The Spanish Brothers Part 35

said Gasper Benevidio, as he quitted the cell.

The "Santa Casa," or Holy House, was the proper style and t.i.tle of the prison of the Holy Inquisition. At first sight the name appears a hideous mockery. We seem to catch in it an echo of the laughter of fiends, as in that other kindred name, "The Society of Jesus." Yet, just then, the Triana was truly a holy house. Precious in the sight of the Lord were those who crowded its dismal cells. Many a lonely captive wept and prayed and agonized there, who, though now forgotten on earth, shall one day shine with a brightness eclipsing kings and conquerors--"a star for ever and ever."

x.x.xI.

Ministering Angels.

"Thou wilt be near, and not forsake, To turn the bitter pool Into a bright and breezy lake, The throbbing brow to cool; Till, left awhile with Thee alone, The wilful heart be fain to own That he, by whom our bright hours shone, Our darkness best may rule."--Keble

The overpowering heat of an Andalusian summer aggravated the physical sufferings of the captives. And so did the scanty and unwholesome provisions, which were all that reached them through the hands of the avaricious Benevidio.

But this last hardship was little felt by Carlos. Small as were the rations he received, they usually proved more than enough for him; indeed, the coa.r.s.e food sometimes lay almost untasted in his cell.

One morning, however, to his extreme surprise, something was pushed through the grating in the lower part of his inner door, the outer door being open, as was usual at that hour. The mysterious gift consisted of white bread and good meat, of which he partook with mingled astonishment and thankfulness. But the relief to the unvaried monotony of his life, and the occupation the little circ.u.mstance gave his thoughts, was much more to him than the welcome novelty of a wholesome meal.

The act of charity was repeated often, indeed almost daily. Sometimes bread and meat, sometimes fruit--the large luscious grapes or purple figs of that southern climate--were thus conveyed to him. Endless were the speculations these gifts awakened in his mind. He longed to discover his benefactor, not only to express his grat.i.tude, but to supplicate that the same favours might be extended to his fellow-sufferers, especially to Juliano. Moreover, would not one so kindly disposed be willing to give him what he longed for far more than meat or drink--some word of tidings from the world without, or from his dear imprisoned brethren?

At first he suspected the under-gaoler, whose name was Herrera. This man was far more gentle and compa.s.sionate than Benevidio. Carlos often thought he would have shown him some kindness, or at least have spoken to him, if he dared. But dire would have been the penalty even the slightest transgression of the prison rules would have entailed. Carlos naturally feared to broach the matter, lest, if Herrera really had nothing to do with it, the unknown benefactor might be betrayed.

The same motive prevented his hazarding a question or exclamation at the time the little gifts were thrust in. How could he tell who might be within hearing? If it were safe to speak, surely the person outside would try the experiment.

It was generally very early in the morning, at the hour when the outer door was first opened, that the gifts came. Or, it delayed a little later, he would often notice something timid and even awkward in the way they were pushed through the grating, and the approaching and retreating footsteps, for which he used to listen so eagerly, would be quick and light, like those of a child.

At last a day came, marked indeed with white in the dark chronicle of prison life. Bread and meat were conveyed to him as usual; then there was a low knock upon the door. Carlos, who was standing close to it, responded by an eager "_Chien es?_"

"A friend. Kneel down, senor, and put your ear to the grating."

The captive obeyed, and a woman's voice whispered, "Do not lose heart, your worship. Friends outside are thinking of you."

"One friend is with me, even here," Carlos answered. "But," he added, "I entreat of you to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for the daily kindnesses which lighten my captivity."

"I am only a poor woman, senor, the alcayde's servant. And what I have brought you is your own, and but a small part of it."

"My own! How?"

"Robbed from you by my master, who defrauds and spoils the poor prisoners even of their necessary food. And if any one dares to complain to the Lords Inquisitors, he throws him into the Masmurra."

"The--what?"

"A deep, horrible cistern which he hath in his house." This was spoken in a still lower voice.

Carlos was not yet sufficiently naturalized to horrors to repress a shudder. He said, "Then I fear it is at great risk to yourself that you show kindness to me."

"It is for the dear Lord's sake, senor."

"Then _you_--you too--love his Name!" said Carlos, tears of joy starting to his eyes.

"_Chiton_,[#] senor! _chiton_! But as far as a poor woman may, I do love him," she added in a frightened whisper. "What I want now to tell you is, that the n.o.ble lord, your brother--"

[#] Hush.

"My brother!" cried Carlos; "what of him? On, tell me, for Christ's dear sake!"

"Let your Excellency speak lower. We may be overheard. I know he has seen my master once and again, and has given him much money to provide your worship with good food and other conveniences, which he, however, not having the fear of G.o.d before his eyes--" The rest of the sentence did not reach the ear of Carlos; but he could easily guess its import.

"That is little matter," he said. "But oh, kind friend, if I could send him a message, were it only one word."

Perhaps the wistful earnestness of his tone awakened latent mother instincts in the poor woman's heart. She knew that he was very young; that he had lain there for dreary months alone, away from the bright world into which he was just entering, and which was now shut to him for ever.

"I will do all I can for your Excellency," she said, in a tone that betrayed some emotion.

"Then," said Carlos, "tell him it is well with me. 'The Lord is my shepherd'--all that psalm, bid him read it. But, above all things, say unto him to leave this place--to fly to Germany or England. For I fear, I fear--no, do not tell him what I fear. Only implore of him to go.

You promise?"

"I promise, young sir, to do all I can. G.o.d comfort him and you."

"And G.o.d reward you, brave and kind friend. But one word more, if it may be without risk to you. Tell me of my dear fellow-prisoners.

Especially of Dr. Cristobal Losada, Don Juan Ponce de Leon, Fray Constantino, and Juliano Hernandez, called Juliano El Chico."

"I do not know anything of Fray Constantino. I think he is not here.

The others you name have--_suffered_."

"Not death!--surely not death!" said Carlos, in terror.

"There be worse things than death, senor," the poor woman answered.

"Even my master, whose heart is iron, is astonished at the fort.i.tude of Senor Juliano. He fears nothing--seems to feel nothing. No tortures have wrung from him a word that could harm any one."

"G.o.d sustain him! Oh, my friend," Carlos went on with pa.s.sionate earnestness, "if by any deed of kindness, such as you have shown me, you could bring G.o.d's dear suffering servant so much comfort as a cup of cold water, truly your reward would be rich in heaven. For the day will come when that poor man will take his station in the court of the King of kings, and at the right hand of Christ, in great glory and majesty."

"I know it, senor. I have tried--"

Just then an approaching footstep made Carlos start; but the poor woman said, "It is only the child, G.o.d bless her. But I must go, senor; for she comes to tell me her father has arisen, and is making ready to begin his daily rounds."

"Her father! Does Benevidio's own child help you to comfort his prisoners?"

"Even so, thank the good G.o.d. I am her nurse. But I must not linger another moment. Adis, senor."

"Vaya con Dios, good mother. And G.o.d repay your kindness, as he surely will."

And surely he did repay it; but not on earth, unless the honour of being accounted worthy to suffer shame and stripes and cruel imprisonment for his sake be called a reward.[#]