XVIII.
The Aged Monk.
"I will not boast a martyr's might To leave my home without a sigh-- The dwelling of my past delight, The shelter where I hoped to die."--Anon.
Much was Carlos strengthened by the result of his interview with DonJuan. The thing that he greatly feared, his beloved brother's wrath andscorn, had not come upon him. Juan had shown, instead, a moderation, acandour, and a willingness to listen, which, while it really amazed him,inspired him with the happiest hopes. With a glad heart he repeated thePsalmist's exulting words: "The Lord is my strength and my shield; myheart hath trusted in him and I am helped; therefore my heart dancethfor joy, and in my song will I praise him."
He soon perceived that the Chapter was over; for figures, robed in whiteand brown, were moving here and there amongst the trees. He entered thehouse, and without happening to meet any one, made his way to thedeserted Chapter-room. Its sole remaining occupant was a very agedmonk, the oldest member of the community. He was seated at the table,his face buried in his hands, and his frail, worn frame quivering as ifwith sobs.
Carlos went up to him and asked gently, "Father, what ails you?"
The old man slowly raised his head, and gazed at him with sad, tiredeyes, which had watched the course of more than eighty years. "My son,"he said, "if I weep, it is for joy."
Carlos wondered; for he saw no joy on the wrinkled brow or in thetearful face. But he merely asked, "What have the brethren resolved?"
"To await God's providence here. Praised be his holy name for that."And the old man bowed his silver head, and wept once more.
To Carlos also the determination was a cause for deep gratitude. He hadall along regarded the proposed flight of the brethren with extremedread, as an almost certain means of awakening the suspicions of theHoly Office, and thus exposing all who shared their faith todestruction. It was no light matter that the danger was now at leastpostponed, always provided that the respite was purchased by nosacrifice of principle.
"Thank God!" reiterated the old monk. "For here I have lived; and hereI will die and be buried, beside the holy brethren of other days, in thechapel of Don Alonzo the Good. My son, I came hither a stripling as thouart--no, younger, younger--I know not how many years ago; one year is solike another, there is no telling. I could tell by looking at the greatbook, only my eyes are too dim to read it. They have grown dim veryfast of late; when Doctor Egidius used to visit us, I could read myBreviary with the youngest of them all. But no matter how many years.They were many enough to change a blooming, black-haired boy into an oldman tottering on the grave's brink. And I to go forth now into thatgreat, wicked world beyond the gate! I to look upon strange faces, andto live amongst strange men! Or to die amongst them, for to that itwould come full soon! No, no, Senor Don Carlos. Here I took the cowl;here I lived; and here I will die and be buried, God and the saintshelping me!"
"Yet for the Truth's sake, my father, would you not be willing to makeeven this sacrifice, and to go forth in your old age into exile?"
"If the brethren must needs go, so, I suppose, must I. But they are_not_ going, St. Jerome be praised," the old man repeated.
"Going or staying, the presence of Him whom they serve and for whom theywitness will be with them."
"It may be, it may be, for aught I know. But in my young days so manyfine words were not in use. We sang our matins, our complines, ourvespers; we said the holy mass and all our offices, and God and St.Jerome took care of the rest."
"But you would not have those days back again, would you, my father?You did not then know the glorious gospel of the grace of God."
"Gospel, gospel? We always read the gospel for the day. I know myBreviary, young sir, just as well as another. And on festival days,some one always preached from the gospel. When Fray Domingo preached,plenty of great folks used to come out from the city to hear him. Forhe was very eloquent, and as much thought of, in his time, as FrayCristobal is now. But they are forgotten in a little while, all of them.So will we, in a few years to come."
Carlos reproached himself for having named the gospel, instead of Himwhose words and works are the burden of the gospel story. For even tothat dull ear, heavy with age, the name of Jesus was sweet. And thatdull mind, drowsy with the slumber of a long lifetime, had half awakedat least to the consciousness of his love.
"Dear father," he said gently, "I know you are well acquainted with thegospels. You remember what our blessed Lord saith of those who confesshim before men, how he will not be ashamed to confess them before hisFather in heaven? And, moreover, is it not a joy for us to show, in anyway he points out to us, our love to him who loved us and gave himselffor us?"
"Yes, yes, we love him. And he knows I only wish to do what is right,and what is pleasing in his sight."
Afterwards, Carlos talked over the events of the day with the youngerand more intelligent brethren; especially with his teacher, FrayCristobal, and his particular friend, Fray Fernando. He could but admirethe spirit that had guided their deliberations, and feel increasedthankfulness for the decision at which they had arrived. The peacewhich the whole community of Spanish Protestants then enjoyed, perilousand unstable as it was, stood at the mercy of every individual belongingto that community. The unexplained flight of any obscure member ofLosada's congregation would have been sufficient to give the alarm, andlet loose the bloodhounds of persecution upon the Church; how much morethe abandonment of a wealthy and honourable religious house by thegreater part of its inmates?
The sword hung over their heads, suspended by a single hair, which ahasty or incautious movement, a word, a breath even, might suffice tobreak.
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 18
