WWe will now return to Alcala, whom we left on his way to the prison.
We will now return to Alcala, whom we left on his way to the prison.
Slowly the conveyance in which the cavalier was seated, guarded by several alguazils, rolled through the streets of Seville. Alcala sat as far back in the vehicle as he could, to avoid the gaze of curious eyes; for many of the populace were eager to get a sight of a hidalgo sent to prison for White Judaism, that mysterious crime. Once only did Alcala lean forward in his seat, and that was to catch a glimpse of the outer wall of the huge Coliseo of Seville, the Plaza de Toros.
What a gush of thankfulness came into the breast of Alcala at the sight of that place, the scene of his rash, ungodly venture! Had he been left to expire in that arena which it had been a crime to enter, where would his soul now have been! But the heavenly Father, whom he had so deeply offended,would not suffer the sinner to perish in his sin. Mercy had not only snatched him from destruction both of body and soul, but had made the rebel a son, had granted to the transgressor the privilege of suffering for the sake of the gospel. The realization of the freeness of God's grace, the depth of His love, excluded for the time from the spirit of the Spaniard all less powerful emotions.
It may be said that there are two heaven-sent guides appointed to lead through life's pilgrimage all those who in faith seek a heritage above.The fear of Godandthe love of Godare these two guiding angels. The former, in somewhat austere beauty, appears in garments of spotless white; forthe fear of the Lord is clean, and on his snowy pinions is inscribed the word "obedience." Blessed are they who are led by this spirit of reverence, as a poet has nobly expressed the thought,—"Fearing God, they have no other fear."[21]
It is this angel who is wont to meet pilgrims on the outset of their career, to guide their first feeble steps in the narrow path of duty; but oftentimes he yields place to another spirit even more glorious than he. Not that the fear of God can ever be far removed from the Christian, but his form is half hidden by the radiance of his twin-brother,the second guide of the pilgrim. Holy fear is fair indeed, but who can describe the seraphic beauty of holy love! He shines with the glory reflected from the smile of a reconciled God; all the tints of heaven's rainbow glitter in his quivering wings, their motion is light, and their inscription is "joy." The fear of God leads us onward, the love of God bears us upward. Blessed, thrice blessed, those over whom the second angel waves his pinions of joy!
Often, very often, has this spirit been sent on a special mission to those who suffer for conscience' sake. When he is near, earthly griefs seem to have lost their power to pain; his soft whisper drowns with its music the scoff of the persecutor, the yell of the furious mob. Cheered by that whisper, the martyr has gone with light step and joyous countenance to meet the king of terrors. He has felt, though man could not see, the waving of the bright wings, and has, with cheerful courage, embraced the cross or the stake.
It is this angel of light who has come into many a sick-room, and turned it into a chamber of peace. He has gently smoothed the pillow, touched the pain-wrinkled brow, and its furrows have disappeared; there has been such happiness imparted by the presence of the love of God that weeping, wondering friends have owned that the last enemy himself has lost all his sting.
THE ENTRANCE TO THE PRISON Page 185.THE ENTRANCE TO THE PRISONPage 185.
"No smile is like the smile of death,When all good musings pastRise wafted on the parting breath,The sweetest thought the last!"
"No smile is like the smile of death,When all good musings pastRise wafted on the parting breath,The sweetest thought the last!"
Alcala, on his way to his prison, was accompanied by this invisible angel, and, in the strength imparted by the love of God, could make an apostle's words his own. He could say, "We rejoice in the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope. And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts!"
FOOTNOTES:[21]"Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et je n'ai d'autre crainte."—Racine.
[21]"Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et je n'ai d'autre crainte."—Racine.
[21]"Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et je n'ai d'autre crainte."—Racine.
TThe vehicle which conveyed Alcala to his destination stopped at the entrance of a dark and gloomy building, situated in a narrow street. Through a vaulted passage, dimly lighted, Alcala was conducted to a door in which was a grating formed of thick iron bars. At this door one of the alguazils who escorted the prisoner knocked. The face of a jailer was dimly visible through the grating, and then there was the sound of withdrawal of bolt and turning of key; the heavy door was slowly swung back, and Alcala entered the prison.
The vehicle which conveyed Alcala to his destination stopped at the entrance of a dark and gloomy building, situated in a narrow street. Through a vaulted passage, dimly lighted, Alcala was conducted to a door in which was a grating formed of thick iron bars. At this door one of the alguazils who escorted the prisoner knocked. The face of a jailer was dimly visible through the grating, and then there was the sound of withdrawal of bolt and turning of key; the heavy door was slowly swung back, and Alcala entered the prison.
Through a vestibule the cavalier was then conducted to an office-room, in which, seated at a high desk, appeared the alcalde of the prison, a hollow-eyed, melancholy man. He glanced at the warrant which was formally presented to him by one of the alguazils, then rose, and with gloomy ceremony welcomed his involuntary guest.
"Señor," said the alcalde, with a low inclination of the head, "may your residence here be a brief one. Permit me to have the honour of myself introducing you into your temporary abode. I regret to see that the health of the illustrious caballero appears to be impaired."
After a ceremonious exchange of courtesy with the alcalde who had arrested him, and who retired after delivering up his charge to the prison authorities, Alcala followed his jailer to a huge grated door, which was guarded by a couple of turnkeys. This barrier also was passed, and with a heavy, echoing clang the massive door closed on the prisoner. Alcala and his jailer were now in a corridor, lighted by narrow barred windows, looking on a patio, in which a number of prisoners were taking what air and exercise its confined space permitted.
"Most noble caballero," said the jailer, who now walked by the side of Alcala, "in this melancholy abode there is preserved a due distinction of ranks. We have a few apartments reserved for illustrious señors like yourself, whom misfortune may have led to visit our retreat for awhile."
As Alcala only replied by a slight inclination of the head, the alcalde thought that his hint had not been understood by his captive.
"Cavaliers are permitted to furnish their apartmentsaccording to their good pleasure, señor; and they are waited on by the attendants with the distinction becoming their rank. But, of course, this alleviation of the trial of detention within these walls belongs only to those who—" The alcalde hesitated, so Alcala relieved him from the difficulty of further explaining his meaning.
"I suppose that the private apartments are reserved for those who have the means of paying for them," said Alcala. "This, señor, I have not."
"I regret that on the present occasion every one of these rooms is occupied, illustrious caballero," observed the jailer, still—though disappointed of his expected gains—preserving his ceremonious politeness, as he ushered Alcala into the large vaulted gloomy dungeon which the cavalier was to share with the fifty or sixty criminals who crowded the place.
The sight, the scent of the den in which he was to pass, perhaps, the remainder of a brief life, were enough to try the fortitude of any one who had, like Alcala, been gently nurtured. The place was dirty to a disgusting degree, and utterly unfurnished. The brick floor, on which some of the inmates were squatting and others reclining, served at once for chair, table, and bed. Offensive odours poisoned the air; the aspect of the place was revolting.
To an artist, indeed, the scene, as beheld by light struggling through grated windows coated with dust, might not have appeared devoid of picturesque effect. There was no clipped hair to be seen, no prison-dress common to all the inmates; each criminal wore what he would, and a curious variety of costumes appeared before the eyes of Alcala. There were here and there dashes of bright colour from waistcoats of green or blue silk, worn, uncovered by coat or jacket, over shirts with large flowing sleeves. These gaudy articles of costume marked the bandit race, who had probably been committed to prison for robbery or murder on the highway. On other criminals appeared the sheep-skin of the peasant, or the mantero of the citizen; one man was seen in buff jerkin, with jack-boots reaching half-way up his thigh. Most of the prisoners wore the faja, or waist-belt, so characteristic a part of Spanish costume,—being a very long piece of cloth, usually black or red, twisted round the middle of the person, and forming a receptacle for the purse, and sometimes the dagger.
Of course the entrance of a new companion in misfortune awakened curiosity, and attracted the attention of all the motley groups. A murmur of "'Tis a caballero!" was heard from the dark recesses of the place of confinement.
But though the den was mostly filled with miscreants who had broken every one of the ten commandments, an Englishman must have been struck by the absence of brutal coarseness, whether of manner or conversation, which he would have expected amongst the lowest class of criminals thus promiscuously thrown together. Men who had preserved no sense of honour, no scruple of conscience, men who might have robbed a church or murdered a brother, demeaned themselves as though they preserved some self-respect still. It is a peculiarity of the Spanish race that, to a certain extent, even the poorest appear to be gentlemen born. The beggar has his dignity; the picker of pockets his grace. Alcala had to encounter no insolent banter, no brutal jests, when he found himself amongst the scum of Spanish society in the common prison of Seville.
The cavalier's first feeling was one of utter disgust and repulsion, and an intense longing for solitude, were it even only to be sought in the darkest and most narrow of cells. Alcala had been brought up in aristocratic seclusiveness, and his besetting sin was pride. He reproached himself now for the selfish haughtiness which would fain have raised an impenetrable wall between himself and his companions in suffering.
"How is it that I, myself rescued from depths of guilt, dare to despise my fellow-sinners?" mused Alcala. "Who hath made me to differ from them? Wherefore should I desire to be secluded from all opportunities of serving my kind, because my pride shrinks from contact with those whom I deem beneath me? Here is the post which my Lord has assigned me. May He give me strength to bear witness for Him even in the prison, and deliver His message to some who, if they had heard it before, might never have entered this horrible den."
Alcala had scarcely had time for these reflections, when he was accosted by a lithe, active-looking man of very dark complexion, who had come from the further end of the dungeon on seeing him enter.
"Most illustrious caballero, Don Alcala de Aguilera, we have met before," said the man.
"And where, my friend?" asked Alcala.
"In the Plaza de Toros, señor. My name is Diego. I was one of the chulos who planted a banderilla in the neck of the bull which your worthiness met so bravely."
"I am engaged in a different contest now," said Alcala, who was resolved not to let either the weariness of his frame, or the repugnance of his spirit, prevent his entering into conversation with the companions whom he hoped to influence for theirgood. The cavalier seated himself on the floor, supporting his back against the wall; and the chulo, who was inclined to be sociable, stretched himself, resting on his elbow, beside the señor.
"Your worship finds yourself in strange company," observed this self-constituted cicerone of the prison, lowering his tone so as not to be overheard by the ruffians around him. "Yonder, jabbering their Egyptian gibberish, is a party of Zingali: the worst punishment to them is to have a roof over their heads; the Gitano would rather lie in a ditch than a palace, boil his kettle under a hedge than feast at the governor's table. To the left there, señor, are smugglers from Cadiz; many a contraband bale has galled the backs of their mules as they moved over the sierra by moonlight. He in the red faja behind them is a highly respectable man; he merely hacked a rival to death in a combat with knives: it is strange that the alguazils should have thought it worth while to arrest the poor fellow for a simple affair like that. But yon gentleman with the bright blue jacket has earned his lodging at Her Majesty's expense; he is a brigand from the Sierra Morena, and has, I trow, cut more throats than he has fingers upon his two hands."
Alcala wondered silently for what crime his communicativecompanion had himself been committed to prison. Diego did not long leave him in ignorance of the cause.
"It is a shame to put me with such as these," said the talkative chulo; "I am a political offender," he added, with something like pride. "Not a Carlist, mind you, señor; I am locked up in this kennel merely for saying what all the world thinks, though not all have the courage to speak out their minds. I did but say that it is a disgrace that such a wretch as he whom the Queen has always at her elbow should be suffered to ride rough-shod over the necks of the Spanish nation, and that I wished that the nun Patrocinio would keep to her cell and leave politics alone. I did add—and I care not who knows it," continued the chulo, "that we shall never see good days till we have our exiled General Prim back again! Prim is the man to make Spain once more what she was in the glorious old times!"
DDiego was not suffered long to monopolize conversation with the new-comer. One of the smugglers drew near, and addressed himself to Alcala.
Diego was not suffered long to monopolize conversation with the new-comer. One of the smugglers drew near, and addressed himself to Alcala.
"I trow, caballero, that you've not seen the inside of a prison quite so often as I have; you are new to this kind of lodging. Maybe you've been sent hither for some little duelling affair; you've run some rival through the body, and, to judge by your looks, he has returned the compliment by giving you a taste of his steel."
There was a general hush in the conversation which had been going on amongst the various groups of prisoners, all listening to hear Alcala's reply.
"No," answered De Aguilera, "I have injured no man."
"You're a Carlist?" suggested the brigand, whostood near, with his brawny arms folded across his broad chest.
"I have taken no part in politics," was the reply.
"What then have you done?" asked Diego; "gentlemen are not given free quarters for nothing."
"I have been placed under confinement," answered Alcala, "for the crime of reading a book aloud in my own private dwelling."
This reply excited a good deal of surprise amongst the assemblage of gipsies, foot-pads, smugglers, and thieves. They were acquainted with most kinds of crimes; the novelty of this one whetted their curiosity.
"What was the book, señor?" was asked by half-a-dozen voices at once.
"The Bible," replied Alcala.
"Ah! that's what the friars are mad against," said one.
"What the monks want to burn," muttered another.
"What is to Claret and the rest of 'em what the red flag is to the bull," observed Diego the chulo.
Alcala remarked that not one of the speakers appeared inclined to make common cause with the priests.
"I wonder what there is in that Bible to makemen fear it as if a stiletto were hidden between its two boards!" said the robber.
"Have you the book with you, caballero?" asked the smuggler who had before addressed Aguilera.
"Unfortunately I have not," said Alcala; "but I have committed to memory many portions of its contents. If it would be any gratification to the gentlemen present,"—Alcala glanced around him as he spoke,—"I would willingly let them judge for themselves whether or not it is wise and right in the priests to try to put the Bible beyond the reach of the people."
"Let's hear, let's hear," resounded from every side, and the groups at the further end of the dungeon drew nearer to listen. Curiosity, the love of novelty, and eagerness to hear anything that would break on the wretched monotony of prison life, were powerful incentives with all.
That was a strange audience indeed! Villains stained with various crimes thus brought together to hear for the first time in their lives the gospel message of mercy. Alcala silently prayed for wisdom and the bodily strength which he so sorely needed; for what with the heat and the scent of the place, the fatigue which his weakened frame had undergone, and the reaction after excitement, the cavalier doubted whether his physical powers wouldhold out under the strain. Diego noticed the deadly pallor of the prisoner's face, and stretching out his hand where he lay, the chulo drew towards him a jar partly filled with water, which had been left near the wall.
"Let the señor drink first," said Diego. "Pity 'tis that we cannot offer him the good wine of Xeres; but water is better than nothing."
"It is the gift of God," thought Alcala, as he first drank eagerly of the contents of the jar, and then pouring some into his hand, moistened with it his feverish brow and aching temples. The refreshment was great, and Alcala's strong will could now for a time master the weakness of nature. Diego, who seemed to think that the fact of their having attacked the same bull formed a kind of link between himself and Alcala, now helped the cavalier to rise to his feet. It was only in a standing posture that Aguilera could make himself heard by his numerous auditors, but he still leaned for support against the friendly wall of the prison.
"I will repeat to you," began Alcala, "the Bible account of the imprisonment, after severe scourging, of the Apostle Paul and Silas his friend and companion. You shall hear how they endured their sufferings, how they prayed and received such an answer from Heaven, that their jailer himself,struck with terror, came trembling and fell at their feet."
This preface commanded the silent attention of those who were themselves inmates of a prison.
Simply, but impressively, Alcala repeated the narrative contained in the sixteenth chapter of Acts; but when he came to the jailer's all-important question, "What must I do to be saved?" the speaker made a solemn pause, and gazed earnestly on the wild dark faces before him.
"What must I do to be saved?is not that question echoed by each one here?" said Alcala, every word welling up from the depths of a soul filled with that love to the Saviour which overflows in love to the souls which His life-blood bought. "Can reason answer that question?" The speaker paused; no voice made reply. "How does the Church of Rome try to answer it? She bids us trust the safety of our undying souls to confession to man, and absolution pronounced by man, to the penance which man may prescribe, to forms and rites and Latin prayers, and the intercessions of those who were themselves but men in need of salvation. In the Romanist Church man comes between the sinner and the Saviour. But what was the answer to the cry, 'What must I do to be saved?' given by the holy apostle whom the Spiritof God inspired?" The prisoner for conscience' sake forgot all but the glorious truth which he uttered when repeating another prisoner's words, "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved!'"
"Is that message for us too?" asked Diego, whose voice was the first to break the silence which ensued.
"It is for all," cried Alcala; "the offer of mercy embraces all. Will you hear in how singular a manner it was brought home to me?"
The time had not been long past when it would have been impossible to the proud young Spaniard to have owned a weakness, or confessed an error, before such an audience as this. The cavalier would sooner have died than have stooped to place himself on a level with such outcasts as those now before him. But pride, a strong man armed, had been overcome by a stronger than he. Alcala told how his own soul had been darkened by the shadow of death, how the future had seemed a terrible blank, and how life and light and joy had been brought by a single verse from that Book which the Church of Rome would shut out from the people. The cavalier told of the strange coincidence, which to some of his hearers appeared a miracle, by which the torn leaf once flung to the dust, then written upon byhimself, had reappeared at the moment when most he needed its message of peace. Then, leaving all personal themes, Alcala spoke of justification by faith, of free pardon offered to rebels, but not that they should continue in their rebellion against a merciful God. Alcala spoke of what that pardon had cost,—of the cross and passion, the agony and bloody sweat, and of the return of love which the redeemed must make for such unutterable love! Scripture truths in Scripture words flowed spontaneously from the lips of Alcala; and while the fervour of the spirit overcame the weakness of the suffering flesh, the Spaniard was indeed as "a dying man preaching to dying men."
The effort could not last long; the address was a brief one, and all the more forcible because it was brief. When Alcala, faint and exhausted, stretched himself on the hard floor of his dungeon, and closed his eyes, he experienced that sweet rest which has been described as "a sense of duty performed." The captive had borne witness for his Master, he had glorified God in the fires, he had been permitted to scatter seeds of life where no sower had ever laboured before. Alcala left the result in the hand of Him who once from a cross spoke the word of grace to a thief.
"Is he sleeping—or dead?" said one of the robbersto Diego, who was nearest to the now prostrate form of Alcala.
"I trow that he sleeps,—but he looks as if the sleep would be his last," was the softly-uttered reply. The chulo took off his own mantle, and laid it gently over the young cavalier.
"No marvel that the Bishop of Cadiz calls the Bible contraband," observed a smuggler; "if it were carried through Spain by such men as this caballero, I trow that it would spoil the business of friar and monk."
"And ours too," muttered the robber.
TThe cause of Lucius Lepine's unexpected reappearance at Seville must be briefly explained. While on his journey towards Madrid, to which city Mr. Passmore had sent his clerk to transact some business, Lucius had accidentally heard that the merchant to whom he was going had actually passed him on the road, having made up his mind to travel to Seville in order to have a personal interview with the manufacturer. As there would consequently be no use in Lepine's prosecuting his journey, he returned at once to Seville, in time, as we have seen, to meet Inez a few minutes after she had quitted the governor's gate.
The cause of Lucius Lepine's unexpected reappearance at Seville must be briefly explained. While on his journey towards Madrid, to which city Mr. Passmore had sent his clerk to transact some business, Lucius had accidentally heard that the merchant to whom he was going had actually passed him on the road, having made up his mind to travel to Seville in order to have a personal interview with the manufacturer. As there would consequently be no use in Lepine's prosecuting his journey, he returned at once to Seville, in time, as we have seen, to meet Inez a few minutes after she had quitted the governor's gate.
As Inez had almost swooned, the first care of Lucius was to stop an empty vehicle which chanced to be passing, in order that the young lady might be at once conveyed to her home. Lucius wouldnot have so violated Spanish decorum as to have accompanied Inez in the carriage, had not her state of utter prostration made his presence needful. The poor girl was scarcely sensible of anything that was passing around her when Lucius gently lifted her into the carriage. He bade the driver stop at the nearest fountain, and brought from it water to revive the fainting maiden. Before the Calle de San José was reached, Inez had so far recovered herself as to recognize her brother's friend, and to catch a gleam of hope from his opportune return to the city.
"You will not desert Alcala? you will at least try to see him?" faltered Inez de Aguilera.
"You may trust me," was the Englishman's reply.
And Inez did trust young Lepine. It was with the confidence that a sister might have felt in a brother's protecting care that she leant on his strong arm to stay her feeble steps when she re-entered her home. Necessity and a common sorrow had to a great degree broken down the barrier of reserve between Alcala's sister and his English friend. Inez found the patio empty; Teresa was in attendance on her mistress in a different part of the mansion.
Inez and Lepine seated themselves near the fountain, and there, in trembling tones, Inez gave a fullaccount to her companion of much that had passed on that, to her, most eventful day. The maiden told of the discovery of the treasure, and pointed, as she did so, to the spot whence it had been dug out by herself and Chico. Inez did not dwell long on her own imprisonment; she did not care to fix the attention of her indignant hearer on what only concerned herself. Of Alcala's subsequent arrest his sister could only speak through tears. Inez lightly glanced at her own unsuccessful efforts to obtain the help of friends for Alcala, and would hardly have mentioned them at all, had she not, from maidenly instinct, wished to account for her own solitary wanderings so far from her home.
"And now that you know all, señor," said Inez, raising for a moment her dark tearful eyes to the face of Lepine, "can you—will you aid us?"
"If I do not, most assuredly it will not be will but power that is wanting," replied Lucius, who had been deeply interested both by the narrative and by the grief of the artless narrator.
"Will you not visit Alcala in his prison? will you not stir up your English friends to save him?"
Lucius was silent for a few seconds, revolving the difficulties before him, ere he returned an answer. The young man knew how utterly useless it would be to attempt to enlist the aid of Mr. Passmore,even were that aid of any value. It was more than doubtful whether any interference on the part of Englishmen would avail even to mitigate punishment inflicted on one who was not a British subject. Spanish jealousy might even resent a foreigner's intervention. Lucius could hardly bear to quench the hope which his presence had kindled, but it would have been more cruel to raise expectations which must end in keen disappointment. England might reprobate the way in which the Spanish government dealt with the Spanish people; she might view with indignation the cruelty of the oppressor; but when his arm was raised to strike an innocent victim, she had no right to cry, "Hold! hold!" Lucius felt that he could do nothing to free Alcala from his prison; it was doubtful whether he would even be permitted to see him there.
"I do not think that any stranger would be suffered to visit your brother to-day, señorita," said Lucius at last; "the evening is now coming on, and it is too late for me to obtain an order of admission. I shall certainly do my utmost to procure one ere long. But it seems to me," Lucius continued, "that it is of the utmost importance to your brother that he should be furnished with the means of securing good legal advice, and that fair play which, I fear, is not always shown to those whose purses are empty."
There was something almost reproachful in the sad tone of Inez as she replied, "Think you, señor, that gold would be spared—if we had it to give?"
"There is, as you have told me just now, señorita, a considerable amount of valuable property of which you have been basely robbed. It appears to me that our first efforts must be directed to recovering that property."
"I fear that its recovery is impossible—at least to us, señor," replied Inez. "No one cares to take up our cause. I suspect that the alguazils themselves have been bribed. How can we, poor helpless ladies, track out a robber, as Alcala, if free, might have done?"
"Think you that this Chico will remain in Seville to bear witness against your brother?" asked Lucius.
"I should doubt it," replied Inez. "I believe that Chico only accused Alcala in order to prevent his being able to take any measures to recover the jewels and gold."
"This is the conclusion to which I also have come," said Lepine. "Chico is not likely to stop long in Seville, where he could not, without awaking suspicion, dispose of such gems as you have described. He will doubtless be leaving this city; but he was in it but a few hours ago, and cannot asyet be far off. Men cannot travel in Spain with the railroad speed that they do in my country. Have you any idea, señorita, whether Chico has any friends or connections in Seville, in whose house he might be likely to lurk for awhile with his ill-gotten spoil?"
Inez reflected for a brief space. "A cousin of Chico keeps the Posada de Quesada," she said; "it is in the entrance of the Dehesa, about a mile beyond the city."
"I know it—I know it!" cried Lepine, who had often in his Sunday rambles noticed the lone picturesque little inn; "it is in a lane that opens on the highroad to Xeres."
"My brother once passed a night there," continued the maiden; "from that inn he rode forth to the dreadful Plaza de Toros. Chico had mentioned the posada to Alcala, on account of having a relative there. But Alcala has told me that he would never set foot in that place again, for that it had seemed to him like a haunt of robbers."
"Which makes it all the more likely that the villain Chico may at this moment be lying concealed there!" cried Lucius eagerly. "Señorita, I will sleep in that posada to-night!"
The face of Inez expressed anxiety and alarm. "There might be danger, señor, in your doing so;you know not what things happen in Spain," she said, lowering her voice.
Lucius smiled, the free joyous smile of a light-hearted youth to whom anything would be welcome that might come in the shape of adventure. He was one to whom
"If a path be dangerous known,The danger's self is lure alone."
"If a path be dangerous known,The danger's self is lure alone."
What an attractive episode in a life given to dull counting-house drudgery would be some exploit performed in a romantic Spanish posada! Consideration for his widowed mother, of whom he was the earthly stay, would have kept Lucius from wantonly risking his safety for mere amusement; but to run some risk for the sake of a friend was quite a different thing. Even conscience made no protest, so inclination might be gratified without violation of duty.
Lucius now rose and took his leave of the young desolate being to whom he was more than ever anxious to act the part of a brother. It cannot be denied that the pleasure of serving Inez was a great additional stimulus to the Englishman's efforts to help his friend. As Lucius quitted the patio on the one side, it was entered on the other by Teresa, who caught sight of the visitor's form ere it disappeared under the archway.
"Donna Inez!" exclaimed the old duenna, almost choking with indignation, "how dare that Inglesito presume to enter a house of sorrow like this! How can you—the grand-daughter of Don Pedro de Aguilera—you, a high-born lady of Andalusia, brought up as becomes your rank—suffer the shadow of that foreign heretic to darken this threshold! We have had nothing but misery since that young man came near us with his deceiving words and his dangerous book! If I'd my will"—the duenna clenched her hands and stretched forth her skinny arms as she spoke—"I'd fling both the heretic and his book into the Guadalquivir!"
"Oh! hush! hush!" exclaimed Inez de Aguilera; "would you speak thus of the only protector whom we have found in Seville, the only being who comes forward to help us when all the rest of the world stand back?"
Teresa's passion was cooling a little, but her Spanish pride recoiled from the idea that the family whom she served should need either help or protection from an English clerk in the employ of Messrs. Passmore and Perkins.
"The house of De Aguilera has many friends in Seville," said the ancient retainer.
"Where are these friends?" exclaimed Inez with emotion. "I have been to Donna Maria—to herwho was my mother's playmate in childhood, and companion in youth. She refused even to see me!"
Teresa lifted up her hands, and uttered an exclamation of indignant surprise.
"I went then to Donna Antonia," continued Inez, while Teresa bent eagerly forward to listen, for the duenna's chief hopes for Alcala lay in that quarter; "Antonia mocked my misery, rejected my prayer, though I asked for her aid on my knees!"
"On your knees!" echoed Teresa in the shrillest of tones; "an Aguilera kneel to a daughter of the upstart, money-making, time-serving, poor-grinding Lopez de Rivadeo! Donna Inez! Donna Inez! how could you have stooped so low?"
"I forgot that I was an Aguilera—I only felt that I was a woman," said Inez. "O Teresa, what has a broken-hearted girl like me to do with pride? May it not be our pride that has drawn Heaven's displeasure upon us? Nay, you must hear me, Teresa. Alcala has shown to me in his Book the words of our heavenly Master, 'Learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly.' If He spake thus, He who is Lord of heaven and earth, shall we, poor children of dust, be proud of title or birth? Is not such pride a grievous sin in His sight?"
"Do you quote to me out of the Protestant's book?" said Teresa bitterly.
"It is God's book," returned Inez; "I have felt certain of that since its blessed words have sounded in my heart as they have sounded to-day! These words have been my comfort, my strength, my support under trials which, without them, would have utterly crushed me. And now it is one who is guided by that book who stands by us when every other mortal deserts us. Don Lucius has promised to do all in his power to aid us; he will try his utmost to track out the man who has robbed us."
"Robbed us!" repeated Teresa, her intense curiosity getting the better of every other feeling; "you have spoken before of Chico's stealing property, but you have never fully explained what that property was."
"The treasure which my grandfather had buried under the orange-trees yonder,—a treasure accidentally discovered by me," answered Inez.
An expression of eager hope and pleasure flashed across the face of Teresa. "The golden goblet?" she hurriedly asked.
"That, and money, and my grandmother's jewels besides."
Teresa clasped her hands, and uttered a cry of delight.
"But all are gone—Chico has carried all away," said Inez sadly; "our only hope of recovering anythingis through the generous exertions of my brother's English friend; Don Lucius will try to find out and restore the lost treasure."
"Ah! if the Inglesito dothat," exclaimed the duenna, "never again will Teresa speak a word against him or his book! Restore the treasure—the pearls which I myself have clasped round the señora's neck, the brilliants which she wore at her bridal, the goblet out of which I've seen Don Pedro de Aguilera so often quaff the red wine! Oh! that goblet of chased gold," continued the old retainer, kindling into enthusiasm as she recalled the days of wealth and splendour with thought of which that cup was connected—"I'd rather have that inestimable treasure restored to the family than—than even the lock of Santa Veronica's hair!"
A STREET IN SEVILLE. Page 212.A STREET IN SEVILLE.Page 212.
II must report my return to Mr. Passmore, and procure a few necessaries from my lodgings, before I start for the Posada de Quesada," said Lucius to himself, as he emerged from the richly sculptured gateway of the house of the Aguileras.
I must report my return to Mr. Passmore, and procure a few necessaries from my lodgings, before I start for the Posada de Quesada," said Lucius to himself, as he emerged from the richly sculptured gateway of the house of the Aguileras.
Making this detour necessarily occupied a considerable time, and took the young Englishman through some of the most thickly populated parts of Seville. It seemed to Lucius as if all the world were abroad,—except, perhaps, the priests and monks, who were rather conspicuous by their absence. Lucius had sometimes difficulty in making his way along the narrow crowded streets. In many places knots of people were collected together, conversing in subdued tones, but with more animation of gesture than is common with the stately and solemn Spaniard. The beggar seemed to forget tobeg; the muleteer let the heavily-laden beast on which he was mounted pick his own way, unguided, over the large rough stones which paved the road, while the rider eagerly listened to words exchanged between men who to him were strangers. Had not the mind of Lepine been preoccupied with forming plans, and revolving his chances of success in his coming adventure, he must have noticed that on that Saturday afternoon in September one topic of common interest engaged the attention of the inhabitants of Seville, whether of high or low degree. It might be a bull-fight announced for the morrow, or some grand ceremonial of the Romish Church which was to come off on the following day.
The air was still sultry, though the greatest heat of the afternoon was over. Lucius, feeling thirsty, stopped to buy a few oranges of an old woman who sat with her basket before her at the corner of one of the streets. Another old crone who crouched close to her neighbour, with a covered basket on her knee, watched the Englishman, as he made his trifling purchase, with keen black eyes which glittered like beads from a face bronzed by sun and wind to almost African darkness.
"Will you not buy my wares too, señor?" she said in deep guttural tones, raising the cover of her basket, in which Lucius saw several knives. Theappearance of the scimitar-shaped clasp-knife, so commonly used among Spaniards whether for purposes peaceful or warlike, was of course familiar to Lucius; but the knives in the basket were of a size which he had never seen before. They were nearly a foot in length, making allowance for the curve, and such a knife when unclasped looked a truly formidable weapon.
"Thanks; I need not such wares," said Lucius.
"You will need one, my goodly youth, and that ere twenty-four hours be over," muttered the dark-visaged woman, whose appearance and voice reminded Lucius of those of the witches who met Macbeth on the blasted heath. "Better the sharp than the sweet; better the steel at the side than the fruit at the lip! There is wild work before thee."
The words of the old crone sounded like a prophecy of evil to come; but Lucius, who was no Spaniard, and little troubled with superstition, only smiled and passed on.
"Perhaps, after all, I might as well have taken the old gipsy's advice," thought Lucius, "and had something sharper and stronger than a pencil-case upon me before going to pass the night in that lone Spanish posada." The young man was half disposed to retrace his steps and make the purchase; hemight have done so, had not the state of his funds been so low that it would have inconvenienced him to expend even a few dollars on a long Spanish knife.
Lepine found Mr. Passmore at his private residence, his business hours closing earlier on Saturdays than on other days of the week.
"Glad to see you back, Lepine," said the manufacturer, extending to Lucius a thick flabby hand, which never closed with a kindly pressure.
"I have returned earlier—"
"Oh, you need not explain; I know why you are at Seville instead of Madrid," interrupted Mr. Passmore. "Tasco has been with me for an hour, and all that affair is settled. I have never been so bothered with business in all my life as during these two days of your absence. As for that Miguel, whom I've got in place of the bull-fighting don, what with his bad Spanish" (that was to say, Spanish unintelligible to his English employer), "his stupidity, and his laziness, he has almost driven me crazy. I don't know whether Miguel is most ignorant, superstitious, or idle. I had determined not to have a hidalgo again as a clerk, so was content to try the son of a barber; but I soon found out my mistake. Don Alcala de Aguilera, though he might wear his sombrero with the air of a prince, had at least brains under the brim. I've half a mind,"continued Passmore, lolling back in his easy-chair, "I've half a mind to ascertain whether the don is likely soon to get over the effects of his poke from the bull, and would like to come back to his desk. His fall may have brought down his pride a bit, and made him more willing to do my work and pocket my pay, like a sensible man. I'd sooner take Aguilera back to my office than endure longer this oily-fingered, garlic-scented mule of a Miguel."
"You are not aware then," said Lucius, "that Don Alcala has unhappily been arrested and taken to prison."
Passmore received the intelligence with a whistle of surprise. "Arrested for debt?" he inquired.
"No; not for debt," replied Lucius.
"If not for debt, what then?" cried Passmore. "What new prank of folly has the don managed to play when one thought him safe on a sick-bed? I bet Aguilera has been meddling with politics and burning his fingers, as every one must do who tries to fish raisins out of such a seething caldron as is always fizzing and boiling over in Spain. What was Aguilera's offence? Was it drinking in physic a health to Prim?"
"No, sir," replied the clerk; "my friend was arrested in his sick-room for merely reading the Scriptures to his household!"
I will not say that Peter Passmore sprang to his feet, for the manufacturer's bulky frame was never very quick in its movements, but he rose from his easy-chair with an exclamation by no means reverential. "He's insane, utterly insane!" cried the irritated man, "and may as well be shut up in prison as in a lunatic asylum. Was it not enough for this Spaniard narrowly to escape throwing away life by acting the picador, that he must throw away liberty also by acting the preacher?"
"I hope, sir, that you do not compare the two acts," said Lucius, with spirit.
"Both have the same root, I warrant you; both spring out of pride, the desire to be talked of," said Passmore. "Reading the Scriptures indeed! Don Alcala may make a fine clerk, he may make a superb picador (though an unlucky one, by the way), but nothing can persuade me that he can ever make a quiet, sober, matter-of-fact Protestant, like myself;" and Passmore subsided into his chair.
No; assuredly nothing could have transformed Alcala into the self-complacent worshipper of Mammon, who assumed to himself the title of a Protestant Christian.
"I cannot see why Spaniards should not be again what their fathers were," said Lepine. "This land has had many martyrs."
"I've no doubt of it, no doubt of it, my lad. Martyrs presuppose murderers, and Spain has never been lacking in them. I'm a Briton, and have no fancy to be either murderer or martyr. That reminds me," continued Passmore, "of what Tasco has been telling me of the state of affairs in Madrid. Clouds are gathering there pretty thick, and wise men will get under shelter when they hear the thunder rumbling. If I were not tied to a business like this, I'd be off to old England; but an ironware manufactory is a pretty heavy anchor to drag. It's just as well to be armed, however; I've to-day bought a brace of revolvers. The proverb says that an Englishman's house is his castle, so I'll have artillery for mine. Ho, ho, ho! And while I think of it, Lepine, you can have my old pistol if you like, as I am provided with others." Here Passmore opened a drawer in his table, and took out rather a rusty-looking weapon, with gunpowder-flask, and bag of bullets. "You go to and fro day and night through these streets of Seville, where ruffians think no more of sticking a knife into a man than of paring a turnip; it's just as well to have with you a friend who can speak for you, if need be, in a language even Spaniards can understand. Take the pistol; you may need it before twenty-four hours are over."
Lepine could not help noting as a curious coincidence that the warning of the dark woman should be repeated in almost the same words by his English employer. The young man, bound on a dangerous mission, gladly accepted the proffered weapon.
"Now mind that you neither blow out your own brains nor those of any one else without necessity," said Peter Passmore, as he handed the pistol to Lepine. "I'd not have made such a present," he added, with his explosive laugh, "to Don Alcala de Aguilera."