, turning over his own secret resolve in his mind with an inward smile. "but why at windsor? doubtless we shall meet near every day." "say nothing, mr. commendone," the priest answered in a low voice. "there can be no harm in telling you--who are privy to so much--but i sail for spain to-morrow morn, and shall be some months absent upon his most catholic majesty's affairs." shortly after this, the king came out of his room, three of his spanish gentlemen were shown in, and with johnnie, the dominican, and his escort, his highness walked to the council chamber, round the tower of which stood a company of the queen's archers, showing that her grace had already arrived. then for two hours johnnie kicked his heels in the ante-room, watching this or that great man pass in and out of the council chamber, chatting with the members of the spanish suite--bored to death. at half-past one the council was over, and their majesties went to dinner, as did also johnnie in the common room. at half-past three of the clock the esquire was standing in the royal box behind the king and queen, among a group of other courtiers, and looking down on the great tilting yard, where he longed himself to be. the royal gallery was at one end of the yard, a great stage-box, as it were, into which two carved chairs were set, and which was designated, as a somewhat fervent chronicler records, "the gallery, or place at the end of the tilting yard adjoining to her grace's palace of the tower, whereat her person should be placed. it was called, and with good cause, the castle, or fortress of perfect beauty, forasmuch as her highness should be there included." johnnie stood and watched it all with eyes in which there was but little animation. a few days before nothing would have gladdened him more than such a spectacle as this. to-day it was as nothing to him. down below was a device of painted canvas, imitating a rolling-trench, which was supposed to be the besieging works of those who attempted the "fortress of perfect beauty." "upon the top of it were set two cannons wrought of wood, and coloured so passing well, as, indeed, they seemed to be two fair field-pieces of ordnance. and by them were placed two men for gunners in cloth and crimson sarcanet, with baskets of earth for defence of their bodies withal." at the far end of the lists there came a clanking and hammering of the farriers' and armourers' forges. grooms in mandilions--the loose, sleeveless jacket of their calling--were running about everywhere, leading the chargers trapped with velvet and gold in their harness. gentlemen in short cloaks and venetian hose bustled about among the knights, and here and there from the stables, and withdrawing sheds outside the lists, great armoured figures came, the sun shining upon their plates--russet-coloured, fluted, damascened with gold in a hundred points of fire. nothing could be more splendid, as the trumpeters advanced into the lists, and the fierce fanfaronade snarled up to the sky. the garter king-at-arms in his tabard, mounted on a white horse with gold housings, rode out into the centre of the yard, and behind him, though on foot, were blue-mantle and rouge-dragon. the afternoon air was full of martial noise, the clank of metal, the brazen notes of horns, the stir and murmur of a great company. to johnnie it seemed that he did not know the shadow from the substance. it all passed before him in a series of coloured pictures, unreal and far away. had he been down there among the knights and lords, he felt that he would but have fought with shadows. it was as though a weird seizure had taken hold on him, a waking dream enmeshed him in its drowsy impalpable net, so that on a sudden, in the midst of men and day, while he walked and talked and stood as ever before, he yet seemed to move among a world of ghosts, to feel himself the shadow of a dream. once when sir charles paston cooper, a very clever rider at the swinging ring, and also doughty in full shock of combat, had borne down his adversary, the queen clapped her hands. "habet!" she cried, like any roman empress, excited and glad, because young sir charles was a very strong adherent of the crown, and known to be bitterly opposed to the pretensions of the lady elizabeth. "habet!" the queen cried again, with a shriek of delight. she looked at her husband, whose head was a little bent, whose sallow face was lost in thought. she did not venture to disturb his reverie, but glanced behind him and above his chair to where john commendone was standing. "c'est bien fait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?" she said in french. the young man's face, also, was frozen into immobility. it did not waken to the queen's joyous exclamation. the eyes were turned inwards, he was hearing nothing of it all. her grace's face flushed a little. she said no more, but wondered exceedingly. the stately display-at-arms went on. the sun declined towards his western bower, and blue shadows crept slowly over the sand. a little chill wind arose suddenly, and as it did so, commendone awoke. everything flashed back to him. in the instant that it did so, and the dreaming of his mind was blown away, the curtain before his subconscious intelligence rolled up and showed him the real world. the first thing he saw was the head of king philip just below him. the tall conical felt hat moved suddenly, leaning downwards towards a corner of the arena just below the royal box. johnnie saw the king's profile, the lean, sallow jowl, the corner of the curved, tired, and haughty lip--the small eye suddenly lit up. following the king's glance, he saw below the figure of sir john shelton, dressed very quietly in ordinary riding costume, and by the side of the knight, torromé, the valet of his highness. both men nodded, and the king slightly inclined his head in reply. then his highness leant back in his chair, and a little hissing noise, a sigh of relief or pleasure, came from his lips. immediately he turned to the queen, placed one hand upon her jewelled glove, and began to speak with singular animation and brightness. the queen changed in a moment. the lassitude and disappointment went from her face in a flash. she turned to her husband, radiant and happy, and once more her face became beautiful. it was the last time that john commendone ever saw the face of queen mary. in after years he preferred always to think of her as he saw her then. the tourney was over. everybody had left the tilting yard and its vicinity, save only the farriers, the armour smiths, and grooms. in front of the old palace hardly a soul was to be seen, except the sentinels and men of the guard, who paced up and down the terraces. it was eight o'clock, and twilight was falling. all the windows were lit, every one was dressing for supper, and now and then little roulades of flutes, the twanging of viols being tuned, the mellow clarionette-like voice of the _piccolo-milanese_ showed that the royal band was preparing for the feast. johnnie was off duty; his time was his own now, and he could do as he would. he longed more than anything to go to chepe to be with the cressemers again, to see elizabeth; but, always punctilious upon points of etiquette, and especially remembering the sad case and dolour of his love, he felt it would be better not to go. nevertheless, he took a sheet of paper from his case into the common room, and wrote a short letter of greeting to the alderman. with this he also sent a posy of white roses, which he bribed a serving-man to get from the privy garden, desiring that the flowers should be given to mistress elizabeth taylor. this done, he sought and found his servant. "to-night, john hull," he said, "i shall not need thee, and thou mayest go into the city and do as thou wilt. i am going to rest early, for i am very tired. come you back before midnight--you can get the servant's pass from the lieutenant of the guard if you mention my name--and wake me and bring me some milk. but while thou art away, take this letter and these flowers to the house of master robert cressemer. do not deliver them at once when thou goest, but at ten or a little later, and desire them to be taken at once to his worship." this he said, knowing something of the habits of the great house in chepeside, and thinking that his posy would be taken to elizabeth when she was retiring to her sleep. "perchance she may think of me all night," said cunning johnnie to himself. hull took the letter and the flowers, and departed. johnnie went to his chamber, disembarrassing himself of his stiff starched ruff, took off his sword, and put on the cassock-coat, which was the undress for the young gentlemen of the court when they met in the common room for a meal. he designed to take some food, and then to go straight to bed and sleep until his servant should wake him with the milk he had ordered, and especially with the message of how he had done in chepe. he had just arrayed himself and was wearily stretching out his arms, wondering whether after all he should go downstairs to sup or no, when the door of his bedroom was pushed open and ambrose cholmondely entered. johnnie was glad to see his friend. "_holà!_" he said, "i was in need of some one with whom to talk. you come in a good moment, _mon ami_." cholmondely sat down upon the bed. "well," he said, "didst come off well at the tourney?" johnnie shook his head. "i didn't ride," he said, "i was in attendance upon his grace, rather to my disgust, for i had hoped for some exercise. but you? where were you, ambrose?" "i? well, johnnie, i was excused attendance this afternoon. i made interest with mr. champneys, and so i got off." "venus, her service, i doubt me," johnnie answered. ambrose cholmondely nodded. "yes," he said, "i' faith, a very bootless quest it was. a girl at an inn that i lit upon some time agone--you would not know it--'tis a big hostel of king henry's time without aldgate, the 'woolsack.'" johnnie started. "i went there once," he said. "i should well have thought," cholmondely replied, "it would have been out of your purview. never mind. my business came not to a satisfactory end. the girl was very coy. but i tell you what i did see, and that hath given me much reason for thought. along the road towards essex, where i was walking, hoping to meet my inamorata, came a damsel walking, by her dress and bearing of gentle birth, and with a serving-maid by her side. i was not upon the high road, but sat under a sycamore tree in a field hard by, but i saw all that passed very well. a carriage came slowly down the road towards this lady. out of it jumped that bully-rook john shelton, and close behind him the spanish valet torromé, that is the king's private servant. they caught hold of the girl, shelton clapped a hand upon her mouth, and they had her in the carriage in a moment and her maid with her--which immediately turned round and went back at a quick pace through aldgate. i would have interfered, but i could not get to the high road in time; 'twas so quickly done. johnnie, there will be great trouble in london, if shelton and these spaniards he is so friendly with are to do such things in england. it may go on well enough for a time, but suddenly the bees will be roused from their hive, and there will be such a to-do and turmoil, such a candle will be lit as will not easily be put out." johnnie shrugged his shoulders. in his mood of absolute disgust with his surroundings, the recital interested him very little. he connected it at once with the appearance of shelton and the valet at the end of the tourney, but it was not his business. "the hog to his stye," he said bitterly. "i am going to take some supper, and then to bed, for i am very weary." arm in arm with ambrose cholmondely, he descended the stairs, went into the common room, and made a simple meal. the place was riotous with high spirits, the talk was fast and free, but he joined in none of it, and in a very few minutes had returned to his room, closed the door, and thrown himself upon the bed. almost immediately he sank into a deep sleep. he was dreaming of elizabeth, and in his dream was interwoven the sound of great bells, when the fantastic painted pictures of sleep were suddenly shaken violently and dissolved. they flashed away, and his voice rose in calling after them to stay, when he suddenly awoke. the bells were still going on, deep golden notes from the central cupola over the queen's gallery, beating out the hour of eleven. but as they changed from dream into reality--much louder and imminent--he felt himself shaken violently. a strong hand gripped his shoulder, a hoarse voice mingled with the bell-music in his ears. he awoke. his little room was lit by a lanthorn standing upon the mantel with the door open. john hull, a huge broad shadow, was bending over him. he sat up in bed. "_dame!_" he cried, "and what is this?" "master! master! she has been taken away! my little mistress! most foully taken away, and none know where she may be!" johnnie sprang from his bed, upright and trembling. "i took the letter and the flowers as you bade me. but all was sorrow and turmoil at the house. mistress elizabeth went out in the afternoon with alice her maid. she was to take the air. they have not returned. nothing is known. his worship hath fifty men searching for her, and hath had for hours. but it avails nothing." johnnie suddenly became quite quiet. hull saw his face change. the smooth, gracious contours were gone. an inner face, sharp, resolute, haggard and terribly alive, sprang out and pushed the other away. "his worship writ thee a letter, sir. here 'tis." johnnie held out his hand. the letter was brief, the writing hurried and indistinct with alarm. "dear lad,--they have taken our lizzie, whom i know not. but i fear the worst things. i cannot find her with all my resource. an' if _i_ cannot, one must dread exceeding. i dare say no more. but come to me on the instant, if canst. thou--being at court--i take it, may be able to do more than i, at the moment and in the article of our misfortune. the weight i bring to bear is heavy, but taketh time. command me in every way as seemeth good to you. order, and if needs be threaten in my name. all you do or say is as if i said it, and they that deny it will feel my hand heavy on them. "but come, dear lad. our lady help and shield the little lamb. "your friend, "robert cressemer, "alderman." johnnie thrust the letter into his bosom. "john hull, art ready to follow me to the death, as it may be and very like will?" "certes, master." "anything for her? are you my man to do all and everything i tell thee till the end?" john hull answered nothing. he ran out of the room and returned in an instant with his master's boots and sword. he saw that the holster pistols were primed. he took one of johnnie's daggers and thrust it into the sheath of his knife without asking. the two men armed themselves to the teeth without another word. "i'll be round to the stables," hull said at length. "two horses, master? i will rouse one groom only and say 'tis state business." "you know then where we must go?" "i know not the place. but i guess it. we hear much--we court servants!" he spat upon the floor. "and i saw _him_ looking at her as the doctor rode to hadley." "wilt risk it?--death, torture, which is worse, john hull?" "duck lane, master?" "duck lane." "i thought so. i'm for the horses." a clatter of descending footsteps, a man standing in a little darkling room, his hand upon his sword hilt. his teeth set, his brain working in ice. receding footsteps.... "faithfullest servant that ever man had!" and so to the bitter work! chapter vii hey ho! and a rumbelow! they had ridden over london bridge. the night was dark, and a wind was beginning to rise. again, here and there about the bridge, soldiers were lounging, but commendone and his servant passed over successfully. he was recognised from the last time, three nights ago. as they walked their horses through the scattered houses immediately at the southern end of the bridge, johnnie spoke to hull. "i have plans," he said quietly; "my mind is full of them. but i can give you no hint until we are there and doing. be quick at the uptake, follow me in all i do, but if necessary act thyself, and remember that we are desperate men upon an adventure as desperate. let nothing stand in the way, as i shall not." for answer he heard a low mutter, almost a growl, and they rode on in silence. both were cool and calm, strung up to the very highest point, every single faculty of mind and body on the alert and poised to strike. one, the spanish blood within him turning to that cold icy fury which would stick at nothing in this world to achieve his ends, the while his trained intelligence and high mental powers sat, as it were, upon his frozen anger and rode it as a horse; the other, a volcano of hidden snarling fury, seeing red at each step of his way through the dark, but subordinate and disciplined by the master mind. they came to the entrance to duck lane, walked their horses quietly down it--once more it was in silence--until under the lamp above the big red door of the house of shame, they saw two horses tethered to a ring in the wall, and a man in a cloak walking up and down in front of the house. he looked up sharply as they came into the circle of lamp-light, and johnnie saw, with a fierce throb of exultation, that it was torromé, the king's valet. "it is you, señor," the man said in a low voice of relief. johnnie nodded curtly as he dismounted. "yes," he said, in a voice equally low, putting something furtive and sly into the tones, for he was a consummate actor. "yes, it is i, torromé. i must see his grace at once on matters of high importance." "his grace said nothing," the man began. "i know, i know," johnnie answered. "it was not thought that i should have to come, but as events turn out"--he struck with his hand upon the door as he spoke--"i am to see his highness at once." "i trust her grace----" the man whispered in a frightened voice. "not a word," commendone replied. "take our horses and keep watch over them also. my man cometh in with me. word will be sent out to you anon what to do." the man bowed, and gathered up the bridle of the two new horses on his arm; while as he did so, the big red door swung open a little, and a thin face, covered with a mask of black velvet, peered out at the newcomers. "it is all right," the valet said, in french. "this gentleman is of the suite of his highness." the peering, masked face scrutinised johnnie for a second, then nodded, and the red lips below twisted into a sinister smile. "enter, sir," came in a soft, cooing voice. "i remember you three nights back...." johnnie entered, closely followed by hull, and the door was closed behind him. they stood once more in the quiet carpeted passage, with its sense of mystery, its heavily perfumed air, and once again the tall nondescript figure flitted noiselessly in front of them, and scratched upon a panel of the big door at the end of the passage. there was the tinkle of a bell within. the door was opened. johnnie pushed aside the curtains and entered the room, hung with crimson arras, powdered with the design of gold bats, lit with its hanging silver lamps, and reeking with the odour of the scented gums which were burning there. madame la motte rose from her chair behind the little table as they entered. the big, painted face was quite still and motionless, like a mask, but the eyes glanced with quick, cunning brightness at commendone and his companion--the only things alive in that huge countenance. she recognised johnnie in a moment, and then her eyebrows went up into her forehead and the lower part of her face moved down a little, as if the whole were actuated by the sudden pull of a lever. "_mon gars_," she said, in french, "and what brings you here to-night? and who is this?..." her eyes had fallen upon the broad figure of the serving-man in his leather coat, his short sword hanging from his belt, his hand upon his dagger. she might well look in alarm, this ancient, evil woman, for the keen brown face of the servant was gashed and lined with a terrible and quiet fury, the lips curled away from the teeth, the fore part of the body was bent forward a little as if to spring. johnnie took two steps up to the woman. "madam," he said, in a voice so low that it was hardly more than a whisper, but every syllable of which was perfectly distinct and clear, "a lady has been stolen from her friends, and brought to this hell. where is she?" the woman knew in a moment why they had come. she gave a sudden swift glance towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room, which told commendone all he wanted to know. "it is true, then?" he said. "thou cat of hell, bound mistress of the fiend, she is here?" the huge body of the woman began to tremble like a jelly, slowly at first in little shivers, and then more rapidly until face and shapeless form shook and swayed from side to side in a convulsion of fear, while all the jewels upon her winked and flashed. as the young man bent forward and looked into her face, she found a voice, a horrid, strangled voice. "i know nothing," she coughed. there was a low snarl, like a wakened panther, as commendone, shuddering as he did so, gripped one bare, powdered shoulder. "silence!" he said. with one convulsive effort, the woman shot out a fat hand, and rang the little silver bell upon the table. almost immediately the door swung open; there was a swish of curtains, and the tall, fantastic figure of the creature who had let them into the house stood there. "_allez--la maison en face--viens toi vite,--jules, louis._" commendone clapped his hand over the woman's mouth, just as the eel-like creature at the door, realising the situation in a moment, was gliding through the curtains to summon the bullies of the house. but john hull was too quick for him. he caught him by the arm, wrenched him back into the room, sent him spinning into the centre of it, and took two steps towards him, his right fist half raised to deal him a great blow. the creature mewed like a cat, ducked suddenly and ran at the yeoman, gripping him round the waist with long, thin arms. there was no sound as they struggled--this long, eel-like thing, in its mask and crimson robe twining round his sturdy opponent like some parasite writhing with evil life. john hull rocked, striving to bend forward and get a grip of his antagonist. but it was useless. he could do nothing, and he was being slowly forced backwards towards the door. there was horror upon the man's brown face, horror of this silent, clinging thing which fought with fury, and in a fashion that none other had fought with him in all his life. then, as he realised what was happening, he stood up for a moment, staggering backwards as he did so, pulled out the dagger from his belt and struck three great blows downwards into the thin scarlet back, burying the steel up to the hilt at each fierce stroke. there was a sudden "oh," quite quiet and a little surprised, the sort of sound a man might make when he sees a friend come unexpectedly into his room.... that was all. it was over in some thirty seconds, there was a convulsive wriggle on the floor, and the man, if indeed it was a man, lay on its back stiff in death. the mask of black velvet had been torn off in the struggle, and they saw a tiny white face, painted and hairless, set on the end of a muscular and stringy neck--a monster lying there in soulless death. "have you killed it?" commendone asked, suddenly. "yes, master." hull's head was averted from what lay upon the carpet, even while he was pushing it towards the heap of cushions at the side of the room. leaning over the body, he took a cushion from the heap--a gaudy thing of green and orange--and wiped his boot. "listen!" johnnie said, still with his hand covering the woman's face. they listened intently. not a sound was to be heard. "as i take it," commendone answered, "there are no men in the house except only those two we have come to seek. the alarm hath not been given, and that _eunuque_ is dead. we must settle madame here." he laughed a grim, menacing laugh as he spoke. immediately the figure in his hands began to writhe and tremble, the feet beat a dull tattoo upon the carpet, the eyes protruded from their layers of paint, a snorting, snuffling noise came from beneath commendone's hand. he caught it away instantly, shuddering with disgust. "kill me not! kill me not!" the old woman gasped. "they are upstairs, the king and his friend. the girl is there. i know nothing of her, she was brought to me in the dark by the king's servants. kill me not; i will stay silent." her voice failed. she fell suddenly back in her chair, and looked at them with indescribable horror in her eyes. "i'll see to her, master," hull said in a quiet voice, his face still distorted with mastiff-like fury. he caught up his blood-stained dagger from the floor, stepped to the stiffened corpse, curved by tetanus into a bow, and ripped up a long piece of the gown which covered it. quickly and silently he tied the old woman's ankles together, her hands behind her back--the podgy wrists would not meet, nor near it--and again he went to the corpse for further bonds. "and now to stop her mouth," he said, "or she will be calling." commendone took out his handkerchief. "here," he said. in an instant hull had rolled it into a ball, pressed it between the painted lips, and tied it in its place with the last strip of velvet. all this had taken but hardly a minute. then he stood up and looked at his master. "the time comes," he said. johnnie nodded, and walked slowly, with quiet footsteps, towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room. he felt warily for the handle, found it, turned it gently, and saw a narrow stairway stretching upwards, and lit by a lamp somewhere above. the stair was uncarpeted, but it was of old and massive oak, and, drawing his sword, he crept cautiously up, hull following him like a cat. they found themselves in a corridor with doors on each side, each door painted with a big white number. it was lit, warm, and very still. johnnie put his fingers to his lips, and both men listened intently. the silence was absolute. they might have been in an empty house. no single indication of human movement came to them as they stood there. for nearly a minute they remained motionless. their eyes were fixed and horror-struck, their ears strained to an intensity of listening. then, at last, they heard a sound, quite unexpectedly and very near. it came from the door immediately upon their right, which was painted with the number "3," and was simply the click of a sword in its scabbard. johnnie took two noiseless steps to the door, settled his sword in his hand, flung it open, and leapt in. he was in a large low room panelled round its sides, the panels painted white, the beadings picked out in crimson. a carpet covered the floor, a low fire burnt upon a wide open hearth. there were two or three padded sofa lounges here and there, and in front of the fire-place in riding clothes, though without his hat or gloves, stood sir john shelton. there was a dead silence for several seconds, only broken by the click of the outer door, as hull pushed it into its place, and shot the bolt. shelton grew very white, but said nothing. with his sword ready to assume the guard, johnnie walked to the centre of the room. the bully's face grew whiter still. little drops of moisture glistened on his forehead, and on his blonde moustache. then he spoke. "ah! mr. commendone!" he said, with a horrid little laugh. "news from court, i suppose? is it urgent? his grace is engaged within, but i will acquaint him. his grace is engaged----" there came a titter of discovery and fear from his lips. his words died away into silence. johnnie advanced towards him, his sword pointed at his heart. "what does this mean, mr. commendone?" "death." the man's sword was out in a moment. the touch of it seemed to bring the life back to him, and with never a word, he sprang at commendone. he was a brave man enough, a clever fencer too, but he knew now that his hour had come. he read it in the fixed face before him, that face of frozen fury. he knew it directly the blades touched. indeed he was no match for commendone, with his long training, and clean, abstemious life. but even had he been an infinitely superior swordsman, he knew that he would have had no chance in that moment. there was something behind the young man's arm which no sir john shelton could resist. the blades rattled together and struck sparks in the lamp-light. click! clatter! click!--"ah!" the long-drawn breath, a breath surging up from the very entrails--click! clatter! click! the fierce cold fury of that fight was far beyond anything in war, or the ordinary duello. it was _à outrance_, there was only one end to it, and that came very swiftly. commendone was not fighting for safety. he cared not, and knew nothing, of what the other might have in reserve. he did not even wait to test his adversary's tricks of fence, as was only cautious and usual. nothing could have withstood him, and in less than two minutes from the time the men had engaged, the end came. commendone made a half-lunge, which was parried by the dagger in sir john's left hand, and then, quick as lightning, his sword was through shelton's throat, through and through. the captain fell like a log, hiccoughed, and lay still. "two," said john hull. johnnie withdrew his sword, holding it downwards, watching it drip; then he turned to his servant. "sir john was here on guard," he said; "this is the ante-room to where she is. but i see no door, save only the one by which we entered." "hist!" hull replied, almost before his master had finished speaking. he pointed to the opposite wall, and both men saw a long, narrow bar of orange light, a momentarily widening slit, opening in a panel. the panel swung back entirely, forming a sort of hatch or window, and through it, yellow, livid, and terror-struck, looked the face of the king. without a word john hull rushed towards that part of the wall. when he was within a yard of it he gathered himself up and leapt against it, like a battering-ram. there was a crash, as the concealed door was torn away from its hinges. hull lay measuring his length upon the floor, and johnnie leaped over the prostrate form into the room beyond. this is what he saw: in one corner of the room, close to a large couch covered with rich silks, elizabeth taylor stood against the wall. they had dressed her in a long white robe of the grecian sort, with a purple border round the hem of the skirt, the short sleeves and the low neck. her face was a white wedge of terror, her arms were upraised, the palms of her hands turned outwards, as if to ward off some horror unspeakable. king philip, at the other corner of the room, standing by the débris of the broken door, was perfectly motionless, save only for his head, which was pushed forward and moved from side to side with a slow reptilian movement. he was dressed entirely in black, his clothes in disarray, and the thin hair upon his head was matted in fantastic elf-locks with sweat. he saw the set face of commendone, his drawn and bloody sword. he saw the thick leathern-coated figure of the yeoman rise from the floor. both were confronting him, and he knew in a flash that he was trapped. johnnie looked at his master for a moment, and then turned swiftly. "elizabeth," he said, "elizabeth!" at his voice the girl's hands fell from her face. she looked at him for a second in wild amazement, and then she cried out, in a high, quavering voice of welcome, "johnnie! johnnie! you've come!" he put his arms about her, soothing, stroking her hair, speaking in a low, caressing voice, as a man might speak to a child. and all the time his heart, which had been frozen into deadly purpose, was leaping, bounding, and drumming within him so furiously, so strongly, that it seemed as if his body could hardly contain it. this mortal frame must surely be dissolved and swept away by such a tumult of feeling. she had only seen him once. she had never received his little posy of white flowers, but he was "johnnie" to her. "they have not hurt you, my maid?" he said. "tell me they have not harmed you." she shook her head. happiness sponged away the horror which had been upon her face. "no, johnnie," she answered, clinging, her fingers clutching for a firmer hold of him. "no, johnnie, only they took me away, and alice, that is my maid. they took me away violently, and i have been penned up here in this place until that man came and said strange things to me, and would embrace me." "sit you here, my darling maid," the young man said, "sit you here," guiding her to the couch hard by. "he shall do you no harm. thou art with me, and thy good friend there, thy father's yeoman." she had not seen john hull before, but now she looked up at him over johnnie's arm, and smiled. "'tis all well now," she murmured, drooping and half-faint. "hull is here, and thou also, johnnie." even in the wild joy of finding her, and knowing instinctively that she was to be his, that she had thought of him so much, commendone lost nothing of his sang-froid. he knew that desperate as had been his adventure when he started out from the tower, it was now more desperate still. he and hull had taken their lives in their hands when they went to duck lane. their enterprise had so far been successful, their rescue complete, but--and he was in no way mistaken--the enterprise was not over, and his life was worth even a smaller price than it had been before. with that, he turned from the girl, and strode up to the king, before whom john hull had been standing, grimly silent. commendone's sword was still in his hand; he had not relinquished it even when he had embraced elizabeth, and now he stood before his master, the point upon the floor, his young face set into judgment. "and now, sire?" he said, shortly and quickly. philip's face was flushed with shame and fear, but at these sharp words, he drew himself to his full height. "señor," he said, "you are going to do something which will damn you for ever in the sight of god and our lady. you are going to slay the anointed of the lord. i will meet death at your hands, and doubtless for my sins i have deserved death; but, nevertheless, you will be damned." then he threw his arms out wide, and there came a sob into his voice as the liquid spanish poured from him. "but to die thus!" he said. "mother of god! to die thus! unshrived, with my sins upon me!" johnnie tapped impatiently with the point of his sword upon the floor. "kill you, sire?" he said. "i have sworn the oath of allegiance to her grace, the queen, and eke to you. i break no oaths. kill you i will not. kill you i cannot. i dare not raise my hand against the king." he dropped on one knee. "sire," he said again, "i am your gentleman, and you will go free from this vile house as you came into it." then he rose, took his sword, snapped it across his knee--staining his hands in doing so--and flung it into the corner of the room. "and that is that," he said, with a different manner. "so now as man to man, as from one gentleman to another, hear my voice. you are a gentleman of high degree, and you are king also of half this globe, named, and glad to be named his most catholic majesty. of your kingship i am not at this moment aware. i am not royal. but as a gentleman and a christian, i tell you to your face that you are low and vile. you deceive a wife that loveth you. you take maidens to force them to your will. if you were a simple gentleman i would kill you where you stood. no! if thou wert a simple gentleman, i would not cross swords with thee, because thou art unworthy of my sword. i would tell my man here to slit thee and have done. but as thou art a king"--he spat upon the floor in his disgust--"and i am sworn to thee, i cannot punish thee as i would, thou son of hell, thou very scurvy, lying, and most dirty knave." the king's face was a dead white now. he lifted his hands and beat with them upon his breast. "_mea culpa! mea culpa!_ what have i done that i should endure this?" "what no king should ever do, what no gentleman could ever do." the king's hands dropped to his side. "i am wearing no sword," he said quietly, "as you see, señor, but doubtless you will provide me with one. if you will meet me here and now, as a simple gentleman, then i give you licence to kill me. i will defend myself as best i am able." johnnie hesitated, irresolutely. all the training of his life was up in arms with the wishes and the emotions of the moment--until he heard the voice of common sense. john hull broke in. the man had not understood one word of the spanish, but he had realised its meaning, and the keen, untutored intelligence, focused upon the flying minutes, saw very clearly into the future. "master," he said, "cannot ye see that all this is but chivalry and etiquette of courts? cannot ye see that if ye kill his highness, england will not be big enough to hide thee? cannot ye see, also, that if thou dost not kill him, but let him go, england will not be big enough to hide thee either? master, we must settle this business with speed, and get far away before the hue and cry, for i tell thee, that this bloody night's work will bring thee, and mistress elizabeth, and myself to the rack and worse torture, to the stake, and worse than that. haste! speed! we must be gone. there is but one thing to be done." "and what is that, john hull?" "why, thou art lost in a dream, master! to tie up his highness so that he cannot move or speak for several hours. to send that spaniard which is his man, away from the door outside, and then to fly from this accursed house, you, i, and the little mistress, and hide ourselves, if god will let us, from the wrath to come." the quick, decisive words were so absolutely true, so utterly unanswerable, that johnnie nodded, though he shuddered as he did so. upon that, john hull strode up to the king. "put your hands behind you, sire," he said. the king was wearing a dagger in his belt. as hull came up to him, his face was transfixed with fury. he drew it out and lunged at the man's heart. hull was standing a little obliquely to the blow, the dagger glanced upon his leather surcoat, cut a long groove, and glanced harmlessly away. with that, hull raised his great brown fist and smote king philip in the face, driving him to the floor. he was on him in a moment, crouching over him with one hand upon the royal throat. "quick, master; quick, master! quick, master! bonds! bonds! we must e'en truss him up, as we did her ladyship below." it was done. the king was tied and bound. it was done as gently as possible, and they did not gag him. together they laid him upon the floor. slow, half-strangled, and venomous words came, came in gouts of poisonous sound, which made the sweet spanish hideous.... "the whole world, mr. commendone, will not be wide enough to hide you, your paramour, and this villain from my vengeance." johnnie would have heard anything but that one word--that shameful word. at the word "paramour," hardly knowing what he did, he lifted his hand and struck the bound and helpless king upon the face. a timepiece from the next room beat. it was one o'clock in the morning. johnnie turned to elizabeth. "come, sweetheart," he said, in a hurried, agitated voice, "come away from this place." he took her by the arm, half leading, half supporting her, and together they passed out of the room, without so much as a backward glance at the bound figure upon the floor. as they went through the broken doorway in the ante-room, john hull pressed after them, and walked on the other side of elizabeth, talking to her quickly in a cheery voice. as he looked over the girl's head at his servant, johnnie knew what hull was doing. he was hiding the corpse of sir john shelton from the girl's view. they came into the corridor, and descended the stairs. just as they were about to open the door in the arras, hull stopped them upon the lowest step. "i will go first, master," he said, and again johnnie realised what was meant. when a few seconds afterwards, he and elizabeth entered the tapestry-hung room; the great pile of cushions upon the left-hand side was a little higher, but that was all. the girl raised her hands to her throat. "oh," she said, "johnnie, thank god you came! i cannot bear it. take me home, take me home now, to mr. cressemer and aunt catherine." johnnie took her hands in his own, holding her very firmly by the wrists, and looked full into her face. "dear," he said, "you cannot go to mr. cressemer's. you know nothing of what has happened this night. you do not realise anything at all. will you trust in me?" "yes," she faltered, though her eyes were firm. "then, if you do that, and if god helps us," he said, with a gasp in his throat, "we may yet win to safety and life, though i doubt it. sweetheart, it is right that i should tell you that man upstairs in the room is the king consort, husband of her grace the queen." the girl gave a loud, startled cry, and instantly commendone saw comprehension flash into her face. "sit here," he said to her, putting a chair for her. then he turned. behind the ebony table, motionless, vast, and purple in the face, was the great mummy of the procuress. "what shall we do?" he said to hull. "the first thing, master, is to send the spanish valet away; that you must do, and therein lies our chance." johnnie nodded. he passed out into the passage, went to the front door, pulled aside three huge bolts which worked with a lever very silently, for they were all oiled, and let in a puff of fresh wind from the street. for a moment he could see nothing in the dark. he called in spanish: "torromé, torromé, where are you? come here at once." he had hardly done so when the cloaked figure of the valet came out from behind a buttress. "ah, señor," he said, "i am perished with this cold wind. his highness is ready, then?" johnnie shook his head. "no," he answered, "his highness and sir john are still engaged, but i am sent to tell you that you may go home. i and my man will attend his highness to the tower, but we shall not come until dawn. go you back to the king's lodging, and if his highness doth not come in due time, keep all inquiries at bay. he will be sick--you understand?" torromé nodded. "then get you to horse, leave his highness's horse with ours, and speed back to the tower as soon as may be." commendone waited until the man had mounted, very glad to be relieved of his long waiting, and was trotting towards london bridge. then he closed the door, pulled the lever, and went back into the red, scented room. he saw that hull had cut the strips of red velvet that bound madame la motte, the gag was taken from her mouth, and he was holding a goblet of wine to the thick, swollen, and bleeding lips. there was a long deep sigh and gurgle. the woman shuddered, gasped again, and then some light and understanding came into her eyes, and she stared out in front of her. "what are we to do?" johnnie asked his servant once more. "what have ye done, masters?" came in a dry whisper from the old woman--it was like the noise a man makes walking through parched grass in summer. "what have ye done, masters?" hull answered: "we have killed your servitor, as ye saw," he said, with a half glance towards the piled cushions against the wall. "sir john shelton is dead also; mr. commendone killed him in fair fight." "and the king, the king?"--the whisper was dreadful in its anxiety and fear. "he lieth bound in that room of shame where you took my lady." there was silence for a moment, and the old woman glanced backwards and forwards at hull and commendone. what she read in their faces terrified her, and again she shook horribly. "sir," she said to commendone, "if this be my last hour, then so mote it be, but i swear that i knew nothing. i was told at high noon yesterday that a girl was to be sent here, that sir john and the valet of his highness would bring her. i knew, and know nothing of who she is. i did but do as i have always done in my trade. and, messieurs, it was the king's command. now ye have come, and there is the lady unharmed, please god." "please god!" johnnie said brutally. "you hag of hell, who are you to use that name?" the fat, artificially whitened hands, with their glittering rings fell upon the table with a dull thud. "who am i, indeed?" she said. "you may well ask that, but i tell you others of my women received this lady. i have not seen her until now." "indeed she hath not," came in a low, startled voice from elizabeth. "sir," la motte went on, "i see now that this is the end of my sinful life. kill me an ye wish, i care not, for i am dead already, and so also are you, and the young mistress there, and your man too." "what mean you?" johnnie said. "what mean i? why, upstairs lieth the king, bound. we all have two or three miserable hours, and then we shall be found, and what we shall endure will pass the bitterness of death before death comes. that, messieurs, you know very well. "so what matters it," she continued, her extraordinary vitality overcoming everything, her voice growing stronger each moment, "what matters it! let us drink wine one to the other, to death! in this house of death, in this house to which worse than death cometh apace." she reached out for the flagon of wine before her with a cackle of laughter. it was too true. commendone knew it well. he looked at hull, and together they both looked at elizabeth taylor. the girl, in the long white robe which they had put on her, rose from her seat and came between them, tall, slim, and now composed. she put one hand upon johnnie's shoulder and laid the other with an affectionate gesture upon hull's arm. "look you," she said, "mr. commendone, and you, john hull, my father's friend, what matters it at all? i see now all that hath passed. there is no hope for us, none at all. therefore let us praise god, pray to him, and die. we shall soon be with my father in heaven; and, sure, he seeth all this, and is waiting for us." john hull's face was knitted into thought. he hardly seemed to hear the girl's voice at all. "mistress lizzie," he said, almost peevishly, "pr'ythee be silent a moment. master, look you. 'tis this way. they will come again and find his highness when he returneth not to the tower, but he will dare do nothing against us openly for fear of the queen's grace. were it known that he had come to such a stew as this, the queen would ne'er give him her confidence again. she would ne'er forgive him. doubtless the vengeance will pursue us, but it cannot be put in motion for some hours until the king is rescued, and has had time to confer with his familiars and think out a plan. after that, when they catch us, nothing will avail us, because nothing we can say will be believed. but we are not caught yet." johnnie, who for the last few moments had been quite without hope, looked up quickly at his servant's words. "you are right," he said, "in what you say; there speaketh good sense. very well, then we must get away at once. but where shall we go? if we go to his worship's house, we shall soon be discovered, and bring his worship and mistress catherine with us to the rack and stake. if we go to my father's house in kent, he will not be able to hide us; it will be the first place to which they will look." he spread his arms out in a gesture of despair. "you see," he said, "we in this room to-night have no refuge nor harbour. for a few hours, a day it may be, we can lie lost from vengeance. but after that no earthly power can save us. we have done the thing for which there is no pardon." "i don't like, master, to wait for death in this way," hull answered. "but art wiser than i, and so it must be. but pr'ythee let us have a little course. the hounds may come, but let us run before them, and then, if death is at the end of it, well--well, there's an end on't; and so say i." there was a voice behind them, a voice speaking in broken but fluent english. "you have broken into my house, you have killed my servant, you have prevented me from calling for help from you, a king lies bound in my upper chamber, _v'là_! and now you go to run a little course, to scurry hither and thither before the dogs are at your throats. you are all prepared to die. i also am ready to die if it must be so, but it need not be so if you will listen to me." "what mean you?" johnnie said. as he spoke he saw, with a mingling of surprise and disgust, that the big painted face of madame la motte was full of animation and excitement. she seemed as if the events of the last hour had but stirred her to endeavour, had given a fillip to her sluggish life. more astonishing than all, she rose from her chair, gathering together her vast, unwieldy bulk, came round from behind the table, and joined their conference almost with vivacity. "_tiens_," she said, "there are other countries than this. an army beaten in an engagement is not always routed. retreat is possible within friendly frontiers." the horrible old creature had such a strength and personality about her that, with her blood-stained mouth, her great panting body, her trembling jewelled hands, she yet in that moment dominated them all. "there is one last chance. at dawn--and dawn is near by--the ship _st. iago_ sails from the thames for foreign parts. the master of the ship, clark, is"--she lowered her voice and spoke only to commendone--"is a client of mine here. he is much indebted to me in many ways, and ere day breaks we may all be aboard of her and sailing away. what is't to be, messieurs?" they all looked at each other for a moment in silence. then elizabeth put her arms round the old woman's neck and kissed her. "madame," she said, "surely god put this into your heart to save us all. i will come with you, and johnnie will come, and good john hull withal, and so we may escape and live." the old frenchwoman patted the slim girl upon the back. "_bien, chérie_," she said, "that's a thing done. i will look after you and be a mother to you, and so we will all be happy." commendone and his servant looked on in amazement. at this dreadful hour, in this moment of extremest peril, the wicked old woman seemed to take charge of them all. she did not seem wicked now, only genial and competent, though there was a tremor of fear in her voice and her movements were hurried and decisive. "jean-marie," she called suddenly, and then, "phut! i forgot. it is under the cushions. well, we must even do without a messenger. have you money, master commendone?" johnnie shook his head. "not here." "_mais, mon dieu!_ i have a plenty," she answered, "which is good for all of us. wait you here." she hurried away, and went up the stair towards the rooms above. "shall i follow her, master?" hull said, his hand upon his dagger. johnnie shook his head. "no," he answered, "she is in our boat. she must sink or swim with us." they waited there for five or ten minutes, hearing the heavy noise of madame's progress above their heads. they waited there, and as they did so the room seemed to become cold, their blood ran slowly within them, the three grouped themselves close together as if for mutual warmth and consolation. then they heard a high-pitched voice at the top of the stairs. "send your man up, monsieur, send your man up. i have no strength to lift this bag." at a nod from johnnie, hull ran up the stairs. in a moment more he came down, staggering under the burden of a great leather wallet slung over his shoulder, and was followed by madame la motte, now covered in a fur cloak and hood. she held another on her arm. "put it on, put it on," she said to elizabeth, "quickly. we must get out of this. the dawn comes, the wind freshens, we have but an hour." and then in the ghostly dawn the four people left the house of shame, left it with the red door open to the winds, and hurried away towards the river. none of them spoke. the old dame in her fur robe shuffled on with extraordinary vitality, past straggling houses, past inns from which nautical signs were hung, for a quarter of a mile towards the mud-marsh which fringed the pool of thames. she walked down a causeway of stones, sunk in the mud and gravel, to the edge of the water. it was now high tide and the four came out in the grey light upon a little stone quay where some sheds were set. in front of one of them, heavily covered with tar, a lantern was still burning, wan and yellow in the coming light of day. madame la motte kicked at the door of this shed with her high-heeled shoe. there was no response. she opened the door, burst into a stuffy, foetid place where two men were lying upon coils of rope. she stirred them with her foot, but they were in heavy sleep, and only groaned and snored in answer. "i'll wake them, madame," johnnie said, "i'll stir them up," his voice full of that thin, high note which comes to those who feel themselves hunted. he clapped his hand to his side to find his sword; his fingers touched an empty scabbard. then he remembered. "i am swordless," he cried, forgetting everything else as he realised it. behind him there was a thud and a clanking, as john hull dropped the leathern bag he held. "say not so, master," he said, and held out to the young man a sword in a scabbard of crimson leather, its hilt of gold wire, its guard set with emeralds and rubies, the belt which hung down on either side of the blade, of polished leather studded with little stars and bosses of gold. "what is this?" "look you, sir, as we passed out of madame's room, i saw this sword leaning in a corner of the wall by the door. his highness had left it there, doubtless, ere he went upstairs. 'so,' says i to myself, 'this is true spoil of war, and in especial for my master!'" johnnie took the sword, looked at it for a moment, and then unbuttoned his own belt and girded it on. "so shall it be for a remembrance to me," he said, "for now and always." but he did not need to use it. madame's exertions had been sufficient. her shrill, angry voice had wakened the watermen. they rose to their feet, wiped their eyes, and, seeing persons of quality before them, they hastened down the little hard and embarked the company in their wherry. then they pulled out into the stream. the tide was running fast and free towards the nore, but they made for a large ship of quite six hundred tons, which was at anchor in mid-stream. when they came up to it, and caught the hanging ladder upon the quarter with a boat-hook, the deck was already busy with seamen in red caps, and a tarry, bearded old salt, his head tied up in a woollen cloth, was standing on the high poop, and cursing the men below. madame la motte saw him first. she put two fat fingers in her mouth and gave a long whistle, like a street boy. the captain looked round him, up into the rigging where the sailors were already busy upon the yards, looked to his right, looked to his left, and then straight down from the poop upon the starboard quarter, and saw madame la motte. he stumbled down the steps on to the main deck, and peered over the bulwarks. "mother of god!" he cried, "and what's this, so early in the morning?" the old frenchwoman shrieked up at him in her broken english. "_tiens! tiens!_ send your men to help us up, captain clark. thou art not awake. do as i tell you." the captain rubbed his eyes again, called out some orders, and in a moment or two johnnie had mounted the ladder, and stood upon the deck. "now the ladies," he said in a quick, authoritative voice. elizabeth came up to the side, and then it was the question of madame la motte. john hull stood in the tossing, heaving wherry, and gave the woman her first impetus. she clawed the side ropes, cursing and spitting like a cat as she did so, mounting the low waist of the ship like a great black slug. as soon as she got within arm's length of the captain and a couple of sailors, they caught her and heaved her on board as if she had been a sack, and within ten seconds afterwards john hull, with the leather bag over his shoulder, stood on the deck beside them. johnnie felt in his pocket and found some coins there. he flung them over to the watermen, and they fell in the centre of the boat as it sheered off. mr. clark, captain of the _st. iago_, was now very wide awake. "i will thank ye, madame," he said, "to explain your boarding of my ship with your friends." the quick-witted frenchwoman went up to him, put her fat arms round his neck, pulled his head down, and spoke in his ear for a minute. when she had finished the captain raised his head, scratched his ear, and looked doubtfully at commendone, elizabeth, and john hull. "well," he said, in a thick voice, "since you say it, i suppose i must, though there is little accommodation on board for the likes of you. you pay your passage, madame, i suppose?" "phut! i will make you rich." the captain's eyes contracted with leery cunning. "there is more in this than meets mine eye--that ye should be so eager to leave london. what have ye done, that is what i would like to know? i must inquire into this, though we are due to sail. i must send a man ashore to speak with the sheriff----" "the sheriff! and where would any of your dirty sailors find the sheriff at this hour of the morning? you'll lose the tide, master clark, and you'll lose your money, too." the captain scratched his head again. "natheless, i am not sure," he began. then johnnie stepped forward. "captain clark?" he said, in short, quick accents of authority. "that am i," said the captain. "very good. then you will take these ladies and bestow them as well as you are able, and you will set sail at once. this ship, i believe, belongs to his worship the alderman, master robert cressemer?" the captain touched his forehead. "yes, sir, indeed she does," he answered, in a very different voice. johnnie, from where he had been standing, had looked down into the waist, and had seen the great bags of wool with the alderman's trade-mark upon them. "very well," he said, "you'll heave anchor at once, and this is my warrant." he put his hand into his doublet and pulled out the alderman's letter. he showed him the last paragraph of it. it was enough. "i crave your pardon, master," the captain said. "i did not know that you came from his worship. that old moll, i was ready to oblige her, though it seemed a queer thing her coming aboard just as we were setting sail. why did you not speak at first, sir? well, all is right. the wind is favourable, and off we go." turning away from johnnie, he rushed up to the poop again, put his hand to his mouth, and bellowed out a crescendo of orders. the yards swarmed with men, there was a "heave ho and a rumbelow," a clanking of the winch as the anchor came up, a flapping of unfurled topsails at the three square-rigged masts, and in five minutes more the _st. iago_ began to move down the river. johnnie walked along the open planking of the waist, mounted to the poop, and heard the "lap, lap" and ripple of the river waves against the rudder. he turned and saw not far away to his left the white tower growing momentarily more distinct and clear in the dawn. the whole of the palace and citadel was clear to view, the two flags of england and spain were just hoisted, running out before the breeze. to his left, as he turned right round, were huddled houses at the southern end of london bridge. in one of them, empty, lit and blown through by the morning winds, his most catholic majesty was lying, silent and helpless. he turned again, looked forward, and took in a great breath of the salt air. the cordage began to creak, the sails to belly out, the hoarse voice of the pilot by johnnie's side to call directions. presently sheppey island came into view, and the sky above it was all streaked with the promise of daylight. regardless of captain clark and two other men, who were busied coiling ropes and making the poop ship-shape for the channel, johnnie fell upon his knees, brought the cross-belt of the king's sword to his lips, and thanked god that he was away with his love. chapter viii "why, who but you, johnnie!" three weeks and two days had passed, and the _st. iago_ was off lisbon, and at anchor. the sun beat down upon the decks, the pitch bubbled in the seams, but now and then a cool breeze came off the land. the city with its long white terraces of houses shimmered in a haze of heat, but on the west side of the valley in which the city lay, the florid gothic of the great church of st. jerome, built just five-and-fifty years before, was perfectly clear-cut against the sapphire sky--burnt into a vast enamel of blue, it seemed; bright grey upon blue, with here and there a twinkling spot of gold crowning the towers. twenty-three days the ship had taken to cut through the long oily atlantic swell and come to port. there had been no rough winds in the bay, no tempests such as make it terrible for mariners at other times of the year. * * * * * when they had arrived on board, and the ship had got out of the thames, none of the four fugitives had the slightest idea as to where they were going--madame la motte least of all. the relief at their escape had been too great; strangely enough, they had not even enquired. the old frenchwoman, as soon as the ship was under way, and captain clark could attend to her, had gone below with him for half an hour; while johnnie, hull, and elizabeth remained upon the poop. when la motte returned, the captain was smiling. there was a genial twinkle in his eye. he came up to the others in a very friendly fashion. "s'death," he said, "i am in luck's way. here you are, master commendone, that are my owner's friend and bear a letter from him; and here is mistress la motte, whom i have known long agone. by carrying ye to cadiz i shall be earning the alderman's gratitude, and also good red coins of the mint, which madame hath now paid me." "cadiz?" johnnie said. "cadiz in spain?" "that fair city and none other," the captain answered. "heaven favouring us, we shall bowl along to the city of wine, of fruit, and of fish. you shall sip the sherries of jerez and san lucar, and eke taste the soup of lobsters--langosta, they call it--and _bouillabaisse_ in the southern parts of france--upon the island of san leon, where the folk do go upon a sunday for that refection. but now come you down below and see to your quarters. i have given up my cabin to the ladies, and you, sir," he turned to johnnie, "must turn in with me, to which end i have commandeered the cabin of master mew, that is my chief officer, and a merry fellow from the isle of wight, who will sing you a right good catch of an evening, i'll warrant. and as for this your servant, the bo'son will look to him, and he will not be among the men." they had gone below, and everything was arranged accordingly. the quarters were more comfortable than commendone had expected, and as far as this part of the expedition was concerned all was well. nevertheless, as johnnie came up again upon the poop with the captain, he was in great perturbation. they were sailing to spain! to the very country which was ruled by the man he had so evilly entreated. might it not well be that, escaping scylla, they were sailing into the whirlpool of charybdis? the captain seemed to divine something of the young man's thoughts. he sat down upon a coil of rope and looked upward with a shrewd and weather-beaten eye. "look you here, master," he said. "why you came aboard my ship i know not. you caught me as i was weighing anchor. thou art a gentleman of condition, and yet you come aboard with no mails, and nothing but that in which you stand up. and you come aboard in company with that old moll of flanders, la motte--no fit company for a gentleman upon a voyage. and furthermore, you have with you a young and well-looking lady, who also hath no baggage with her. i tell you truly that i would not have shipped you all had it not been for the letter of his worship the alderman--whose hand of write i know very well upon bills of lading and such. i like the look of you, and as madame there has paid me well, 'tis no business of mine what you are doing or have done. but look you here, if that pretty young mistress is being forced to come with you against her will--and what else can i think when i see her in the company of old moll?--then i will be a party to nothing of the sort. i am not a married man, not regular church-sworn, that is, though i have a woman friend or two in this port or that. and moreover, i have been oft-times to visit the house with the red door. so you'll see i am no puritan. but at the same time i will be no help to the ravishing of maids of gentle blood, and that i ask you well to believe, master." johnnie heard him patiently to the end. "let me tell you this, captain," he said, "that in what i am doing there is no harm of any sort. mistress taylor, which is the name of the younger lady, is the ward of mr. robert cressemer. the alderman is my very good friend. my father, sir henry commendone, of commendone in kent, is his constant friend and correspondent. the young lady was taken away yesterday from her guardian's care, taken in secret by some one high about the court--from which i also come, being a gentleman in the following of king philip. late last night, i received a letter from the alderman, telling me of this, upon which i and my servant immediately set out for where we thought to find the stolen lady, in that we might rescue her. she had been taken, shame that it should be said, to the house of madame la motte in duck lane. from there we took her, but in the taking i slew a most unknightly knight of the court, and offered a grave indignity to one placed even more highly than he was. of necessity, therefore, we fled from that ill-famed house. madame la motte brought us to your ship, knowing you. her we had to take with us, for if not, vengeance would doubtless have fallen upon her for what i did. and that, captain clark, is my whole story. as regards the future, madame la motte, you say, hath paid you well. i have no money with me, but i am the son of a rich man, and moreover, i can draw upon mr. cressemer for anything i require. gin you take us safely to cadiz, i will give you such a letter to the alderman as will ensure your promotion in his service, and will also be productive of a sum of money for you. i well know that master cressemer would give a bag of ducats more than you could lift, to secure the safety of mistress taylor." the captain nodded. "hast explained thyself very well, sir," he replied. "as for the money, i am already paid, though if there is more to come, the better i shall be pleased. but now that i know your state and condition, and have heard your story, rest assured that i will do all i can to help you. we touch at lisbon first. there you can purchase proper clothing for yourself and those who are with you, and there also you can indite a letter to the alderman, which will go to him by an english ship very speedily. you have told your tale, and i ask to know no more. i would not know any more, i' faith, even if thou wert to press the knowledge on me. now do not answer me in what i am about to say, which, in brief, is this: we of the riverside have heard talk and rumours. we know very well who hath now and then been a patron of la motte. it may be that you have come across and offered indignity to the person of whom i speak--i am no fool, mr. commendone, and gentlemen of your degree do not generally come aboard a vessel in the tideway at early dawn in company of a mistress of a house with a red door! if what i say is true--and i do not wish you to deny or to affirm upon the same--then you are as well in cadiz as anywhere else. it is, indeed, a far cry from the tower of london, and no one will know who you are in spain." instinctively johnnie held out his hand, and the big seaman clasped it in his brown and tarry fist. "yes," he said slowly, in answer, weighing his words as he did so, "doubtless we shall be safe in spain for a time, until advices can reach us from england with money and reports of what has happened." "i said so," captain clark answered, "and now you see it also. mark you, any vengeance that might fall upon you could only be secret, because--if it is as i think, and, indeed, well believe--the person who has suffered indignity at your hands could not confess to it, for reason of his state, and where it was he suffered it. in spain it would be different, but who's to know that you are in spain--for a long time, at any rate?" "and by that time," johnnie replied, "i shall hope to have gone farther afield, and be out of the fire of any one to hurt me. but there is this, captain, which you must consider, sith you have opened your mind to me as i to you. enquiry will be made; the wharfingers who brought us aboard may be discovered, and will speak. it will be known--at any rate it _may_ be known--that you and your ship were the instruments of our escape. and how will you do then?" "i like you for saying that," said the captain, "seeing that you are, as it were, in my power. but alarm yourself not at all, master commendone." he rose from the coil of hemp where he had been sitting and spat out into the sea. "by'r lady," he cried, "and dost think that an honest british seafaring man fears anything that a rascally, yellow-faced, jelly-gutted lot of spanish toads, that have fastened them on to our fair england, can do? why! as thinking is now, in the city of london, my owner, master cressemer, and three or four others with him, could put such pressure upon whitehall that ne'er a word would be said. it is them that hath the money, and the train bands at their back, that both pay the piper and call the tune in london city." "i'm glad you take it that way, captain," commendone said, "but i felt bound in duty to put your risk before you. yet if it is as you say, and the power of the merchant princes of the city is so great, why do those about the queen burn and throw in prison so many good men for their religion?" "ah, there you have me," said the captain. "religion is a very different thing--a plague to religion, say i--though i would not say it unless i were walking my own deck and upon the high seas. but, look you, religion is very different. they can burn a man for his religion in england, but if he is in otherwise right, according to the powers that be, they cannot make religion a mere excuse for burning him. now i myself am a good catholic mariner"--he put his tongue in his cheek as he spoke--"when i am ashore i take very good care--these days--to be regular at mass. and this ship hath been baptised by a priest withal! make your mind at rest; they cannot touch me in england for taking of you away. there is too much at my back! and they cannot touch me in spain because no one will know anything about it there. and now 'tis time for dinner. so come you down. there's a piece of pickled beef that hath been in the pot this long time, and good green herbs with it too--the want of which you will feel ere ever you make the tagus." * * * * * it is astonishing--although the observation is trite--how soon people adapt themselves to entirely new conditions of life. the environment of yesterday seems like the experience of another life; that of to-day, though we have but just experienced it, becomes already a thing of use and wont. it was thus with the fugitives. they were not three days out from london river before they had shaken down into their places and life had become normal to them all. it was not, of course, without its discomforts. hull, messing with the bo'son, was very well off and speedily became popular with every one. the brightness and cheeriness of the fellow's disposition made him hail and happy met with all of them, while his great personal strength and general handiness detracted nothing from his popularity. madame la motte, wicked old soldier of fortune as she was, adapted herself to her surroundings with true and cynical french philosophy. she, who was used to live in the greatest personal luxury, put up with the rough fare, the confined quarters, with equanimity, though it was fortunate that their passage was smooth, and that all the time the sea was tranquil as a pond. she was accustomed to drink fine french and italian wines--and to drink a great deal of them. now she found, perforce, consolation in captain clark's puncheons of antwerp spirit, the white fiery _schiedam_. she was a drunkard, this engaging lady, and imbibed great quantities of liquor, much to the satisfaction of the captain, who was paid for it in good coin of the realm. the woman never became confused or intoxicated by what she drank. towards the end of the day she became a little sentimental, and was wont to talk overmuch of her good birth, to expatiate upon the fallen glories of her family. nevertheless, no single word escaped her which could shock or enlighten the sensitive purity of the young girl who was now in her charge. there must have been some truth in her stories, because commendone, who was a thoroughly well-bred man, could see that her manners were those of his own class. there was certainly a free-and-easiness, a rakish _bonhomie_, and a caustic wit which was no part of the attributes of the great ladies johnnie had met--always excepting the wit. this side of the old woman came from the depths into which she had descended; but in other essentials she was a lady, and the young man, with his limited experience of life, marvelled at it, and more than once thanked god that things were no worse. it was during this strange voyage that he learnt, or began to learn, that great lesson of _tolerance_, which was to serve him so well in his after life. he realised that there was good even in this unclean old procuress; that she had virtues which some decent women he had known had lacked. she tended elizabeth with a maternal care; the girl clung to her, became fond of her at once, and often said to johnnie how kind the woman was to her and what an affection she inspired. reflecting on these things in the lonely watches of the night, commendone saw his views of life perceptibly changing and becoming softened. this young man, so carefully trained, so highly educated, so exquisitely refined in thought and behaviour, found himself feeling a real friendship and something akin to tenderness for this kindly, battered jetsam of life. she spoke frankly to him about her dreadful trade of the past, regarding it philosophically. there was a demand; fortune or fate had put her in the position of supplying that demand. _il faut vivre_--and there you were! and yet it was a most singular contradiction that this woman, who for so long had exploited and sold womanhood, was now as kind and tender, as scrupulous and loving to elizabeth taylor as if the girl was her own daughter. it was not without great significance, johnnie remembered, that the soul of the canaanitish harlot was the first that christ redeemed. with elizabeth--and surely there was never a stranger courting--johnnie sank at once into the position of her devoted lover. it seemed inevitable. there was no prelude to it; there were no hesitations; it just happened, as if it were a thing pre-ordained. from the very first the girl accepted him as her natural protector; she looked up to him in all things; he became her present and her horizon. it was on one lovely night, when the moon was rising, the winds were soft and low, and the stars came out in the dark sky like golden rain, that he first spoke to her of what was to happen. it was all quite simple, though inexpressibly sweet. they were alone together in the forward part of the ship, and suddenly he took her slim white hand--like a thing of carved and living ivory--and held it close to his heart. "my dear," he said, in a voice tremulous with feeling, "my dear lizzie, you are my love and my lady. when first i saw you outside st. botolph his church, so slim and sorrowful in the grey dawning, my heart was pierced with love for you, and during the sad day that came i vowed that i would devote my life to loving you, and that if god pleased thou shouldst be my little wife. wilt marry me, darling? nay, thou _must_ marry me, for i need you so sore, to be mine for ever both here in this mortal world and afterwards with god and his angels. tell me, sweetheart, wilt marry me?" she looked up in his face, and the little hand upon his heart trembled as she did so. "why, johnnie," she answered at length, "why, johnnie, who could i marry but you?" he gathered the sweet and fragrant simplicity to him; he kissed the soft scarlet mouth, his strong arms were a home for her. "or ever we get to seville," he said, "we will be married, sweetheart, and never will we part from that day." she echoed him. "never part!" she said. "oh, johnnie, my true love; my dear and darling johnnie!" * * * * * at lisbon, where they lay five days, madame la motte and elizabeth went ashore, and purchased suitable clothes and portmanteaux, while johnnie also fitted himself out afresh. madame la motte had brought a very large sum with her in carefully hoarded gold, while she had also carried away all her jewels, which, in themselves, were worth a small fortune. she placed the whole of her money at commendone's disposal, and made him take charge of it, with an airy generosity which much touched the young man. he explained to her that in the course of three months or so any money that he needed would reach him from england, and that she would be repaid, but she hardly seemed to hear him and waved such suggestion away. and it is a most curious thing that not till a long time afterward did it ever occur to the young man how and in what way the money he was using had been earned. the realisation of that was to come to him later; the time was not yet. at lisbon the passengers on board the _st. iago_ were added to. a small yellow-faced spaniard of very pleasant manners--don pedro perez by name--bought a passage to cadiz from captain clark, and there was another fellow of the lower classes, a tall, athletic young man, very much of johnnie's build, though with a heavy and rather cruel face, who also joined the vessel. this person, who paid the captain a small sum to be carried to the great port, lived with the sailors, and interfered nothing with the life of the others. don perez proved himself an amusing companion and was very courteous to the ladies. from him johnnie made many enquiries and learnt a good deal of what he wanted to know. it will be remembered that commendone's mother was a spaniard, a girl of the senebria family of seville. johnnie knew little of his relations on his mother's side, but old sir henry still kept up some slight intercourse with don josé senebria, the brother of his late wife. now and again a cask of wine and some pottles of olives arrived at commendone, and occasionally the knight returned the present, sending out bales of flemish cloth. it was johnnie's purpose to immediately proceed from cadiz to seville after their arrival at the port. he learnt with satisfaction that don josé still inhabited the old family palace by the giralda, and he felt that he would at least be among friends and sure of a welcome. while the _st. iago_ lay at lisbon, two days before she set sail from there, an english ship arrived, and from that time until she weighed anchor johnnie and none of his companions went ashore. it was extremely unlikely that they would incur any danger, for the _queen mary_, which was the name of the ship, must have sailed at very much the same time as they did. it was as well, however, to undergo no unnecessary risks. on the day before the _st. iago_ sailed for cadiz a great spanish galley came up the tagus, a long and splendid ship, gliding swiftly up the river with its two banks of oars. it was the first galley johnnie had ever seen, and he shuddered as he thought of the chained slaves below, who propelled that sort of vessel, which was spoken of in england as a floating hell. the galley lay at lisbon for several hours, and then at evening left the wharf where she had been tied and once more went down the river for the open sea. johnnie was on deck as she passed, just about sunset, and watched with great interest, for the galley crossed the stern of the _st. iago_ only fifty yards away from him. he heard the regular machine-like chunking of the oars; he heard also a sharper, more pistol-like sound, which he knew was none other than the cracking of the overseers' whips, as they flogged the slaves to greater exertions. he did not see that among a little group of people upon the high castellated poop of the galley there was one figure, a tall figure, muffled in a cloak, and with a broad-brimmed spanish hat low upon its face, who started and peered eagerly at him as the ship went by. nor did he hear a low chuckle of amusement which came from that cloaked figure. elizabeth was standing by his side. he turned to her. "let us go below," he said; "they will be bringing supper. sweetheart, i feel sad to think of those wretched men that pull that splendid ship so swiftly through the seas." chapter ix "misericordia et justitia" (_the ironic motto of the spanish inquisition_) they had passed cape de st. vincent, and, under a huge copper-coloured moon which flooded the sea with light and seemed like a chased buckler of old rome, were slipping along towards faro, southwards and eastwards to cadiz. the night was fair, sweet, and golden. the airs which filled the sails of the square-rigged ship were soft and warm. the "lap, lap" of the small waves upon the cutwater was soothing and in harmony with the hour. elizabeth had been sleeping in the cabin long since, but commendone, old madame la motte, and the little weazened don perez were sitting on the forecastle deck together, among the six brass carronades which were mounted there, ready loaded, in case of an attack by the pirates of tangier. "you were going to tell us, señor," johnnie said, "something of the holy office, and why, when you leave seville, you leave spain for ever." don perez nodded. he rose to his feet and peered round the wooden tower of the forecastle, which nearly filled the bow-deck. "there is nobody there," he said, with a little sigh of relief. "that fellow we took aboard at lisbon is down in the waist with the mariners." "but why do you fear him?" johnnie answered in surprise. the little yellow man plucked at his pointed black beard, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke. "have you noticed his hands, señor?" he asked. "since you say so," johnnie replied, with wonder in his voice, "i have noticed them. he is a proper young man of his inches, strong and an athlete, though i like not his face. but his hands are out of all proportion. they are too large, and the thumbs too broad--indeed, i have never seen thumbs like them upon a hand before." don pedro perez nodded significantly. "_ciertamenta_," he answered dryly. "it is hereditary; it comes of his class. he is a sworn torturer of the holy office." johnnie shuddered. they had been speaking in spanish. now he exclaimed in his own tongue. "good god!" he said, "how horrible!" perez grinned sadly and cynically as the moonlight fell upon his yellow face. "you may well start, señor," he said, "but you know little of the land to which you are going yet." there came a sudden, rapid exclamation in french. madame la motte, speaking in that slow, frightened voice which had been hers throughout the voyage, was interposing. "i don't understand," she said, "but i want to hear what the gentleman has to say. he speaks french; let us therefore use that language." don perez bowed. "i am quite agreeable," he said; "but i doubt, madame, that you will care to hear all i was going to tell the señor here." "phut!" said the frenchwoman. "i know more evil things than you or don commendone have ever dreamed of. say what you will." don perez drew a little nearer to the others, squatting down, with his head against the bow-men's tower. "you have asked me about the inquisition, monsieur and madame," he said in a low voice, "and as ye are going to seville, i will tell you, for you have been courteous and kind to me since i left lisbon, and you may as well be warned. i am peculiarly fitted to tell you, because my brother--god and our lady rest his blood-stained soul!--was a notary of the holy office at seville. we are, originally, lisbon people, and my brother was paying a visit to his family, being on leave from his duties. he caught fever and died, and i am bearing back his papers with me to seville, from which city i shall depart as soon as may be. it is only care for my own skin that makes me act thus as executor to my brother, garcia perez. did i not, they would seek me out wherever i might be." "you go in fear, then?" johnnie asked curiously. "all spaniards go in fear," perez answered, "under this reign. it is the horror of the inquisition that while any one may be haled before it on a complaint which is anonymous, hardly any one ever escapes certain penalties. señor," his voice trembled, and a deep note of feeling came into it, "if the fate of that wretch is heavy who, being innocent of heresy, will not confess his guilt, and is therefore tortured until he confesses imaginary guilt, and is then burned to death, hardly less is the misery of the victim who recants or repenteth and is freed from the penalty of death." "_tiens!_" said la motte, shuddering. "i have heard somewhat of this in paris; but continue, monsieur, continue." "no one knows," the little man answered, "how the holy office is striking at the root of all national life in my country. and no one has a better knowledge of it all at second hand--for, thank our lady, i have never yet been suspected or arraigned--than i myself, for my brother being for long notary and secretary to the grand inquisitor of seville, i have heard much. now i must tell you, that the place of torture is generally an underground and very dark room, to which one enters through several doors. there is a tribunal erected in it, where the inquisitor, inspector, and secretary sit. when the candles are lighted, and the person to be tortured is brought in, the executioner, who is waiting for him, makes an astonishing and dreadful appearance. he is covered all over with black linen garments down to his feet and tied close to his body. his head and face are all hidden with a long black cowl, only two little holes being left in it for him to see through. all this is intended to strike the miserable wretch with greater terror in mind and body, when he sees himself going to be tortured by the hands of one who thus looks like the very devil." johnnie moved uneasily in his seat and struck the breech of a carronade with his open hand. "phew! devil's tricks indeed," he said. "whilst," don perez went on, "whilst the officers are getting things ready for the torture, the bishop and inquisitor by themselves, and other men zealous for the faith, endeavour to persuade the person to be tortured freely to confess the truth, and if he will not, they order the officers to strip him, who do it in an instant. "whilst the person to be tortured is stripping, he is persuaded to confess the truth. if he refuses it, he is taken aside by certain men and urged to confess, and told by them that if he confesses he will not be put to death, but only be made to swear that he will not return to the heresy he hath abjured. if he is persuaded neither by threatenings nor promises to confess his crime, he is tortured either more lightly or grievously according as his crime requires, and frequently interrogated during the torture upon those articles for which he is put to it, beginning with the lesser ones, because they think he would sooner confess the lesser matters than the greater." "criminals are racked in england," johnnie said, "and are flogged most grievously, as well they deserve, i do not doubt." perez chuckled. "aye," he said, "that i well know; but you have nothing in england like the holy office. but let me tell you more as to the law of it, for, as i have said, my brother was one of them." he went on in a low regular voice, almost as if he were repeating something learned by rote.... "what think you of this? the inquisitors themselves must interrogate the criminals during their torture, nor can they commit this business to others unless they are engaged in other important affairs, in which case they may depute certain skilful men for the purpose. "although in other nations criminals are publicly tortured, yet in spain it is forbidden by the royal law for any to be present whilst they are torturing, besides the judges, secretaries, and torturers. the inquisitors must also choose proper torturers, born of ancient christians, who must be bound by oath by no means to discover their secrets, nor to report anything that is said. "the judges also shall protest that if the criminal should happen to die under his torture, or by reason of it, or should suffer the loss of any of his limbs, it is not to be imputed to them, but to the criminal himself, who will not plainly confess the truth before he is tortured. "a heretic may not only be interrogated concerning himself, but in general also concerning his companions and accomplices in his crime, his teachers and his disciples, for he ought to discover them, though he be not interrogated; but when he is interrogated concerning them, he is much more obliged to discover them than his accomplices in any other the most grievous crimes. "a person also suspected of heresy and fully convicted may be tortured upon another account, that is, to discover his companions and accomplices in the crime. this must be done when he hesitates, or it is half fully proved, at least, that he was actually present with them, or he hath such companions and accomplices in his crime; for in this case he is not tortured as a criminal, but as a witness. "but he who makes full confession of himself is not tortured upon a different account; whereas if he be a negative he may be tortured upon another account, to discover his accomplices and other heretics though he be full convicted himself, and it be half fully proved that he hath such accomplices. "the reason of the difference in these cases is this, because he who confesses against himself would certainly much rather confess against other heretics if he knew them. but it is otherwise when the criminal is a negative. "while these things are doing, the notary writes everything down in the process, as what tortures were inflicted, concerning what matters the prisoner was interrogated, and what he answered. "if by these tortures they cannot draw from him a confession, they show him other kind of tortures, and tell him he must undergo all of them, unless he confesses the truth. "if neither by these means they can extort the truth, they may, to terrify him and engage him to confess, assign the second or third day to continue, not to repeat, the torture, till he hath undergone all those kinds of them to which he is condemned." "it is bitter cruel," madame la motte said, "bitter cruel. it is not honest torture such as we have in paris." commendone shuddered. "honest torture!" he said. "there is no torture which is honest, nor could be liked by christ our lord. i saw a saint burned to his death a few weeks agone. it taught me a lesson." the little spaniard tittered. "it must be! it must be!" he said; "and who are you and i, señor, to flout the decrees of holy church? the burning doth not last for long. i have seen a many burned upon the quemadero, and twenty minutes is the limit of their suffering. it is not so in the dungeons of the holy office." "what then do they do?" madame la motte asked eagerly, though she trembled as she asked it--morbid excitement alone being able to thrill her vicious, degenerate blood. "the degrees of torture are five, which are inflicted in turn," perez answered briskly. "first, the being threatened to be tortured; secondly, being carried to the place of torture; thirdly, by stripping and binding; fourthly, the being hoisted on the rack; fifthly, squassation. "the stripping is performed without any regard to humanity or honour, not only to men, but to women and virgins, though the most virtuous and chaste, of whom they have sometimes many in their prison at seville. for they cause them to be stripped even to their very shifts, which they afterwards take off, forgive the expression, and then put on them straight linen drawers, and then make their arms naked quite up to their shoulders.--you ask me what is squassation?" nobody had asked him, but he went on: "it is thus performed: the prisoner hath his hands bound behind his back and weights tied to his feet, and then he is drawn up on high till his head reaches the very pulley. he is kept hanging in this manner for some time, that by the greatness of the weight hanging at his feet, all his joints and limbs may be dreadfully stretched, and on a sudden he is let down with a jerk by slacking the rope, but kept from coming quite to the ground, by the which terrible shake his arms and legs are all disjointed, whereby he is put to the most exquisite pain; the shock which he receives by the sudden stop of the fall, and the weight at his feet, stretching his whole body more intently and cruelly." johnnie jumped up from the deck and stretched his arms. "what fiends be these!" he cried. "is there no justice nor true legal process in spain?" "holy church! holy church, señor!" the don replied. "but sit you down again. sith you are going to seville, as i understand you to say, let me tell you what happened to a noble lady of that city, joan bohorquia, the wife of francis varquius, a very eminent man and lord of highuera, and daughter of peter garcia xeresius, a most wealthy citizen. all this i tell you of my personal knowledge, in that my brother was acquainted with it all and part of the machinery of the holy office. and this is a most sad and pitiful story, which, señor englishman, you would think a story of the doings of devils from hell! but no! 'twas all done by the priests of jesus our lord; and so now to my story. "eight days after her delivery they took the child from her, and on the fifteenth shut her close up, and made her undergo the fate of the other prisoners, and began to manage her with their usual arts and rigour. in so dreadful a calamity she had only this comfort, that a certain pious young woman, who was afterwards burned for her religion by the inquisitors, was allowed her for her companion. "this young creature was, on a certain day, carried out to her torture, and being returned from it into her jail, she was so shaken, and had all her limbs so miserably disjointed, that when she laid upon her bed of rushes it rather increased her misery than gave her rest, so that she could not turn herself without most excessive pain. "in this condition, as bohorquia had it not in her power to show her any or but very little outward kindness, she endeavoured to comfort her mind with great tenderness. "the girl had scarce begun to recover from her torture, when bohorquia was carried out to the same exercise, and was tortured with such diabolical cruelty upon the rack, that the rope pierced and cut into the very bones in several places, and in this manner she was brought back to prison, just ready to expire, the blood immediately running out of her mouth in great plenty. undoubtedly they had burst her bowels, insomuch that the eighth day after her torture she died. "and when, after all, they could not procure sufficient evidence to condemn her, though sought after and procured by all their inquisitorial arts, yet as the accused person was born in that place, where they were obliged to give some account of the affair to the people, and, indeed, could not by any means dissemble it, in the first act of triumph appointed her death, they commanded her sentence to be pronounced in these words: 'because this lady died in prison (without doubt suppressing the causes of it), and was found to be innocent upon inspecting and diligently examining her cause, therefore the holy tribunal pronounces her free from all charges brought against her by the fiscal, and absolving her from any further process, doth restore her both as to her innocence and reputation, and commands all her effects, which had been confiscated, to be restored to those to whom they of right belonged, etc.' and thus, after they had murdered her by torture with savage cruelty, they pronounced her innocent!" "i will not go to spain! they'll have me; they're bound to have me! i dare not go!" la motte spluttered. "hush, madame!" said perez. "even here on the high seas you do not know who hears you--there is that man...." again johnnie leapt to his feet; he paced up and down the little portion of the deck between the forecastle and bowsprit. elizabeth was sleeping quietly down below. he had seen her father die. his mind whirled. "jesus!" he said in a low voice, "and is this indeed thy world, when men who love thee must die for a shadow of belief in their worship! surely some savage pagan god would not exact this from his votaries." he swung round to perez, still sitting upon the deck. "and may not we love god and his mother in spain?" he asked, "without definitions and little tiny rules? then, if this is so, god indeed hides his face from christian countries." "_chiton!_" the spaniard said. "hush! if you said that, señor, or anything like it, where you are going, you would not be twelve hours out of the prisons of the holy office. if that hang-faced dog who is down below with the mariners had heard you, you might well look to your landing in the dominions of his most catholic majesty." he laughed, a bitter and cynical laugh. "well," he said, "for my part, i shall soon be done with it. hitherto i have been protected by my brother, who, as i have told you, is but lately dead; but, knowing what i know, i dare no longer remain in spain. 'tis a wonder to me, indeed, that men can go about their business under the sun in the fashion that they do. but i am not strong enough to endure the strain, and also i know more than the ordinary--i know too much. so when i have delivered the papers that i carry of my brother's to the authorities in seville, i sail away. i have enough money to live in ease for the rest of my life, and in some little vineyard of the apeninnes i shall watch my grapes ripen, live a simple life, and meditate upon the ferocity of men.--but you have not heard all yet, señor." johnnie leant against the forecastle, tall and silent in the moonlight. "then tell me more, señor," he said; "it is well to know all. but"--he looked at madame la motte. "_continuez_," the old creature answered in a cracked voice; "i also would hear it all, if, indeed, there is worse than this." "worse!" perez answered. "let me tell you of the fate of a man i knew well, and liked withal. he was a jew, señor, but nevertheless i liked him well. we had dealings together, and i found him more honest in his walking than many a christian man. orobio was his name--isaac orobio, doctor of physic, who was accused to the inquisition as a jew by a certain moor, his servant, who had, by his order, before this been whipped for thieving. orobio conformed to religion, but the moor accused him, and four years after this he was again accused by an enemy of his, for another fact which would have proved him a jew. but orobio obstinately denied that he was one." "i like not jews," commendone said, with a little shudder, voicing the popular hatred of the day. "art young, señor," the spaniard replied, "and doubtless thou hast not known nor been friends with members of that oppressed race. i have known many, and have had sweet friends among them; and among the ebrews are to be found salt of the earth. but i will give you the story of orobio's torture as i had it from his own mouth. "after three whole years which he had been in jail, and several examinations, and the discovery of the crimes to him of which he was accused, in order to his confession and his constant denial of them, he was, at length, carried out of his jail and through several turnings and brought to the place of torture. this was towards evening. "it was a large, underground room, arched, and the walls covered with black hangings. the candlesticks were fastened to the wall, and the whole room enlightened with candles placed in them. at one end of it there was an enclosed place like a closet, where the inquisitor and notary sat at a table--that notary, señor, was my brother. the place seemed to orobio as the very mansion of death, everything appearing so terrible and awful. here the inquisitor again admonished him to confess the truth before his torment began. "when he answered he had told the truth, the inquisitor gravely protested that since he was so obstinate as to suffer the torture, the holy office would be innocent if he should shed his blood, or even expire in his torments. when he had said this, they put a linen garment over orobio's body, and drew it so very close on each side as almost to squeeze him to death. when he was almost dying, they slackened, at once, the sides of the garment, and after he began to breathe again, the sudden alteration put him to most grievous anguish and pain. when he had overcome this torture, the same admonition was repeated, that he would confess the truth in order to prevent further torment. "and as he persisted in his denial, they tied his thumbs so very tightly with small cords as made the extremities of them greatly swell, and caused the blood to spurt out from under his nails. after this, he was placed with his back against the wall and fixed upon a little bench. into the wall were fastened little iron pulleys, through which there were ropes drawn and tied round his body in several places, and especially his arms and legs. the executioner drawing these ropes with great violence, fastened his body with them to the wall, so that his hands and feet, and especially his fingers and toes, being bound so straitly with them, put him to the most exquisite pain, and seemed to him just as though he had been dissolving in flames. in the midst of these torments, the torturer of a sudden drew the bench from under him, so that the miserable wretch hung by the cords without anything to support him, and by the weight of his body drew the knots yet much closer. "after this a new kind of torture succeeded. there was an instrument like a small ladder, made of two upright pieces of wood and five cross ones, sharpened before. this the torturer placed over against him, and by a certain proper motion struck it with great violence against both his shins, so that he received upon each of them, at once, five violent strokes, which put him to such intolerable anguish that he fainted away. after he came to himself they inflicted on him the last torture. "the torturer tied ropes round orobio's wrists, and then put those ropes about his own back, which was covered with leather to prevent his hurting himself. then, falling backwards, and putting his feet up against the wall, he drew them with all his might till they cut through orobio's flesh, even to the very bones; and this torture was repeated thrice, the ropes being tied about his arms, about the distance of two fingers' breadth from his former wound, and drawn with the same violence. "but it happened to poor orobio that as the ropes were drawing the second time they slid into the first wound, which caused so great an effusion of blood that he seemed to be dying. upon this, the physician and surgeon, who are always ready, were sent for out of a neighbouring apartment, to ask their advice, whether the torture could be continued without danger of death, lest the ecclesiastical judges should be guilty of an irregularity if the criminal should die in his torments. "now they, señor, who were very far from being enemies to orobio, answered that he had strength enough to endure the rest of the torture. and by doing this they preserved him from having the torture he had already endured repeated on him, because his sentence was that he should suffer them all at one time, one after another, so that if at any time they are forced to leave off, through fear of death, the tortures, even those already suffered, must be successively inflicted to satisfy the sentence. upon this the torture was repeated the third time, and then was ended. after this orobio was bound up in his own clothes and carried back to his prison, and was scarce healed of his wounds in seventy days, and inasmuch as he made no confession under his torture, he was condemned, not as one convicted, but suspected of judaism, to wear for two whole years the infamous habit called the _sanbenito_, and it was further decreed that after that term he should suffer perpetual banishment from the kingdom of seville." the frenchwoman, who had been listening with strained attention, broke in suddenly. "_nom de dieu!_" she cried; "to be banished from there would surely be like entering into paradise!" perez went on. he took a morbid pleasure in the telling of these hideous truths. it was obvious that he had long suffered mentally under the obsession that some day some such horrors might happen to himself. connected with it all by family ties, absolutely unable to say a word for many years, now, under the sweet skies of heaven, in the calm and splendid night, he was disemburdening himself of that which had been pent within him for so long. he seemed impatient of interruption, anxious to say more.... "ah," he whispered, "but the _tormento di toca_, that is the worst, that would frighten me more than all--that, the _chafing-dish_, and the _water-cure_. the _tormento di toca_ is that the torturer--that fellow down there with the sailors has doubtless performed it full many a time--the torturer throws over the victim's mouth and nostrils a thin cloth, so that he is scarce able to breathe through it, and in the meanwhile a small stream of water, like a thread, not drop by drop, falls from on high upon the mouth of the person lying in this miserable condition, and so easily sinks down the thin cloth to the bottom of his throat, so that there is no possibility of breathing, the mouth being stopped with water, and his nostrils with the cloth, so that the poor wretch is in the same agony as persons ready to die, and breathing out their last. when the cloth is drawn out of his throat, as it often is, that he may answer to the questions, it is all wet with water and blood, and is like pulling his bowels through his mouth." "what is the _chafing-dish_?" madame la motte asked thinly. "they order a large iron chafing-dish full of lighted charcoal to be brought in and held close to the soles of the tortured person's feet, greased over with lard, so that the heat of the fire may more quickly pierce through them. and as for the _water-cure_, it was done to william lithgow, an englishman, señor, upon whom my brother saw it performed. he was taken up as a spy in malaga, and was exposed to most cruel torments as an heretic. he was condemned in the beginning of lent to suffer the night following eleven most cruel torments, and after easter to be carried privately to granada, there to be burned at midnight, and his ashes to be scattered into the air. when night came on his fetters were taken off. then he was stripped naked, put upon his knees, and his head lifted up by force, after which, opening his mouth with iron instruments, they filled his belly with water till it came out of his jaws. then they tied a rope hard about his neck, and in this condition rolled him seven times the whole length of the room, till he almost quite strangled. after this they tied a small cord about both his great toes, and hung him up thereby with his head down, letting him remain in this condition till the water discharged out of his mouth, so that he was laid on the ground as just dead, and had his irons put on him again." "is this true, señor?" commendone asked in a low voice; but even while he asked it he knew how true it was--had he not seen dr. taylor beaten to the stake? "true, señor?" the little man said. "you do not doubt my word? i see you do not. it was but a natural expression. you are fortunate to be a citizen of england--a citizen of no mean country--but still, as i have heard, now that his most catholic majesty is wedded to your kingdom there are many burnings." "at any rate," johnnie answered hotly, "we have no holy office." "aye, but you will, señor, you _will_! if the queen maria liveth long enough, for they tell me she is sickly, and not like to make a goodly age. but still, to come from england is most deadly unwise, and i cannot think why a _caballero_ should care to do so." johnnie did not answer him for a moment. he knew very well why he had cared, or dared, to do so. he looked at madame la motte with a grim little smile. the woman took him on the instant. "a chevalier, such as monsieur here, hath his own reasons for where he goes and what he does," she said. "take not upon you, monsieur perez, to enquire too much...." johnnie stopped her with a sudden exclamation. "but touching the holy office, señor," he said, "what you have told me is all very well. i am a good catholic, i trust and hope; but surely these circumstances are very occasional. you describe things which have doubtless happened, but not things which happen every day. it is impossible to believe that this is a system." "think you so?" said the little man. "then i will very soon disabuse you of any such idea. i have papers in my mails, papers of my brother's, which--why, who comes here?" his voice died away into silence, as round the other side of the wooden tower of the forecastle--with which all big merchantmen were provided in those days for defence against the enterprise of pirates--a black shadow, followed by a short, thick-set form, came into their view. johnnie recognised hull. "i thought you had been asleep," he said, "but thou art very welcome. we are talking of grave matters dealing with the foreign parts to which we go, and the señor don here hath been telling us much. still, thou wouldst not have understood hadst thou been with us, for don perez speaks naught but the spanish and the french." the little spaniard, standing up against the bulwarks, looked uneasily towards commendone and his servant, comprehending nothing of what was said. "this man is safe?" he asked in a trembling voice. "safe!" johnnie answered. "this is my faithful servant, who would die for me and the lady who is sleeping below." a freakish humour possessed him, a bitter, freakish humour, in this fantastic, brilliant moonlight, this ironic comedy upon the southern-growing seas. "take him by the hand, señor," he said in spanish, "take him by his great, strong right hand, for i'll wager you will not easily shake a hand so honest in the dominions of the king of spain to which we sail." the little man looked round him as if in fear. there was an obvious suggestion in his eyes and face that he was somehow trapped. "hold out thy hand, john hull, and shake that of this honest gentleman," johnnie said. the big brown hand of the englishman went out, the little yellow fingers of the spaniard advanced tentatively towards it. they shook hands. johnnie watched it with amusement. these dreadful stories of unthinkable cruelty had stirred up something within him. he was not cruel, but very tender-hearted, yet this little play upon the doubting spaniard was welcome and fitted in with his mood. then he saw an astonishing thing, and one which he could not explain. the two men, the huge, squat john hull of suffolk, the little weazened gentleman from lisbon, shook hands, looked at each other earnestly in the face, and then, wonder of wonders, linked arms, turned their backs upon johnnie and the sleepy old frenchwoman by the carronade, and spoke earnestly to each other for a moment. their forms were silhouetted against the silver sea. there was an inexplicable motion of arms, a word whispered and a word exchanged, and then don perez wheeled round. in the moonlight and the glimmer from the lantern on the forecastle, johnnie saw that his face, which had been twitching with anxiety, was now absolutely at rest. it was radiant even, excited, pleased--it wore the aspect of one alone among enemies who had found a friend. "'tis all right, señor," perez said. "i will go and fetch you the papers of which i spoke. you may command me in any way now. you are not yourself--by any chance...." john hull shook his head violently, and the little spaniard skipped away with a chuckle. "what is this?" john commendone asked. "how have you made quick friends with the don? what is't--art magic, or what?" "'tis nothing, sir," hull answered, with some embarrassment, "'tis but the craft." "the craft?" johnnie asked. "and what may that be?" "we're brethren, this man and i," hull answered; "we're of the freemasons, and that is why, master." johnnie nodded. he said no more. the whole thing was inexplicable to him. he knew, of course, of the freemasons, that such a society existed, but no evidence of it had ever come to his knowledge before this night. the persecution of freemasonry which was to ensue in queen elizabeth's reign was not yet, and the brethren were a very hidden people in 1555. there was a patter of feet upon the ladder leading up to the forecastle-deck. perez appeared again with a bundle of papers in his hand. "now, then, señor," he said, "you shall see if this of which i have told you is a _system_ or is not. these are documents, forms, belonging to my brother's business as notary of the holy office. thus thou wilt see." he handed a piece of parchment, printed parchment, to commendone. johnnie held it up under the light of the lantern, and read it, with a chilling of the blood. it was "the proper form of torture for women," and it was one of many forms left blank for convenience to record the various steps. as he glanced through it, his lips grew dry, his eyes, straining in the half-sufficient light, seemed to burn. there was something peculiarly terrible in the very omission of a special name, and the consequent thought of the number of wretches whose vain words and torments had been recorded upon forms like this--and were yet to be recorded--froze the young man into a still figure of horror and of silence. and this is what he read: "_she was told to tell the truth, or orders would be given to strip her. she said, etc. she was commanded to be stripped naked._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or orders would be given to cut off her hair. she said, etc._ "_orders were given to cut of her hair; and when it was taken off she was examined by the doctor and surgeon, who said there was not any objection to her being put to the torture._ "_she was told to tell the truth or she would be commanded to mount the rack. she said, etc._ "_she was commanded to mount, and she said, etc._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or her body would be bound. she said, etc. she was ordered to be bound._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or, if not, they would order her right foot to be made fast for the trampazo. she said, etc. they commanded it to be made fast._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would command her left foot to be made fast for the trampazo. she said, etc. they commanded it to be made fast. she said, etc. it was ordered to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the binding of the right arm to be stretched. she said, etc. it was commanded to be done. and the same with the left arm. it was ordered to be executed._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the fleshy part of her right arm to be made fast for the garrote. she said, etc. it was ordered to be made fast._ "_and by the said lord inquisitor, it was repeated to her many times, that she should tell the truth, and not let herself be brought into so great torment; and the physician and surgeon were called in, who said, etc. and the criminal, etc. and orders were given to make it fast._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the first turn of mancuerda. she said, etc. it was commanded to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would command the garrote to be applied again to the right arm. she said, etc. it was ordered to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the second turn of mancuerda. she said, etc. it was commanded to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the garrote to be applied again to the left arm. she said, etc. it was ordered to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the third turn of mancuerda. she said, etc. it was commanded to be done._ "_she was told to tell the truth, or they would order the trampazo to be laid on the right foot. she said, etc. it was commanded to be done._ "_for women you do not go beyond this._" johnnie finished his reading. then he tore it up into four pieces and flung it out upon the starboard bow. the yellow parchment fluttered over madame la motte's head like great moonlit moths. then he turned and stared at don pedro, almost as if he would have sprung at him. "'tis nothing of mine, señor," the little man said. "you asked me to tell you, and that i have done. i am no enemy of yours, so look not at me in that way. here"--he put his hand out and touched john hull--"here i have a very worthy brother, eke a master of mine, who will answer for me in all that i do." the old frenchwoman began to gather her vast bulk together to descend into the cabin for sleep. johnnie helped her to her feet, and as he did so a sweet tenor voice shivered out beneath the bellying sails, and there was the thrid of a lute accompanying it: "_i sail, i sail the spanish seas, hey ho, in the sun and the cloud to bring fair ladies wool to cadiz, to deck their bodies that are so proud, in the ship of st. james a mariner i_".... suddenly the voice of the singer ceased, shut off into silence. there was a half-frightened shout, a flapping of the sails as the square-rigged ship fell out of the night wind for a moment, and then a clamour of loud voices. "over the side! over the side! the man from lisbon's gone." johnnie had jumped to the port taffrail at the noise, and he saw what had happened. he saw the whole of it quite distinctly. a long, lithe figure had been balancing itself upon the bulwarks, giving its body to the gentle motion of the ship. suddenly it fell backwards, there was a resounding splash in the quiet sea, and something black was struggling and threshing in a pool of silver water. from the sea came a loud cry--"_socorro! socorro!_" from the time the splash was heard and the cry came up to the forecastle the ship had slipped a hundred yards through the still waters. johnnie jumped up upon the bulwarks, held his hands above his head for a moment, judged his distance--ships were not high out of the water in that day--and dived into the phosphorescent sea. he was lightly clad, and he swam strongly, with the long left-arm overhand stroke--conquering an element with joy in the doing of it--glad to be in wild and furious action, happy to throw off the oppression of the dreadful things which the little spaniard had droned upon the deck. he got up to the man easily enough, circled round him, as he rose splashing for the third time, and caught him under the arm-pits, lying on his back with the other above him. the man began to struggle, trying to turn and grip. johnnie raised his head a little from the water, sinking as he did so, and pulling down the other also, and shouted a spanish curse into his ear. "be quiet," he said; "lie still! if you don't i'll drown you!" commendone was a good swimmer. he had swam and dived in the lake at commendone since he was a boy. he knew now exactly what to do, and his voice, though half-strangled with the salt water, and his grip of the drowning man's arm-pits had their effect. there was a half-choked, "_si, señor_," and in twenty to thirty seconds johnnie lay back in the warm water of the atlantic, knowing that for a few minutes, at any rate, he could support the man he had come to save. it was curious that at this moment he felt no fear or alarm whatever. his whole mind was directed towards one thing--that the man he had dived to rescue would keep still. his mouth and nose were just out of the water, when suddenly there came into his mind the catch of an old song. he heard again the high, delicate notes of the queen's lute--"_time hath to siluer turn'd_...." hardly knowing what he did, he even laughed with pleasure at the memory. as that was heard, a strong, lusty voice came to him. "i'm here, master, i'm here! we shall not be long now. ah--ah-h-h!" hull, blowing like a grampus, had swam up to them. "i'll take him, master," he said; "do you rest for a moment. they'll have us out of this 'fore long." there were no life-belts invented in those days, and to lower a boat from the ship was long in doing. but the _st. iago_ was brought up with all sails standing, the boat at the stern was let down most gingerly into the sea, and four mariners rowed towards the swimming men. it was near twenty minutes before hull and commendone heard the chunk of the oars in the rowlocks. but they heard it at last. the tub-like galley shadowed them, there was a loud cry of welcome and relief, and then the two men, still grasping the inert figure of him who had fallen overboard, caught hold of the stern of the boat. willing hands hauled the half-drowned man into the boat. johnnie and hull clambered over the broad stern, sat down amid-ships, and shook themselves. the moonlight was still extraordinarily powerful, and gave a fallen day to this southern world. as commendone shot the water out of his ears, he looked upon the limp, prone figure of the man he had rescued. "_dame!_" he cried; "it is the torturer that we've been overboard for. pity we didn't let him drown." john hull had turned the figure of the spaniard upon its stomach and was working vigorously at the arms, using them like pump-handles, as the sailors got their oars into the rowlocks again, and pulled back towards the shivering, silver ship near quarter of a mile away. "i'll bring the life back to him, master," said john hull. "he's warm now--there! he's vomited a pint or more of sea-water as i speak." "i doubt he was worth saving," johnnie said in a low voice to his servant's ear. "still, he is saved, and i suppose a man like this hath a soul?" hull looked at commendone in surprise. he knew nothing about the man they had rescued; he could not understand why his master spoke in this way. but with his usual dog-like fidelity he nodded an assent, though he did not cease the pumping motion of the half-drowned man's arms. "perhaps he hath no soul, master," hull said, "you know better than i. at any rate, we have got him out of this here sea, and so praise god who hath given us the sturdiness to do it." commendone looked at his henchman and then at the slowly reviving spaniard. "amen," he said. chapter x the silent men in black "sing to us, johnnie." "_mais oui, chantez, monsieur_," said madame la motte. johnnie took up a chitarrone, the archlute, a large, double-necked spanish instrument, which lay upon a marble table by his side in the courtyard. he looked up into the sky, the painted sunset sky of spain, as if to find some inspiration there. the hum of seville came to them in an almost organ-like harmony. bells were tolling from the cathedral and the innumerable churches; pigeons were wheeling round the domes and spires; occasionally a faint burst of music reached them where they sat. the young man looked gravely at the two women. his face at this moment was singularly tranquil and refined. he was dressed with scrupulous care--the long journey over, his natural habits resumed. he had all the air and grace of a gallant in a court. he bowed to madame la motte and to his sweetheart, smiling gently at them. "by your patience, ladies," he said, "i will make endeavour to improvise for you upon a theme. we have spent this day in seeing beauties such as sure i never thought to see with my mortal eyes. we are in the land of colour, of sweet odours; the balmy smells of nard and cassia are flung about the cedarn alleys where we walk. we have sucked the liquid air in a veritable garden of the hesperides, and, indeed, i looked to see the three fair daughters of hesperus along those crispèd shades and bowers. and we have seen also"--his voice was almost dreaming as he spoke--"the greatest church e'er built to god's glory by the hand of man. 'tis indeed a mountain scooped out, a valley turned upsides. the towers of the abbey church at westminster might walk erect in the middle nave; there are pillars with the girth of towers, and which appear so slender that they make one shudder as they rise from out the ground or depend them from the gloomy roof like stalactites in the cave of a giant." madame la motte nodded, purred, and murmured to herself. the whimsical and studied court language did not now fall upon her ears for the first time. in the fashion of that age all men of culture and position learnt to talk in this fashion upon occasion, with classic allusion and in graceful prose. but to sweet elizabeth it was all new and beautiful, and as she gazed at her lover her eyes were liquid with caressing wonder, her lips curved into a bow of pride at such dear eloquence. johnnie plucked the strings of the chitarrone once or twice, and then, his eyes half closed, began a simple improvisation in a minor key, the while he lifted his voice and began to sing his ballad of evening colours: see! limner phoebus paints the sky vermilion and gold and doth with purple tapestry the waning day enfold. --the royal, lucent, tyrian dye king philip wore in thessaly. the lord of morning now doth keep herald for lady night, whose robes of black and silver sweep before his tabard bright. --all silver-soft and sable-deep, as when she brought endymion sleep! now honey-coloured luna she hath lit her lamp on high; and paleth in her majestie the twin dioscuri. --set in gold-powdered samite, she- queen of the night! queen of the sea! his voice faded away into silence; the mellow tenor ceasing in an imperceptible diminuendo of sound. there was a silence, and then lizzie's hand stole out and touched her lover's. "oh, johnnie," she said, "how gracious! and did those lovely words come into thy head as thou sangst them?" "in truth they did, fairest lady of evening," he answered, bending low over her hand. "and sure 'twas thy dear presence that sent them to me, the musick of thy voice hath breathed a soul into this lute." ... they had arrived safely in seville the night before, spending three days upon the journey from cadiz, but travelling in very pleasant and easy fashion. mr. mew, the mate of the _st. iago_, had business in the city, and while the vessel was discharging its cargo at cadiz he went up to seville and took the four travellers with him on board an _alijador_--a long barge with quarters for passengers, and a hold for cargo, which was propelled partly by oars in the narrower reaches of the river, but principally by a large lug sail. don perez had remained in cadiz, but the tall and sinister young fellow whom hull and johnnie had rescued from the atlantic came in the barge also. the fugitives from england had little to say to him, knowing what he was. alonso--which was the man's name--had been profuse in his gratitude. his profuseness, however, had been mingled with a continuous astonishment, a brutish wonder which was quite inexplicable to elizabeth. "he seemeth," she said once to her esquire, "to think as if such a deed of daring as thou didst in thy kindness for a fellow-creature in peril hath never been known in the world before!" madame la motte and commendone, however, had said nothing. they knew very well why this poor wretch, who gained his food by such a hideous calling, was amazed at his rescue. they said nothing to the girl, however, dreading that she should ever have an inkling of what the man was. on the voyage to seville, a happy, lazy time under the bright sun, johnnie could not quite understand an obvious friendship and liking which seemed to have sprung up between alonso and mr. mew, who spoke spanish very adequately. "i cannot understand," he said upon one occasion to the sturdy man from the isle of wight, "i cannot understand, sir, how you that are an english mariner can talk and consort with this tool of hell." mr. mew looked at him with a dry smile. "and yet, master," he said in the true hampshire idiom and drawl, "bless your heart, you jumped overboard for this same man!" "the case is different," johnnie said; "'twas a fellow-creature, and i did as behoved me. but that is no reason to be friendly with such a wretch." "look you, master commendone," said mr. mew, "every man to his trade. i would burn both hands, myself, before i'd live by sworn torturing. but, then, 'tis not my trade. this man's father and his brother have been doing of it almost since birth, and they do it--and sure, a good catholic like yourself," here he smiled dryly, "cannot but remember that 'tis done under the shield and order of holy church! the damned old pope hath ordered it." johnnie crossed himself. "the sovereign pontiff," he said, "hath established the holy office for punishment of heretics. but the punishment is light and without harshness in the states of his holiness. in spain 'tis a matter very different. it was under the holy father innocent iv that this tribunal was created, and the holy office in spain differed in no wise from the comparatively innocuous----" "what is that, master? that word?" "it meaneth 'harmless,' master mew. what was i saying? oh, that it differed nothing at all in spain from the harmless council which was to detect heresy and reprove it. but during the reign of our good king edward iv the holy office was changed in spain. the ebrews were plotting, or said to be plotting, against the realm, and they had come to much wealth and power. pope sixtus made many protests, but the right of appointing inquisitors and directing the operation of the holy office in spain was reserved to the spanish crown. and from this date, master mew, holy church at any rate hath disclaimed to be responsible for it. that was then and is now the true feeling of rome. 'tis true that in spain the church tolerates the inquisition, but its blood-stained acts are from the crown and such priests as are ministers of the crown." father chilches had taught johnnie his history, truly enough. but it seemed to make very little impression upon the mate. "art a gentleman," he said, "and know doubtless more than i, but such peddling with words and splicing of facts are not to my mind. the damned old pope say i, and always shall, when it's safe to speak! but the pith of our talk, master commendone, was that you would not have me give comradeship with this alonso. i see not your point of view. he is of his time and must do his duty." the mate snapped a tarry thumb and finger with a tolerant smile. "you've saved him, so that he may go on with his torturin'," he said, "and i like to talk with him because i find him a good fellow, and that is all about it, master commendone." johnnie had not got much small change from his conference with the mate, but when they arrived at seville, he saw him and the man called alonso no more, and his mind was directed upon very other things. they arrived at the city late at night, and their mails were taken to the great inn of seville known as the posada de las muñecas, or house of puppets, so called from the fact that in days gone by, at the great annual seville fair, a famous performance of marionettes had taken place in front of it. the posada was an old moorish palace, as beautiful under the sunlight as an oriental song, and when they rose in the morning and johnnie had despatched a serving-man to find if don josé senebria was in residence, he and his companions wakened to the realisation of a loveliness of which they had never dreamed. the sky was like a great hollow turquoise; the sun beat down upon the pearl of andalusia with limpid glory, and played perpetually upon the white and painted walls. the orange trees, only introduced into spain some five-and-twenty years before from asia, were globed with their golden fruit among the dark, jade-like leaves of polished green; feathery palms with their mailed trunks rose up to cut the blue, and on every side buildings which glowed like immense jewels were set to greet the unaccustomed northern eye. the posada was a blaze of colour, half moorish, half gothic, fantastic and alluring as a rare dream. johnnie heard early in the morning that don josé would be away for two days, having travelled to his vineyards beyond the old roman village of sancios. the day therefore, and the morrow also, was left to them for sight-seeing. both he and elizabeth had in part forgotten the cloud of distress under which they had left their native land. the child often talked to him of her father, making many half-shy confidences about her happy life at hadley, telling him constantly of that brave and stalwart gentleman. but she now accepted all that had happened with the perfect innocence and trustfulness of youth. upon her white and stainless mind what she had undergone had left but little trace. even now she only half realised her ravishment to the house with the red door, and that madame la motte was not a pattern of kindness, discretion, and fine feeling would never have entered lizzie's simple mind. she was going to be married to johnnie!--it was to be arranged almost at once--and then she knew that there need be no more trouble, no weariness, no further searchings of heart. she and johnnie would be together for ever and ever, and that was all that mattered! indeed, under these bright skies, among the gay, good-humoured, and heedless people of seville, it would have been very difficult for much older and more world-weary people than this young man and maid to be sad or apprehensive. it had all been a feast, a never-ending feast for eye and ear. they had stood before pictures which were world-famous--they had seen that marvellous allegory in pigment, where "a hand holds a pair of scales, in which the sins of the world--set forth by bats, peacocks, serpents, and other emblems--are weighed against the emblems of the passion of christ our lord; and eke in the same frame, which is thought to be the finer composition, death, with a coffin under one arm, is about to extinguish a taper, which lighteth a table besprent with crowns, jewels, and all the gewgaws of this earthly pomp. 'in ictu oculi' are the words which circle the taper's gleaming light, while set upon the ground resteth a coffin open, the corpse within being dimly revealed." they had walked through the long colonnade in the palace of the alcazar, to the baths of maria de padilla, the lovely mistress of pedro the cruel, "at the court of whom it was esteemed a mark of gallantry and loyalty to drink the waters of the bath after that maria had performed her ablutions. upon a day observing that one of his knights refrained from this act of homage, the king questioned him, and elicited the reply, 'i dare not drink of the water, sire, lest, having tasted the sauce, i should covet the partridge.'" all these things they had done together in their love and youth, forgetting all else but the incomparable beauties of art and nature which surrounded them, the music and splendour of love within their hearts. ... a serving-man came through the patio. "_puedo cenar?_" johnnie asked. "_a qué hora es el cenar?_" the man told him that supper was ready then, and together with the ladies johnnie left the courtyard and entered the long _comedor_, or dining-hall, a narrow room with good tapestries upon the walls, and a ceiling decorated with heads of warriors and ladies in carved and painted stucco. it was lit by candle, and supper was spread for the three in the middle of one great table, an oasis of fruit, lights, and flowers. "_este es un vino bueno_," said the waiter who stood there. "it is all good wine in spain," johnnie answered, with a smile, as the man poured out _borgoña_, and another brought them a dish of grilled salmon. they lifted their glasses to each other, and fell to with a good appetite. suddenly johnnie stopped eating. "where is john hull?" he said. "god forgive me, i have not thought of him for hours." "he will be safe enough," madame la motte answered, her mouth full of _salmón asado_. "_mon dieu!_ but this fish is good! fear not, monsieur, thy serving-man can very well take care of himself." "i suppose so," johnnie replied, though with a little uneasiness. "but, johnnie," elizabeth said, "hull told me that he was to be with master mew, the mate of our late ship, to see the town with him, so all will be well." johnnie lifted his goblet of wine; he had never felt more free, careless, and happy in his life. "here," he said, "is to this sweet and hospitable land of spain, whither we have come through long toils and dangers. 'tis our latium, for as the grandest of all poets, vergil yclept, hath it, '_per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum, tendimus in latium, sedes ubi fata quietas ostendunt_.'" "and what may that mean, monsieur?" asked madame la motte, pulling the _botella_ towards her. "my credo, my paternoster, and my ave are all my latin." "it means, madame," johnnie answered, "that we have gone through many troubles and trials, through all sorts of changes in affairs, but we approach towards latium, which the poet meaneth for imperial rome, where the fates will let us live in peace." "in peace!" elizabeth whispered. "aye, sweetheart mine," the young man answered; "we have won to peace at last. thou and i together!" for a moment or two they were all silent, and then the door of the _comedor_ was suddenly opened, not quietly, as for the entrance of a serving-man, but flung open widely and with noise. they all turned and looked towards the archway of the door. in a moment more six or seven people pressed into the room--people dressed in black, people whose feet made no noise upon the floor. ere ever any of them at the table realised what was happening, they found themselves gripped by strong, firm hands, though there was never a word spoken. before he could reach the dagger in his belt--for he was not wearing his sword--johnnie's arms were bound to his side, and he was held fast. it was all done with strange deftness and silence, elizabeth and the frenchwoman being held also, each by two men, though their arms were not bound. johnnie burst out in indignant english, then, remembering where he was, changed to spanish. "in god's name," he cried, "what means this outrage upon peaceable and quiet folk?" his voice was loud and angry, but there was fear in it as he cried out. the answer came from a tall figure which came noiselessly through the door, a figure in a cassock, with a large gold cross hung upon its breast, and followed by two others in the dress of priests. "ah, mr. commendone, we meet again," came in excellent english, as the man removed his broad-brimmed felt hat. "you have come a long way from england, mr. commendone, you and your--friends. but the arm of the king, the hand of the church, which are as the arm of god himself, can stretch swiftly and very far." johnnie's face grew dead white as he heard the well-remembered voice of father diego deza. in a flash he remembered that king philip's confessor and confidential adviser had told him that he was to leave england for spain on the morning of the very day when he had rescued elizabeth from shame. his voice rattled in his throat and came hoarsely through parched lips. he made one effort, though he felt that it was hopeless. "don diego," he said, "i am very glad to see you in spain"--the other gave a nasty little laugh. "don diego," johnnie continued, "i have offended nothing against the laws of england. what means this capture and durance of myself and my companions?" "you are not in england now, mr. commendone," the priest replied; "but you are in the dominion of his most catholic majesty; you are not accused of any crime against the civil law of england or of this country, but i, in my authority as grand inquisitor of the holy office in seville--to do which duty i have now come to spain--arrest you and your companions on charges which will be afterwards disclosed to you. "take them away," he said in spanish to his officers. there was a horrid wail, echoing and re-echoing through the long room and beating upon the ear-drums of all who were there.... madame la motte had heard all that the priest had said in english. she shrieked and shrieked again. "ah-h-h! _c'est vrai alors! l'inquisition! qui lance la mort!_" with extraordinary and sudden strength she twisted herself away from the two sombre figures which held her. she bent forward over the table, snatched up a long knife, gripped the handle firmly with two fat white hands, and plunged it into her breast to the hilt. for quite three seconds she stood upright. her face of horror changed into a wonder, as if she was surprised at what she had done. then she smiled foolishly, like a child who realises that it has made a silly mistake, coughed loudly like a man, and fell in heavy death upon the floor. chapter xi in the box "devant l'inquisition, quand on vient à jubé, si l'on ne soit rôti, l'on soit au moins flambé." it was not light that pressed upon the retina of the eye. there was no vibration to the sensitive lenses. it was a sudden vision not of the eye, but in the memory-cells of the brain which now and then filled the dreadful blackness with a fierce radiance, filled it for an infinitesimal fraction of a second. and then all was dark again. it was not dark with the darkness that ordinary men know. at no time, in all probability, has any man or woman escaped a long sleepless night in a darkened room. the candle is out; the silence begins to nibble at the nerves; there is no sound but the uneasy tossing upon the bed. it seems, one would rather say, that there is no sound save only that made by the sufferer. at such hours comes a dread weariness of life, a restlessness which is but the physical embroidery upon despair. the body itself is at the lowest pitch of its vitality. through the haunted chambers of the mind fantastic thoughts chase each other, and evil things--evil _personalities_ it almost seems--uncoil themselves and erect their heads. but it is not really darkness, not really despair, as people know when the night has gone and dawn begins. nor is it really _silence_. the ear becomes attuned to its environment; a little wind moans round the house. there is the soft patter of falling rain--the distant moaning of the sea. furniture creaks as the temperature changes; there are rustlings, whispers, unexplained noises--the night is indeed full of sound. nor is it really _darkness_, as the mind discovers towards the end of the sick and restless vigil. the eye also is attuned to that which limits and surrounds its potentialities. the blinds are drawn, but still some faint mysterious greyness creeps between them and the window. the room, then, is a real room still! over there is the long mirror which will presently begin to stir and reflect the birth-pangs of light. that squat, black monster, which crouches in the corner of the dark, will grow larger, and become only the wardrobe after all. and soon the air of the chamber will take on a subtle and indefinable change. it will have a new savour, it will tell that far down in the under world the sun is moaning and muttering in the last throes of sleep. the blackness will go. dim, inchoate nothingness will change to wan dove-coloured light, and with the first chirpings of half-awakened birds the casement will show "a slowly glimmering square," and the tortured brain will sink to rest. day has come! there is no longer any need for fear. the nervous pain, more terrible than all, has gone. the heart is calmed, the brain is soothed, utter prostration and despair appears, mercifully, a thing of long ago. some such experience as this all modern men have endured. to john commendone, in the prison of the inquisition where he had been put, no such alleviation came. for him there was no blessed morning; for him the darkness was that awful negation of light--of physical light--and of hope, which is without remedy. he did not know how long it had been since he was caught up suddenly out of the rich room where he was dining with his love--dining among the scent of flowers, with the echo of music in his ears, his whole heart suffused with thankfulness and peace. he did not know how long it had been; he only remembered the hurried progress in a closed carriage from the hotel to the fortress of the triana in the suburbs, which was the prison and assize of the holy office. in all europe in this era prisons were dark, damp holes. they were real graves, full of mould, animal filth, the pest-breeding smells. it was the boast of the inquisition, and even llorente speaks of it, that the prisons were "well-arched, light and dry rooms where the prisoners could make some movement." this was generally true, and commendone had heard of it from don perez. it was not true in his case. he had been taken hurriedly into the prison as night fell, marched silently through interminable courtyards and passage-ways--corridors which slanted downwards, ever downwards--until in a dark stone passage, illuminated only by the torches which were carried by those who conducted him, he had come to a low door, heavily studded with iron. this had been opened with a key. the wards of the lock had shot back with a well-oiled and gentle click. he had bent his head a little as they pushed him into the living tomb--a box of stone five feet square exactly. he was nearly six feet in height; he could not stand erect; he could not stretch himself at full length. the thing was a refinement of the dreadful "little-ease" of the tower of london and many other secular prisons where wretches were tortured for a week before their execution. he had heard of places like them, but he realised that it was not the design of those who had him fast to kill him yet. he knew that he must undergo an infinity of mental and bodily torture ere ever the scarred and trembling soul would be allowed to wing its way from the still, broken body. he was in absolute, complete darkness, buried in a box of stone. the rayless gloom was without any relief whatever; it was the enclosing sable of death itself; a pitchy oblivion that lay upon him like a solid weight, a thing obscene and hopeless. and the silence was a real silence, an utter stillness such as no modern man ever knows--save only the few demoniac prisoners in the _cachot noir_ of the french convict prisons of noumea. once every two days--if there indeed were such things as days and hours in this still hell--the door of the cell was noiselessly opened. there was a dim red glow in the stone corridor without, a pitcher of water, some black bread, and every now and then a few ripe figs, were pushed into the box. then a clang, the oily swish of the bolts, and another eternity of silence. the man's brain did not go. it was too soon for that. he lay a fortnight--ten thousand years it seemed to him--in this box of horror. he was not to die yet. he was not even to lose his mind; of that he was perfectly aware. he was no ordinary prisoner. no usual fate was in store for him; that also he knew. a charge of heresy in his case was absurd. no witnesses could be brought who, speaking truth, could condemn him for heresy. but what don perez had told him was now easily understood. he was in a place where there was no appeal, a situation with no egress. there was not the slightest doubt in his mind that a dreadful vengeance was to be taken upon him for his treatment of the king of spain. the holy office was a royal court provided with ecclesiastical weapons. its familiars had got him in their grip; he was to die the death. as he lay motionless day after day, night after night, in the silence--the hideous silence without light--the walls so close, pressing on him, forbidding him free movement, at every moment seeming as if they would rush together and crush him in this night of erebus, he began to have visitors. sometimes a sulphurous radiance would fill the place. he would see the bowing, mocking figure of king philip, the long yellow face looking down upon him with a malign smile. he would hear a great hoarse voice, and a little woman with a shrivelled face and covered with jewels, would squeak and gibber at him. then, with a clank of armour, and a sudden fresh smell of the fields, sir henry commendone would stand there, with a "how like you this life of the pit, johnnie?" ... "how like you this blackness, my son?" then he would put up his hands and press these grisly phantoms out of the dark. he would press them away with one great effort of the will. they would go, and he remained trembling in the chill, damp negation of light, which was so far more than darkness. he would grope for the pieces of his miserable food, and search the earthen pitcher for water. and all this, these tortures beyond belief, beyond understanding of the ordinary man, were but as soft couches to one who is weary, food to one hungered, water to lips parched in a desert--compared with the deepest, unutterable descent of all. the cold and stinking blackness which held him tight as a fossil in a bed of clay was not the worst. his eyes that saw nothing, his limbs that were shot with cramping pain, his nostrils and stomach that could not endure this uncleaned cage, were a torture beyond thinking. many a time he thought of the mercy of bishop bonner and queen mary--the mercy that let a gentleman ride under the pleasant skies of england to a twenty minutes' death--god! these were pleasant tortures! his own present hopelessness, all that he endured in body--why, dear god! these were but pleasant tortures too, things to bite upon and endure, compared with the satanic horror, the icy dread, the bitter, hopeless tears, when he thought of elizabeth. he had long since ceased praying for himself. it mattered little or nothing what happened to him. that he should be taken out to torture would be a relief, a happiness. he would lie in the rack laughing. they could fill his belly with water, or strain the greasy hempen ropes into his flesh, and still he would laugh and forgive them--dr. taylor had forgiven less than they would do to him, he would forgive more than all for the sake of christ and his maid-mother. how easy that would be! to be given something to endure, to prove himself a man and a christian! but to forgive them for what they might be doing, they might have done, to his dear lady--how could he forgive _that_ to these blood-stained men? through all the icy hours he thought of one thing, until his own pains vanished to nothingness. perchance, and the dreadful uncertainty in his utter impotence and silence swung like a bell in his brain, and cut through his soul like the swinging pendola which they said the familiars of the holy office used, elizabeth had already suffered unspeakable things. he saw again a pair of hands--cruel hands--hands with thick thumbs. had hands like these grasped and twisted the white limbs of the girl he loved? divorced from him, helpless, away from any comfort, any kind voice, was it not true--_was_ it true?--that already his sweetheart had been tortured to her death? he had tried over and over again to pray for elizabeth, to call to the seat where god was, that he might save the dear child from these torments unspeakable. but there was always the silence, the dead physical blackness and silence. he beat his hands upon the stone wall; he bruised his head upon the roof of darkness which would not let him stand upright, and he knew--as it is appointed to some chosen men to know--that unutterable, unthinkable despair of travail which made our lord himself call out in the last hour of his passion, [greek: êli, êli lamà sabachthaní] there was no response to his prayers. into his heart came no answering message of hope. and then the mind of this man, which had borne so much, and suffered so greatly, began to become powerless to feel. a bottle can only hold a certain amount of water, the strings of an instrument be plucked to a certain measure of sound, the brain of a man can endure up to a certain strain, and then it snaps entirely, or is drowsed with misery. physically, the young man was in perfect health when they had taken him to his prison. he had lived always a cleanly and athletic life. no sensual ease had ever dimmed his faculties. and therefore, though he knew it not, the frightful mental agony he had undergone had but drawn upon the reserve of his physical forces, and had hardly injured his body at all. the food they gave him, at any rate for the time of his disappearance from the world of sentient beings, was enough to support life. and while he lay in dreadful hopelessness, while his limbs were racked with pain, and it seemed to him that he stood upon the very threshold of death, he was in reality physically competent, and a few hours of relief would bring his body back to its pristine strength. there came a time when he lay upon his stone floor perfectly motionless. the merciful anodyne that comes to all tortured people when either the brain or body can bear no more, had come to him now. it seemed but a short moment--in reality it was several hours--since his jailors, those masked still-moving figures, had brought him a renewal of his food. he could not eat the bread, but two figs upon the platter were grateful and cooling to his throat, though he was unconscious of any physical gratification. he knew, sometime after, that sustenance had been brought to him, and that he had a great thirst. he stretched out his hand mechanically for the pitcher, rising from the floor and pressing the brim to his lips. he drank deeply, and as he drank became suddenly aware that this was not the lukewarm water of the past darkness, but something that ran through his veins, that swiftly ran through them, and as the blood mounted to his brain gave him courage, awoke him, fed the starved nerves. it was wine he was drinking! wine that perhaps would be red in the light; wine that once more filled him with endeavour, and a desperate desire which was not hope but the last protest against his fate. he lay back once more, by no means the same man he had been some little time agone, and as he reclined in a happy physical stupor--the while his brain was alive again and began to work--he said many times to himself the name of jesus. "jesus! jesus! jesus!"--it was all he could say; it was all he could think of, it was his last prayer. just the name alone. and very speedily the prayer was answered. out of the depths he cried--"_de profundis clamavit_"--and the door opened, as it opened to the apostle paul, and the place where he was was filled with red light. for a moment he was unable to realise it. he passed one wasted and dirty hand before his eyes. "jesus!" he said again, in a dreamy, wondering voice. he felt himself lifted up from where he lay. two strong hands were under his arms; he was taken out of the stinking _oubliette_ into the corridor beyond. he stood upright. he stretched out his arms. he breathed another air. it was a damp, foetid, underground air, but it seemed to him that it came from the gardens of the hesperides. then he became conscious of a voice speaking quietly, quickly, and with great insistence. the voice in his ear! ... "señor, we have had to wait. you have had to lie in this dungeon, and i could do nothing for you--for you that saved my life. it hath taken many days to think out a plan to save you and the señorita. but 'tis done now, 'tis cut and dried, and neither you nor she shall go to the death designed for you both. it hath been designed by the assessor and the procurator fiscal, acting under orders of the grand inquisitor, that you shall be tortured to death, or near to it, and that to the señorita shall be done the same. then you are to be taken to the quemadero--that great altar of stone supported by figures of the holy apostles--and there burnt to death at the forthcoming _auto da fé_." "then what,"--johnnie's voice came from him in a hollow whisper. "hush, hush," the other voice answered him; "'tis all arranged. 'tis all settled, but still it dependeth upon you, señor. will you save your lady love, and go free with her from here, and with your servant also, or will you die and let her die too?" "then she hath not been tortured?" "not yet; it is for to-night. you come afterwards. but you do not know me, señor; you do not realise who i am." at this johnnie looked into the face of the man who supported him. "ah," he said, in a dreamy voice, "alonso!--i took you from the sea, did not i?" everything was circling round him, he wanted to fall, to lie down and sleep in this new air.... the torturer saw it--he had a dreadful knowledge of those who were about to faint. he caught hold of johnnie somewhere at the back of the neck. there was a sudden scientific pressure of the flat thumb upon a nerve, and the sinking senses of the captive came back to him in a flood of painful consciousness. "ah!" he cried, "but i feel better now! go on, go on, tell me, what is all this?..." one big thumb was pressed gently at the back of johnnie's head. "it is this," said the voice, "and now, señor, listen to me as if you had never listened to any other voice in this whole world. in the first place, you have much money; you have much money to be employed for you, in the hands of your servant, and from him i hear that you are noble and wealthy in england. i myself am a young man, but lately introduced to do the work i do. i am in debt, señor, and neither my father nor my brother will help me. there is a family feud between us. now my father is the head sworn-torturer of the holy office; my brother is his assistant, and i am the assistant to my brother. the three of us do rack and put to pain those who come before us. but i myself am tired of this business, and would away to a country where i can earn a more honest and kindly living. therefore if thou wilt help me to do this, all will be well. there is a carrack sailing for the port of rome this very night, and we can all be aboard of it, and save ourselves, if thou wilt do what we have made a plan of." "and what is that?" johnnie asked. "'tis a dangerous and deadly thing. we may win a way to safety and joy, or it may be that we perish. i'll put it upon the throw of the die, and so must you, señor." johnnie clutched alonso by the arm. "man! man!" he said, "there is some doubt in your voice. what is it? what is it? i would do anything but lose my immortal soul to save the señorita from what is to be done to her to-night." "'tis well," the other answered briefly. "then now i will tell you what you must do. 'tis now the hour of sunset. in two hours more the señorita will be brought to the rooms of the question. thy servant is of the height and build of my father. thou art the same as regards my brother. if you consent to what i shall tell you, you and your servant will take the place of my brother and father. no one will know you from them, because we wear black linen garments and a hood which covereth our faces. i will go away, and i will put something in their wine which will send my father and my brother to sleep for long hours--sometimes we put it in the water we give to drink to those who come to us for torture, and who are able, or their relatives indeed, to pay well for such service. my people will know nothing, and you, with juan thy servant, will take their places. nor will the inquisitor know. it hath been well thought out, señor. i shall give you your directions, and understanding spanish you will follow them out as if you were indeed my blood-brother. as for the man juan, it will be your part to whisper to him what he has to do, for i cannot otherwise make him understand." suddenly a dreadful thought flashed into johnnie's mind. this man understood no word of english. how, then, had he plotted this scheme of rescue and escape with john hull? was this not one of those dreadful traps--themselves part of a devilish scheme of torture--of which he had heard in england, and of which don perez had more than hinted? "and how dost _thou_ understand my man john," he said, "seeing that thou knowest no word of his language?" the other made an impatient movement of his hands. "señor," he said, "i marked that you did not seem to trust me. i am here to adventure my life, in recompense for that you did so for me. i am here also to get away from spain with the aid of thy money--to get away to rome, where the holy office will reach none of us. in doing this, i am risking my life, as i have said. and for me i am risking far more than life. i, that have done so many grievous things to others, am a great coward, and go in horrid fear of pain. i could not stand the least of the tortures, and if i am caught in this enterprise, i shall endure the worst of all. in any case, thou hast nothing to lose, for if i am indeed endeavouring to entrap you, you will gain nothing. the worst is reserved for you--as we have previous orders--for it is whispered that yours is not so much a matter of heresy, but that you did things against king philip's majesty in england." johnnie nodded. "'tis true," he said; "but still, tell me for a further sign and token of thy fidelity how thou camest to be in communication with john hull." "did i not tell thee?" the man answered, in amazement. "why, 'twas through the second captain of the _st. iago_, i cannot say his name, who hath been with juan these many days, and speakest spanish near as well as you." johnnie realised the truth at once, surprised that it had not come to him before. it was mr. mew, whom he had tackled for his friendship with alonso! "then what am i to do?" he said. alonso began to speak slowly and with some hesitation. "the work to do to-night," he said, "is to put a carthusian monk, luis mercader, to the torture of the _trampezo_. after that, the señorita will be brought in, interrogated, and is to be scourged as the first of her tortures." the man started away--johnnie had growled in his throat like a dog.... "it will not be, it will not be, señor," alonso said. "when luis is finished with, he will be taken away by the surgeon and afterwards by the jailors. then they will bring the señorita and retire. there will be none in the room of the question but thou, juan, and myself, wearing our linen hoods, and father deza, that is the grand inquisitor newly come from england, his notary, and the physician. the doors leading to the prisons will be locked, for none must see the torture save only the officials concerned therein--as hath long been the law. it will be easy for us three to overpower the inquisitor, the surgeon, and the notary. then we can escape through the private rooms of us torturers, which lead to the back entrance of the fortress. the _caballeros_ will not be discovered, if bound--or killed, indeed--for some hours, for none are allowed to approach the room of question from the prisons until they are summoned by a bell. i shall have everything ready, and mules waiting, so that we may go straight to the _muelle_--the wharf to which the carrack is tied. the captain thereof is the italian mariner pozzi, who hath no love towards spain, and we shall be upon the high seas before even our absence is discovered." "good," johnnie answered, his voice unconsciously assuming the note of command it was wont to use, the wine having reanimated him, his whole body and brain tense with excitement, ready for the daring deed that awaited him. "my friend," he said, "i will not only take you away from all this wickedness and horror, but you shall have money enough to live like a gentleman in italy. i have--now i understand it--plenty of money in the hands of my servant to bring us well to rome. once in rome, i can send letters to my friends in england, and be rich in a few short months. i shall not forget you; i shall see to your guerdon." the man spat upon his hands and rubbed them together--those large prehensile hands. "i knew it," he said, half to himself, "i pay a debt for my life, as is but right and just, and i win a fortune too! i knew it!" "tell me exactly what is to happen," johnnie said. in the flickering light of the torch, once more alonso looked curiously at commendone. he hesitated for a moment, and then he spoke. "there is just the business of the heretic luis," he said. "he must be tortured before ever the señorita is brought in. and you and juan must help in the torture to sustain your parts." johnnie started. until this very moment he had not realised that hideous necessity. he understood alonso's hesitation now. there was a dead silence for a moment or two. alonso broke it. "i shall do the principal part, señor," he said hurriedly. "it is nothing to me. i have done so much of it! but there are certain things that thou must do and thy servant also, or at least must seem to do. there is no other way." johnnie put his poor soiled hands to his face. "i cannot do it," he said, in a low voice, from which hope, which had rung in it before, had now departed. "i cannot do it. i will not stain my honour thus." "so said juan to me at first," the other answered. "they have been hunting high and low for juan, but he hath escaped the familiars, in that i have hid him. for himself, juan said he would do nothing of the sort, but for you he finally said he would do it. 'for, look you,' juan said to me, 'i love the gentleman that is my master, and i love my little mistress better, so that i will even help to torture this spaniard, and let no word escape me in the doing of it that may betray our design.' that was what thy servant said, señor. and now, what sayest thou?" "she would not wish it," commendone half said, half sobbed. "if she knew, she would die a thousand deaths rather than that i should do it." "that may be very sure, señor, but she will never know it if we win to safety. and as for this luis mercader, he must die, anyhow. there is no hope for him. he _must_ be tortured, if not by you, juan, and i, then by myself, my father, and my brother. it is remediless." "i cannot do evil that good may come," johnnie replied, in a whisper. alonso stamped upon the ground in his impatience. he could not understand the prisoner's attitude, though he had realised some possibility of it from his conferences with john hull. he had half known, when he came to commendone, that there would be something of this sort. if the rough man of his own rank turned in horror and dislike from the only opportunity presented for saving the señorita, how much more would the master do so? for himself, he could not understand it. he did his hideous work with the regularity of a machine, and with as little pity. outside in his private life, he was much as other men. he could be tender to a woman he loved, kindly and generous to his friends. but business was business, and he was hardly human at his work. habit makes slaves of us all, and this mental attitude of the sworn torturer--horrible as it may seem at first glance--is very easily understood by the psychologist, though hardly by the sentimentalist, who is always a thoroughly illogical person. alonso tortured human beings. in doing this he had the sanction and the order of his social superiors and his ecclesiastical directors. in 1910 one has not heard, for example, that a pretty and gentle girl refuses to marry a butcher because he plunges his knife into the neck of the sheep tied down upon the stool, twists his little cord around the snout of some shrieking pig and cuts its throat with his keen blade.... alonso could not understand the man whom he hoped to save, but he recognised and was prepared for his point of view. "señor," he said, in a thick, hurried voice, "i will do it all myself. you will have to help in the binding, and to stand by. that is all. think of the little señorita whom you love. that french lady drove a table-knife into her heart, rather than endure the torments. think of the señorita! you will not let her die thus? for you, it is different; i well know that you would endure all that is in store, if it were but a question of saving your own life. but you must think of her, and you must remember always that the man luis is most certainly doomed, and that no action of yours can stay that doom. you will have to look on, that is all--to _seem_ as if you approved and were helping." he had said enough. his cause was won. johnnie had seen dr. rowland taylor die in pious agony, and had neither lifted voice nor drawn sword to prevent it. "i thank you, i thank you, alonso," he said. "i must endure it for the sake of the señorita. and more than all i thank you that you will not require me to agonise this unhappy wretch myself." "good; that is understood," alonso answered. "we have already been talking too long. get you back, señor, into your prison, for an hour or more. then i will come to you. indeed, more depends upon this than upon any other detail of what we purpose. we who are sworn to torture are distinct and separate from the prison jailors. we are paid a larger salary, but we have no jurisdiction or power within the prisons themselves, save only what we make by interest. but the man who bringeth you your food is a friend of my family, and hath cast an eye upon my sister, though she as yet has responded little to his overtures. i have made private cause with isabella, and she hath given him a meeting this very night outside the church of santa ana. he could not meet with her this night, were it not for my intervention. he came to me in great perplexity, longing before anything to meet isabella. i told him, though i was difficult to be approached on the point, that i would myself look after the prisoners in this ward, and that he must give me his keys. this he hath done, and i am free of this part of the prison. so that, señor, in an hour or two i shall come to you again with your dress of a tormentor. i shall take you through devious ways out of the prison proper, and into our room on the other side of the chamber, so all will be well." johnnie took the huge splay hand in his, and stumbled back into the stone box. there was a clang as the door closed upon him, and he sank down upon the floor. he sank down upon the floor no longer in absolute despair. the darkness was as thick and horrible as ever, but hope was there. then he knelt, placed his hands together, recited a paternoster, and began to pray. he prayed first of all for the soul of the man--the unknown man--whose semi-final torture he was to witness, and perchance help in. then he prayed to our lord that there might be a happy issue out of these present afflictions, that if it pleased jesus he, elizabeth, the stout john hull might yet sail away over the tossing seas towards safety. then he made a prayer for the soul of madame la motte--she who had traded upon virtue, she who had taken her own life, but in whom was yet some germ of good, a well and fountain of kindliness and sympathy withal. after that he pulled himself together, felt his muscle, stretched himself to see that his great and supple strength had not deserted him, and remained with a placid mind, waiting for the opening of his prison door again. the anguish of his thoughts about elizabeth was absolutely gone. a cool certainty came to him that he would save her. he was waiting now, alert and aware. every nerve was ready for the enterprise. with a scrutiny of his own consciousness--for he perfectly realised that death might still be very near--he asked himself if he had performed all his religious duties. if he were to die in the next hour or so, he would have no sacramental absolution. that he knew. therefore, he was endeavouring to make his _private_ peace with god, and as he looked upon his thoughts with the higher super-brain, it did not seem to him that there was anything lacking in his pious resignation to what should come. he was going to make a bold and desperate bid for lizzie's freedom, his own, and their mutual happiness. as well as he was able, he had put his house in order, and was waiting. but for don diego deza he did not pray at all. he was but human. that he lacked power to do, and in so far fell away from the example. but as he thought of it, and the words so sacrosanct, he remembered that the torturers of christ knew not what they did. they were even as this man alonso. but don diego, cultured, highly sensitive, a brilliant man, knew what he did very well. even the young man's wholly contrite and more than half-broken heart could send no message to the throne for the grand inquisitor of seville. chapter xii "tendimus in latium" it was very hot. commendone stood in the ante-chamber of the torturers. he wore the garment of black linen, the hood of the same, with the two circular orifices for his eyes. john hull kept touching him with an almost caressing movement--john hull, a grotesque and terrible figure also in his torturer's dress. alonso moved about the place hurriedly, putting this and that to rights, looking after his instruments, but with a flitting, bird-like movement, showing how deeply he was excited. the room was a long, low place. the ceiling but just above their heads. a glowing fire was at one end, and shelves all round the room. at one side of the fire was a portable brazier of iron, glowing with coals, and on the top of it a shape of white-hot metal was lying. alonso came up to commendone, a dreadful black figure, a silently moving figure, with nothing humanly alive about him save only the two slits through which his eyes might be seen. "courage, señor," he whispered, "it will not be long now." johnnie, unaware that he himself was an equally hideous and sinister figure, nodded, and swallowed something in his throat. john hull, short, broad, and dreadful in this black disguise, sidled up to him. "master," he whispered, "it will soon be over, and we shall win away. we have been in a very evil case before, and that went well. now that we are dressed in these grave-clothes and must do bitter business, we must make up our minds to do it. 'tis for the sake of mistress elizabeth, whom we love--jesus! what is that hell-hound doing?" the broad figure shuddered, and into the kindly english voice came a note of horror. johnnie turned also, and saw that the torturer was tumbling several long-handled pincers into a wooden tray. then the torturer took one of them up, and turned the glowing _something_ in the brazier, quietly, professionally, though the red glow that fell upon his horrible black costume gave him indeed the aspect of a devil from the pit--the bloody pantomime which was designed! the two englishmen stood shoulder to shoulder and shuddered, as they saw this figure moving about the glowing coals. johnnie took a half-step forward, when hull pressed him back. "god's death, master," hull said. "_we_ look like that; we are even as he is in aspect; we have to do our work--now!" a door to the right suddenly swung open. two steps led up to it, and a face peeped round. it was the face of a bearded man, with heavy eyebrows and very white cheeks. upon the head was a biretta of black velvet. the head nodded. "we are ready," came the voice from it. the door fell to again. then alonso came up to johnnie. "the work begins," he said, in a gruff voice, from which all respect had gone with design. "you and juan will carry in that brazier of coals." he went to the door, mounted the two stone steps, and held it open. johnnie and hull bore in the brazier up the steps, and into a large room lit, but not very brightly, with candles set in sconces upon the walls. following the directions of alonso, they placed the brazier in a far corner, and stood by it, waiting in silence. they were in a big, arched dungeon, far under ground, as it seemed. at one end of it there was an alcove, brilliantly lit. in the alcove was a daïs, or platform. on the platform was a long table draped with black, and set with silver candlesticks. on the wall behind was a great crucifix of white and black--the figure of the christ made of plaster, or white painted wood, the cross of ebony. in the centre of the long table sat don diego deza. on one side of him was a man in a robe of velvet and a flat cap. on the other, the person who had peeped through the door into the room of the torturers. there came a beating, a heavy, muffled knock, upon a door to the left of the alcove. alonso left the others and hurried to the door. with some effort he pulled back a lever which controlled several massive bolts. the door swung open, there was a red glare of torches, and two dark figures, piloted by the torturer, half-led, half-carried the bound figure of a man into the room. they placed this figure upon an oak stool with a high back, a yard or two away from the daïs, and then quietly retired. as the door leading to the prison closed, alonso shot the bolts into their place, and, returning, stood by the stool on which was the figure. the notary came down from the platform, followed by the physician. in his hand was a parchment and a pen; while a long ink-horn depended from his belt. father deza was left alone at the table above. "i have read thy depositions," the inquisitor said, speaking down to the man, "wherein thou hast not refuted in detail the terrible blasphemies of servetus, and therefore, luis mercader, i thank the son of god, who deputeth to me the power to sentence thee at the end of this thy struggle between holy church and thine own obstinate blasphemies. in accordance with justice of my brother inquisitors, i now sign thy warrant for death, which is indeed our right and duty to execute a blasphemous person after a regular examination. thou art to be burnt anon at the forthcoming act of faith. thou art to be delivered to the secular arm to suffer this last penalty. thy blood shall not be upon our heads, for the holy office is ever merciful. but before thou goest, in our kindness we have ordained that thou shalt learn something of the sufferings to come. for so only, between this night and the day of thy death, shalt thou have opportunity to reason with thyself, perchance recant thy errors, and make thy peace with god." he had said this in a rapid mutter, a monotone of vengeance. as he concluded he nodded to the black figure by the prisoner's chair. alonso turned round. with shaking footsteps, hull and johnnie came up to him, carrying ropes. there was a quick whisper. "tie him up--_thus_--_yes, the hands behind the back of the stool_; the left leg bound fast--it is the right foot upon which we put the _trampezo_." they did it deftly and quietly. under the long linen garments which concealed them, their hearts were beating like drums, their throats were parched and dry, their eyes burnt as they looked out upon this dreadful scene. the notary went back to the daïs, and sat beside father deza. the surgeon took alonso aside. johnnie heard what he said.... "it will be all right; he can bear it; he will not die; in any case the _auto da fé_ will be in three days; he _must_ endure it; have the water ready to bring him back if he fainteth." the chirurgeon went back to the alcove and sat on the other side of the inquisitor. "bring up the brazier," alonso said to commendone. together johnnie and hull carried it to the chair. "now send juan for the pincers...." there came a long, low wail of despair from the broken, motionless figure on the stool. the long pincers, like those with which a blacksmith pulls out a shoe from the charcoal, were produced.... the torturer took the glowing _thing_ on the top of the brazier, and pulled it off, scattering the coals as he did so. close to the foot of the bound figure he placed the glowing shoe. then he motioned to hull to take up the other side of it with his pincers, and put it in place so that the foot of the victim should be clamped to it and burnt away. john hull took up the long pincers, and caught hold of one side of the shoe. johnnie turned his head away; he looked straight through his black hood at the three people on the daïs. the notary was quietly writing. the surgeon was looking on with cool professional eye; but don deza was watching the imminent horror below him with a white face which dripped with sweat, with eyes dilated to two rims, gazing, gazing, _drinking the sight in_. every now and again the inquisitor licked his pallid lips with his tongue. and in that moment of watching, johnnie knew that cruelty, for the sake of cruelty, the mad pleasure of watching suffering in its most hideous forms, was the hidden vice, the true nature, of this priest of courts. at the moment, and doubtless at many other moments in the past, father deza was compensating, and had compensated, for a life of abstinence from sensual indulgence. he was giving scope to the deadlier vices of the heart, pride, bigotry, intolerance, and horrid cruelty--those vices far more opposed to the hope of salvation, and far more extensively mischievous to society, than anything the sensualist can do. the bitterness of it; the horror of it--this was the wine the brilliant priest was drinking, had drunk, and would ever drink. into him had come a devil which had killed his soul, and looked out from his narrow twitching eyes, rejoicing that it saw these things with the symbol of god's pain high above it, with the cloak of god's church upon his shoulders. as johnnie watched, fascinated with an unnameable horror, he heard a loud shout close to his ear. he saw a black-hooded, thick figure pass him and rush towards the daïs. in the hands of this figure was a long pair of blacksmith's pincers, and at the end of the pincers was a shoe of white-hot metal. there was another loud shout, a broad band of white light, as the mass of glowing metal shot through the air in a hissing arc, and then the face of the inquisitor disappeared and was no more. at that moment both commendone and the sworn torturer realised what had happened. they leapt nimbly on to the daïs. from under his robe alonso took a stiletto and plunged it into the throat of the notary; while johnnie, in a mad fury, caught the physician by the neck, placed his open hand upon the man's chin, and bent his head back, slowly, steadily, and with terrible pressure, until there was a faint click, and the black-robed figure sank down. the _trampezo_ was burning into the wooden floor of the daïs. alonso ran back into the room, caught up a pail of water, and poured it upon the gathering flames. there was a hiss, and a column of steam rose up into the alcove. he turned his head and looked at the motionless form of the inquisitor. the face was all black and red, and rising into white blisters. he turned to commendone. "he's dead, or dying," he said, "and now, thou hast indeed cast the die, and all is over. thy man hath spoilt it all, and nothing remains for us but death." "silence!" johnnie answered, captain of himself now, and of all of them there. "how is the next prisoner to be summoned?" the torturer understood him. "why," he said, "we may yet save ourselves!--that bell there"--he pointed to a hanging cord. "that summons the jailors. they are waiting to bring the señorita for judgment. don luis, there, who was to undergo the _trampezo_, would not have been taken back into the prison at once, but into our room, where the surgeon would have attended him. therefore, we will ring for the señorita. she will be pushed into this place very gently. the door will not be opened wide. doors are never widely opened in the holy office. the jailors will see us taking charge of her, and all will be well. if not, get your poignard ready, señor, and you, too, juan, for 'twill be better to die a fighting death in this cellar than to wait for what would come hereafter." he stretched out his hand and pulled down the bell-cord. they stood waiting in absolute silence, alonso and john hull, in their dreadful disguise, standing close to the door. there was not a sound in the brilliantly lit room. the victim that was to be had fainted away, and lay as dead as the three corpses upon the daïs. there was a smell of hot coal, of burning wood, and still there came a little sizzling noise from the half-quenched glowing iron upon the platform. thud! a quiet answering knock from alonso. another thud--the heave of the lever, the slither of the bolts, the door opening a little, murmured voices, and a low, shuddering cry of horror, as a tall girl, in a long woollen garment, a coarse garment of wool dyed yellow, was pushed into the embrace of the black-hooded figures who stood waiting for her. clang--the bolts were shot back. then a tearing, ripping noise, as hull pulled the black hood from his face and shoulders. "my dear, my dear," he cried, "miss lizzie. 'tis over now. fear nothing! i and thy true love have brought thee to safety." the girl gave a great cry. "johnnie! johnnie!" he rushed up to her, and held her in his arms. he was still clothed in the dreadful disguise of a torturer. it had not come into his mind to take it off. but she was not frightened. she knew his arms, she heard his voice, she sank fainting upon his shoulder. * * * * * once more it was john hull speaking in english who brought the lovers to realisation. his strong and anxious voice was seconded by the spanish of alonso. "quick! quick!" both the men said. "all hath gone well. we have a start of many hours, but we must be gone from here at once." johnnie released elizabeth from his arms, and then he also doffed the terror-inspiring costume which he wore. "sweetheart," he said, "go you with john hull and this alonso into the room beyond, where they will give you robes to wear. i will join you in less than a minute." they passed away with quick, frightened footsteps. but as for commendone, he went to the centre of the alcove, and knelt down just below the long black table. the three bodies of the men they had slain he could not see. he could only see the black form of the tablecloth, and above it the great white crucifix. he prayed that nothing he had done upon this night should stain his soul, that jesus--as indeed he believed--had been looking on him and all that he did, with help and favour. and once more he renewed his vow to live for jesus and for the girl he loved. crossing himself, he rose, and clapped his hands to his right side. once more he found he was without a sword. he bowed again to the cross. "it will come back to me," he said, in a quiet voice. he turned to go, he had no concern with those who lay dead above him; but as he went towards the door leading to the place of the torturers, his eye fell upon the oak stool in the middle of the room--the oak chair by which the brazier still glowed, and in which a silent, doll-like figure was bound. he stepped up to the chair, and immediately he saw that don luis was dead. the shock had killed him. he lay back there with patches of grey marked in his hair, as if fingers had been placed upon it--a young face, now prematurely old, and writhed into horror, but with a little quiet smile of satisfaction upon it after all.... * * * * * and so they sailed away to the court of rome, to take a high part in what went forward in the palace of the vatican. they were to be fused into that wonderful revival of learning and the arts known as the renaissance. god willing, and still seeing fit to give strength to the hand and mind of the present chronicler, what they did in rome, all that befell them there, and of johnnie's friendship and adventures with messer benvenuto cellini will be duly set out in another volume during the year of grace to come. _et veniam pro laude peto: laudatus abunde non fastiditus si tibi, lector, ero._ team the vale of cedars; or, the martyr by grace aguilar, author of "home influence," "woman's friendship," etc. 1851 "the wild dove hath her nest--the fox her cave- mankind their country--israel but the grave." byron. memoir of grace aguilar. grace aguilar was born at hackney, june 2nd, 1816. she was the eldest child, and only daughter of emanuel aguilar, one of those merchants descended from the jews of spain, who, almost within the memory of man, fled from persecution in that country, and sought and found an asylum in england. the delicate frame and feeble health observable in grace aguilar throughout her life, displayed itself from infancy; from the age of three years, she was almost constantly under the care of some physician, and, by their advice, annually spending the summer months by the sea, in the hope of rousing and strengthening a naturally fragile constitution. this want of physical energy was, however, in direct contrast to her mental powers, which developed early, and readily. she learned to read with scarcely any trouble, and when once that knowledge was gained, her answer when asked what she would like for a present, was invariably "a book," which, was read, re-read, and preserved with a care remarkable in so young a child. with the exception of eighteen months passed at school, her mother was her sole instructress, and both parents took equal delight in directing her studies, and facilitating her personal inspection of all that was curious and interesting in the various counties of england to which they resorted for her health. from the early age of seven she commenced keeping a journal, which was continued with scarce any intermission throughout her life. in 1825 she visited oxford, cheltenham, gloucester, worcester, ross, and bath, and though at that time but nine years old, her father took her to gloucester and worcester cathedrals, and also to see a porcelain and pin manufactory, &c., the attention and interest she displayed on these occasions, affording convincing proof that her mind was alive to appreciate and enjoy what was thus presented to her observation. before she had completed her twelfth year she ventured to try her powers in composition, and wrote a little drama, called gustavus vasa, never published, and only here recorded as being the first germ of what was afterwards to become the ruling passion. in september, 1828, the family went to reside in devonshire for the health of mr. aguilar, and there a strong admiration for the beauties and wonders of nature manifested itself: she constantly collected shells, stones, seaweed, mosses, &c., in her daily rambles; and not satisfied with admiring their beauty, sedulously procured whatever little catechisms or other books on those subjects she could purchase, or borrow, eagerly endeavoring by their study, to increase her knowledge of their nature and properties. when she had attained the age of fourteen, her father commenced a regular course of instruction for his child, by reading aloud, while she was employed in drawing, needlework, &c. history was selected, that being the study which now most interested her, and the first work chosen was josephus. it was while spending a short time at tavistock, in 1830, that the beauty of the surrounding scenery led her to express her thoughts in verse. several small pieces soon followed her first essay, and she became extremely fond of this new exercise and enjoyment of her opening powers, yet her mind was so well regulated, that she never permitted herself to indulge in original composition until her duties, and her studies, were all performed. grace aguilar was extremely fond of music; she had learned the piano from infancy, and in 1831 commenced the harp. she sang pleasingly, preferring english songs, and invariably selecting them for the beauty or sentiment of the words; she was also passionately fond of dancing, and her cheerful lively manners in the society of her young friends, would scarcely have led any to imagine how deeply she felt and pondered upon the serious and solemn subjects which afterwards formed the labor of her life. she seemed to enjoy all, to enter into all, but a keen observer would detect the hold that sacred and holy principle ever exercised over her lightest act, and gayest hour. a sense of duty was apparent in the merest trifle, and her following out of the divine command of obedience to parents, was only equalled by the unbounded affection she felt for them. a wish was once expressed by her mother that she should not waltz, and no solicitation could afterwards tempt her. her mother also required her to read sermons, and study religion and the bible regularly; this was readily submitted to, first as a task, but afterwards with much delight; for evidence of which we cannot do better than quote her own words in one of her religious works. "this formed into a habit, and persevered in for a life, would in time, and without labor or weariness, give the comfort and the knowledge that we seek; each year it would become lighter, and more blest, each year we should discover something we knew not before, and in the valley of the shadow of death, feel to our heart's core that the lord our god is truth."--_women of israel_, vol. ii, page 43. nor did grace aguilar only study religion for her own personal observance and profit. she embraced its _principles_ (the principles of all creeds) in a widely extended and truly liberal sense. she carried her practice of its holy and benevolent precepts into every minutiae of her daily life, doing all the good her limited means would allow, finding time, in the midst of her own studies, and most varied and continual occupations, to work for, and instruct her poor neighbors in the country, and while steadily venerating and adhering to her own faith, neither inquiring nor heeding the religious opinions of the needy whom she succored or consoled. to be permitted to help and comfort, she considered a privilege and a pleasure; she left the rest to god; and thus bestowing and receiving blessings and smiles from all who had the opportunity of knowing her, her young life flowed on, in an almost uninterrupted stream of enjoyment, until she had completed her nineteenth year. alas! the scene was soon to change, and trials awaited that spirit which, in the midst of sunshine, had so beautifully striven to prepare itself a shelter from the storm. the two brothers of miss aguilar, whom she tenderly loved, left the paternal roof to be placed far from their family at school. her mother's health necessitated a painful and dangerous operation, and from that time for several years, alternate hopes and fears through long and dreary watchings beside the sick bed of that beloved mother, became the portion of her gifted child. but even this depressing and arduous change in the duties of her existence did not suspend her literary pursuits and labors. she profited by all the intervals she could command, and wrote the tale of the "martyr," the "spirit of judaism," and "israel defended;" the latter translated from the french, at the earnest request of a friend, and printed only for private circulation. the "magic wreath," a little poetical work, and the first our authoress ever published, dedicated to the right honorable the countess of munster, also appeared about this time. in the spring of 1835, grace aguilar was attacked with measles, and never afterwards recovered her previous state of health, suffering at intervals with such exhausting feelings of weakness, as to become without any visible disease really alarming. the medical attendants recommended entire rest of mind and body; she visited the sea, and seemed a little revived, but anxieties were gathering around her horizon, to which it became evidently impossible her ardent and active mind could remain passive or indifferent, and which recalled every feeling, every energy of her impressible nature into action. her elder brother, who had long chosen music as his profession, was sent to germany to pursue his studies; the younger determined upon entering the sea service. the excitement of these changes, and the parting with both, was highly injurious to their affectionate sister, and her delight a few months after, at welcoming the sailor boy returned from his first voyage, with all his tales of danger and adventure, and his keen enjoyment of the path of life he had chosen, together with her struggles to do her utmost to share his walks and companionship, contributed yet more to impair her inadequate strength. the second parting was scarcely over ere her father, who had long shown symptoms of failing health, became the victim of consumption. he breathed his last in her arms, and the daughter, while sorrowing over all she had lost, roused herself once more to the utmost, feeling that she was the sole comforter beside her remaining parent. soon after, when her brother again returned, finding the death of his father, he resolved not to make his third voyage as a midshipman, but endeavor to procure some employment sufficiently lucrative to prevent his remaining a burthen upon his widowed mother. long and anxiously did he pursue this object, his sister, whose acquaintance with literary and talented persons had greatly increased, using all her energy and influence in his behalf, and concentrating all the enthusiastic feelings of her nature in inspiring him with patience, comfort, and hope, as often as they failed him under his repeated disappointments. at length his application was taken up by a powerful friend, for her sake, and she had the happiness of succeeding, and saw him depart at the very summit of his wishes. repose, which had been so long necessary, seemed now at hand; but her nerves had been too long and too repeatedly overstrung, and when this task was done, the worn and weary spirit could sustain no more, and sank under the labor that had been imposed upon it. severe illness followed, and though it yielded after a time to skilful remedies and tender care, her excessive languor and severe headaches, continued to give her family and friends great uneasiness. during all these demands upon her time, her thoughts, and her health, however, the ruling passion neither slumbered nor slept. she completed the jewish faith, and also prepared home influence for the press, though very unfit to have taxed her powers so far. her medical attendant became urgent for total change of air and scene, and again strongly interdicted _all_ mental exertion--a trip to frankfort, to visit her elder brother, was therefore decided on. in june, 1847, she set out, and bore the journey without suffering nearly so much as might have been expected. her hopes were nigh, her spirits raised--the novelty and interest of her first travels on the continent gave her for a very transient period a gleam, as it were, of strength. for a week or two she appeared to rally, then again every exertion became too much for her, every stimulating remedy to exhaust her. she was ordered from frankfort to try the baths and mineral waters of schwalbach, but without success. after a stay of six weeks, and persevering with exemplary patience in the treatment prescribed, she was one night seized with alarming convulsive spasms, so terrible that her family removed her next morning with all speed back to frankfort, to the house of a family of most kind friends, where every attention and care was lavishly bestowed. in vain. she took to her bed the very day of her arrival, and never rose from it again; she became daily weaker, and in three weeks from that time her sufferings ceased for ever. she was perfectly conscious to within less than two hours before her death, and took an affectionate leave of her mother and brother. speech had been a matter of difficulty for some time previous, her throat being greatly affected by her malady; but she had, in consequence, learned to use her fingers in the manner of the deaf and dumb, and almost the last time they moved, it was to spell upon them feebly, "though he slay me, yet will i trust in him." she was buried in the cemetery of frankfort, one side of which is set apart for the people of her faith. the stone which marks the spot bears upon it a butterfly and five stars, emblematic of the soul in heaven, and beneath appears the inscription- "give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates."--prov. ch. xxxi, v. 31. and thus, 16th september, 1847, at the early age of thirty-one, grace aguilar was laid to rest--the bowl was broken, the silver cord was loosed. her life was short and checkered with pain and anxiety, but she strove hard to make it useful and valuable, by employing diligently and faithfully the talents with which she had been endowed. nor did the serious view with which she ever regarded earthly existence, induce her to neglect or despise any occasion of enjoyment, advantage, or sociality which presented itself. her heart was ever open to receive, her hand to give. inasmuch as she succeeded to the satisfaction of her fellow beings, let them be grateful; inasmuch as she failed, let those who perceive it deny her not the meed of praise, for her endeavor to open the path she believed would lead mankind to practical virtue and happiness, and strive to carry out the pure philanthropic principles by which she was actuated, and which she so earnestly endeavored to diffuse. october, 1849. the vale of cedars; or, the martyr. chapter i. "they had met, and they had parted; time had closed o'er each again, leaving lone the weary hearted mournfully to wear his chain."--ms. a deliciously cool, still evening, had succeeded the intense heat of a spanish summer day, throwing rich shadows and rosy gleams on a wild, rude mountain pass in central spain. massive crags and gigantic trees seemed to contest dominion over the path, if path it could be called; where the traveller, if he would persist in going onwards, could only make his way by sometimes scrambling over rocks, whose close approach from opposite sides presented a mere fissure covered with flowers and brushwood, through which the slimmest figure would fail to penetrate; sometimes wading through rushing and brawling streams, whose rapid currents bore many a jagged branch and craggy fragment along with them; sometimes threading the intricacies of a dense forest, recognizing the huge pine, the sweet acorn oak, the cork tree, interspersed with others of lesser growth, but of equally wild perplexing luxuriance. on either side--at times so close that two could not walk abreast, at others so divided that forests and streams intervened--arose mountain walls seeming to reach the very heavens, their base covered with trees and foliage, which gradually thinning, left their dark heads totally barren, coming out in clear relief against the deep blue sky. that this pass led to any inhabited district was little probable, for it grew wilder and wilder, appearing to lead to the very heart of the sierra toledo--a huge ridge traversing spain. by human foot it had evidently been seldom trod; yet on this particular evening a traveller there wended his solitary way. his figure was slight to boyishness, but of fair proportion, and of such graceful agility of movement, that the obstacles in his path, which to others of stouter mould and heavier step might have been of serious inconvenience, appeared by him as unnoticed as unfelt. the deep plume of his broad-rimmed hat could not conceal the deep blue restless eyes, the delicate complexion, and rich brown clustering hair; the varying expression of features, which if not regularly handsome, were bright with intelligence and truth, and betraying like a crystal mirror every impulse of the heart--characteristics both of feature and disposition wholly dissimilar to the sons of spain. his physiognomy told truth. arthur stanley was, as his name implied, an englishman of noble family; one of the many whom the disastrous wars of the roses had rendered voluntary exiles. his father and four brothers had fallen in battle at margaret's side. himself and a twin brother, when scarcely fifteen, were taken prisoners at tewkesbury, and for three years left to languish in prison. wishing to conciliate the still powerful family of stanley, edward offered the youths liberty and honor if they would swear allegiance to himself. they refused peremptorily; and with a refinement of cruelty more like richard of gloucester than himself, edward ordered one to the block, the other to perpetual imprisonment. they drew lots, and edwin stanley perished. arthur, after an interval, succeeded in effecting his escape, and fled from england, lingered in provence a few months, and then unable to bear an inactive life, hastened to the court of arragon; to the heir apparent of which, he bore letters of introduction, from men of rank and influence, and speedily distinguished himself in the wars then agitating spain. the character of the spaniards--impenetrable and haughty reserve--occasioned, in general, prejudice and dislike towards all foreigners. but powerful as was their pride, so was their generosity; and the young and lonely stranger, who had thrown himself so trustingly and frankly on their friendship, was universally received with kindness and regard. in men of lower natures, indeed, prejudice still lingered; but this was of little matter; arthur speedily took his place among the noblest chivalry of spain; devoted to the interests of the king of sicily, but still glorying in the name and feeling of an englishman, he resolved, in his young enthusiasm, to make his country honored in himself. he had been five years in spain, and was now four and twenty; but few would have imagined him that age, so frank and free and full of thoughtless mirth and hasty impulse was his character. these last fifteen months, however, a shadow seemed to have fallen over him, not deep enough to create remark, but _felt_ by himself. his feelings, always ardent, had been all excited, and were all concentrated, on a subject so wrapt in mystery, that the wish to solve it engrossed his whole being. except when engaged in the weary stratagem, the rapid march, and actual conflict, necessary for ferdinand's interest, but one thought, composed of many, occupied his mind, and in solitude so distractingly, that he could never rest; he would traverse the country for miles, conscious indeed of what he _sought_, but perfectly unconscious where he _went_. it was in one of these moods he had entered the pass we have described, rejoicing in its difficulties, but not thinking where it led, or what place he sought, when a huge crag suddenly rising almost perpendicularly before him, effectually roused him from his trance. outlet there was none. all around him towered mountains, reaching to the skies. the path was so winding, that, as he looked round bewildered, he could not even imagine how he came there. to retrace his steps, seemed quite as difficult as to proceed. the sun too had declined, or was effectually concealed by the towering rocks, for sudden darkness seemed around him. there was but one way, and stanley prepared to scale the precipitous crag before him with more eagerness than he would a beaten path. he threw off his cloak, folded it in the smallest possible compass, and secured it like a knapsack to his shoulders, slung his sword over his neck, and, with a vigorous spring, which conquered several paces of slippery rock at once, commenced the ascent. some brushwood, and one or two stunted trees, gave him now and then a hold for his hands; and occasional ledges in the rock, a resting for his foot; but still one false step, one failing nerve, and he must have fallen backwards and been dashed to pieces; but to arthur the danger was his safety. where he was going, indeed he knew not. he could see no further than the summit of the crag, which appeared like a line against the sky; but any bewilderment were preferable to the strange stagnation towards outward objects, which had enwrapped him ten minutes before. panting, breathless, almost exhausted, he reached the summit, and before him yawned a chasm, dark, fathomless, as if nature in some wild convulsion had rent the rock asunder. the level ground on which he stood was barely four feet square; behind him sloped the most precipitous side of the crag, devoid of tree or bush, and slippery from the constant moisture that formed a deep black pool at its base. stanley hazarded but one glance behind, then looked steadily forward, till his eye seemed accustomed to the width of the chasm, which did not exceed three feet. he fixed his hold firmly on a blasted trunk growing within the chasm; it shook--gave way--another moment and he would have been lost; but in that moment he loosed his hold, clasped both hands above his head, and successfully made the leap--aware only of the immense effort by the exhaustion which followed compelling him to sink down on the grass, deprived even of energy to look around him. so marvellous was the change of scenery on which his eyes unclosed, that he started to his feet, bewildered. a gradual hill, partly covered with rich meadow grass, and partly with corn, diversified with foliage, sloped downwards, leading by an easy descent to a small valley, where orange and lime trees, the pine and chestnut, palm and cedar, grew in beautiful luxuriance. on the left was a small dwelling, almost hidden in trees. directly beneath him a natural fountain threw its sparkling showers on beds of sweet-scented and gayly-colored flowers. the hand of man had very evidently aided nature in forming the wild yet chaste beauty of the scene; and arthur bounded down the slope, disturbing a few tame sheep and goats on his way, determined on discovering the genius of the place. no living object was visible, however; and with his usual reckless spirit, he resolved on exploring further, ere he demanded the hospitality of the dwelling. a narrow path led into a thicker wood, and in the very heart of its shade stood a small edifice, the nature of which arthur vainly endeavored to understand. it was square, and formed of solid blocks of cedar; neither carving nor imagery of any kind adorned it; yet it had evidently been built with skill and care. there was neither tower nor bell, the usual accompaniments of a chapel, which stanley had at first imagined it; and he stood gazing on it more and more bewildered. at that moment, a female voice of singular and thrilling beauty sounded from within. it was evidently a hymn she chanted, for the strain was slow and solemn, but though _words_ were distinctly intelligible, their language was entirely unknown. the young man listened at first, conscious only of increasing wonderment, which was quickly succeeded by a thrill of hope, so strange, so engrossing, that he stood, outwardly indeed as if turned to stone; inwardly, with every pulse so throbbing that to move or speak was impossible. the voice ceased; and in another minute a door, so skilfully constructed as when closed to be invisible in the solid wall, opened noiselessly; and a female figure stood before him. chapter ii. "farewell! though in that sound be years of blighted hopes and fruitless tears- though the soul vibrate to its knell of joys departed--yet farewell." mrs. hemans. to attempt description of either face or form would be useless. the exquisite proportions of the rounded figure, the very perfection of each feature, the delicate clearness of the complexion--brunette when brought in close contact with the saxon, blonde when compared with the spaniard--all attractions in themselves, were literally forgotten, or at least unheeded, beneath the spell which dwelt in the _expression_ of her countenance. truth, purity, holiness, something scarcely of this nether world, yet blended indescribably with all a woman's nature, had rested there, attracting the most unobservant, and riveting all whose own hearts contained a spark of the same lofty attributes. her dress, too, was peculiar--a full loose petticoat of dark blue silk, reaching only to the ankle, and so displaying the beautifully-shaped foot; a jacket of pale yellow, the texture seeming of the finest woven wool, reaching to the throat; with sleeves tight on the shoulders, but falling in wide folds as low as the wrist, and so with every movement displaying the round soft arm beneath. an antique brooch of curiously wrought silver confined the jacket at the throat. the collar, made either to stand up or fall, was this evening unclosed and thrown black, its silver fringe gleaming through the clustering tresses that fell in all their native richness and raven blackness over her shoulders, parted and braided on her brow, so as to heighten the chaste and classic expression of her features. on a stranger that beautiful vision must have burst with bewildering power: to arthur stanley she united _memory_ with _being_, the _past_ with the _present_, with such an intensity of emotion, that for a few minutes his very breath was impeded. she turned, without seeing him, in a contrary direction; and the movement roused him. "marie!" he passionately exclaimed, flinging himself directly in her path, and startling her so painfully, that though there was a strong and visible effort at self-control, she must have fallen had he not caught her in his arms. there was an effort to break from his hold, a murmured exclamation, in which terror, astonishment, and yet joy, were painfully mingled, and then the heroine gave place to the woman, for her head sunk on his shoulder and she burst into tears. time passed. nearly an hour from that strange meeting, and still they were together; but no joy, nor even hope was on the countenance of either. at first, arthur had alluded to their hours of happy yet unconfessed affection, when both had felt, intuitively, that they were all in all to each other, though not a syllable of love had passed their lips; on the sweet memories of those blissful hours, so brief, so fleeting, but still marie wept: the memory seemed anguish more than joy. and then he spoke of returned affection, as avowed by her, when his fond words had called it forth; and shuddered at the recollection that that hour of acknowledged and mutual love, had proved the signal of their separation. he referred again to her agonized words, that a union was impossible, that she dared not wed him; it was sin even to love him; that in the tumultuary, yet delicious emotions she had experienced, she had forgotten, utterly forgotten in what it must end--the agony of desolation for herself, and, if he so loved her, for stanley also--and again he conjured her to explain their meaning. they had been separated, after that fearful interview, by a hasty summons for him to rejoin his camp; and when he returned, she had vanished. he could not trace either her or the friend with whom she had been staying. don albert had indeed said, his wife had gone to one of the southern cities, and his young guest returned to her father's home; but where that home was, don albert had so effectually evaded, that neither direct questionings nor wary caution could obtain reply. but he had found her now; they had met once more, and oh, why need they part again? why might he not seek her father, and beseech his blessing and consent? his words were eloquent, his tone impassioned, and hard indeed the struggle they occasioned. but marie wavered not in the repetition of the same miserable truth, under the impression of which they had separated before. she conjured him to leave her, to forget the existence of this hidden valley, for danger threatened her father and herself if it was discovered. so painful was her evident terror, that arthur pledged his honor never to reveal it, declaring that to retrace the path by which he had discovered it, was even to himself impossible. but still he urged her, what was this fatal secret? why was it sin to love him? was she the betrothed of another? and the large drops starting to the young man's brow denoted the agony of the question. "no, arthur, no," was the instant rejoinder: "i never could love, never could be another's, this trial is hard enough, but it is all i have to bear. i am not called upon to give my hand to another, while my heart is solely thine." "then wherefore join that harsh word 'sin,' with such pure love, my marie? why send me from you wretched and most lonely, when no human power divides us?" "no human power!--alas! alas!--a father's curse--an offended god--these are too awful to encounter, arthur. oh do not try me more; leave me to my fate, called down by my own weakness, dearest arthur. if you indeed love me, tempt me not by such fond words; they do but render duty harder. oh, wherefore have you loved me!" but such suffering tone, such broken words, were not likely to check young stanley's solicitations. again and again he urged her, at least to say what fatal secret so divided them; did he but know it, it might be all removed. marie listened to him for several minutes, with averted head and in unbroken silence; and when she did look on him again, he started at her marble paleness and the convulsive quivering of her lips, which for above a minute prevented the utterance of a word. "be it so," she said at length; "you shall know this impassable barrier. you are too honorable to reveal it. alas! it is not that fear which restrained me; my own weakness which shrinks from being to thee as to other men, were the truth once known, an object of aversion and of scorn." "aversion! scorn! marie, thou ravest," impetuously exclaimed stanley; "torture me not by these dark words: the worst cannot be more suffering." but when the words were said, when with blanched lips and cheeks, and yet unfaltering tone, marie revealed the secret which was to separate them for ever, arthur staggered back, relinquishing the hands he had so fondly clasped, casting on her one look in which love and aversion were strangely and fearfully blended, and then burying his face in his hands, his whole frame shook as with some sudden and irrepressible anguish. "thou knowest all, now," continued marie, after a pause, and she stood before him with arms folded on her bosom, and an expression of meek humility struggling with misery on her beautiful features. "seã±or stanley, i need not now implore you to leave me; that look was sufficient, say but you forgive the deception i have been compelled to practise--and--and forget me. remember what i am, and you will soon cease to love." "never, never!" replied stanley, as with passionate agony he flung himself before her. "come with me to my own bright land; who shall know what thou art there? marie, my own beloved, be mine. what to me is race or blood? i see but the marie i have loved, i shall ever love. come with me. edward has made overtures of peace if i would return to england. for thy sake i will live beneath his sway; be but mine, and oh, we shall be happy yet." "and my father," gasped the unhappy girl, for the generous nature of arthur's love rendered her trial almost too severe. "wilt thou protect him too? wilt thou for my sake forget what he is, and be to him a son?" he turned from her with a stifled groan. "thou canst not--i knew it--oh bless thee for thy generous love; but tempt me no more, arthur; it cannot be; i dare not be thy bride." "and yet thou speakest of love. 'tis false, thou canst not love me," and stanley sprung to his feet disappointed, wounded, till he scarce knew what he said. "i would give up spain and her monarch's love for thee. i would live in slavery beneath a tyrant's rule to give thee a home of love. i would forget, trample on, annihilate the prejudices of a life, unite the pure blood of stanley with the darkened torrent running through thy veins, forget thy race, descent, all but thine own sweet self. i would do this, all this for love of thee. and for me, what wilt thou do?--reject me, bid me leave thee--and yet thou speakest of love: 'tis false, thou lovest another better!" "ay!" replied marie, in a tone which startled him, "ay, thou hast rightly spoken; thy words have recalled what in this deep agony i had well nigh forgotten. there is a love, a duty stronger than that i bear to thee. i would resign all else, but not my father's god." the words were few and simple; but the tone in which they were spoken recalled arthur's better nature, and banished hope at once. a pause ensued, broken only by the young man's hurried tread, as he traversed the little platform in the vain struggle for calmness. on him this blow had fallen wholly unprepared; marie had faced it from the moment they had parted fifteen months before, and her only prayer had been (a fearful one for a young and loving heart), that stanley would forget her, and they might never meet again. but this was not to be; and though she had believed herself prepared, one look on his face, one sound of his voice had proved how vain had been her dream. "i will obey thee, marie," stanley said, at length, pausing before her. "i will leave thee now, but not--not for ever. no, no; if indeed thou lovest me time will not change thee, if thou hast one sacred tie, when nature severs that, and thou art alone on earth, thou shalt be mine, whatever be thy race." "hope it not, ask it not! oh, arthur, better thou shouldst hate me, as thy people do my race: i cannot bear such gentle words," faltered poor marie, as her head sunk for a minute on his bosom, and the pent-up tears burst forth. "but this is folly," she continued, forcing back the choking sob, and breaking from his passionate embrace. "there is danger alike for my father and thee, if thou tarriest longer. not that way," she added, as his eye glanced inquiringly towards the hill by which he had descended; "there is another and an easier path; follow me--thou wilt not betray it?" "never!" was the solemn rejoinder, and not a word more passed between them. he followed her through what seemed to be an endless maze, and paused before a towering rock, which, smooth and perpendicular as a wall built by man, ran round the vale and seemed to reach to heaven. pushing aside the thick brushwood, marie stood beside the rock, and by some invisible movement, a low door flew open and disclosed a winding staircase. "thou wilt trust me, arthur?" "ay, unto death," he answered, springing after her up the rugged stair. narrow loopholes, almost concealed without by trees and brushwood, dimly lighted the staircase, as also a low, narrow passage, which branched off in zig-zag windings at the top, and terminated, as their woody path had done, in a solid wall. but again an invisible door flew open, closing behind them; and after walking about a hundred yards through prickly shrubs and entangled brushwood that obscured his sight, marie paused, and arthur gazed round bewildered. a seemingly boundless plain stretched for miles around him, its green level only diversified by rocks scattered about in huge masses and wild confusion, as if hurled in fury from some giant's hand. the rock whence he had issued was completely invisible. he looked around again and again, but only to bewilder himself yet more. "the way looks more dreary than it is. keep to the left: though it seems the less trodden path thou wilt find there a shelter for the night, and to-morrow's sun will soon guide thee to a frontier town; thy road will be easy then. night is falling so fast now, thou hadst best not linger, arthur." but he did linger, till once more he had drawn from her a confession of her love, that none other could take his place, even while she conjured him never to seek her again--and so they parted. five minutes more, and there was not a vestige of a human form on the wide-extended plain. chapter iii. "now history unfolds her ample page, rich with the spoils of time." clearly to comprehend the internal condition of spain at the period of our narrative (1479)--a condition which, though apparently purely national, had influence over every domestic hearth--it is necessary to glance back a few years. the various petty sovereignties into which spain had been divided never permitted any lengthened period of peace; but these had at length merged into two great kingdoms, under the names of arragon and castile. the _form_ of both governments was monarchical; but the _genius_ of the former was purely republican, and the power of the sovereign so circumscribed by the junta, the justicia, and the holy brotherhood, that the vices or follies of the monarch were of less consequence, in a national point of view, in arragon, than in any other kingdom. it was not so with castile. from the death of henry the third, in 1404, a series of foreign and civil disasters had plunged the kingdom in a state of anarchy and misery. john the second had some virtues as an individual, but none as a king; and his son henry, who succeeded him in 1450, had neither the one nor the other. governed as his father had been, entirely by favorites, the discontent of all classes of his subjects rapidly increased; the people were disgusted and furious at the extravagance of the monarch's minion; the nobles, fired at his insolence; and an utter contempt of the king, increased the virulence of the popular ferment. unmindful of the disgrace attendant on his divorce from blanche of navarre, henry sought and obtained the hand of joanna, princess of portugal, whose ambition and unprincipled intrigues heightened the ill-favor with which he was already regarded. the court of castile, once so famous for chastity and honor, sank to the lowest ebb of infamy, the shadow of which, seeming to extend over the whole land, affected nobles and people with its baleful influence. all law was at an end: the people, even while they murmured against the king, followed his evil example; and history shrinks from the scenes of debauchery and licentiousness, robbery and murder, which desecrated the land. but this state of things could not last long, while there still remained some noble hearts amongst the castilians. five years after their marriage, the queen was said to have given birth to a daughter, whom henry declared should be his successor, in lieu of his young brother alfonso (john's son, by a second wife, isabella of portugal). this child the nobles refused to receive, believing and declaring that she was not henry's daughter, and arrogated to themselves the right of trying and passing sentence on their sovereign, who, by his weak, flagitious conduct had, they unanimously declared, forfeited all right even to the present possession of the crown. the confederates, who were the very highest and noblest officers of the realm, assembled at avita, and with a solemnity and pomp which gave the whole ceremony an imposing character of reality, dethroned king henry in effigy, and proclaimed the youthful alfonso sovereign in his stead. all present swore fealty, but no actual good followed: the flame of civil discord was re-lighted, and raged with yet greater fury; continuing even after the sudden and mysterious death of the young prince, whose extraordinary talent, amiability, and firmness, though only fourteen, gave rise to the rumor that he had actually been put to death by his own party, who beheld in his rising genius the utter destruction of their own turbulence and pride. be this as it may, his death occasioned no cessation of hostilities, the confederates carrying on the war in the name of his sister, the infanta isabella. her youth and sex had pointed her out as one not likely to interfere or check the projects of popular ambition, and therefore the very fittest to bring forward as an excuse for their revolt. with every appearance of humility and deference, they offered her the crown; but the proudest and boldest shrank back abashed, before the flashing eye and proud majesty of demeanor with which she answered, "the crown is not yours to bestow; it is held by henry, according to the laws alike of god and man; and till his death, you have no right to bestow, nor i to receive it." but though firm in this resolution, isabella did not refuse to coincide in their plans for securing her succession. to this measure henry himself consented, thus appearing tacitly to acknowledge the truth of the reports that joanna was a surreptitious child, and for a brief period castile was delivered from the horrors of war. once declared heiress of castile and leon, isabella's hand was sought by many noble suitors, and her choice fell on ferdinand, the young king of sicily, and heir-apparent to the crown of arragon. love was isabella's incentive. prudence, and a true patriotic ambition, urged the archbishop of toledo not only to ratify the choice, but to smooth every difficulty in their way; he saw at once the glory which might accrue to spain by this peaceful union of two rival thrones. every possible and impossible obstacle was privately thrown by henry to prevent this union, even while he gave publicly his consent; his prejudice against ferdinand being immovable and deadly. but the manoeuvres of the archbishop were more skilful than those of the king. the royal lovers--for such they really were--were secretly united at valladolid, to reach which place in safety ferdinand had been compelled to travel in disguise, and attended only by four cavaliers; and at that period so straitened were the circumstances of the prince and princess, who afterwards possessed the boundless treasures of the new world, that they were actually compelled to borrow money to defray the expenses of their wedding! the moment henry became aware of this marriage, the civil struggle recommenced. in vain the firm, yet pacific archbishop of toledo recalled the consent he had given, and proved that the union not only secured the after-glory of spain, but henry's present undisturbed possession of his throne. urged on by his wife, and his intriguing favorite, the marquis of villena, who was for ever changing sides, he published a manifesto, in which he declared on oath that he believed joanna to be his daughter, and proclaimed her heiress of castile. ferdinand and isabella instantly raised an array, regardless of the forces of portugal (to whose monarch joanna had been betrothed), who were rapidly advancing to the assistance of henry. ere, however, war had regularly commenced, a brief respite was obtained by the death of henry, and instantly and unanimously isabella was proclaimed queen of leon and castile. peace, however, was not instantly regained; the king of portugal married joanna, and resolved on defending her rights. some skirmishing took place, and at length a long-sustained conflict near fero decided the point--ferdinand and the castilians were victorious; the king of portugal made an honorable retreat to his own frontiers, and the marquis of villena, the head of the malcontents, and by many supposed to be the real father of joanna, submitted to isabella. peace thus dawned for castile; but it was not till three years afterwards, when ferdinand had triumphed over the enemies of arragon, and succeeded his father as sovereign of that kingdom, that any vigorous measures could be taken for the restoration of internal order. the petty sovereignties of the peninsular, with the sole exception of the mountainous district of navarre, and the moorish territories in the south, were now all united; and it was the sagacious ambition of ferdinand and isabella to render spain as important in the scale of kingdoms as any other european territory; and to do this, they knew, demanded as firm a control over their own subjects, as the subjection of still harassing foes. above a century had elapsed since spain had been exposed to the sway of weak or evil kings, and all the consequent miseries of misrule and war. rapine, outrage, and murder had become so frequent and unchecked, as frequently to interrupt commerce, by preventing all communication between one place and another. the people acknowledged no law but their own passions. the nobles were so engrossed with hatred of each other, and universal contempt of their late sovereign, with personal ambition and general discontent, that they had little time or leisure to attend to any but their own interest. but a very brief interval convinced both nobles and people that a new era was dawning for them. in the short period of eighteen months, the wise administration of isabella and ferdinand, had effected a sufficient change to startle all ranks into the conviction that their best interests lay in prompt obedience, and in exerting themselves in their several spheres, to second the sovereign's will. the chivalric qualities of ferdinand, his undoubted wisdom and unwavering firmness, excited both love and fear; while devotion itself is not too strong a term to express the national feeling entertained toward isabella. her sweet, womanly gentleness, blended as it was with the dignity of the sovereign; her ready sympathy in all that concerned her people--for the lowest of her subjects; doing justice, even if it were the proud noble who injured, and the serf that suffered--all was so strange, yet fraught with such national repose, that her influence every year increased; while every emotion of chivalry found exercise, and yet rest in the heart of the aristocracy for their queen; her simple word would be obeyed, on the instant, by men who would have paused, and weighed, and reasoned, if any other--even ferdinand himself--had spoken. isabella knew her power; and if ever sovereign used it for the good, the happiness of her people, that proud glory was her own. in spite of the miserable condition of the people during the civil struggles, the wealth of spain had not decreased. it was protected and increased by a class of people whose low and despised estate was, probably, their safeguard--these were the jews, who for many centuries had, both publicly and secretly, resided in spain. there were many classes of this people in the land, scattered alike over castile, leon, arragon, navarre, and also in the moorish territories; some there were confined to the mystic learning and profound studies of the schools, whence they sent many deeply learned men to other countries, where their worth and wisdom gained them yet greater regard than they received in spain: others were low and degraded in outward seeming, yet literally holding and guiding the financial and commercial interests of the kingdom;--whose position was of the lowest--scorned and hated by the very people who yet employed them, and exposed to insult from every class; the third, and by far the largest body of spanish jews, were those who, israelites in secret, were so completely catholic in seeming, that the court, the camp, the council, even the monasteries themselves, counted them amongst them. and this had been the case for years--we should say for centuries--and yet so inviolable was the faith pledged to each other, so awful the dangers around them, were even suspicion excited, that the fatal secret never transpired; offices of state, as well as distinctions of honor, were frequently conferred on men who, had their faith or race been suspected, would have been regarded as the scum of the earth, and sentenced to torture and death, for daring to pass for what they were not. at the period of which we write, the fatal enemy to the secret jews of more modern times, known as the holy office, did not exist; but a secret and terrible tribunal there was, whose power and extent were unknown to the sovereigns of the land. the inquisition is generally supposed to have been founded by ferdinand and isabella, about the year 1480 or '82; but a deeper research informs us that it had been introduced into spain several centuries earlier, and obtained great influence in arragon. confiding in the protection of the papal see, the inquisitors set no bounds to their ferocity: secret informations, imprisonments, tortures, midnight assassinations, marked their proceedings; but they overreached themselves. all spain, setting aside petty rivalships, rose up against them. all who should give them encouragement or assistance were declared traitors to their country; the very lives of the inquisitors and their families were, in the first burst of fury, endangered; but after a time, imagining they had sunk into harmless insignificance, their oppressors desisted in their efforts against them, and were guilty of the unpardonable error of not exterminating them entirely.[a] [footnote a: stockdale's history of the inquisition.] according to the popular belief, the dreaded tribunal slept, and so soundly, they feared not, imagined not its awakening. they little knew that its subterranean halls were established near almost all the principal cities, and that its engines were often at work, even in the palaces of kings. many a family wept the loss of a beloved member, they knew not, guessed not how--for those who once entered those fatal walls were never permitted to depart; so secret were their measures, that even the existence of this fearful mockery of justice and religion was not known, or at that time it would have been wholly eradicated. superstition had not then gained the ascendency which in after years so tarnished the glory of spain, and opened the wide gates to the ruin and debasement under which she labors now. the fierce wars and revolutions ravaging the land had given too many, and too favorable opportunities for the exercise of this secret power; but still, regard for their own safety prevented the more public display of their office, as ambition prompted. the vigorous proceedings of ferdinand and isabella rendered them yet more wary; and little did the sovereigns suspect that in their very courts this fatal power held sway. the existence of this tribunal naturally increased the dangers environing the israelites who were daring enough to live amongst the catholics as one of them; but of this particular danger they themselves were not generally aware, and their extraordinary skill in the concealment of their faith (to every item of which they yet adhered) baffled, except in a very few instances, even these ministers of darkness. chapter iv. "in war did never lion rage more fierce- in peace was never gentle lamb more mild, than was that young and princely gentleman." shakspeare. the wars ravaging spain had nursed many a gallant warrior, and given ample opportunities for the possession and display of those chivalric qualities without which, in that age, no manly character was considered perfect. the armies of ferdinand and isabella counted some of the noblest names and most valiant knights of christendom. the spanish chivalry had always been famous, and when once organized under a leader of such capacity and firmness as ferdinand; when the notice and regard of the queen they idolized could only be obtained by manly virtue as well as the warrior's ardor, a new spirit seemed to wake within them; petty rivalships and jealousies were laid aside, all they sought was to become distinguished; and never had chivalry shone with so pure and glorious a lustre in the court of spain as then, when, invisibly and unconsciously, it verged on its decline. it was amongst all this blaze of chivalry that arthur stanley had had ample opportunity to raise, in his own person, the martial glory of his own still much loved and deeply regretted land. ferdinand had honored him with so large a portion of his coveted regard, that no petty feelings on the part of the spaniards, because he was a stranger, could interfere with his advancement; his friends, however, were mostly among the arragonese; to isabella, and the castilians, he was only known as a valiant young warrior, and a marked favorite of the king. there was one person, however, whom the civil contentions of spain had so brought forward, that his name was never spoken, either in council, court, or camp, palace or hut--by monarch or captive, soldier or citizen--without a burst of such warm and passionate attachment that it was almost strange how any single individual, and comparatively speaking, in a private station, could so have won the hearts of thousands. yet it had been gradually that this pre-eminence had been attained--gradually, and entirely by the worth of its object. at the early age of sixteen, and as page to gonzalos de lara, ferdinand morales had witnessed with all the enthusiasm of a peculiarly ardent, though outwardly quiet nature, the exciting proceedings at avila. his youth, his dignified mien, his earnestness, perhaps even his striking beauty, attracted the immediate attention of the young alfonso, and a bond of union of reciprocal affection from that hour linked the youths together. it is useless arguing on the folly and frivolity of such rapid attachments; there are those with whom one day will be sufficient, not only to awaken, but to rivet, those mysterious sympathies which are the undying links of friendship; and others again, with whom we may associate intimately for months--nay, years--and yet feel we have not one thought in common, nor formed one link to sever which is pain. during alfonso's brief career, ferdinand morales displayed personal qualities, and a wisdom and faithfulness in his cause, well deserving not only the prince's love, but the confidence of all those who were really alfonso's friends. his deep grief and ill-concealed indignation at the prince's mysteriously sudden death might, for the time, have obtained him enemies, and endangered his own life; but the favor of isabella, whom it was then the policy of the confederates to conciliate in all things possible, protected and advanced him. the love borne by the infanta for her young brother surpassed even the tenderest affection of such relatives; all who had loved and served him were dear to her; and at a time when so much of treachery and insidious policy lurked around her, even in the garb of seeming devotion to her cause, the unwavering fidelity and straightforward conduct of morales, combined as it was with his deep affection for alfonso, permitted her whole mind to rest on him, secure not only of his faithfulness, but of vigilance which would discover and counteract every evil scheming of seeming friends. her constantly chosen messenger to ferdinand, he became known and trusted by both that prince and his native subjects. his wealth, which, seemed exhaustless, independent of his preferments, was ever at the service of either isabella or her betrothed; he it was from whom the necessary means for her private nuptials were borrowed. at that scene he was, of course, present, and, at his own desire, escorted ferdinand back to his own domains--an honorable but most dangerous office, performed with his usual unwavering fidelity and skill. that one so faithful in adversity should advance from post to post as soon as dawning prosperity permitted isabella and ferdinand to reward merit as well as to evince gratitude, was not surprising; but no royal favor, no coveted honors, no extended power, could alter one tittle of his single-hearted truth--his unrestrained intercourse with and interest in his equals, were they of the church, court, or camp--his gentle and unassuming manner to his inferiors. it was these things that made him so universally beloved. the coldest natures, if thrown in contact with him, unconsciously to themselves kindled into warmth; vice itself could not meet the glance of that piercing eye without shrinking, for the moment, in loathing from itself. until isabella and ferdinand were firmly established on the throne, and arragon and castile united, there had been little leisure amongst their warriors to think of domestic ties, otherwise it might perhaps have been noticed as somewhat remarkable that ferdinand morales appeared to stand alone; kindred, indeed, he claimed with four or five of the noblest amongst the castilians, but he seemed to have no near relative; and though he mingled courteously, and to some young hearts far too pleasingly, amongst isabella's court, it seemed as if he would never stoop to love. the queen often jested him on his apparent insensibility, and entreating him to wed. at first he had smiled away such words; but two or three months after the commencement of our tale, he acknowledged that his affections had been for some years engaged to one living so completely in retirement as to be unknown to all; he had but waited till peace had dawned for spain, and he might offer her not only his love, but a secure and quiet home. he spoke in confidence, and isabella, woman-like, had listened with no little interest, giving her royal approval of his choice, without knowing more than his own words revealed; but feeling convinced, she said, that ferdinand morales would never wed one whose birth or lineage would tarnish his pure castilian blood, or endanger the holy faith of which he was so true a member. a red flush might have stained the cheek of the warrior at these words, but the deep obeisance with which he had departed from the royal presence concealed the unwonted emotion. ere a year from that time elapsed, not only the ancient city of segovia, where his large estates lay, but all castile were thrown into a most unusual state of excitement by the marriage of the popular idol, don ferdinand morales, with a young and marvellously lovely girl, whom few, if any, had ever seen before, and whose very name, donna marie henriquez, though acknowledged as essentially castilian, was yet unfamiliar. the mystery, however, as to who she was, and where he could have found her, was speedily lost in the universal admiration of her exceeding and remarkable loveliness, and of the new yet equally attractive character which, as a devoted husband, morales thenceforward displayed. many had imagined that he was too grave, too wrapt in his many engrossing duties, alike as statesman and general, ever to play the lover; and he had seemed resolved that this impression should remain, and shrunk from the exposure of such sacred feelings; for none, save isabella, knew he loved until they saw his bride. chapter v. "and we have won a bower of refuge now in this fresh waste." mrs. hemans. the vale of cedars, as described in our first chapter, had been originally the work of a single individual, who had found there a refuge and concealment from the secret power of the inquisition, from whose walls he had almost miraculously escaped: this individual was julien henriquez, the grandfather of marie. for five years he remained concealed, working unaided, but successfully, in forming a comfortable home and concealed retreat, not only for himself but for his family. nature herself appeared to have marked the spot as an impenetrable retreat, and julien's skill and energy increased and strengthened the natural barriers. during these five years the secret search for his person, at first carried on so vigilantly that his enemies supposed nothing but death could have concealed him, gradually relaxed, and then subsided altogether. foes and friends alike believed him dead, and when he did re-appear in the coarse robe, shrouding cowl, and hempen belt, of a wandering friar, he traversed the most populous towns in safety, unrecognized and unsuspected. it was with some difficulty he found his family, and a matter of no little skill to convey them, without exciting suspicion by their disappearance, to his retreat; but all was accomplished at length, and years of domestic felicity crowned every former effort, and inspired and encouraged more. besides his own immediate family, consisting of his wife, a son, and daughter, henriquez had the charge of two nephews and a niece, children of his sister, whose husband had perished by the arm of the same secret power from which henriquez had escaped; their mother had died of a broken heart, from the fearful mystery of her husband's fate, and the orphans were to julien as his own. as years passed, the vale of cedars became not only a safe, but a luxurious home. every visit to the world julien turned to profit, by the purchase first of necessaries, then of luxuries. the little temple was erected by the active aid of the young men, and the solemn rites of their peculiar faith adhered to in security. small as the family was, deaths, marriages, and births took place, and feelings and sympathies were excited, and struggles secretly endured, making that small spot of earth in very truth a world. the cousins intermarried. ferdinand and josephine left the vale for a more stirring life; manuel, henriquez's own son, and miriam, his niece, preferred the quiet of the vale. julien, his nephew, too, had loved; but his cousin's love was given to his brother, and he departed, unmurmuringly indeed, but he dared not yet trust himself to associate calmly with the object of his love: he had ever been a peculiarly sad and silent boy; the fate of his father never for an instant seemed to leave his mind, and he had secretly vowed to avenge him. love, for a while, had banished these thoughts; but when that returned in all the misery of isolation to his own breast, former thoughts regained dominion, and he tried to conquer the one feeling by the encouragement of the other. his brother and his wife constantly visited the vale; if at no other time, almost always at those solemn festivals which generally fell about the period of the catholic easter and michaelmas; often accompanied by faithful friends, holding the same mysterious bond of brotherhood, and to whom the secret of that vale was as precious and secure as to its natural inmates. its aged founder had frequently the happiness of gathering around him from twenty to thirty of his secret race, and of feeling that his work would benefit friends as well as offspring. julien alone never returned to the vale, and his family at length mourned him as one amongst the dead. the career of his brother was glorious but brief; he fell fighting for his country, and his widow and young son returned to the parental retreat. though the cousins had married the same day, the son of ferdinand was ten years older than his cousin marie; manuel and miriam having lived twelve years together ere the longed-for treasure was bestowed. at first, therefore, she had been to the youthful ferdinand but as a plaything, to pet and laugh with: he left the vale as page to his father's companion in arms, gonzalos de lara, when marie was little more than five years old; but still his love for her and his home was such that whenever it was possible, he would snatch if it were but half a day to visit them. gradually, and to him it seemed almost strangely, the plaything child changed into the graceful girl, and then again into the lovely woman; and dearer than ever became his boyhood's home, though years had snatched away so many of its beloved inmates, that, at the period of our story, its sole occupants were marie and her father. had her mother lived, perchance marie had never been exposed to the dangers of an introduction to the world. betrothed, in the secret hearts of not only her own parents, but of ferdinand's mother, to her cousin, if she lived to attain sufficient age, miriam would not have thought it so impossible as manuel did, that the affections of his child might be sought for by, and given to another, if she mingled with the world; she would at least have waited till she was ferdinand's wedded wife, and then sent her forth secure. but such subtle fears and feelings are peculiarly _woman's_; not the tenderest, most devoted father, could of himself have either thought of, or understood them. he might perhaps have owned their justice had they been presented to him by the affectionate warnings of an almost idolized wife; but that voice was hushed, her sweet counsels buried in the grave; and the fond, proud father, only thought of his child's brilliant beauty, and how she would be admired and beloved, could she be but generally known. and so, for her sake, he actually did violence to his own love for the quiet retirement of the vale, and bore her to the care of donna emilie de castro; seeing nothing, feeling nothing, but the admiration she excited, and that she was indeed the loveliest there. one wish he had, and that was, that his nephew could have been there likewise; but being engaged at that time on some important private business for the queen, ferdinand did not even know that his cousin had ever left the vale. that his child's affections could be excited towards any but those of her own race was a circumstance so impossible, and moreover a sin so fearful, that it never entered manuel's mind: he knew not woman's nature, dreamed not of its quick impulses, its passionate yearnings, its susceptibility towards all gentle emotions, or he could not have so trustingly believed in the power of her peculiar faith and creed to guard her from the danger. even his dearest desire that she should become the wife of her cousin she knew not; for the father shrunk from revealing it to either his child or nephew, unless ferdinand loved and sought her himself. what therefore had she to warn her from the precipice on which she stood, when new, strange, yet most exquisitely sweet emotions gradually obtained possession of her heart in her daily intercourse with arthur stanley? what they were indeed she knew not; the word love was never uttered by either; she only knew that his presence, his voice, the pressure of his hand, brought with it a thrilling sensation of intense happiness, such as she had never known, never imagined before. it was indeed but a brief dream, for when he spoke, when he besought her to be his, then indeed she woke to consciousness, not only that she loved, but of the dark and fatal barrier between them, which no human effort could o'erleap. the sacrifice of race, of faith, of family, indeed might be made; but to do this never entered the mind and heart of marie, so utterly was it impossible. to her peculiar feelings it was sin enough thus to have loved. manuel henriquez bore his child back to the vale, little dreaming of the anguish to which his unguarded love had exposed her. she had ever been rather a pensive and gentle girl, and therefore that she should be still serious was no matter of surprise. for fifteen months she had sought to banish every dream of arthur, every thought but that in loving him she had sinned against her god. time and prayer had in some measure softened the first acute agony of her feelings; she thought she was conquering them altogether, when his unexpected appearance excited every feeling anew. yet in that harrowing interview still she had been firm. she had even told him a secret, which it was almost death to reveal, that he might forget her; for how could he wed with her? and yet even that barrier he would have passed, and his generous, his determined love, would linger on her memory spite of every effort to think of him no more. it was a fearful struggle, and often and often she yearned to confess all to her father, whom she loved with no common love; but she knew too well, not only the grief such tidings would be to him, but what his judgment must be, and she shrunk in agony from the condemnation of her feelings by another, constantly as she was condemning them herself. henriquez had been absent from the vale during stanley's unexpected visit, and he tarried long enough to excite the alarm, not only of his child but of their domestics; nor was its cause when explained likely to ease marie's anxiety. he had been attacked on the day of his intended return by a strange sensation of giddiness, followed by insensibility, which appeared to have weakened him more than he had thought compatible with so brief an illness. he made light of it, but still he was uneasy, not that he feared death himself, but that it might take him from his marie ere his wishes were accomplished, and her earthly happiness, as he thought, secured. the first attack was but the forerunner of others, sometimes very slight and brief, at others longer and more alarming, rendering marie more and more determined to keep her fatal secret from him; for it appeared to her that any stronger emotion than customary would be followed by those attacks; and as her love for him seemed to increase in intensity with the anxiety his precarious health occasioned, so did her dread of occasioning him aught of grief. but how fruitless are our best and wisest resolutions! one little hour, and every thought was changed. chapter vi. "oh! praise me not- look gently on me, or i sink to earth not thus." de chatillon. it was the custom of the inmates of the vale of cedars, once in every year, and generally about the season of michaelmas, to celebrate a festival, which ordained the erection of a booth or tent of "branches of thick trees," in which for seven days every meal was taken, and greater part of the day (except the time passed in the little temple) was spent. large branches of the palm and cedar, the willow, acacia, and the oak, cut so as to prevent their withering for the seven days, formed the walls of the tent; their leaves intermingling over head, so as to form a shelter, and yet permit the beautiful blue of the heavens to peep within. flowers of every shade and scent formed a bordering within; and bouquets, richly and tastefully arranged, placed in vases filled with scented earth, hung from the branches forming the roof. fruit, too, was there--the purple grape, the ripe red orange, the paler lemon, the lime, the pomegranate, the citron, all of which the vale afforded, adorned the board (which for those seven days was always spread within the tent), intermingled with cakes made by marie. this was one of the festivals for which many of the secret race would visit the vale; but it so happened that, this year, manuel, his child, and their retainers, kept it alone--a source of disappointment and anxiety to the former, whose health was rapidly (but still to his child almost invisibly) failing. at the close of the solemn fast which always preceded by five days this festival of rejoicing, he had had a recurrence of his deathlike fits of insensibility, longer and more alarming than usual; but he had rallied, and attributed it so naturally to his long fast, that alarm once more gave place to hope in the heart of his daughter. not thus, however, felt her father--convinced that death could not be long delayed, he but waited for his nephew's appearance and acknowledged love for his cousin, at once to give her to him, and prepare her for the worst. parental anxiety naturally increased with every hour that passed, and ferdinand appeared not. it was the eve of the sabbath; one from which in general all earthly cares and thoughts were banished, giving place to tranquil and spiritual joy. the father and daughter were alone within their lovely tent, but both so wrapt in evidently painful thought, that a strange silence usurped the usual cheerful converse. so unwonted was the anxious gloom on manuel's brow, that his child could bear it no longer, and flinging her arms round his neck, she besought him in the tenderest accents to confide in her, as he had ever done, since her mother's death, to tell her what so pained him--might she not remove it? henriquez could not resist that fond yet mournful pleading. he told her, that he felt health was departing, that death seemed ever hovering near, but that its pain, its care, would all depart, could he behold his long-cherished wish fulfilled, and his marie the wife of ferdinand, whose every look and tone during his last visit had betrayed his devoted love. marie heard; and her cheek and lips blanched to such ashy whiteness, that her father in alarm folded her to his breast; and sought to soothe a grief, which he believed was occasioned merely by the sudden and fearful thought of his approaching death; and sought to soothe, by a reference to the endearing love, the cherished tenderness which would still be hers; how ferdinand would be to her all, aye more than all that he had been, and how, with love like his, she would be happier than she had been yet. much he said, and he might have said still more, for it was long ere the startled girl could interrupt him. but when he conjured her to speak to him, not to look upon his death so fearfully, the beautiful truth of her nature rose up against the involuntary deceit. it was not his death which thus appalled her; alas--alas!--and she hated herself for the fearful thought--she had almost lost sight of that, in the words which followed. breaking from his embrace, she sunk down on her knees before him, and buying her face upon his hand, in broken accents and with choking sobs, revealed the whole. how could she do her noble kinsman such fearful wrong as to wed him, when her whole heart, thoughts, nay, life itself, seemed wrapt in the memory of another? and that other! oh! who, what was he? once she looked up in her father's face, but so fearful were the emotions written there--wrath struggling with love, grief, pity, almost terror--that hastily she withdrew her glance, and remained kneeling, bent even to the dust, long after the confession had been poured forth, waiting in fear and anguish for his words. "marie, marie! is it my marie, my sainted miriam's, child, who thus speaks? who hath thus sinned sole representative of a race of ages, in whose pure thoughts such fearful sin hath never mingled. my child so to love the stranger as to reject, to scorn her own! oh god, my god, why hast thou so forsaken me? would i had died before!" and the heavy groan which followed, confirmed the anguish breathed in those broken words. "father!" implored the unhappy girl, clasping his knees in an agony of supplication, though she raised not her head--"oh my father! in mercy do not speak thus! words of wrath, of reproach, fearful as they are from thee, yet i can bear them, but not such woe! oh, think what i have borne, what i must still bear. if i have sinned, my sin will bring, nay, it has already brought its own chastisement. speak to me but one word of love--or, if it must be, wrath.--but not, not such accents of despair!" her father struggled to reply; but the conflux of strong emotion was too powerful, and marie sprung up to support him as he fell. she had often seen him insensible before, when there appeared no cause for such attacks; but was it strange that at such a moment she should feel that _she_ had caused it?--that her sin perchance had killed her father; he might never wake more to say he forgave, he blessed her,--or that in those agonized moments of suspense she vowed, if he might but speak again, that his will should be hers, even did it demand the annihilation of every former treasured thought! and the vow seemed heard. gradually and, it appeared, painfully life returned. his first action was to clasp her convulsively to his heart; his next, to put her gently yet firmly from him, and bury his face in his hands, and weep. no sight is more terrible, even to an indifferent spectator, than to behold tears wrung from the eyes of man--and to his child it was indeed torture. but she controlled the choking anguish--calmly and firmly she spoke, and gradually the paroxysm subsided. "that i have sinned in loving a stranger thus, i have long felt," she said; "and had i been aware of the nature of these feelings, they should never have gained ascendency. but i awoke too late--my very being was enchained. still i may break from these engrossing thoughts--i would do so--pain shall be welcome, if it may in time atone for the involuntary sin of loving the stranger, and the yet more terrible one of grieving thee. oh, my father, do what thou wilt, command me as thou wilt--i am henceforth wholly thine." "and thou wilt wed ferdinand, my child?" "would he still wish it, father, if he knew the whole? and is it right, is it just, to wed him, and the truth still unrevealed? oh, if he do love me, as you say, how can i requite him by deceit?" "tell him not, tell him not," replied henriquez, again fearfully agitated; "let none other know what has been. what can it do, save to grieve him beyond thy power to repair? no, no. once his, and all these fearful thoughts will pass away, and their sin be blotted out, in thy true faithfulness to one who loves thee. his wife, and i know that thou wilt love him, and be true, as if thou hadst never loved another--" "ay, could i not be true, i would not wed," murmured marie, more to herself than to her father; "and if suffering indeed, atone for sin, terribly will it be redeemed. but oh, my father, tell me--i have sworn to be guided by thee, and in all things i will be--tell me, in wedding him whom thou hast chosen, do i not still do foul wrong, if not to him (her voice faltered), unto another, whose love is mine as well?" "better for him, as for thee, to wed another, marie! would'st thou wed the stranger, wert thou free?" she buried her face in his bosom, and murmured, "never!" "then in what can this passion end, but in misery for both? in constant temptation to perjure thy soul, in forsaking all for him. and if thou didst, would it bring happiness? my child, thou art absolved, even had aught of promise passed between you. knowest thou not that a maiden of herself hath no power to vow? her father's will alone absolves it or confirms. thou doest him no wrong. be ferdinand's bride, and all shall be forgiven, all forgotten--thou art my child, my miriam's child once more!" he pressed her again fondly to him; but though she made no reply, his arguments could not convince her. she had indeed told arthur that she never could be his, but yet avowed that she loved him; and if he did meet her as the wife of another, what must he believe her? and ferdinand, if he did so love her, that preoccupied heart was indeed a sad requital. she had, however, that evening but little time to think, for ere either spoke again, the branches at the entrance of the tent were hastily pushed aside, and a tall manly form stood upon the threshold. marie sprang to her feet with a faint cry--could it be that the vow of an hour was already called upon to be fulfilled?--but the intruder attributed her alarm to a different cause, and hastily flinging off his wrapping mantle and deep plumed morion, he exclaimed, "what! alarmed by me, my gentle cousin? dearest marie! am i forgotten?" and henriquez, forgetting all of bodily exhaustion, all of mental suffering, in the deep joy his sudden appearance caused, could only fold the warrior in his feeble arms, and drooping his head on his shoulder, sob forth expressively, "my son! my son!" chapter vii. "and thus how oft do life and death twine hand in hand together; and the funeral shroud, and bridal wreath, how small a space may sever!" ms. one little week did ferdinand spend within the home of his boyhood; and in that brief interval the earthly fate of marie henriquez was decided. he had deferred his visit till such peace and prosperity had dawned for spain, that he could offer his bride not only a home suited to his rank, but the comfort of his presence and protection for an indeterminate time. he had come there purposely to reveal his long-cherished love; to conjure marie to bless him with the promise of her hand; and, if successful, to return, in two short months, for the celebration of their marriage, according to their own secret rites, ere the ceremony was performed in the sight of the whole catholic world. the intermarriages of first cousins had been so common an occurrence in his family, that ferdinand, in spite of some tremblings, as a lover, had regarded his final union with marie with almost as much certainty, and as a thing of course, as his uncle himself. the effects of that agitating interview between father and daughter had been visible to ferdinand; but he attributed it, very naturally, to the cause privately assigned for it by his kinsman--marie's first conviction that her father's days were numbered. he had been greatly shocked at the change in henriquez's appearance, and deeply affected at the solemn and startling earnestness with which he consigned his child to his care, beseeching him, under all circumstances, to love and cherish her. his nephew could scarcely understand, then, such earnest pleadings. alas! ere his life closed, their cause was clear enough. unconscious that her father and cousin were together, or of the nature of their conversation, marie had joined them, unexpectedly, ere the interview was over. from her father's lips, and in a tone of trembling agitation, she heard that his long-cherished prayer was granted, and that she was his nephew's plighted, bride. he joined their hands, blessed them, and left them alone together, ere she had had power to utter a single word; and when voice was recalled by the tender, earnest accents of her cousin, beseeching her to ratify her father's consent--to say she would learn to love him, if she did not then; that she would not refuse the devotedness he proffered--what could she answer? she had so long loved him, venerated him, gloried in his achievements, his honors, as of an elder and much-loved brother, that, had she followed the impulse of her nature, she would have thrown herself as a sister on his neck, and poured forth her tale of sorrow. but she had sworn to be guided by her father, and he had besought her to reveal nothing; and therefore she promised to be his, even while with tears she declared herself unworthy. but such words were of little meaning to her enraptured lover save to bid him passionately deny them, and excite his ardent affection more than ever--satisfied that she could be not indifferent, listening as she did, with such flushed cheek and glistening eye, to the theme of his life since they had parted--the favor of the sovereigns, and the station he had won. during the two months which intervened between don ferdinand's departure and promised return, marie strained every nerve to face her destiny, and so meet it with calmness. had she not loved, it would have been impossible to feel herself the cherished object of her cousin's love without returning it, possessing, as he did, alike inward and outward attraction to win regard. she studiously and earnestly banished every thought of arthur as it rose; she prayed only for strength to be faithful, not only in outward seeming but in inward thought; that stanley might never cross her path again, or, if he did, that his very affections might be estranged from her; that the secret she had revealed might alone be thought upon, till all of love had gone. the torture of such prayer, let those who love decide; but it was the thought of his woe, did he ever know she was another's bride, that haunted her. her own suffering it was comparitively easy to bear, believing as she did, that they were called for by her involuntary sin: but his--so successfully had she conquered herself; that it was only when his countenance of reproach would flit before her, that the groan burst from her heart, and she felt bowed unto the earth. infirmity itself seemed conquered in the rejoicing thankfulness with which henriquez regarded this fulfilment of his wishes. he appeared actually to regain strength and energy; his alarming fainting fits had not recurred since his nephew's visit, and marie hoped he would be spared her longer than he believed. he never recurred to her confession, but lavished on her, if possible, yet more endearing love, and constantly alluded to the intense happiness which her consent to be her cousin's bride had given him. once he left the vale, despite his precarious health, taking with him his old retainer, reuben, and returned, laden with the richest gems and costliest silks, to adorn his child, on her bridal day, as befitted the bride of ferdinand. time passed: the day specified by ferdinand rapidly approached. he was there to meet it--and not alone. thoughtful of his marie's feeling, he had resolved that she should not stand beside the altar without one female friend; and he brought one, the sight of whom awakened associations with such overpowering strength, that marie could only throw herself upon her bosom, almost convulsed with tears. it was donna emelie de castro, at whose house she had joined the world; but her emotion, supposed natural to the agitating ceremony impending, and her father's precarious health, happily for her, passed without further notice than sympathy and love. henriquez, for once, was indifferent alike to the agitation of marie, or the presence of ferdinand. his glance was fixed on one of a little group, all of whom, with the exception of this individual, were familiar to his home and heart. he was clothed as a monk; but his cowl was thrown back, and his gaze so fixed on marie that she blushed beneath it, and turned away. "do not turn from me, my child," he said; and henriquez started at the voice, it was so fraught with memories of the departed. "stranger as i must be, save in name, to thee--thou art none such to me. i seem to feel thy mother once again before me--and never was sister more beloved!--manuel, hast thou, indeed, forgotten julien?" almost ere he ceased to speak, the long separated relatives were clasped in each, other's arms. the five-and-twenty years, which had changed the prime of manhood into advancing age, and blanched the hair of each, had had no power to decrease the strong ties of kindred, so powerful in their secret race. the agitation and excitement of henriquez was so excessive, not only then, but during the few days intervening before the celebration of the bridal, that marie, in spite of the near approach of the dreaded day, could only think of him. ferdinand was no exacting lover: his affection for her was so intense, so true; his confidence in her truth so perfect, that, though he might at times have fancied that she loved not then with fervor equal to his own, he was contented to believe that his devotion would in time create in her as powerful a feeling. he had so watched, so tended her from infancy: she had so clung to and reverenced him, so opened her young heart, without one reservation, to his view--so treated him as her most cherished, most loved friend, that how could he dream she had aught to conceal, or believe that, did she know there was, she could have hesitated, one moment, to refuse his hand, preferring even the misery of so grieving him, to the continued agony of deceit? it was this perfect confidence, this almost childish trust, so beautiful in one tried, as he had been, in the ordeal of the world, that wrung marie's heart with deepest torture. he believed her other than she was;--but it was too late--she dared not undeceive him. the nuptial morning dawned. the party, not more than twelve or fourteen in all, assembled within the little edifice, whose nature had so puzzled arthur. its interior was as peculiar as its outward appearance: its walls, of polished cedar, were unadorned with either carving, pictures, or imagery. in the centre, facing the east, was a sort of raised table or desk, surrounded by a railing, and covered with a cloth of the richest and most elaborately worked brocade. exactly opposite, and occupying the centre of the eastern wall, was a sort of lofty chest, or ark; the upper part of which, arched, and richly painted, with a blue ground, bore in two columns, strange hieroglyphics in gold: beneath this were portals of polished cedar, panelled, and marked out with gold, but bearing no device; their hinges set in gilded pillars, which supported the arch above. before these portals were generally drawn curtains, of material rich and glittering as that upon the reading-desk. but this day not only were the curtains drawn aside, but the portals themselves flung open, as the bridal party neared the steps which led to it, and disclosed six or seven rolls of parchment, folded on silver pins, and filled with the same strange letters, each clothed in drapery of variously colored brocade, or velvet, and surmounted by two sets of silver ornaments, in which the bell and pomegranate were, though small, distinctly discernible. a superb lamp, of solid silver, was suspended from the roof; and one of smaller dimensions, but of equally valuable material, and always kept lighted, hung just before the ark. julien morales, at his own particular request, was to read the ceremony; and three hours after noon he stood within the portals, on the highest step; a slab of white marble divided him from the bride and bridegroom, over whom a canopy was raised, supported by four silver poles. the luxuriant hair of the bride had been gathered up, and, save two massive braids, shading her brow and cheek, was concealed under a head-dress, somewhat resembling an eastern turban, but well suited to her countenance. her dress, of the fashion before described, was all of white--the jacket or bodice richly woven with gold threads; but so thick a veil enveloped face and form, that her sweet face was concealed, until, at one particular part of the mysterious rite (for such, to the spaniards, this ceremony must have been), the veil was uplifted for her to taste the sacred wine, and not allowed to fall again. neither the bridegroom (agitated himself, for his was not a nature to think lightly of the nuptial rite), nor henriquez (whose excitement was extreme) was conscious of the looks of alarm, blended with admiration, which the raising of the veil attracted towards marie. lovely she was; but it was the loveliness of a marble statue, not of life--her very lips were blanched, and every feature still, indeed; but a stillness of so peculiar an expression, so inexpressibly, so thrillingly sad, that admiration appeared indefinably and strangely transformed to pain. the wedding ring was placed upon her hand--a thin crystal goblet broken by ferdinand, on the marble at his feet--and the rites were concluded. an almost convulsive embrace from her father--the unusual wildness of his voice and manner, as he blessed, and called her his own precious child, who this day had placed the seal upon his happiness, and confirmed twenty years of filial devotedness and love--awoke her from that stagnating trance. she folded her arms round his neck, and burst into passionate tears; and there were none, not even ferdinand, to chide or doubt that emotion--it was but natural to her character, and the solemn service of the day. gay and joyous was the meal which followed the bridal. no appurtenances of modern pomp and luxury, indeed, decorated the board: its only ornaments were the loveliest flowers, arranged in alabaster vases, and silver baskets filled with blushing fruit. the food was simple, and the wines not choice; but the guests thought not of mere sensual enjoyment. in these secret meetings, each felt there was something holy; richer homes, more gorgeous feasts, were theirs in the world, whenever they so willed; but such intercourse of brotherhood seldom occurred, and when it came, was consequently hallowed. some time they sat around the board; and so unrestrained, so full of varied interest was their eager converse, that sunset came unheeded; and the silver lamps, fed with sweet incense, were placed upon the table. julien then arose, and solemnly pronounced the usual blessing, or rather thanksgiving, after the bridal feast. marie did not look up during its continuance; but as it concluded, she arose, and was about to retire with donna emilie, when her eye caught her father, and a cry of alarm broke from her. the burning flush had given place to a livid paleness--the glittering of the eye to a fixed and glassy gaze. the frame was, for a moment, rigid as stone, then fearfully convulsed; and reuben, starting forward, caught his master as he fell. there was something so startling and unusual in the seizure, that even those accustomed to his periods of insensibility were alarmed; and vain was every effort of ferdinand to awaken hope and comfort in the seemingly frozen spirit of his bride. henriquez was conveyed to his room, and every restorative applied; but even the skill of julien, well versed as he was in the healing art, was without effect. more than an hour passed, and still he lay like death; and no sound, no sob, broke from the torn heart of his hapless child, who knelt beside his couch; her large dark eyes, distended to even more than their usual size, fixed upon his face; her hands clasped round one of his; but had she sought thus to give warmth she would have failed, for the hand of the living was cold and damp as that of the seeming dead. a slight, almost imperceptible flush floated over that livid cheek--the eyes unclosed, but so quickly closed again that it was more like the convulsive quivering of the muscle than the effort of the will; and marie alone had marked the change. "father!" she almost shrieked in agony, "in mercy speak to me again--say but you forgive--bless--" "forgive" feebly repeated the dying man; and the strong feeling of the father, for a brief interval, conquered even death--"forgive?--my beautiful--my own!--the word is meaningless, applied to thee. art thou not my ferdinand's bride, and hast thou not so taken the sting, the trial even from this dread moment? my precious one!--would i could see that face once more--but it is dark--all dark--kiss me, my child!" she threw herself upon his bosom, and covered his cheek with kisses. he passed his hand feebly over her face, as if the touch could once more bring her features to his sight; and then extending his left hand, feebly called--"ferdinand!" his nephew caught the withered hand, and kneeling down, pressed it reverentially and fondly to his lips. henriquez's lips moved, but there came no word. "doubt me not, my more than father! from boyhood to youth, from youth to manhood, i have doted on thy child. shall i love and cherish her less now, that she has only me? oh, trust me!--if devotion can give joy, she will know no grief, that man can avert, again!" a strange but a beautiful light for a single minute dispersed the fearful shadow creeping over henriquez's features. "my son! my son!--i bless thee--and thou, too, my drooping flower. julien! my brother--lay me beside my miriam. thou didst not come for this--but it is well. my children--my friends--send up the hymn of praise--the avowal of our faith; once more awake the voice of our fathers!" he was obeyed; a psalm arose, solemn and sweet, in accents familiar as their mother tongue, to those who chanted; but had any other been near, not a syllable would have been intelligible. but the voice which in general led to such solemn service--so thrilling in its sweetness, that the most indifferent could not listen to it unmoved--now lay hushed and mute, powerless even to breathe the sobs that crushed her heart. and when the psalm ceased, and the prayer for the dying followed, with one mighty effort henriquez raised himself, and clasping his hands, uttered distinctly the last solemn words ever spoken by his race, and then sunk back--and there was silence. minutes, many minutes, rolled by--but marie moved not. gently, and tenderly, don ferdinand succeeded in disengaging the convulsive hold with which she still clasped her parent, and sought to bear her from that sad and solemn room. wildly she looked up in his face, and then on those beloved features, already fixed and gray in death;--with frantic strength she pushed aside her husband, and sunk down by her father's side. chapter viii. "slight are the outward signs of evil thought: within, within--'twas there the spirit wrought. love shows all changes: hate, ambition, guile, betray no further than the bitter smile." byron. our readers must imagine that nearly a year and a half has elapsed since the conclusion of our last chapter. during that interval the outward life of marie had passed in a calm, even stream; which, could she have succeeded in entirely banishing thoughts of the past, would have been unalloyed enjoyment. her marriage, as we hinted in our fourth chapter, had been solemnized in public, with all the form and ceremony of the catholic church, and with a splendor incumbent on the high rank and immense wealth of the bridegroom. in compliance with marie's wishes, however, she had not yet been presented to the queen; delicate health (which was the fact, for a terrible fever had succeeded the varied emotions of her wedding day) and her late bereavement, was her husband's excuse to isabella for her non-appearance--an excuse graciously accepted; the rather that the queen of castile was then much engrossed with political changes and national reforms, than from any failing of interest in don ferdinand's bride. changed as was her estate, from her lovely home in the vale of cedars, where she had dwelt as the sole companion of an ailing parent, to the mistress of a large establishment in one of the most populous cities of castile; the idolized wife of the governor of the town--and, as such, the object of popular love and veneration, and called upon, frequently, to exert influence and authority--still marie did not fail performing every new duty with a grace and sweetness binding her more and more closely to the doting heart of her husband. for her inward self, marie was calm--nay, at intervals, almost happy. she had neither prayed nor struggled in vain, and she felt as if her very prayer was answered in the fact that arthur stanley had been appointed to some high and honorable post in sicily, and they were not therefore likely yet to meet again. the wife of such a character as morales could not have continued wretched unless perversely resolved so to be. but his very virtues, while they inspired the deepest reverence towards him, engendered some degree of fear. could she really have loved him as--he believed she did--this feeling would not have had existence; but its foundation was the constant thought that she was deceiving him--the remorse, that his fond confidence was so utterly misplaced--the consciousness, that there was still something to conceal, which, if discovered, must blight his happiness for ever, and estrange him from her, were it only for the past deceit. had his character been less lofty--his confidence in her less perfect--his very love less fond and trusting--she could have borne her trial better; but to one true, ingenuous, open as herself, what could be more terrible than the unceasing thought that she was acting a part--and to her husband? often and often she longed, with an almost irresistible impulse, to fling herself at his feet, and beseech him not to pierce her heart with such fond trust; but the impulse was forcibly controlled. what would such confession avail her now?--or him, save to wound? amongst the many spaniards of noble birth who visited don ferdinand's, was one don luis garcia, whose actual rank and office no one seemed to know; and yet, in affairs of church or state, camp or council, he was always so associated, that it was impossible to discover to which of these he was allied; in fact, there was a mystery around him, which no one could solve. notwithstanding his easy--nay, it was by some thought fascinating manners, his presence generally created a restraint, felt intuitively by all, yet comprehended by none. that there is such, an emotion as antipathy mercifully placed within us, often as a warning, we do most strenuously believe; but we seldom trace and recognize it as such, till circumstances reveal its truth. the real character of don luis, and the office he held, our future pages will disclose; suffice it here to state, that there was no lack of personal attractions or mental graces, to account for the universal, yet unspoken and unacknowledged dislike which he inspired. apparently in the prime of life, he yet seemed to have relinquished all the pleasures and even the passions of life. austere, even rigid, in those acts of piety and personal mortifications enjoined by his religion--voluntary fasts, privations, nights supposed to be past in vigil and in penance; occasional rich gifts to patron saints, and their human followers; an absence of all worldly feeling, even ambition; some extraordinary deeds of benevolence--all rendered him an object of actual veneration to the priests and monks with which the goodly city of segovia abounded; and even the populace declared him faultless, as a catholic and a man, even while their inward shuddering belied the words. don ferdinand morales alone was untroubled with these contradictory emotions. incapable of hypocrisy himself, he could not imagine it in others: his nature seemed actually too frank and true for the admission even of a prejudice. little did he dream that his name, his wealth, his very favor with the queen, his influence with her subjects, had already stamped him, in the breast of the man to whom his house and heart alike were open, as an object of suspicion and espial; and that ere a year had passed over his wedded life, these feelings were ripened, cherished--changed from the mere thought of persecution, to palpable resolve, by personal and ungovernable hate. don luis had never known love; not even the fleeting fancy, much less the actual passion, of the sensualist, or the spiritual aspirings of true affection. of the last, in fact, he was utterly incapable. no feeling, with him, was of an evanescent nature: under the cold austerity of the ordinary man, lay coals of living fire. it mattered not under what guise excited--hate, revenge, ambition, he was capable of all. at love, alone, he had ever laughed--exulting in his own security. the internal condition of spain, as we have before said, had been, until the accession of isabella and ferdinand, one of the grossest license and most fearful immorality. encouraged in the indulgence of every passion, by the example of the court, no dictates of either religion or morality ever interfered to protect the sanctity of home; unbridled desires were often the sole cause of murderous assaults; and these fearful crimes continually passing unpunished, encouraged the supposition that men's passions were given to be their sole guide, before which, honor, innocence, and virtue fell powerless. the vigorous proceedings of ferdinand and isabella had already remedied these terrible abuses. over the public safety and reform they had some power; but over the hearts of individuals they had none; and there were still some with whom past license was far more influencing than present restraint and legal severity; still some who paused at no crime so that the gratification of their passions was ensured; and foremost amongst these, though by his secret office pledged to the annihilation of all domestic and social ties, as regarded his own person, was don luis garcia. for rather more than a year, don ferdinand morales had enjoyed the society of his young wife uninterruptedly, save by occasional visits, of brief duration, to valladolid and leon, where isabella alternately held her court. he was now, however, summoned to attend the sovereigns, on a visit to ferdinand's paternal dominions, an office which would cause his absence for a much longer interval. he obeyed with extreme reluctance--nor did marie feel the separation less. there was, in some measure, a feeling of security in his presence, which, whenever he was absent, gave place to fearful tremblings as to what might transpire to shake her faith in her, ere he returned. resolved that not the very faintest breath of scandal should touch _his_ wife, marie, during the absence of morales, always kept herself secluded. this time her retirement was stricter than ever; and great, then, was her indignation and astonishment, when about a fortnight before her husband's expected return, and in direct contradiction to her commands, don luis garcia was admitted to her presence; and nothing but actual flight, for which she was far too proud and self-possessed, could have averted the private interview which followed. the actual words which passed we know not, but, after a very brief interval of careless converse on the part of garcia--something he said earnestly, and in the tones of pitying sympathy, which caused the cheek and lips of marie to blanch to marble, and her whole frame to shiver, and then grow rigid, as if turned to stone. could it be that the fatal secret, which she believed was known only to herself and arthur, that she had loved another ere she wedded ferdinand, had been penetrated by the man towards whom she had ever felt the most intense abhorrence? and that he dared refer to it as a source of sympathy--as a proof that he could feel for her more than her unsuspecting husband? why was speech so frozen up within her, that she could not, for the moment, answer, and give him back the lie? but that silence of deadly terror lasted not long: he had continued to speak; at first she was unconscious of his change of tone, words, and even action; but when his actual meaning flashed upon her, voice, strength, energy returned in such a burst of womanly indignation, womanly majesty, that garcia himself, skilled in every art of evil as he was, quailed beneath it, and felt that he was powerless, save by violence and revenge. while that terrible interview lasted, the wife of morales had not failed; but when once more alone, the most deadly terror took possession of her. she had, indeed, so triumphed as to banish garcia, defeated, from her presence; but fearful threats of vengeance were in that interview divulged--allusions to some secret power, over which he was the head, armed with authority even greater than that of the sovereign's--mysteriously spoken, but still almost strangely intelligible, that in her betrayal or her silence lay the safety or the danger of her husband--all compelled the conviction that her terror and her indignation at the daring insult must be buried deep in her own breast; even while the supposition that don luis knew all the past (though how, her wildest imagination could not discover), and that therefore she was in his power, urged her yet more to a full confession to her husband. better if his heart must be wrung by her, than by a foe; and yet she shrunk in anguish from the task. she was, however, deceived as to the amount of garcia's knowledge of her past life. accustomed to read human nature under all its varied phases--employing an unusually acute penetration so to know his fellows as to enable him, when needed, to create the greatest amount of misery--he had simply perceived that marie's love for her husband was of a different nature to his for her, and that she had some secret to conceal. on this he had based his words: his suspicions were, unhappily, confirmed by the still, yet expressive agony they had occasioned. baffled, as in some measure he had been, his internal rage that he should have so quailed before a woman, naturally increased the whirlwind of contending passions: but schooled by his impenetrable system of hypocrisy to outward quietness and control, he waited, certain that circumstances would either of themselves occur, or be so guided by him as to give him ample means of triumph and revenge. chapter ix. "you would have thought the very windows spake; so many greedy looks of young and old through casements darted their desiring eyes." shakspeare. in an apartment, whose pale, green hangings, embroidered with richly-colored flowers, and whose furniture and ornaments, all of delicate material and refined taste, marked it as a meet boudoir for gentle blood, sat marie and her husband. she occupied her favorite seat--a cushion at his feet, and was listening with interest to his animated history of the sovereign's welcome to saragossa, the popular ferment at their appearance, the good they had accomplished, and would still accomplish, as their judicious plans matured. it was clear, he said, that they had resolved the sovereign power should not be merely nominal, as it had been. by making himself proclaimed and received as grand master of the three great orders of knighthood--saint iago, compostella, and alcantara--the immense influence of those associations must succumb to, and be guided by, ferdinand alone; the power of the nobles would thus be insensibly diminished, and the mass of the kingdom--the people--as a natural consequence, become of more importance, their position more open to the eyes of the sovereigns, and their condition, physically and morally, ameliorated and improved. "i feel and acknowledge this, dearest; though one of the class whose power must be diminished to accomplish it;" he continued, "i am too anxious for the internal prosperity of my country to quarrel with any measures which minds so enlightened as its present sovereigns may deem requisite. but this is but a grave theme for thee, love. knowest thou that her grace reproached me with not bringing thee to join the arragonese festivities? when donna emilie spoke of thee, and thy gentle worth and feminine loveliness, as being such as indeed her grace would love, my sovereign banished me her presence as a disloyal cavalier for so deserting thee; and when i marked how pale and thin thou art, i feel that she was right; i should have borne thee with me." "or not have left me. oh, my husband, leave me not again!" she replied, with sudden and involuntary emotion, which caused him to throw his arm round her, and fondly kiss her brow. "not for the court, dearest; but that gentle heart must not forget thou art a warrior's wife, and as such, for his honor's sake, must sometimes bear the pang of parting. nay, thou tremblest, and art still paler! ere such summons come, thou wilt have learned to know and love thy queen, and in her protecting favor find some solace, should i be called to war." "war! talk they of war again? i thought all was now at peace?" "yes, love, in our sovereign's hereditary dominions; but there can be no lasting peace while some of the fairest territory of spain still dims the supremacy of castile, and bows down to moorish masters. it is towards grenada king ferdinand looks, yearning for the day when, all internal commotions healed, he can head a gallant army to compel subjection; and sad as it will be to leave thee, sweet, thou wilt forgive thy soldier if he say, would that the day were come!" "and will not their present extent of kingdom suffice the sovereigns? when they recall their former petty domains, and compare them with the present, is it not enough?" morales smiled. "thou speakest as a very woman, gentle one, to whom the actual word 'ambition' is unknown. why, the very cause thou namest urges our sovereigns to the conquest of these moors. they are the blot upon a kingdom otherwise as fair and great as any other european land. they thirst to raise it in the scale of kingdoms--to send down their names to posterity, as the founders of the spanish monarchy--the builders and supporters of a united throne, and so leave their children an undivided land. surely this is a glorious project, one which every spanish warrior must rejoice to aid. but fear not a speedy summons, love; much must be accomplished first. isabella will visit this ancient city ere then, and thou wilt learn to love and reverence her as i do." "in truth, my husband, thou hast made me loyal as thyself; but say they not she is severe, determined, stern?" "to the guilty, yes; even the weak crafty will not stand before her repelling glance: but what hast thou to fear, my love? penetrative as she is, seeming to read the heart through the countenance, she can read nought in thee save qualities to love. i remember well the eagle glance she fixed on king ferdinand's young english favorite, senor stanley, the first time he was presented to her. but she was satisfied, for he ranks as deservedly high in her favor as in her husband's. thou hast heard me speak of this young englishman, my marie?" her face was at that moment turned from him, or he might have started at its sudden flush; but she assented by a sign. "he was so full of joyousness and mirth, that to us of graver nature it seemed almost below his dignity as man; and now they tell me he is changed so mournfully; grave, sad, silent, maturity seems to have descended upon him ere he has quite passed boyhood; or he has some secret sorrow, too sacred to be revealed. there is some talk of his recall from sicily, he having besought the king for a post of more active and more dangerous service. ferdinand loves such daring spirits, and therefore no doubt will grant his boon. ha! alberic, what is it?" he continued, eagerly, as a page entered, and delivered a packet secured with floss silk, and sealed with the royal signet, adding that it had been brought by an officer of the royal guard, attended by some men at arms. "give him welcome suited to his rank, boy: i will but peruse these, and attend him instantly." the page withdrew, and don ferdinand, hastily cutting the silk, was speedily so engrossed in his despatches, as to forget for the time even the presence of his wife; and well it was so; for it enabled her with a strong effort to conquer the deadly sickness morale's careless words had caused--the pang of dread accompanying every thought of arthur's return to spain--to still the throbbing pulse and quivering lip, and, outwardly unmoved, meet his joyous glance once more. "'tis as i thought and hoped," he said, with animation: "the sovereigns hold their court for some months in this city; coeval, in antiquity, associations, and loyalty, with valladolid and leon, isabella, with her characteristic thought for all her subjects, has decided on making it occasionally the seat of empire alternately with them, and commissions me, under her royal seal, to see the castle fittingly prepared. listen, love, what her grace writes further--'take heed, my good lord, and hide not in a casket the brightest gem which we have heard adorns thy home. we would ourselves judge the value of thy well-hoarded jewel--not that we doubt its worth; for it would be strange, indeed, if he who hath ever borne off the laurel wreath from the competitors for glory, should not in like manner seek and win the prize of beauty. in simple language, let donna marie be in attendance.' and so thou shalt, love; and by thy gentle virtues and modest loveliness, add increase of honor to thy husband. ha! what says gonzalo de lara?" he added, as his eye glanced over another paper--"'tumults in sicily--active measures--senor stanley--enough on which to expend his chivalric ardor, and evince his devotedness to ferdinand; but sicily quieted--supposed the king will still grant his request--assign him some post about his person, be at hand for military service against the moors.' good! then the war is resolved on. we must bestir ourselves, dearest, to prepare fit reception for our royal guests; there is but brief time." he embraced and left her as he spoke; and for several minutes marie remained without the power even to rise from her seat: one pang conquered, another came. arthur's recall appeared determined; would it be so soon that he would join this sovereigns before they reached segovia? she dared not think, save to pray, with wild and desperate fervor, that such might not be. magnificent, indeed, were don ferdinand's preparations for the banquet with which he intended to welcome his sovereigns to segovia. the castle was to be the seat of their residence, and the actual _locale_ of their court; but it was at his own private dwelling he resolved, by a sumptuous entertainment, to evince how deeply and reverentially he felt the favor with which he was regarded by both monarchs, more especially by isabella, his native sovereign. in the many struggles which were constantly occurring between the spaniards and moors, the former had become acquainted with the light yet beautiful architecture and varied skill in all the arts peculiar to the latter, and displayed their improved taste in both public and private buildings. morales, in addition to natural taste, possessed great affluence, which enabled him to evince yet greater splendor in his establishment than was usual to his countrymen. there was one octangular room, the large panels forming the walls of which were painted, each forming a striking picture of the principal events in the history of spain, from the descent of don palayo, and the mountaineers of asturias, who struck the first blow for spanish freedom, to the accession of ferdinand and isabella. the paintings were not detached pictures, but drawn and colored on the wall itself, which had been previously prepared for the reception of the colors by a curious process, still in use among the orientals.[a] the colors, when dry, were rubbed, till the utmost brilliancy was attained; and this, combined as it was with a freedom and correctness of drawing, produced an effect as striking then as it would be novel to modern eyes. one side, divided into three compartments, contained in one a touching likeness of the young alfonso. his figure, rather larger than life, was clothed in armor, which shone as inlaid with gold. his head was bare, and his bright locks flowed over his shoulders as he wore them in life. his brilliant eye, his lofty brow, and peculiarly sweet expression of mouth, had been caught by the limner, and transferred to his painting in all their original beauty. round him were grouped some of the celebrated cavaliers of his party; and the back-ground, occupied by troops not in regular battalions, but as impelled by some whelming fee