The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century

by Deborah Alcock

  XLVIII.

  San Isodro Once More.

  "And if with milder anguish now I bear To think of thee in thy forsaken rest; If from my heart be lifted the despair, The sharp remorse with healing influence pressed. It is that Thou the sacrifice hast blessed, And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell, With a deep chastened sense that all at last is well."--Hemans

  The cloudless sky above him, the fresh morning air on his cheek, thedew-drops on his feet, Don Juan walked along. The river--his own brightGuadalquivir--glistened in the early sunshine; and soon his pathway ledhim amidst the gray ruins of old Italica, while among the brambles thathalf hid them, glittering lizards, startled by his footsteps, ran in andout. But he saw nothing, felt nothing, save the passionate pain thatburned in his heart. During his interview with Fray Ricardo he hadbeen, practically and for the time, what the prior called him,insane--mad with rage and hate. But now rage was dying out for thepresent, and giving place to anguish.

  Is the worst pang earth has to give that of witnessing the sufferings ofour beloved? Or is there yet one keener, more thrilling? That theyshould suffer alone; no hand near to help, no voice to speak sympathy,no eye to look "ancient kindness" on their pain. That they shoulddie--die in anguish--and still alone,--

  "With eyes turned away, And no last word to say."

  Don Juan was now drinking that bitter cup to its very dregs. What theyoung brother, his one earthly tie, had been to him, need not here betold; and assuredly he could not have told it. He had been all his lifea thing to protect and shield--as the strong protect the weak, asmanhood shields womanhood and childhood. Had God but taken him with hisown right hand, Juan would have thought it a light matter, a sorroweasily borne. But, instead, He stood afar off--He did not help; whilstmen, cruel as fiends from the bottomless pit, did their worst, theirvery worst, upon him. And with refined self-torture he went through allthe horrible details, as far as he knew or could guess them. Nor did hespare to stab his own heart with that keenest weapon of all--"It was_for me_; for me he endured the Question." The cry of his brother'sanguish--anguish borne for him--seemed to sound in his ears and to haunthim: he felt that it would haunt him evermore.

  Of course, there was a well of comfort near, which a child's hand mighthave pointed out to him: "All is over now; he suffers no longer--he isat rest." But who ever stoops to drink from that well in the parchingthirst of the first hour of such a grief as his? In truth, all was overfor Carlos; but all was not over for Juan. He had to pass through hisdark hour as really as Carlos had passed through his.

  Again the agony almost maddened him; again wild hatred and rage againsthis brother's torturers rose and surged like a flood within him. Andwith these were mingled thoughts, too nearly rebellious, of Him whomthat brother trusted so firmly and served so faithfully; as if he hadused his servant hardly, and forsaken him in his hour of sorest need.

  He shrank with horror from every wayfarer he chanced to meet, imaginingthat his eyes might have looked on his brother's suffering. But at lasthe came unawares upon the gate of San Isodro. Left unbarred by someaccident, it yielded to his touch, and he entered the monastery grounds.At that very spot, three years ago, the brothers parted, on the day thatCarlos avowed his change of faith. Yet not even that remembrance couldbring a tear to the hot and angry eyes of Juan. But just then hehappened to recollect the book he had received from the lay brother. Hetook it from its place of concealment, and eagerly began to examine it.It was almost filled with writing; but not, alas! from that belovedhand. So he flung it aside in bitter disappointment. Then becomingsuddenly conscious of bodily weakness, he half sat down, half threwhimself on the ground. His vigorous frame and his strong nerves savedhim from swooning outright: he only lay sick and faint, the blue skylooking black above him, and a strange, indistinct sound, as of manyvoices, murmuring in his ears.

  By-and-by he became conscious that some one was holding water to hislips, and trying, though with an awkward, trembling hand, to loose hisdoublet at the throat. He drank, shook off his weakness, and lookedabout him. A very old man, in a white tunic and brown mantle, wasbending over him compassionately. In another moment he was on his feet;and having briefly thanked the aged monk for his kindness, he turned hisface to the gate.

  "Nay, my son," the old man interposed; "San Isodro is changed--changed!Still the sick and weary never left its gates unaided; and they shallnot begin now--not now. I pray you come with me to the house, andrefresh and rest yourself there."

  Juan was not reckless enough to refuse what in truth he sorely needed.He entered the monastery under the guidance of poor old Fray Bernardo,who had been passed by, perhaps in scorn, by the persecutors: and so,after all, he had his wish--he should die and be buried in peace wherehe had passed his life from boyhood to extreme old age. Yet there wassomething sad in the thought that the storm that swept by had leftuntouched the poor, useless, half-withered tree, while it tore down theyoung and strong and noble oaks, the pride of the now desolated forest.

  The few cowed and terrified monks who had been allowed to remain in theconvent received Don Juan with great kindness. They set food and winebefore him: food he could not touch, but wine he accepted withthankfulness. And they almost insisted on his endeavouring to take somerest; assuring him that when his servant and horses should arrive, theywould see them properly cared for, until such time as he might be ableto resume his journey.

  His journey would not brook delay, as he knew full well. That his youngwife might not be a widow and his babe an orphan, he "charged his soulto hold his body strengthened" for the work that both had to do. Backto Nuera for these dear ones as swiftly as the fleetest horses wouldbear him, then to Seville again, and on board the first ship he couldmeet with bound for any foreign port,--would the term of grace assignedhim by the Inquisitor suffice for all this? Certainly not a momentshould be lost.

  "I will rest for an hour," he said. "But I pray you, my fathers, do meone kindness first. Is there a man here who witnessed--what was doneyesterday?"

  A young monk came forward. Juan led him into the cell which had beenprepared for him to rest in, and leaning against its little window, withhis face turned away, he murmured one agitated question. Three wordscomprised the answer,--

  "_Calmly, silently, quickly._"

  Juan's breast heaved and his strong frame trembled. After a longinterval he said, still without looking,--

  "Now tell me of the others. Name him no more."

  "No less than _eight_ ladies died the martyr's death," said the monk,who cared not, before _this_ auditor, to conceal his own sentiments."One of them was Senora Maria Gomez; your Excellency probably knows herstory. Her three daughters and her sister died with her. When theirsentences were read, they embraced on the scaffold, and bade each otherfarewell with tears. Then they comforted each other with holy wordsabout our Lord and his passion, and the home he was preparing for themabove."

  Here the young monk paused for a few moments; then went on, his voicestill trembling: "There were, moreover, two Englishmen and a Frenchman,who all died bravely. Lastly, there was Juliano Hernandez."

  "Ah! tell me of him."

  "He died as he had lived. In the morning, when brought out into thecourt of the Triana, he cried aloud to his fellow-sufferers,--'Courage,comrades! Now must we show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ.Let us bear faithful testimony to his truth before men, and in a fewhours we shall receive the testimony of his approbation before angels,and triumph with him in heaven.' Though silenced, he continuedthroughout the day to encourage his companions by his gestures. On theQuemadero, he knelt down and kissed the stone upon which the stake waserected; then thrust his head among the fagots to show his willingnessto suffer. But at the end, having raised his hands in prayer, one ofthe attendant priests--Dr. Rodriguez--mistook the attitude for a signthat he would recant, and made intercession with the Alguazils to givehim a last oppor
tunity of speaking. He confessed his faith in a fewstrong, brief words; and knowing the character of Rodriguez, told him hethought the same himself, but hid his true belief out of fear. The angrypriest bade them light the pile at once. It was done; but the guards,with kind cruelty, thrust the martyr through with their lances, so thathe passed, without much pain, into the presence of the Lord whom heserved as few have been honoured to do."

  "And--Fray Constantino?" Juan questioned.

  "He was not, for God took him. They had only his dust to burn. Theyhave sought to slander his memory, saying he raised his hand against hisown life. But we knew the contrary. It has reached our ears--I darenot tell you how--that he died in the arms of one of our dear brethrenfrom this place--poor young Fray Fernando, who closed his eyes in peace.It was from one of the dark underground cells of the Triana that hepassed straight to the glory of God."[#]

  [#] At the Auto they produced his effigy, of the size of life, clad inhis canon's robe, and with the arms stretched out in the gesture he hadbeen wont to use in preaching; but it caused such a demonstration offeeling among the people, that they were obliged hastily to withdraw it.

  It was at this Auto that Maria Gonsalez was sentenced to receive twohundred lashes, and to be imprisoned for ten years, for the kindnessesshe had shown the prisoners. An equally severe punishment was awardedto the under-gaoler Herrera for the offence of having allowed a motherand three daughters, who were imprisoned in separate cells, an interviewof half an hour; while the many cruelties and peculations of theinfamous Benevidio were only chastised by the loss of his situation andlit advantages, and banishment from Seville.

  "I thank you for your tidings," said Juan, slowly and faintly. "And nowI pray of you to leave me."

  After a considerable time, one of the monks softly opened the door oftheir visitor's cell. He sat on the pallet prepared for him, his headburied in his hands.

  "Senor," said the monk, "your servant has arrived, and begs you toexcuse his delay. It may be there are some instructions you wish him toreceive."

  Juan roused himself with an effort.

  "Yes," he said; "and I thank you. Will you add to your kindness bybidding him immediately procure for us fresh horses, the best andfleetest that can be had?" He sought his purse; but, remembering in amoment what had become of it, drew a ring from his finger to supply itsloss. It was the diamond ring that the Sieur de Ramenais had given him.A keen pang shot through his heart. "No, not that; I cannot part withit." He took two others instead--old family jewels. "Bid him bringthese," he said, "to Isaac Ozorio, who dwells in La Juderia[#]--any manthere will show him the house; take for them whatever he will give him,and therewith hire fresh horses--the best he can--from the posada wherehe rested, leaving our own in pledge. Let him also buy provisions forthe way; for my business requires haste. I will explain all to youanon."

  [#] The Jewish Quarter of Seville.

  While the monk did the errand, Don Juan sat still, gazing at the diamondring. Slowly there came back upon his memory the words spoken by Carloson the day when the sharp facets cut his hand, unfelt by him: "If Hecalls me to suffer for him, he may give me such blessed assurance of hislove, that in the joy of it pain and fear will vanish."

  Could it be possible He _had_ done this? Oh, for some token, to relievehis breaking heart by the assurance that thus it had been! And yet,wherefore seek a sign? Was not the heroic courage, the calm patience,given to that young brother, once so frail and timid, as plain a tokenof the sunlight of God's peace and presence as is the bow in the cloudof the sun shining in the heavens? True; but not the less was his soulfilled with passionate longing for one word--only one word--from thelips that were dust and ashes now. "If God would give me _that_," hemoaned, "I think I could weep for him."

  It occurred to him then that he might examine the book more carefullythan he had done before. Don Juan, of late, had been no great reader,except of the Spanish Testament. Instead of glancing rapidly throughthe volume with a practised eye, he carefully began at the beginning andperused several pages with diligence, and with a kind of compelled andpainful attention.

  The writer of the diary with which the book seemed filled had notprefixed his name. Consequently Juan, who was without a clue to theauthorship, saw in it merely the effusions of a penitent, with whosefeelings he had but little sympathy. Still, he reflected that if thewriter had been his brother's fellow prisoner, some mention of hisbrother would probably reward his persevering search. So he read on;but he was not greatly interested, until at length he came to onepassage which ran thus:--

  "Christ and Our Lady forgive me, if it be a sin. Ofttimes, even byprayer and fasting, I cannot prevent my thoughts from wandering to thepast. Not to the life I lived, and the part I acted in the great world,for that is dead to me and I to it; but to the dear faces my eyes shallnever see again. My Costanza!"--("Costanza!" thought Juan with a start,"that was my mother's name!")--"my wife! my babe! O God, in thy greatmercy, still this hungering and thirsting of the heart!"

  Immediately beneath this entry was another. "_May_ 21. My Costanza, mybeloved wife, is in heaven. It is more than a year ago, but they didnot tell me till to-day. Does death only visit the free?"

  Yet another entry caught the eye of Juan. "Burning heat to-day. Itwould be cool enough in the halls of Nuera, on the breezy slope of theSierra Morena. What does my orphaned Juan Rodrigo there, I wonder?"

  "Nuera! Sierra Morena! Juan Rodrigo!" reiterated the astonishedreader. What did it all mean? He was stunned and bewildered, so thathe had scarcely power left even to form a conjecture. At last itoccurred to him to turn to the other end of the book, if perchance somename, affording a clue to the mystery, might be inscribed there.

  And then he read, in another, well-known hand, a few calm words,breathing peace and joy, "quietness and assurance for ever."

  He pressed the loved handwriting to his lips, to his heart. He sobbedover it and wept; blistering it with such burning tears as scarcely comefrom a strong man's eyes more than once in a lifetime. Then, flinginghimself on his knees, he thanked God--God whom he had doubted, murmuredagainst, almost blasphemed, and who yet had been true to hispromise--true to his tried and suffering servant in the hour of need.

  When he rose, he took up the book again, and read and reread thoseprecious words. All but the first he thought he could comprehend. "Mybeloved father is gone to Him in peace." Would the preceding entriesthrow any light upon _that_ saying!

  Once more, with changed feelings and quickened perceptions, he turnedback to the records of the penitent's long captivity. Slowly andgradually the secret they revealed unfolded itself before him. Thehistory of the last nine months of his brother's life lay clearlytraced; and the light it shed illumined another life also, longer,sadder, less glorious than his.

  One entry, almost the last, and traced with a trembling hand, he readover and over, till his eyes grew too dim to see the words.

  "He entreats of me to pray for my absent Juan, and to bless him. Myson, my first-born, whose face I know not, but whom he has taught me tolove, I do bless thee. All blessings rest upon thee--blessings ofheaven above, blessings of the earth beneath, blessings of the deep thatlieth under! But for _thee_, Carlos, what shall I say? I have noblessing fit for thee--no word of love deep and strong enough to joinwith that name of thine. Doth not He say, of whose tenderness thoutellest me ours is but the shadow, 'He will _be silent_ in his love'?But may he read my heart in its silence, and bless thee, and repay theewhen thou comest to thy home, where already thy heart is."

  It might have been two hours afterwards, when the same friendly monk whohad narrated to Don Juan the circumstances of the Auto-da-fe, came toapprise him that his servant had fulfilled his errand, and was waitingwith the horses.

  Don Juan rose and met him. His face was sad; it would be a sad facealways; but there was in it a look as of one who saw the end, and whoknew that, however dark the way might be, the end was light everlasting."Look here, my fri
end," he said, for no concealment was necessary there;truth could hurt no one. "See how wondrously God has dealt with me andmine. Here is the record of the life and death of my honoured father.For three-and-twenty years he lay in the Dominican monastery, a prisonerfor Christ's sake. And to my heroic martyr brother God has given thehonour and the joy of unravelling the mystery of his fate, and thusfulfilling our youthful dream. Carlos has found our father!"

  He went forth into the hall, and bade the other monks a gratefulfarewell. Old Fray Bernardo embraced and blessed him with tears, movedby the likeness, now discerned for the first time, between the statelysoldier and the noble and gentle youth, whose kindness to him, duringhis residence at the monastery three years before, he well remembered.

  Then Don Juan set his face towards Nuera, with patient endurance, rathersad than stern, upon his brow, and in his heart "a grief as deep as lifeor thought," but no rebellion, and no despair. Something likeresignation had come to him; already he could say, or at least try tosay, "Thy will be done." And he foresaw, as in the distance, far offand faintly, a time when he might even be able to share in spirit thejoy of the crowned and victorious one, to whom, in the dark prison, faceto face with death, God had so wondrously given the desire of his heart,and not denied him the request of his lips.

  XLIX.

  Farewell.

  "My country is there; Beyond the star pricked with the last peak of snow."--E. B. Browning.

  About a fortnight afterwards, a closely veiled lady, dressed in deepmourning, leaned over the side of a merchant vessel, and gazed into thesapphire depths of the Bay of Cadiz. A respectable elderly woman wasstanding near her, holding her pretty dark-eyed babe. They seemed to beunder the protection of a Franciscan friar; and of a stately, handsomeserving-man, whose bearing and appearance were rather out of keepingwith his supposed rank. It was said amongst the crew that the lady wasthe widow of a rich Sevillian merchant, who during a residence in Londonsome years before had married an Englishwoman. She was now going tojoin her kindred in the heretical country, and much compassion wasexpended on her, as she was said to be very Catholic and very pious. Itwas a signal proof of these dispositions that she ventured to bring withher, as private chaplain, the Franciscan friar, who, the sailorsthought, would probably soon fall a martyr to his attachment to theFaith.

  But a few illusions might have been dispelled, if the conversation ofthe party, when for a brief space they had the deck to themselves, couldhave been overheard.

  "Dost thou mourn that the shores of our Spain are fading from us?" saidthe lady to the supposed servant.

  "Not as I should once have done, my Beatriz; though it is still myfatherland, dearest and best of all lands to me. And you, my beloved?"

  "Where thou art is my country, Don Juan. Besides," she added softly,"God is everywhere. And think what it will be to worship him in peace,none making us afraid."

  "And you, my brave, true-hearted Dolores?" asked Don Juan.

  "Senor Don Juan, my country is _there_, with those that I love best,"said Dolores, with an upward glance of the large wistful eyes, which hadyet, in their sorrowful depths, a look of peace unknown in past days."What is Spain to me--Spain, that would not give to the noblest of themall a few feet of her earth for a grave?"

  "Do not let us stain with one bitter thought our last look at thoseshores," said Don Juan, with the gentleness that was growing upon him oflate. "Remember that they who denied a grave to our beloved, arepowerless to rob us of one precious memory of him. His grave is in ourhearts; his memorial is the faith which every one of us now standinghere has learned from him."

  "That is true," said Dona Beatriz. "I think that not all thy teaching,Don Juan, made me understand what 'precious faith' is, until I learnedit by his death."

  "He gave up all for Christ, freely and joyfully," Juan continued."While I gave up nothing, save as it was wrenched from my unwillinghand. Therefore for him there is the 'abundant entrance,' the 'crown ofglory.' For me, at the best, 'Seekest thou great things for thyself,seek them not. But thy life will I give unto thee for a prey in allplaces whither thou goest.'"

  Fray Sebastian drew near at the moment, and happening to overhear thelast words, he asked, "Have you any plan, senor, as to whither you willgo?"

  "I have no plan," Don Juan answered. "But I think God will guide us. Ihave indeed a dream," he added, after a pause, "which may, or may not,come true eventually. My thoughts often turn to that great New World,where, at least, there should be room for truth and liberty. It was ourchildhood's dream, to go forth to the New World and to find our father.And the lesser half of it, comparatively worthless as it is, may fitlyfall to my lot to fulfil, another worthier than I having done the rest."His voice grew gentler, his whole countenance softened as hecontinued,--"That the prize was his, not mine, I rejoice. It is but anearnest of the nobler victory, the grander triumph, he enjoys now,amongst those who stand evermore before the King of kings--CALLED,CHOSEN, AND FAITHFUL."

  Historical Note.

  It may be asked by some thoughtful reader who has followed the narrativeof the foregoing pages, How much is fact, how much fiction? As thewriter's sole object is to reveal, to enforce, and to illustrate Truth,an answer to the question is gladly supplied. All is fact, except whatconcerns the personal history of the Brothers and their family.Whatever relates to the rise, progress, and downfall of the ProtestantChurch in Spain, is strictly historical. Especially may be mentionedthe story of the two great Autos at Seville. But much of interest onthe subject remains untold, as nothing was taken up but what wouldnaturally amalgamate with the narrative and it was not designed tosupersede history, only to stimulate to its study. Except in theinstance of a conversation with Juliano Hernandez, another with DonCarlos de Seso, and a few words required by the exigencies of the talefrom Losada, the glorious martyr names have been left untouched by thehand of fiction. It was a sense of their sacredness which led thewriter to choose for hero a character not historical, but typical andillustrative. But nothing is told of him which did not occur over andover again, if we except the act of mercy which is supposed to have sheda brightness over his last days. He is merely a given example, aspecimen of the ordinary fate of such prisoners of the Inquisition aswere enabled to remain faithful to the end; and, thank God, these werenumerous. He is even a favourable specimen; for the conditions of artrequire that in a work of fiction a veil should be thrown over some ofthe worst horrors of persecution. Those who accuse Protestant writersof exaggeration in these matters, little know what they say. Easilycould we show greater abominations than these; but we forbear.

  As for the joy and triumph ascribed to the steadfast martyr at the closeof his career, we have a thousand well-authenticated instances that suchhas been really given. These embrace all classes and ages, and allvarieties of character, and range throughout all time, from the day thatStephen saw Christ sitting on the right hand of God, until the martyrsof Madagascar sang hymns in the fire, and "prayed as long as they hadany life; and then they died, softly, gently."

  It is not fiction, but truest truth, that He repays his faithfulservants an hundred-fold, even in this life, for anything they do orsuffer for his name's sake.

  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.