Chapter XI: Part 11

“They asked if I could repeat my Credo. I answered,—‘Will your reverences hear it in Quichua, in Spanish, or in Latin?’ In the next place, they inquired if I knew the doctrines of the Catholic faith. I told them they might question me therein. Then, did I detest the wicked idolatries for which my forefathers had gone into everlasting fire? I made answer promptly—‘As for my forefathers, Christ shall judge them, not you; as for myself, I thank His grace that I have turned from dumb idols to serve the living and true God.’ Then—But what does it all matter now?” said José wearily, while the momentary animation of his tone and manner quickly died away.

“It matters much to me, José; for I fear it is on my account you have suffered all this misery.”

“Nay, patre; do not think it. It was—But why seek for reasons? Enough—I am an Indian. The hatred they bear my race—my poor doomed race!—accounts for all.”

After a gloomy pause, he resumed—“And you, patre? You have been ill. I fear—”

“Fear nothing for me. I am well—now,” said the monk. But his faint and broken tones gave the lie to his words of cheer.

Then José shook off the dull lethargy that had well-nigh overpowered him, and roused himself to attend to the one duty that yet remained to him. He drew close to the patre, embraced him tenderly, and from that moment took him completely into his charge. With some of his own clothing he managed to contrive a tolerably comfortable resting-place for his wasted form. He bathed his burning brow; he held his hand in his; he bore the jar of water that had been left in their dungeon once and again to his fevered lips,—but he scarcely spoke a word.

They had before this become aware that the vessel had weighed anchor, and was in motion. By-and-by food was brought to them, and José requested the use of a lamp. He had still the means of bestowing a bribe, as the usual custom of searching prisoners on entering or leaving the Santa Casa, and depriving them of their money and valuables, had been dispensed with in his case. The lamp made its appearance accordingly; a supply of oil was even promised. But at first the light that revealed their faces each to other appeared a doubtful boon: so ghastly, worn, and death-like did Fray Fernando look to José; and such settled, hopeless sorrow did he read in the dusky countenance of his Indian friend. Yet between the two there was a marked difference—like the difference between the morning and the evening twilight. Ill and feeble as Fray Fernando was, he seemed to carry some light within that, as time passed on, kindled into greater brightness hour by hour; while José simply faded.

“Have you no wish, José, to learn whither we are going, and with whom?” Fray Fernando asked, wondering at his apparent indifference to all things save one—Fray Fernando’s own bodily comfort and well-being. “I can tell you somewhat;—though but little, it is true. My case, I have been informed, has been referred to the Table of the Holy Office at Valladolid; though how and wherefore you have been involved in my misfortunes, I am ignorant as yet. But this, at least, I know: we are at present in the _Trionfo_—a great and brave galleon, which is making her voyage, with the rest of the Plate fleet, to the mother country.”

“We shall never reach it,” said José.

“God only knows,” Fray Fernando answered; and the conversation dropped.

A day or two afterwards Fray Fernando resumed it:—

“One of us, at least, will scarcely see the shores of Spain. José—my son José!”

“I am here, patre, close beside you.”

“Come closer yet. Take my hand in yours; let your loving eyes look into mine. I have somewhat to say to you.”

José obeyed. His hand did not tremble and no tear dimmed his eye as he answered, “Speak on, my father.”

“Some there are who die in the face of day, ten thousand eyes to witness their suffering and their patience, ten thousand hearts to judge their cause. José, for years and years my thoughts dwelt upon such a death. I feared it—shuddered at it—fled from it. Ay, when God sent you to me first, a little child, your innocent talk dispelled many a frightful vision of the hideous zamarra, the gazing multitudes, the burning pile. You know all now, José. It is true, you cannot know—but you can guess, far off and dimly—the dark remorse, the haunting terror, of those dreary years.

“Then at last, through God’s great mercy, the burden was lifted from me. I was no murderer. The mark of Cain was gone from my brow. I could go forth erect, and walk amongst my fellow-men, no longer a solitary being, held apart by the awful loneliness of a great crime and a bitter retribution. And then, as if all this had been little in His sight, He gave me more a thousandfold than deliverance, than liberty, than even the brother of my heart restored to me from the dead—He gave me Himself. You know how the light of His presence dawned, grew, brightened around me. You know, for you shared that light. But a strange thing was wrought within me that was hidden even from you, José. The doom that for years had been the haunting terror of my life came back again upon my mind,—but transfigured; no more a terror—a secret thrilling hope. It was as if some veiled, shadowy form, that I thought a demon, had haunted my footsteps night and day, and then suddenly coming up beside me, dropped off the shrouding veil, and stood radiant, an angel of light. No longer did the burning pile mean shame and horror: it meant glory, martyrdom, an abundant entrance into the home and the kingdom prepared for me. It meant His seal—the signet of the King whose purpose none may change—set at last upon my poor spoiled life, in token that He claimed and owned it. It meant fire from heaven consuming the accepted sacrifice. Even when I stood very close to it I felt no fear. And, José, I tell you now, that it was well worth while to stand there face to face with death. God was so near—nearer far than you are—though your hand holds mine, and your breath is on my cheek.

“But after that there came a bitter hour. A dark cloud rose up suddenly and hid Him from me. They, who thought themselves the arbiters of my fate, determined, in mercy as they believed, to spare me the doom of fire. Instead of pronouncing my sentence themselves, they would send me a captive to the mother country. Of course, in this dungeon, and to a man whose strength is wasted as is mine, that means death,—unless God should work a miracle for me. José, I longed to die for Him; but in my own way, not in His. I longed to show forth His mercy and truth with my last look, if not with my last breath, in the great congregation. With the lot that He appointed for me I was not content. Fain would I have escaped it by any means—save _one_. So I mourned bitterly before Him. Then He turned away His face from me, and my heart was cast down within me.

“But He is wiser than I,—and oh, how tender with His wayward child! The first word by which He brought me comfort was thine, José: ‘Every way He makes for us leads safely to the Golden City.’ Still, though comforted, I was not at peace, until at last there came another word, borne softly into the depths of my heart—a brief, simple word, but a word of His—‘Come unto Me.’—‘Unto Me.’ That is enough. That one thought fills all my soul. I care not for the way, since He—He Himself—is the end. I am satisfied. I need no more. Thou hast dealt well with Thy servant, O Lord, according to Thy word!”

XXXIX.

José’s Words.

“Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid sea, and with the storm alone;
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human souls?—the o’ermastering wave,
Who shall tell how it rushed, and none to save?”

HEMANS.

Without a word of lamentation, without a tear or sigh, José heard all. He fully comprehended the patre’s situation, and his own. He believed that he must soon close the eyes of his father and his friend; and that duty done, that he must linger on in his frightful prison alone, until Death, the deliverer, should come to him also. It never occurred to him that, after all, he might live to see those distant alien shores towards which his enemies were bearing him. No Child of the Sun, he told himself, could live on for dreary months and months without his Father’s smile, deprived of light and air and liberty.

Fitful longings for these common but most precious boons came and went, troubling with passing storms the deep and bitter waters of anguish that filled his soul like a flood. Often would he start from dreams of the glittering ice-crowned heights of the Andes, as he used to see them from Cerro Blanco; or of the cool interior of Yupanqui’s house, with some melody of his native land, breathed by the lips of Coyllur, still sounding in his ear. Often, again, the great green leaves of the tropical forest would droop over his head; he would touch them, pluck them, feel their moist coolness, watch the sunbeams flicker amongst them, see some bright bird with radiant plumage flit through their overhanging branches, and be wakened by its song, or by the murmuring sound of running waters.

Thus brought back to his misery, he would rise from his place without moan or murmur, trim the lamp, give Fray Fernando food or water, or do for him, most tenderly, any other little office that love and watchful care suggested; but, except to answer his questions, and that briefly, he scarcely ever spoke.

At last a circumstance occurred that partially broke down this mournful stoicism. The position of the prisoners in the dark damp hold was necessarily one of great misery; but they were not treated with intentional inhumanity by those who had the charge of them. Their food was sufficient, though coarse; and if their allowance of water was scanty, so also was that of the ship’s company, and José contrived that the privation should be little felt by the patre. As time wore on, the soldiers whose duty it was to guard them and supply them with necessaries became gradually more friendly and communicative. A belief was gaining ground amongst them that the captives, though prisoners of the Holy Office, were not heretics, but political offenders of some kind; for it was well known that such were occasionally apprehended and punished by the Inquisition. The pious deportment and devout language of Fray Fernando favoured this supposition; but still more the presence of José, since it was inconceivable that an Indian could be a heretic.

Moreover, the soldiers of the _Trionfo_ were sorely in want of interest and occupation during the long voyage, which at best must occupy many months. They were all “señores y caballeros,” who would not, to save the ship from sinking, haul a rope or climb a mast. Except in the improbable event of an enemy appearing in sight, these two hundred and fifty hale and active fighting-men had literally nothing to do save to burnish their armour, to play cards with each other, to quarrel with the Flemish gunners, or to tyrannize over the mariners, who were treated like slaves, and “made to toil and moil for all the rest.” Those therefore who attended the prisoners were very willing to vary the monotony of their lives by exchanging a few words with persons who, for many reasons, excited their curiosity.

Fray Fernando and José soon learned that the señor commandante was at deadly feud with the captain of the ship, an officer who in an English vessel would have been simply called the sailing-master. The soldiers, of course, took part with their commander; and to the surprise of Fray Fernando, who had been told that the ship was an excellent one, railed continually, and “in good set terms,” against the unfortunate _Trionfo_, with all her appurtenances and appointments.

“Is she not a swift sailer?” inquired the captive, naturally anxious to encourage conversation.

“Oh yes. Swift enough, to be sure; everything sacrificed to speed, and to the stowage of her merchandize. See her decks! All for space: not an inch of shelter or vantage-ground where a man could cover his head from an enemy’s fire. Not too sea-worthy either, for all the gallant show she makes. Well we are with the Plate fleet, or we would not sight a hostile flag for ten thousand ‘pieces of eight.’ Worse luck! If on the contrary the ship were what she ought, and the captain anything but ‘a hen,’ with low wretches of mariners without honour or valour, no sight would be more welcome—not even the shores of old Spain.”

Fray Fernando remarked afterwards to José,—“The galleon may be a fine ship for all that. It is evident that the soldiers take their cue from their commander. He must be, as I think, a man of strong though rather peculiar character. I doubt that he is much beloved. His men all fear him, evidently. I should not be surprised to find that some of them hate him.”

“They never mention his name,” said José languidly. “Who is he?”

“What! Do you not know? He is the Viceroy’s nephew, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo.”

José uttered a piteous cry, as one surprised by sharp, uncontrollable anguish.

“What is it, my son José?” Fray Fernando questioned tenderly. But José could not speak. After that one involuntary cry he could only lock his lips with stern resolve. Had he allowed a word, a moan, or even a sigh to escape them, there would have ensued a passion of weeping, to shame his manhood, and—far worse—to alarm and distress the patre beyond description.

The last time Don Francisco Solis and Don José Viracocha met face to face was at the door of Doña Beatriz Coya’s stately mansion in Cuzco. That day, as they exchanged formal salutations, José, strong in the favour of Coyllur, felt his proud triumph over his Castilian rival, and scorned him in his heart. Where was now that old happy, hopeful time? Where was that sweet face—those dark eyes, from which his soul had drunk enchantment? Where were the dreams that filled his heart,—of great deeds to be done for his people, and deliverance to be won for them, perhaps by his arm?

Gone from him, and for ever. He lay in that dismal hold, a captive, with Death already in his heart. The Spaniards had the dominion over the land of his fathers. Don Francisco Solis had the beautiful bride that should have been his; and, as if that were not enough, it seemed he had even the key of his rival’s dungeon—a thought that added the last drop to José’s overflowing cup of bitterness.

What had he left him now to show that the past was not all a dream? Only _this_. He still wore about his person, carefully wrapped in a morsel of parchment, the withered passion-flower. He took it out, and held it near the lamp; a poor, crushed, faded thing, meet emblem of his own crushed hopes and faded life.

“What is that you have there?” Fray Fernando questioned.

José allowed him to take it in his hand. “It has a story?” said the monk. “Tell me, my son, if you will. We are all the world to each other now.”

“The story of one I loved—and lost,” José murmured, in a voice like the ghost of his natural one. “It was Don Francisco Solis who robbed me, making my life desolate. As, every day, his people rob mine. And,” he added yet more sorrowfully, “Christ, the King, does not help us!”

“José, José, come near to me.”

José came near. The monk raised himself, drew his arm tenderly round him, and held him to his heart. “Oh, my son,” he asked very gently, “can you not trust Him still?”

“Still,—even still,—I hold the Saviour. At least, I hope He holds me. But the King—”

“Is strong to save us yet,” said Fray Fernando.

“To save _us_?—It may be. But what are we two, down here in the hold, with only two lives to lose? It is my people I think of—my people! For them my heart is heavy as stone, cold as ice of the Antis. Day and night, patre, I see visions and dream dreams. Faces look upon me—dark faces, growing ghastly in dungeons like this—agonized faces—faces of the tortured and famine-stricken, of the women and little children who weep in secret places, and there is none to pity them.”

“None—upon earth,” Fray Fernando interposed. “But, you know—”

“I _know_ nothing. I try to believe, even yet, that He cares,” said José, whose heart was sickening now with the sorest of all doubts. “Ay, patre,” he went on more earnestly, “He said, ‘I have compassion on the multitude.’ In those happy days at Callao, when I came to know Him first, I put my finger on that word, I knelt down and pleaded it with Him—for my people. And I believed surely that He would do them right at last. It was so well with me that I never doubted it would be well with all I loved. But in those dreary weeks, shut up in that hateful Santa Casa, hope faded from me day by day. Not hope for myself. Still, when He calls, I can give my soul up to Him without fear. But my people—my people! Who shall show me any light or hope for them? Must wrong and cruelty go on for ever and ever—none to help, none to save?”

Fray Fernando’s heart went up in an agony of earnest prayer for his beloved son, in this hour of sore and bitter need. At last he said, “But where you trust your own soul, José, you can surely trust all else that your heart holds dear?”

“I suppose so,” José murmured. “At least I ought. But all is dark—dark. Wrong triumphs always. Nothing seems to come right.”

Fray Fernando had reached the place of sunshine, far up on the mountain summit, very near the sky. But José was still in the _Puna_, the land of mist and rain, where no sunbeams pierce the thick dark veil of clouds.

“José,” said the monk once again, “I pray you, do not think of men. Think of Christ. Look to Him.”

“Patre,” José answered, with infinite sadness in his voice, “speak no more to me. God knows you are dearer than my life—dear as my own soul. But even you cannot help me now. I sit beside you, your hand in mine; but I am alone. My ear hears your voice; but my heart hears nothing. Nothing—except the wail and dash of waters, and the voice of those who cry, as from a sinking ship. Who cry to a King—_a King!_—far away in the distant heavens. And He is silent.”

Soon that happened which made José’s allusion to a sinking ship seem like an awful prophecy.

The terrors of a storm at sea, always great, were multiplied sevenfold to the unhappy captives who lay in darkness and the shadow of death. Vainly did they try to guess, from the wild, discordant sounds that met their ears, mingling in tumultuous confusion, what might be the fate in store for them—what horror, of all the horrors that threatened, would be the first to lay its spectral grasp upon them, and claim them for its own.

The storm raged on; the timbers strained, and the waters surged around the floating prison, which rocked and shook with their violence. The captives began to fear—and not without reason—that they would force an entrance, and drown them as they lay in the dark, clasped in each other’s arms. For now their lamp had expired, and no one brought them oil. Nor food; an omission that soon added another terror to those that oppressed them already. What if, in the general confusion, they should be forgotten and left to starve? Better let the waters find them where they lay; better sink with the sinking ship.

Fray Fernando called on God. Even in this dark hour his faith did not fail. Sorely tried indeed it was, by Nature’s shrinking from a terrible death that had no glory in it, and must be faced in darkness and loneliness. Still, he could take comfort; and even give it to his companion in distress. “God is with us, José,” he murmured. “He stilleth the raging of the waves. And all His ways lead us safely to the Golden City. Fear nothing.”

But for José, Fray Fernando would have died, over and over again. He held him in his arms, or, weak as he was, he would have been dashed against the wet planks bound with iron that formed the sides of their prison, by the lurchings of the tempest-tossed ship. He covered him with his own garments from the damp, death-like chill, as unlike the healthful natural cold of the outside air, as the noisome hold was unlike the breezy height of Cerro Blanco. And from time to time he fed him with the morsels of food that still remained to them, dipped in the one precious cup of water to which at last they were reduced. If, meanwhile, he himself felt hunger, thirst, cold, terror, at least he made no sign. And to the patre’s inquiries he always answered—far more cheerfully than he had spoken before the storm—that he was well, and that he needed nothing.

After this agony had lasted for what seemed to both of them a long lifetime, but those who could see the face of day would have reckoned about three times four-and-twenty hours, Fray Fernando suddenly raised himself, and exclaimed, “José, do you hear those cries? The ship is settling—we are going down! Let us commend our souls to God!”

A dreamy languor had been stealing over José for some time past, despite his utmost efforts. Rousing himself with difficulty, he answered, “I do not think it. I think the storm is passing.”

“Hush! Listen!”—There were confused noises,—shouts—the clanking of chains—uneasy tremblings and swayings of the ship; then—at last—the shock of a strange stillness after tumultuous motion. “We have come to land,” said José.

“‘So He bringeth them to the haven where they would be,’” Fray Fernando murmured, sinking back.

To José the words came faintly, as if from a great distance. He tried to fix his attention, fancying that the patre still continued speaking—failed—tried again—could hear nothing except a bewildering murmur as of many waters—then lapsed into utter unconsciousness.

XL.

José’s Words Again.

“And now He pleads in heaven above,
For our humanities,
Till the ruddy light on seraph’s wings
In pale emotion dies;
They can better bear His Godhead’s glare
Than the pathos of His eyes.”

E. B. BROWNING.

When consciousness returned to José, he was surrounded by what seemed to his dazzled eyes a flood of light. Yet, in fact, he was only lying in the gloomy, dimly-lighted space between decks. An agony of burning thirst was his first feeling; and, as his eyes gradually recovered their powers of vision, he instinctively looked around him for the means of quenching it. A pitcher of water lay near; but when he moved to take it, some one raised it for him, and bore it to his lips. Then he drank, and never had he enjoyed so delicious a draught. After this, his thoughts grew clearer.

“Where is the patre?” he asked.

“I am here, my son,” said the voice of Fray Fernando; for he it was who sat by his side, and who had raised the water to his lips.

“Where are we? What has happened?” questioned José, in a tone of bewilderment.

Fray Fernando explained:—“They have put the ship into a bay, a kind of natural harbour, on some lonely island—where, probably, the foot of man has never trod since the making of this world. The storm is over; and the lives of all on board are saved, thank God.”

“And you, patre?”

“I am better. They have brought us here, between the decks, whilst the hold is being cleansed, and some leakages repaired. Most of the soldiers and the crew are on shore. Even so much of God’s free light and air as we enjoy here seems to bring new life to me. Now I return your question. And you, José?”

“I? Since I drank that water, I am quite well. How cold it is! Easy to tell it has come fresh out of some deep fountain in God’s own blessed earth.”

“Drink again. There is no stint now, thank God. They have found spring water, and are bringing an abundant supply on board.”

And José drank again—deeply, as one who had thirsted long and sorely.

Then Fray Fernando prayed him to eat. Food was at hand,—not coarse, hard biscuit, but cool and luscious plantains and bananas, fresh gathered from the luxuriant grove that filled three-fourths of the little island.

José ate, and was refreshed. “How long shall we stay here?” he asked.

“For several days, at all events, we must stay. Some damage has been done during the storm to the rigging, and especially to one of the great sails, which must needs be repaired before the ship can put to sea again.”

“How has the storm dealt with the other ships that were with us?”

“That we cannot tell. We have been separated, by the stress of weather, from all, except one. One vessel has taken shelter in the same bay, and is near us now. One for which we have good right to care. Guess its name, José.”

“Is it a galley, patre?”

“Yes—a galley.”

“The _San Cristofero_! O patre, if only we might see the face of Walter Grey once more!”

But Fray Fernando shook his head. “Our making inquiry after him could do us no good, and might do him cruel harm,” he said. “He would come again under suspicion, as the friend of prisoners of the Holy Office.”

For the space of a week, and rather more, the captives were permitted to enjoy their comparatively comfortable quarters between decks; and their lot was further alleviated by good food, delicious fruit, and an abundant supply of fresh water. But this little gleam of sunshine soon faded. Both the commander and the captain of the _Trionfo_ were very anxious, and with good reason, to overtake and rejoin the Plate fleet. They were therefore of one mind in desiring to hasten the departure of the galleon from the friendly shelter of the island; though they were by no means so unanimous in their ideas of the share that the soldiers and the mariners ought respectively to take in the preliminary labours rendered necessary by her condition.

The captain was reported to have said one day, in the bitterness of his soul, that he supposed the “señores y caballeros,” who did him the honour of walking up and down the deck of the _Trionfo_, would rather go to the bottom at once, or fall alive into the hands of the English pirates and cut-throats, Draco and Achines (he meant Drake and Hawkins), than demean themselves so far as to roll a single water-cask on board. And that, as for himself, he was a plain man, and must speak his mind, if the señor commandante were the Lord Viceroy’s nephew ten times over; ay, and if he were to run him through the body the next minute.

To whom the señor commandante made answer, with cool contempt and well-bred scorn, that the worthy señor capitano very far mistook if he imagined that anything he could possibly say or do could induce Don Francisco Solis so far to forget what was due to himself as to honour him with his sword.

In spite, however, of these bickerings, the work was done at last; and, accompanied by the _San Cristofero_, which had waited to attend upon the larger vessel, the great galleon bade farewell to the peaceful shores of the friendly island. In return for Nature’s profuse hospitality,—for the cold fresh water bubbling in crystal streams, for the golden juices of the delicious fruits, for the wild birds all the more easily snared and taken because unused to the destroyer,—surely the best thing her first visitants could have wished the little isle was so to slumber on for ages yet to be, unsullied by the foot of man, who has so often turned his rightful lordship over creation into cruel tyranny.

If such thoughts did not occur to Fray Fernando and to José, it was because they had never seen the island. And now they could only think that they should never see anything on God’s free earth again; they could only feel the crushing, stifling misery of their return to the hateful dungeon of the hold, the scene of such bitter suffering.

But to each other they gave no utterance to what they thought or felt. Indeed, at this time they spoke but little. Sometimes, however, Fray Fernando repeated psalms or other passages of Scripture suited to their condition; and often he prayed, for himself and for José.

As weary nights, and days which were nights in all except the name, wore on, the gloom around them grew and deepened, until at last it seemed to pervade everything, and to shut their very voices in like a thick and heavy fog. Gradually, silence as well as darkness was establishing her dominion over them. They were losing the desire to move, as well as to speak. Both often lay for hours motionless, as if in stupor.

Yet night and silence frequently cover, with their veil of mystery, the slow quiet growth that tells of the presence of life. Over the chaos of one heart, at least, the Spirit of light and liberty was brooding throughout the great darkness of those gloomy hours.

Much was Fray Fernando surprised, when one day José suddenly raised himself, and with considerable energy began to speak:—“In the old days of the Incas—”

Never before, in that dreary prison, had José named his heroic fathers—a significant and mournful sign. When the lute thrills no more to the master’s touch, when the heart responds no longer to the theme that always awakened its deepest harmonies, there is room to fear that both are broken. Fray Fernando felt a throb of joy at hearing the familiar words once again; and had he been even in the act of death, he would have roused himself to listen to what followed.

“In the old days of the Incas,” José said—and though his voice had certainly a muffled sound, it was unfaltering and full of purpose—“the eldest son of the sole Inca, who should be his heir, was prepared for his high inheritance by severe and arduous exercises. He had to suffer pain and weariness, to fast long and often, to go unshod and in poor mean clothing, to sleep on the bare ground. All this, that ‘when he should behold himself on the throne of his majesty, he should look down from thence with a compassionate eye on the poor, in remembrance that he himself was one of them.’”[53]

Fray Fernando feared his companion’s mind was wandering. He scarcely knew what to answer. At length, however, he said, “That was a noble thought.”

But after a short pause José went on, in a measured musical tone, almost a kind of chant:—“In after-days, when the poor man came to the Golden Throne with his tale of wrong and woe, he would bend low before the sole Inca, on whose head was the crimson llautu and the white wing-feathers of the cora-quenque. ‘Inca, Child of the Sun, Friend of the poor!’ he would say, ‘I pray thee, look on me. I hunger. Thou hast hungered too. I have no place to lay my head. Nor hadst thou. My feet are weary, and they bleed; for the paths are rough and stony. So were the paths thou didst tread in once.’”

Here again José paused, and Fray Fernando suggested, “Then the Inca would have pity on him?”

José’s voice rose higher—though still it was soft and harmonious—as he glided insensibly from the parable into the interpretation. “_Pity?_ No. It was not pity He gave me. Shall I tell you, if words _can_ tell it, what He said, stooping down from the throne of His majesty? He said, ‘Come near to Me,’ and I came. Then He said, ‘Child, it is true. My unshod feet have trod that rough and thorny way. My heart has hungered and thirsted—even as thine. I too wept over My people—bitterer tears by far than thou hadst ever need to weep over Tahuantin Suyu. Hast thou forgotten that great and bitter cry, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that slayest the prophets”? Yet I remember all.’”—Here José paused, overcome by his emotion.

But “a breath and a beam of heaven” passed through the weary heart of Fray Fernando, as he asked, with eager interest, “Has He then taken the burden from you, José?”

“No, He has not; He has shown me more love than that. He has said, ‘I bear it with thee,’—a better word, ten thousand times, than ‘I take it from thee.’ Don’t you know sharp pain can become highest joy sometimes? With us, the crowning glory of the Belting festival for the noble youths who stood victorious and approved, was when the sole Inca pierced their ears with his own right hand. How the touch of that hand thrilled them through with pride and rapture! And now—His hand touches me—His voice whispers, ‘_Once_ I suffered all; _now_ I know all. Wait. Trust me. My name is Secret. Believe, and thou shalt see the glory of God.’”

“And you _can_ trust Him now, José?”

“With all my heart and mind and soul and strength. I only grieve now for my past distrust of Him. I know not what He will do; but I know _Him_. I give my people up to Him, as freely and joyfully as I give Him up this life of mine. He is the King. He is coming, and that soon. He shall right every wrong. ‘He shall deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy also, and him that hath no helper. And His dominion shall be from sea to sea, and from the river even unto the ends of the earth.’ Ranti, ranti! Capac Inca, Huacchacuyac!”

Fray Fernando could only say, from the depths of his heart, “Thank God!” And so Peace came down to that gloomy dungeon, and spread her white wings over the desolate captives there. Nay, the Son of Peace Himself was with them. And whenever His voice should summon them, they would come forth out of the darkness “into the sudden glory” with instant readiness and glad confidence. Surely soon now—any day, any hour, any moment—might that thrice welcome voice be heard, calling them home, to dwell with Him for ever.

XLI.

José is Avenged of His Enemies.

“The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.”

CAMPBELL.

“Hark, José! What is that?”

“Only the wind, patre,” José answered, in a languid, dream-like voice.

“No! Surely not the wind. Hark, again!”

“Thunder, patre? The God of glory thundereth.”

“It may be—yes. Yet, no, no! Too continuous for that. Listen, José.”

“They are putting the ship about. Take care, patre, you will be hurt. Turn your head the other way.”

With some help from José Fray Fernando changed his position.

“José!” he said again, “that sound we hear is the boom of great guns. We are attacked by an enemy; God have mercy upon us!”

“Christ have mercy upon us!” José echoed. Then both were silent, in the solemn hush of inward prayer.

José was the first to break that silence. “Now, indeed, patre,” he said, “the great Inca sends His messenger Death to bid us drink with Him.”

“Well, we are ready.”

“_Ready?_—Is it not His own cup, from which, first, He drank Himself?”[54]

For days, weeks, months perhaps, they two had lived in continual expectation of death, “dying daily.” And when now at last they saw death face to face, they felt no terror—no, not even fear—but a still and reverent awe, befitting those who stood in the presence of the minister and messenger of the great King.

Meanwhile the boom of the guns went on, and “the voice of them that shout for mastery, and the noise of them that cry, being overcome,” reached the hold where the captives lay. Until at last all manner of fearful, discordant sounds seemed rolled and mingled together in a continuous uproar. Now and then a crash, like the fall of a mast, was heard; or the heavy thud of a cannon-shot perilously near their dungeon.

As they sat hand in hand, listening breathlessly, José whispered, “Would we even knew who our enemies are!”

“They are pirates, doubtless. They will not try to sink the ship, their object being, of course, to get possession of the treasure on board.”

“Thank God for that. Perhaps, after all, we may see the sun before we die.”

“But think of the gallant soldiers and the poor unhappy mariners, José. Let us ask God to have mercy on them.”

“With all my heart. No doubt, by this time, many a brave man is lying low.”

They prayed silently for all on board; for the commander, the captain, the soldiers, the mariners. While they were thus occupied, the noises grew fainter, or perhaps they heard them less.

At last there came a deafening shout that seemed to burst at once from a hundred throats. Neither José nor Fray Fernando had heard anything like it in their lives before. “God help us!” said Fray Fernando. “We are overcome.” For he knew that was a shout of triumph, and one which did not come from Spanish lips.

No further firing was heard; only confused noises of various kinds,—and voices. After a delay, long to their anxious suspense, steps drew near.

“They are going to rifle the hold where the treasure is,” said Fray Fernando.

Without consulting him, indeed to his surprise and dismay, José, with considerable effort, stood up, and placing his lips as near the hatchway as possible, raised a loud shrill cry, as one who called for help.

“O José! beware what you do.”

“Why, patre? Wherein can our condition be worse than it is? Who can be more our enemies than the Spaniards?”

Once again he cried aloud, throwing all the strength that months of suffering had left him into that cry.

Not in vain. The hatchway was torn up rudely; and some one called out in Spanish, though with a foreign accent, “Quien es?”

Then they heard the voice of a Spaniard, evidently giving some kind of explanation. Then a brief parley ensued. At last a ladder was put down through the hatchway, and the prisoners were ordered to come up.

An order more easily given than obeyed by men who by this time were scarcely able to stand. Two or three sunburnt bearded faces looked down from the hatchway; and their owners, convinced that either the will or the power to ascend the ladder was wanting to the prisoners, speedily descended, and with small ceremony helped or dragged them to the light. One strong fellow put his arm round José, and fairly carried him up the ladder. Still up—up—up—until at last he met a blinding blaze of sunlight, and a gust of sea wind, “shrill, chill, with flakes of foam,” swept over his bewildered, throbbing brow.

Presently some one held to his lips a cup of the commandante’s rare old wine. Revived by the draught, he looked around him, shading his eyes from the light with his brown transparent hand. He was lying on the deck of the _Trionfo_. But his first distinct impression was of the blue sea, its waves tipped with foam; over them a white-winged sea-bird; in the distance one black hull—was it the _San Cristofero_? Turning his eyes to the other side, he noticed a strange-looking ship, apparently fastened to the _Trionfo_, but much smaller, and in form and fashion quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. But what was immediately around him soon drew his attention, blotting out all else from his sight. There—on the deck—horrors undreamed of met his view. Blood everywhere, and men lying dead: some as if in quiet sleep; and some, with clenched hands and agonized faces, whose last struggle seemed scarcely over yet. Rough uncouth figures moved to and fro amongst them, most of them carrying burdens. But Fray Fernando was nowhere to be seen.

The man who had given José the wine made some remark in a foreign tongue, which, from its tone, was evidently designed to encourage him, and assure him of safety. But before he had collected his scattered senses sufficiently to attempt a reply in Spanish or Latin, his new friend was called away to another part of the ship.

So he lay still where he was, in utter bewilderment—trying to think, trying to comprehend.

At length a suppressed moan close beside him reached his ear, and brought him to himself at once. The low sound was more effectual to rouse him than the thunder of all the ship’s guns would have been.

It was a moan evidently wrung by overpowering agony from a brave man’s reluctant lips. José looked. Not two paces from him lay a wounded cavalier, his splendid dress all torn and blood-stained, his face ghastly, his hand upon his breast, as if to stay the streams of blood that were bearing life away.

A moment more and José, strong enough now in his heart’s tenderness and pity, was kneeling beside his enemy, Don Francisco Solis. Raising him gently in his arms, he tore his own tunic to bind his wound, and put the wine-cup to his lips from which he himself had drunk so lately.

In vain. At every breath the blood welled faster. The hand of Death was on the proud young cavalier. Yet not all in vain. He tried to speak. “Call some of my people,” he murmured. “Varco—Rodriguez—Martin—what has become of them all?”

“I believe the ship is in the hands of pirates,” José said. “The soldiers, no doubt, have been slain or made prisoners. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

“Who are you?”

“One who bears you good-will. You are sorely wounded, I fear.”

“I am slain. With this blood my life flows out. Call me a priest.”

“That I know not how to do. Put your trust in the mercy of God—in the blessed Saviour who died for you.”

Don Francisco feebly raised his hand, seeking something suspended round his neck. José found it for him, and put it to his lips. It was a small gold cross, with a costly jewel in the centre, beneath which was inserted a relic of inestimable price, a fragment of “the true cross.” “Oh, Señor Don Francisco!” said José earnestly, “look with your heart to Christ. He can pardon your sins. He can save you, and take you this day home to Himself. Think of Him.”

But it was a thought of earth that filled the heart of the dying man at that moment. “Will you show me Christian charity for the love of God?” he murmured.

“For the love of God—I surely will.”

“Then bring—or send—this cross to my beloved wife, Doña Victoria Solis, at Cuzco.—But what is this?” he faltered, making an effort to look up. “Your tongue Spanish, your face brown—who are you, in Heaven’s name?”

“One who will do your errand faithfully, Don Francisco Solis de Toledo—though he grieves that it is so sad a one. Is there any message you desire to send with the cross—to Coyllur?”

“Tell her—ah, my breath is failing—tell her I did my duty—like an honourable and valiant noble of Castile—and that I truly loved her—thought of her to the last. Although—Tell her—”

No more was to be told. Already the mists of the great darkness were gathering over the eyes of Don Francisco. Still he tried to murmur something, which José’s utmost efforts failed to catch. But he held the cross before him, that his last conscious look might rest upon the symbol of divine love and forgiveness. And thus, with his head pillowed on the breast of his enemy, and the hand he had disdained to fight ministering tenderly to his last earthly needs, the haughty spirit of Don Francisco Solis passed away.

José, scarce willing to believe that all was over, still held him in his arms, when a tall, strongly-built man, not without a rough stateliness and dignity of manner, came up the companion-ladder, stood near the two figures, the dead and the living, and looked thoughtfully at them. His hair and beard were black, and his complexion well sunburnt. His dress was plain,—a buff leather jerkin, evidently the worse for the recent fight; but a sword with a jewelled hilt was stuck in his belt;—it had no sheath, and was still bloody.

“My poor fellow,” he said to José, in imperfect Spanish, “your master is dead.”

“The señor commandante was not my master,” José answered, looking up. “He was my enemy.”

“Your enemy!” the other repeated in surprise. “In that case you have proved yourself a Christian, and a good one. You are one of the two prisoners whom we found in the hold?”

“Yes, señor.”

“You are free now. We Englishmen set the captives free, and deliver the oppressed, wherever we go.”

“_Englishmen!_ Are you indeed Englishmen? Then I thank God that I have lived to see this day.”

“I am glad you have such a good opinion of us. And I hope we shall give you no reason to change it. We are ready to welcome you on board our good ship yonder, the _Sea Snake_, of London. Your fellow-captive is there already.”

He turned, apparently to bid one of his men conduct José to the English ship. But in the moment that he did so, something met his eye that changed the current of his thoughts. It was the black hull of the galley, the only ship in sight, which was now no longer lessening to a speck on the horizon, but very rapidly growing larger.

Brief orders in a foreign tongue were issued to those around; and José soon saw the strange uncouth figures swarming like bees up the ladders and from every part of the _Trionfo_, back to their own ship, each bearing his burden.

He could not in the least comprehend what was going forward; the whole scene in which he moved was a bewildering mystery to him. One thing alone he realized: yonder was the galley _San Cristofero_, and Walter Grey, a captive Englishman, sat chained to one of its oars.

He gently laid down his lifeless burden, and springing forward, threw himself in the way of the personage who had addressed him, just as he was about to leave the deck of the _Trionfo_. “Señor and captain,” he said, “in yonder galley there is an Englishman—a slave.”

The English captain thundered some explanation in his own tongue, and laying his hand on his sword, looked at the galley as if the fire in his eyes would alone suffice to destroy it. But he had not an instant to lose. Pointing to José, he spoke three words to a young man who stood beside him, and was on his own quarter-deck ere their echo had died away.

The young sailor gave José to understand by signs that he had been told to conduct him to the English ship. José gazed sadly on the dead face of his enemy, then closed his eyes, and taking off his own yacollo, laid it decently and reverently over him. That done, he followed his guide from the deck of the _Trionfo_ to that of the _Sea Snake_—then down a companion-ladder, to a small, dimly-lighted cabin. The Englishman being apparently under an impression, not altogether unfounded, that the Spaniards starved their prisoners, quickly set before him a huge platter of boiled beef, a mountain of biscuit, and a great leathern jack of strong ale. That done, he disappeared in a moment, leaving José very thankful for what seemed a marvellous providential deliverance, but much perplexed by the whole affair.

It was a most joyful surprise to hear the voice of Fray Fernando out of the gloom. “I am glad you have come, José.”

The monk was lying on a mattress which had been laid for him in a corner of the cabin; but so imperfect was the light admitted by the one small window of thick horn, that José had not perceived him until then. He explained: “Between the unaccustomed sunshine and the feebleness of my long unused limbs I contrived to slip, and hurt my ankle. It will not signify. They laid me here very kindly, and they have given me everything I needed.”

“Can you comprehend what has befallen us, patre?”

“I have learned somewhat from the padre of the English, who paid me a brief visit here—‘Sir Thomas,’ they call him. He seems to be a good, humane man.”

“I suppose we are in the hands of English pirates—buccaneers?” said José.

“That certainly cannot be doubted. They call their ship a merchant vessel, and avow that they have come to the Spanish Main to trade for sandal-wood. Of course their trade is in itself contraband, even if it were not merely a cloak to cover piracy. The _Trionfo_, laden with gold and silver, and separated from the Plate fleet by the recent storm, was only too tempting a prize. They bore down upon us, all sails crowded, determined to fight.”

“But, patre, the _Trionfo_ is five times the size of this little ship.”

“True; but size is one thing, and strength another. I have heard it said ere this that our ships are built for carrying treasure, theirs for winning it by force of arms. You are aware the _Trionfo_ was always accounted unwieldy, and not over well appointed. Moreover, the damage she received in the gale was scarce repaired as thoroughly as might be. The English guns did great execution upon her, her huge bulk exposing her the more; while the small craft of the pirates, bristling with fortifications from stem to stern, took little harm from all our firing. The _San Cristofero_ came near to help us, and indeed gave the enemy volley after volley, but not, it seems, to much purpose. We had several shots between wind and water, and at last our main-mast was cut away. It was feared the ship would sink, with all on board; so the captain and others prayed the commandante to lower his flag. He treated the proposal as an insult, and swore to slay the first man who should name surrender in his hearing. But, shortly afterwards, a mortal wound laid him low. Almost at the same moment the buccaneers threw out their grappling-irons, and prepared to board our ship. Then the captain and two or three of the officers hoisted a flag of truce. The buccaneers only wanted plunder—our great ship, if they had it, could serve them nothing—so it was not difficult to come to terms. The English call the capitulation an honourable one for us—but God help Captain Manuel Sergaz, and the officers who took part with him, when they get to Spain!—if ever they reach it, which the present state of the ship renders, I fear, very doubtful. They will probably make once more for our friendly island, that they may repair damages and refit for the voyage.”

“Patre,” said José, “Don Francisco Solis died in my arms.” He paused, overcome by emotion of many kinds; nor could he regain sufficient composure to pursue the subject. Presently he added, “At all events, we are free. Let us thank God for that.”

“Amen!”

“Patre, I saw the captain of the English. He spoke to me. He is not like what I expected: not blue-eyed and fair-haired, like Walter Grey.”

“The English priest tells me he is a brave man, and a good Christian. Though how the latter can be consistent with his buccaneering exploits, I confess I scarcely understand. His name is Captain George Noble, and he is the son of a wealthy merchant of London.”

Here their voices were drowned by a shrill, horrible, deafening cry—such a cry as José, at least, had never heard before. He gazed at Fray Fernando in consternation.

“That must be the _chamado_, the cry of the galley-slaves when they advance to the attack,” said the monk.

José was greatly excited. “Patre, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “Needs must that I go on deck and see what is happening there. I will bring you tidings.”

XLII.

Joyful Meetings.

“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy
endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he
hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy.”

Ps. cvii. 1, 2.